I'm back.

And I'm as mad as hell.
I'm mad because I'm unemployed, and I don't like it one little bit.
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.
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.

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.

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".

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.

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.

Bah. And humbug.

Reading: "Arguably", Christopher Hitchens. And "Kraken", by China Mieville. Both excellent.
Listening to: Arcade Fire, "Neon Bible".
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.

Of shoes, and ships, and ceiling wax

I've been thinking. 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..
So when I read this  http://www.slate.com/id/2283469/pagenum/3 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.
Pournell postulated 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.
The Space Elevator. 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.
Current payloads 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.
And yes, 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.
Reading: Reed farrel Coleman, "Innocent Monster". looking good.
Listening to: Ennio Morricone movie themes.

Anniversary Weekend

We've just had 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.
Meanwhile, 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.
Rehearsals 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.
We went to see "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.
We went to 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.
After the movie (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.
Listening to: "Wondrous Stories", a collection of 33 prog-rock tracks, various artists. Pompous, loud, funny, and quite, quite wonderful.
Reading: Harry Sidebottom, "Warrior of Rome". Just started, might be a goody.

Selling the Family Sil... woodshed.

So. 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.
Johnkey came out with a few startlingly *new* and *original* ideas, though: let's flog off the Family Silver! No-one's 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.

And, 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.
Johnkey, craven fool that he is, reckons these assets will, of course, be immediately snapped up by ornrey New Zulnd Mums and Dads.
Hm. Newsflash, Johnkey: 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.
And when 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.
I wish that Johnkey could be shuffled off-shore. The man's a trollop, and should do well servicing the johns on Wall Street.
Reading: still on the same. No time for reading right now. Sob.
Listening to: Them Crooked Vultures. Hmm. Not bad at all.
Picture is: new Zealand's oldest union hall. It's on the outskirts of Greymouth, I think.

What Is Going On?

I am outraged. 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.

The woman in question 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.
But probably not. 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".
The concept 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.
And now it has happened here, 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.
Listening to: Paul Simon, "Rhythm of the Saints". Silly information time: Rhythm is the longest vowel-free English word.
Reading: 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".

Twice on a Thursday

It's Thursday, and I am annoyed. twice.
The first, 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.
The second annoyance 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.
Right. 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.
When the Redhead 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. We lost our house and our savings. We had nothing. And couldn't declare bankruptcy.
And here's a creature 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.
Bastard.
Reading: 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.
Listening to: Dolly Parton, singing "Stairway to Heaven". They do play some wierd stuff on Matinee Idles.
The Picture 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.

Pride and Prejudice

I know that this is not an original title. It's been used many times before, and will be used many times again.
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.
Every time 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?
It's a lot of hard work, 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".

But, 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.

Listening to: American Graffiti soundtrack. God, some of those old songs were crap.
Reading: Not much. No time: still working on T Jefferson Parker, "The Fallen". It is very good.
Paper Heroes:
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...