Thursday, June 10, 2010

Where’s (the) Wally?


I haven’t yet posted a blog in June. For regular followers of my blog (and, again, I want to thank you both) this might be somewhat disappointing.

Or it might be a profound relief. Maybe you think I’m finally getting the therapy I need. Sadly, no. But then, sadly, yes.

I’ve always been confused by the process of novel writing. I know it takes work. I know this because I wrote one once. It remains unpublished, but I’m not overly concerned about this, because reading it with a fresh eye I can appreciate the complete pile of crap that it is. It’s reasonably well written, even if I do say so myself, but it doesn’t have much of a story to tell.

This year I have been proudly launching into a novel that I hope will be well received by publishers and readers alike. Over the past five months I have tried to persevere and have managed to knock out a respectable 7000 words or so. The story’s at the point where things are going to start happening.

Two weeks ago today my workmate, Bill, sent me the link to the Southern Cross Novel Writing Challenge (nicknamed SocNoc). I clicked and learned that the object is to knock out a 50,000 word novel in a month. There’s a similar challenge run worldwide in November, but Kiwis are enjoying the early summer then; we need a good cold month with a long weekend to take something like this on.

But Bill said: “I’ve signed up. I’m going to do it.”

Which was like saying: “I double dog dare you.”

And you can’t turn down a double-dog dare, right? So, I trawled my mind and dredged up an idea I’d had about 15 years ago, a sequel to my unpublished first novel. Except this time something actually happens. So I signed up for the challenge.

Now, to complete the 50,000 words in 30 days you have to average just under 1700 words a day. Eleven days in, you should be about to hit 19,000 words. As part of the challenge they ask you to update your word count daily. Bill, arguing the: “if I’m going to fail, I’m going to fail spectacularly” case, has been sitting on 2060 words for most of the week.

And there’s a handful who are still sitting on the big doughnut.

It’s odd how some people hit the literary wall, too. Like one writer shot up to 22,000 words really quickly, and then hasn’t updated the word count in about three days. Another went from almost nothing to more than 28,000 words last weekend, and hasn’t really shifted from there for two days.

Now, the reason I haven’t posted a new blog for June is that I’ve decided to take the challenge seriously. I mean, double dog dare, right? I started with a hiss and a roar, hammering out the story and was rapt at the way it seemed to be telling itself. I found this highly entertaining. Then I hit the wall; except the wall didn’t stop me, it just slowed me down. I knew this was going to happen though and I prepared for it by surging ahead early on. So, 11 days in, I am aiming to have kicked 35,000 words on target for 50,000 by Monday.

Wish me luck.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

The Light of Meaning


I only live about two kilometres from where I work. Nevertheless I encounter 11 sets of traffic lights on the journey to and from work.


Growing up I thought I had my head around how traffic lights worked. Red means you stop. Green means you go. Orange means go faster.

Yes, my father was a lunatic uninsurable driver. We used to go on vacations and wonder at what point: a) the car would break down, and b) how serious the crash was going to be.

This is a man who once drove into a bridge. I mean a bridge! It’s not like it jumped out in front of him.

My mother would sit in the front passenger seat with a death grip on the dashboard and occasionally yelp: “MIND!” as my father wound out the straight six to squeeze past some hapless victim who just happened to be in front of us.

In the days before speed cameras there used to be speed trains as well. This was where one driver would take the punt that there were no cops on the road up ahead and floor it. Then all the drivers behind would think: “Well, they can only catch one of us” and follow the fast guy.

Right, back to the point.

I was a bit surprised to discover that red means stop, green means go, and orange means stop if you can do so safely before you reach the intersection. I always follow this rule. I also know that it’s technically called “amber”, but Amber is a girl’s name, not a bloody colour. It’s orange, OK?

Now, what I can’t work out is what happened to the other people who sat and passed their driver’s license test and are presumably privy to this knowledge.

It seems we all fall into one of these categories:


  1. I’ll stop when it goes orange, if I can do so before entering the intersection.

  2. If it goes orange and I’m reasonably close, I’ll floor it to get through the intersection lest I have to lose two minutes of my life stationary and watching traffic.

  3. If I floor it now I might get to the intersection in time to catch the orange light.

  4. It’s red, but the cars stopped at the just-turned-green light haven’t had a chance to move yet, so I can get through without getting hit.

And I saw all of these on the way to work this morning. Despite numerous ads on TV warning about intersections and the city publicly announcing the installation of red-light cameras, people still run the risk.


I only have one word for them: Morons.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Mr Author Type

I sit beside the fashion editor at the newspaper. Now I'm not saying anything about exorbitant profit margins in the cosmetics industry, but she gets sent shitloads of stuff for free.

Absolute shitloads of stuff. We're talking everything from perfumes and face creams to chocolate cakes and calculators. She's got drawers full of shoes. Designer handbags turn up on her desk. Every day more packages are turning up.

I've only had one letter delivered to me since I started working here three years ago. And I think that was from the tax department.

Fortunately the fashion editor works on a principle known simply as: Share the love.

This means that every now and then she will load up a table with crap she's been sent and we vultures in the department will pick the bones clean. I haven't had to buy shampoo in more than two years. I've got high priced Baldessarini eau de toilette sitting on my desk in case I start to waft during the day.

Of course I also have a tin of gravy, a rice steamer and a martini glass. I have no excuse for these. Random stuff just gravitates towards me.

Anyway, under the principle of "share the love" I was this week given a small, blank booklet. It's about 20 pages long and only the left-hand pages are lined. I didn't know what to do with this book and vaguely considered writing some poems in it.

But poems are difficult to write when you have nothing to say. I mean, you've read this much of my blog posting and I haven't actually said anything, right? I am soooo wasting your time right now.

But I love you for it.

So, my solution to my blank book dilemma was to go back through three months of tweets and pick out what I considered were my best ones. Then I either copied them or developed them a little. It was fun.

I managed to fill the booklet, despite Internet Explorer posting a warning saying I was running a script that might be causing the system to run slowly and would I like to stop running this script (ie, Twitter) now, yes or no? *Click no* By the time I got back to February tweets, it was displaying this message three times before it would show me more tweets, and then another two times afterwards. Which was a pretty passive-aggressive way for Microsoft to tell me: "Please will you stop running this fucking script!"

Anyway, I've titled the booklet "Laze Against The Machine!" and I will actually publish it one day when I have some money. But here are a few samples of what's inside (apologies if you follow me on Twitter and have seen them all before):

  • I'm so boring that this morning I tuned out of a conversation I was having with myself.
  • I was nearly killed by a freak Mexican wave.
  • Yesterday I accidentally set a ratite trap. This morning I'd caught two ostriches and a moa.
  • Beware of puns! It can be dangerous when a phrase turns on you.
  • I went to a bulldozer fight. The matador didn't stand a chance.
  • You can't drive me insane. It's not far; I can walk from here.
  • I called the suicide hotline. The guy was fantastic. Told me exactly how to tie a noose. Took me through it step-by-step.
  • When Evolution comes, I'm going to be first against the wall.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

A Mammoth Technicality


Here’s an interesting little argument for you to start with somebody.

Years ago there was concern that elephants were soon to become extinct. Hunters and poachers were shooting them, even on wildlife parks, and making off with their tusks, because some people somewhere got it into their heads that ground up ivory was a good base for organic viagra. Or they wanted to carve little figures out of tusks and sell them to tourists at vastly inflated prices.


Well, we still have elephants roaming the African wilderness because of the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species; CITES. And also because people started shooting poachers, who aren’t an endangered species.


It prevents elephant ivory from crossing international borders, effectively stemming whatever tide of elephant tusks was flowing. There’s still probably a black market trickle of elephant ivory, but now that people need a CITES certificate authorising the possession of their ivory, the demand is so much less.


One alternative the hunters have found is in the frozen wilderness of Siberia. For three months a year they can get out there and happily and legally dig up mammoth tusks. Because mammoths are extinct there is no problem, except that the “hunters” have to spend two days defrosting the ground around the tusk before they can get it out.


Now, according to my good friends at Wikipedia, there are an estimated 150 million mammoths buried in the Siberian permafrost. So there’s no real danger that the trade in mammoth ivory is going to dry up any time soon.


Meanwhile, scientists are optimistic that one day they will be able to sort out differences in mammoth and elephant DNA and eventually a little half-tonne woolly bundle of joy will be delivered via a surrogate elephant mother.


Can you see where I’m heading with this?


At the moment of mammoth birth, technically the woolly mammoth will no longer be extinct, but will be an endangered species. Therefore CITES kicks in and the tusk hunters are out of business.


Or will they argue that the newborn mammoth is not of the same species as the 150 million others floating around the Siberian underground? Because scientists have dicked around with the DNA and used DNA from another animal to effectively build this new species of mammoth, is it still a proper mammoth?


I think there was a similar argument circulating when Jurassic Park first came out. If such a park were possible, would the animals there technically still be dinosaurs?


Well, that’s one for you to argue about with somebody. You can make a fair case for both points of view.


If some alien species found a strand of human DNA and filled in the holes with, say, chimp DNA, would the result still be considered human? Fortunately, that’s one for the aliens to debate. But I'm pretty sure you'd find the results in Temuka.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Shelling Out At McDonald's

Yesterday I did the fast food breakfast thing.
Technically, the only time you should visit a fast food joint for breakfast is if your previous night’s dinner came in a fifth-of-a-gallon bottle. I’ve always liked the way Americans can talk about “a fifth” of some spirit or other.
Here in New Zealand we don’t have fifths. We have wholes. We’ve metricised ourselves, I’m thinking it was a way to save money.
Years ago we had fifths, except because we’re metricised they were 1125 millilitre bottles. Then at some point the liquor stores decided to abandon 1125ml bottles and just go with 1 litre bottles ... for the same price. I mean, who’s going to quibble over 125 mls? That’s half a cup. Except that you’ve now effectively put your price up about 10 per cent. I dunno. The math on that one is a bit beyond me and I’ve wandered off on a tangent.
So, anyway, I wasn’t hungover, but I did have a hankering for a McMuffin. I pulled into the drivethru and noticed something strange on the McMenu.
A sausage and egg McMuffin would set me back $4.20. But a sausage McMuffin, sans egg, was only $2. Which, through process of elimination, means that at McDonald’s an egg costs $2.20.
WTF? What are these eggs made of? Are they especially talented eggs? Do they cure cancer or something?
“New, at McDonald’s: the SuperEgg, each one individually laid and blessed by the God of Commerce.”
McDonald’s pricing amuses me anyway. When petrol companies put their prices up it’s like this big national news story. “Petrol’s just gone up three cents a litre!” But McDonald’s keeps quietly shifting its prices up with no mention at all.
I reckon, 10 years ago, that egg would have only cost 50 cents. That’s 50 cents shelled, cooked and blessed by the Queen of Good Karma. And even then we would have been “Fifty cents for an egg? Are you crazy?”
And now we’re paying $2.20 for an egg.
Except we’re not.Because the day I pay McDonald’s $2.20 for an egg is the day I don’t buy an egg at McDonald’s.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Brilliantly Bizarre

It was raining, so I popped open my social umbrella and attended the opening night of Sarah Harpur’s first solo act, “Life. Death. Pets.” at the Fringe Bar in Wellington.

If you live in Wellington, or are rich and within flying distance, I strongly encourage you to see the show as it only runs for a few days.

To be honest, I didn’t know much about Sarah beforehand. She has a popular blog, Harpur’s Bizarre, which Google thinks was ripped off, corrupted and used as the name of a magazine somewhere.

Sarah is quite amazing. Who else could simultaneously convey a sense of nervousness and confidence? All while delivering some fantastic material about her life, her insights into death and quite a lot about how, when growing up, she viewed her pets as her children. Her cute, delicious children. Who ate each other (extreme sibling rivalry) and taught her graphic lessons about procreation.

How many people could get the joint rocking to a song about her dad’s death? Yes, Sarah, I want to join the Dead Dad’s Club too. My own old man went in a way not totally dissimilar to yours. I really related.

To demonstrate her inherent weirdness Sarah interrupted the show with an audio-visual presentation from her youth, where she presented her own hilarious interpretation of the Bain Family slayings in Dunedin. Complete with action figures with Bain faces pasted on. See it here (but later because I haven't worked out how to do one of those "open in a new window" link thingies).

It was opening night, so most of the front row was Sarah's family and friends. Which, mixed with the cosy venue, meant it felt like we were all in Sarah’s living room, being treated to an hour of an intelligently unhinged person's brilliant stream-of-consciousness rant.

I sat at the back and recalled attending the Just for Laughs comedy festival in Montreal in 1996. And wished many of the acts there could have been half as good as Sarah.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Finding A Park For Your Satellite

Anyone who lives in a city knows how hard it is to find a good parking spot. We take this for granted.

What you probably don’t realise is that satellite parking spaces are filling fast too.

I discovered this after an interesting Saturday night. I have an alert on Twitter which lets me know when the International Space Station will be crossing over in sight of Wellington. Despite having had this service for at least six months, I have seen the ISS precisely twice. And one of those was sheer fluke.

So on Saturday I was out at Tawa having dinner with my friend Steve and his family. I thought it would be fun to take out some binoculars and watch the ISS fly over at about 6.50pm. I set an alarm on my cellphone to remind me.

It was a beautiful night; cloudless with just a hint of a breeze. The whole family (there were nine of us) piled out of the house with three minutes to spare. I pointed to the south-west and said: “It’ll be quite bright and will appear down there somewhere.”

The binoculars were passed around. The first candidate turned out to be a low-flying plane. Then somebody said: “I see it!” and pointed straight up to a bright star glinting above.

The person with the binoculars said: “Yes, it’s definitely a satellite. It’s moving a little bit and I can see it’s in two parts.”

This made sense, because at that time the ISS had a space shuttle attached. Yet I had seen the ISS before, and it was motoring. It wasn’t just sitting there.

Steve helpfully suggested: “Maybe it’s not the ISS. Maybe it’s a geostationary satellite?”

Well, that sounded logical. But then I noticed that what I first thought was a plane was in fact the ISS. Which seemed fair because I’d previously seen a plane that we thought was the ISS.

But it started me thinking: are there any geostationary satellites sitting above Wellington? Well, I investigated yesterday, and discovered that, no, there are no satellites sitting permanently over the city in which I live.

That’s because apparently a geostationary satellite can only remain effectively stationary if it is directly above the equator. It has something to do with inclination and “eccentricity”.

I’d found a list of commercial satellites in geostationary orbit dated December 2009 and it totalled 287 (an abnormal amount owned by Boeing).

Now, for a satellite to remain in geostationary orbit it must be at an altitude of 35,786km. Adding in the Earth’s diameter we’re looking at an orbiting circumference of 264,924km. So, at this point, in theory, there’s 923km available for each satellite. Which is a pretty big parking spot.

But the owners of any satellites will want to ensure it remains over a certain point of the Earth to get the best signal. This means that even though each satellite “sees” more than 40 per cent of the planet’s surface, there are an ever-decreasing number of parking spots over any particular city.

I wonder how long before somebody starts putting in parking meters up there.

Monday, April 12, 2010

It Just Gets My Goat

Criminal behaviour has raised its ugly head in New Zealand again this week.

Geordie, a beloved old goat who quietly munches on grass on the outskirts of New Plymouth, was spray-painted by … well, morons.

On one side of Geordie’s flanks the letters “FTP” now appear in bright orange. When I first saw this I thought: “Wow, internet geeks are getting serious. They’re promoting File Transfer Protocols through guerrilla tactics.”

But this was not a real-world attack by hackers. No, apparently, this was an anti-police slogan meaning Fuck The Pigs.

Did your mind just jump where mine did? If you want to write “Fuck The Pigs” then why the fuck do you do it on a goat? Did you fail animal identification 101? Did duck goes quack, sheep goes baa, cow goes moo, and pig goes oink confuse you?

I can picture the scene:
“Is that a pig?”
“I dunno. I think so.”
“Wait, aren’t pigs supposed to be pink or something?”
“Pink? Are you gay or something? What animals are pink?”
“Shut up. OK, now, `fuck the pigs’… how do you spell `fuck’?”
“Um, F-um-U-um-Q?”
“No, it’s F-U-K isn’t it?”
“That doesn’t sound right. Isn't it meant to be a four-letter word?”
“Well FUK has four letters, doesn't it?”
“Look just put FTP.”
“Yeah, everyone will know what it means.”

And how did they expect this sort of act to help their cause? If they wanted to make a statement, paint it on the side of a police patrol car, not the side of an innocent 20-year-old goat. All the people of New Plymouth now want more pigs in town to tackle illiterate morons with spray cans.

I’d actually love to find out who did it. Because then I’d go out to buy my own can of spray paint, and little Bertie Brown would wake up one morning with the words “Once Fucked A Goat” painted across his face.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Two Questions For You

I like that my blog gets a reasonable number of hits, and that a few friends post comments. But I’m hoping to get a big response to this one, because the subject really interests me.

What was your first memory? And what was your most magical dream?

Most people I talk to say they cannot remember anything before five. But my first memory – and yes, it is very vague – is of actually being in my crib. It was one of those with the sides that slide up and down, and I can remember it being down. And I looked out into my parents’ bedroom.

I can’t recall exact chronology, but I remember various things before I turned five. I can remember reaching for a door handle and finally, aged four, being able to reach it. I remember my mother teaching me the alphabet so that I’d have a head start before starting at (then) primer one (strangely, it was pronounced “primmer”). I remember my fun toy car. I remember being spanked for wetting my pants – which was vastly unfair because it was the fright of seeing the woman who spanked me that caused me to wet my pants in the first place!

And I remember my most magical dream. This was around age four and I was in my own bed. I dreamt of a witch coming to get me, but she was on the other side of a pond. The fright of thinking she might get me caused me to wake up and seek the security of my parents’ bed.

They had a small window in the wall just behind their bed. A streetlight outside shone vividly through the curtainless window and onto the big mirror on the vanity unit. I remember lying there, awake, afraid to go to sleep because the witch might be there waiting for me.

I can only assume what happened next was a dream. Yet it was so real I remember it in detail to this day. Above the bed a circle of golden dust appeared and began circling clockwise. Then all these great toys – I particularly recall a red firetruck – appeared in the golden dust.

Like Damocles Jnr, I knew that if I reached for them the whole thing would disappear. So I just watched for a while, and then they faded back into nothingness. Sad that the firetruck got away. I never wanted or had a red firetruck in my toy collection – but that one would have been nice.

So, what was your first memory? What was your most magical dream?

Monday, March 29, 2010

Super Awesome Mega Battle Tank

Between about 1982 and 1986 a young photolithographer at The Evening Post newspaper in Wellington muddled through a strictly amateur film-making project.

Five days a week he would work with chemicals that would make a modern health and safety officer faint, and on the weekends he’d head out with mates and workmates to make his movie.

OK, it was badly acted and the script was… well… the script was… well, never quite actually written. But that didn’t stop this determined young man from ensuring his workmates kept the exact same haircut for four years and didn’t stop him from getting government assistance to finish the project off.

The film ended up being shown at Cannes. The film-maker, a lad named Peter Jackson.

Now, 20-odd years later, in the same place where Sir Peter toiled preparing newspaper page negatives for the platemakers, another film-making project is taking place.

This is nothing new for the building. The Dominion Post building is huge, but really only the top six floors (ie, those above ground) are used. But if you take the stairs you discover they go down. And keep going down, into like a labyrinth of strange nooks and crannies. This large empty space has been home to various TV ads and at least one feature film (Stickmen).

In one particular area, my mate and workmate, Bill, has built his intergalactic space tank. Well, the interior at least. It has flashing lights and old car seats and ancient joysticks and a dodgy wooden wall that might fall either forward (and flatten the actors) or backwards (and screw up the take) at any moment, and some cheap computers for added technology.

There’s also a sofa and a ukulele for when Bill gets bored.

For the past couple of years he and a few mates (alas, not me, though I’ve dropped several unsubtle hints) have been involved with putting Bill’s sci-fi series together. Bill’s written the script and they’re churning through the 13 or so three-to-five minute episodes.

They’re incredibly badly acted, and the sound-effects are over-the-top, and the exterior shots are obviously a plastic toy tank sitting on a rock, and the script is absolutely brilliant. OK, maybe the editing is in league with the acting, but you can’t expect perfection – or anything close – on a zero budget.
Anyway, the first episode went up on Monday (after a long wait). You should definitely check it out … and encourage your friends to, too.

http://www.kiwispacepatrol.co.nz/

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Mockery Time!


A photographer at work took this picture and offered it to me for this blog (thanks, Steve!). It’s a piece – piece being the operative word – by a Chinese artist, but other than that, I know nothing about it.

I have no comment about its artistic merit and do not mean to belittle the artist's work. But I'm going to. I feel irresistibly obliged to mock it, and invite you to join me in doing so. Unless you're the artist, in which case, I'm really very sorry for making fun of your work and truly hope that some day you'll get around to finishing it.

Now, to get started:

* You’re not half the child your brother Greg is.

* Um, Mrs Johnson, we’re not sure if it’s a boy or a girl, and we might have to go back in.

* Oh, I didn’t notice the lower half was missing; I was busy doing my nails.

* Mrs Wilson, just what DID you smoke during pregnancy?

* She put the “mid” in midwife.

* We’re afraid the child might have some bladder control issues later in life.

* There you are, Mrs Jones. You get the other half when you’ve paid the bill.

* Mrs Evans, exactly how much drywall were you eating each day?

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

In The Chair At The Dentist's

First off, I want to apologise to anyone from Dunedin who takes offence at this blog post; primarily because they will know that I am not, in any way, exaggerating.

The big news in my life in the past week has been toothache.

I’m not going to wax lyrical about the whole ordeal, except to say (as the eternal optimist) that four days of fever and jaw-related agony enabled me to lose more weight in that period than in a month of solid dieting. I’m tempted to ask the dentist to put the tooth back in and then go back in six months.

What I am going to tell you about is the surreal experience I had while waiting for the anaesthetic to kick in. The dentist, who looked about 23, poked the needle into what was left of healthy gum and squirted the “make numb now” juice.

He then stood back and said: “We’ll just have to wait a few minutes for that to take effect. It’ll work its way down the jaw, so let me know when your lip goes numb.”

“My lip’s already numb,” I said.

“That’ll be the infection,” he said.

Long, uncomfortable pause.

“So… how long have you been dentisting?” I ask.

“Oh, about 10 years.”

“Really? Where did you qualify?”

“Otago. It’s the only place in the country you can study dentistry these days.”

Now, for any foreign readers, let me tell you about Dunedin. Dunedin is the main city of the second most southern New Zealand province, Otago. It was originally settled by Maori who were then ousted by lowland Scots looking for some climatic hardship after the sunny disposition of their native land.

While New Zealand has taken great pains as a nation to rectify the wrongs done to Maori when European settlement arrived in the mid-late 1800s, the general response of Dunedin to Maori claims has essentially been: “Get fucked.”

Otago University is located in Dunedin and has a reputation as one of the country’s leading halls of learning. However, the student populous – known colloquially as Scarfies – has a reputation for being, well, somewhat boisterous. The enthusiasm of these young adults has been met, in recent years, largely by police in riot gear.

The local rugby ground, Carrisbrook, is nick-named the “House of Pain” as a heads-up for visiting teams as to what to expect. Punching, kicking, eye-gouging, biting and rucking (the act/art of raking a downed opponent with your studded rugby boot) all ensue, and often even as the visiting team tries to take the field.

Scarfies, who cannot afford seats in the stands, having spent their entire student allowance on beer, are relegated to the grassy bank to watch the game. Often they bring an old sofa to the match so they can lounge in style while watching the match progress. Should the unthinkable happen and the home team loses, it is not unheard of for the students to depart and leave the sofa behind – usually on fire.

With that background in mind, I said jestingly to the dentist: “So, how many couches did you burn?”

He looks thoughtful and then says: “Um, really just the one.”

This was the man I was about to let loose in my mouth with a wrench.

He saw the panic rising and said: “That was just after the 1995 World Cup final.”

Well that said it all. I won’t pick at old wounds (having already done that last year), but suffice it to say that when an under-strength All Black rugby team was beaten in South Africa by South Africa in overtime, the effect on the New Zealand national psyche was devastating.

“Oh, well, that’s perfectly understandable then,” I said, without hint of sarcasm.

“At least I didn’t throw the TV out the window,” he said, “unlike some.”

His eyes misted as he recalled: “You could walk down the street that day and see broken windows and TVs everywhere. Some of the TVs had shoes still embedded in the screen; or a half-empty bottle of Speight’s (beer) sticking out, or a couple smashed on the side.”

I could picture the war zone. It must have been magical. And while I vividly imagined this vista of the post-battle victims, lying where they had fallen, like soldiers’ bodies, broken, bleeding and disfigured in battle … the bastard ripped my tooth out.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Watching Justice Being Done

I live alone, so often have the TV on for company, even when I’m not really watching it.

This is particularly so in the mornings, when I listen to The Edge radio station but have the television on in the background.

I used to watch Who’s Line Is It Anyway in the mornings, but lately that channel has been playing up early in the day, so I’ve switched to re-runs of Will and Grace. [Have to admit I laughed this morning when Will referred to Jack as “Notorious F.A.G”.]

After that it’s on with the radio and down with the TV volume. So there’s no point switching channels or anything.

Hence I end up watching the shows kind of out of the corner of my eye, while listening to something else.

For some reason the channel then shows re-runs of three programmes that obviously belong to the court TV genre. First up is Judge Joe Brown, whose whole courtroom seems to be packed with people they swept out of the trailer park; or possibly couldn’t get tickets for Jerry Springer.

Then the plaintiff and defendant stand up and demonstrate that the gene pool really does have a shallow end. As for the Judge? Well all I’ll say is that he’s not doing the African American stereotype any good whatsoever.

Next up is Judge Judy with her nearly all-white courtroom; all having fallen into an entire vat of makeup on the way in. JJ herself wears a frilly robe and a couple of giant glittery rocks on her ears that make me think of those African or South East Asian tribes who stick giant, weighted discs in their ears as a sign of virility or something. Indeed, Judy is definitely saying: "I might wear black, but I'm fucking loaded and don't you forget it, matie."

Third up is Cristina’s Court, which must have somehow won a daytime Emmy at some point because the opening credits include her holding it! She seems a bit softer edged that Judge Judy; but it’s all really just a pile of shit.

Now, if you ever are unfortunate enough to see one of these shows I want you to consider this: The cameras. There is inevitably about four feet of space between the judge and the contestants. Yet there is a fast cut of shots from one contestant to the next, front shot, left side, right side, side shot of plaintiff and defendant, straight on shot of the judge, side on of the judge, and a wide angle of the courtroom where no cameras are seen at all.

Where are the cameras when things are handed up to the judge? When everyone is talking? I’ve seen those big-arse TV cameras; if they’re cleverly using three, or as I worked it out, five; how can the courtroom audience possibly hope to see the judge, and vice versa?

And then there will be all the production crew and director off to the side; which is probably why you occasionally see one of the people in the background suddenly and inexplicably look off to stage left.

It's all been edited together so we believe the illusion though. Hell, even when the judge finds in favour of the defendant he/she will just pay the $300 bill, pick up their $5000 fee for appearing and bugger off happy.

I just find it strange is all. Just sayin’.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

A Great Bloody Idea for a TV Show

I hope you guys appreciate sarcasm; cos I’m going to town.

I was pleased to see television news ethics had reached a new low at the weekend. At the Winter Olympics a 21-year-old Georgian luger took the last turn at about 140kph, flew off the track and hit a steel pole, dying pretty much instantly.

Television news took great delight in showing the fatal accident not once, but several times, from different angles. Sadly, I missed it. And some odd sense of decency tragically prevents me from seeking it out.

Why did the TV channels choose to show this clip? Simply because they had the footage? Certainly a death on the luge track has news merit but should viewers be entitled to see another person’s last moments of life?

In England there was a controversial documentary which followed the last days of a man dying of cancer and included, with his approval, his death. This sparked a huge outcry and the question was asked: should a television station be allowed to use real human death to improve its ratings? Essentially, should the TV station be allowed to profit from human death?

Last year I watched a documentary about a large American airshow and the vintage planes involved in it. One of the pilots interviewed early in the show was then shown completely fucking up his landing and his plane exploded, killing him instantly.

However, when Al Qaeda was chopping people's heads off in Iraq, that was off limits. Because that would have pissed off the military and certain black-ops chaps would visit the news directors and ensure they met with interesting but painful "accidents".

Yet, I know there have also been clips of fatal race car crashes shown on TV.

So, it seems that if you’re playing sport and it’s televised and you suffer a fatal injury, then it’s OK for broadcast. Because that's the risk you take in playing the game. But if somebody runs across the field naked, that’s not suitable for television. That's in poor taste.

My proposal is this: We introduce Snuff TV. Now that the lines of taste have been pushed far enough back, I don’t see why we can’t just start killing people for entertainment on television at least once a week.

There will be a variety of games. It will be a bit like that Gladiators show, but with explosions, hangings and disembowellings. There could even be a sniper section where we choose three members of the public and viewers can text vote on which one should die. Then we shoot them on the way to work.

The options are endless.

“Now Rob, you chose the ancient Japanese practice of hari-kari for cash. You've now been disembowelled; how do you feel?”

“Yeah, Max, I gotta say it’s pretty painful at the moment.”

“Rob, did you expect the smell to be this bad?”

“Ha, no. I think this explains why my farts always smelt so awful.”

“Good one, Rob. Now you’re in for $10,000 an hour at the moment, but if you survive the full day you’ll take the $100,000 bonus and receive potentially life-saving medical assistance.”

“That’d be great, Max. Hey watch what you’re stepping on there!”

“Haha. Always like to see a victim with a sense of humour. Now, Marianne, how are things going at the gallows?”

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Pie = $3.14


Today I’m going to talk about pies.

In New Zealand and Australia the meat pie is part of the culture. It’s the blue collar equivalent of caviar. I think it fits into the cultural jigsaw in a way similar to the way a sausage, bun, mustard and pickles fit into the American culture as hot dogs.

Ah, the joys of cross-cultural food translation.

According to the font of all semi-accurate knowledge, Wikipedia, the standard Kiwi pie is not too dissimilar to the American pot pie. Except that the shortening in the base makes it more structurally sound and I think a little bigger.

Typically a pie will fit moderately comfortably in your hand, and be filled with minced meat, spices and optional extras such as cheese, mushrooms or vegetables. The recipes are often closely guarded secrets.

When I was growing up, May’s pies in Timaru had a national reputation for goodness. These had a kind of yellow pastry but were thick with ground lamb and heavily spiced. It was common knowledge the best mutton pies in the country could be bought at Dunsandel, a few miles south of Christchurch.

The pie warmers in towns from Kaitaia to Bluff would be filled with the drying crusts of three or four varieties.

As a side note, the popularity of the meat pie is such that the Government has set certain rules about them. For example, they must contain at least 25 percent meat. Unfortunately this is the pre-cooked weight, and doesn’t specify what part of the animal is used. Technically muscle, sinew and even snouts are meat, under this definition.

But the Pie Days of my youth are gone. In a similar way to the McDonald’s and KFC invasion from the United States, Australian pie makers have invaded New Zealand.

The worst offender, in my opinion, is Mrs Mac's. These are made in Australia from 100 percent Australian ingredients and, I’m picking, are sent to New Zealand frozen and sold to petrol stations and dairies at about 300 for a dollar and then retail for about four dollars each.

And, frankly, they taste like somebody’s eaten them already.

Less offensive is Big Ben, which is an Australian company which at least uses New Zealand ingredients and makes the pies in New Zealand. But not a great recipe.

Irvine’s pies, made by Goodman Fielder, tend to be the best of the service station crop for my money. Not so strong on mass, but the pastry is nice and it all seems fairly proportionally well balanced.

Fortunately the cafes of the country maintain the quality and individuality of the good old Kiwi meat pie. Great chunks of meat in the middle, blazing hot globs of mushroom falling in your lap as the architectural integrity of the pie’s structure collapses. Or cringing with pain as the melted cheese explodes volcanically from its insulated pastry pocket and burns your lips to shreds. It’s brilliant.

I heard someone say recently that after travelling the world they believed the best pies were made in New Zealand. It gave me a haunting touch of patriotic pie pride; with a bonus 25 grams of saturated fat. I like it.

Sunday, January 10, 2010

Doo De Doo De Doo

As you probably know by now, I love the English language. Particularly its ambiguities of spelling. Homonyms are my bread and butter. Which is funny in itself, because I currently have no bread or butter in the house, and have never used a homonym to make a sandwich, and yet you understood exactly what I was getting at.

Hmmm.... a homonym sandwich with cheese and Marmite. Could work.

This particular post was prompted by my good friend Cindy, with whom I have spoken to on the phone a couple of times.

Now, for a Kiwi, half the fun of talking to an American is gently making fun of their accent.

"Say duty"

"Doody."

*snigger snigger*

"Say data."

"Dayta."

*snigger snigger*

I never claimed to be particularly mature. Let it go.

This can even be localised. Nothing's funnier to me than asking a Southlander to say purple. "Paaarlpul." Ah yes, the good ol' southern accent.

Accents can be funny. But on the whole we can understand each other.

But then there are the funny stories of people going into a sh0p and needing somebody to translate English into English so everyone can understand each other through the accents.

I've heard that one of my favourite films, Trainspotting, was nearly given subtitles in America, even though it is simply English with a Scottish accent. I've read American reviews of the film saying: "Don't worry, you can work out what they're saying after about half-an-hour."

Watching the DVDs with the subtitles on can be interesting, too. I think they've cleaned up their act a bit now, but there used to be times where the character would say: "I'm fucking sick of this fucking shit!" and the subtitle would read: "Gosh, I'm upset about this!" ... Like deaf people aren't allowed to swear.

Right. Well, I didn't have a point, and I feel I've made it.

I hope you understand my written accent. I could read it aloud, but you probably wouldn't understand me.