Fever, and Que Sera Sera

Yes, two topics!
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 the rooting song.

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.
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.
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!
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".
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.

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.

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.

Also, Connie was hot. Ter.

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.
But the new plan for the city centre does look like it could work very well. Brilliantly, in fact.
I just have one small quibble.
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.

Immanuel Kant.

So the "C" IN CERA should be hard. KERA.

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.

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.

LISTENING TO: Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, "Beat The Devil's Tattoo". Constantly surprising.

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.

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!

Please Read The Letter

Woo 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.
Three letters...

Dear Listener Editor;
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.

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.

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.

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.

And consider this: all Bears can poo in the woods, but only one Pooh can Bear in the woods.

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.

Many thanks,

Allan.

Dear JohnKey;

It must be very heart-warming for you to know that 67%  63%  58%  whoops  53%  um  48% 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.

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.
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?

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. 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.

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…

Lovingly,

Allan.

Dear God;

I’ve been reading a bit about Intelligent Design lately.

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.

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.

Intelligent Design, eh, God? Sorry, but you don’t even get an “E” for Effort.

Ignore ya later,

Al.

Listening to: Nina Simone, Greatest Hits. “Cotton Eyed Joe” is playing right now. Sublime.
Reading: War comics.

And When I Die

In 1969 (will I ever drag myself out of the 60s?) the jazz/rock fusion band Blood Sweat And Tears http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blood,_Sweat_%26_Tears 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.

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?

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.

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.

Oh, well - that's them.

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:

You now face possible arrest. Why?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.”

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


Yeah - an actual law that protects the feelings 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?

Reading: Potsdam Station, by David Downing. The last of a series about Berlin during WWII. Better than Le Carre at his best.

Watched: "Strange Exports: A Christmas Tale". A Finnish movie about the real Santa. Deliciously funny.

Listening to: Lana del Ray "Born To Die". Well, at least she didn't call it "Born to pass..."

When I'm Sixty-Four

The 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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

Reading: David Downing, "Sealing Their Fate". A history of the 22 days in 1941 that Germany and Japan lost WWII. Excellent.
Listening to: The Beatles, "Love". The re-mix that Giles Martin did for the Cirque de Soleil show of the same name. Also excellent.
Watching: "Castle". Absolutely and totally brainless. I love it, but when are they going to get it on??

The Dangling Conversation

A 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.
The theme of the song has nothing to do with today's blog. It's all in the title.
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:

GIRL ONE: I shaved my legs last night.
GIRL TWO: Really? Did you shave your vadge as well?
GIRL ONE: Shave my c*nt? No way...

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.

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.
MAN ONE: Two stage tickets, PLease, for me and wife.
HIS WIFE (correcting him): MY wife!
PERSON ONE: Ah. Me and MY wife. Ha ha ha!
ME: Certainly, Sir. Well done! Welcome aboard.
MAN TWO: Good.... (asks wife question, in Chinese)
HIS WIFE: After-noon.
MAN TWO: Good after-noon. Two tickets for FoRRest HiLL, PLease. (laughs).
ME: Good afternoon, sir. Good afternoon, ma'am. And here are your tickets to Forrest Hill.

And so it goes, until the last passenger boards. She is a white lady, bottle-blonde, late 40s, perhaps early 50s. Nicely dressed.

ME: And good afternoon to you, ma'am. And where can North Star take you today?
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.....

Again, I make no comment or judgement. But I do know who I'd rather have at my dinner table.

WATCHING: Bugger all. I've been doing a bunch of night shifts, starting at 2.00pm, finishing around 11.00.
READING: "Catching Fire", Suzanne Collins. The second part of the Hunger Games trilogy. Slower going than the fist one, but still...
RECOMMENDED PRODUCT: Ambrosia apples. I'm normally a Royal Gala kind of guy, but these are delicious.

The House of the Rising Sun

The 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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?

None of the above, I'm sure.

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..?

They could add a fourth question, I suppose, depending on circumstance: Which kidney / leg / eye is to be surgically removed?

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.

WATCHING: Doctor Who and Fringe (of course), and Grimm might just be a starter as well.

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.

It Is What It Is

The 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".

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.