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.

I'm a Man

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.

Actually, at more than 7 minutes long, it's surprising it got that far. It's bloody good, though.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

Listening to: Santana, "Shape Shifter". Extraordinary.

Reading: "Broken Jewel", David L Robbins. A favourite author, and this is his best.

I'm Part Of The Union

In 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

LISTENING TO: Robert Plant, "Band of Joy". Very groove and cooly.

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.

WATCHING: Saw the new "Sherlock" programme last night. Very brilliant.