When you’re on holiday, you don’t have to worry about punctuation forming a coherent thought or personal hygeiene.
If you don’t wreak bumbling the neighborhood muttering nonsensical, grammatically incorrect, run on sentences, then you haven’t earned a vacation.
Management experts believe that people who have their shit together must never have a good time. Only the incompetent, they say, should be allowed to take paid leave. I would take this one step further. Incompetent people should be encouraged to spend as much time away from the office as possible. I’m pretty sure that’s why a lot of people at work were happy when I announced I was going to be gone for 10 days. If efficiency and productivity improve by the 200% I expect in my absence, I will recommend to my bosses that I should go on leave indefinitely, so as to lift company performance. Always happy to take one for the team.
It’s crazy. Leaving Auckland for a week. Why would I want to do that? Auckland is an urban planning marvel. It’s the city dreamed by a car. Beware of pedestrians.
It leads to dead spaces.
The only scenario I can imagine in which someone would sit in a space like this is if they’ve just been shivved by a fellow inmate, and they needed a sec to light a cigarette as they bled out.
I haven’t formulated why I think these spaces are because of cars. I’m thinking of explaining it in a photography project cataloging Auckland’s wasted spaces, even crowdfunding for decent equipment.
But cars are definitely a part of the calculation. A lot of people drive them. Entire transportation infrastructures have disappeared.
Obviously it wasn’t cars that obviated railroads. Planes did that. But in truth, the infrastructure hasn’t disappeared.
Some of it ends up with a historical society.:
If you want a glimpse of future events:
That’s Auckland Domain beyond the rail-bed.
A car loves speed and billboards and signs. It is amused by appeals to its addictions. It adores pithiness at 60kph.
Juxtapositions of its basic appetites allow it to dwell on itself. Here is Magnum Ice Cream, in heat. It is barely visible in this shot (there’s another picture below). The ad is essentially a conflation of commodity junk food with coitus. You can buy an orgasm. (I mean, without involving a professional). It guarantees a presumably feminine audience an alternative delight to the one that so often eludes them, at least according to the popular imagination. How are you going to sell that to a man? As the Woody Allen line from Manhattan goes, “I’ve never had the wrong kind. Ever. My worst one was right on the money.”
But if you notice in the picture above, right next to the Magnum ad is Neat Meat:
Part of the joke is cultural specific. Magnum is a condom brand. I’m not the first person to giggle about it.
Neat Meat. Magnum. It’s like a sausage with the casing on it. You see? Or maybe an easier simile: it’s like a penis with a condom on it.
Anyway, back to wasted spaces. This is the oval in front of what was once the Auckland Railway Station.
Which is now pretty much something to park near.
The station facade.
Just in case you mistook the railway station for a railway station, there’s a sign.
Anyway. I’ll kvetch about this crap another time. I just need to rest. Go away.
Jacquie does too. Lately she’s been stepping on the ends of mops and getting clocked in the head by its handle.
Jacquie is the only three dimensional person I know of who has done that. Like in the cartoons. Unless Jacquie is Wilma Flinstone, that really shouldn’t be happening at all.
She says this happens because, “I’m the only one who cleans up around here.”
But I think hitting herself in the head with a mop handle, like in the cartoons, is really some weird cry for help. Obviously, it was an accident, she says. Obviously, Jacquie? Really? Because I think there are no accidents. I mean, you start with these kinds of gestures, and next thing you know you’ll be arranging to have a piano fall on your head. Just like in the cartoons.
Oh, crap. Stick a fork in me because i’m