Yeah, I know what you’re about. Last year at high school you were a jock. You drove around wit’ your boiz yelling ‘EMO’ or ‘hoooo-moooo’ at anyone in skinny jeans. Then you moved to Wellington and found yourself in the minority. Off came the baggy jeans and on slipped the skinnies. Puffy skate shoes were replaced with white canvas numbers, and you got yourself a huge white t-shirt. Now you’re da man. Favourite brands include: LOWER, Keds and Huffer. Favourite things to say include: “faggot”, “cunt”, “on da chop”, “maggot”, “pussy”, “Fucken’ A”, and “meeeeeaaaannn”. Favourite drinks include: Double Brown, Double Brown, and Double Brown.

You’ve just popped into the bathroom before class to straighten your bow-tie, smooth your shirt, and comb your hair. You pat your pocket to make sure the keys to your fixed-gear bicycle lock are still there and pull the MacBook from your leather bag.You’re looking très suave as you flick your hair and cast your eyes around the lecture theatre. You smile quietly as you realise you’re dressed better than anyone else, but quickly straighten your face and look serious and brooding when you realise you’re smiling. 

Better head to the shops and get some hip gears, dude. Maybe if you dress young they won’t notice you? Hallensteins does a sweet pair of not-too-skinny, not-too-baggy blue jeans for around $50. It’s too bad Hannahs isn’t next door any more, you’ll have to head down Lambton Quay to get your casual/comfortable/sporty beige and brown leather sneaks. Or how about those Docs you bought when they were cool the first time around? Yeah, give ‘em a polish. While you’re at the back of your wardrobe, fish out that funky blazer. Nice. Now take a stroll to that weird badge store on Left Bank to give your lapels and your satchel a little bit of attitude. Walk into class like you just don’t care (even though you’ve done all of your readings and written your essay), sling your satch onto the ground, and look bored as you gaze at your tiny laptop through the greasy strands of your unkempt fringe. 

Combine one puffer jacket with a pair of blue jeans in a skinny style. Add a North Shore-esque haircut. In wet weather, tuck jeans into mid-calf flat-soled boots. In alternate weather situations, tuck jeans into mid-calf flat-soled boots. Extra comfort available with the substitution of jeans with jeggings. Must have large tote handbag with polished metal accents. Patent is preferable, and a bright colour means your bag will double as your “attention piece” (We are all individuals, and fashion is a fun way of expressing one’s inner self). Bag must fit a laptop for class time facies. Puffer jackets have the added benefit of doubling as sleeping bags—perfect for your midday beauty sleep. Google image search “tadpoles” and shape eyebrows accordingly.

You a diva, gurl.

Work it,
Jorje, xx.

When I was home visiting ma and pa in Hamilton over the holidays, I saw the best movie ever. Like, the best movie ever. It was just so good. So bad it was so good.

Actually, it wasn’t even a movie. Just something I thought of. It could be a movie. But maybe probably shouldn’t be a movie?

Movie plot one:

I once read about this T-Rex that could punch the future. He would just punch empty space with his little arms, and then anyone who walked through that seemingly empty space in the future would get an air punch from nowhere! Ouch! Given that he was a T-Rex, his arms would be way higher off the ground than us humans, so we’re pretty safe. It’s the aeroplanes that are in real trouble, maybe. How big is a T-Rex?

I think a movie about dinosaurs starring a sassy velociraptor on the Prehistory Police Force would be neat. He would combine his future-mind-reading skillz with his future-punching skillz and top it off with one hella mean-looking sickle-shaped toe claw to punch future criminals right where they are about to commit crimes. The bad guy would be played by a pterodactyl, which would put a spanner in the works for the sassy velociraptor. He could punch all the land-bound criminals no problem, but how do you punch air that’s way up in the sky? It’s really hard! Anyway, towards the end of the movie, Sassy-V to the P.I. gets a Nimbus 2000 in the mail from an unknown benefactor. Then he can punch all the air (and subsequent future crime committers) he wants! In the end, the sassy velociraptor flies above a steaming volcano, punching the air as he goes, because he has predicted that the pterodactyl will be flying above the very same volcano that evening. Ultimately, the pterodactyl gets his lights punched out right above a whole lot of steaming lava and gets burnt to smithereens. All the dinosaurs are happy for one second, then a comet hits the earth and they are annihilated.

Potential back-up movie plot

(In case Peter Jackson doesn’t like where I’m going with The Sassy Velociraptor P.I. from Before History):

So, this second movie is about these vampires who live in Forks in America, and this other girl who falls in love with one of the vampires who’s a real babe (but some people just think he looks homeless). It’s not Twilight though. In this movie there are all these spiders that sing and dance to entertain the townsfolk at the winter festival. The imagery will be beautiful, I might add. (Egg-nog, fairy lights, ice-skating arachnids et cetera, but not ad nauseum. Just the right amount of magical.) There’s a truck driving through town delivering candy apples to the winter festival, but that’s not important. The lame girl drops her cigarette butt in the snow, but the snow isn’t actually real snow, because werewolves have sneakily replaced the snow with frozen petrol. The snow catches fire, but luckily everyone is in the bleachers so they don’t get burned because the vampires save them. The spiders die though because they’re performing on a stage made out of compacted petrol snow. It’s really sad.

Who needs the film festival when you have me?

I went to Westport on a school trip when I was 16. I was inspired. The clock tower. The rain. The clock tower. The mini golf. The clock tower. The clock tower.

It’s getting on 10 o’clock. And it’s dark out y’all. I’m sure all the citizens of Westport are tucked up safely in bed to guard their souls from the evil Westport night-spirit. We saw this one guy there who was like 25 who looked like his soul had been eaten. We stumbled across him in the Westport pizza bar. The stench of urinal cakes hung thick in the air. Like a fog, never rising. Each breath drew it in, suffocating all other senses. He was in the corner staring sullenly into space out of dark, hollow eyes. Across the room to the television set where the dust had settled: a game of rugby. Does he even know what rugby is? What am I saying? He is part of Westport now. He arrived in his Volkswagen years ago. A glint in his eye, the wind in his hair, all the hope and promise in the world. Westport was his one mistake. It truly was, his downfall. He was warned, the locals thought he had taken heed, inhaled their Westportian wisdom, but the moment their backs were turned? The fatal exhalation: thick with the stench and foreboding of lost youth and young manhood. Hope was lost. For that night, after a beer at the local, he failed to take notice of the tolling bells in the magnificent Westport clock tower. The dark hour had come, but what was it to him? Dong! And his body felt heavy. Dong! And his breath was drawn out of him. Dong! And the glint in his eye was extinguished. Dong! Gone were his hopes. Dong! Gone were his dreams. Dong! And his world fell into never-ending darkness. Dong! And his penis fell off. Dong! And his soul was lost. Lost to the ever-hungry merciless man-beast-spirit which is Westport. And now he stares with his deep, dark, sombre eyes, deep as space. Across the room to the television set, which is showing him something lost to him—something he will never again know. It’s too late. We can’t go back for him. So take heed ma’fuckaz. You should pretty much never go to Westport if you like your soul the end. 

Bad punctuation, I know.

I want Westport to prove my sassy 16-year-old self wrong. Maybe I can plan a holiday that is so awful that it will be enjoyable. I’m going to get grabaseats and a pop tent and book myself in to the camping ground. I’ll eat baked beans for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Cold baked beans because the camp stove won’t work. Then I’ll go see the clock tower. Then I’ll do some skids on my bike. And wheelies, heaps of wheelies.

Bore-je Del-a-bored.

P.S. It is fun to answer “Yeah, me neither,” every time someone asks you a question. Then when they’re all like “Huh?!”, you say “Probably.”

A while ago, my best friend woke up in a bad mood. So, she said, she did everything that she wanted to do right there and then. She made a coffee, put some whiskey in it, and sat in bed smoking. Inspirational. Whiskey coffee and cigarettes at 8am. I love you.

We used to sit in bed and listen to ‘Sacrifice’ by Elton John at full volume. Nothing puts me in a better mood than ‘Sacrifice’ by Elton John at full volume. Then ‘Little Red Corvette’ and ‘Tusk’. Hot water bottles, electric blankets, tea, cold winter flat, mink blankets from the Warehouse, and Elton John. Beautiful.

On another winter’s night, I visited the same friend. She was sitting in bed, propped up by about six huge feather pillows. Her duvet cover was covered in tiny flowers, and she was wearing a sweater of a similar pattern. She had put on her liquid eyeliner, hot coral lipstick, and rouged her cheeks. Both of her hands were raised above the covers. In her right hand she held a glass of red wine, and in the other a half-smoked cigarette. What a vision.

You are so great. You do whatever the heck you want. You run baths and fill them with glitter. You collect ceramics but refuse to put anything in them. They sit around your room arranged in very particular ways, which you do not deign to explain. You wake up every morning and look at a picture of Vivienne Westwood next to a picture of Coronation Street charity shop volunteer Emily Bishop because you really like how similar they look nowadays. Too true. You are totally boss.

Then you make a whiskey coffee. And check on your geraniums.

Doing whatever the shit you want when you feel downy. Simple. Beautiful. Alcohol in your morning beverage? Better than you’d expect! Better than Hamilton! Arranging your belongings in aesthetically pleasing ways? So satisfying. Glitter in your bath? So bedazzling. Elton John and mink? Elton John and mink.

What’s this? A message? A lesson? A really, really, obvious lesson that everyone already knew? In Pashin’ On Campus? The pointless page with no points? Aha! The obvious lessons are quite often the best though. Right? Aha! Another lesson!? Another obvious, boring lesson?! YUP. SNAP.

We need to be reminded of these things. I’m doing you a service. Need to be reminded of something boring you don’t really care about? Trust me! Isn’t asking questions the best way to get out of writing anything of real substance?

The end?

I guess I’ll acknowledge the fact that there is no link between the title of this ‘column’ and its content. Why? Do I need to explain myself to you, the unknown, bored reader?

NB: When someone is getting sassy, it’s ALWAYS a good idea to make a “rrreeeeeowwww!” sound while clawing the air.

Once upon a time my good friend and I formed a revenge band to get revenge on two individuals who formed a band and sang cute songs together. I found the book we wrote our first (and last) song in a couple of days ago, and thought “What? Why? Why is this stuck in a black book in a box under two other boxes and a bag of old curtains?” And then I thought “What? Why? Huh? It’s a song about horses in love. Horses in love who rap and make sexy horse jokes.” Anyway, I figured that maybe someone somewhere would have maybe a slightly vaguely minor interest in the love song for horses and that that someone somewhere would maybe be slightly vaguely disappointed if I omitted to publish it. I might be doing someone a favour, maybe.

Whinnyfred, your days are numbered

They gonna shoot me cause my leg is broken
And my heart don’t race no more
But I canter get you outta my head, neighby
You’re making my souls sore

Because I’m stuck on you
Turn me into glue
And I’ll forever be your neighbour
And y’all be the neighdy next door, neighby.

(RAPS) I ain’t jockin’, jockey
Wanna play some tonsil hockey?
You like dem’ other steeds—you cocky!
Yeah I ain’t horsin’ round with ya Whinny
Y’all see this whip? I’ll whip y’all skinny.

GET HORSE

You see Whinny, I’m on e-quest(rian)
e-quest(rian for love)
I’d do anything if you’d saddle me
Yeah neighby, mount me from above

You’re my sweet chilly filly
Meet me between McLaurin and Laby, neighby
Yeah yeah yeah you my neighby
You wanna maybe be my neighby?
Yay or neigh? Neigh, neighbe, neighbe next week you neigh.
But I’ll be glue, oh yeah, I’ll be glue, it’s true, neighby, but I’ll still be stuck on you.

Fin.

CUTE (?!!?)

Oh yeah. That’s why I keep the black book in a box under two other boxes under a bag of curtains. I get it. I’m sorry.

This will sound like a mega-town lie but I just wrote an entire column and didn’t save it, then went to save it and Word froze and the cursor was replaced by the rainbow spinny wheel of death so I had to force quit and now I am making pathetic excuses for my writing and contemplating euthanasia. Not even the moral issues surrounding it. Just in general.

The compère on National Radio just introduced a discussion called ‘Euthanasia Amongst Satellites’. I have stopped listening, but my brain is going mental trying to figure what it could have been about. I think that if I were to be euthanised, I would like it to occur amongst satellites. I mean… I don’t know what the shit I’m talking about. Idiocy aside, they would send me into outer space on a hospital bed in a rocket. Then the rocket would disappear, because it wouldn’t actually be a rocket, just a futuristic hologram (I’m sorry, I thought I said “idiocy aside”, but hey). Then, I assume that my vegetable body would expand and expand and expand and explode into a myriad of fleshy pieces. I wonder, would the individual pieces then continue to expand and explode and expand and explode until they were single atoms? Would the atoms, and then the electrons, and the protons, and the neutrons, continue to expand and explode all over space? Feck! That would be okay. I would say that is an ok way to die. Euthanasia Amongst Satellites! Alright! Youth in Asia Amongst Satellites? I wouldn’t be surprised.

Back to my dreary post-work Friday night reality, and the radio is telling me about an old woman in Oamaru who is pissy because some thief keeps stealing her panties. I think maybe she is just old and can’t keep track of her delicates. Speaking of can’t keep track of, there are people on the roof above my bedroom making a whole lot of noise. ‘Thump, thump’, they thump. ‘Thump’. Awful segue! Possible sexy results! Bed time!

Two days later and I have been reminded of Pashin’ On Campus. That thing I write once every two weeks in about 10 minutes in the wee hours of a Monday morning. I thought maybe I’d spend more time on this one, and guess what? I have been writing it for three days now (not consistently, duh, but three days!). One would perhaps think that this sort of time expenditure would make for a wittier, more fluent piece of prose. Maybe a conclusion or moral lesson would weave its way delicately throughout the work. But no, I have succeeded once again in exceeding my word limit without addressing anything of even slight importance.

The end!!! Dissatisfied? I am!

Here’s the part where I feel obliged to somehow acknowledge that this column is called Pashin’ On Campus, and that this might, possibly, be misleading. You were expecting something sexy, and you got bathetic bathos. I’m sorry.

Jorje del Sucksalot. X.

The other day a friend of mine (who would do a huge poo if I mentioned her name and probably still will) walked all the way from Te Aro to Kelburn with her skirt hitched up in her knickers. Total leggy bum view for Africa. “Poor girl… I should probs say something, eh?” is almost certainly what passers-by would have thought to themselves as they were passing by on their way to a location somewhere. Only they didn’t say anything, because they were hypnotised by undulating bum cheeks. Lucky for her she was wearing tights. Super fortunate.

This would suck huge vestibules, man. Walking up the hill by the Student Union Building is enough to make anyone as red as a saveloy, but add the realisation of hitchey skirt knicks and your face would probably explode everywhere and make a huge mess of everything. Even if someone gave you a mop and a bucket to clean your face up, you wouldn’t be able to because your face and eyes would be in shrapnel and smithereens. Sandy Rankine would be enjoying your nose with a nice green salad and a glass of chardonnay. You wouldn’t be able to show your face in public after that. Even if you still had a face.

Speaking of no face, I heard about some lady in France who overdosed on sleeping pills and while she was unconscious her dog ATE HER FACE. When she finally came to she tried to smoke a fag, but got really confused because it kept falling out of her mouth. BECAUSE HER LIPS HAD BEEN NOM’D. Possible moral: Your dog will eat your features AND you will have to quit smoking if you take drugs.

Paragraph one reminds me of the time I went to see my (rather rotund) English teacher. Her fly was down. You could see her lacy knicks. Hitchey Skirt Girl was there with me, and neither of us heard a single word of what the jolly English munchkin said because we were both dying an awkward, awkward death. How long had it been down for? Did the other teachers snigger at her in the staff room when she went to the kitchenette to make a cup of instant/Choysa/PG Tips with whitener? Would she be super shamed out when she went to pull her fly down and it was already down? Would some nasty 14-year-old throw a paper dart at her crotch? Too many awful possibilities. We didn’t say anything.

If you are wondering why this elegant piece of prose was not about pashin’, then you should be ashamed of yourself for judging a column by its title. And maybe you should learn to read between the lines. Yeah, duuuude.

Jorje (pron. Hor-hay) Del Amore.