HWC's Diary. Read it at your peril.

January 3rd 2002

And a happy new year to both my devoted readers. Have a beer for me. I imagine, given the temperature, you won't be having a cold soda. Ha Ha Ha. We have just had the wettest, the warmest, and the least sunny December ever in Auckland. Horrible.

A busy month coming up. Gigs at the Pauanui festival and some trio work. A boat to be defouled, antifouled and repainted. A job interview. Work to be done. Ho hum. Keeps life interesting.

I took (two of) the kids to the Tolkien movie. Despite all the ignorant comments in the Clan Lord Journal and no I won't give yet another link to that Journal cause I just can't be buggered, but anyway, despite those comments, it is a good movie for kids. My two enjoyed it hugely. So did I. Hooray for Peter Jackson. Takes a kiwi (man and scenery) to make a decent film. Of course, one always gets the whingers, the whiners, the nay-sayers, the pathetic twats who blather on about there being "no ending". I name no names. What the fuck did they expect? Hadn't they read the book? Are they illiterate morons? Are these rhetorical questions? Should I be even writing this diary? Probably not. But seriously, folks, what the fuck did you want? A pap-sweet, bullshit Hollywood ending, completely untrue to the book and the vision? Most Hollywood films I've ever soon would be rather better without their endings. Or their beginnings, if it comes to that.

A good movie, of a great book. I hesitate to say a great movie. There are other movies that have moved me more, so to speak. No, not Hollywood ones, in case you were wondering. But TFOTR was hugely enjoyable, and as true to Tolkien as it could possibly be, given the constraints.

I am a huge Tolkien fan. He made the genre, almost singlehandedly. No other writer (that I know of) has come close to creating a world of such detail, such intense mythological flavour. Down to the languages, in multiple variety (Did you know that the original wedding service of Babs and Sleipy was written in high Elvish, a la Tolkien? Took me for bloody ever, but I wanted to get the grammer correct. God, what a waste of time).

What is it about Tolkien that stands out so particularly? Well, the detail of course. But even more so was his knowledge of the language, poetry and myth of so many peoples, mostly Germanic ones. Tolkien didn't really use Celtic myth at all. I guess he stuck to what he knew. These stories are myths for very good reasons. They tell tales that resonate, for whatever reason, for a hundred reasons, for reasons that are just as true now as then. Stories that have a powerful draw, even today. Or especially today. Tolkien was so close to these mythological types that his stories contain the same resonance, the same pull. It is extraordinary how he managed to do this without sinking into cliche, as so many other attempts have. His was the genius to extract the mythological power and distill it into a modern literary form. I still read his work in awe.

I find it somewhat sad that so many young people grow up on a diet of pale imitations, of pseudo-myth, of vain attempts to dumb myth down into something an illiterate teenager can understand when seen in cartoon form. They grow up completely unaware of their mythological heritage, with no understanding of the power of the folk tale, of the pathos of the hero saga. Yet they seem to be aware, in some ill-defined way, of these stories just beyond their reach. Something shines through the diet of comic book characters and television plastic superheroes, something they strive to reach but never can. And the myths die away, gradually, into toy store characters of Hercules.

Of course, Tolkien had his faults. The glaring one, which still makes me cringe, is his snobbery. Masters and servants. Frodo and Sam. The Lord and the Gardener. One to perform. The other to serve loyally. How quintessentially English. How quintessentially offensive. There is very little more awful to me than a person who believes, because they were born with a title, estates, money or some such other thing, that they are superior to other people. To me! They aren't of course. But they believe they are. Grrrrr.......New Zealanders tend to be strongly egalitarian, which has its good sides and bad sides, and I am true to the breed. Sleipy is somewhat different, as some of you may have noticed.

Ah well. Better do some work, instead of blathering away here.

January 13rd 2002

Golly Gee, it has been longer than I realised. I've been a busy little bee, let me tell you. Writing a talk for my interview and defouling the boat, mostly. Both are huge jobs. I'm covered in spots of black anti-foul, from my hair to my feet. It doesn't come off very easily so I look a little like a .... er.... a... well, a black spotted person. But the talk is almost set to go.

In addition all is well (or at least a lot better) with music things. Regular gig now every Thursday with a new group. Lots of other gigs coming up. A few good payers last two weeks. But, you know, I have finally decided that I just don't like doing corporate work. You are basically paid to dress up in black and white, stand in a corner, and blather away so that nobody can actually hear you. Heaven forbid that the music should interfere with the important conversations of important people, but they have to be seen to be hiring an expensive band. Status symbol you know. Pathetic. Musically it is a pain in the neck. Not nearly as much fun as wearing my fancy pants and blasting away at a local club getting smashed. But the clubs pay barely enough to cover petrol costs. Ah well, I guess I'm not the first musician to sell their soul for money. Actually, if I could I'd sell my soul to get laid by some of those lithe blackly-clad young dancers, but that offer hasn't yet appeared in front of me.

Maybe I should cut my hair? Or grow younger? Both would be necessary I'm quite sure. But I won't do either, at least not yet. 87 year old kewl dudes, with red hair like a huge (uncombed) mop, don't seem to be able to pull the chicks. Weird.

Norwegian music from Madame Tove. Huzzah! All very dark and gloomy, entirely as expected. Sort of snowy and icy and cold and bleak and grey. No, no, I'm kidding. Mostly. I liked a lot of it, but the upbeat one in English was the best. I also listened to some traditional Norwegian fiddle tunes. Oh boy. On a traditional Norwegian fiddle, no less. Eight strings, four droning (I think). Like a fucking bagpipe, just bowed. Don't listen to too many all at once, says Tove. No fear of that, think I.

Golly gee, that was all very rude, after Tove had gone to all that trouble to make them for me. A seriously serious big thank you to Tove for doing that for me. Very very interesting. (Even the Norwegian fiddle). I've done a lot of listening.

January 17rd 2002

	Woo Hoo!! A Hall of Chivalry! Is this not just the greatest thing you have ever seen in Clan Lord? (The correct answer is yes). After much waiting (well, not that much really) it's finally in and working. And expensive. But that's OK too. This is Sleipy's first look at the entrance way, which does look lovely doesn't it? We are told we can design our own heraldic tapestries for hanging. How exciting.

.

	Upon entry, Sleipy found that he couldn't actually get into the business part of the Hall, 'cause he wasn't a Knight! Outrageous. Slyph told him he just had to run hard at the door, so he did, and bumped his head hard. Very painful. Naughty Slyphers. She's a tart. But isn't it wonderful to see how courteous the Knightly NPCs are? Tally Ho and away!
Then the noble sir Rychard appeared (while Sleipy was studying again) and made Cazlar into a Knight. Poor old Sleipy was still left out in the cold, and had first to be Cazlar's squire! Such humiliation. Once as a squire he had a nervous few moments before Cazlar relented, and agreed to promote him. Ouch. Could have been nasty, I tell you.
			Fortunately the promotion followed in due course, and Sleipy was a real official Knight, with a red box and all. Or is it a blue box? I can never remember. Whatever.
	Next job of the day; ensquire Coriakin officially. Then drink too much.

All in all, a good day's work. Funny how every single young player in the game now wants to be a Knight. Expected, of course. Maybe I can persuade Babajaga to perform squires' duties? Hmmm..... maybe not. The Knight Errant bit will be fixed just as soon as I can collect 2500 coins to make Sleipy's Order official. Better get hunting. And that expensive ring will have to wait.

Evdex was most noble in offering financial assistance. If you see that exile in the lands, be nice to him, he deserves it! Clearly excellent Knight material there.

January 19rd 2002

Am I a tired little boy? I should say so. Gig on Thursday was late. I met, believe it or not, the bass player for Angelique Kidjo, one of the biggest African musicians. Or more particularly West/Central African. We have a lot of her recordings. Very cool stuff indeed. So happens that her bass player is a kiwi, from Dargaville. Yeah, weird eh? Lives in Brooklyn now, close to where we used to live (on Bergen St., just by the F train stop). So we sat down and swapped Brooklyn stories and music stories and kiwi-in-NYC stories. A good time was had by all. I was amused to hear how he earns almost nothing playing for Kidjo, but relies on corporate work, doing the whole black suit and bow tie thing. Hmmmm..... I said, that story rings a familiar tune. Moan moan moan. Bitch bitch bitch.

As a side note I should say that I got married in Brooklyn. In the Brooklyn registry office. How romantic. We got jeered at by all the Puerto Ricans on the way to the office, and jeered at on the way back. They would always hang out on the corner of Smith and Bergen. When we first moved to Brooklyn and saw this we wondered where they went when it rained. Silly us. They all just hung out with umbrellas.

Anyway, to continue the saga of my life (and I will get to the Sleipy-as-hero bit soon enough, so have patience) I then was a little bit late on Friday also, meeting Kryll, Raiine and Wormy (more to follow on that later), and then I've been painting a bloody boat all day today, starting at some ungodly hour. I'm knackered. Grey primer everywhere; in my ears, my nose, probably elsewhere also though I haven't looked. I am a mess. And starting again at 7.30 tomorrow too. Second coat. Ugh. Then the third coat. Then the top coat, then the .... Ugh again.

You have been promised the story of Sleipnir the Hero, and get this story you shall. It will (of course) appear in exhaustive detail in the diary of our favourite Sylvan, taking up AT LEAST five (5) pages. Minimum. I expect it momentarily. But for the nitty gritty details you can't beat an unbiased, kind and gentle nerd. Once upon a time, in a land far far away there was a Knight who came out of the library one sunny day of undeterminate season. No sooner had our hero stepped outside than he was invited to go and visit his Lady-love, the fair Babajaga, who was limbering up with stretching exercises outside the Scaramis pen, in preparation for saving the world.

Now, well might you ask, why would a Knight be invited to such a place, and well did the brave and handsome HWC say so to himself also. But then he thought he would be kind to the Knight and let him go and gaze at his Lady-love in ways irritating to as many people as possible. And Lo, thus it came to pass. Picture above. Isn't she lovely? Of course, no sooner does the Knight appear than the lady falls asleep. Not surprising, you think? Aha! You underestimate the sex appeal of a Knightly calve, a bad mistake to make. But the calves didn't work so well this day, and asleep fell the Lady. Zzzzzzzzzzzz. Well, you will all be shocked to read this, but our poor brave and handsome HWC (to be abbreviated BaHHWC from now on) was then forced to sit there and listen to screeds of horking shitfucking bulls about whether to share with 5 healers or 6 healers or 4 healers and two mystics and if so, who, and who would take money instead and who wouldn't, and whether the money could compensate for the share or whether rank gain would be maximised by the mystic share or the healer share, or.... Well. You get the picture. Poor BaHHWC. Sleipy pointed out that he was capable of deciding for himself, which is Sleipy speak for the BaHHWC saying (in the words of the immortal Chum) You can all shove it up your ass, you bunch of fuckwits. Although, to be honest the BaHHWC rather likes many of the people there, just not to hunt with I suppose. That is as may be. The plot thickens. Upon waking, the beauteous Lady Babajaga was informed by the handsome Knight that the BaHHWC really couldn't take this and he was bugging out. Kisses all around. Toodle Pip. Bye, bye, wave wave. Etc. The usual stuff. You know how it is. Away goes our hero to contemplate his navel in glorious serene isolation somewhere else. But behold, there came to the lady Babajaga a disaster of great proportion and she did fall inside the Scaramis pit, in company with the other shit horkers, and there they all lay. All dead. All hope had fled, and no Horatio stood upon the bridge.

Did I say all hope had fled? Not so!!!!! For our brave hero proceeded to leave his navel alone and, sending out many and many annoying sunstone messages (for which he undeserving received some ill-intentioned remarks), succeeding in gathering a RESCUE PARTY, consisting mostly of entirely unimportant exiles who shall not appear further in this story. They girded their loins! They charged! Although it was, I must add, a near-run thing as the nasty Elenis turned up also which fact, by itself, was enough to make the BaHHWC run for cover, but he left it too late and had to charge after Vagile instead. When Vagile yells charge, the Knight obeys. Instinct I suppose.

So, there was our brave hero (with a few other unimportant exiles such as Vagile who shall not appear further in our story) searching and searching for his FALLEN Lady-love. Much fighting was performed by our hero, and many heroic deeds were heroically done by our heroic hero heroically. Until, at the last, the final path was found and the corpses discovered.

I shall gloss over the fact that the lady Babajaga was STILL ASLEEP. Snoring away quite happily. STILL ASLEEP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Babajaga) Note the presence of our hero, slaughtering things left and right. Very heroic.

Rescue parties are lucky to have heroes to lead them.

Amazing, you are all thinking. What a fantastic guy this Knight is! And you would be right. But wait, this story isn't finished yet!!! In one of those cruel cruel twists of fate, that serve to remind us all how humble we should all be, it turned out that all the fallen horkbulls were too fallen to be raised. Ha ha ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha. What a scream, thinks BaHHWC. Yeah, baby. And who has to chain them ALL out, horks, fuck-shitters, bulls, and lovely ladies? Guess!!! All together. How humiliating for them. And our hero laughed and laughed to himself, and gazed at the Lady Babajaga, and was content. Elenis, I fear, remained entirely unaware during the whole process, being unable to hear anything our hero said, as our hero found when he tried to talk to him. Silly thing to try, OK, I admit it, but common sense can be overestimated. We can only hope that his liver doesn't burst with irritation, being confined (as he was) solely to patronising and snide remarks behind the back of our hero to the beauteous Lady Babajaga. Of such moments make we our contentment, and in such irony lies pure happiness. Let us take a moment to meditate upon the ways of the universe, and give thanks for Knightly Heroes.

And our hero, and the BaHHWC, lived happily ever after.

January 22nd 2002

I sit here, somewhat bored, in Auckland. Job interview coming up. My fingers are crossed. I was planning to work, but can't concentrate so very well on the job in hand. I did, however, read bits of Noah's diary, in great expectation. I was not disappointed. He was planning to study his biology, but had previously decided that if anything else were to come up (like friends calling him, or a good game or something) he wouldn't do his study because, after all, personal interactions are so much more important than biology. Well, a good point. Yes. I see where he's coming from, indeed I do. Everything, it seems, is more important than working. Until, woops, exam time! And then they fail. Golly gee. Who would have expected that? Enough of this. It was a giggle, but I have more important things to talk about.

Like Kryll and Raiine! Huzzah! Although they are kiwis (well, living here anyway. Raiine is actually a nasty Aussie. Which reminds me... What do Australian women put behind their ears to make themselves more attractive? ..... A good question. I'm glad you asked) I had never met them before. So when Wormy told me they were going to be visiting, I was eager to make their formal acquaintance. Lady Raiine, meet sir Sleipnir. sir Sleipnir, meet Lady Raiine. &c &c.

We met in town, at Rakino's, a bar I play at a lot. Or used to. I haven't been there for a while now. Kryll was at the bar when I came in, but (of course) not knowing who he was I walked right past him. Silly me. However, we eventually worked things out and sat down for a beer or two. The conversation went like this.

Raiine:mmme uu hhyuuuu uuhh nmnmmmm ?
Me: What? I can't hear you?
Raiine" mmmfffgguuy mfjfj na efnqe f as; wernfp rfr
Me: Oh right. Yes, I quite agree! Absolutely.
Raiine: WHAT? YOU DUMB FUCK. I WAS ASKING YOU IF YOU EVER HAD WILD SEX WITH PRUE.
Me: Oh. Sorry.

Well, I exaggerate, but the band was way too loud and we couldn't talk. So much for my choice of a quiet place to chat. We moved on to a quieter place where we could sit outside and let Wormy perv at all the cute ladies walking past. He was really disgusting. You just couldn't hold his attention for two bloody seconds, without his eyes straying to the road to look at some luscious thing. Filthy behaviour. Really. I was appalled. So was Kryll, who had his back to the street. Anyway, we dissected everybody in Clan Lord, said all kinds of rude things about everybody (except Babajaga, of course) I revealed a closely guarded secret about whom Sleipy *really* is in love with, and a good time was had by all. Kryll and Raiine were, as expected, most excellent company. Particularly when they tell flatmate stories. Hear that, Payphone old buddy? Check them out.

And the gossip!! Ooooooooo...... so *very* interesting.

Saw Peter playing in Deschlers on the way home but couldn't stop to chat. He was in the middle of a bass solo. Hah. Nobody was listening of course. Who ever does, to bass solos?

In other world news, the lovely Tove has reorganised her private venting place so that nobody can negotiate their way around it without a PhD in computer management. You have to click here, and click there, and then register for something (not sure why) and then look for a comment button which doesn't seem to be there, and then click somewhere else and finally find the article. No, wait, put down that sharpish knife, dearest Tove, I like it. Really, I do. Very fancy-schmancy. You put me to shame. Which, of course, is hardly at all surprising. You spend your entire online life doing just that.

But the guilt is overwhelming. Cold and Snowy? Cold and Snowy???!!!!!! Must I go through the rest of my life blaming myself for giving you such a hard time about the Norwegian winter that your entire online life is blighted by nasty weather? Oh dear, please God no. I feel so terrible about it now. I swear I shall never (well... hardly ever) joke about snow again. Or, at least, I'll try not to. Try really hard.

I read your Tenebrion page again. I haven't read it for a while. If I can be serious (for a very short while) I have to say that's it's really impressive. All readers of this diary must go there, immediately. No, no link. Sorry. Can't remember it. But it's not hard to find from Baba's page. It's pages like this that make me wish Sleipy was a member of PTF. Well, but then I think how I would rather Sleipy was a friend of Baba, so I think he'd better not try and join PTF. I doubt if both are possible.

And where, where, where are the Knight's FIVE (5) pages? He got two measely lines! TWO!!(2) Pathetic effort. Honestly, being a hero is so underappreciated nowadays.

		Thus doth sir Sleipnir resume his rightful place, in the Order of True and Gentle Knighthood. Huzzah! And sir Califas also, who paid most of the money. Ahem. Others to follow.

January 29th 2002

The less than perfectly noble Wormtounge is attempting to blackmail me. It is a sad and sordid tale, unhappy for all concerned, and shaming to him in particular. And IT WILL NOT SUCCEED. He is attempting to force me to tell the truth about who was ogling the ladies during our little get together. He is attempting to force me to admit that it was actually I, not he, who was the ogler. And he threatens Sleipy with loss of a lovely red cloak unless I front up and admit the truth. BUT I SHALL NOT! I shall resist all such attempts at coercion. To the death. THE TRUTH WILL NOT OUT!

Mind you, Wormy has not yet quite realised the fact that although Sleipy would be susceptible to sartorial blackmail, I am less so, because I don't give a fuck what I wear, which is just as well for a whole number of reasons. Neither do I give a fuck what Sleipy wears, although he whines a lot about it.

				Sleipy has finally managed to open the inner bits of FI again. Only took four days of waiting by the path this time. If I knew who the PF GM is, their life would be in serious danger. So the Knight and I celebrating by departing from the lava cave. Huzzah! Fat Alice was rude to him on the way home, despite the best efforts of Cutlas, who seems to have got over his jealous rage and stopped harassing the Knight. Ahem. *big smiles*. Fat Alice called him a dandy, and then got huffy when he gave her a metaphorical finger. What did she expect?
	Squire Coriakin (as was) behaved in a most Knightly fashion. First he got a whole bunch of people killed past Wisher's Gate (well, Sleipy helped) and then he organised a huge rescue and saved them all (Sleipy didn't help). He got Knighted for great bravery and Knightly sort of things. Huzzah! A rousing chorus of Rule Britannia. Well, maybe not. But sing something Knightly for Coriakin and buy him expensive things.

		The Knight being annoying in town. Isn't he a dear? SWC Baba reads this. That Zen had better run.

Enough silliness. I should be sensible just for a change. The long weekend just past was a total disaster. I was booked in as one of the headline acts at the Pauanui jazz festival. (Really small, completely unimportant). The whole familly decides to come too for a holiday. So off we drive, only to get to Mangatawhiri and find that there had been *another* big smash there and traffic was stopped. For hours. And hours. And so were we. Dumb fuck moronic drivers who go too fast, overtake at stupid places and kill themselves and others. Killing just themselves would be fine by me. No problem with that. But unfortunately they kill other people too. This is a particularly bad stretch of road. New Zealand has really only one stretch of motorway with two lanes in each direction; it's just south of where I live. When you turn off this two lane stretch it changes immediately to a one lane road (in each direction). But the fuckwits don't notice that there are now one fewer lanes, or they can't count, or something, and they drive just like they were driving before, passing anywhere, and way way way too fast. So they die, and others die with them.

Anyway, after sitting in the car for hours and hours in the hot sun, we get to Pauanui, only to find that the organisers had told me the wrong day. I was playing *tomorrow* night, not tonight. Very sorry. Well golly gee, think I, what a jolly barrel of fun this is. Top Ho! Well, bye, I say, have fun without me, I can't stay until tomorrow night. Oh dear they say, but you're advertised widely and millions of people are flying in from overseas to hear you. Tough luck say I. Bye. Sweet smiles all around, and cheery waves.

Monique, typically, decided to be angry about it, because now *we* had to pay for the fucking hotel room, and it wasn't cheap. Fuck. So I had a long wait in the car in a traffic jam, no gig, and an angry wife. Oh, and screaming kids, too.

A great time was had by all. I went back to paint the boat for a rest.

Boat's almost done. Black hull, red topsides, white band. Yippee. Baba's colours! Am I weird or what? No, really, the boat was red and black when we bought it, and it's bad luck to change. The first red coat we put on turned out to be orange instead. Woops. Hope to launch this Thursday, and take it for a spin.

Working outside on the boat is nasty for me. In the full sun I have to wear sunscreen all over me or else I burn really really fast. And the sun is waaaaaaay stronger in NZ than it is in the US, because of the hole in the ozone layer. I never had to wear sunscreen in the US. I could sail all day in Los Angeles, with no protection at all. (And when you sail the sun is more than twice as bad, as it reflects up off the water, coming from above and below). The smog filtered out all the UV. The same just about everywhere in the US (that I've been). But in NZ I would, quite literally, burn in five minutes in full sun. Less maybe. And I hate putting on sunscreen. Greasy horrible stuff that gets all in your hair. Yuck. Still, at least there are plenty of sheep to roger.

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