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