Avenue Q - QQQQute

It took a moment to adjust to the quirks. How refreshing.

I saw Avenue Q - the musical, at The Aurora Centre in Christchurch with an audience that were either young, funky or young and funky. No wonder its still going strong after 10 years on the international stage.

The cast was conjured up of actors and Sesame/muppety puppets - with humans attached. They didn't even lip-sink or hide. They were animated even, and it still really worked. Your attention zoned on the puppets. There was real feeling in their funny felt faces. It didn't take long to bond with the characters, except for Mrs Thistletwat who wouldn't want as a boss.

I don't know how the writers and producers did it. They managed to weave poignant points of racism, homosexuality, unemployment, homelessness, pornography, love, sex and a close shave with death, into a humorous couple of lighthearted hours. It was all set in a simple, safe American street. It made fun of itself and it was good to leave your Ps and Qs in your pocket and ditch PC for the night. It was honest and nothing offended. Even the most poe-faced would just have to laugh at a bumbling overgrown cookie monster dancing round the stage telling us the at the internet is just "for porn". (Although parts of the puppet sex were a litttttle TMI - I will never get undressed in front of my soft-toys  again!) 

The core of its plot circled round the young characters searching for their "purpose". Apart from Lucy the Slut, who didn't suit not her prudish librarian transformation - everyone therefore had a serendipitously happy ending. Life is not that serious. "Everything in life is for now" was the final score.

The songs are still tinkling away in my head. Very catchy. Its the kind of musical you could see again. A new cult following in New Zealand perhaps. Catch it if you can.

Polish those Pinkies

Spring. Flowers. Colour. Woah, it's October already so you can't continue to creep around in grey merino and pretend the earth's still hibernating.

Daffodils have been done to death, and I can’t find affordable freesias - so what else can spring-ify one’s demeanor?

My hot-pink nail-polish might just have got me in the mood. The bottle of shimmery stickiness had hidden in a darkened drawer all winter...edging toward its use-by date.

Why? Because I was dreading spillage, splashes and having to keep my fingers spread-eagled for six minutes while they dried. It’s like trying not to blink. Today, I still managed to smear some on my dress and smudge 30% of the job. They resemble an 8-year-old's art project. However, the colour lifted my mood and I keep staring at them, as you would a beautiful bunch of blooms. (But they have yet to improve the toxic scent).

Lovely! I have bright, laquerish pink nails...except for one little finger on my left hand. It innately sticks snootily in the air, avoiding all housework. Thus, it is three-times the length of the others. Just as you would paint a feature wall, this little pinkie went lime green. And why should I have such a rebellious colour in my makeup drawer? Well that is another story.

Once upon a time, in May, I was a nail model. (ah ha, before you grimace, no other body parts were employed!). Thanks to the miracle of photoshop zapping the effects of dish-pan hands, 

(stop choking Eddie!), I was about to have myself some fun.

Kristy of Hands of Elegance wanted more pictures for her beauty website and my photographer-friend, Peter Walker of  www.threechairs.co.nz, was to nail them. I got to 'grow' long, jungle-book tiger claws, crystal-clustered, polkadot and pointy ones over the space of a week. I was then directed to choke a flamingo’s neck, squish lime jelly, play with ketchup, daggers, broken mirrors, bubbles, flames, apples and lollipops - all in the name of wearable art.

Alas, after having a ball, my temporary adornments slowly dropped off one by pretty one. (Not the kind of thing welcome in my vegetable soup - cruuuunch). Cinderella was eventually back to dish-pan hands.

Until today. The claws are out again -with a spring in their scratch. (<;

Enjoy experimenting this season,

Wordbird. x

Prepare For A Crash Landing

Mary Magdeleine is wearing a seat belt. 

She is strapped to the faded-glory victorian chair adjacent to the fireplace. Her angel friend is also buckled in, on the opposite chair. The china cabinet is stuffed with fox furs and pink tissue which serve as a shroud for the surviving fine figurines and antique heirlooms. Pictures are crucified to the walls with six-inch  nails and the Toby jug is strategically positioned so you don't see his cracked bottom.

This is the scene at the neighbour's house.

Next to them, at the Italian palace-ish house, it is bare-walled. Your voice echos. It looks like robbers have been.

At my house, its risk management verses how much I love the item (all the tacky coffee cups teeter fearlessly on edges), if it is crash proof (wooden with bang-marks already), or if it can bounce on my concrete floor.

I can't bear to look at bare walls. Oh, by the way, canvas sort of bounces! 

Do we carry on as normal...or never go into an undercover car park again and NEVER bring out the best china - ever? 

Are we going to duck for cover at every shake, rattle or roll for the rest of our lives?... like a Vietnam war solider heading for the hills at the mere sound of a helicopter's beating wings.

Lets hope the earth goes back to sleep for another 16,000 years - I want to clink the crystal once more. 

Cheers!

Wordbird (up late - never have caffeine after midday!)

Confessions of a postgirl

I crept up shaded concrete stairs, crunching pine needles and cabbage-tree fronds. I pushed the pamphlet through the letter-drop of the heavy wooden door. It glided onto a pile of unread paper.
The sides of the house oozed yellowed foam from spreading cracks. I touched it. It was petrified to a meringue consistency. I gazed sadly up at the black polythene-draped windows and realised it was pointless delivering the Sumner Community Group newsletter there at all.


Was this to be the modern-day haunted house?
Come to think of it, there had been no sign of my neighbours at the corner of the drive for ages, nor the old man across the road. I used to walk past them chatting together with their dogs.

Today was serenely still and sunny. The views were perfect as I dutifully visited all the letterboxes at the top if the hill. It was very nice of the council to give us sky-blue and sea-turquoise port-a-loos, I mused. They sort of blended...in a post-quake kind of way.

Easter Sunday on Clifton was usually humming with visiting relatives and site-seers in sportcars. But not today. I only spoke to two people. No one was around. It looked like a dwelling emergency ward. Bandaged, broken, crumbled, cracked - deserted.

However, my aloneness was jolted when glancing downwind to a fully intact house. A guy walked into his open doorway COMPLETELY naked - Mr April-style - albeit a newspaper critically positioned. And just STOOD there. It looked as though he had come to check out the unusual sign of life. Either that or he was an exhibitionist who was craving an audience. I rescued my third potential tumble into cracked asphalt, focused on the (sea) view and scurried on my way.

Until tomorrow,
Word Bird (with sore thigh muscles)

To Market to Market

Our two major supermarkets are liquifactioned (new word?) and seriously injured, respectively.
Hence, the foodies of the Port Hills - determined not to suffer a food-less fate - have improvised.
We now have our very own Farmers Market.

A piece of paradise has popped up in Mt Pleasant - aiming to please the palette every Saturday morning.
We now don't have to go all the way to Lyttelton Market through the tunnel or across town to Deans Bush Market anymore.

It was not Francais fancy at the waterside Community Hall. Piles of that gritty gray grunge, bricks and rubble greeted me - as did the wafting air from the poo-infused estuary. The bright sunflowers for sale, however, were so inticing. Why I didn't grab a bunch I do not know. Being a hopeless romantic, buying  flowers for yoursef seemed a little sad...or a little too desperate housewife.

As food lovers, many Kiwis love to go on expensive holidays to charming Mediterranean villages especially to see and breath the sights and smells of a local market. And here it was. Sigh, just down the road.

Okay, the Barry's Bay cheese didn't waft hedonistically like feral Swiss camembert. The fish was neatly bagged, instead of bug-eyed and offered by a man with a grinning Greek walrus-mustache. But it was NOT from the supermarket. And we can't afford Santorini this year.

The organic vegetables, FRESH and not over-priced, came courtesy of a supplier in North Canterbury. There were organic meats, cheeses, breads, spreads...and arrghhh...wait for it...QUAKE T-SHIRTS. Yes, you can actually buy a t-shirt at our wee market saying MUNTED: adjective for the severe damage caused by the Christchurch Earthquake. They come in Red or black.
It was even worse than my memory of the stall selling pokey plastic Leaning Tower of Pisas outside the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
And we sooo love to trash those tacky European tourist traps, don't we?

Off to poach my spray-free rhubarb,
Word Bird XX

Twas a Good Friday

Good Friday at church was different this year.
I slunk in half way through and sat at the back in a plastic chair. I stared at 1970's concrete block - craving the romance of a stained-glass arched windows. This was the new venue of Sumner All Saints Church, which was still sitting sad and empty under the shade of a shaky cliff - red stickered.

We listened to a floaty quartet singing opera in Latin, then a wee somber sermon about all those suffering and in need. Usually one is praying for the third world  but now it was...sigh...US. I don't think the collection plate was very full.

The after-chat was "oh i know someone who can fix your roof" and how the 16th April's 5.3 shake was  AS SHAKY and destructive as Feb 22nd. Or so it was in our rocky pocket of the city. We, the Sumnerians have to keep talking about it because in other parts of Christchurch some people kept driving... oblivious to my crashing of windows, roofs and...oh no not MORE china (my 'fault' for not doing the dishes). I despise drinking and eating from plastic.
My neighbour said today he has just lost his third TV in as many quakes. I am watching Forest Gump on a 12 inch one - which is probably why i can concentrate on this blog.

We then decided to drive to Oxford to a friends house. It was like going on a holiday. No earthquake signs.  China in cabinets bulged precariously and a cupid statue posed on its tippy toes.
I sat in the lush leather armchair with a glass of bubbles. (my champagne flutes are ALL broken ) The faulty foot-rest pinged up and flung me into relax mode. Jett the black, smoochy cat resumed lap position. I had a view of the foothills against symmetrically planted cypress trees and moss-adorned lion statues. (Mine have ALL smashed). No depressing tarpaulins and ropes and cracked things.
It was a piece of South of France that I didn't even have to fly to.

In the background, 51-year-old Kristy crooned to her new keyboard, along with Eddie. She has only started singing a year ago even though her voice was incredibly professional, deep and sultry - like liqueur chocolate. She had just won a competition and is off to the World Championships of Performing Arts in Hollywood. Her husband, an award winning photo-journalist, among other skills,  had to eventually leave us to go work at The Press. Kristy conveyed to me the workings of their busy careered-crammed lives, entwined with their 20-acre abode and six kids.
I reclined guiltily. Apparently being organised was the answer she told me.
Noted.( And thats why I'm here - even though it IS a public holiday.)

I finally threw dribbly feline off my lap. Feeling floaty and jealous after our fill of bubbles and song, we opened the front door... and was greeted with another cat...devouring the EASTER BUNNY... and NOT a chocolate one.
There is always a little hell to every slice of heaven.

Happy Easter from the chocolate-lovin' word chick xx
P.S. indulge a little.

Warning: Earthquakes cause brain cracks

Earthquake brain: Definition: the inability to co-ordinate your thoughts, body and life in a coherent fashion. Increases in severity the more earthquakes you experience - and the more times you catch the head of a headless statue staring at you.

I first started this blog on September 2 2010 with a snappy intro and a devout self-believing goal for a daily post. Then I got a technical problem. Then - on September 4 - the earth threw it's toys out of the cot. Blog promises crashed to the floor.

Shaking right along to April 21st 2011, I had such a bloggable day. I have to do this. Expecting glitches, I surprisedly gliiided into Wordbird Magazine glitch-free. Anyway, I owe it to my one (patient) follower to finally deliver - or log off.

Deep breath...
Last night when I arrived home with my partner, Eddie, he freaked. "The barbeque has been MOVED and the gas cylinder has GONE." I questioned this. "I have an exceptional eye for detail ...I KNOW."
Well, as my memory is as reliable as an earthquake prediction, who was I to query? We had heard the Eastern suburbs were rabid with looters. And I imagined they would really need my propane tank to fuel their barbecues of stolen steaks.

I panicked that my camera was gone. But found it in a fluffy leopard jewellery holder. Violated, deflated and disillusioned...I slept...only to wake up with More FM crackling painfully in my ear.
"We have just had a call from Eddie Simon who was burgled last night" Simon Barnett went on to say how terrible is was that people are doing this to all the abandoned unsecured houses.
 My stuck together eyelids opened as wide as those cupie dolls in a horror movie. I hate to think what I said after that.
"I only rang to get them to warn people...i didn't think they would say all THAT" Eddie pleaded honestly. When you think how hard it is to get through to the radio phone-lines and even get on the radio - this was luck in reverse.
A sheepish Eddie wolfed his cereal, said I didn't have to make his lunch and left - only to return far too soon. He had pulled up to the neighbour's house to warn them of the the barbeque-loving burglars...as another neighbour backed into his (new purchase of one month) shiny white car. The passenger door was squished. It now matched all my broken belongings - and the city.

A friend texted to say she didn't realise I had fled my home...and offered me lodgings.
I stewed all day. And eventually clicked over a brain-cog. I remembered soon after Feb 22, I had picked up a small purple piece of paper with number 9 written on it, from a gas cylinder round the back of the house. There were 9's in the Earthquake helpline number, and other recent things - so this memory went to the "remember this sign" Brain-file number 9. However, this was nearly two months ago when we  lined up for free gas-bottle fillings. Surely...no...
 I went round the side of the house which now flapped with quake-blue tarpaulins. Underneath...a gas bottle was hibernating.

I was relieved there were no burglars, relieved the random piece of paper had jogged my memory, but more relieved I was not the ONLY one with severe Earthquake Brain. And YES, I so do intend to milk this. Ammo for the next year.
Pity it lead to an accident and the peril of the poor under 25-year-old driver who came over to give me a bottle of wine and shaken apologies. Earthquake Brain - warning: leads to aftershock-effect disaster."

I led Eddie up our garden path when he arrived home, still upset from "the violation".  A few self-directing expletives later, he said "Please don't tell anyone about this."
Does my one faithful follower on my blog count?

Wordbird signing off...until tomorrow.xxx ( subject to glitches)