Getting real good at this cyber-stalking thing

Stu! Where the fuck you been?

Yeah, sorry about that (I’m not really). I’ve been deliberately silent for the past couple of months, a combination of experimentation with Twitter (shock and horror – I’ve been cheating you with another publishing format!) and also just to give myself some time to reflect on some pretty major life changes in the works. In case you hadn’t heard already, I’m gonna be a dad. That’s right, sports fans, Parker 2.0 due for beta release on September 21st. It’s set to be a girl, apparently, but I couldn’t care less so long as she (a) is healthy and (b) doesn’t grow up to date guys like me. If there’s any karma in this universe she undoubtably will, but I’ll shoot that fucker cross that bridge when I come to it.

Anyhoo, time to get back into some bloggy goodness. I’ve accumulated a lot of random crap to rant about over the past few months, so stay tuned for a tidal wave of rage, inappropriate humour and ill-formed opinion over the next few days. First on my shit list: Wolfram Alpha

It’s good to be back.

The big three five

As many of you are no doubt aware, Monday after next I’ll be turning 35. Dave too – funny that. Anyhoo, I’ve thought about this a lot over the past few weeks, and must admit I’m surprised at how little I actually give a shit about this ‘milestone’ year in contrast to the previous ones…

I vividly remember the card my mother sent me on my 18th birthday, reminding me to be careful as I was now old enough to be tried as an adult. It felt like such a big deal to be legally an adult, despite the fact that, while I was now eligible to vote, marry, get drafted, go to prison, and enter into binding contracts, I wasn’t about to do any of those things. The drinking age was still 20, so I was still just a kid in the eyes of the only people that really mattered (bouncers). And in hindsight that’s all I really was – a kid.

I know turning 20 hasn’t been much of a big deal since that the drinking age was lowered to 18, but it was back then. I remember proudly presenting my driver’s license to a doorman at a club in Auckland, only to be refused entry because the licenses at the time showed the month but not day of birth. “Your birthday could be next week, ” he grinned, before waving me inside. I kept the “fuck you, door monkey” to myself on that occasion, partly due to my keen sense of self-preservation, but mostly because most of my mates were still underage. I was 20 now, and they couldn’t keep me out anymore (this was before they invented Spy Bar), but there was a definite sense of loss at the end of my teens. I was convinced for years that 19 was the coolest age I had ever been – best physical condition, least responsibility, most active socially… and then it was over. Twenty. Gotta grow up now, hey son? (Turns out that I didn’t – 20 was also the year that I got expelled from university, but that’s a story for another post).

Turning 21 was a big deal, but it is for everyone I suppose. For me it was the beginning of a big adventure, and a fantastic, chaotic chain of events that has added inestimable richness to my life. I moved to Queenstown and went snowboarding every single day for a whole season. I met a guy in a bar who offered me a job in Auckland, which lead me back to University, a first-class Master’s degree, and an amazing career. I have no idea what my life would be like now were it not for some of the choices I made at 21, and it’s both comforting and frightening to look back at how flippantly some of those decisions were made.

When I hit 30, the only big deal as far as I was concerned was that it seemed like such a big deal to everyone else. We had a big party (interesting way to find out that your Dad really knows how to handle a gun), but I distinctly remember the anticlimax when it dawned on me that the day after was exactly the same as the day before. I was officially into my fourth decade, but I didn’t feel any different. Ironically, this was the first of the ‘big years’ where I felt young and stupid but actually wasn’t. I have since reasoned that the yearning for my late teens that I felt in my early twenties is something akin to a veteran’s reminiscence of battle. Fuck that – I wouldn’t be that stupid again for all the tea in China! How in the hell I escaped death and/or imprisonment is beyond me.

So now, as I approach the big three five, I’m finding that I actually really like who I am, where I am, the choices I’ve made (even, and some might say especially, the bad ones) and what lies ahead. My one regret isn’t for myself and the lost opportunities of my youth (although I do agree that the indiscretions a man regrets most later in life tend to be the ones he failed to make when he had the chance), but for the many friends I’ve had over the years who never got the chance to grow old at all. I close my eyes and try to picture the face of an old school friend who died in a motorcycle accident when we were at university. On the one hand it’s disturbing how hard it’s getting to recall what he looked like. Was it that long ago? Could we really have been that close, if I’m forgetting him already? Will I fade from memory like this when I’m gone? On the other hand, the face I do remember is still just 21 years old, and that’s what bothers me the most – he should be 35 too!

So on the 19th of January all you young pups can feel free to point out the spare tyre I’ve grown, and kid me about the heat radiating from my cake (hint hint Simonne!). You can do all that and more, because I really don’t give a shit. I’ll be thinking about how grateful I am to have the opportunity to celebrate yet another milestone birthday, and toasting the memory of friends who weren’t so lucky.

Have yourselves a great weekend.

Better not shout, better not cry…

…and better not drive with your seat belt undone if you’re a celebrity, ‘cos the reaper is waaaaaaaaaaay under quota this year and time is running out.

It’s time to make your picks for Dead Pool 2009. You should all know the drill by now, but the full list of rules and entry instructions can be found here.

Remember, I need your picks by midnight on December 31st, but that doesn’t mean you have to leave it to the last minute. Some of us have plans for the holidays, people! Happy hunting!

I told you so

As someone who has submitted and reviewed CV’s on several occasions over the years, one of the major challenges I’ve encountered is in differentiating the great ones (including mine) from the not so great. Buried in any pile of resumés there is always to be found a few rock stars, many Joe Averages, and a depressing number of muppets. It’s normally pretty easy to filter out the muppets, but it’s often hard to discern the rock stars from the Joe Averages – they tend to have the same or similar academic backgrounds and experience, helped in no small part by the fact that Joe Average tends to do a very convincing job of blagging his accomplishments, while rock stars often (foolishly) rely on the facts speaking for themselves.

Some people try and use design to stand out, but sadly that just makes it look like they’re trying too hard. I mean, sure – you don’t want so hand in a CV written in crayon on toilet paper, but once you get past neat and professional it gets a little embarrassing. If you must send in a hard-copy, use only white, A4 paper with a single staple in the top left-hand corner. Do NOT use binders or plastic folders – if your CV is so long that it needs binding, you’re showing your prospective employer that you can’t hold down a job and/or don’t understand brevity. Either way, they won’t want to know about you.

So how do you make sure you stand out?

One trick that’s worked for me is to include a set of professional insights – half a dozen thoughts about the industry you work in, and what you think the next year or so has in store. You don’t have to make out like you’re some kind of oracle, and it really doesn’t matter if your predictions are a little off. Provided you don’t say anything too stupid, it always makes for good conversation in the interview, which you must have if you’re to have any shot at all of being hired. It also shows the employer that you’re not just some clock-punching automaton making a career out of getting by – show ‘em you really get what you do, and the job is yours for the asking.

Anyhoo, while doing some reading yesterday I was reminded of one of the predictions in my current CV, and – sadly for millions of people – it looks like I was bang on the money.

A substantial ‘adjustment’ will take place in tech stocks this year. That’s right people – we’re headed for another crash. Google will take a big hit, down to $400 US or below.

Exhibit A: Call it a ‘global financial crisis’ if you like, but a crash is still a crash

Exhibit B: Google shares are currently trading at $334, down from a 52-week high of $747.24 and $649.25 at the start of the year (when I made the prediction).

I wish I’d managed to predict myself into a new 911, but it’s been a pretty good year for me so I can’t complain. That said, (obligatory dig at the dyke) there are some rough times ahead and we need a firm hand on the tiller. Party vote NATIONAL on 8 November please!

I’m back. And the wedding was awesome.

I have no idea who these people are, but they were really cool. We ran into them in Arrowtown (mmmmmmm Arrowtown pie) on Friday, and barged our way into their photo shoot. Shit – we were invited to a wedding on Friday, so we were going to a wedding (any wedding) on Friday!

Dear Mr Gore…

Can you please make up your mind one way or the other – is it the heat, or the cold that’s supposedly going to do us in?

See, I’ve got a little spare cash and I can’t figure out if I need to grab some sunnies or a pair of thermals.

Cher,

sp

My Name Is Bruce

Well, not my name. Dave was nearly called Bruce (thus his middle name), but I’m not referring to him either. For those of you who have no taste in movies at all and/or have been living in a bunker deep in the woods with no news of outside world, Bruce Campbell is the greatest actor of our generation. My generation, your generation, their generation… you get the idea.

Probably the only B-grade actor ever to make the A-list (and definitely the coolest), the only reason his legions of fans haven’t hunted down and killed the Academy voters who continue to deny his rightful recognition is that Bruce is waaaaaaaaay too cool to give a shit about Hollywood. Screw Hollywood. Screw the Oscars. The greatest honour an actor can receive is to be Bruce Campbell.

As you can tell, I have something of a man-crush on the guy, but that’s ok – Man Law: Man-crushes are totally gay, unless they involve Bruce Campbell*.

Anyhoo, I hadn’t been by Bruce’s blog for some time, and checked in this evening to see what the greatest actor of our generation has been up to. Well here it is. My Name is Bruce – 100% honest-to-goodness B-grade extravaganza. Awesome.

This is gonna be bigger than Elvis! Well, Bubba Ho-Tep maybe. Stay tuned – will post a review when my download completes the DVD arrives.

*An example of ‘The Bruce Campbell Rule’ in effect. Universally accepted among people who know what the fuck they’re talking about, The Bruce Campbell Rule simply states “Except for Bruce Campbell”, and can be applied to counter any rule or convention that would otherwise inhibit the actual or perceived greatness of Bruce Campbell.

More Facebook Stalking

A while ago I mentioned a hilarious site I’d found, called HotChickWithDouchebags.com. Today I am proud to announce that I have been officially friended by the Patron Saint Of Douchebags (PSOD), Mr Joey Carrera (a.k.a. “Joey Porsche“).

I have no fucking idea why I find this so funny – it just is, so deal with it.

Next up…

No, seriously – I really did send the PM a friend request today. I can’t wait to see her status updates…

Helen is: Getting ready for a frolic in the bush (on Monday)
Helen is: Really enjoyed her *ahem* girls’ night in (on Tuesday)
Helen is: Heading down to Lake Tekapo (on Wednesday)
Helen is: Going tramping (yesterday)
Helen is: Heading for the hut (21 hours ago)
Helen is: Wishing she’d paid attention in that St.John’s course (5 minutes ago)

Wish me luck!

PS. On browsing Helen Clark’s friend list, is anyone surprised to see that:
(a) her only friends are other politicians;
(b) Parekura Horomia’s profile doesn’t have a picture on it; and
(c) There is no option to “poke Helen”?*

Me neither.

*Cheers Dave – how the hell could I have missed that one? I can only assume that feature is restricted to those with ‘inner beauty’. I.e. When she’s in ‘er – beauty!

Now you see it (them). Now you don’t!

So Fozzie is back from the vet now, recuperating from an operation on Friday to help him lose a little weight. Make that two little weights.

Before:

After:

Wincing? Legs crossed? You’re welcome.

Just like when I had Bentley done, he was high as a kite when I picked him up after the operation. A stoned Labrador is as funny as any other animal I suppose, only it’s harder to tell if they have the munchies ‘cos they’re always hungry.

I was lamenting to the vet that although I understand the health and behavioural benefits of neutering, there’s something pretty cool about seeing a big hairy pair of clackers dangling there while he’s walking in front of me. I declined his offer to install some Neuticles, but I was sorely tempted. In the end I decided that if Bentley had to go without then they both could, but it was a close call. Whoever invented those things should be working for NASA!

PS. Fozzie turns one year-old of June 6th. Sarah and I decided to make him a present yesterday – partly because we were bored (stuck inside on a cold and shitty Auckland Sunday), partly because the crate he sleeps in stinks and has gots ta go! If you can keep a secret, click here to view his present. Pretty cool huh?