Author: plutoman

I don’t really get social media but I’m trying Twitter (my handle is @PlutomanDotCom). I’d love there to be an option where you can just get every fifth tweet that someone spews out rather than all of them.

Saturday night was fun. Six of us – all blokes – met up at the pub next to where I used to work. One hasn’t got a job and wants to travel around NZ in a van, one hasn’t got a job but has a PhD and a house that he wants to sell so he can travel around NZ in a caravan for several months, one also has a PhD and is a mine of general knowledge but is struggling to get steady work, one is looking for a job but is only 25 so has heaps of time, one has a job but wants to move 11,000 miles away to do something rather different, and one has just started a very normal office job and seems happy with it. I’m not sure that any of us are in relationships – the subject never came up. If everyone had been normal with supposedly normal jobs and families, I’m sure I’d have found the evening horrible.

Last night I attended a quiz at a different pub to the one we went to on Saturday, but with some of the same people, plus some others. One of the women brought her two-week-old baby daughter along. We finished second out of ten or so teams. I was more helpful than I expected to be, but anything to do with movies or popular culture and I’m a complete dead loss. History and I’m not much better. We won a $30 bar tab and spent the money on ice cream rather than alcohol. The barman treated us like we were from Planet Zorg when me made our order.

I arrived at work this morning to find a notice attached to my monitor. Don’t log on to this or any computer because you’ve got another virus. (I had one about four months ago.) How embarrassing. I couldn’t do anything until about ten, and it felt good to almost finish the cryptic crossword (I used to enjoy those) and to start a new book. I was hoping I could go home where I could be productive, but I had to hang around all day and pretend to get work done on someone else’s PC. I don’t know, or particularly care, how I got the virus, but the IT manager made it pretty clear that he did care.

The Kansas City Royals, who won both the baseball games I’ve ever been to, have now won the World Series. For us outsiders, “World Series” is an easy name to make fun of – after all, the competition features 29 American teams and one from Canada – but I’m coming round to the idea that it’s just a name, and they could call it Dave if they wanted to.

Things feel normal again. That normal where nothing matters, I can’t take anything in, and I’m unable to be in the moment. Bugger. Just what I didn’t want. I desperately need to get not-normal back.

Over the long weekend I attended my first marimba class, went to the Watercolour Society exhibition on Queens Wharf (Dad had three paintings in there), did some muesli tasting (a friend won several boxes of Vogel’s muesli in some Facebook competition), went up Mount Kaukau, played some tennis, got 697 photos of America printed (what a shame that I lost the Boston ones – I guess I’ll just have to go back there), and learnt some Romanian, a bit half-heartedly because at this stage I could be going anywhere, or nowhere.

I also tried to figure out what’s going on with my mortgage. In 2009 I started a blog called Fixed and Floating, a reference to people taking out ridiculous 100% mortgages to get on the property ladder in Auckland, where I was living at the time. (Ha! An overheated Auckland property market in 2009! Of course it’s cooled down so much since then.) The mortgage I took out on my Wellington apartment in early 2012 is part fixed, part floating. In fact the floating bit isn’t just floating, it’s revolving credit. I structured it that way just in case the house of cards I’d built (a.k.a. my job) toppled over. Two days after I moved in, someone farted and that was enough to send it tumbling. Within weeks my salary had virtually halved. From the moment I got the keys, my apartment has felt like a shell, a monument to a career I had some time in the distant past (and even when I had it, I didn’t really have it). The seismic saga has since turned it fully toxic. When I opened the door of my apartment after a month away, I almost cried. This place is so bare. It’s about time I turned my burden into an asset. As I keep saying, its saving grace (and it’s a big one) is that it’s in just about the perfect location.
I gave up on Fixed and Floating last October; I’d run out of things to say.

The winner of the supreme award at the watercolour exhibition was a portrait of Ben Hana, or Blanket Man if you prefer. It was so lifelike that it was hard to look at it without getting a little emotional. Somebody had snapped it up for $600. He was a Wellington icon of course. That someone like that was allowed to simply be is part of what made, and still makes, Wellington a great city. It’s interesting though how some people develop a cult following. He and my grandmother died four days apart (and just before I moved into my flat); unlike Ben my grandmother lived a very full life, but I don’t remember there being a shrine devoted to her in the village square when she died.
Dad’s three paintings (why couldn’t they put them all together?) were of a café in St Mark’s Square in Venice, an antique shop in Cambridge, and an old steam engine near Peterborough.

At the end of last year I started a Brazilian drumming course. I quickly gave up when they changed the format of the class and it got too big for me. I thought I’d do something vaguely similar this year. The marimba is like an amplified xylophone, and when five of us played together at various ranges (soprano, alto and tenor) we actually came up with something pretty cool. Playing that sort of instrument is all about patterns, and I’m reasonably good with those. The problem comes when you switch off the auto-pilot and start thinking about what you’re doing; then things can quickly go to pieces. We only used two mallets each, but some clever people can do four. Or six.

At least 300 people have died in a magnitude 7.5 earthquake that hit Afghanistan, near the border with Pakistan. I’ve felt three (thankfully far smaller) quakes since I got back from America.

Here’s a song by Elliott Smith that I Shazammed recently. Smith was 34 when he died. I’m 35. It’s time I stopped messing around and finally did something with my life.

Four days a week I pick up and drop off my work colleague who lives near the zoo in Newtown. I talk to him more than anybody else on the planet. After work on Friday he could tell I was feeling like crap (well, I think I made it fairly obvious) and he asked if I wanted to have a beer at Bebemos. They have quite a funky courtyard area there. We had a long chat and I opened up to him, like I never do to anyone. Like me he’s a fan of Paul Simon, and we discussed and laughed about the lyrics from the Graceland album. He wasn’t even born when it came out but he knew all the words. When I got home I felt six times better.

The next day I was at the tennis club, basking in the sunshine and the glory of my two interclub wins (not really), but still massively frustrated with the latest chapter of my seismic saga. I had a chat with the guy I played in the singles and it turns out he owns an earthquake-prone apartment just off Dixon Street. He’s further down the track than me, and faces a six-figure bill. “You’ve got to get over this,” he said. But it’s hard when every time I drag myself up off the floor I receive another hammer blow. You bastards are going to block off my fucking window?! What next? “Do what you want to do. Don’t wait for this strengthening stuff to be over, because you’ll be waiting fucking ages.” This made me feel six times better.

I went to the market on the way home from tennis. I love the market. I’ve always loved markets. Although most of the produce is cheaper than at Pak ‘n’ Save, you do have to be careful. Anything with a label on it is best avoided because it’s probably been in storage for weeks. But some of the stuff there is amazing, like oranges, which I always buy from the same stall. These oranges are all different shapes and sizes, they have rough patches, they have bobbly bits, they have seams. Some of them even look slightly anatomical. They’re not uniform in colour. But they’re all heavy for their size, and when I cut one open, things quickly get messy because it has so much juice. It tastes so damn good. I can’t possibly only eat one so I have another. And another. They’re so good they’re addictive, and they’re about $1.50 a kilo. I buy them by the bucketload. I can’t do Pak ‘n’ Save oranges anymore; the ones from the market are cheaper, tastier and six times better.

When I got back from the market I met up with a friend at the Southern Cross bar, a five-minute walk from my apartment (which, in spite of everything else, is still in its same brilliant location). He’s one of the two blokes I went with on the TPP march just before I went away (as we now know, the march was all in vain, but it was still a great experience for me who had never done anything like that before). The main, indoor bit of the Southern Cross is absolutely huge, but the garden bar is just happiness: the plants, the lanterns, the wallpaper, and the benches all upholstered in different mismatched colours. I love it. If it was entirely up to me (and maybe it is!), the living room of my flat would look a bit like that, minus the wallpaper. It’s a funny thing: you’re supposed to keep all the tones neutral and not have too much clutter in your rooms, so that they look bigger, especially when you come to sell, which should always be soon. I’ve spent eighty bucks or something on my apartment since I moved in nearly four years ago, so my rooms are pretty bare. But they look fucking enormous. Some people even go further and match their lounge suite with their carpet and their décor art, while keeping that neutrality. These tend to be the same people who spend most of their time at work attending meetings about strategic goals or some such shite. How these people don’t get home from work one day, look at all their strategic furniture, and think fuck this, I’m booking a one-way ticket to Boston and jumping off the Tobin Bridge when I get there, I don’t know. Maybe some of them do. Maybe it’s Sophie, Tom and George who keep them strategically ploughing on.

I was digressing a bit in the last paragraph. It was really great to meet up with this guy. He’s an extremely kind, intelligent bloke, but not unlike me, he’s struggled with depression and getting and keeping jobs. He lives with his parents. He hasn’t told them that he’s toying with the idea of living in a van and travelling. I told him about my trip. I said it has had a permanent impact on my life. I then told him about my idea to teach English in Eastern Europe. I got very excited about both America and my new idea for a job. “Hungary! Bulgaria! Romania! I’ve done all these train trips and I can do more train trips! And I might, just might, actually do something I’m good at.” “Wow, that’s awesome, man,” he said. I spent eight days in Boston and three in New York (if you don’t count the tennis which really exists in its own little city). Most normal people would prefer the opposite, but what I did worked for me. Find what works for you, rather than seeing what works for everyone else and pretending it’ll somehow work for you, and life will be six times better.