Someone said to me today, "I see that Tiger Woods is ----"
I didn't hear the rest of the sentence because my brain shut off.
Tiger Woods' affair, Lindsay Lohan's tattoo, Brangelina's latest hand-picked infant - it all leaves me cold. I don't care. I simply. do. not. care.
I once had a flatmate who craved celebrity gossip. Our flat was littered with the faces of the aforementioned and a thousand other Somebodies who were regularly plastered all over OK! and Hello! and New Weekly magazines. Cameron Diaz and Drew Barrymore gaped up at us from the coffee table; Owen Wilson's giant nose greeted us in the toilet. Those magazines were the backdrop to my uni years and probably ate up hours that should have spent studying or writing essays.
Unfortunately, although my knowledge of who wore what at the Oscars and the latest "baby belly" spotting was excellent, it didn't fair well when it came to relaying the finer details of punishment in modern society in my third-year Criminology exams.
These days, the only time my fingers are guilty of turning the pages of New Idea or suchlike are if I'm in a hospital waiting room or at the hairdressers.
I have no craving for Hollywood gossip. In fact, I find it somewhat satisfying that I no longer recognise some celebrities. While I'm a long way from the bliss of being able to say, "Paris who?" I find that my social standing in the world has not suffered for not knowing where Jennifer Aniston bought her earrings.
In fact, having more or less freed myself from a constant barrage of flawless American stick insects has probably added a few years to my life. Not to mention saved a few braincells.
So, if Tiger Woods heads the 6 'o clock news again this week, I'll be reaching for the remote and seeking out an otherwise untainted form of news. The newsletter in the Hubbards cereal box, perhaps.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
after video killed the radio stars
About a month ago, I lost a dear friend. A friend who had rarely left my side for nearly three years; a friend who accompanied me every day to and from work, who never failed to light up my day, didn't mind my off-key singing or bad driving... and fitted into my handbag.
Yes, I admit it. I was deeply attached to my iPod and I am still grieving its loss.
The death of said iPod was nothing short of dramatic. For the last two years, I have battled with a cheap made-in-China, bought-on-Trademe transmitter whose function has steadily declined. Frequent wrestling with the dodgy fuses and cheap plastic casing was its undoing; on Doomsday, the wires had actually come free and lodged themselves deep within the carpet on the floor of my car. I lack any sort of patience for malfunctioning technology; I shoved the mess aside (iPod still attached) stuck a CD in and drove home.
If the drive had been any longer than 15 minutes, my iPod wouldn't have been the only charred occupant in my car. In any case, by the time I reached home my sleek silver-faced companion was little more than a skin-blistering lump of grey metal.
I think my grief was less about the loss of 20gb worth of music (thankfully preserved by my computer). It wasn't really even facing the cost of forking out for a replacement between bills, my next warrant of fitness, petrol, food, new shoes, wine... a new iPod is quite a long way down the list.
No, the real tragedy was realising how attached I had become to 140 grams worth of metal and buttons.
I could argue it was a matter of convenience. My iPod was significantly easier to lug around than six bulky CD cases; not to mention safer (changing CDs whilst driving is something I do not endorse).
It's not even about having something that everyone has. Keeping up with the Cool Kids. Ipods are almost outdated now anyway - everyone I know has an iPhone.
If I'm honest, I think it was the fact that I could show I had music. And that I could have that music anywhere, anytime. Music I loved, music I hated, music I didn't care for one way or another. Song after song, album after album; every artist I had ever heard of and some I hadn't. Twenty gigabites of sound I had spent years collecting. I don't even know what a gigabite is. All I knew was that I had a lot of music, and that meant I was Knowledgeable. I had Taste.
Without the iPod, I am shamefully reduced to nothing but six CD cases of (mostly) burned CDs. My true identity is revealed. To real collectors of music, I am a fake. An imposter. I am no longer able to hide behind the satifying click-click of a scrolling menu and a illuminated screen.
If there's a lesson in this, I don't want to hear it. I can afford neither a new iPod nor 'real' CDs. And I refuse to fill my car with blank-faced CDs covered in sloppy handwriting.
So, until either Santa comes through or I win Lotto, I am back to how they did it in the good old days; Radio New Zealand and my own vocal chords.
And driving solo.
Yes, I admit it. I was deeply attached to my iPod and I am still grieving its loss.
The death of said iPod was nothing short of dramatic. For the last two years, I have battled with a cheap made-in-China, bought-on-Trademe transmitter whose function has steadily declined. Frequent wrestling with the dodgy fuses and cheap plastic casing was its undoing; on Doomsday, the wires had actually come free and lodged themselves deep within the carpet on the floor of my car. I lack any sort of patience for malfunctioning technology; I shoved the mess aside (iPod still attached) stuck a CD in and drove home.
If the drive had been any longer than 15 minutes, my iPod wouldn't have been the only charred occupant in my car. In any case, by the time I reached home my sleek silver-faced companion was little more than a skin-blistering lump of grey metal.
I think my grief was less about the loss of 20gb worth of music (thankfully preserved by my computer). It wasn't really even facing the cost of forking out for a replacement between bills, my next warrant of fitness, petrol, food, new shoes, wine... a new iPod is quite a long way down the list.
No, the real tragedy was realising how attached I had become to 140 grams worth of metal and buttons.
I could argue it was a matter of convenience. My iPod was significantly easier to lug around than six bulky CD cases; not to mention safer (changing CDs whilst driving is something I do not endorse).
It's not even about having something that everyone has. Keeping up with the Cool Kids. Ipods are almost outdated now anyway - everyone I know has an iPhone.
If I'm honest, I think it was the fact that I could show I had music. And that I could have that music anywhere, anytime. Music I loved, music I hated, music I didn't care for one way or another. Song after song, album after album; every artist I had ever heard of and some I hadn't. Twenty gigabites of sound I had spent years collecting. I don't even know what a gigabite is. All I knew was that I had a lot of music, and that meant I was Knowledgeable. I had Taste.
Without the iPod, I am shamefully reduced to nothing but six CD cases of (mostly) burned CDs. My true identity is revealed. To real collectors of music, I am a fake. An imposter. I am no longer able to hide behind the satifying click-click of a scrolling menu and a illuminated screen.
If there's a lesson in this, I don't want to hear it. I can afford neither a new iPod nor 'real' CDs. And I refuse to fill my car with blank-faced CDs covered in sloppy handwriting.
So, until either Santa comes through or I win Lotto, I am back to how they did it in the good old days; Radio New Zealand and my own vocal chords.
And driving solo.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
attention reader's!
Perhaps it's the industry I work in; perhaps it's the fact that my mum was a schoolteacher. Or, perhaps it's that I'm a pedantic lunatic with nothing better to do.
But when someone jams an apostrophe where it shouldn't be, I want to scratch my eyeballs out and scream with rage and pain and sheer frustration.
Why, oh why, can't anybody get it right these days? There seems to be an urgency, a desperate yearning to thrust that tiny mark into a word whenever an 's' appears. And, considering how often the English language is beaten down into almost code form for the sake of faster, easier communication, it makes no sense that anybody would take the time to ADD another character.
And yet, I could put money on coming across at least one monstrosity every day:
"Boat's for hire" (a sign in Tapu)
"Closed on Monday's" (outside a certain cafe in Matamata)
"I saw you're sister in the weekend!" (on Facebook)
Right - let's go back to primary school.
A textbook will tell you that an apostrophe is either used to signify an omitted letter or letters from a word, or to signify possession.
One doesn't have to be a geek or even good at English to get the damn thing right.
But I'm not about to turn this rant into a lesson in grammar. That's what teachers are paid for. Obviously, though, not paid enough; it seems learning how to punctuate correctly has neatly slipped off the school curriculum.
Perhaps it's not all the fault of teachers. Ignorance of the apostrophe - along with correct spelling - has been exacerabated by modern forms of communication. Which isn't going to go away in a hurry. Which, to the anguish of geeks like myself, means the English language is only going to be twisted further and further out of shape.
And now, to add insult to injury, it seems even journalists - the last hope we have of preserving true English - are now falling prey to "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em"...
But when someone jams an apostrophe where it shouldn't be, I want to scratch my eyeballs out and scream with rage and pain and sheer frustration.
Why, oh why, can't anybody get it right these days? There seems to be an urgency, a desperate yearning to thrust that tiny mark into a word whenever an 's' appears. And, considering how often the English language is beaten down into almost code form for the sake of faster, easier communication, it makes no sense that anybody would take the time to ADD another character.
And yet, I could put money on coming across at least one monstrosity every day:
"Boat's for hire" (a sign in Tapu)
"Closed on Monday's" (outside a certain cafe in Matamata)
"I saw you're sister in the weekend!" (on Facebook)
Right - let's go back to primary school.
A textbook will tell you that an apostrophe is either used to signify an omitted letter or letters from a word, or to signify possession.
One doesn't have to be a geek or even good at English to get the damn thing right.
But I'm not about to turn this rant into a lesson in grammar. That's what teachers are paid for. Obviously, though, not paid enough; it seems learning how to punctuate correctly has neatly slipped off the school curriculum.
Perhaps it's not all the fault of teachers. Ignorance of the apostrophe - along with correct spelling - has been exacerabated by modern forms of communication. Which isn't going to go away in a hurry. Which, to the anguish of geeks like myself, means the English language is only going to be twisted further and further out of shape.
And now, to add insult to injury, it seems even journalists - the last hope we have of preserving true English - are now falling prey to "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em"...
Sunday, February 28, 2010
when disaster strikes...
We Kiwis are a funny bunch.
News breaks of a tsunami on its way and a bunch of us head to the beach for a nosy.
Some take surfboards.
Idiots, the rest of us say, shaking our heads.
But what did the rest of us do?
When Civil Defence told those living on the East Coast to start gathering bottles of water, tinned food and clothing and head inland, how many listened? How many threw off the duvet covers, screamed at their sleeping partner to start packing, and ran through the house collecting their non-waterproof treasures before heading for the hills?
At home in Tirau, some 50 minutes from the nearest coast, I got out of bed and ran. And ran home again. Like I do every morning. I actually forgot about the tsunami alert until I was eating breakfast. By then, warnings about a "massive wall of water" had been downgraded to "waves measuring 20cm high".
Hardly worth getting out of bed for.
To be fair, most people were probably still snoring soundly when that first news bulletin hit the airwaves. It was Sunday, after all. The rest, I suppose, either yawned and made a cup of tea, or cracked a few eggs into the frying pan, or just changed channels.
She'll be right, we said.
It makes me wonder: how would the average Kiwi cope in the face of real disaster? We seem to hear about some part of the world devastated by tsunami, earthquake, bush fire, terrorist attack every few weeks now. And sure, we've had our share of earthquakes and volcanic eruptions in the past, but nothing compared to Haiti or Chile or even the Aussie bushfires. Events where 'she'll be right' wouldn't quite cut it.
It just doesn't seem quite real.
And, to be honest, every time another disaster strikes, our memories of the preceeding one fade a little more quickly. We hear the numbers of dead and injured and missing, and we despair; then we forget.
Like Fredd Dagg said, "we don't know how lucky we are, mate."
But maybe there's something to be said for living in the moment. Sure, we can sympathise with those whose lives are torn apart and we can fill our basements with tinned baked beans and decks of playing cards in preparation for Doomsday. We can practise fire drills and earthquake drills and build ourselves a bomb shelter complete with flush toilet and home theatre system.
But, in the end, if a freak wave or a cyclone is on its way, there's sweet Fanny Adams we can do about it. It's gonna happen, whether we're 'ready' or not. The best we can do it is live each day as it comes.
And maybe have a surfboard on hand.
News breaks of a tsunami on its way and a bunch of us head to the beach for a nosy.
Some take surfboards.
Idiots, the rest of us say, shaking our heads.
But what did the rest of us do?
When Civil Defence told those living on the East Coast to start gathering bottles of water, tinned food and clothing and head inland, how many listened? How many threw off the duvet covers, screamed at their sleeping partner to start packing, and ran through the house collecting their non-waterproof treasures before heading for the hills?
At home in Tirau, some 50 minutes from the nearest coast, I got out of bed and ran. And ran home again. Like I do every morning. I actually forgot about the tsunami alert until I was eating breakfast. By then, warnings about a "massive wall of water" had been downgraded to "waves measuring 20cm high".
Hardly worth getting out of bed for.
To be fair, most people were probably still snoring soundly when that first news bulletin hit the airwaves. It was Sunday, after all. The rest, I suppose, either yawned and made a cup of tea, or cracked a few eggs into the frying pan, or just changed channels.
She'll be right, we said.
It makes me wonder: how would the average Kiwi cope in the face of real disaster? We seem to hear about some part of the world devastated by tsunami, earthquake, bush fire, terrorist attack every few weeks now. And sure, we've had our share of earthquakes and volcanic eruptions in the past, but nothing compared to Haiti or Chile or even the Aussie bushfires. Events where 'she'll be right' wouldn't quite cut it.
It just doesn't seem quite real.
And, to be honest, every time another disaster strikes, our memories of the preceeding one fade a little more quickly. We hear the numbers of dead and injured and missing, and we despair; then we forget.
Like Fredd Dagg said, "we don't know how lucky we are, mate."
But maybe there's something to be said for living in the moment. Sure, we can sympathise with those whose lives are torn apart and we can fill our basements with tinned baked beans and decks of playing cards in preparation for Doomsday. We can practise fire drills and earthquake drills and build ourselves a bomb shelter complete with flush toilet and home theatre system.
But, in the end, if a freak wave or a cyclone is on its way, there's sweet Fanny Adams we can do about it. It's gonna happen, whether we're 'ready' or not. The best we can do it is live each day as it comes.
And maybe have a surfboard on hand.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
running out of excuses
I'm rarely described as an emotional sort of person.
But on Friday night, as I sprinted down the home straight towards the bellowing crowd at the Matamata Domain, I did feel something of the warm fuzzies.
Not just because the Tower Run was finally over and I hadn't a) died, or b) come last, or c) repeated my primary school performance of crying bitterly at the finish line because I was too tired and slow and all my friends had finished ages ago.
It was something to do with being a part of a community event; one that I'll admit I never would have dreamt of doing otherwise. I've lived in Matamata most of my life and have had friends who have run the Tower Run religiously in the past, but not being a 'runner' myself, I laughed off any notion of joining them. Seven kilometres? Stuff that. What is the fun - or point - of running somewhere; much less trying to beat a bunch of other people on the way?
I suppose my dislike for public sporting events stems from my memories of school sport as a kid. I hated PE. I hated netball. At the Hinuera school cross country - and worse, the inter-school cross country - I would invariably come dead last, stumbling and gasping my way towards the finish line while teachers called out encouraging things like, "good girl... not far now... oh, you're doing so well!"
I was not sporty. I was a nerd. I spent my primary school days in the library or under a tree reading Enid Blyton. And, despite growing up on a farm and running all over it with my brother and sister, I did not perform well when it came to running races or playing sport.
But, after packing on a few kilos at university (I blame stodgy hostel food and cheap wine) I packed myself off the to the gym and slowly developed quite a love affair with fitness. After finishing my degree, I even did an Outward Bound course and ran a half-marathon; something that would have been quite beyond the comprehension of my dumpy 10-year-old self. Now, I run or work out nearly every day.
Still, getting fit on your own is one thing; comparing your ability to other people - especially people you have to face at work - is quite another. It took a bit of coaxing from my colleagues to convince me to join the team for this year's Tower Run. Even then, as the day drew nearer, I admit there was a tiny hope that I'd trip over a shoelace and break my leg or contract the latest form of swine flu and find myself bed-ridden.
But as I dragged my weary body away from the time-keepers after crossing the finish line on Friday, it wasn't just the big sloppy "9" marked on my hand in vivid that had me eurphoic. It was the fact I'd done it; I'd broken down a wall of "I can't" and replaced with a "wow - I damn well can."
Cheesy? Totally. Inspiring? Maybe.
And apparently, the Hamilton Round the Lake race is in three weeks' time...
But on Friday night, as I sprinted down the home straight towards the bellowing crowd at the Matamata Domain, I did feel something of the warm fuzzies.
Not just because the Tower Run was finally over and I hadn't a) died, or b) come last, or c) repeated my primary school performance of crying bitterly at the finish line because I was too tired and slow and all my friends had finished ages ago.
It was something to do with being a part of a community event; one that I'll admit I never would have dreamt of doing otherwise. I've lived in Matamata most of my life and have had friends who have run the Tower Run religiously in the past, but not being a 'runner' myself, I laughed off any notion of joining them. Seven kilometres? Stuff that. What is the fun - or point - of running somewhere; much less trying to beat a bunch of other people on the way?
I suppose my dislike for public sporting events stems from my memories of school sport as a kid. I hated PE. I hated netball. At the Hinuera school cross country - and worse, the inter-school cross country - I would invariably come dead last, stumbling and gasping my way towards the finish line while teachers called out encouraging things like, "good girl... not far now... oh, you're doing so well!"
I was not sporty. I was a nerd. I spent my primary school days in the library or under a tree reading Enid Blyton. And, despite growing up on a farm and running all over it with my brother and sister, I did not perform well when it came to running races or playing sport.
But, after packing on a few kilos at university (I blame stodgy hostel food and cheap wine) I packed myself off the to the gym and slowly developed quite a love affair with fitness. After finishing my degree, I even did an Outward Bound course and ran a half-marathon; something that would have been quite beyond the comprehension of my dumpy 10-year-old self. Now, I run or work out nearly every day.
Still, getting fit on your own is one thing; comparing your ability to other people - especially people you have to face at work - is quite another. It took a bit of coaxing from my colleagues to convince me to join the team for this year's Tower Run. Even then, as the day drew nearer, I admit there was a tiny hope that I'd trip over a shoelace and break my leg or contract the latest form of swine flu and find myself bed-ridden.
But as I dragged my weary body away from the time-keepers after crossing the finish line on Friday, it wasn't just the big sloppy "9" marked on my hand in vivid that had me eurphoic. It was the fact I'd done it; I'd broken down a wall of "I can't" and replaced with a "wow - I damn well can."
Cheesy? Totally. Inspiring? Maybe.
And apparently, the Hamilton Round the Lake race is in three weeks' time...
Monday, February 15, 2010
introducing: that girl from the Chronicle
And so begins my first blog.
Actually, this is but one in a long line of blogs I have begun - and abandoned - over the last few years. Like many millions of others out there, I have previously been drawn in by the novelty of seeing my ramblings published online, only to lose interest after the third or fourth post. Why? Laziness, most probably. Or simply not enough to say.
I realise this confession will not instill much faith in my readers. But this blog, I feel, will be different. Working at the Matamata Chronicle means I spend much of my day chasing news, interviewing people, taking photographs and writing stories. Newspaper writing calls for certain rules and a certain kind of style; which, depending on the content, can be fairly strict. Personal opinion is a definite no-no.
Blogging, on the other hand, is (quite literally) another story. No rules, no guidelines, no expectations. Just whatever you feel like writing about. For a journalist - however big or small a fish they are in the media world - that can be almost cathartic.
My reasons for creating "In Katie's Words" are far from selfish, though. Over the past year, we at the Matamata Chronicle have worked hard to get closer to our readers. Through our Facebook site, we have discovered a whole new way of connecting with our community. And now, through this blog, I want to step that up.
"In Katie's Words" will be my own online column: the thoughts, musings and observations of a born-and-bred Matamata lass. I promise to keep it light; after all, the less time I have to spend in front of a computer, the better.
So. Here's to my latest venture into Matamata's online community - and to introducing you to the other side of "that girl from the Chronicle."
Actually, this is but one in a long line of blogs I have begun - and abandoned - over the last few years. Like many millions of others out there, I have previously been drawn in by the novelty of seeing my ramblings published online, only to lose interest after the third or fourth post. Why? Laziness, most probably. Or simply not enough to say.
I realise this confession will not instill much faith in my readers. But this blog, I feel, will be different. Working at the Matamata Chronicle means I spend much of my day chasing news, interviewing people, taking photographs and writing stories. Newspaper writing calls for certain rules and a certain kind of style; which, depending on the content, can be fairly strict. Personal opinion is a definite no-no.
Blogging, on the other hand, is (quite literally) another story. No rules, no guidelines, no expectations. Just whatever you feel like writing about. For a journalist - however big or small a fish they are in the media world - that can be almost cathartic.
My reasons for creating "In Katie's Words" are far from selfish, though. Over the past year, we at the Matamata Chronicle have worked hard to get closer to our readers. Through our Facebook site, we have discovered a whole new way of connecting with our community. And now, through this blog, I want to step that up.
"In Katie's Words" will be my own online column: the thoughts, musings and observations of a born-and-bred Matamata lass. I promise to keep it light; after all, the less time I have to spend in front of a computer, the better.
So. Here's to my latest venture into Matamata's online community - and to introducing you to the other side of "that girl from the Chronicle."
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