Cracker by Damian Christie

Without wanting to steal Mr O’Neill’s thunder by writing about things over the ditch, I do feel compelled to type a few words about recent occurrences on Manly Beach.

But first, and uncharacteristically early into the post (even by my standards), a small diversion. Did you know how Manly got its name? No, neither did I, until I was sniffing around for some information on this latest story. But having found out, I’m duty-bound to share said tale. Don’t worry, it’s short and I’ll get back to the point soon, or at least a paragraph or three kinda resembling a point (if you squint).

Upon arriving at Manly Beach in 1788, Governor Arthur Phillip was so impressed by the physique of the local aboriginal men he decided to name the place Manly. This is not only oddly literal, even for a man, but it’s also particularly gay, even for an officer of the English Navy (Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay etc., but ‘Hello!’)

Having said that, a couple of centuries later, and Sydney is the closest thing to San Francisco in the Antipodes, so maybe old twinkle-toes Phillip was on to something after all.

So anyway, the Manly council have decided to ban smoking on the beach. This annoys me for a number of reasons… and no, I’m not a smoker. But if there's anywhere you should be able to smoke, it's the beach. And while it might just be Manly today, you can be guaranteed Lyall Bay and Cheltenham won’t be far behind.

First, cigarettes are a legal product; one sold with a number of restrictions and warnings, but still legal. Second, it's an outside area, so the second-hand smoke justification, which was one reason touted doesn’t really wash. Okay, you could theoretically be sitting next to someone who was smoking, but that’s equally applicable anywhere else outside.

Third, if it’s about the 700,000 cigarette butts apparently littering Manly beach at any one time, then isn’t that about littering, not smoking? Last time I was at Manly there were no ashtrays in sight, let along anyone emptying them. And while you're at it, a little table service, anyone?

Anyway, if you’re not supposed to use the beach as an ashtray, then why do they put sand in the top of those executive ashtray bins they have in foyers? Because sand is a Natural Ashtray. It works perfectly. If you’re at the beach and intent on smoking a bit, you can even mould yourself a proper little sand ashtray using a bit of damp sand and some imagination.

And what about the Westies? What are they supposed to do? I’ll never forget that great bFM summer campaign so many years ago, ‘Westies at the Beach’: “Yeah, chuck us me fags Sharon, I’m garn for a swim”

Stop the madness I say… let’s cut the smokers some slack this coming summer.

...I’m going diving at the Poor Knights Islands this weekend, I’ll write about that hopefully mindblowing experience on Monday. I was trying to find good pictures of the kaimoana – sorry, wildlife – they’ve got there but none seem to exist. Instead here’s some excellent photos of my favourite fish, the one I’m hoping to see, although they probably don't live here in winter… wish me luck.

Oh, and finally, this Sunday on bFM I interview rockstar/author/philosopher Alain de Botton about his new book Status Anxiety and being a rockstar philosopher author in the 21st Century. Check it.

Much like BMG, who had obviously pre-recorded, mastered and photographed both Ben and Michael singing the Idol single, to allow for its almost instant release, I had this week’s post-idol blog half written. Unfortunately I’d grossly underestimated the power of the New Zealand public to do the right thing. It went a little something like this:

10 Things I’ve Learnt from Watching Idol

1. There is no justice in the world

2. People under 18 should NEVER be given the vote. Never.

Etc. As I say, it was only partly written, and in retrospect I don’t think I would have been able to come up with ten decent points. Mind you, that never stops Jim Hopkins. Speaking of bad weekend print journalism… is it just me or has the Sunday Star Times gone to the dogs (with a couple of major exceptions, but I’m told they prove the rule)? I’ll expand on this sweeping generalisation at a later date, but for now you can be content simply knowing I’m right.

Anyhoo. It wasn’t to be, Ben won and I was more or less happy. Not that I really cared, but y’know, when you’ve watched a show out of one eye for fifteen weeks, it’s the same as watching it avidly for seven and a half. It's quite an investment to not have an opinion.

Beyond this, you know what? I REALLY don’t care. Not at all. Because it’s a TV show, a drawn-out talent quest. Ben won, show’s over, I start watching the new series of The Sopranos. End of story. To follow his career from here on in is to buy into the whole concept of hideously manufactured pop. Yeah, yeah, stable door, horse bolting etc, but I’ve got a point, right? At the end of one of those DIY garden programmes you don’t spare a second thought whether Shona’s new fernery is going to take, or if she’ll keep up with the weeding. Same idea, different trousers.

Chuck's written a solid post about the final idol show though, which is pretty bang on:

Funnily enough all the old losers we’d already voted off returned for the fun of the final. It was kind of cruel, almost saying ‘look isn’t this great, if you’d been better, this is what you could have had’. I was almost hoping Paul Ellis’ evil side would belatedly show up with the line “Remind us again Eddie why the nation thought you were so crap.”

I’ve managed to get to a few shows at the New Zealand International Comedy Festival, which is unlike me. Generally any such festival sees me looking through the programme, promising this time will be different, this time I’ll go and see that play/film/show/exhibition, then finding said programme on the bottom of my In Tray a month later and swearing next time will be different…

This time was different. I got in early, booked a bunch of tickets and now all I have to is swan up on the night. I’ve seen three so far, Australian Charlie Pickering, who did a great show about urban legends, Untold Tales of Maui starring the very talented duo of Taika Cohen (who as Taika Waititi made my favourite short film ever, 2 Cars, 1 Night) and Jemaine Clement (from Flight of the Conchords). Both shows were very good, but unfortunately have now finished.

Last night I saw British comedian Andy Parsons. His show is continuing, but I’d suggest you could probably find better ways to spend your comedic dollar. Sorry all you nice folk at the ComedyFest, love ya, but he just wasn’t particularly good.

I think comedy has (or should have) moved on from the “excuse me sir, you in the front row, yes what’s your name please…” and observations that weren’t especially funny when Billy Connelly made them a decade ago (“What is it with people saying ‘take care’ instead of goodbye… it’s like ‘oh thanks for that, I was about to go and hurt myself’… and what about ‘drive safe’… it’s like…).

But that’s just my opinion, what would I know? It has however left me uttering a phrase I never thought I’d say… “Wow, some of that New Zealand comedy is really good, better than the overseas stuff”. So this Comedy Fest, why not Buy NZ made? Apart from Mike King, obviously. Seeing Mike King when you’re in the mood to laugh is like going to the swimming pool when you’re hungry. But at least he’s givin’ it a go, eh? At least he’s givin’ it a go. Give me a break.

Flight of the Conchords last show this Saturday promises to be damn good though, as does Taika’s Incredible Show next week. See you there.

Housekeeping: Cheers Deborah and the team at Pead PR for the LoveKylie poster. It's like you read my mind. Me te aroha nui ki a koutou katoa

So the photos of Iraqi prisoners being abused by British soldiers may well be false. I’m yet to be convinced one way or the other, but I’m open to either possibility.

To put it bluntly: Some pretty sick shit goes on during war, or whatever synonym they’re using at the moment to describe the fighting in Iraq since the “end to major hostilities” a year ago. The mistreatment and brutality of Iraqis might be far less widespread than during the reign of Saddam Hussein, but such acts have never been something only limited to “their” side. Of course it's inexcusable, and should never become acceptable, but it simply shouldn’t be all that surprising. These are fighters, not lovers; men made into grunts through a brutal combination of macho posturing and sadomasochistic indoctrination.

Some of the evidence suggesting the photos were staged seems pretty compelling. Wrong gun, wrong truck, wrong hat. But as my father points out (good army man, twenty years service), it’d be hard to say with complete certainty that every soldier stationed in Iraq was issued with the exact same model rifle, and not its very similar predecessor. I wasn’t privy to that particular stocktake, and neither were any of the people who are now arguing on either side.

Some evidence seems a little more, shall we say, circumstantial. One British army commander pointed to the fact the soldier’s webbing (the harness holding the soldier’s accoutrements, canteen, ammunition etc) was undone.

“Normally soldiers are very particular about that,” he remarked.

Which seems to me an odd sort of argument. I don’t know about you, but if I was the sort of soldier who took pleasure in pissing on people, might it just be possible I was also less than the ideal soldier in other regards? “I don’t mind taking a slash on this guy, but walk around with my pockets undone, that's just crazy talk!”

On the other hand, an Arabic television network has released this compelling video evidence of mistreatment. Not simply forced to pose for coalition troops’ sordid photos, thanks to the rebuilt Baghdad internet system and a twenty dollar webcam, this poor Iraqi is robbed of his dignity and tragically forced to perform for the mirth and amusement of all who stumble across him.

While we’re in the Middle East, I really like this cartoon by Wellington illustrator Ross Kettle. He’s a regular contributor to Stuff as well as running his own website.

Chuck from Pettifogspot has confirmed my fear that the country is now awash in bad puns of the “Bic Runga is an angel, let us pray” variety. If I didn’t know it was just the P talking, I’d think someone at the Dominion Post was trying to wind me up:

Religion and pop music don't normally mix ...but kiwi songstress Bic Runga had plenty of faith her latest tour of New Zealand churches would be a hit. Wellington fans swayed to her sermon of acoustic tunes from albums Beautiful Collision and Drive during three concerts at St John's in the City last week. Now based in Paris, Runga had this epiphany about her concert venues after performing in London's 18th century Union Chapel last year. Praise be!
- Kylie Walker

(The caption next to the photo reads: Songstress Bic Runga doubles as the church organist as she preaches to the converted.)

Charlie Brown put it a lot better than I ever could:
Good Grief.

When I started working in the industry (apprentice TV repairman, TVs 'n' Things, 355 Sandringham Road) a couple of months ago, I said to myself it’d be best if I didn’t comment on television matters. Potential conflict of interests, not to mention the whole glass-house stone-throwing thing.

So I created an alter ego called Fiona Rae, under which I write about telly, albeit in a far more eloquent and considered manner than I ever could manage as Cracker.

I do feel compelled to break this silence however, after watching 60 Minutes the other night. Specifically the story on Generation Next. It’s not the first time I’ve seen this kind of story, and I dare say it won’t be the last either. For those who missed it, here’s a recap on this tried and trite format:

First of all a marketing company decides to do some research about an identifiable demographic. This time the guru was marketing consultant Sandy Burgham. The demographic is christened, in this case “Generation Next” and assigned certain common identifiable characteristics. This I can understand. Marketing consultants need to earn a living just like the rest of us. And as long as advertising companies and PR firms feel they need to pay for this research, or risk missing out on “the next big thing”, these consultants will continue to do quite nicely thank you.

One thing to note at this point. My generation has but one name. Generation X. Marketing consultants leave us alone now; there’s no money in us anymore. We’re not early adopters. We don’t hanker for 3G phones, nor do the garden centres we now frequent care much for demographic data. Generation Next however… cha-ching. This is probably why, in the past few years alone, that generation has been renamed and redefined time and time again. Generation Y. Generation Me. Generation Next. Every time a new name is coined, somewhere a marketing consultant pays off their mortgage.

I can’t comment one way or another on Burgham’s research. Despite devoting two-thirds of the show (40 Minutes?) to this piece, the actual research itself didn’t so much take the back seat, it was dragged behind the car like an overlooked pet.

No, 60 Minutes decided to “conduct some research of our own”. Four twentysomethings were called up and asked to make some pronouncements on Generation Nexters. In other words, give their opinions on the inextricable similarities they have with every other city dweller (a prerequisite for being a Generation Nexter, apparently) aged 20 – 29.

I’ve never been happier to be thirty.

The four Nexters sat and boldly extruded statements from their arses on nationwide telly. As each statement emerged, the candidates smiled, nodded and commented how much it smelt like roses. “Generation Nexters aren’t really into monogamy,” noted one lass, condemning hundreds of thousands to an afterlife in purgatory. “I wear high heels as a symbol of power,” she later sagely proclaimed.

Throughout Alistair Wilkinson nodded attentively, as though he was standing on the Mount receiving a sermon. No, twentysomethings, not that Mount. He seemed incredulous that one of the Prophets of Next wore a sweatband on his arm… For No Good Reason! Krazy with a K. Come on Al, surely you’ve seen a sweatband worn as fashion accessory before? Look on the back of those Dire Straits CDs you listen to in the car, dude.

I can't blame 60 Minutes. Obviously their big scoop fell through, or was injuncted or something and they were forced to play this piece instead, which they've probably had sitting there for a while. I can imagine the tape sitting behind glass in one of those red boxes - "In Really Really Extreme Emergency, Break Glass".

I can’t blame the talent. Maybe it’s a trait of Generation Next that they’ll provide an answer to any question, regardless of how ridiculous the question might be, or how generalising the answer.

“Do Generation Nexters like eggs?”

“Why Al, we surely do. We like them poached, on foccacia, right after we leave the clubs at seven in the morning.”

“Seven o’clock… wow you must think I’m really old?”

“Yeah, Generation Nexters think anyone’s old if they don’t go out.”

So young, yet so wise.

...and on Friday, I went to Wellington.

I had a few people I wanted to interview down there, they weren’t coming up my way, so Mohammed went to the Mountain. Or the Beehive, which is like a mountain, smaller and with worse carpet.

As it turned out, one of my Wellingtonians had to fly back from a last minute trip to Auckland to make the interview; another had to delay a car journey to Auckland so they could be interviewed; and the third confided they were moving to Auckland in a couple of weeks because they’re sick of “the Wellington attitude.” It seems I could have stayed put after all, but I’m glad I didn’t.

By way of background, I went to high school at the venerable Upper Hutt College and did most of my degree at Victoria, so I have strong ties with Wellington. This was evidenced when the cameraman picked us up. On the way back from the airport, in Hataitai, there’s a park my girlfriend-of-the-time and I “went to” every couple of days, when we were both in our teens and living at home under watchful eyes.

There’s the building at the bottom of Cuba Street, which even today sports a dark stain running from its fourth floor down to the second. That was my stomach lining, circa 1993. A bleached patch of concrete outside an innocuous flat on The Terrace, Cask of Winegate, 1994. Nuff said. For a pamphlet and more information about Damian Christie’s Bodily Fluids Tour of Wellington, write to Cracker HQ at the usual address.

Having that sort of history with a town always makes revisiting it an interesting experience. Last time I was there it was in a three day whirlwind of Tolkein-inspired hype, so I didn’t have much opportunity to mope around looking for old pets’ gravesites.

This time was different. OK, I didn’t go traipsing through pet cemeteries, but I found the whole experience a bit creepy nevertheless.

Wellington’s a pretty small place, so everywhere I walked I saw people I once knew, or at least once occupied the same lecture with, or bludged a cigarette off on cold mornings in the quad. And everytime I didn’t see someone I knew (or should that be "saw someone I didn't know"?), I was expecting to. So much of my day and a half there was spent vaguely anxious, looking over my shoulder.

Wellington’s a great place to go for a weekend though. There’s an excellent bar scene, the food’s pretty good on the whole and the people are generally friendly, albeit many sport a JAFA-sized chip on their shoulder. I wouldn’t want to reside there permanently though. Sorry Wellingtonians – nothing personal – I’d just prefer not to live in a town that sucks. Kidding.

Anyway, I had a lot of fun, saw Dimmer and Rhian Sheehan, bought some cool records and caught up with old and not-so-old friends. And I wrote a Russ-ku.

What’s a Russ-ku you may ask? Well, it’s a great new form of poetry that’s taking the blogosphere by storm. Read Hard News and/or nzpundit if you want to learn more about the origins, suffice to say it’s like a Haiku, but without all those annoying syllabic restrictions.

[As far as my two pingas go, I do find it a little strange how often Gordy, Craig and the New Guy Who Doesn’t Know his ‘their’ from his ‘there’ refer to Russ. The only analogy I can draw is with Opposition politicians constantly referring to the Government (any Opposition, any Government), which is odd considering they should both theoretically occupy the same position. You don’t find the Dominion Post running front page stories about the Herald every week or two. Anyhoo.]

But I can’t argue with a poetic form of such aesthetic beauty, and so I present:

Wellington, a Russ-ku by Damian Christie.

There were lots of pretty girls when I went to Wellington.

Like most other girls there [sic] age, they wore skirts and dresses.

Except with trousers underneath.
___________________________________
Tune in tomorrow when I talk about the awful 60 Minutes show last night.