PERHAPS THE MOST SUCCESSFUL PROMOTION EVER

I think you're already familiar with today's subject matter

You already know what I'm talking about; the New World Little Shop promotion.

Have you got the Cheesy Sausages yet? If not, do you want to trade, because we've got two.

Not since the days of Nintendo 64, Furbys and Cabbage Patch Kids have we seen our children so utterly and effectively brainwashed by mere advertising - and the difference here is the primary product isn't even what the kids are after.

When I say kids, of course I mean EVERYBODY. Admit it, you want the whole set of these things just as much as anyone else, which is a major bummer for you if you don't have any children, because collecting miniature grocery items as an adult could seem a bit weird.

The main problem for the glennzb household is we don't shop at New World. We shop at Pak'N'Save, partly because it's a bit cheaper, but mostly because it's on my way home from work.

This did not sit well with Monster Number 2. Not well at all. Weekly grocery savings and a convenient location hold no sway with a 9 year-old whose friends have all collected at least half of New World's Little Shop already. She started to take my persistent Pak'N'Save preference personally, almost as though I was punishing her for something.

Now I think of it, I should have told her that's exactly what I was doing. Monster Number 2 deserves to punished regularly. For 9 years she's been carrying out a series of guerrilla-style attacks at various strategic locations throughout the house, ranging from low-grade semi-political graffiti on items of furniture right through to a brutal campaign of psychological warfare which is relentless and still ongoing.

Some kind of retribution only seems fair.

However, in this case I was not deliberately depriving her of access to her rightful mini-grocery collection. It's just the way it was.

Just like in the days of prohibition though, there's more than one way to open the lines of supply.

Turns out my sister-in-law DOES shop at New World, and had amassed quite a number of tiny tins, packets and bottles. Monster Number 2's eyes practically popped out when she discovered them piled up on her kitchen window sill. What's more, they appeared to be just sitting there, not being collected by anyone!

That was all about to change. Immediately. By the time M#2 had left her auntie's house, she'd acquired her first cache of miniatures and made arrangements for a regular mailbox drop directly following any future New World shopping expeditions.

Of course, once she realised she could source these things without actually having to go to the supermarket herself, a whole new strategy swung into gear. Suddenly parcels were arriving from far-flung grandparents. Small bags of coffee and weirdly not-to-scale pineapples were being handed to nanas to be delivered from other distant relatives. M#2 was back in the Little Shop game and she was raking it in.

Like heroine, it turns out mini groceries are an addiction that must be constantly maintained, or serious withdrawal symptoms can hit, and hit hard. This meant daily mailbox checks to see if auntie had fulfilled her hastily agreed-to drop-off obligations. Of course more often than not, auntie hadn't been around, which led to M#2 bouncing out the front door in anticipation, only to return moments later shrouded in the dark clouds only an empty letterbox can induce.

So I caved. Don't worry, I still shop at Pak'N'Save, but some of my colleagues have started supplying ME with minis, so I've been bunging them in the box instead. I know, what a softie. Let's just keep that between us, okay?

Oh, and for god's sake, don't tell her she can win the whole set on the Mike Hosking Breakfast, I don't want to have to explain how family members are not allowed to enter.

Nothing like receiving a package in the mail

MAN OF MY DREAMS

Too much time on my mind

This is not another moan about how early I have to get up in the morning.

It may have something to do with the effect of Daylight Savings on my sleep patterns though.

I met a mate on the stairs at work last week who foolishly asked me how I was going. I'm not one of those people who answers politely when someone casually inquires after my health. I'm usually brutally honest.

"I'm feeling a bit shithouse actually," I complained. "I think it's the Daylight Savings jetlag kicking in."

This is a standard joke of mine; trying to convince people there's some kind of quantifiable physical detriment happening because we've either lost or gained an hour. I was in for a surprise this time though.

"Oh, it will be," he agreed, going on to back up my self-serving superstition with actual scientific facts on R.E.M. sleep and how a change in your routine can seriously interfere with your natural cycle, especially if you're already getting up in the middle of the night to go to work.

There's really nothing better than someone who's prepared to agree with your whinging.

Whether any of that bollocks is actually true I have no idea, but it could go some way to explaining the wacky, wacky dream I had the other night.

It all started with my boss asking me to babysit Sonny Bill Williams. Let's be clear here, this is in the dream, not in real life. In saying that, that actually is the kind of thing my boss would ask me to do. I don't mean literal babysitting, of course. SBW is a grown man, he doesn't need me to babysit him. He has a manager for that. No, when my boss asks me to babysit someone, it's usually either because they're new on air, or their whole show is.

In this weird dream, someone had decided to hire Sonny Bill to host an hour's talkback from 7 on Friday night. Don't laugh, stranger things have happened - like John Key hosting Radio Live one afternoon during an election campaign. Close call as to who I'd prefer to hear hosting a radio show - I think I'd go with SBW, not just because he knows more about boxing and tattoos, but because he can probably pronounce the word "texts" correctly.

Anyway...

I told my boss I couldn't do it, due to family commitments. I should have realised it was a dream there and then; I spend half my life trying to get OUT of family commitments. This one involved dinner though, so obviously I would have been torn.

Friday night rolled around (yes, in the dream) and somehow I ended up feeling guilty, leaving halfway through dinner and going into work anyway. Completely fantastic of course, like I'd ever leave a meal halfway through. For some reason everything was happening in Tauranga too, the family, the restaurant, the radio station, all in Tauranga instead of Auckland. Don't know why.

I arrived at work to find the station off air and Sonny Bill Williams holding a bloke in a headlock in the studio doorway. The bloke in the headlock seemed drunk, high and really angry about something. I assume he was angry BEFORE the headlock happened - either way, immediate action was called for.

I pushed the bloke out the door, Sonny Bill through it and tried to usher Mr. Williams into the studio. Angry man was now stuck in the lobby with no access card to get him any further.

I can't quite recall how successful I was getting SBW on air. He's big and buff, I'm weak and pathetic so it's possible I wasn't very successful at all. What I do know is, despite my best efforts, the angry guy got in anyway.

Weak and pathetic as I am, I couldn't risk him getting re-headlocked so I diverted him into a separate (fictitious) recording studio full of random musical instruments. I tried to calm him down by exploring a mutual interest in playing the guitar at parties. Then the guitar started vibrating, except it wasn't the guitar, it was the alarm on my phone.

I don't know how many of you have woken up at 3 in the morning with Sonny Bill Williams, but it's a really weird way to start your day.

Why would I dream all this? Is it because there's a new show on Newstalk ZB from 5-6am that's stressing me out a bit? Perhaps.

Is it because nobody really seems to know who Sonny Bill Williams will be playing for next? Probably not, given that's how he rolls at the end of every season.

No, I think I'll just go back to blaming Daylight Savings jetlag and leave it at that. It's science.

Like most people, it's his intellectual side I find so attractive

BEING MANIPULATED

Obviously, it's nothing to do with the chair. Sitting on an Aeron is like
"putting your bottie in butter" - Authentic Sir Paul Holmes Saying

I have a bad back.

I'd like to think there are many unavoidable reasons for this; an unergonomic work space, an old mattress, the time I fell off the playground and landed on my arse when I was a kid...

Unfortunately, I have a sneaking suspicion the main reason for my bad back is my bad front. I'm fat, I'm lazy and I'm a bit of a weakling, all of which puts a lot of pressure on one's spine to lift the load.

Presumably, there was a time I didn't have a bad back, but I can't precisely remember when that would have been. Maybe around the time Mr. Sefton was trying to get me to sit up straight in 7th Form Statistics. If only I'd listened, perhaps I wouldn't be in the state I'm in now. Sadly, I never listened to Mr. Sefton about anything - especially anything to do with Statistics. In fact, it pains me to say (specifically around the T-12 area) I frequently did the exact opposite of what he wanted me to. I recall Mr. Sefton asking me to stop slouching and me sliding down even further in my chair, just to spite him. Imagine having me as a student in your class. Nightmare.

Could that be the real reason for my persistent pain? Karma? If I'd been a model student, instead of a model of disruption, would I now be springing out of bed each morning like a young lamb, rather than untangling myself excruciating link by link as the jumbled mess of frayed rope, knotted fishing line and rusty chains I have become?

Whatever the cause, unless I'm lying flat on my back on the floor, the ache's pretty much always there, varying in intensity from a dull throb all the way up to, "Oh my god, it burns! It burns! Mr. Sefton, I'm so sorry! Please forgive me! I'm begging you! Make it stop!" To be honest, even if I am lying flat on the floor, that'll only buy me about 10 minute's relief before everything seizes up and I won't be able to get up off the floor.

Still, what do you expect from a 70 year-old? Pity I'm not even 40 yet.

I have sought medical advice. A mate of mine put me on to a guy called, and I'm not making this up, Doctor Bill. Dr. Bill is a chiropractor, but more importantly, he's also a kinesiologist. This means he has the freaky ability to keep you from holding your arm up by tapping you on the head.

I realise that might sound like airy-fairy, magical, new-age mumbo-jumbo, but it doesn't change the fact Dr. Bill fixed me. In fact, it was Dr. Bill who figured out the whole falling-off-the-playground-when-I-was-a-kid thing. Initially I had to see him once a week, but he soon weaned me off to once a fortnight, once a month, a 6 month top-up then I never went back.

And it only cost me 8 million billion dollars. Cheap at half the price.

Of course, even miracle cures don't necessarily last forever. Whatever clever trick Dr. Bill worked on me has started to fade and I'm buying my Lotto tickets in Ponsonby to try and amass the funds required to go back and see him.

In the meantime, you can understand why I love a good massage. The Domestic Manager and the Monsters are well aware of this, making a massage voucher the ideal go-to Fathers Day gift. This year the voucher was for somewhere new, which is always a slightly nerve-wracking experience. While I'm definitely into having my inflamed back muscles mashed around for half an hour, I wouldn't say I'm the kind of person who wants to touched intimately by a stranger. With an accent.

I always experience some anxiety in the initial stages of a massage appointment. This is partly due to revealing personal details but mostly due to revealing my person generally. There's always a long and involved form to fill out on which you have to divulge your medical history, list medications and allergies and sometimes even draw little diagrams highlighting your problem areas. I'm not much of an artist, but since my problem areas extend from the top of my bald head right down to the arches of my feet, my diagram usually involves a rough oval around my entire body.

As for medications, I'm not really a hardened consumer of pharmaceuticals. My drug of choice is usually whatever generic paracetamol is on special at the supermarket. And the only things I'm allergic to are exercise and a healthy diet which, as I've already mentioned, is probably what got me into this bind in the first place.

On this occasion however, there was no form to be filled. On the one hand, I applauded this spurning of superfluous paperwork - I really, really hate filling out forms.

On the other hand, just what kind of fly-by-night, half-arsed, Mickey-Mouse outfit were these people running? My fundamental form-filling aversion won through though, and assuaged any concerns I may have been harbouring about following correct rules and regulations.

Then came the undressing part - or did it? I like being told what to do, not just by massage therapists, by anybody. But when it comes to getting naked in front of someone you don't know, it's best if there are some clear instructions issued early on. Unfortunately, like the stupid form, these instructions were not forthcoming.

I'd explained the location of the pain. The massage therapist had told me where to lie on the table. She hadn't told me what not to wear.

Uncomfortable pause.

"Shall I take off my shirt?" I asked. What a stupid question. Who ever heard of someone getting a massage with their shirt on? But I had to say something.

Maybe she'd been playing a very funny joke on me, because at this point she left the room, saying she'd give me a few minutes to get undressed.

Still not enough detail. Just HOW undressed did she want me? I desperately tried to recall how naked I'd been at other massages in the past... Shirt off, obviously... but pants? It's only a bad back. Still... lower back. Yes, she'd need access below the belt-line probably. Undies on though, surely. Socks off? Why wasn't there a form clearly outlining the requirements? I was really missing those forms now...

What if she came back in, saw me sockless, screamed and ran from the room to call the authorities to have this dirty, sock-stripping pervert arrested? If I hadn't been experiencing tension between the shoulder blades before this moment, there was definitely plenty for her to work on now.

I must have made the right call with the socks, because there was no screaming upon her return, just a few groans - and they were from me, an involuntary response to her unwinding my twisted muscular mess.

As massages go, this was a good one, although nowhere near long enough. They never are.

Oh... and in case you were wondering, I went with socks off. What can I say, I'm just the kind of guy who likes to lie on the edge. Groaning.

I've heard of being addicted to prescription medicine,
but supermarket medicine?

TO THE BLOKE WHO LEFT THE NOTE

See the scratch? No, not that one, the other one. No, not THAT other one,
that's just mud. The OTHER other one

Car parking at the gym is an issue.

My gym is part of a swimming pool complex which means there seems to be a never ending series of swimming lessons, school swimming sports and generally a lot of dripping people wandering around wrapped in towels.

My gym also provides a full timetable of Les Mills exercise classes and if all that stuff happens at the same time, the car park, which is actually fairly large, ends up being not fairly large enough.

This inevitably leads to that style of avant-garde parking peculiar to busy mums in 4WDs. You know what I mean; if the marked spaces are all occupied, any other car-sized space becomes a park. Footpaths, traffic islands, entrance foyers... that's the whole point of owning an RV to begin with, right? Surely if it can drive anywhere, it can PARK anywhere.

I'm not a busy mum and I drive a Corolla, so I tend to shun the whole "improvisational" parking philosophy. If I can't locate an empty slot immediately on arrival, I prefer to just hover a few minutes between the 1st and 2nd rows (where the through traffic is a bit lighter) until someone wearing a towel comes out and makes their soggy exit.

This is certainly inconvenient and some days I can't be bothered waiting at which point I make an executive, America's Cup Race Director-style decision and just call the whole thing off for the day. Unlike the America's Cup competitors though, I never really wanted to go to the gym in the first place, so it's nice to have a tangible excuse to justify my extreme laziness.

The ironic thing here is, I only live just around the corner. In the time I waste searching for an elusive parking space, I could just as easily drive home and walk back. (If I can circumnavigate the collection of 4WDs parked on the footpath, obviously)

But occasionally all the planets align, an unoccupied park presents itself and I am left with no other option than to physically leave my vehicle, enter the gym itself and do some exercise. I hate it when that happens.

Last week, I spent 45 minutes hating it even more than usual, staggered out to my car, (I've heard about post-exercise endorphin rushes, but they don't seem to apply to me) flopped into my driver's seat and noticed a notice.

This is one of my most hated things in the whole world; flyers left under your windscreen wipers. You never see them till you're behind the wheel, then you fool yourself into thinking you can reach them by sticking your arm out the window, which you never can, which you really should have remembered before you tried and failed yet again, which just results in even more frustration, especially when the flyer turns out to be advertising an innovative new hair-removal technique. Not something I plan on having a great deal of use for. Ever.

Not this time though. This time it wasn't that kind of note. This note was hand-written and said, "We scracht your car a bit." There was a phone number as well. 

Mixed feelings at this point, obviously. Pretty pissed off about the big white swipe smeared down the side of my car. Bit of a legend for leaving some contact details though.

I rang him and he told me to get a quote and he'd flick me the dosh to cover it. Bit more of a legend. I went to get the quote and the panel beater came out with a rag and wiped the damage off. Quite embarrassing. The panel beater suggested he write up a quote anyway so I could have a nice dinner out on the guy who dinged my car.

That's not how I roll.

Would've served him right for spelling "scratched" wrong though.

Amazingly, I'm not that interested in this kind of advertising.
And no, that isn't me in the picture

OKAY, SO I WAS WRONG

Not a bad view to start my week. You'd have thought they could
have got the giant jersey round the right way though

This is turning into quite a big week.

Given it began with a night at the rugby in a catered corporate suite on the halfway line, you'd think I'd be hard-pushed to improve things from there. Thanks ASB, by the way. That's what I call succeeding on.

What could possibly be better than a convincing win for the All Blacks over South Africa? How about the Orewa College Music Department's 2013 Gala Concert? That's right baby; if you missed it, your loss. Monster Number One was in almost every band, choir and ensemble. What a show-off. Combine that with opening night of Monster Number Two's school production and you must be starting to wonder how much excitement one person can pack into just 5 days and live to tell the tale.

Well, then there's that whole America's Cup thing of course.

I'm not good at admitting I'm wrong. I would like to claim this is due to a lack of necessity but sadly, this would be a false claim. I am wrong all the time. Very wrong. So wrong. Just ask the Domestic Manager, she'll tell you. In fact, sometimes she'll tell you how wrong I am even if you haven't asked her.

I would also like to claim I'm not good at admitting I'm wrong due to my history as 3rd Speaker in my High School debating team. Again, probably not strictly correct. In fact, the reverse is far more likely; they probably put me at 3rd Speaker due to my reluctance to concede my side of the argument. That, and I was in high school a MILLION BILLION YEARS AGO. Something else the Domestic Manager seems to like to remind people of.

I guess I'm just a natural-born arguer. The devil's advocate, if you will. A royal pain in the arse if you won't.

However, this time I've been so wrong, I'm really going to have to fess up.

I haven't been the biggest supporter of the America's Cup. Understatement.

I may have been a bit disparaging about rich wankers and their toy boats. Understatement.

There may not be another New Zealander who's been so negative, both privately and publicly, about Team New Zealand's chances, the rules, the postponements, the cheating and anything else even slightly connected to the Auld Mug - including making quite a few snide remarks about the nickname, "The Auld Mug."

Yup, even all that is an understatement.

Which is why I'm now retracting the whole lot.

Now the entire country is grinding to a halt at 8:15 every morning, mesmerised by two teams of high performance athlete's pitting multi-million dollar racing machines from a science-ficiton novel against each other, nature and the laws of physics generally, I've got to admit, the entire country may have a point.

I can't remember ever hearing so many people asking each other the same question, almost in unison... "Did you see the race?"

The America's Cup has cast it's spell over the nation's collective imagination once more, and I can no longer deny it.

So I'm sorry. I was wrong. As usual.

This is that moment, just like when,towards the end of George Orwell's 1984, Winston realises if he thinks one thing and the rest of the world thinks the opposite, he's probably the idiot, not them.

Oh, I still think it's stupid, it's just that nobody else does.

What could be more entertaining than watching a bunch of show-offs
trying their hardest to send a nation's hopes, dreams and tax dollars
to the bottom of the ocean?

THE BEST THING ABOUT HOSKING BEING OUT OF THE COUNTRY

Behold the awesomeness of my ride... and some squished bugs

Have you seen the Newsroom?

Not OUR newsroom. I mean the TV show. It's my new favourite programme, but I'm careful about who I recommend it to. It's very in-house. If you're not directly involved with the media, or an obsessive news junkie, I'm really not sure if you'd get anything out of it.

Sure, the writing is switchblade-sharp and the cast performances are the best I've seen since Boston Legal, but if you're not into current affairs, I think the major plot lines would leave you cold.

To be really, really honest, I probably like it so much because it's about my job. If you HAVE seen it, I can confirm it is a very accurate recreation of a working newsroom.

For the uninitiated, you may find it hard to believe things could be quite so dramatic, high pressure and downright chaotic on such a regular basis. All I can tell you is there is a genuine adrenaline rush associated with the quest to be the first to report the next big story.

People often ask me how I can work in such a pressure-cooker situation, especially at 4 in the morning. Like anything, you just get used to functioning at that level. You keep reminding yourself it's only radio and it's not like you're running a country or operating on somebody's brain for a living.

In saying that, things get exponentially more challenging when my host is broadcasting the show from another hemisphere.

Just the mere fact I can't make eye-contact with him is a pain, and not because I particularly enjoy gazing into the Hosk's piercing baby blues. (Or whatever the hell colour they are) As Big Mike's chief button pusher, it's my responsibility to convey balanced skepticism when he bleats on about how wonderful everything is. I usually do this via a series of eyebrow raises, shoulder shrugs and forehead slaps I can no longer communicate when he's rabbiting on on the other side of the globe.

Oh, and it helps to know if Mike is actually in the studio or not. You know, when it's time to talk on the radio.

There are certain technical difficulties an international OB throws up as well. I don't know if you've ever tried to get hold of an author in London via her agent in Christchurch so we can pre-record an interview with my host in San Francisco, but it's not quite as easy as it sounds. (This is while trying to broadcast live commentary of an America's Cup race at the same time, of course)

I never feel like I can go to the toilet or make a coffee in case somebody needs me for something. Luckily, less coffee means less loo stops, so that sort of balances itself out.

And there's always the vague paranoia the line connecting us is about to fall over leaving me with no host whatsoever. Don't laugh. It's happened before.

No, it's not fun. Especially when I have to spend the entire show being told what an awesome time everyone's having where I'm not. By everyone, I mean everyone. Mike, Mrs. Staino (the producer) and even my boss. They're all there and I'm here. I never get to go, because someone has to stay and push the buttons. My other colleagues all sympathise. In fact, they keep coming into the studio to tell me how sorry they are for me. Not helping guys. Not helping at all.

But...

At least I get to use Hosko's car park. I now no longer care what the weather conditions are because I can drive directly from my house to the Radio Network garage. I can't express how awesome and wankerishly important that makes me feel. (Tempered only slightly by the knowledge that's the way Mike gets to feel every day. He's not driving a majestic Corolla like me though)

So, in spite of everything, it's not all bad. I stole Hosking's tickets to the rugby too. Boom.

It may not look like much, but it is much

TO GO IN, OR JUST GO ON

Just checking; Is Gotham City anywhere near the Middle East?

This is about Syria.

As I write, I still don't really know what I want the world to do.

To begin with, I'd have to say I'm not a big fan of war generally. I've never understood why people go to them. I wouldn't. I realise there have been times and places where the people in charge didn't give you much say in the matter, but I'm pretty sure I'd rather go to jail or even be killed myself than shoot at someone I don't know in the name of a cause I don't really understand.

Is this easy for me to say because I've never had my way of life directly threatened by a foreign power? Yes. Yes it is. It's still what I believe though.

I know it's naive, but surely if nobody ever fought on behalf of megalomaniac, despotic dictators, they'd just be left standing in the corner shouting at people with everyone laughing at them.

Sadly, it's not a perfect world.

For some reason, and I suppose it's the same reason action movie villains always seem to have an inexhaustible supply of evil henchmen, there are heaps of people prepared to do the bad guys' dirty work. You know the sort of thing; rigging elections, making opposition activists disappear, opening fire on peaceful protests, developing weapons and ultimately deploying them.

When those weapons are deployed in the direction of us or our allies, we go to war. That, sadly, is just the way of things. I may not like it, but I can understand it.

The curly question is, what to do when those weapons are deployed, but nowhere near us.

Apparently, rigged elections are okay from a distance. That whole oppressing the masses thing? Oh, we don't approve, but we're not sending in the troops to sort it out. Actual weapons though, that's where it gets tricky. Weapons of mass destruction are a no-no, especially the really bad ones.

Small point here; which are the bad ones exactly? I get you can't be gassing kids - very bad look. But a mortar shell landing on your head while you're walking to the dairy is a pretty bad look for you personally as well.

Curly, curly questions.

This is why people like Obama start going on about "red lines'. Unfortunately, the lines don't actually exist, they're only theoretical, just something politicians make up so potentially unpopular decisions can be more easily justified.

No idea why the line was drawn at chemical weapons, when al-Assad's been dropping other things on innocent people for years now, but as we've already established, I don't have an intimate understanding of how these things work.

In the real world, we don't break up the fights until we start seeing children foaming at the mouth on our 6 o'clock news. Talk about your ambulance at the bottom of the cliff. (And by ambulance, I mean tactical Tomahawk missile strike)

Pity we can't just round up the evil henchmen and drop them in a hole. Like Batman would.

Then al-Assad would be left standing in the corner shouting at people with everyone laughing at him. Just like every bully should be.

See? Even a weapon of MINIMAL destruction can still be bloody annoying

DEFINING ART

What's Paul, the World Cup predicting octopus doing out his tank?
Maybe he has a Prime Minister's daughter to go and pose with

In the great tradition of pointing out why I'm woefully under-qualified to comment on what I'm about to comment on, let me begin by saying, I'm no artist.

I took art at school. Briefly. I think I decided it wasn't for me the day I tried to draw Brendan Malone. With all due respect to Brendan, I think we could safely predict he was never heading for a career as a fashion model. In saying that, he still didn't deserve my somewhat interpretive representation of him. How the hell do you get the eyes symmetrical anyway? I'm not a robot, dammit.

I finished the portrait, and stepped back to admire my work, but failed. There was no admiring to be done here. It was rubbish. Don't worry, I've had it destroyed to protect further generations.

Nope, no natural artistic ability whatsoever. I can't even win at Pictionary, although that could just be due to the unfair time pressure.

However, I know what I like.

While doing the art wasn't my thing, turned out I showed slightly more promise when it came to appreciating it. When they finally threw me out halfway through 7th form (year 13) the only teachers who showed any regret to see me go were my English teacher and my Art History teacher.

Not sure why my English teacher was so sentimental about things, especially since he once saw me pashing his daughter. On the other hand, there's a slim possibility I was actually not bad at Art History.

Of course, the real question here is, what the hell has all this got to do with anything?

Well, I've decided this is art appreciation week, and it's all thanks to the PM's daughter... with a vague nod to Miley Cyrus.

This week, the media has got hold of Steph Key's art portfolio and turned it into a news story. If you haven't seen them, there are a number of pictures featuring her posing partially nude, partially covered in sushi, holding a bright red hand gun and wearing an octopus on her vagina.

Depending on who you talk to, the pics have either caused moral outrage or they are kind of cool. I think they are kind of cool and here's why; we're talking about them.

My definition of art is this; something that elicits an emotional response. The Key photos undoubtedly have achieved this and they've achieved it on a global scale. Whether it's because they're clever photos or because she's the daughter of a Prime Minister makes no difference. The fact is, young Stephanie has caused a stir around the planet, therefore she is an artist.

I certainly have questions. For example, the pictures are described as self portraits, but how do you take a selfie when you're lying on the ground under a blanket of California rolls and sashimi? Does she have a self-timer function on her camera you can set for 5 seconds, 30 seconds or 1 hour 20? Where do you buy bright red hand guns and are they available in other fabulous colours? Was the octopus still alive? If so, presumably the suckers on its tentacles were still operational. Interesting. You see? If that isn't art, I don't know what is.

Just days later, we are blasted with repeated footage of a barely clad Miley Cyrus gyrating her way through this year's VMA's, doing rude things to a collection of giant teddy bears and an oversized foam rubber finger. Again we find ourselves asking, is this performance art or just an attempt to shock? I say, given that attempt succeeded, immediately and around the world, those to things are the same thing.

After all, it can't be easy to shock at the VMA's, formerly infamous for Madonna and Britney's lesbo pash and Kanye's slagging off of Taylor Swift. Even Rihanna seemed shocked by Ms. Cyrus' performance, and she's not averse to a bit of public prancing about in matching bra and big pants herself.

Artists have always shocked us, and may they always continue to. Remember, Mozart was almost run out of town for suggesting they stick some dancing in his operas. Rock'n'roll.

I would have gone with a foam octopus myself, but that's just me

LIKE SQUEEZING BLOG FROM A STONE

Just some of the garbage that spills out of my head

The other day I tried to explain what blogging was to a group of Hibiscus Coast widows.

I didn't just randomly wander around town looking for older ladies without husbands on the off-chance they might be interested in what I had to say. I'd been invited to speak to them at their 12th anniversary meeting. Whether they'd expected me to rave on about blogging once I got there is a question for debate, but that didn't stop me raving on anyway.

I asked how many of them knew what blogging was. Approximately 2 and a half people raised their hands. Of those 2 and a half, one was the guy who was there to play the guitar, one was probably wanting to ask me why I was talking about blogging instead of what it's like to work with Paul Holmes and Mike Hosking and the half was my mother in law, who I think was only there to cheer me on, so she doesn't really count.

Anyway, what I told them blogging was is this; "What happens when someone unloads the contents of their head directly onto the internet."

Unfortunately for you, today I literally have nothing to write about, so today I will do exactly what I told those widows bloggers generally do. Here's what's in my head...

Why is there a One Direction movie? Why is it called, "This Is Us"? For that matter, why is there One Direction? What kind of groundbreaking technology had to be developed to film 1-D in THREE-D?

Should we be worried Fukushima is still leaking?

Is Russia in denial? Seriously, the whole country seems to be so vehemently and outspokenly against the idea of homosexuality, I'm beginning to think they're all gay and just can't accept it. Don't fight it, Russia. Follow your hearts. It's cold. There's vodka. Love the one you're with.

How quickly I would have died if I'd been the missing skier on Treble Cone. Apparently he kept himself alive by doing exercises to stop falling asleep. Hate exercise. Love sleep. I would have been screwed.

Hey, all the people who keep telling everyone to stop booing Quade Cooper... stop telling everyone to stop booing Quade Cooper. You're having no effect whatsoever. You may even be making it worse. In fact, he got really, really booed again when he came on last Saturday night, and that was in Sydney. The Sydney in Australia. The Australia he actually plays for.

He is a bit of a dick though.

What lolly would I change my last name to if I could? If you haven't heard, Maria Sharapova wants to be called Maria SUGARpova for the U.S. Open to promote her sweet shops. Can't decide between glennzb M&Ms (all the letters sound funny when you say them all at once) or GlennGums. Just call me Party Mix for short.

Why isn't there any yachting today? They were supposed to do 2 yesterday because they were supposed to do 2 the day before and 2 the day before that but only did 1 on all those days and now they're still 1 behind. According to my schedule, they've got to do 2 tomorrow. Given they haven't managed to do 2 on any day yet, seems like 3 would be a big ask. To be honest, I find 1 race a day is too many, so I don't know what I'm complaining about.

Just checked with someone and she assures me that last paragraph did indeed make sense. Or at least as much sense as anything else that's going on on San Francisco Bay right now.

Lastly, is this week's glennzb Glog reading a little bit too much like glennzb's Silly Six-Pack? And if it is, will that mean I won't have anything to write about on Saturday? So many questions. Not enough answers. I'll try harder next week, I promise.

An artist's impression of the inside of my brain.
Not very accurate, there's much less in there

PLEASE DON'T ASK ME ABOUT THE WEATHER

I bet I could predict the weather more accurately than this floating box of tinfoil.
It's not rocket science

I'm begging you. Surely there are other things we could discuss. Things that matter. Things like pizza. Or bourbon perhaps. Why is it always the weather?

I'm not a political man. Oh sure, I've had my small crusades. Issues of genuine importance, like getting the Wellington Street on-ramp reopened or my call for a boycott of all pay and display parking, but in the main, things that get other interest groups riled up tend to wash over me like a summer breeze. No, make that a babbling brook, I'd prefer to keep any meteorological references out of it. For example, I was in favour of the anti-smacking bill because I hoped it would stop my kids hitting me. I was against gay marriage, but only because I'm not really into marriage. You see? When it comes to "big issues" I often seem to miss the point of them.

Maybe this is what has happened with this weather thing.

Why is everybody obsessed with it? Why? Why?

On the issue of weather, I'm making a stand. Ban it I say, ban it outright.

Oh, obviously the weather will carry on regardless, nothing we can do about that. But that is my whole point; why do we spend so much time worrying about something we have absolutely no control over whatsoever? It'd be different if we could predict it in some way, but all the evidence I have to hand shows we've made almost no tangible progress in this area at all.

Yet mystifyingly, we dedicate more and more resources, time and money to the weather every day.

How can the weather possibly justify 3 hits in one TV news bulletin? I get that they can actually measure what the weather was like that day, but who cares? It's already happened!

As for the forecasting thing, what an absolute crock. I'll tell you the weather segment I'd be genuinely interested in; the one where they play back the previous day's forecast and compare it to what really happened. Like they'd ever give me the satisfaction.

I reckon the amount and timing of any rainfall would be wrong about half the time. I'd say they'd get the wind wrong about 75 percent of the time and the predicted temperature would be wrong at least 6 days a week. Oh, and I don't remember them ever predicting a killer tornado.  That is to say, I HAVE heard weather forecasts mentioning the possibility of tornadoes,  but only ever in the days immediately after a killer tornado. And those ones never happen. EVER.

Why would we take any notice of that level of extreme bollocks? If meteorologists were financial commentators and they gave us advice that unreliable, we'd all be bankrupt by the end of the week. How is it these people all still have jobs when they get most of it completely wrong every single day?

It's obvious to me the weather is not science, it's magic, and as such, we mere mortals will never understand it. All we can do is marvel at its complexities, enjoy its sunsets, and say things like, "Boy, cold last night, wasn't it?" when we see each other at the gym.

Not the most specific forecast I've ever seen, and probably still wrong

DESPERATELY TRYING TO RECAPTURE SOMETHING OR OTHER

A guitar THIS dusty is a sign of some SERIOUS neglect

Did I ever tell you about my first job?

I don't mean my role as stand-in paper boy. Which was pretty awesome by the way, because when you cover for people at Christmas, you get all their presents. It was perfectly okay for me to keep those, right?

Nor do I mean cleaning the windows at the bank where Dad was the manager, which I did a terrible job of. They had a pool table in their staff room though, so that was cool.

No, I'm talking about my first REAL job. You know, after I left school. By that I mean, after I REALLY left school, not just when my Physics and Calculus teachers got so sick of me they conspired to have me banished to the "Transistion to Work" class. Disruptive influence my arse. That's probably another Glog in itself.

My first job? Busker.

Don't laugh. Busking is SO a job!

More of a job than being on the dole, anyway. Not that I have anything against anyone on a benefit, I just liked the idea of NOT bludging... especially after 18 years of doing exactly that off my parents.

Besides, I had a 1974 Honda Civic to run, and while petrol was a tiny fraction of the price then compared to now, it wasn't free. In short, I needed some coin.

Depressingly, by 18 years of age, my skill base was somewhat lacking. The major talents I'd spent my scholastic career developing were mostly centred around telling jokes, faffing about with computers, listening to music and generally showing off.

Little did I know at the time, this made me uniquely qualified to be the Technical Director on the Newstalk ZB Breakfast Show. Unfortunately, back in the early '90s, Newstalk ZB and I didn't even know each other existed.

What I DID have, was an impressive catalogue of songs I'd written myself.

By impressive, I mean sheer quantity. I'm relatively certain 6 years worth of teen angst spilled directly into 2 hours worth of 3 minute tunes does not a promising career as a rock star make.

However, it did mean I had enough material to stand in the middle of Hamilton's Victoria Street and scream my heart out, 4 hours a day, every weekday lunchtime.

Just exactly how terrible WERE my compositions? Reviews were mixed. After a couple of weeks, the lady from Just Jeans came out and said they were getting a bit sick of me and could I please go and play somewhere else? I thought she probably had a point, especially given I only had 2 hours of music yet was playing for 4 hours every day. Hell, I was getting a bit sick of me too.

On the other hand, as I was emptying the coins from my guitar case so I could put my guitar in it and find a new posse somewhere up the road, the bloke from Hallensteins rushed out, imploring me to stay. "Don't take any notice of her! Hallensteins owns this whole area and we think you're great. Stay as long as you like."

Or words to that effect.

Probably as a classic mark of how little faith I had in my own abilities, I moved on anyway. It seemed to me, the girls in Just Jeans might have slightly more taste than the Hallensteins guys. I wasn't really basing this on any tangible musical know-how, just the amount of branded polar-fleece currently on display in their respective window fronts.

The point is, somehow I eked out about $150-$200 a week just by singing my songs to people. I'd actually wholeheartedly recommend busking as a method of honing your performance skills. Because you're effectively performing a series of 30-second concerts to passers-by as they, well, pass by, every moment of every track has to be of the highest standard you can possibly produce. I learned early on, if I gave every silly little ditty 100% from intro right through to ad-lib and fade, I had much more chance of securing the loose change floating around in those pedestrians' pockets.

I can't remember how long I lasted, a mere month or two probably, but by the end of that time, even if the songs themselves were still soppy, I'd like to think the performances had become fairly slick.

Alas, no high-rolling record exec happened past, or if they did, they remained unimpressed. I remained undiscovered and any dreams of rags-to-riches rock stardom remained unrealised.

Before I knew it, years had passed, along with careers of varying length and success in apple orchards, seed storehouses and eventually, thankfully, even radio stations.

Those rock star dreams, even unrealised, never really fade completely though. The guitar still sits in the corner of the lounge, mostly just gathering dust. Every now and then though, usually after a few drinks too many, the stand gives up its mate for an hour or two and I lose myself in what I like to think of as my back-catalogue.

Maybe my songs weren't ALL useless... I'm just glad I wrote down most of the lyrics. Recently, somebody told me you never forget your own songs - I guess they must practice theirs more often than I rehearse mine.

In saying that, "...and a need for tears washes over me in one soul-tearing sweep?" Seriously? I think I just got the musical equivalent of an ice cream headache. Perhaps that's one that SHOULD have stayed back in high school.

Please tell me that isn't a box filled with teenage love, hope and heartbreak

HOW I FEEL ABOUT THE GCSB BILL

So hard to tell which direction the politics are coming from these days

Things would be very different if I was in charge. They'd be worse. WAY worse.

"glennzb, just where do your political loyalties lie?" you may be asking. Even if you are not asking, I'll still answer, otherwise this would be my shortest Glog ever.

The answer is, I have no political loyalties whatsoever. There was a time I probably agreed more with the left-hand side of things than the right, but only in a general way. These days, with those same allegedly left-wing people making racist noises about not letting foreigners buy houses, I confess to being a bit confused about what the left and right actually stand for.

If I'm being totally honest with you, I am perhaps a bit anti-government altogether. There's always been a rather anarchic side to me that wonders what would happen if there was no government whatsoever and we were all just left to our own devices.

Presumably a state of utter lawlessness would quickly ensue, immediately followed by total moral decay and a complete breakdown of society. Inevitably, gangs of motorcycle mounted cannibals would soon be roaming the land, feasting on the vital organs of those of us too meek or weak to defend ourselves.

Still, survival of the fittest and all that.

Like I say, just as well I'm not in charge. At heart, I'm probably a bit subversive. Always have been.

However, there's another part of me that thinks it's pretty important to have a few subversives running around out there, asking hard questions, shaking things up a bit. If the people in charge never have to justify their actions and policies, that means sooner or later they just start doing whatever they want and before you know it, gangs of motorcycle mounted maneaters are back in the picture ordering their kidney/liver/spleen combos at the nearest cannibal cuisine drive-thru.

I suppose this is all a very simplistic way of looking at things and there are far more complicated issues to take into account. Just little details, like protecting our shores from foreign invasion and maintaining a stable economy. If a few "subversives" have to be held in check to ensure those little details aren't threatened, that's just something we'll have to swallow for the greater good, right?

It's this belief that seems to be at the very heart of the GCSB debate.

Again, and again, and again, and again we hear people say, "If you've got nothing to hide, you've got nothing to fear." This, on the face of it, is absolutely correct. In fact, it's probably a truism.

Trouble is, where is the line between having "nothing to hide," and handing over every detail of your life to... well, to whom exactly? As things currently stand, I was under the impression, (perhaps mistakenly if recent allegations are borne out) I was under the impression I had a right to privacy.

Being private doesn't automatically make you a terrorist or a criminal. Being private might mean you feel free to share your honest opinions and beliefs with your friends, family and colleagues, WITHOUT sharing them with strangers. Maybe YOUR opinions and beliefs are diametrically opposed to the opinions and beliefs of those strangers. If those strangers happen to be the ones in charge, does that make you subversive?

All I know is, governments and lawmakers tend to be more popular when they are answerable to the people. That means the people having the freedom to ask their government and lawmakers hard questions. Very difficult to formulate those hard questions if you have to watch every word you speak, write or text in private.

I understand the benefit of a co-ordinated approach to gathering information on bad guys... it's gathering information on good guys that makes me nervous - especially if we're not sure who's deciding the difference between the two.

I'd like to think I have "nothing to hide," but I'm still not ready to give up my right to privacy just because somebody else does.

What happens when glennzb is left in charge

1000 EARTHQUAKES, SOME BROKEN BOATS AND A BABY

Never have so many people watched one hospital doorway,
so closely, for so long, for no apparent reason whatsoever

Can someone explain it to me? Please, I'm desperately trying to understand. As far as news stories go, a royal baby is possibly the thing I am interested in less than any other thing.

While Wellington didn't actually disappear into the ocean over the weekend, it certainly could have. Now THAT's a story.

Nobody anywhere has any idea how the America's Cup works, what's going to happen next, how you can break one of your sails, throw it into the ocean and sail even faster or even why you can never predict how many boats are going to turn up for any given race. Come on, that's a story.

Babies and princesses and princes just leave me absolutely stone cold.

Give me a reason to care, because try as I might, I can't find one anywhere.

Yesterday someone suggested it was good to have something to believe in, like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. In fact, they went on to point out how future kings are even better because they're actually real. All I know is no member of the Royal Family has ever brought me presents or chocolate.

Or anything at all, for that matter.

I don't think I'd label myself a republican; I'm way to ambivalent towards the monarchy to actually do anything about them. Having them there doesn't seem to be hurting anyone - although I understand they do cost the Commonwealth a shitload of money for not much return. In saying that, if we got rid of all the stupid things that waste billions of public funds, surely we would have put all the local councils up against the wall years ago.

If some motley crew of inbred freaks, an obviously born-out-of wedlock crazy ginga and one supermodel commoner want to traipse all over the globe to put flowers on their heads, watch topless natives perform silly dance routines and play polo, that's their business. Yet unbelievably, all that farcical bollocks makes front page news every day of the year.

Is it because we really do want to believe we're living in some kind of fantasy fairyland, where international yacht racing has been outlawed altogether and the king has banished all earthquakes everywhere forever?

That's the royal bit. Don't even start me on babies. Aren't they gross?

Yes they are, and don't try and tell me otherwise. All babies do is spew, poo, sleep and shriek, which effectively means not only are they completely useless, they stink as well. A bit like husbands. Why would you bother?

Unfortunately, unlike archaic systems of government based solely upon which order you were born to which king or queen, you actually NEED babies, so I guess I'll just have to put up with them.

Even more unfortunately, as hard as I've tried, and god, how I've tried, this is one story I can't ignore. It's everywhere. Last night I even endured a probing interview with Cynthia Read. What do you mean, "Who's Cynthia Read?" She spun/wove/knitted the shawl, you philistines! The SHAWL! THE shawl! How could you have missed that?

I wish I had.

I think it's all the waiting that's finally turned me so utterly septic. Waiting for news of the birth, waiting for the happy family to appear, now we wait just as breathlessly to hear if they're going to give this poor, doomed wretch a name.

I'm picking they probably will.

It's all too much. Way, WAY too much. I feel like I've been force-fed a rich meal, including both dessert and cheeseboard, then been tempted by a few late night liqueurs as well. Except, I didn't get to eat anything.

Did I really need details on the Royal Car Seat? Like Mr. Creosote's after dinner mint, those details were only "wafer thin" but they were still enough to make my brain explode.

Can we please go back to talking about rich arseholes breaking their boats now? I've had enough of this baby. He ain't the king of me.

I may be a cynical old coot, but I can appreciate a hand-spun giant doily
as much as the next guy

MY FIRST EVER RESTAURANT REVIEW EVER

Please tell me I haven't turned into one those people who takes photos of their food

I can't decide if I'm too qualified or nowhere near qualified enough to do this.

On the one hand, nobody loves eating more than I do. I don't think of gluttony as a sin, more of a way of life.

On the other hand, it's not like I spend every night eating out. Sadly.

However, last week I had a dining experience that exceeded my expectations by such a margin, I really had to share it with you.

The Domestic Manager, the two monsters and I were off to see Slava's Snow Show and required a casual bite in the short window of opportunity afforded us between soccer training, piano lessons and the show itself.

Traditionally we'd pop in to Elliot Stables, which is a kind of casual collection of restaurants that all open out onto an indoor street. Like a food hall without the fast food chains and way cooler. Situated just around the corner from several Auckland theatres, it's been our go-to for some time.

Then a colleague brought the Food Truck Garage to my attention.

For background purposes, if you don't know already, there's a reality show on TV One called the Food Truck, on which chef Michael Van de Elzen tries to reinvent traditional fast food favourites with more healthy ingredients, attempting to sell them off at various public events from the window of his custom-built food truck.

For further background purposes, Monster Number 2 absolutely LOVES this show.

So when I found out there was an actual cafe selling Van de Elzen's wares, it seemed like the obvious choice for our pre-show dining this time round.

I didn't really know what to expect, other than a few crazy burgers, but I'd heard the actual truck might be parked there, so if nothing else, a nifty photo opportunity was in the offing.

What we DID find blew me away. Firstly, easy parking. In fact, a large percentage of the Food Truck Garage's Cityworks Depot location is pay and display parking.

Secondly, it's a proper, sit-down cafe. Yes, you can takeaway, but where I was presuming we'd be ordering at the till and taking a number, we were instead shown to our table and given menus.

And WHAT menus! I've never seen so many dishes I thought I knew, full of things I've never heard of. Burgers I've eaten aplenty, patties made of pumpkin and spinach, with a beetroot pickle and almond satay, not so much. Chips are chips, right? Maybe not when they're actually skin-on agria potatoes, swedes, and beets served with a lime emulsion. Oh, and do the words, "Prawn Tacos" mean anything to you? Nom, nom, nom, nom, nom...

If this all sounds like fancy schmancy flash people's dinners, it's actually completely the opposite. It's basic, raw, fresh and fun, and the most expensive item will set you back a mere 12 bucks. They even make their own lemonade, ginger beer and cola. What's more, everything comes served on enamel plates and in old jars and milk bottles. And there's beer.

Best of all, if I'm going to be perfectly honest, it's pretty cool eating the very dishes you've seen a bloke invent on telly. Oh, and yes, the real truck was really there.

Pity Monster Number 2 was having some kind of flu/headcold/stomach ache/panic attack/meltdown the whole time. Not easy being 9, you know.

But that's a measure of how excellent the Foodtruck Garage was. We hardly even noticed her incessant whimpering at all.

The Food Truck Garage
Shed 1, Cityworks Depot
90 Wellesley Street
Auckland

Open Tuesday-Sunday, 11:30 till late

Funny, she doesn't seem quite so monstrous in this picture. Maybe it's the truck