How to write a Nick-Buck-Blog

Obscene or innocuous opening statement. Reframing opening statement from unexpected yet intriguing perspective. Lengthy convoluted sentence culminating in personal outrage.

Fair-minded analysis of the situation. Complete retraction of fair-minded analysis. Challenging philosophical thought. Shallow and ego-centric rebuttal of philosophical thought. Gratuitous swearing. General ranting.

Humorous self depreciating conclusion.

????????

Well for my first ever blog I couldn't resist writing about a topic that has been running around in my head for a while now. That of course is the Olympics. My first idea was to write about the commonly debated topic of what sports should or shouldn't be included in the Olympic games. I soon realised, however, that once I got started writing on this topic there would be a chance that I wouldn't stop writing and this short blog would soon become a 14 volume encylopedia.

So I had another idea. I would write about a new Olympic event that should be included in every Olympic games from now on. I don't know what this event would be called. Perhaps it shouldn't have a name as no human word could do justice to the greatness of this event.

The purpose behind this event would be to establish the most athletic mammal on earth (I don't think us humans should discriminate so I think that any mammal should be allowed to enter as long as they can qualify and correctly fill in the appropriate entry forms). Athleticism would be defined in terms of strength, speed, power and endurance.

Essentially this event would be similar to a Pentathlon or Decatholon except that it would actually be an good event. Each athlete entering in this event would be required to particpate in every track and field event with the addition of weightlifting. What this means is that they would have to run every Olympic distance from 100 meters to the marathon (including hurdles and steeplechase). They would have to do long jump, high jump and pole vault (triple jump would not be included - I'm knocking it as a sport but it's just not primal enough). They would have to do all the throwing events (i.e. discus, hammer throw and shot put). Finally they would have to do weightlifting (snatch and clean and jerk). Furthermore, all these events have to be done in the same day.

There would obviously have to be some sort of points system to establish a ranking and determine the winners. I haven't fully figured out yet how this would work but am open to suggestions.

The male and female winner of this event would be crowned the offical Olympic King and Queen, receiving crowns in addition to medals. They would officially be granted the status of greatest athlete in the world and given votes at United Nations meetings. It would be illegal for anyone to suggest that they were a greater athlete that the current Olympic King or Queen, with the punishment for such an offence being a minimum of four years in prison plus the offender having his or her legs broken to prevent them from participating in future athletic pursuits.

If any readers out there agree with this idea for the greatest ever sporting event in history, I suggest we start a petition and send it directly to Baron de Coubertin himself. I believe it's not to late to have this event included at Beijing.

In other matters, Nick Buck is having a birthday around this time.

you can still be an astronaut

One of the saddest things about getting as old as I am (29, for the curious, though that's apparently a 'joke age' that everyone who's insecure about being in their 30s claims to be. Which is it? You decide.), is not that I was learning long division when most of the public hospital doctors I meet were learning not to poo their pants, but that I can now never be an astronaut.

The chances were never high, admittedly, but when I was 12, it was still a theoretical possibility, and I took it for granted that one day I would do something just as cool. My Mum used to be an international hockey player, and I think my sisters and I all assumed we would be, as a matter of course. So international hockey player, astronaut, Prime Minister: these were all realistic possibilities in my head.

Now? Not so much. I can never be an astronaut; I've missed my chance. By the time I got my astrophysics PhD from MIT and my US citizenship, I'd be too old. I can never compete at the Olympics (unless it's in a non-sport like shooting that shouldn't be in there anyway), and the chances are pretty damn slim that I'll follow my Mum into the NZ hockey team. Prime Minister is still open, given the vagaries of MMP (Winston Peters as Treasurer and then Foreign Affairs Minister? Don Brash as Leader of the Opposition? Clearly, anything's possible), but becoming less and less likely as the years go by without me greasing up to any political party selection panel.

But Nick, you're only 25 today, and you can do anything. You could still go to the Olympics, and you can still be an astronaut. I'm trying not to be jealous.

Happy Birthday, my friend. I watch with interest.

Celestial Joy

Nick relaxes by doing stuff....
Leeches such as myself greatly benefit from this as you will see in the following description of a typical lazy chill-out evening.

Fellow slouch and I sitting on the couch while Nick cooks up yummy dinner, us sitting on the couch while Nick makes yummy pudding, me playing with golly, fellow slouch thinking about the Olympics or Smashing Pumpkins, whilst sitting on the couch and Nick in the kitchen making yummy drinks...
This sounds terrible and yes I am a lazy bugger but for all my protesting (which admittedly isn't that much) Nick claims that partaking in this culinary slavery is his equivalent to sitting on the couch.

I must say this is a tad worrying to idlers such as myself. It's just beyond my comprehension and things I don't understand make me nervous. Many a whispered conversation I have had with fellow slouch, fretting over our and Nicks roles in this scenario. But you can't say he doesn't look happy. In fact, Nick has such a serene look of peace and celestial joy whilst pottering around creating yummyness that it almost makes us slouchers a bit jealous of his found nirvana. Suddenly the couch looks kind of shabby from where we're sitting, surveying the shaft of light beaming down upon Nicks head through the kitchen window (even more impressive given it's night) and faintly picking out the cascading notes of the heavenly choir emanating across the room.

What's his secret? How does one maintain that much enthusiasm for and enjoyment of the possibilities of creativity and what can be achieved with a few pine nuts, mozzarella cheese and a bag of ice from the dairy up the road. And culinary delights is only one of his many creative outlets "I guess I gotta keep creating or I'll just die" - Jarrod

My fellow slouch has a theory that we are sum equals of all the people we have ever met. That everyone, from the people who raised us, to friends, to the person you talked to on the bus, all influence who we are - rub off on us a little. I hope this is true 'cos I wouldn't mind getting a bit of what Nicks got. I think that would make me a very lucky sloucher indeed.

NFB, the Autobot

For someone like myself, who has only really known Nick for about a year, it is nevertheless patently obvious why he is an Autobot, rather than a Decepticon. …Even if he does have pheromone levels that indicate he wants to mate with the female. Equipped as he is with the latest in Hospitality Hardware (including a Ginger Beer Brewery, Cocktail Factory, and Rapid-Deployment Dessert Appliance) he is the behind-the-bar life-o’-the-partay. Lately, I have also noticed he seems to have covertly integrated a Raspberry/Chocolate Liquorice manufacturing appliance since the racing season ended. Which is lucky for him, coz the way he was pumping that Monteith’s Black Oil the other weekend, he wouldn’t have been in any shape for driving! As you can see, Nick is a very giving Autobot. Indeed, he gives generously not only of his labor, but also of his humor, and, yes, wisdom, adding to that great Human data-repository, the Interwebs. He knows that freedom is the right of all sentient beings, no doubt about that.

PS: ALL HAIL MEGATRON!

Lazy Sunday

Nick, you have a desire to achieve the perfect balance of doing nothing or chillaxing (by the way, that is so Ponsonby) either in your spare time or while on holiday.

Being the type of gal who relaxes by doing stuff, I find this concept on “nothingness” quite intriguing.

But encouraged by your blogs, I will look to the master for some tips in an attempt to chillax.

Let’s take a typical day of rest – Sunday - also know as the Sabbath and observed by most Christians as the day of worship and rest from work.

Therefore in Nick’s footsteps I would raise before dawn to a mere 23.4km run before arriving for morning church all chillaxed. This would be followed by a spot putting your feet up before heading down to the local for a swim that would make me want to pass out.

Maybe in another life, if I was fitter, stronger and faster, I would be able to master this art of chillaxing and nothingness. In the meantime, I think I will stick with my keeping busy approach – it seems a lot less exhausting.

Have a chillaxing birthday Nick.

Love
Caths

What a load of rubbish

If you spend 5 minutes with Nick you know he’s a Ricky Gervais wannabe. Maybe it’s that Nick is rapidly approaching his 30’s that he sees a bit of himself in the master of cringe. Lets’ face it getting older means getting cheesier, you know it’s true. There’s nothing you can do to reverse the process. In fact the more you try to slow the cheese making process down the mouldier the cheese gets. As the ad says, “good cheese takes time”. Embrace it.

In some ways Nick is an easy target. He’s a living sitcom. The material doesn’t need to be written, the reality is even funnier. Often he relays stories to me, or in some cases other people tell me Nick Buck stories that seem ridiculous. His tenacity and haplessness combine to create the perfect comedy anti-hero, always landing perfectly on his Asics.

Happy Birthday Nick. It has been a great 25 years. You’re really only though the first season of your life so far. The move to Auckland in 2005 was a bonus Christmas episode.

Holy_Nick

Youth group leader. No, youth group pastor. No, Grand Youth Group Chief Elder (G.Y.G.C.E.)
Has ever a man moved through the ranks so quickly. From below the Bombay Hills, to minister's flatmate, evicted Penny Cliffin, became side-kick youth group leader; now: G.Y.G.C.E. It all happened before we could say Holy_Nick. He can banish demons with his sardonic wit; make a 6 member strong youth group into a 7 member youth group; turn a morning snooze into a toronto blessing, a chai latte into a holy anointing, a fussball table into a communion table. Holy_Nick. God may be in for a cross-country run for his money.

Blogging the Blogger

Nicholas, this is your mother. I hope you have a happy birthday, with some rich and tasty food and a sweet and sticky cake, just like your mother would have made. Apart from food, birthdays are for presents, and since you have indicated that you don’t want any, I will put some money in your bank and you can spend it as you please – on other people if you like, or buying a pet goat for an Iraqi orphan, or a baobab tree for an African AIDS victim to sit under. This will be the way of the future for us over-possessioned fat cats who live in the land of milk and honey. We are encouraged to gift our gifts to those less fortunate etc. However Nicholas, no-one is more fortunate than you, whatever you do with your money and your life. You are set up with a sunny mind that cares for others and a wealth of talents to squander in whatever direction your star leads you. So go for it. Many happy returns. With much love, Julia

Having my cake, eating it too, and keeping my dental care team happy

I hate being punished and sent to the bathroom. It is demeaning, as if I don't have enough problems with eyelashes like mine. However, I always manage to find something productive to do, so every cloud...
Happy Birthday Nick!

a birthday present from a band we know and love?

The Police, The Spice Girls, Smashing Pumpkins, Genesis, even Bone Thugs ’N’ Harmony, for heaven’s sake… unless you’ve been too busy doing yoga, showing gracious, undeserved love to labradoodles or running in muddy paddocks, you can’t fail to have noticed an apparent viral epidemic of bands reforming (for good or for ill: do we really need a Take That reunion?)

The days of Return of the Jedi screening in New Zealand months after US release (not bitter) are a long way behind us, and these days kiwis are at the forefront of any viral activity. So Crowded House and Supergroove have joined the reform club without delay.

Of course, with U2 and the Rolling Stones not shy of bringing their zimmer frames onstage, there’s plenty of encouragement for old codgers to break out the leather pants and look wistfully at the moshpit while calculating the chiropractic fee that would follow any unwise leaping. And Crowded House, not being peopled (or chickened?) by spring chickens when they formed, have had no shame in including in the new line up Neil Finn’s son, Liam, on guitar.

The first compact disc I ever bought, to play on my brand new shiny black ghetto blaster (thank you Post Office savings book), was Crowded House’s Woodface, and since then I’ve amassed quite a collection of their music, stopping just short of officially joining their fanclub (apparently I think that it’s that step that would define me as a true geek). I’ve been to a bunch of Crowded House/Finn gigs, including the legendary Seven Worlds Collide event where some of Neil’s mates dropped in to jam with him (you know, Eddie Vedder, Johnny Marr, half of Radiohead, just some chums). As a certain birthday lad will attest, there’s a Finn gene for putting on brilliant shows.

So I was sad when they broke up; I was cautious in approaching their reformation disc, Time on Earth. Then I heard the first single, which seemed disappointingly ordinary to me, especially since Neil Finn has written some damn fine music in his time of going solo over the last few years. And I became both cautious and sceptical.

When finally, almost against my better judgment, I bought the new cd, I was crestfallen at hearing the first two tracks, which are the singles. Superior bland pop, but bland pop nevertheless.

But then it got markedly better, and it got like a good reformation should be: a nicely balanced combination of picking up where they left off, and starting up again, having absorbed the last eight years of pop, rock, and electronica. It was exactly like I’d gone away for eight years, come back and heard what Crowded House had been up to while I was away. So I think Nick would like this disc too – we’ve often talked about the dilemma of wanting your favourite acts to just keep going, putting out more of the music you love, at the risk of sameyness and wanting to hear something new, at the risk of not liking it.

Time on Earth has spiky, jangly piano bits whose genealogy stretches right back to Split Enz (and yep, Eddie Rayner’s credited on the album), the characteristic melting harmonies so lush you can’t tell how many vocal lines there are, but then also some subtly cunning looped samples (my fave is of a German airport announcement), and they all go together swimmingly. These guys were exploring ancient analogue keyboards before they were ancient, and even the young fullas discovering them lately can’t beat their use on this album.

I’m not going to be rushing out for the Spice Girls reunion tour tickets, but the Crowded House reformation seems to have gone smoothly. Old codgers with the wordsmith ability of Neil Finn are always welcome on my ghetto blaster. And Nick, I think you’d approve of the new album. Consider it Neil and the boys wishing you a Happy Birthday.

new fangled technology

Being one who is almost virginal when it comes to blogs, I realise I am not the first to discover that the format is an entirely new genre of lit-ra-chure (in the words of Alan Bennett). I could purport to have effortlessly slipped into the blogger's mindset and raison d'etre by pontificating on my most recent intellectual epiphanies, punctuating these frequently with oh-so-cringeworthy foreign cliches and ideas-too-complicated-for-poor-me-to-express-in-one-word-so-I'm-going-to-cop-out-and-just-link-roughly-the-right-words-with-hyphens.

Or I could honestly say that the magic of the modern world is both boundless and wonderfully heartening. I have also just become acquainted with the procrastination entity that is facebook. Though these new findings will likely take away much of my formerly private, productive time but now I do have the real privilege of discovering in much greater detail the ins and outs of lives I thought were either going to be lost in the mists of time to me, or at least would only reveal themselves to me at infrequent intervals. Probably where the bulk of conversation in a chance meeting in Hyde Park or Queen Street would be unsatisfying pap about one's current residence and recent changes in the weather. The blog - moving beyond small talk! Or magnifying it in a way never believed possible.

This experience probably raised its head some years ago for those of you reading this. I'm clearly a little old fashioned.

For a champion who manages to motivate, entertain and soothe all whilst looking damn sharp without any perceived effort, your quarter century reminds me how much more enjoyment is to come!

Happy birthday Nick!

It was the worst birthday ever

I can probably trace the bulk of my neuroses back to one particular day: February 23rd, 1989: my fourteenth birthday and, coincidently, the day of my high school’s athletics day. Why do I hate being out in the sun? Ask me about my fourteenth birthday. Why do I hate sport with such a passion? Again, ask me about my fourteenth birthday.

A digression: athletics day was always a strange day at my school. It was a day of, if not compulsory participation, then compulsory attendance, and I could never understand why the entire school was forced to spend a day sitting in the hot sun watching the kids who liked sport run around the field. (I mean, it’s not like the entire school had to sit around and watch me at my drawing board during graphics and design, or watch the kids who were good at maths sit tests or anything.) Bear in mind that late February is probably the hottest time of the year, and that there wasn’t a single bit of shade around the sports fields at my school. To the best of my recollection, you weren’t even allowed to bring a book or a Walkman onto the sports field. For the freaks, the geeks, the nerds, the burn-outs and the generally enfeebled, it was a day of hot, boring discomfort. The fact that it would often fall on my birthday felt particularly unjust.

Another digression: the school’s groundskeeper and sometime-teacher, Mr. Findlay. Even thinking about him today makes me feel slightly queasy. He was a deeply unlikeable man, who wandered glowering around the school, lit cigarette in hand, emanating a deep hatred for all children other than those who took his 6th and 7th form Outdoor Education courses. For plump, bookish but generally rule-abiding kids like my friends and I, he was out arch nemesis –hunting our kind for our thick pelts.

It was on February 23rd, 1989 that my world and Mr. Findlay’s worlds collided for the first time. It must have been at morning tea time that, graciously given a “break” from the enforced frivolity of watching people we didn’t actually like run in circles around a field, we were allowed to leave the field for 15 minutes for our morning tea. Cheers. Taking my skateboard, I was walking up to the top car park when “Findlay” (as he was unaffectionately known) intercepted me and commented on the fact that one of socks was down. (My high school had a fairly strict dress code, and it was crucially important that our socks remained up on our journey to adulthood.) The passage of time has erased his exact words to me, but my skateboard was immediately confiscated, and I was told to report to him in a few minutes for a “job”, which I assumed to be picking up litter at lunchbreak.

No such luck.

Finding him a few minutes later, I saw he was standing next to a gigantic metal drum attached to something which looked like it was designed to be pulled by a team of oxen. “The cricket pitch needs rolling” he said matter-of-factly. And that was that. From approximately 10am until 3pm, I lumbered with this bloody great steel drum, back and forth, back and forth, crushing down the pitch in the hot sun. Whilst I certainly wouldn’t like to draw trite comparisons to Jesus’ crucifixion, whenever I watch those old religious epics and see Christ carrying his cross up the hill, the first thing that comes to mind is that day, sunburnt, sweating, carrying a heavy load and feeling utterly miserable. All through the afternoon, friends and enemies alike wandered over to watch my toil. Some expressed sympathy and outrage. Most just mocked me. I felt like Sisyphus. (Or some form of perverse entertainment in a Roman arena, circa 200AD.) God knows how I got through the day without passing out or suffering heatstroke, although the fact that I have absolutely no recollection of what happened after the school day ended suggests I probably just came home and collapsed.

I say again: It was the worst birthday ever.

For my 21st birthday, my dad gave me a photo album featuring 20 photos, one taken on every birthday since infancy. In most of them I look pretty happy. But there’s one particular one where I’m sunburnt to hell, my head is tilted on a strange angle, and I look like the weight of the world is on my shoulders. Guess the year.

Anyway, Nick … this sorry tale is nothing more than a wish that your 25th birthday is a good one - a great one even. (I figure it can’t be any worse than the one I just described.) It’s been really good getting to know you the last year-and-a-bit.

All the best, buddy …

Lawrence

PS - As an addendum to this sorry tale: isn’t it weird to think that schools could force students to sit outside in the hot sun all day, and teachers could walk around the school smoking?

In The Future, Everyone Will Be Fat

It's true. You may not like it, but it's true. It starts innocently enough – more labour-saving devices that don't require you to work at anything, ordering everything from the internet straight to your home, and of course we'll have solved the energy crisis and still be driving everywhere.

Then eventually an industrial accident will pollute the atmosphere, confining us all to our homes. No-one will mind, of course, because by that time you'll be living in the virtual world of Second Life (or World of Warcraft. Or both.)

So, so far we have (a) house-bound and (b) addicted to video games.

Ah, of course. "Food" will be "nutrition" tablets, generated by a small machine set into the wall, and tasting like anything you want. Unfortunately, our biology won't have kept pace with technology, so even though one tablet contains enough energy for a whole day, our bodies don't realise it. They want to feel like they've eaten a solid meal, so until someone invents the expanding-foam pill in 2025, everyone eats far too much.

Not everything changes. An intrepid few (Nick among them) turn yoga into a highly ritualised form of kung-fu, and, on those occasions they're unable to outrun the six-foot-mutant dogs and house-cats, they challenge said beasts to hand-to-paw combat (upward-facing-dog takes on a whole new meaning.) Gradually and sadly, one-by-one, these intrepid souls are killed by the mutants, and the gene pool is eventually entirely fat people. The human race is doomed.

This is what you have to look forward to. Happy birthday, Nick.

cheersbrian

Dear Nick,
Congratulations, not on reaching 25, but on all you have achieved.
A law degree, the start of a career in finance, a social circle and one of New Zealand's best runners!
Now what advice would I give you at this stage?
NONE!
Love, Brian

A lot of circles