tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84436827893460191082024-03-12T16:35:02.722-07:00MaunderingThe mutterings and observations of a curious KiwiAoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.comBlogger234125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-88493213693286907542012-09-09T17:42:00.000-07:002012-09-09T17:49:23.826-07:00Bette Davis EyesThis song was already old when Kim Carnes took it and shook it in 1981. I loved it then, and like it a great deal now. Oh, how fickle I am! Actually, this may mean that my taste is all in my arse, but I don't care. When I say it was old - it had been written in 1974, and released later that year to thundering silence. <br />
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It's a fine thing to be back at work, and an even finer thing to have the energy to sit at my keyboard to write something. So, here we go:<br />
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I have found that the way to become a good bus driver (an exalted state I hope to reach one fine day) is to have Salamander Eyes. Big, googly, swivelling eyes. When cornering, I can use one to focus on the right mirror, to make sure I don't hit that bloody concrete island that some dickhead put there. With the second swivelly eye I can watch for the moron in the Audi - more on that later - who is going to do something unexpected. With the third (!) I can keep an eye on the left mirror to make sure the tail swing doesn't take out the Postbox some dickhead (possibly the same one) put too close to the kerb. And after I've done all that, I can do something about watching the road ahead because that kid's just rushed out and.. <br />
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<img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="194" data-width="260" height="194" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQ-FLp_CS5zG5E5XDmeSRe5x5-Dk57ImPqWqj5kFgbISMPPY3wi" style="height: 194px; width: 260px;" width="260" /></div>
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Incidentally - "He's got salamander eyes" scans with the song perfectly.<br />
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There are a few TV commercials I'd like to comment on. There's the Kinder Surprise one, where the Dad knocks on the door and asks the little girl to come outside... Then gives her chocolate and acts all... creepy... with her. I can't help but think he's been forbidden contact with the child, isn't allowed in the home, and is a peadophiliac slimeball. Otherwise, why not simply open the door? Why not simply go inside? Why not simply tell the little girl to put her hand in his pocket to find the.... Oh. Sorry. I don't like that commercial, At all.<br />
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<a href="http://media.photobucket.com/image/kinder%20surprise/moldohd/kinder-surprise.jpg?o=3"><img class="over off" galleryimg="no" src="http://th454.photobucket.com/albums/qq268/moldohd/th_kinder-surprise.jpg" style="height: 160px; width: 146px;" /></a></div>
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Then there's the one where the equally creepy guy goes to the bank vault while an oleagenous voice-over bangs on about "precious things". El Creepo then gets into a car to find a bride (it's at night-time, too. Extra creepiness) while the voice-over says something about daughters being the most precious, my dear. The Rich Creep gives the bride - his daughter - a key. I'm assuming it opens her chastity belt. The whole tone of the commercial is that the daughters of rich men belong to their fathers. Vileness, in the back of a car.<br />
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Then there's the Stuart Dawson (I think) Jeweller commercial. Three vacant chicks are sitting at a coffee table. Two ask the third how her new relationship is going... and Blank Chick # 3 shows off the jewellery her new boyfriend has bought her. Hmm. The best way to judge a man is by the jewellery he buys you... Vile factor of 7 out of 10.<br />
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It's later. Time to write a little more about Audi drivers. <br />
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There are, I am sure, good drivers who are also Audi drivers, but I haven't seen any for a long time. Maybe there's an Audi aerosol that the vehicles spray at their drivers that turns off their brains. I'm finding that 8 times out of 10 that I see arrogance, rudeness, shitheadedness, and prickish behaviour on the roads, it's being demonstrated by an Audi driver. I bet that Creepy Father # 2 drives an Audi. Paedo Creepy Father # 1 would drive a white van...<br />
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Watching: Not much on TV right now that rings my bells.<br />
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Reading: Ian Tregillis, "Bitter Seeds". Sci Fantasy, and excellently done. <br />
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Listening to: Arcade Fire "Neon Fire". Top album.<br />
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Movies: We went to see "Brave" yesterday. Laughed like a drain. Really thoroughly enjoyed it.<br />
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Buy of the Week: Mad Butcher has big bags of licorice allsorts off cuts for $4. <br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-23434602828695286602012-08-09T01:12:00.000-07:002012-08-09T01:12:10.789-07:00Born to be mildSteppenwolf, of course. Easy Rider, of course. The song "Born To Be Wild" has become a cliche, a laughing stock, a parody of everything it might have once stood for or said. It was, it's said, the first heavy metal song, and the lyric provides the first use of those two words used in conjunction. It's dragged out by broadcast journalists every time they have a story dealing even vaguely with motorcycles. It was the standout track on Steppenwolf's 1968 album, and used as the first big song on 1969's movie "Easy Rider". 'Nuff said.<br />
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It seems the NZ Police want us all born to be mild, if their Special Tactics Group spokesman is to be believed. When being questioned about the veracity of the Kim Dotcom search warrant and the methods used to execute it, the STG chappy said (in court) with some indignation, that Mr Dotcom was "belligerent and disdainful".<br />
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As opposed to what, Mr Gun-Totin' STG person? Mild, and polite? Fawning, and obsequious? Timid, and grovelling? Of course Dotcom was belligerent and disdainful. (Actually, he wasn't belligerent. He physically surrendered. Dotcom was belligerent and disdainful because he is a highly intelligent person - you don't get to develop and run a business turning over hundreds of millions of dollars if you're stupid - and knew what was going on. He knew the NZ Police were toadying to their FBI colleagues. He knew the guns and helicopters and total overkill was all theatre, and all gobshite.<br />
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The rationale used by the anonymous coppers in court for the guns (we saw a 10 year old photo of Mr Dotcom holding a shotgun! Shriek! Panic!) and hugely overmanned attack on his home (we needed men to neutralise his cars because we'd seen a YouTube clip of Mr Dotcom driving at 260kph on Germany's autobahn, so considered him a flight risk) is pathetic. <br />
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As for when he was physically arrested... well, what a balls up that was on the part of the Special Tactics group. They knew where the Panic Room was, because Dotcom has shown a visiting constable all of the house's features a few days prior to the raid. This co-operation on his part, of course, made the zealotry for guns and shock and awe all the more rational. But, even knowing where the Panic Room was, it took the arresting team 13 minutes to track him down. Despite the fact that the Panic Room's door was left unlocked. Then it took a lot of yelling and gun-pointing and noise to persuade a fat man to hold his hands up, to push him to the ground, to punch him (yes, I believe him on that one) and to accidentally trample his fingers (Yes, I believe the cops on this one. There was so much chaos that it's highly likely it was accidental).<br />
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The whole thing was bullshit. And the NZ Police Commissioner should be asking some very hard questions, and making the answers very public. Bet he won't, though.<br />
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ON TO ME: Diagnosis: cluster headaches. Have to carry powerful anti-cluster-headache drugs with me at all times. Might get a man-bag. And I can go back to work, once I get the letter from the doctor. woo hoo. Monday week should do it.<br />
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READING: Ken Follet, "Fall of Giants". Big, fat book. Good start.<br />
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LISTENING TO: Steppenwolf, "At Your Birthday Party". Excellent. <br />
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PRODUCT: Sounds fm. They're doing a lot of TV advertising right now. Tuned in when I was in hospital. Like listening to my own album collection. And they don't just play the "popular" tracks from albums. They play stuff I haven't heard in years.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-59803444954286605962012-08-05T18:58:00.001-07:002012-08-05T19:01:32.472-07:00Fever, and Que Sera SeraYes, two topics!<br />
First, "Fever". Made famous by Peggy Lee back in 1958. A thousand other people have covered it (Beyonce being the most recent), but no-one else has managed to get the raw sexuality of Peggy Lee's recording. Yes, "Fever" is <em>the</em> rooting song.<br />
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Anyway: fever. I've not blogged for a couple of weeks, because I had a fever. Huge one, too: pneumonia. Now, I learnt a couple of things from this experience. <br />
A fever isn't just hot. The night before going to the doctor, I was experiencing bouts of deep cold, accompanied by uncontrollable shivering. This was unpleasant, so nature, in all its deviosity followed it up with heat. Lots of heat, and sweat. <br />
So, Jenny dragged me to the doctor the next morning (Almost literally. I was terribly weak.) and while I was there I passed out. Excitement! People rushing about! Jenny getting the fright of her life (sorry, sweetheart)! Mucho vomiting, too!<br />
Then hospital. Again. I am really getting sick of that place, weak-kneed pun intended. So, yes, it was pneumonia, and I said "but it hurts". They looked at me as though I was a moron - a look I've been getting a lot, lately. "Of course it hurts," they said. "It's pneumonia".<br />
Well, hell. Who knew. I've been accustomed to hearing about Old Man Jones, who mercifully died of pneumonia after spending 20 years battling scrofula. <br />
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<img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="197" data-width="256" height="197" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSgs8hEMq30exdVGVikBp9CfM_81JwDYRHTux3vfyi8OrLy15NG" style="height: 197px; width: 256px;" width="256" /></div>
It seems that pneumonia kills many old people. They have cancer, beri-beri, malaria, whatever. The disease weakens them, they contract pneumonia, and they die. Well, we think. Ain't that a mercy. Instead of having to battle Limping Leprosy, pneumonia has peacefully carried them off. Ha! Pneumonia hurts. A lot. There's no mercy about it.<br />
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Que Sera Sera: another 1950s number, this one first made popular in the Hitchcock movie "The Man Who Knew Too Much", in 1956. Doris Day sang it in the movie, and it became a big hit. Much as I love Doris, I prefer the Connie Francis version, which came out in 1962, when I was 10.<br />
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<img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="213" data-width="176" height="213" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT2FMe1XEw9iJ7aYO2yd1r_MLVFSsuDDoJW-U3ftW8dznM2Va_l" style="height: 213px; width: 176px;" width="176" /><img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="210" data-width="240" height="210" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQN1UrKCclXuJGYVCAzi05RmisgAm0XXFAjx7dXgXLQTKSGbbEF" style="height: 210px; width: 240px;" width="240" /></div>
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Also, Connie was hot. Ter. <br />
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Anyway. Christchurch has a few things to celebrate, post-earthquake. The residents have been given ample opportunities to see just how much of a hollow man their Mayor is, and Gerry Brownlee has strode the area like a colossus. So much so that his bulk has actually kicked off 17 after-shocks. He hasn't said much worth listening too, though. He has merely eclipsed the sun occasionally, and harrumphed.<br />
But the new plan for the city centre does look like it could work very well. Brilliantly, in fact.<br />
I just have one small quibble.<br />
CERA. Canterbury Earthquake Recovery Authority. Great acronym. Well, it would be, if we pronounced Canterbury as "Santerbury". For some reason or other everyone pronounces CERA with a soft "C". SERA. But the "C" from "Canetrbury" is hard - Kanterbury. <br />
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<img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="261" data-width="193" height="261" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQpfw3M5RYmaiBzYhOL5BuCEUQ_cZFibnQS50tk0GRdKNodb0v-" style="height: 261px; width: 193px;" width="193" /></div>
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Immanuel Kant.</div>
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So the "C" IN CERA should be hard. KERA. </div>
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Can't wait to get back to work. Seeing the Neurologist today to get my facey thing signed off, and to see if I can get Magic Drug to stop future headaches. Wish me luck (which I, as a rationalist, don't believe in). Hearty thing's under control. Pneumonia has largely gone, just in recovery mode. </div>
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READING: "D-DAY", Stephen E Ambrose. Very, very good. "Pale Horse Coming", Stephen Hunter. One of his very best, and a replacement copy for the one I loaned out to someone who obviously thinks it's too good to return. </div>
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LISTENING TO: Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, "Beat The Devil's Tattoo". Constantly surprising.</div>
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WATCHING: TV: "The Fades". Brilliant Brit writing, acting, directing. Great ghost / apocalypse yarn. MOVIE: Have finally seen "War Horse". Not as damp-making as I feared. Good flick, but I'm glad I didn't spend $16 on a movie ticket.</div>
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PRODUCT ENDORSEMENT: Gu chocolate Millionaire Pancakes. Holy crap. I never knew chocolate, caramel, oats, and magic could ever taste so good. These were given to us by our neighbour, recently returned from Australia, so they may not be available here. Storm the Bastille until someone imports them!</div>
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-74776930838765302132012-07-16T17:40:00.001-07:002012-07-16T18:00:59.934-07:00Please Read The LetterWoo hoo! I made it into the 2000s: Please Read The Letter is on the 2009 album "Raising Sand", by Alison Kraus and Robert Plant. OK, picky people will also note that it was first released on the Bob Plant album "Walking Into Clarksdale", realeased 1998. Bah, I say. And humbug.<br />
Three letters...<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dear Listener
Editor;<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The first time I saw it in your
pages, the matches came out. The second time: the fuse was lit. And now I’ve
seen it for a third time. Which makes it time for me to explode.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<img alt="July 21-27 Issue 3767" class="thumbnail cover " src="http://www.listener.co.nz/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/Listener-Issue-3767.jpg" width="160" /><br /><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It’s the replacement of poo (a
perfectly good -if childish – euphemism for sh*t, cr*p, d*ng, m*n*r*, or the
ever-popular French m*rd*. Excrement.) with pooh. Pooh, as we should all know is the name of a Bear. A very nice Bear. A Bear of Importance, Hunny, and Verse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Christopher Robin did not go
a-wandering in the Hundred Acre Wood with a poo. That would have been weird.
Instead, he went with Pooh, Piglet, Kanga, Tigger, Eeyore, Wol, Roo, and
various others. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">To replace Poo with Pooh implies
that the word Poo (or sh*t, etc) is also synonymous with Black, Polar, Grizzly,
Koala, and Cuddly. I shudder at the thought of a Cuddly Poo, but a Cuddly Pooh
makes me feel all gooey and caramel-ey inside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And consider this: all Bears
can poo in the woods, but only one Pooh can Bear in the woods. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Please instruct your writers
and sub-editors that a poo is a poo, and cannot under any circumstance be
confused with Pooh, who is a Bear.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Many thanks,</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Allan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<img src="http://www.just-pooh.com/assets/pictures/subcategory/55_thumb.gif" /></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span><div style="text-align: left;">
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Dear JohnKey;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It must be very heart-warming
for you to know that <s>67%</s> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><s>63%</s><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><s>58%</s><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>whoops<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><s>53%</s><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>um<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><s>48%</s>
er quite a few people are still quite fond of you. Unfortunately, your popularity
seems to be dropping almost as quickly as a crack whore’s drawers on a Saturday
night.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><img class="rg_i" data-src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRXThDrtI83np9y2h6nhnDp1UVzuvjlpxgjNTyi7GK0ZrcDG6ycsw" data-sz="f" height="150" name="PtZnROqI0M9i1M:" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRXThDrtI83np9y2h6nhnDp1UVzuvjlpxgjNTyi7GK0ZrcDG6ycsw" width="222" /></o:p></span></div>
<br /><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So, what to do? You’ve tried
the race card: hauling out the water rights thing, so the Maori Party will get
all divisive and divided, and you look like quite a reasonable sort of chap,
smirking while you said that all you were quoting was the law. Oh, please,
JohnKey: not even Winston Creepers would have used that one. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We know that all you’ve done,
really, is follow what your monied instincts tell you to do: grab things that
aren’t yours, things that someone else (like me, and my parents) paid for and
built, and sell them to yourself and your buck-buddies. After all, you’re Mum
and Dad Kiwis, aren’t you?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img align="middle" alt="" border="0" class="th imgthumb6" height="90" id="imgthumb6" src="data:image/jpeg;base64,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" style="margin: 0px;" title="http://www.todayifoundout.com/index.php/2010/06/where-the-dollar-sign-comes-from/" width="121" /></div>
<br /><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">You know that so-called “ordinary”
Kiwis can’t afford to buy any of the shares / share packages that will be
offered when the power companies go on the market. In New Zealand and simultaneously in Australia, where there's a million or so "ordinary" Kiwis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mind you, I have to grant that your definition
of “ordinary” might be different from mine. To you, ordinary is someone who
earns more than $200,000 a year. Probably overseas. To me, ordinary means the other 98% of people.
Here.They’re the strange little creatures you meet on those interminable
photo-opportunities you have to smile so much at.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But the smile’s not working
these days, is it? Not working for you, and not being put to work by you.
Perhaps people have started seeing how shallow and shabby you and your
pod-people in Cabinet are…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Lovingly,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Allan.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Dear God;</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’ve been reading a bit about
Intelligent Design lately. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It’s an attractive proposition,
until I look at myself. I had to start wearing spectacles at age 3, because my “Intelligently
Designed” eyes weren’t up to scratch. It took a surgical team of fallible
people to fix the major problems that Your Infallibility left behind. Mind you,
I got lucky: I missed the Intelligently Designed Polio you gave us to play
with.</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><a class="image" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Iron_Lung_ward-Rancho_Los_Amigos_Hospital.gif"><img alt="" class="thumbimage" height="147" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/d6/Iron_Lung_ward-Rancho_Los_Amigos_Hospital.gif/220px-Iron_Lung_ward-Rancho_Los_Amigos_Hospital.gif" width="220" /></a></o:p></span></div>
<br /><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And now, it seems your Design
has cracked up again. The chances seem pretty good that I have something called
“Cluster Headaches”. You must have built them into your Perfect Design as a way
of teaching us oh, something – although if a human father did that to his kids
he’d be thrown into prison for child abuse. Anyway, if you’ve forgotten about
Cluster Headaches, check ‘em out on ouch.org.uk. You’ll see a video of a man
learning your ineffable lesson as he joyously experiences a Cluster Headache. I
know exactly how he feels.</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a class="image" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Clusterhead.jpg"><img alt="" height="326" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/3/36/Clusterhead.jpg/230px-Clusterhead.jpg" width="230" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Intelligent Design, eh, God? Sorry,
but you don’t even get an “E” for Effort.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Ignore ya later,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Al.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Listening to: Nina Simone,
Greatest Hits. “Cotton Eyed Joe” is playing right now. Sublime.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Cambria Math","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Reading: War comics. <o:p></o:p></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-71023556861640869692012-07-08T20:26:00.001-07:002012-07-15T18:36:08.324-07:00And When I DieIn 1969 (will I ever drag myself out of the 60s?) the jazz/rock fusion band Blood Sweat And Tears <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blood,_Sweat_%26_Tears">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blood,_Sweat_%26_Tears</a> released "And When I Die". It reached #2 on the Top 40, and was, quite possibly, the last time death was rationally mentioned on primetime media in the United States of America.<br />
<br />
It strikes me that the Americans (and we're catching this particular disease) have a really odd attitude toward death. I am not convinced that people - particularly Americans - actually "believe" in death. Vast numbers believe in some sort of Sky God who speaks to them personally, and who maintains some sort of home for them to go to when their material body dies, so they don't actually die. It's seems to me that there are major delusional factors involved in this belief system, but wjhat do I know? <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="248" data-width="203" height="248" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRESP_Pvyc-1qzZrY_lh_ynZ3Mu0NHr5H1ycr0HBZ-X4Bgr2CR9" style="height: 248px; width: 203px;" width="203" /></div>
<br />
But it goes beyond that. There's a number of movies that come out every year that shows the transubstantial belief goes beyond organised regions. The Christ, Jahweh, Mohammed, Krishna, and Buddha followers aren't mentioned in films in which an adult swaps bodies with a teenager (and vice versa, of course), and everyone enjoys learning a jolly good lesson. Or the films in which preople are miraculously saved from some tragedy, but are later harvested by a vengeful personified Death, wyho seems to enjoy coming up with quite novel and spectacular ways of doingn away with people. Now, even irrational people understand that movies ain't real. But even the suspension of disbelief allows the making and popularity of movies that easily insist on the reality of "souls", "spirits", and (more sinisterly) the personification of a being that takes your spirit from you.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img align="middle" alt="" border="0" class="th imgthumb2" height="90" id="imgthumb2" src="data:image/jpeg;base64,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" style="margin: 0px;" title="http://mysteryworlds.wordpress.com/tag/near-death-experience/" width="64" /></div>
<br />
<br />
Then there's the language. I've notived American movies, books, TV programmes, websites, and magazines almost never use the "D" word. People don't die, and they're not dead. They pass, or have passed.<br />
<br />
Oh, well - that's them.<br />
<br />
I noticed this the other, and couldn't believe it. The quote comes from the story in the link, which tells of a chap who was called in to investigate a "sacred" statue that was producing holy water. Unfortunately for the goddists, it was actually sewage water, leaking from a busted pipe. But here's the quote:<br />
<br />
<strong>You now face possible arrest. Why?</strong>Leaders of two Catholic laity organizations have launched charges against me under Section 295A of the Indian penal code. This charges a person with "deliberately hurting religious feelings and attempting malicious acts intended to outrage the religious sentiments of any class or community.” <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/health_and_science/new_scientist/2012/07/a_statue_of_jesus_oozing_holy_water_an_indian_skeptic_debunks_miracle.html">http://www.slate.com/articles/health_and_science/new_scientist/2012/07/a_statue_of_jesus_oozing_holy_water_an_indian_skeptic_debunks_miracle.html</a><br />
<br />
<br />
Yeah - an actual law that protects the <em>feelings</em> of the religious. Sigh. If their god ain't powerful enough to protect their feelings, then what the dickens does that law have to do with it?<br />
<br />
Reading: Potsdam Station, by David Downing. The last of a series about Berlin during WWII. Better than Le Carre at his best.<br />
<br />
Watched: "Strange Exports: A Christmas Tale". A Finnish movie about the real Santa. Deliciously funny.<br />
<br />
Listening to: Lana del Ray "Born To Die". Well, at least she didn't call it "Born to pass..."<br />
<br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-9401971749173688522012-07-05T01:06:00.003-07:002012-07-05T01:06:36.825-07:00When I'm Sixty-FourThe Beatles didn't do many "character" songs - and it could be argued either way as to whether "Sixty-Four" is one or not. It was on the Sergeant Pepper album, released in 1966, and it made my Parietal Lobe reverberate the other day when I looked at something and reacted... well, here's the story.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="185" data-width="273" height="185" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTiyXI2wGKqAkPeVUjwR2hH1J_JO1msyCdHGVaE5NDGqnoAx3k3" style="height: 185px; width: 273px;" width="273" /></div>
<br />
When you drive a bus, you get a terrific view of all sorts of stupid, wonderful, beautiful, and breath-taking things. I see a lot of drivers do a lot of stupid things. To be fair, I see a huge number more drivers doing sensible, safe, and thoughtful things, so it evens out. I see old couples out walking their dog, strolling along hand in hand. Very cool. I see teenagers walking together, and I know from the way they walk that they both want to hold hands, but neither knows just how to go about it. At night-time, I don't see any men waiting at bus-stops, because they're all wearing black. I've learnt to slooow---riiight---dooown just before every bus-stop, just to look for the invisible men. The other night one of them held up his glowing cell-phone to alert me. I could have kissed him.<br />
<br />
And I see a lot of tights. And I often see long, bare legs, topped by micro-skirts. And 90% of the time I think to myself: "Shit, she must be cold." Actually, when the legs are bare you can tell she's cold. The legs are blotchy with purple patches. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="229" data-width="220" height="229" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRTMESZrXgol4yUvAN9w2Vs8uGZ_DNiCuepJI3VeRN_CnkRWe3yKw" style="height: 229px; width: 220px;" width="220" /></div>
<br />
Now, I'm pretty sure that only 10 years ago I would have been thinking "Hurly burly what a girly!" Actually, I wouldn't have been thinking at all: it would have been a purely visceral reaction. <br />
<br />
"Shit, she must be cold." It's with that murmur of concern that all my dreams of being a dirty old man run down the gurgler. Damn.<br />
<br />
<strong>Reading:</strong> David Downing, "Sealing Their Fate". A history of the 22 days in 1941 that Germany and Japan lost WWII. Excellent.<br />
<strong>Listening to:</strong> The Beatles, "Love". The re-mix that Giles Martin did for the Cirque de Soleil show of the same name. Also excellent. <br />
<strong>Watching:</strong> "Castle". Absolutely and totally brainless. I love it, but when are they going to get it on??<div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-70185531733074835592012-06-29T18:54:00.001-07:002012-06-29T18:55:21.212-07:00The Dangling ConversationA minor hit before for Simon & Garfunkel before the album "Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme" was released in 1966, "The Dangling Conversation" tells the tale of a couple whose familiarity with each other has turned not into contempt, but rather into a rift that is so vast as to be practically invisible.<br />
The theme of the song has nothing to do with today's blog. It's all in the title.<br />
I was at a girls' school the other day (I shan't say which one). I was out of my magnificent chariot, making sure the School Bus signs were on display. As I walked back to the vehicle's front door from the rear, I was followed by to girls. Here's the fragment of conversation I heard:<br />
<br />
GIRL ONE: I shaved my legs last night.<br />
GIRL TWO: Really? Did you shave your vadge as well?<br />
GIRL ONE: Shave my c*nt? No way...<br />
<br />
I got on the bus and looked at them. I, of course, was invisible. I'm old, and a bus driver - guaranteed invisibility. They were 13, maybe 14, tops. On this, I merely report. I do not judge or comment. But I must add that I laughed like a drain. Oh - and I inserted the asterisk into the word because I know some of my readers find the whole word distasteful.<br />
<br />
A couple of days later I was in Takapuna, and picking up four or five Chinese couples. They'd apparently been to a language class, and were eager to try out a few new words. They were happy, shy, and proud.<br />
MAN ONE: Two stage tickets, PLease, for me and wife.<br />
HIS WIFE (correcting him): MY wife!<br />
PERSON ONE: Ah. Me and MY wife. Ha ha ha!<br />
ME: Certainly, Sir. Well done! Welcome aboard.<br />
MAN TWO: Good.... (asks wife question, in Chinese)<br />
HIS WIFE: After-noon.<br />
MAN TWO: Good after-noon. Two tickets for FoRRest HiLL, PLease. (laughs).<br />
ME: Good afternoon, sir. Good afternoon, ma'am. And here are your tickets to Forrest Hill.<br />
<br />
And so it goes, until the last passenger boards. She is a white lady, bottle-blonde, late 40s, perhaps early 50s. Nicely dressed.<br />
<br />
ME: And good afternoon to you, ma'am. And where can North Star take you today?<br />
LADY: Three stages please. And you do know, don't you, that there's no need to call them Sir or Ma'am, don't you? They're only Chinese.....<br />
<br />
Again, I make no comment or judgement. But I do know who I'd rather have at my dinner table.<br />
<br />
WATCHING: Bugger all. I've been doing a bunch of night shifts, starting at 2.00pm, finishing around 11.00.<br />
READING: "Catching Fire", Suzanne Collins. The second part of the Hunger Games trilogy. Slower going than the fist one, but still...<br />
RECOMMENDED PRODUCT: Ambrosia apples. I'm normally a Royal Gala kind of guy, but these are delicious.<br />
<br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-53402342348983034502012-06-22T20:33:00.001-07:002012-06-22T20:33:42.498-07:00The House of the Rising SunThe House of the Rising Sun has a complicated history: it may be as much as 300 years old, telling a tale about a Soho brothel. What it's about is also speculative. One theory is that the actual House was an infirmary where prostitutes went to have their STDs cured. It's that interpretation that I'm leaning on today. The song was, of course, turned into a major hit by Brit band The Animals in 1964, although I first became aware of it when Dylan did a cover of it in 1962. I do prefer The Animals' version.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="189" data-width="267" height="189" id="rg_hi" sb_id="ms__id787" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTRLgcG5rRouPybVfSdsFhn-BPEF1xcrWnW0z1P5fuD349-k8ta" style="height: 189px; width: 267px;" width="267" /></div>
<br />
Anyway, I recently spent a short amount of time in a house of healing. The North Shore Hospital has a schizophrenic reputation. Many people moan about it. The service received by some individuals does seem to leave something to be desired. Many people also love it: I am included in that proud roster.<br />
<br />
On my three different jaunts there, I have been hugely impressed. And my most recent stay has left me an avid fan of the nursing staff. Cheerful, good-humoured, knowledgeable, and working under what seems to be an incredible amount of pressure, they were always supportive, understanding, and - perhaps most importantly - very real and human. A few even laughed at my jokes, which is taking their duty to places it shouldn't have to go.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="Nurse : Nurse and Skeleton" border="0" id="11975584" src="http://us.cdn2.123rf.com/168nwm/twelvetribes/twelvetribes1201/twelvetribes120100009/11975584-nurse-and-skeleton.jpg" /></div>
<br />
My health has taken a hammering lately. I went to hospital because I'd asked my new GP about a terrible pain I'd been experiencing in my face. She took blood pressure, and listened to various organs, and sent me to the House of the Rising Sun (yes, my ward window faced East, and I caught the full force of the dawn) because my heart was beating hugely irregularly. It carried on doing that for several days, which is apparently a wee bit dodgy.<br />
<br />
My father used to call me Face Ache when I was a child. I suspect he called my siblings that, as well, when he forgot their names too. The heart nonsense (for which I am now taking a daily does of rat poison) had nothing to do with the face nonsense, which got forgot about. I figured it was just an infection, and had gone away under the threat of Drugs of Mass Destruction. Not so. While it didn't occur while I was in the House of the Rising Sun, it did re-occur when I had been released. Sigh.<br />
<br />
I returned to the Doc, who whimpered that I needed to see a SuperDoc soonest. I did so, on Friday: a Neurologist, who made tut-tutting noises, and is moving the bureaucracy of the Auckland Hospital to get me an MRI within a week. As getting an MRI normally takes a year ( ! ) this could be a Sisyphean task. <br />
<br />
The face business is painful. I never actually believed people could / would / do writhe in pain. I can reliably report to you that yes, they do. Or I do, anyway. It's some sort of nerve damage / disease thingy, and I have been prescribed Powerful Drugs to counteract the symptoms. I am a firm believer in the "Drugs Give Hugs" philosophy, but I am a little concerned at the cocktail of crap that I'm hurling down my neck. Arthritis drugs (yay!). Heart drugs (yay!). Now facey-nervey drugs... <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="184" data-width="274" height="184" id="rg_hi" sb_id="ms__id2591" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTv7qXERm_aXlqEviH1fRQc4kUMzevvtEnCsesiIutUjau3JPBalQ" style="height: 184px; width: 274px;" width="274" /></div>
<br />
I am wondering about Karma. Did I over-indulge in too many illegal recreational drugs when I was young and gorgeous? Am I paying a Karmic debt by having to take too many Big Pharma concoctions? Or is this the Revenge of a Jealous God, who's pissed at me because I am positive it doesn't exist?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://spiritlessons.com/Documents/Jesus_Pictures/Jesus_028.jpg"><img border="2" src="http://spiritlessons.com/Documents/Jesus_Pictures/Jesus_028_small.jpg" xthumbnail-orig-image="Jesus_028.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
None of the above, I'm sure. <br />
<br />
Just one more observation: The House of the Rising Sun - or North Shore Hospital - may be also referred to as "The House of the Repetitive Questions". It seems that every time a nurse ( or any other hospital worker, for that matter ) approaches a patient, they automatically ask three questions: Will you confirm you name, please? And date of birth? And can you tell me the Patient Number that's on your hospital wristband..?<br />
<br />
They could add a fourth question, I suppose, depending on circumstance: Which kidney / leg / eye is to be surgically removed?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="Kidney : Digital illustration of kidney in colour background Stock Photo" border="0" id="9694688" src="http://us.cdn2.123rf.com/168nwm/krishnacreations/krishnacreations1106/krishnacreations110600106/9694688-digital-illustration-of-kidney-in-colour-background.jpg" /></div>
<br />
READING: Well, a lot. Currently, though: Stephen Hunter's "Tapestry of Spies". His first novel, which I'd never read. Very good. Interesting to see how writing styles develop. Also the second part of the "Hunger Games" trilogy. Fun. And I've cracked open Richard Dawkins' "The God Delusion" again. <br />
<br />
WATCHING: Doctor Who and Fringe (of course), and Grimm might just be a starter as well. <br />
<br />
PRODUCT RECOMMENDATION: IXL Strawberry Jam. Much better than Craig's, even better than Barker's and Anathoth. And it's the cheapest of the lot! It actually has big chunks of strawberries... Excellent jam.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-83739939687410568212012-06-03T17:13:00.001-07:002012-06-03T17:13:18.310-07:00It Is What It IsThe Highwaymen released "It Is What It Is" a few million years ago, and while it wasn't a great song, it does have the great lyric "It is what it is / but it ain't what it used to be".<br />
<br />
I really wanted to use "You Can't Always Get What You Want" as my lead today, but I couldn't make it work. Great song, though. Play it now, really loud.<br />
<br />
I was chatting to a fellow driver the other day. He wanted to know my history, as one does when you're in the initial stages of getting to know the person you're yarning with. But he couldn't work out why I enjoy this work so much, especially as I've worked in positions where I've met All Blacks, Prime Ministers, pop stars, wits, sages, Winston Peters and Paul Henry. He's a driver, but (like me) he's come to the job from something altogether different. He was in IT, made redundant, and fell into driving by chance and WINZ. <br />
<br />
And he resents the fate that's led him here. A nice guy, but bitter about the road the brought him to his current stop.<br />
<br />
All I could offer him was the line: it is what is is, my friend. To which the Highwaymen would add "but it ain't what it used to be". I have come to this acceptance not through any facet of wisdom, but more from an acknowledgement that the affairs of the world are, without, far bigger and more powerful than my own desires. It's also taken me a couple of years. <br />
<br />
We humans are odd creatures. Impressively ego-centric, to the point that every one of us (if we are fortunate enough to enjoy three square meals a day) is certain in the belief that the world does, indeed, revolve around us. We are bound and confined not only by what we see, but by where we see it from. The world presents itself to us through the very intimate portal of our eyes and ears, connecting to our mind / brain which is central to our existence. <br />
<br />
<em>The debate still rages about the whereabouts of the human mind. I believe it is the organic brain. Religionists must insist that the mind is centred in the inorganic soul. Animists might believe the mind is centred in the heart. But I digress.</em><br />
<br />
We cannot help but be ego-and-self-centred. The species' survival wouldn't have been possible otherwise. But equally, our survival wouldn't have been assured unless there was a healthy dose of acceptance of the fact that the sabre-tooth tiger is a hell of a lot more powerful than an individual human. Nonetheless, if we're warm and well fed, it is hard to acknowledge the fact that the world really has no time for us as individuals. The macro-economics beats the snot out of micro-economics, the Baron will always bugger about with the peasant, and sometimes the best thing to do is accept what we have (and in my case, I am severely wealthy in most ways that count) and make the most of where we are in our life's journey.<br />
<br />
And where I am is this: I've worked hard to learn a new and dangerous skill. I have now spent five days driving transiting human beings about this wonderful city. Literally hundreds of people have granted me the privilege of trusting me to safely deliver them to their destination. I mean, really, how fucking cool is that? It is what it is. It ain't what it used to be. And that's what is so excellent about my new circumstance.<br />
<br />
READING (and read): I have read one astounding book in the past week - "Broken Jewels" by David L Robbins. Quite, quite extraordinary. And I'm reading another one: Donald Ray Pollock's "The Devil All The Time". Holy shit! I am amazed by this book. Many, many thanks to Gillian for recommending it.<br />
<br />
LISTENING TO: Florence + The Machine, "Ceremonials". I like this a great deal. Such a neat combination of 1980s Glam Rock and soul-searching chick singer-songwriter.<br />
<br />
WATCHING: Have seen "The Avengers". Simply excellent. On TV, I heartily recommend "Outnumbered", Prime TV, on Thursday. Outstandingly funny. Also "Fringe", which is so good that TVNZ put it on at 11.30. I've found it pays to check out the late listing on TV1 and TV2: that's when they put the good stuff on. <br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-61165924371587438432012-05-25T22:06:00.000-07:002012-05-25T22:06:24.657-07:00I'm a Man<em>In 1967 The Spencer Davis Group released "Im a Man", and in 1971 Chicago's cover version - which had originally featurfed on their first album "The Chicago Transit Authority" - scrambled all the way to #48 on the American charts. I knew that would fascinate you.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Actually, at more than 7 minutes long, it's surprising it got that far. It's bloody good, though.</em><br />
<br />
I am now fully licenced, and I've had my first week of one-on-one tutoring. Yes, I have been responsible for the safe commuting of several hundred trusting Aucklanders. My driving abilities will be assessed by two seperate examiners next week - possibly Monday - and I shall be allowed out completely on my own.<br />
<br />
I feel nowhere near ready. Actually, I'm confident that I can drive the various vehicles quite safely, and have proven that to myself. But I never knew what bloody hard work it was. And the responsibility of the job is a little terrifying. No matter. My main tool is, actually, my Mother In Law, who turns 93 on the 29th. I simply imagine I have her on board, in one of the middle seats. If I can drive so that a frail little old lady is safe and comfortable, then I'm on a winner.<br />
<br />
And what does that have to do with "I'm a Man"? Nothing. What does is this: It puts me into close daily contact with all the regular drivers. Up 'til now I've only really mingled with my fellow trainees. Now we're all rubbing shoulders with the hardened men of the front line.<br />
<br />
I chose those words deliberately. I've watched oh, about a thousand war movies. Love 'em. Read about a gazillian war books. Love 'em. And this whole recruitment / training / replacement / meeting the veterans thing reminds me hugely of the new recruit movies that I'm so familiar with. <br />
<br />
The environment in the Drivers Room is unashamedly masculine, despite the fact that around 15 to 20% of the drivers are women. The language would shock such delicate flowers as my friends Gillian, Jo, and Liz: three women I daren't get in the same room together. The combination of three such luminous personalites would cause the sun to go nova. Back on the subject now, Mathews.<br />
<br />
The male drivers are split into two groups. The first is a bunch of greying older white men, while the second is a grand mixtures of younger immigrants: the Sikhs, Sri Lankans, Malays, Chinese, Turks, Albanians, Indians, Azbekistanis, and so on. There's a smaller sub-group of middle-aged Chinese and Pakeha men who just shrug when the noise gets too high.<br />
<br />
The more men you get together in a confined space the more basic the conversation gets. 10 men might talk sport, barbecues, penises, drinking, and rooting. 20 men and it's just sport, penises, drinking, and rooting. Over 21, and you simply forget about sport and drinking. <br />
<br />
Most of it is mocking - self-mockery as well as putting down their colleagues' sexual capabilities. The stench of testosterone is palpable. The malice is non-existant. Everything cutting remark that's made (and I've heard a hundred very witty and very original lines every day) is made in pure jest, and is designed to make the speaker a bigger wit than the target. <br />
<br />
Yes, it's competitive. What male endeavour isn't? It's all "I'm A Man". The intellectual contect is nil - while the cleverness quotient is very high. Most of these men aren't, it must be said, well-educated. But there's not a stupid one amongst them. <br />
<br />
I know they're all bright, because not a one of them has any time for my friend JohnKey the Donkey. And anyone who agrees with me must be clever. Right?<br />
<br />
Listening to: Santana, "Shape Shifter". Extraordinary.<br />
<br />
Reading: "Broken Jewel", David L Robbins. A favourite author, and this is his best.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-82785060718354128052012-05-18T20:14:00.002-07:002012-05-18T20:14:57.162-07:00I'm Part Of The UnionIn 1973 the band with the highly plausibnle name "The Strawbs" belted out the anthemic "Part Of The Union". It got to #2 on the British charts. We don't need to know much more than that, really.<br />
<br />
The bus business is highly unionised. Just as almost everyone describes him or herself as a bus driver (or mechanic), so it is that just about everyone who earns a wage is a member of a union.<br />
<br />
The bus drivers have a choice of two unions - which means they aren't entirely united, which does seem to be a little silly. When we (the training group) were being inducted into the company, representatives of both unions came and talked to us. Neither one was complimentary about the other, yet they work together in the annual wage / conditions neghotiations with the company. They just wanted our money. They wanted us to pay our dues. And no, paying our dues wouldn't turn us into immortal blues musicians. Oddly, we were also talked to by the Operations Manager, who dressed like a real estate agent and told us of the value of joining the union of our choice. The union people and the suit also told us that joining a union was totally voluntary.<br />
<br />
And so, as union members do get slightly better conditions and overtime rates than those who choose to not join, I have signed up. Also, I am not politically averse to unions. I take great pride in being a bleeding heart leftwing pinko liberal ratbag. So, you can't touch me. I'm part of the union. Or part of one of the unions, anyway.<br />
<br />
BIG NEWS: I am now a fully licenced bus driver. I am now legally and lawfully allowed to drive cars, motorcycles, and heavy road-going vehicles up to 17,000 kilograms.Or some ridiculously large weight, anyway. My licence also boasts a "P" endorsement. This doesn't mean I can sell Class A drugs. It means that the State has found me to be a fit and proper person, someone who can drive a fare-paying passenger vehicle.<br />
<br />
This doesn't mean my training has stopped. It simply means I can now be put into a bus with a tutor, to actually travel the routes with passengers in the vehicle. After a week or so I'll be allowed to be behind the wheel while the tutor sits behind me, ready to behead me should I do anything stupid. <br />
<br />
Several of my classmates are already in this mode: they got their "P" endorsement through before I did. Being a Fit and Proper person after having lived in Austrralia for several years in the 1970s is, apparently, not easy to demonstrate.<br />
<br />
You'll have noticed that I am using my old "Maundering" blogsite. This is because I have, for some reason or other, lost the ability to actually write a new blog on that site. Google really didn't want me to write a purely bus-oriented blog. If you're new to the "Maundering" site, feel free to browse a few of the old offrerings. You may - or may not - be amused at the rantings of a middle-aged left wing liberal pinko etc. <br />
<br />
LISTENING TO: Robert Plant, "Band of Joy". Very groove and cooly. <br />
<br />
READING: Still working on "The Hunger Games". And loving it. Am shortly going to start "The Devil All The Time" which has been recommended by the ever-reliable Gillian in a Million. <br />
<br />
WATCHING: Saw the new "Sherlock" programme last night. Very brilliant. <br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-4562694603561204242011-11-16T23:27:00.000-08:002011-11-16T23:27:10.217-08:00Yes, But What About The Children?<strong></strong> <strong>1: JonKey and the Microphone.</strong><br />
All media people, politicians, and lawyers have one teeny, tiny thing drummed into them from birth. It's this: treat all microphones as live. And anyone who is having a "private" conversation when there are thirty or forty reporters, journalists, camera and sound guys milling about should always look at strange bags on their table and ask them that vital question" "WTF?" Ickshilly, as JonKey would say, his security people missed it, too. <br />
I don't think for a moment that JonKey and The Banks-Robber suspected they were being recorded as they sat their in the full glare of cameras and camera lights. The fact is, however, they never even once considered the possibility. Call it arrogance. Call it ignorance. I call it idiocy, compacency, and incompetence. Now, the argument about whether they were having a private moment has been hashed over. It seems to be about a 60/40 split, with the 40% being those who would just die for their JonKey, he's so <em>cute</em>. If it was private, I ask, why didn't they ask that the cameras be turned off? Oh, yes, that's right: they wanted the gullible to <em>see</em> they were getting on famously well. The JonKey just doesn't want anyone to <em>hear</em> how famously well they were getting on. So well, it seems, that The Banks-Robber was just tickled pink to be taking instructions from the JonKey on how to get rid of The Embarassment, a.k.a The Brash-Faced Liar. <br />
The JonKey is busy surfing a tide of undeserved popularity into the election. I think someone should be standing behind him at all times (Tony Ryall would do - he's a spectacularly empty suit) whispering "Remember George Dubbya, Remember George Dubbya".<br />
<br />
<strong>2: Did Doug Graham Really <em>Suffer</em> The Loss of a $12,000 Nest Egg?</strong><br />
Doug Graham, one of the very few right-wing politicians I have ever had any affection and respect for (due to his sterling work on the Waitangi Tribunal) has shown himself to be as craven and morally deficient as our incumbent PM. <br />
Graham, lest you forget, was on the Lombard board went the company went tits up, owing some $125 million to investors. In yesterday's "Stuff" ( <a href="http://www.stuff.co.nz/business/money/5975891/Graham-I-did-all-I-could">http://www.stuff.co.nz/business/money/5975891/Graham-I-did-all-I-could</a> ) it was reported that he had told the court hearing (yes, he's up on criminal charges over the Lomad fiasco) that he had himself lost a $12,000 retirement fund when Lombard imploded, and he could "ill afford to lose it".<br />
What? Remember, this is a man who was a Cabinet Minister for many years, earning over $120,000 per annum. He's a top flight Remuera lawyer, with a partnership in a big firm. He's a Director, earning thousands in fees. And he can "ill afford" to lose a measly $12,000? <br />
Here's my take on that statement: if it's true, then he's a hopelessly dreadful money manager, and is therefore incompetent to sit on any board of any investment / finance company. If it's not trrue and he <em>could</em> easily afford to lose $12,000 (and a quick check of his bank and trust funds will show this very quickly) then he's perjured himself, and should be tossed in the brig. Pronto.<br />
Also: Dougy-boy claims that he didn't know what the word "impaired" meant when applied to loans. Uh - say what? I hate to raise that incompetency word again, but sheesh! If you don't know the language, stay out of the conversation, Dougy-boy!<br />
Oh - also: he said he resigned his position on the Board that day after Lombards was put into receivership, because he felt "there was nothing more I could do". Very noble, I'm sure - except of course there was nothing more he could do. The company was in <em>receivership</em>. He'd been fucking fired! <br />
<br />
<strong>3: Celia Lashlie - lashing out?</strong><br />
An earlier headline to this story (again, Stuff) <a href="http://www.stuff.co.nz/life-style/5981627/Too-soft-mums-put-sons-at-risk">http://www.stuff.co.nz/life-style/5981627/Too-soft-mums-put-sons-at-risk</a> said that Celia Lashley has Lashed Out at Mums. That's now the lead sentence. Celia Lashley, of course, has done nothing of the sort. She has simply pointed out that parents of teenagers (not just Mums. Dads, too.) have to be firm with their kids, and to not let them get away with stuff.<br />
We can take a lesson from her, by writing filthy emails to publications that let us down with mis-leading headlines. <br />
<br />
BREAKING NEWS: I have a job interview next week. Fingers crossed. <br />
<br />
Listening to: Simon and Garfunkel, "Bridge Over Troubled Waters". Still a great album.<br />
Reading: Greg Bear "The City at the End of Time". No one could ever accuse Greg Bear of thinking small.<br />
Movies watched: DVD: "Black Death", with Sean Bean. "Green Zone", Matt Damon. Both good. And we took the plunge and blew some bucks on a movie-theatre experience, "The Debt", Helen Mirren. Worth the blowing of dough.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com0Auckland, New Zealand-36.8484597 174.76333150000005-37.0509117 174.34166400000004 -36.6460077 175.18499900000006tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-3834399531613222182011-11-06T18:15:00.000-08:002011-11-06T18:15:24.365-08:00Yes, but that's politics, isn't it?The New Plymouth chairman of ACT, Morris Hey, has challenged the glorious Donkey to honour a deal and pull the National candidate for Epsom from the "race" for that seat, in order to let the ACT candidate, the oily John Banks, win - and thereby deliver 5 more seats for a Right Wing coalition.<br />
<a href="http://www.stuff.co.nz/national/politics/campaign-trail/5919090/Key-urged-to-pull-candidate-from-Epsom">http://www.stuff.co.nz/national/politics/campaign-trail/5919090/Key-urged-to-pull-candidate-from-Epsom</a><br />
This is, of course, not only deeply distasteful and cynical - it is about as anti-democratic as you can possibly get. <br />
Not being entirely naive, I do understand that this kind of scurrilous deal-making has been a part of our political and electoral landscape since our second MMP election - hence my headline. But we do come back to a plain and basic truth that my old Granny taught me when I was a wee tacker: the fact that everyone does a thing doesn't make that thing right. To take Paul Goldsmith from the Epsom ballot in order to manipulate the result will be to take choice from the Epsom voters. There are undoubtedly a number (yes, 3 is a number) of Epsom voters who don't want Banks to be their local representative to Parliament, but who can also not bring themselves to vote Labour, Green, Mana, Maori, or (heaven forbid) United Ennui. If Goldsmith is removed from the ballot these people will be disenfranchised. Yes, Goldsmith will probably get to Parliament anyway, because he's high on National's list - but that is beside the point. <br />
Meanwhile, Labour's campaign has, in many ways, proven the wisdom and courage of the decision to keep the Labour billboards local, and keep Phil Goof's (typo intentional) face off the posters. I don't actually believe billboard campaigns make much difference. You can't say anything of lasting value on them. To condense a heavyweight policy down to a five word slogan does nothing to inform anyone - although I'd be happy to be disabused. Perhaps they are very effective on voters who can't read, and who get their political news off a once-daily 2 minute news broadcast on The Rock or Hauraki.<br />
I am getting depressed by Goof, though. I think the man is intellectually honest, but I'd like to see some real outrage in the face of the constant stream of half-truths and evasions from Jonkey and his band of lickspittles. Yes, he called the PM a liar. No equivation: he told the Jonkey to his face that he was a liar. He got a wet and warm Jonkey Donkey smile in response. I swear I could hear Women Of A Certain Age from as far afield as Gore going "Aaaaaw, isn't he lovely?" as they clutched their heaving bosoms. Goof has got to stand up in the debates and show where and how National has deceived us all over the past three years. He has got to let loose the dogs of war and show us how National is so far in bed with the Corporations that they can take it all orifices and still keep a smile going.<br />
Labour's policy of extending the superannuation qualification age is right on the button. I do wonder why they couldn't have introduced it three years ago, though - oh, wait: it was politically dangerous. Well, Labour was toast three years ago, they're toast now, so where's the difference?<br />
The Greens are going to be Labour's saviours. unlike the other parties (all of them) Green are at least honest. They call a spade a bloody spade. They're revealed the only somewhat revolutionary policy idea<br />
so far - that of having a publicly owned organisation set up for people to invest their Kiwisavers through. It has the potential of saving up to 50% of all fees, giving ordinary NZers up to an extra $150,000 in their bank accounts at the end of their working lives. Mind you - even with the Greens, Labour won't get in. Notunless Goof actually does stand up and actually start shouting. Stop being so bloody nice, Phil! <br />
National, of course, will hate Green's idea: anything that takes money out of their corporate masters' pockets and puts it into the hands of the workers will be seen as a Bad Idea, and consigned to the depths.<br />
With a lovely smile, of course, as Jonkey Donkey 'splains that it's undemercritic, and that the markets must set the levels, and oh, pshaw.<br />
Reading: I'm on a Len Deighton spree. Reading Hook, with Line, and Sinker waiting. But i also have the latest bernard Cornwell arrived from the Book Depository! What's a man to do?<br />
Listening to: The Windy City Strugglers, "Snow On The Desert Road'. marvellous.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com0Auckland, New Zealand-36.8484597 174.76333150000005-37.0509117 174.34166400000004 -36.6460077 175.18499900000006tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-84641628249126034462011-10-26T11:53:00.000-07:002011-10-26T11:53:36.201-07:00I'm back.And I'm as mad as hell.<br />
I'm mad because I'm unemployed, and I don't like it one little bit.<br />
I'm mad because frate's fickle finger has firmly forced its way right up New Zealand's fundamental orifice for the fourth time in 18 months, and I deon't like that one little bit.<br />
I'm made because our incompetent media is fawning over our Prime Minister, the Donkey Jonkey, as though he was the heaven-sent boy - and I don't like that one little bit, either.<br />
<br />
In the past four years this tiny nation has endured a series of blows that would have floored Muhammed Ali. There's been the rocketing right hook of the recession: a punch that sent us reeling onto the ropes. It was no shock to those who questioned the wisdom of the West's ferociously greedy scramble toward unsustainable and unreasonable corporate growth and profit, but it has still not affected those who caused it. There was the combination hit of two massive earthquakes, bam-bam, right-left, that killed dozens and tore the heart from one of our most gracious cities. Fate's left jab caught us on the point of the jaw when a ship's master exercised his right to stupidity by driving his heavily-laden container vessel onto a tiny reef, causing an oil spillage that shat poison onto our beaches. And even while we're still cleaning up that near-disaster, we've been hit by a massive uppercut as an ill-maintained gas pipeline ruptured, sending god knows how many tonnes of "natural" gas into the atmosphere, and closing down half the nation's industries and businesses. <br />
<br />
And our PM smiles and nods, and the nation's dreamers and droolers prepare their voting hands to send the simpering fool back into power "because he's such a nice chap". <br />
<br />
But what am I really mad about? That one's easy: as we soporifically waltz toward an election, Her Majesty's loyal opposition in New Zealand has decided on a daring campaign tactic: they want their policies to take centre-stage, instead of dressing up their leader like a store-front dummy and making the election all about him. After all, we're not yet a republic, and presidential-style campaigns aren't at all appropriate for our type of democracy. And how did our lick-spittle press report on it? By asking Donkey Jonkey what he thought! Where's the analysis, children? Why not ask the people who have set out on this daring new road? What about talking to Phil "I'm so dull I could just shit" Goff about it? The man's actually showing he has balls of steel, a finely tuned sense of self, and the courage to believe in the New Zealand public.<br />
<br />
Well, he's going to be handed his hat, and advised to not let the door slap his arse on the way out, becaused, my dear, the great New Zealand public is enchanted by the Donkey Jonkey. He's our Nero, tootling while we dance toward disaster, and we - sated on bread and circuses - are cheering him as he steers a course, Titanic-style, toward the nearest iceberg.<br />
<br />
Bah. And humbug.<br />
<br />
Reading: "Arguably", Christopher Hitchens. And "Kraken", by China Mieville. Both excellent.<br />
Listening to: Arcade Fire, "Neon Bible".<br />
This week's Movies: "Midnight in Paris", te new Woody Allan flick. I hate Woody Allan. I loved this movie. I've also have just caught up with "The American", George Clooney. Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-79421769514395525972011-02-03T14:05:00.000-08:002011-02-03T14:05:53.846-08:00Of shoes, and ships, and ceiling wax<strong>I've been thinking</strong>. Normally, this would not make me any friends, and would, in fact, make me snicker a bit. But it must be said that I do dream, and i do look to the future, and I do wonder about our past. What could we have done better / differently, and what can we do in the future to make it better for our grandchildren..<br />
<strong>So when I read</strong> this <a href="http://www.slate.com/id/2283469/pagenum/3">http://www.slate.com/id/2283469/pagenum/3</a> I continued cogitating. I looked back into my dusty memory pool, and pulled out a book that I read in the late 1970s. I still have it, somewhere. I don't recall its name, but it was written by Jerry pournelle, a famous scince fiction writer. it was a series of essays on what we can do now (in the 1970s) and etc.<br />
<strong>Pournell postulated</strong> different ways of lifting payloads into space that weren't reliant on out-dated rocket technology. Among the ideas he investigated was one that was first suggested by Arthur C Clarke, another sci-fi writer: he wrote 2001.<br />
<strong>The Space Elevator</strong>. Pournelle and Clarke both knew that the materials to build such a thing existed only theoretically in 1975, but were coming soon. And yes, we have them now: buckyballs, carbon fibre, mono-molecular fibres - building materials of enormous strength and durability. materials which make Clarke's Space Elevator a practicality. Simply tie one end to an equatporial base, build it up really, really high, and tie it to a big heavy thing at the legrange point. Start sliding stuff up and down it. <br />
<strong>Current payloads</strong> cost around $100,000US per pound to make, at the very least. It costs another $150,000US per pound to get them into orbit. The elvator would begate most of those costs. It could also collect vast amounts of solar power, and safely carry it down to the surface... enough energy to run large nations. It would give us a base from which we could go and collect asteroids, to bring 'em back and mine them: endless clean minerals. <br />
<strong>And yes</strong>, it would be expensive. Probably oh, $100Us for every man, woman, and child on earth. The thing is, it would bring wealth to a large number of impoverished people. Nice dream, Socialist Pete. <br />
<strong>Reading</strong>: Reed farrel Coleman, "Innocent Monster". looking good.<br />
<strong>Listening to</strong>: Ennio Morricone movie themes.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-40910983372198020692011-01-31T16:29:00.000-08:002011-01-31T16:29:22.900-08:00Anniversary Weekend<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9M_YRAXHoDlhl5pwuRthOrQp8Lg7TmU7hgceSGg5KMe-8Gmfs1ZDhK1M06wuoT8wFXJ_KSwT4q6FMEb5M98GpxB_TJSgJheEbR6Y1SGvvIcEOGCqAA5eMnT0MNHTgUm69nS_D2m4T5hfv/s1600/HPIM0042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9M_YRAXHoDlhl5pwuRthOrQp8Lg7TmU7hgceSGg5KMe-8Gmfs1ZDhK1M06wuoT8wFXJ_KSwT4q6FMEb5M98GpxB_TJSgJheEbR6Y1SGvvIcEOGCqAA5eMnT0MNHTgUm69nS_D2m4T5hfv/s320/HPIM0042.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<strong>We've just had</strong> a long weekend: Auckland's Anniversary Weekend. And it has seen me going out and about a bit: off to a cast party Saturday night, rehearsals on Sunday night, and to the movies and a meal on Monday night.<br />
<strong>Meanwhile</strong>, of course, Jenny worked. Both Saturday and Monday. This is neither fair nor desirable, but it is still very much needed. I look forward to the day that I am bringing enough dough in so we can actually let her retire - but that day is a few months away yet, I fear.<br />
<strong>Rehearsals</strong> are going well. I'm getting a good idea of the character, and what can be done with him. I have bought a cane as a physical prop (in both senses of the word), and it does work. When we go "books down" - when we're rehearsing without the script in-hand - we'll see the physicality of the play start to make more sense. Right now the books are getting in the way, although having the words right there does help. I have what seemed to me to be a lot of lines, but compared to Mrs Bennet and Elizabeth I'm practically mute. Mute, gruff, and lovable. That's me.<br />
<strong>We went to see</strong> "Black Swan" last night. How it has made Oscar contention is beyond me.The story is a series of (admittedly well-crafted) cliches - I've seen Schwarzenegger movies that told more original stories. The only story-part that I didn't accurately predict was the ending - and that's because it was completely unpredictable: it simply couldn't have hapened. <br />
<strong>We went to</strong> the Capitol Theatre, on Dominion Road. It's a recently re-furbished 1930s style theatre, and is absolutely delightful. The foyer's a tad cramped, but that's not a bother. The concessionary doesn't sell popcorn - yay! The seats are wide, and comfortable, the screen is excellent, the sound system very, very good. And - big bonus - there's plenty of free parking about. But wait, there's more: ticket prices are $15: that's cheaper than Hoyts, with their stale-popcorn smelling auditoriums. <br />
<strong>After the movie</strong> (we went to a 6.00pm session) our friends took us to a Chinese dumpling shop for a meal. I was astounded: we all ate superbly, and when the bill came it was for $23. I shall be doing that again. You can't feed 4 people at McDee's for that amount.<br />
<strong>Listening to</strong>: "Wondrous Stories", a collection of 33 prog-rock tracks, various artists. Pompous, loud, funny, and quite, quite wonderful.<br />
<strong>Reading</strong>: Harry Sidebottom, "Warrior of Rome". Just started, might be a goody.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-56721977066158514722011-01-26T19:50:00.000-08:002011-01-26T19:50:35.697-08:00Selling the Family Sil... woodshed.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYI9KWyP7Tu-fBcDMalpVchr_uciW-sfjKyoTUF8-GSNp7mEr6_nAOEn9jTyoXnFlZ9T3b4U7k2bVruXgqkuZZ1NEmB0LwoG4u6TZklOUZtkGW44qw0NnyudcQY-edxuchj1usN0z0JSx/s1600/HPIM0786.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYI9KWyP7Tu-fBcDMalpVchr_uciW-sfjKyoTUF8-GSNp7mEr6_nAOEn9jTyoXnFlZ9T3b4U7k2bVruXgqkuZZ1NEmB0LwoG4u6TZklOUZtkGW44qw0NnyudcQY-edxuchj1usN0z0JSx/s320/HPIM0786.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<strong>So</strong>. Our delightful and eternally chirpy Prime Minister, Smilin' Johnkey, has given his State of the Nation speech. On the same day Bazza Obama gave his. I don't think that Johnkey stole any of Bazza's thunder, though.<br />
<strong>Johnkey</strong> came out with a few startlingly *new* and *original* ideas, though: let's flog off the Family Silver! <strong>No-one's</strong> ever thought of this before, and he is to be commended for his brave and forward-looking thinking. He reckons he can raise a few billion bucks by selling off 49% of a couple of our energhy generators, and of our state owned solid energy mining company.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8_w0kG1xm7-CoBID3nek_acEEkSn6RcThw1Wdwu5RskwCB4I0QhrxOC1-nWE82mbcBuG4hXDLIyizAq4nLkMDDvnFXfOrVnbxG6hiVMjZrTV7vMhNbJZqGiJOe0U9P2Fc2i8xtw7rhFwV/s1600/HPIM0787.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8_w0kG1xm7-CoBID3nek_acEEkSn6RcThw1Wdwu5RskwCB4I0QhrxOC1-nWE82mbcBuG4hXDLIyizAq4nLkMDDvnFXfOrVnbxG6hiVMjZrTV7vMhNbJZqGiJOe0U9P2Fc2i8xtw7rhFwV/s320/HPIM0787.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><strong>And,</strong> by the way, our family silver has all been sold off already. By the ninnies and simpering fools of the Labour Party, 1980-style, and their rapacious replacements, the National Party. All we have left to sell is the family woodshed. That's where we keep the stuff that's going to keep us warm this winter. <br />
<strong>Johnkey</strong>, craven fool that he is, reckons these assets will, of course, be immediately snapped up by ornrey New Zulnd Mums and Dads. <br />
<strong>Hm. Newsflash, Johnkey</strong>: ordinary New Zealand Mums and Dads can't afford to buy shares. It's the extraordinary ones who can: the top 15% of our population who actually have spare money. 85% of us don't. And those who do will buy the stock, and sell it the moment Mr Bigcash from Norway or Canada or Germany comes along and offers them a 10% premium. <br />
<strong>And when</strong> someone own 49% of the stock in a business, they get to have a seat on the board. That means they get to talk to politicians. That means that, in a couple of years, the government will sell what's left... and more money will be shuffled off-shore, and more jobs will be shuffled off-shore.<br />
<strong>I wish</strong> that Johnkey could be shuffled off-shore. The man's a trollop, and should do well servicing the johns on Wall Street.<br />
<strong>Reading</strong>: still on the same. No time for reading right now. Sob.<br />
<strong>Listening to</strong>: Them Crooked Vultures. Hmm. Not bad at all. <br />
<strong>Picture is</strong>: new Zealand's oldest union hall. It's on the outskirts of Greymouth, I think.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-26242297285866590822011-01-24T14:43:00.000-08:002011-01-24T14:43:04.015-08:00What Is Going On?<strong></strong> <strong>I am outraged</strong>. It's called "Honour Killing", and it seems to have come to New Zealand. Nothing is, as yet, proven. What is known is that a woman has been cruelly burnt to death, and that her husband has fled the country, taking their four year old child with him. She was, and he is, Indian, recently arrived in the country, from the part of India where it is a recommendation that a man kill his wife / sister / mother / female neighbour if he believes she has let the side down. Perhaps by looking at another chap a bit longer than the 3.2 seconds as proscribed in some holy bastard's book.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAptzXm18-PzoOZIPTo1XedwN2j6zBzDxZI6WDVCrbOXD9672c5C0iTinoKKoK_TaiYSMRYC2HMbxM1TOmbSXE25uoEGij1zzgL6jqveys9kFDhg2KwnJOXzsdtLbtIiGYv4D-KqqzPQPF/s1600/HPIM0885.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAptzXm18-PzoOZIPTo1XedwN2j6zBzDxZI6WDVCrbOXD9672c5C0iTinoKKoK_TaiYSMRYC2HMbxM1TOmbSXE25uoEGij1zzgL6jqveys9kFDhg2KwnJOXzsdtLbtIiGYv4D-KqqzPQPF/s320/HPIM0885.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><strong>The woman in question</strong> was found at the side of a country road, on fire. Who ever it was that killed her did so by dousing her with petrol, and setting her alight. It may not have been her husband, of course: he may have fled from the evil sons of bitches who did do it.<br />
<strong>But probably not</strong>. All the indications point to this being a so-called "Honour Killing". The Police obviously know stuff that we don't know - but they have let it be known that they are investigating it as an "honour Killing".<br />
<strong>The concept</strong> is beyond nauseating. Honour? I think not. There is no honour in murder. The pathetic little man who did this has no honour. It is horrible that such vileness happens in the world. This is the kind of state-sanctioned behaviour (a la Pakistan) that isn't calculated to give anyone capable of mature reasoning a positive POV of their culture.<br />
<strong>And now it has happened here</strong>, in tiny New Zealand, where - just 20-odd years ago - we featured a stolen five year old Ford Cortina on a Crimewatch-type TV programme. <br />
<strong>Listening to</strong>: Paul Simon, "Rhythm of the Saints". Silly information time: Rhythm is the longest vowel-free English word. <br />
<strong>Reading</strong>: Still reading "Quiller: Balalaika". Adam hall was a genius. Go look in your local library - if you're lucky you might find his stuff on the shelves. He also wrote under his real name, Elleston Trevor. Wrote the original "Flight of the Phoenix".<div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-84480853063927657112011-01-19T19:47:00.000-08:002011-01-19T19:47:07.495-08:00Twice on a Thursday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA_iQTexvhPVcpjRQodCKZr9jLuIWHxQJUAWGluC_ssG2grwAXUE9SaNFErgHMa3SonMX3HR_p8mATGN7rWwlC-lFMcVnAbf9f-6vqiCi6fMUsEt9L2DcPxXT5CAWGfqLmrlf0treTM72U/s1600/IMG_0668.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA_iQTexvhPVcpjRQodCKZr9jLuIWHxQJUAWGluC_ssG2grwAXUE9SaNFErgHMa3SonMX3HR_p8mATGN7rWwlC-lFMcVnAbf9f-6vqiCi6fMUsEt9L2DcPxXT5CAWGfqLmrlf0treTM72U/s320/IMG_0668.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<strong>It's Thursday</strong>, and I am annoyed. twice.<br />
<strong>The first</strong>, somewhat minor one, is that I just left a comment on a Blog I follow - Maundering Mutterer. She writes beautifully, and she's a buncha fun to read. But I tried to leave a comment, and the damned machine practically asked for my passport. I had to login to Google before I could leave the comment - despite already being logged in. Bah. And Bloody Humbug.<br />
<strong>The second annoyance</strong> is a little larger. Here in Kiwiland we're just bringing some of the scoundrels and scallawags who profited out of the last financial meltdown to court. One of them, a creature whose name doesn't deserve to be spoken by anything resembling a human being, ran a finance company that seemed to dump a lot of dough into this man's boat and personal bank account in the months before going tits-up.<br />
<strong>Right.</strong> This man lives in a multi-million dollar house, drives a flash European sports car - $200K worth, and enjoys his days out on his yacht. Sorry. Did I say "his"? No, don't be silly: they're all owned by his family trust. He, personally, is bankrupt. Doesn't have two scruples - er, dollars - to rub together. Ri-i-ight. So he's applying for Legal Aid - so I, as a faithful taxpayer, can pay his legal fees.<br />
<strong>When the Redhead</strong> and I were busy being unemployed a year and a half ago, we were in desperate straits. We were down to our last $6. That is to say, after budgeting carefully, we had $6 a month left over in our bank account. We talked to the powers that be about bankruptcy: we couldn't, because of that $6 a month. <strong>We lost our house</strong> and our savings. We had nothing. And couldn't declare bankruptcy. <br />
<strong>And here's a creature</strong> with more money than god whoo is BANKRUPT? Morally, certainly. Ethically, definitely. Financially? I suspect he has more than $6 a month to play around with at the end of the month.<br />
Bastard.<br />
<strong>Reading</strong>: Adam Hall, "Quiller Balalaika". Adam Hall's Quiller books are the best cold war espionage books written. Better than Le Carre. Better than, well, anyone. Balalaika was his last, completed just days before he died. It is brilliant.<br />
<strong>Listening to</strong>: Dolly Parton, singing "Stairway to Heaven". They do play some wierd stuff on Matinee Idles.<br />
<strong>The Picture</strong> is a kitten I met at a very pleasant Devonshire Tea place up at Puhoi. The world is a very nice place when it has kittens in it.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-2032673662639421182011-01-17T17:58:00.000-08:002011-01-17T17:58:42.733-08:00Pride and Prejudice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjljxXlObsMySLvcdd4A8f74eHUwEVZSr1d06btCqzH4073ANMf3fHMXN1mkbGIT5hwmq3TpOt8kYozm5cQmVK74P0yAREiLAC0P8YB99UvJMuTwdUWkgWYrlz-X3rHqJASc-wkvSF9hTzM/s1600/IMG_0670.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjljxXlObsMySLvcdd4A8f74eHUwEVZSr1d06btCqzH4073ANMf3fHMXN1mkbGIT5hwmq3TpOt8kYozm5cQmVK74P0yAREiLAC0P8YB99UvJMuTwdUWkgWYrlz-X3rHqJASc-wkvSF9hTzM/s320/IMG_0670.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<strong>I know</strong> that this is not an original title. It's been used many times before, and will be used many times again.<br />
But i wasn't trying for originality. I used it because tonight, folks, is the first rehearsal night for "Pride and Prejudice". I'm cast as Mr Bennet, which is good. I don't think I would have made a good Elizabeth.<br />
<strong>Every time</strong> I start a new play I go through all sorts of quiverings, the greatest of which is: what the hell am I doing this for? <br />
<strong>It's a lot of hard work</strong>, in cold, damp theatres, usually with inadequate changing / make-up rooms (not that I will be using any make-up: the mutton-chop whiskers will suffice.) There'll be squabbles, there'll be people who know sweet f***-all about acting, the theatre, or reading. There'll be fear, there'll be moments of "oh crap oh crap oh crap I've forgotten the next line". <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5pnpWrRvIws5cCbuWw9UWfA3w1dvdGed6pyMkdWbY3hMuUtGLgN9KOosu5p0NOiODsxQW_Yb3pUBraaXwOYRmZVU7N4Lite3k50CcrF1mVQeb9Ih6sZKhiWdes6fGu4G1S4uGi13v2qxg/s1600/IMG_1050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5pnpWrRvIws5cCbuWw9UWfA3w1dvdGed6pyMkdWbY3hMuUtGLgN9KOosu5p0NOiODsxQW_Yb3pUBraaXwOYRmZVU7N4Lite3k50CcrF1mVQeb9Ih6sZKhiWdes6fGu4G1S4uGi13v2qxg/s320/IMG_1050.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><strong>But</strong>, at the end of it, there'll be A Play. An astonishing thing: twenty or thirty people people working together to make a single, living thing that lasts a night, and then is reborn, phoenix-like, the next day. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgowYff_WrVASDQzWHTrhIyFW3lOWYWxF6YNs42ig3BvQbQg8Mz5D1AD28RWj-JTr8NgZ1dyYA6s8eulMV0CjBIGE_VG_ueTSBGBFIF7wEi6TKvixWZxLSBC4hn4xOvDqZ7j_aX1qQzt1tm/s1600/IMG_1035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgowYff_WrVASDQzWHTrhIyFW3lOWYWxF6YNs42ig3BvQbQg8Mz5D1AD28RWj-JTr8NgZ1dyYA6s8eulMV0CjBIGE_VG_ueTSBGBFIF7wEi6TKvixWZxLSBC4hn4xOvDqZ7j_aX1qQzt1tm/s320/IMG_1035.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<strong>Listening to</strong>: American Graffiti soundtrack. God, some of those old songs were crap. <br />
<strong>Reading</strong>: Not much. No time: still working on T Jefferson Parker, "The Fallen". It is very good.<br />
<strong>Paper Heroes</strong>: <br />
A Gent (be clever, here) has advised me not to put any more on the webby blog thing. I have been given ideas on where to take it, what to do with it. And it might (yeah, right) involve money. Hopefully, not my own. At least initially. I don't mind if it ends up being mine...<div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-9629436530350973642011-01-13T16:51:00.000-08:002011-01-13T16:52:39.001-08:00Tunisia, bullets, and near misses.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh7-e7-OZeu9UxlnaRUZEp2srH4h1rq9ti8v5-KMN1e5hQFYnyRu5g2m9X2-q5gbWrzHrb9dXmJlTexmcZJKgahJ8TzOadL8gelzJHyaQF77RJEaNIzF9MhhwaE559nmkkoGovZtAzTh-J/s1600/IMG_0934.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh7-e7-OZeu9UxlnaRUZEp2srH4h1rq9ti8v5-KMN1e5hQFYnyRu5g2m9X2-q5gbWrzHrb9dXmJlTexmcZJKgahJ8TzOadL8gelzJHyaQF77RJEaNIzF9MhhwaE559nmkkoGovZtAzTh-J/s320/IMG_0934.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<strong>This is my cat, Cleo.</strong> The name "Cleo" is short for C-Leo-paw-print. When she was a kitten the markings on her back looked like a Lion's (Leo) paw-print. I couldn't call her Leo. So I added a C. She is very cute, has a beauty spot, and controls her tail when she's sitting down by putting the tip under her front paws. <br />
<strong>I was</strong> listening to the wireless a little earlier. Well, you have to, when there's quality programming like "Matinee Idle" on. <br />
<strong>A news report</strong> came on. I heard an item about Tunisia, and how the people were a tad restless, and started chucking stones at the constabulary, or Army, or some othe servants of the people. Apprarently these uniformed defenders of the right to protest then took it upon themselves to rspond to the thrown stones by firing their weapons, loaded with - and this is where my eyebrow got raised, quizzically - "live" ammunition.<br />
<strong>It strikes me</strong> that the phrase "live ammunition" is obfuscation. A bullet has one purpose: to kill something. You can have blank ammunition - the sort that doesn't have a death-delivering bullet inserted into the neck of the cartridge. And you can have live ammunition, which is designed to kill you. Or, preferably, someone else.<br />
<strong>Perhaps we</strong> should drop the term. Imagine, instead, if we used "death ammunition". Sounds uglier, but it is more, well, accurate. Kind of like a sniper's bullet...<br />
<strong>It was either</strong> Terry Pratchett or Tom Sharpe who pointed out that it's difficult to "thrash someone to within an inch of his life". Whichever writer it was solved the problem by having his whipper shackle the whipee to a wall, and then proceed to beat the wall to within an inch of the victim. You'll note that the victim wasn't actually touched, but at least the whip landed within an inch of that individual's life. <br />
<strong>It's right up there</strong> with "near miss". If something nearly misses you, it - quite obviously - hits you. So when two aircraft have a near miss incident, they actually don't. What's being described is a near hit incident.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-gLjBMn-ja4SS3saBvEHGvufyfAzHD3rvd9KGwSTl7HOrYMmp4nIODVz0kKtGq89Z2_AOBZu8yv6QHsnv566xCITF2lk80hiy4nMt-jwG5eYLVVtLEzXyXNqu5v7MkyIzQWVfte2I0sJ3/s1600/IMG_0310.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-gLjBMn-ja4SS3saBvEHGvufyfAzHD3rvd9KGwSTl7HOrYMmp4nIODVz0kKtGq89Z2_AOBZu8yv6QHsnv566xCITF2lk80hiy4nMt-jwG5eYLVVtLEzXyXNqu5v7MkyIzQWVfte2I0sJ3/s320/IMG_0310.JPG" width="320" /></a></div> "Gosh, I nearly missed you," say one pilot to the other as they were both falling from the sky. "Another metre and I <em>would</em> have missed you.."<br />
<br />
<strong>But I do like</strong> "death bullets". <br />
<br />
<strong>Listening to</strong>: the radio. Matinee Idle. Very funny.<br />
<strong>Reading:</strong> T Jefferson Parker, "The Fallen". Also my Pride and Prejudice script. Rehearsals start on Tuesday, and my mutton-shop whiskers are setting in well.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-14614568583139167442011-01-04T15:28:00.000-08:002011-01-04T15:28:12.731-08:00It's Totally Unreason... ing<strong>A few blogs</strong> back I promised a musing on love. I've dropped a few liners, but done nothing serious with the topic.<br />
<strong>But it occurs</strong> to me that there is one thing I can say about love. It arrives and stays without reason. This is important. There is no one reason for why I love Jenny, or Gillian, or Roland, or Adam, Micah, Georgia, Theo, Jeff, Kathy, Joy, and so on. One can include animals: Cleo, the stuuningly alive Spike, who died more than a year ago. The view from the top of Mount Messenger, the sound of a right-hand surfbreak at Whangamata, the taste of a fresh Thai carrot salad, the feel of the air after a thunderstorm, a distinctive blues song that comes to the ear across a busy street. The moment I start interrogating myself as to why I love any of them, things start diminishing. There can be no single reason, because there are thousands of reasons. And each of those reasons has to do with who I am and what I have become with them in my life. To love Jenny, Gillian, and all the others is, in no small measure, to love myself.<br />
<strong>The examination</strong>, in other words, is something that makes me smaller. Not the subjects and objects of my care and concern. Me. It has taken me a long time to understand that the best thing to do with love is to simply accept it.<br />
<strong>Love can</strong> have no conditions placed on it. Love is free, and independent. Love is not a part of me: I am a part of it. Love is an elemental impulse, one that tickles the hindpart of my brain, one that has nothing to do with higher reasoning. It is.<br />
<strong>There's a famous line</strong> in the Bible: I am who am. It's a supremely arrogant line when put into the context of a god, but it has a refreshing humbleness when stacked up against that most unreasoning of human afflictions, Love. Love is what Love is. Grammatically ugly, I know - but resolutely forceful. <br />
<strong>Reading</strong>: "Impact", Douglas Preston. Trashy potboiler, but fun. Much like a Tom Cruise movie. <br />
<strong>Listening to</strong>: Neil Worboys and the Real Time Liners. The kind of blues music you hear across a wind and rain-swept street that makes you yearn for smoke-filled bars, a bowl of red-hot chilli, a bottle of teeth-achingly cold beer, and the close companionship of a better than good friend.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-8286100110752266252011-01-03T22:56:00.000-08:002011-01-03T22:56:12.989-08:00Flies.<strong>Time does it</strong>, I know. But more impoprtantly, so do flies. Flies fly. A fly flies. Flying flies are horrible, nasty, and they know just how to piss off an old bastard.<br />
<strong>An example</strong>, from today, with a preamble.<br />
<strong>I've been</strong> sleeping poorly of late.Hot nights, combined with an arthritis storm. My left forefinger has swollen to twice its normal size, and it ispainful to touch. Fortunately, I've always typed with the second finger, the digitus secundus, a latin glomeration that I've just invented to cover my lack of knowledge.<br />
<strong>Anyway</strong>: bad finger, creaking neck, hip that grates, and a knee that ain't great. Put together, it means bad snoozing.<br />
<strong>So, this afternoon</strong>, as it's a Public Holiday, I decide to take a nap. I hit the pillow, and start snoozing... but a frigging house fly, the well-known musca domesticus (to display my knowledge of something that I actually know) decides to say "g'day".<br />
<strong>I was</strong>, because of the heat, on top of the bed. I was wearing tee shirt and shorts. <br />
<strong>Everyone</strong> has a 2 square inch patch of skin on their forearms, near their elbows, where there's not much flesh between bone and skin surface. The menacing musca landed on that are, right hand side. I shooed it away. It went to the same place, left arm. I shooed it away. it went to the right arm...<br />
<strong>Everyone</strong>* has an ankle or two: the bastard fly got bored with my arms, and went from ankle to ankle. Zip, zap. Then back to the patch near the elbows. I got so damned suspicious about these areas smelling of decaying dead flesh that I gave up, and sprayed each part with an expensive cologne. Suck on that, bastard fly. I sat outside, with a G and T, and hordes of frigging flies decided they really love expensive cologne.<br />
I then got out the Black Flag, and killed a gazillion of the fucking things.<br />
<strong>I'm</strong> not fond of flies.<br />
<strong>Reading</strong>: comic, Battler Britten, an update of the old "Air Ace"comix I read as a kid. Written by Garth Ennis, who's a brilliant comic writer.<br />
<strong>Listening to</strong>: "Matinee Idol", on the steam wireless. Not right now - but everyone in the world should listen to this programme: it is just about three centimetres beyond brilliant. Radio New Zealand National, from noon 'til five, weeekday afternoons, while silly season continues.<br />
<strong>*Qualifier</strong>. Everyone means those people who have a full complement of limbs. <br />
Love you long time.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-9078534654381209672010-12-29T22:51:00.000-08:002010-12-29T22:51:23.469-08:00It's Not Easy Being Me.<strong>I am, I have concluded</strong>, a difficult and complex individual. One who watches too much television, which any rational human being would mean that I am being dumbed down and simplified with every passingminute.<br />
<strong>But no</strong>. Difficulter, and more complex.<br />
<strong>For instance</strong>: I laughed like a child at a re-run of "The Big Bang Theory". It must be the funniest programme on TV, apart from the TV1 6 O'Clock News. At least TBBT is intentionally funny. Then, a quick channel change, so Jenny can watch Coronation Street... and we catch the last few minutes of the programme I actually hate more than 't Street.<br />
<strong>Masterchef</strong>. Oh, ye gods. I would seriously take to religion if someone would tell me that praying daily would remove Masterchef from the tele, and my hurting memory.<br />
<strong>The presenters have</strong>, at most, 12 lines that they use, re-use, abuse, then use again. And again. Cooking doesn't get any tougher / harder than this. Ladies and gentlemen, can you stand the heat? It's been a hard decision... (wait for 30 seconds of drone, then commercial break, then a repeat of the line, 30 seconds more of drone) Roger Testosterone, I'm afraid your flambeed prune-juice enhanced prawn in a Weet-a-bix bisque wasn't up to the mark, but (wait for thirty seconds of drone) we've decided you get to stay, while Wilhelmina Winklebottom leaves Masterchef! You must want this Masterchef title more than life itself. And so, and on, and fucking on.<br />
<strong>On another note:</strong> I'm still having trouble with Skype. I forgot my password. NOTE TO SELF: write passwords down. I hit the smug little "Forgot Your Password?" thing, and it promised to send me an email. It didn't. I hit it again, It didn't respond. So far, it's ignored me seven times. I have been advised to delete Skype frommy 'pooter, and start again. I did. I downloaded it, yay, an updated version. It didn't ask me for a new sign-in or password, because, well, it already has this 'pooter registered.<br />
<strong>I hit the smug</strong>, snide, and thoroughly evil "Forgot Your Password?" thingy. It hasn't responded. Still. Again.<br />
At least I've figured out how to make my facebook thing work again, but that doesn't help me talk to my beautiful grand-daughter.<br />
<strong>Reading</strong>: T. Jefferson Parker, "The Renegades". A cri8me police procedural, which I'm not normaslly big on. this, however, has captivated me.<br />
<strong>Listening to</strong>: "Concert for George", by a buncha George Harrison friends and family. Cool.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8443682789346019108.post-75843100681532923872010-12-29T22:49:00.000-08:002010-12-29T22:50:40.404-08:00Miracle of miracles..<strong>There's been another</strong> shaky old day in Christchurch. fresh earthquakes, some more damage, and at least one more "miracle" claimed.<br />
<strong>Sigh.</strong><br />
<strong>A restaurant</strong> in a shapping mall suffered some destruction - a part of the ceiling fell in, a few bricks scattered about.<br />
<strong>"Oh," gasped the owner.</strong> (I'm paraphrasing, but only a lot.) "If this had happened when people had of been sitting there at those there tables, they would have been killed. Thank God no-one was there to killed! It was a miracle that no-one was killed!".<br />
<strong>Well, actually, no.</strong> While Australia may have a saint - some woman deified by a bunch of frock-wearing men who were happy to take hearsay as proof of a "miracle" - we here in good old shaky EnZed don't need one. And we certainly don't want god being dragged in to quite ordinary happenings.<br />
<strong>Yes,</strong> I'm afraid earthquakes are rather ordinary here. Ones that dmaage property aren't so common, but they happen.<br />
<strong>And ones that</strong> damaged a restaurant that was closed for business, and that therefore couldn't have harmed anyone in said restaurant, is not a miracle. <br />
<strong>It was most certainly not</strong>, as the headline claimed "Another miracle". For it to have been another miracle, two things need to have been true:<br />
<strong>1: It had to have been proved to be a miracle</strong> - ie, it had to be demonstrated beyond reasonable doubt that what happened was due entirely to God's divine intervention. There could be no other possible explanation. (Even the Catholic Church claims to rely on this definition, although they do play a tad loosey-goosey with their own rules).<br />
<strong>2: For it to have been "another miracle",</strong> there had to have been a prior proven miracle. See details re God etc above.<br />
<strong>And there</strong> hasn't been a prior miracle. Just happenstance. Happy happenstance, to be sure - but not a miracle. A surprise, perhaps, but no miracle. Amazing stories of survival, certainly. But no miracles.<br />
<strong>Let's say these things happened: </strong>the seismologist's instruments go crazy, indicating that a Force 7+ earthquake is in progress, say on Haiti, but - while thousands of homes are sent tumbling down hills, and million-tonne mudslides sweep tens of thousands of people away - absolutely no-one is hurt. Grade "A" Miracle there. Or a tornado picks up a church filled with pious worshippers in Kansas, and shreds the building while setting everyone down completely unharmed... well, that would be a miracle. Or, let's say, every time an attempt was made to kill an inmate at Auschwitz during WWII, he or she was protected, and the tormentor suffered the death intended for the inmate... well, hell, that would have been child's play for an omnipotent, all-knowing, all-loving god. Genuine miracles. <br />
<strong>They didn't happen,</strong> because, well, miracles need god. That's the nature of miracles. A piece of masonry falling down and not hitting a person who isn't there is not a miracle. It's just a piece of masonry obeying the laws of gravity. If anything comes close to being miraculous in that small story it's Newton's brain - and his near-contemporary, Darwin, had a few things to say about that.<br />
Reading: T Jefferson Parker, "The Renegades".<br />
Listening to: Ray davies, "Working Men's Cafe".<div class="blogger-post-footer">Kia Kaha,
Allan</div>AoteaWriterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225718709424769678noreply@blogger.com1