Dazed and Confused

Fleetwood Mac. People with terribly young eyes are asking me if I am going to see them in November.

Shoelaces. I doubt if I have spent more than half a dozen inner-city coffee chats in the past 40 years without this topic rising to the cup's surface like an undrunken marshmallow.

The Logan Park High School senior prizegiving last Wednesday night was a staggering thing.

The University of Otago's Marama Hall has bobbed and weaved its way intriguingly through my life, music most often the lure.

I was 15 years old when I realised there was such a thing as good sports writing.

Although my father was a semiprofessional photographer, I have never spent much time learning the craft.

We all want our friends to be better people. Stands to reason, innit.

Growing up carries with it a thousand memories of fear.

Sixties movie siren Mamie Van Doren - could we ever forget The Beat Generation, or, most especially, High School Confidential? - once opined that you can tell the cut of a man's jib from his choice in office chairs.

Last week was spent talking to third-year medical students as part of their clinical skills learning programme.

As far as I can remember, it was the Dalai Llama who said if a man couldn't slay two birds with one stone, then he really wasn't much chop.

Like most rational thinkers, I far prefer the Backwards Negative Bucket List (BNBL) to the conventional Future Bucket List (FBL).

The Fortune Theatre's 86-hour Shakespeare marathon was a remarkable thing.

We live in a phenomenal time. Rational thinkers fight, hiss and scratch out each others' eyes long into the night arguing which phenomena should head the list.