Yesterday I attended a junior-school assembly at my mother's school which opened with the singing of the national anthem (to a weird tape that had set the stately-to-the-point-of-arteriosclerosis nineteenth century tune to a vaguely calypso beat; because calypso is Relevant to The Kids?) and closed with the singing of 'Star Trekkin'' by The Firm. My sister and I thought that was absolutely GREAT. The children sing the Dr McCoy verse about 'It's worse than that, he's DEAD JIM!' with particular glee and emphasis. The Captain Kirk verse ('We come in peace! (Shoot to kill, men)') was omitted; I guess it's a little dark. When they sing Uhura's part about Klingons on the starboard bow, they all put their thumbs to their ears and make wiggling moose antlers of their hands. I think there's a little confusion there as to what a Klingon looks like, but hey, first contact won't be for quite a while, so there's time to bring them up to speed.

Klingons with antlers would ROCK.

The reason I was there was because my sister nannies for the Manning family, and their eldest son James goes to Shelly Park School (where my mother teaches), and families were invited to this assembly to see the children's presentations based on their recent study unit about the sun, moon and stars, and James' mother couldn't make it (she employs a nanny after all - and not so she can be a lady of leisure, she's an OB-GYN at the city hospital) so she wanted it videoed, but Kate couldn't spare a hand to operate a camera since she was responsible for Bryony and Christopher, who is just one and wants to take off her ears, so I was roped in. Considering how much I get phoned to go on emergency milk or bread-buying missions when she can't get out of the house with the kids but has run short of some essential (I put my foot down when she asked for icing sugar), I'm not sure how Kate is going to handle being a nanny when she doesn't have an unemployed sister on call.

Kate said my reward for helping with this was that she would treat me to a movie. So yesterday evening we tried to figure out what we should go and see. The problem is, I am a geek romantic and Kate is an ex-art student. She wants to see things like Three Men and a Leg. Whenever there is a movie we both think sounds interesting, like White Oleander, she has gone to see it already with her friend Rebecca. And she doesn't enjoy tales of adventure, fantasy, romance or science-fiction anywhere near as much as I do, unless of course they are kind of fucked up and creepy like Existenz. It would have delighted me to see Pirates of the Caribbean again, but no, and when I suggested that we get The Matrix Revolutions out of the way she said we couldn't go to that without our father. (Note that, although this outing was supposed to be my reward, I was supposed to compromise on what I'd actually enjoy seeing.) Then she thought it would be nice to go to a Thai restaurant she and Rebecca like in Ponsonby. I'm not crazy about Thai food and Ponsonby is so not a place for me. It's a place for arty people like Kate and Rebecca, but Kate doesn't quite see to what extent her preferences are dictated by the subculture to which she belongs, so she doesn't quite get why I don't share them or feel welcome in their midst. A lot of the time she thinks she is really a geek, and to be fair she enjoyed 'Star Trekkin'' just as much as I did. But when a person would rather eat arty Thai food than see a pirate movie, you know where this is headed. Then she thought we might go to the Japanese restaurant Tanuki in the city centre - this was supposed to be a compromise for me as I like Japanese food, but dude, I don't like the city centre. It's her place, not mine. Then she suggested going to a pub and seeing a band. If there is anywhere on the planet that I feel uncomfortable, out of place and quickly exhausted, it's a pub. I am a low-energy person who has more fun in the suburbs where all the losers are than in areas like Ponsonby and the city centre. Going into town strikes me as something of an expedition. Everyone there knows why they're there and I don't. And they're there with their friends, but I'm there with my sister who could be with her friends but is trying to do the right thing by me. Some of this is like a disability and I wish I could get rid of it, but the whole process looks so unrewarding and tiring, and the whole time she would be disappointed and impatient with me for not having fun. She ended up getting quite shirty with me and saying she wished our pseudo-foster sister Karen was here. Well, okay. Karen was a better friend for her for activities like that. Going out isn't like work for her. I had just found out that Raiders of the Lost Ark was going to be on TV2 that evening. I love Indiana Jones. We couldn't agree so we stayed at home and I watched the movie. Later she got her revenge by coming upstairs and cutting me off in the middle of Samurai Jack so she could watch Parkinson, on the grounds that I had 'won' earlier. (It was the Mafia episode where he fights Earth, Wind & Fire for the Neptune Jewel, looking sharp in his chalkstripe suit. I didn't even get to see when his hair comes down. Whimper.)

I wouldn't claim that I was all reasonable in this situation. While I get very bored and lonely and depressed being at home all the time, it's also my comfort zone and whenever I venture out of it for the sort of things young people like to do I feel overtasked and inadequate and either lapse into silent introversion (people interpret this as sulking) or become excessively 'on' and silly. In the latter state I do start to have fun but all the normal young people are embarrassed and irritated by me. I can't win. So I don't play.

I don't feel like I won here either.

Harrison Ford's stunt double on Raiders of the Lost Ark was my friend Kevin's uncle. That is him going hand-over-hand under the moving Nazi truck. He also arranged the train crash sequence in the later Ford movie The Fugitive and has won a lifetime achievement award for his stunt work. Just so you know, he's very cool.

Since I bought a bag of fireworks at Woolworth's today, we went down to Cockle Bay to celebrate Guy Fawkes Night. The advantage of this approach is that you get to watch a bunch of other people's fireworks as well; though of course if your own fireworks turn out feeble it is a bit shaming. Vast hordes of teenagers hanging around their cars at the turn-around end of the beach, trying to look cool to each other; Eastern Beach was closed tonight so they had to go somewhere. Our fireworks were pretty good, although the Magic Shots were a bit lacking in oomph. One firework, called 'Happiness,' gave a performance that was poignantly brief. We have saved some sparklers and Magic Shots, along with some others left over from last Guy Fawkes (don't know how much oomph they have left) and will probably let them off on New Year's Eve. Since my father had to be in Wellington tonight, we didn't deploy the fruit cannon. It wouldn't be quite right without him. The fruit cannon is a mildly illegal device made by our friend Neil (not the character from The Matrix who we call Neil) from PVC drainpipes and a gas barbecue ignition switch. You load a piece of fruit in that is big enough to block the pipe snugly but not lodge immovably (if you're out of fruit, sections of a baguette or frozen hot dog buns also work well, and potatoes are excellent - some people call it a potato cannon for this reason, but we tend to prefer fruit, particularly lemons), then spray the cheapest, most nasty-ass strong-smelling hairspray you can find into the firing chamber, quickly screw on the end before the hairspray can escape, and click the switch. It may take a few clicks to get a spark but then the hairspray will ignite with an impressive THWOOMPH and whatever you loaded up will shoot out of the muzzle with a flash of blue flame and fly about 200 metres, depending on prevailing winds. Once we shot a tomato into a cinderblock wall at point-blank range and it vaporised. There was just this fine mist of tomato over the surface of the wall, and one or two pips. No shreds of skin or anything; the effect was almost total. Whenever my father brings out the fruit cannon he is instantly surrounded by a crowd of admiring boys and young men, all of whom wish he was their dad. He is just the coolest person they have every seen. Actually, if he were gay and nearer their age it would be a really great pulling device. Much better than a dog or a car. Any gay boys reading this who are having trouble impressing other young fellas, feel free to use the idea. Search under 'potato cannon' and/or 'fruit cannon' in Google and you should be able to find plans and instructions. The materials are not too expensive or hard to find. Do, please, be careful. Never point your fruit cannon at a person or animal (or any property you can't afford to damage). Warn people in the area to stand clear before you fire. Don't let the police see you. Referring to a gentlemanly part of your anatomy as 'my other fruit cannon' is optional, and should probably not be attempted unless your new friend appears pretty keen anyway.

And if the pigs do catch you, you ain't seen me - right?

The link above is just because there should be more publicity for funny chicks from Alabama. Ugly Wedding Dress of the Day is the work of a funny chick from Alabama. Ergo, I wish to give her publicity.

The chicken teriyaki last night was *weird*; the chicken thighs weren't unusually fatty, and I didn't add oil, but there was an astonishing quantity of extra oil in the sauce when I served it, which separated off and floated around the plate looking pale yellow. I found it quite unpleasant. Apart from the oil it was pretty good. I'm making spaghetti alla carbonara tonight and then we're all pootling down to the beach to let off fireworks. Whee! Gunpowder!

I have applied for another job at the Auckland City library today, library assistant in the circulation department. They'll most likely knock me back yet again, but it's worth trying. Someone might make a mistake and give me the job.

Cleaned Jannie's house today, so I am $20 better off.

Durnit, I should have archived the page yesterday. I try to make it a weekly thing for the sake of orderliness.

Guess what I'm cooking tonight... it's that thing I'm always cooking. Yes, folks, teriyaki chicken thighs, the old standby. As I de-boned the thighs this afternoon I reflected that I would not do at all well as an Ed Gein-style serial killer because, although I am not really squeamish about dismemberment, I find it no fun at all. It's just so messy and difficult. Besides which, of course, I feel no particular need to kill and mutilate people, which is all to the good. I can be mean but I am not really cruel, or of course psychopathic. I think if I were going to kill anyone it would most probably be in self-defence or in an effort to defend someone else, but let's not be too noble; I suppose under the right circumstances, probably involving a very high level of anger, I might commit a crime of passion (for some reason I think I'd be more likely to run the victim down with a car than to use a gun, knife or bludgeon of any kind). However, I do not believe I am the premeditated, carefully planned type of murderer. So no poison here, and no elaborate frame-ups. And all up I believe I am far more likely to kill someone accidentally than on purpose. Of course, I may already have killed someone accidentally and I just don't know about it. Such is the randomness of life. We can't see the consequences of all our own actions, not by a long shot.

Speaking of filletting the bones out of chicken thighs (I really was, before I got all philosophical and morbid), while searching the job ads today I was immensely amused to find one headed simply 'BONER.'

'DE-BONER' might have been less immediately misleading, since the vacancy advertised was at a chicken processing plant. My sister and I had a good laugh at it anyway. If you can't get a job out of the classifieds you may as well get some giggles.