LAN WAN thank you Mam

If God was a geek, then the PC would have been the apple. It sits there all tempting and tasty, promising unimaginable delights and then you take one bite and it shits all over you and turns your life into a Möbius strip of misery. Geeks love things like Möbius strips. I bet when geeks get married they give each other Möbius rings.

I think this inscription says 'Two Shall Become One When One Is To The Power Of Zero. LOL LMFAO JEOMK.'

The computer is the revenge of the geek. Sick of being tormented about their lack of sporting prowess and pallor some geeks decided to invent a universal machine  with one important catch, only geeks could make it work and only geeks could fix it when it didn't.

What is truly fustrating is that I had every opportunity to learn how these mysterious boxes of silicon implants operated and ignored them all. My brother was into all things computational and every weekend brought home a BBC Model B computer to write educational software for the Burnside High School French department. My only contribution was to come up with a name for the wee game where you had to shoot the French words for different colours if the colour of the word didn't match the colour...of the word.

For example...

Bleu

Rouge

Bleu Clair

Jaune

Bleu foncé

Orange
BANG!

I called it 'Kolour Killer'.

Every weekend I sat on my brother's bed reading out thousands of lines of BASIC code to make a blob rotate or create some game where you made a blob avoid other blobs. After hours of me reading and my brother typing, (I would name him but people from JADE might be reading), he would set the program in motion and invariably it would crash. This was obviously my fault as I must have said colon instead of semi-colon which for some reason buggered everything up. He would force me to go through every line again until I hurled the 'Bits & Bytes' magazine to the ground and stormed out of the room to make the word 'BOOBLESS' on my FX 82. Later I would apologise and ask if I could play 'Elite'.

I don't know why he bothered as I already knew how to make the best computer program ever.

10 CLS
20 PRINT "GREG IS COOL"
30 GOTO 20
RUN

Recently I had to set up my internet again and I wished with all my heart I had studied those 'Bits & Bytes' mags instead of wasting hours trying to save up enough credits for a docking computer. I had brought over a wireless modem from New Zealand and foolishly thought it would just be a matter of plugging one end into the phoneline and the other into whatever hole it fitted into in my computer. My first dilemma was finding the phone holes in Australia are smaller than the New Zealand ones but the same size as the hole you stick the cable into on the phone. Luckily I  had a small double dongle dingle that went both ways so dodged that technical bullet with aplomb.

I fired everything up and my modem was flashing like the eye of a Cylon which was encouraging. It told me that it had found my DSL but couldn't see the internet for the trees. Even though it couldn't find the internet it told me to use my browser to go to 192.168.1.254 which was silly. I went there and it wouldn't let me change my PPPoA to PPPoE. There was no way of fiddling with my VPI or VCU, WAN IP or DNS. I couldn't even set the name of my wireless network to pusspuss.

After a bit of googling via a webstick kindly donated by Chris, I found that my modem had been castrated and lobotimised by Telecom to make sure it couldn't get frisky with another network. I got all flash and managed to flash my firmware and turned everything Dutch but that didn't help. Telecom were managing to arse up everything from across the Tasman.

So, I went and purchased a new modem and brought it home and found I had purchased a wireless router. I knew things weren't right when the installation DVD told me to plug the ethernet cable from the WAN port of the router to the LAN port of the modem which I thought I had just purchased.  I now how a router to a rooted modem which was also a router. After my huge outlay of $24 for my Edimax wireless router I was determined to utilise it so returned and spent another whopping $33 on a top of the line Tenda ADSL2+ Router and modem with no wireless. I now had a modem and two routers and a rooted router and a modem.

I plugged in my Tenda tenderly and noticed that the installation CD was the size of a small baby's fist and wouldn't play in my CD drive. Using my webstick again I managed to navigate through the fiendish Tenda site and download the Installation Wizard. I unzipped my pants before unzipping the software as my excitment built. The wizard told me in broken English to type in my username and password and after seconds that felt like hours I had broadbrand streaming into my back port.

Then I plugged the WAN of my Router into the LAN of my modem and the computer cable into the LAN of the router and my stream turned into an intermittent trickle of pusspuss. Everything was horrendously slow. I had created a wireless dial-up network. I was sad.

Two days later I was happy. I found a website written by a geek who had forgiven the world for its torment and gave me a wonderfully easy to follow how to guide. All those sites that said WAN to LAN lied. Just turn off the DHCP server in your second router, make sure its LAN IP address is different to any other device in your network and then connect an ethernet cable from the LAN port of the first router to a LAN port of the second.

I still don't know what all these acronyms mean but I know if I did they would mean even less. All I care about is that I can now watch Robyn videos and funny cats on YouTube and blog sporadically. I am a happy happy LAN.

Man o' Wash

Another apology is due to the delay in bloggage however I have a good excuse. I have been becoming a man.

Yesterday I hopped on a tram...by myself....and went to Port Melbourne. I'd never been to Port Melbourne before but any area with the word Port in its name must be rough, tough and ready to molesterise a naive mid-thirties Kiwi boy in  blue and yellow track pants, black and white blazer and a yellow and brown striped beany. I even had my yellow sneakers on that have been a staple of every childrens show at the Bruce Mason since they began in 1967.

God knows what Aussie Rules team I was supporting with those colours. I think black and white means I support the Pies, yellow and brown the Hawks and blue and yellow the Sad Cowards of Wooloongadoomadingo. The reason for my brave odyssey was to visit the manly mecca of Bunnings Warehouse to buy a hose attachment for a washing machine!

I was installing a washing machine! I was buying a hose! I was a man!

On the walk from the tram stop to Bunnings I passed a field with lots of big men playing footie. They were all wearing lots of bright colours so I fitted right in. I stood at the side and shrieked whenever I thought anyone did anything good and they all looked at me like they wanted me to join in so they could gently introduce me to their wonderful game of marks, speccys and hand passing. Alas, I couldn't stay as I had a hose to buy.

Bunnings was the size of Asburton. After 15 minutes of wandering around fingering tools to make it look as though I belonged there I found the plumbing department which was the size of Rolleston, town of the future. 15 minutes into my future I still couldn't find the hose I wanted amongst the 20,000 other hoses so I pulled out my tired, broken and flaccid hose and asked a nice man for a new one, just like this one but not busted and leaky.

He was delightful. He even delayed going off to help another man find a smoke detector to save the life of his family because he saw me looking forlorn and teary with my saggy hose in my hand. I love Bunnings Warehouse! I hope that other man found his smoke detector. I'd hate to think he and all his family perished in a blaze in Digeridolongwoolmarumba just to enable me to wash my delicates in the privacy of my own home.

Here is a photo of the installed NEC NWTL656.

Beautiful isn't she. I'd better be careful or this could turn into a blog about washing machines and KFC.

I even had to switch the drainage hose over from one side to the other. When I first fired it up I knew there was a leak cause water spurted out into my eye from the cold tap. I swapped hoses and then water spurted into my eye from the hot tap. That's when I realised I needed a new hose. This site was very useful.

A big thank you to Kerry and Kerry's friend Dervla for selling us her washing machine at mates rates even though we only met her for the first time. A big thank you to Matt and Theo for bringing the washing machine into the city. A big thank you to Monique for having us over to her lovely place for a lovely party so we could make all the connections to secure the washing machine. A big big thank you to Cal and Chris for letting us stay at their house, lending us half the contents of their house and bringing half the contents of their house into the city. You know who your real friends are when they lend you whitewear.

Right, because you have waited so long for a post I'm going to throw in a bonus, 25% extra bit of bloggage for free. I wrote this bit about my first Aussie Rules game, (which Cal and Chris generously provided wee radios for to listen to the commentary), and emailed it to Christchurch's most popular daily newspaper The Press in the hope they might take me on as an amusing weekly Melbourne columnist. Sort of like the bastard love child of Jim Hopkins and Joe Bennett. They haven't replied to me so you will now reap the benefit. To think of all the crosswords I photocopied from The Press at The Court Theatre and they haven't even replied. It could be because it's a bit shit, I'll leave it up to you.

Aussie Rules for Dummies

When I move to a new place I like to crouch in the bushes like David Attenborough and observe the locals doing local things. I moved to London in the summer once and observed the locals swarming onto Clapham Common to shed their clothes and devour an avalanche of lager and KFC before staggering back underground like a trail of sozzled red ants singing ‘God Save the Queen’. It was a terrifying spectacle.

Last week I moved to Melbourne and observed the locals doing the most local thing a local Melbournian can do in a stadium named after the national airline of Abu Dhabi. I went to my first Aussie Rules game at Etihad Stadium.

I’ve always believed that if the sport or game has a country in its name then you need to be a native of that country to have any hope of understanding the rules. American Football, Gaelic Football, French cricket and Hungary Hungary Hippos to name a few.  I still can’t say I understand Aussie Rules or ‘footie’ however after watching a game surrounded by 30,000 rabid Victorians I can certainly appreciate it.

The first thing you need to know is that Aussie Rules was invented as a way to keep cricketers fit in the off-season. The game is still often played on modified cricket grounds. Cricketers are obsessed with ‘fine legs’, ‘long legs’ and ‘square legs’ which is the reason why footie players wear obscenely short shorts. Often during the game one player will jump up on the back of another player to catch the ball in the air. This is called a ‘screamer or ‘hanger’ because all the other players will gaze upwards and scream with excitement if they see something hanging from the short shorts of their aerial teammate.

The leaping player is always named Mark. If he successfully catches the ball he is known as ‘Spectacular Mark’. The umpire is also called Mark and whenever a player catches a ball they will scream ‘Mark!’ to get his attention. Mark is a biblical name and Australian Rules is a very biblical game. The final score of the game I saw between Saint Kilda, (even more religious overtones) and Melbourne was 15.10 (100) to 9.11 (65). The numbers in brackets are the scores however what are truly enlightening are the bible references prior. John 15:10 is a congratulatory message from the coach, “If ye keep my commandments, ye shall abide in my love” and Psalms 9:11 asks the team to “Sing praises to the Lord”, for a better result next week.

The very best thing about Aussie Rules though is singing the song of the winning team at the end of the game. St. Kilda’s song is to the tune of ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ and cleverly changes the line, “Oh how I want to be in that number” to, “Oh how I want to be with St. Kilda”. Brilliant! I’ve decided to support Hawthorn because it sounds like a Hogwarts house. The first line of their song, sung to the tune of ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’, is “We’re a happy team at Hawthorn!” This is my sort of team.

My beautiful Laundromat.

This update comes to you from the Melbourne City Dry Cleaners and Self-Service Laundromat, 244 Russell Street. I’m balancing my laptop on my knee as I sit on a long fake wood veneer bench in front of a row of Speed Queen, Commercial Washers that promise Ultra High Efficiency. One other machine wobbles with anonymous delicates. It was a bit of a walk to get here but it’s a beautiful day and there is something dangerous and sordid about carrying a bag of your soiled undies through a crowded city with all those around you oblivious of the dirty bomb in their midst.

An old American couple has just come in to enquire about the cost benefits of doing the laundry themselves. The Chinese man tells them its half price if you do it yourself but he can do it in an hour. They meander out with the old man who looks like a shrunken Kenny Rogers saying he could spend the hour going to the Fitness First gym across the road. They must have lots of money.

My washing is spinning now so the end is nigh. The anonymous delicates have long since stopped and lie there like a soggy shaggy multicoloured dog in a round window waiting for its owner. Now I have a big call to make. To dry or not to dry? The sign above the row of Speed Queen Driers tells me it costs $2/10 minutes to dry however the average drying time is 30 minutes approximately. I trust the sign as a row of certificates above the Chinese Man tell me that Melbourne City Dry Cleaners and Laundromat have been Highly Recommended in the Australian Achiever Awards every year since 2002, except for 2009. I wonder what happened in 2009.

Near disaster! I decided to throw caution to the wind and invest $4 in 20 minutes of drying but in my exhilaration forgot to take note of the arrows telling me what Speed Queen I was feeding. I’d put my clothes in the bottom drier and as I pressed the start button to my horror the top drier started spinning. I could see the Chinese man grinning out of the corner of my eye. It was probably stupid people like me that made his days of washing and wrinkles worthwhile. The little screen counted down like a James Bond bomb timer and there was nothing I could do to stop it, except for opening the door. I only lost about 30 seconds. I think the Chinese man was impressed with my quick recovery. We haven’t made eye contact but I think he’s thinking about offering me a job. Maybe if I fold my clothes well he will offer me a job. I do need a job.

My washing drying.

The anonymous delicates have been claimed. A young lady is pulling it all out now and I’ve just realised I’m sitting right next to her machine. It’s all a bit uncomfortable actually. I’m trying not to look like a pervert but she probably thinks I’m one of those guys who lurk beside unattended ladies washing to catch a glimpse of damp panties. She’s obviously an experienced Laundromat user as she has put her coins in the right slot. She’s only gone for 10 drying minutes but her load is less substantial than mine. She’s left now, probably to call the cops.

2 minutes to go. I don’t expect it to be completely dry but it will be lighter to carry home. The Chinese man is talking about the World Cup octopus to another customer. Apparently it has escaped death by correctly predicting every game. He wanted Germany to win and so did I. Time to start folding.

Everybody needs good neighbours.

I will warn you in advance that this post will be a bit blue, as in XXXX rated, as in dealing with issues of intercoursual insertion.

This was meant to be a fascinating insight into all things Australian before I suddenly remembered something that happened to me on a bus the week before fleeing Aotearoa with $8.95 still owing on my TradeMe account. I was on the bus going to a recall for a TV commercial aiming to get you to buy a brand of beer that is the official supplier of alcohol to the rugby players in the 2011 Rugby World Cup. This is the official alcoholic beverage the rugby players will ply you with so they can have their wicked way with you once you've passed out because you were asking for it by happening to be in the same bar as them with your ankles exposed.

As usual the recall was not for the part I originally auditioned for. I auditioned for the role of 'Barman' however I was recalled for the role of 'South African Rugby Supporter'. I've never thought I looked particularly South African however someone did who obviously wasn't the director. The director was an Australian who looked like he was trying to force out an ever increasingly large and painful stool after every take I took. My character was dressed as a Springbok with hooves making it hilariously impossible to pick up my bottle of Arse-eken. This director was from the less is more approach to comedy and the less I did the more he looked like he wanted to shove the prop beer bottle up my arse until I passed out so he could have his wicked way with me. After every take he said something like, "Yeah mate, don't do anything OK mate, the comedy comes from not doing anything mate, just like Woody Allen mate, OK mate, fair struth cobber." I took the note and said 'Mazel Tov' after drinking the beer but to no avail. He last comment was, 'Yeah, that was a bit better I suppose' and I left the room before I could improvise a scene about having my wicked way with my stepdaughter,

I didn't get the part.

However, what made it all worth while was the bus ride there. Sitting behind me was a woman who either hadn't heard of or couldn't afford headphones or buds. She was playing one song on her iPod over and over again as loud as possible and it was interferring with my process of finding my inner South African. I was just about to be very brave and cough loudly in her direction when I realised I was hearing what could possibly be the greatest song I will hear this year. It is sung by this fine fellow.

His name is Tremaine Aldon Neverson but you'll know him better by his stage name, Trey Songz. He's very buff and has obviously worked hard to lose a lot of weight judging by the fit of his pants. You'd think with three albums under his belt he would be able to afford to put another hole in his belt to keep his chubby pants up, but maybe it's his message to all the chubby young people that anyone can end up looking like Trey Songz with a bit of effort. I think that's his set-list tattooed on his left pec just in case he forgets where he's at if his pants fall down.

His albums so far are called 'I Gotta Make It', Trey Day' and 'Ready'. He's got another in the pipeline called 'Passion, Pain & Pleasure' which were the three emotions I felt while listening to 'Neighbors Know My Name'. He sings in a very high choirboyish falsetto voice but don't be fooled, Trey Songz is a sexual dynamo whos pants will fall down faster than you can say 'What sort of name is Aldon?' He won't even need to get you drunk to have his wicked way with you because according to this song as soon as he, "go deep, getting it in", the neighbours will be "knock knock knocking on the wall", due to the fact that Trey is "breakin' our new headboard, headboard." The chorus is even more impressive.

I bet the neighbors know my name
Way you screamin', scratchin', yellin'
Bet the neighbors know my name
They be stressin' while we sexin'.

Absolute genius and it only gets better. Trey then invites you to bite the pillow to muffle your screams of orgasmic delight because, "your body's a problem, they call me the problem solver." The pillow doesn't work though as while he's "bangin' on your body" the neighbours are still "bangin' on the wall" and then at least one neighbour looking for a good nights sleep starts "'bangin' on the door."

Trey then reaches his zenith with what is arguably some of the finest most expressive lyrics put to paper since Lennon and McCartney.

Sometimes she call me Trey, sometimes she say Tremaine
When it's all said and done but the neighbors know my name
Sometimes she call me Trigga cause I make her body bust
They might think my name is 'oh shit', I make her cuss.

If Trey's name was Oh Shit, his name would be Oh Shit Songz which from a marketing perspective isn't at all helpful so let's hope not many of his neighbours reach that conclusion. This song has six songwriters, they are listed as Hayes, Patrick; Neverson, Tremaine; Taylor, Troy. I have a feeling Trey may have credited himself twice or another family member has pitched in which is just creepy. He's also had hits with 'LOL Smiley Face' and 'I Invented Sex' and who am I to argue with that bold assertion after listening to 'Neighbors' on loop for 20 minutes. He's an actor as well apparently and appeared as himself in a show called 'When I Was 17', an interview like show where Trey talks about what he did when he was 17.

Thank you mysterious lady on the bus for introducing me to the songs of Trey Songz. I am in awe of Trey Songz. I want to be Trey Songz. I am going out to buy some chubby jeans right now.

Movin' on up.

I am typing this from the Koru Lounge in Auckland International Airport waiting for my flight to Melbourne. I am using free wifi, drinking free red wine and eating free cheesy pasta surrounded by men furiously thrashing their laptops while drinking coffee, water and ginger beer. What is the point of being a Koru Club member if you don't indulge in the free booze? I just cannot understand these people. There is a whole fridge full of beer and you can help youself. You could even mix youself up a Screaming White Russian Orgasm On The Beach if you wanted. People are strange. If they had free KFC here I would be whipping up my own screaming orgasm but they don't so I'm settling for a semi-on.

It's been ages since my last post and so much has happened. My one-man in tights show played 8 shows to not as many people as I would have liked but I really liked the not many people. They were lovely and increased exponentially as the season went on which means if I had played for another week I could have filled Vector Arena I think. Anyway, the reviews were good and the updates to the show made it heaps better and much more melancholic and gave the character of 'Greg' a much more interesting journey. We also made it onto national television and you can watch it here. I'm particularly proud that my spontaneous forced faun fellatio with a statue of a goat made it to air, it's very Red Shoe Diaries.

So if you're reading this and you are a fringe festival producer or director please fly me to where you are and I'll do the show. I take my pants off during the show and am willing and happy to do this in the audition..or take your pants off...whatever it takes.

I have also completed the moving process and am very nearly in Melbourne. Moving is a horrid experience. Moving while trying to rehearse and rewrite a show is just really dumb. The amount of shit I had took my breath away. Nobody took up my generous offer of my purple dumbbells so I left them downstairs and some lucky tenant nabbed them within the hour. I left the worst vacumm cleaner in the world up for grabs and I pity the fool who takes that. It's like that cursed trampoline that Homer couldn't get rid of in The Simpsons. I bought it in Hamilton while I was there doing 'The Complete History of New Zealand' with Ben Barrington and Mark Hadlow on Ben's recommendation. If you've spent much time in Hamilton you know why all three of us were spending our days buying vacuum cleaners and George Foreman grills. This thing had a 'Turbo Head' which span around really fast. It was marketed as a Kambrook innovation but only served to spit all the stuff you wanted sucked back onto the carpet again. I'm gagging to make very rude comments about that last sentence but will resist because I am in the Koru Lounge surrounded by important people drinking Ginger Beer. The man drinking Ginger Beer is wearing pin-striped dungarees! He is American! I wonder if he is a fringe festival producer? I will take my pants off just in case.

Here is a photo of the empty apartment.

I've just got myself a plate of shaved ham. Resist...resist...

I will miss 2E 2-4 Lorne Street. So many good memories there, especially the time someone's table blew off the balcony of the 30th floor of the monlith to shit next door through the skylight. It's funny how once you've moved all your stuff out the space where you've spent the last six years of your life becomes just another empty apartment. Spaces are just spaces without faces you love.

Fuck...I must me getting drunk. I hope they let me on the plane.

Right-o, I will stop and take a moment to bid farewell to New Zealand until October when I return to direct a play back in the ol' hometown of ChurChur. I promise to get the internet set up asap in Melbourne and will bombard you with insightful musings on all things Aussie.

I'm not going back to spell check this puppy either so I apologise in advance....Australia fair. x