Cracker by Damian Christie

The Google float seems to have gone pretty well, at least from where I’m sitting. While the dynamic duo were expecting a bit more, at US$27.2 billion, Google is now on par with General Motors. Not bad for a company that found its genesis six years ago in a college dorm room. Founders Larry Page and Sergey Brin are worth a bit over three billion each. 1,000 of its 2,300 employees have become instant millionaires.

Of course, what this means is that 1300 employees didn’t. Presumably a few years back they turned down the share options in favour of a nicely embroidered latop bag (“...don’t you suckers remember the dotcom bubble…”) You can almost hear the sound of those bags being dragged across the tarmac parking lot as their owners head to work the day after the float. Don’t be surprised if 13 out of every 23 searches you perform in the next week come back with the result “0 Matches Found – Why don’t you f*** off and Ask Jeeves.”

Google has rather famously entered the lexicon, in some cases, literally. In Pattern Recognition, William Gibson uses the verb frequently. Google’s founders aren’t particularly happy with the potential dilution of their very valuable brand, and have issued cease-and-desist letters in the past. Whether Gibbo ever got one I’m not sure, it would seem a bit odd for creators of a mere search engine to chastise the guy who predicted the modern Internet…

Before <a href="http://www.publicaddress.net/default,297.sm#post297
" target="_blank">interviewing Gibson a year or so ago, I googled him as part of my research. He had 124,000 hits. I had 61. Today he has 276,000. I have 752. I’m gaining on him.

And yes, from time to time I do engage a spot of auto-Googling. It was around ten years ago I found my first search-engine. I innocently entered my name… and discovered my Nemesis. Well, when I say “nemesis”, I’m not sure he even knows I exist, but despite this, for the past decade I’ve been waging a trans-Tasman battle against a guy with the sinister-sounding moniker, Damian Christie.

Damian Christie, (if that’s your real name), is or was President of the Australian chapter of the Dr Who fan club. He’s the editor of a Dr Who fanzine. He has a lot to say in the field of science fiction generally. In short, he’s running around reinstating a reputation I’ve been trying to get rid of for the better part of two decades.

Recently, thanks to on-line outlets like publicaddress, the Listener, bFM etc., I’m winning the battle – the battle he probably doesn’t even know the two of us are fighting. Each time I check in on him/us, there’s less of him and more of me, kinda like that scene from Back to the Future, where Michael J Fox checks the fading family photo as the band plays 'Earth Angel'.

I find Google Ads a bit odd. In case you don’t know, they’re the text sensitive little boxes down the right hand side of this page. While the Google search engine works pretty well, Google ads are still an imprecise science. A blog I wrote about smokers’ rights prompted anti-smoking ads and invitations to buy hand-cut bohemian crystal. I’m hoping this post will send Google Ads into a self-referential logic loop, causing it to fry its circuit board. Not unlike what Matthew Broderick did to the NORAD computer at the end of the excellent 1983 film War Games.

Shit, now I'm talking like the other Damian Christie.

There are however many opportunities for amusement to be had from this Google Ad randomness. The best example I’ve seen yet came from a discussion about a certain policy leaving a politician in a difficult position. Google Ads recommended I purchase the new and improved Karma Sutra.

Do readers have any funny Google Ad stories they’d wish to share with Cracker? Send in clippings to:

Over the Teacups
Cracker HQ
Private Bag
Auckland.

The first correct entry will* win this used Parker Pen & Pencil set.

*will not

The problem with sometimes having opinions on stuff is that – by definition – sometimes you don’t. Yeah I know, radical concept.

I think that’s largely to blame for so many blogs ending within the first year. We’ve all heard the stories about the majority of small businesses failing within a year or two, and the parallels are quite clear. After all, a good blog is like a small ideas factory. Or a small factory for ideas – either way, you get my point.

Walking around the subdivisions that make up the NZ blogosphere, one can’t help notice the abandoned factories, not to mention the boarded up shopfronts and unsanitary homekill outfits. In my brief and very unscientific survey, it seems the right-wing blogs suffer a higher infant mortality rate, but I mention this merely as an observation, rather than a slight on the right. For every runningblogcapitalist, badpolitics and mediacow there may be hundreds of failed lefties, I just didn’t find them. It’s unsurprisingly difficult to find something that no longer exists.

Except – in the case of most failed blogs – they do still exist. Internet real estate is cheap and easy to come by, so rather than redevelop an abandoned lot, it’s just left to decay. In some cases there’s a goodbye note, a virtual Dear John (or is it more like a suicide note?); in others, it’s like the Marie Celeste. The jug’s just boiled, there’s dinner on the table, but not a soul in site.

For some, the constant effort simply proves too much. Sure, there aren’t any deadlines, in theory you can come and go as you please. But after a week or so, the emails start coming in, “are you okay?”, “...haven’t heard from you for a while”, and there's a definite pressure to post.

In other instances, removing the veil of anonymity seems to have a silencing effect. Media Cow went pretty quiet when his identity was leaked (although his site now promises a comeback). After I confronted him about his identity, Radionzbias disappeared without trace, at least until recently, when he (or someone using his alias) surfaced as a guest blogger on PNN.

[I almost forgot to tell you that story. A few months ago I was shown pretty decent evidence that The Blogger Formerly Known as RadioNZBias was an attractive gentleman by the name of Russell Hutchinson, the principal of a company called Chatswood Consulting. I sent Mr Hutchinson a couple of emails, which remained unanswered (although his alter ego did offer an apology soon after). So I called him up, and asked him whether he was indeed the masked malingerer.

“No comment” was the answer.

I offered to take that as a ‘yes’.

“I don’t think you should take that as a yes, or a no” said he.

Way to pull a poker face, dude.

Anyhow, that conversation was enough to satisfy me – I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions. Hutchie, if you’re reading, far from going to ground after being outed, may you now have enough courage in your convictions to do what the rest of us do every day – put your name to what you say.]

I digress. In some cases, family concerns (or Being in a Family Way) grinds the ideas conveyor belt almost to a halt, or a change in vocation means the man hours just aren’t there. When I was working as a media monitor, I was intensely absorbing an average of ten hours of talk radio and television current affairs each day. These days I barely have time to read Sideswipe.

And Cracker reflects this. While I might opine from time to time about the state of the nation, less and less are such matters Cracker’s raisin detour. If you want half-arsed opinions, there’re plenty about, on both sides. If like me, you just enjoy reading people who have a nice turn of phrase, or an interesting take on “stuff”, then hopefully you’ll find it here.

I read something today that had been written about this entry. The bilious blogger seemed to like something I’d written, but was at pains to impress that he hated the fact it was me who had said it. Not sure why exactly, although he does refer to me as “self-appointed important person”. I must have missed the memo.

Surely it can’t be because I have a blog? – everyone has those these days, even the detractor himself. All I can come up with is Blog Envy. And looking at the lack of response to his hard work, it seems to be true. The poor guy has only had ONE comment back in the past six weeks, and even that was only some guy quoting Reagan. That’s enough to send even the most mild-mannered blogger on a rampage. So please, go to his page, say nice things about his writing, tell him he’s clever. Throw the man a bone.

Enough of that. Thanks for reading thus far, I’ll be back in a week with another instalment. I don’t promise to change your world, but I promise the Cracker factory will keep on churning out whatever it is you’ve come to expect. As of this month, I’ve been writing Cracker for longer than my longest relationship, so I’m kinda attached to it, and to you, especially those who send feedback ‘n’ stuff. But whatever anyone tells you – even me – I’m not important. I’m just a guy… standing in front of a computer... asking it to love him.

(Sometimes I think I love that movie too much.)

So the other day I woke up with stigmata on my hands. A law degree and moderately successful media career aside, I don’t generally consider myself to have many Jesus-like qualities, so it was fair to say it came as a bit of a shock. But one I was happy to capitalise on. It’s always been my belief that if God taps you on the shoulder, you might as well profit it from it. Just ask Brian Tamaki.

Unfortunately after my first coffee the mist that covers my brain started to clear. Before I could draft my first inflated invoice to the Catholic Church to cover my taxi fare to work (it’s very hard to drive with the wounds of Christ on your palms, you see), I realised they might not be quite the Heavenly message I’d first thought. On closer inspection they seemed to have a lot more to do with burst blisters from my newly adopted gym regime. The Lord giveth…

I jumped out of a plane on Sunday. I hadn’t been planning to – well obviously by the time I got into the plane I was planning to jump out – but it wasn’t what I had in mind for Sunday. The day before I’d snagged a whole bunch of plants and I was keen to get them into the ground at Sando. But the call came in early Sunday morning from a new venture running off Waiheke Island: was I keen to give it a go that afternoon?

As the saying goes, 'are the Kennedy’s gun-shy?' I’ve never jumped from a plane before, but with nary a cloud in the sky, plummeting from the heavens seemed like a great way to spend the afternoon.

We hopped into the Cessna, two pairs of tandem jumpers, and climbed to 10,000 feet. I felt strangely calm. Actually, I just felt plain old calm, but I guess what I mean is, that’s pretty strange when you’re about to jump out of a plane. Then we hit altitude, the door opened, and the other pair of jumpers exited stage left.

As we began to shimmy over towards the gaping hole in the Cessna’s side, I started to think about what was about to happen. My mind, not the sharpest at the best of times, managed “I don’t think this is such a good…” before it noticed the ground was approaching at 200km/h, and shut the hell up.

Once the freefall was over (and I can’t remember a lot of that, other than someone yelling ‘waaaaaaahhhhh’, which I suspect was the instructor), we were down to 5,000 feet. The chute opened, much to my relief.

Suddenly I was suspended in mid air. It felt like I was hung from a big hook, my feet dangling above the earth. Except a big hook would probably fall a lot faster than a parachute.

From then on it was largely about sightseeing. For me at least, being thousands of feet above the earth outside of an aeroplane isn’t that concerning. I don’t think I’m especially brave, it’s just too surreal to be scared. Tell you what though, the view was fantastic. A perfectly blue sky, but late enough in the afternoon so that shadows provided definition to the island below. Across the water, a great view of the Coromandel peninsula. Pictures will follow in due course.

Thanks skydivewaiheke for providing a memorable experience.

So as you can imagine, after thinking I might be the Son of God on Friday, and jumping from a plane on Sunday, come Monday I was looking for a little normality. And then I ran over a woman on the way to work.

Okay that’s not entirely true. She walked into my car, which was stationary at the time, but it was a frightening experience nonetheless. Alright, again, not entirely true, I thought it was quite funny, but she clearly didn’t.

As I pulled in to my carparking building, Stoopid Old Lady was ambling in front of my car, oblivious thanks to a pair of earphones, (blaring Richard Clayderman, no doubt). As she moseyed, I crawled along, fearing it would be too rude to sound the horn, and alert her of my presence. All of a sudden she turned around, and without further ado, walked straight into my car and fell across the bonnet. She looked up, confused and clearly alarmed.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“What are you talking about – you just walked into my car.”

“But you shouldn’t be here.”

“Lady, it’s a carpark.”

“You’re an idiot!”

This coming from a woman who just walked into a parked car? She strutted off, leopard print scarf flying, gawdy gold jewellery rattling, and smelling distinctly of Eau de Mouton deguisé en Lamb.

That’s been my week, more or less. And you?

I thought I’d save my blogging for the weekend.

Extensive research tells me ninety something percent of you won’t read this until you’re on the boss’s time on Monday, and a little part of you will be thinking “lucky sod, being all weekendy, while I’m stuck here on a Monday morning.” At least, that’s if you share the same warped logic as me. Those of you who do, please picture me writing this while breaking frequently to bask in a little sun trap, the location of which coincides perfectly with my new comfy sofa. Mmm.

I saw a car this morning on my way to bFM, a little 1960s MG convertible. I thought to myself, ‘cool car, wouldn’t mind one of those’. Then I remembered that I do have one, or at least my mechanic has one, and has had for the past ten months, lucky bugger. Is it just me or does that seem like a little too long to replace a gearbox? And no need to send me feedback about the perils of owning old English cars, I’ve heard it all before.

The All Blacks v Australia test was a fantastic piece of rugby last night. As well as pleasantly reminding me why I no longer live in Wellington – at least in Auckland the rain only travels vertically – it was the perfect combination of us dominating the possession, a number of tense near-miss opportunities, looking like we could lose it at any time but coming through victorious. A runaway victory like we had against the English is all well and good, but it’s the close ones that keep your attention for a full eighty minutes.

Last Wednesday marked the 20th anniversary of the Lange/Douglas Labour Government. Much of the media coverage was overshadowed with discussion and speculation around Big Dave’s health, which is understandable. After Michael Joseph Savage, Lange is arguably the country’s most loved former Prime Minister – no mean feat when you consider some of the very painful changes he oversaw.

Twenty years on, the jury is still out on many of those changes. For some, an odd rose-tinted cloud has drifted over the Muldoon era, and the reality of wage freezes, price freezes, runaway inflation, butter mountains, no choice of consumer goods, foreign exchange restrictions and having to bribe your mate at Telecom with a crate of beer to get a phone installed have been replaced with a general sense of “things were better then”.

The current Labour Government won't praise the efforts of its infamous former Finance Minister, but nor has it sought to undo much of his work. Ditto the continued reforms by Ruth Richardson under Bolger’s National Government. This approach of condemning a policy while in Opposition but continuing it when in power just seems the way things are done nowadays. With Cullen and Brash in control of Finance, it’s like an economic Good Cop/Bad Cop – the outcome’s the same either way, but one’s going to let you have a cigarette. Actually, with the current Labour Government, that’s probably the last thing it’s going to let you have.

If Lange’s Labour Government will always be remembered for its drastic economic reforms, I wonder if Clark’s will have the same legacy in the social sphere. Prostitution, civil unions, matrimonial property reforms, lesbians can be fathers too, no smoking in bars, (possibly) smacking – will history join the dots? Will Clark & Maharey be the Lange & Douglas of the 21st century?

If it’s less obvious, perhaps it’s because of the method by which some of the legislation is passed. In this regard, conscience votes has always seemed a bit odd to me. Why should economic issues be any less subject to ethical concerns than social ones? Taxation to a libertarian is as much a moral issue as GE is to a greenie, or gay marriage to a conservative.

So while Labour is responsible for the current wave of social reforms, the fact that even its own MPs are (in theory, at least) allowed to vote according to their consciences allows a degree of separation from the party proper. Labour didn’t pass the bill, Parliament did. Douglas never had that luxury when it came to his reforms.

“Hello welcome to ASB Bank, Amy speaking.”

“Yeah, hi. I, um... lost my cashflow card. I’d like to stop it please.”

“Certainly Mr Christie. I’ll just check there haven’t been any unauthorised transactions...”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

“It won’t take a minute. Now, the last transaction I have here was... one o’clock this morning... it was an EFTPOS withdrawal... at, er... Showgirls?”

Such an ignominious end to what had begun only a few hours beforehand at the Listener’s 65th Birthday and launch of the new anthology of Jane Ussher portraits called Jane Ussher: Portraits.

It was a cold and rainy evening as I drove through the Domain. I parked a mere hop, skip and a sludge across the grass from the Museum proper. I was rifling under the backseat among the cigarette packets and pie wrappers, trying to find the invitation I’d safely filed there some days prior, when I heard a noise behind me.

“Did you want to share my umbrella?” asked a well-turned out man. The rain being what it was, it seemed like a damned fine idea. As we tentatively traipsed across the grass, I introduced myself.

“Gavin Ellis,” he responded.

I quickly tried to remember whether I’d written anything bad about The Herald or its Editor-in-Chief he might have read (I’ve checked – I haven’t).

I had reason to be wary – it was only earlier that day I was introduced to a certain TV personality. Over the years I’d made a couple of fairly asinine blog references in his direction, and I wondered whether he’d read them. A couple of seconds into our meeting, I wondered no longer. Still, bloody decent chap.

It's always nice to meet someone you've feel like you've known for a while, even more so when it's a positive experience. The Listener gig was full of those experiences, from the Editor's escort through the rain, to cadging cigarettes outside off one of the staff writers.

It was great putting faces to some of the by-lines I’ve read each week, as well as the other media present. I tell you what, that Carol Hirschfeld, not only is she a damn handsome woman, she’s every bit as lovely as you’d hope.

So it was a spirit of camaraderie that saw us gathering to celebrate a magazine with a whole heap of history. For me, it goes as far back as my parents' references to “Piggy” Muldoon, a seven year old's admiration of this huge magazine that came into my home each week and a vague comprehension of the cannabis references in Bogor.

65 is a pretty odd anniversary to celebrate – the only thing it signifies for most people is retirement – but marketing vehicle or otherwise, it was a fine excuse for a knees up.

The speeches were good too, although anyone who can drop the line “I’m reminded of Wordsworth, when he said...” and expect to be taken seriously – “I’m reminded of the Oxford Book of Quotations” perhaps.

The odd thing about the heavily reverberating acoustics of the Museum foyer though, the speeches sounded like an internal monologue from a movie:

“Shit, I’m standing in front of all these people. And I’m not wearing any clothes. I’m reminded of Wordsworth...”

But anyhoo – Congratulations to The Listener, and all who sail in her. Well done to Jane Ussher, the book looks great and to my mind is simultaneously one of the most accessible and most touching New Zealand history collections I’ve seen.

For a bit of Friday light reading, try some of these quotes by American comic Mitch Hedberg. He's pretty damn funny as far as stoner Californians go. Sample: "I got an ant farm. Them fellas didn't grow shit."

Also, if anyone can explain why my last post received a record number of hits (over 9000!), mostly linking from a yahoo mailgroup, please do. Given that my writing just isn't that good, I'm assuming it has something to do with the diving pics. Tell me, and I'll post more...