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One Day Out Bussing | Jul 18, 2003 16:35
I really ought to catch the bus more.
Not for any of the reasons currently touted. Not because "Aucklanders need to get out of their cars." Not because it helps me avoid congestion. Not because the public transport system in Auckland is going forwards in leaps and bounds and I should be there leading the charge.
No, the reason I should catch the bus more is for a much more selfish reason (isn't this why Aucklanders do anything?)
It's a great source of material.
I have so many 'on the bus' stories. Granted most of them are along the lines of "and then after waiting half an hour for the f***en Link bus, three of them turned up at once – and they still stopped for another half an hour at Victoria Park while they changed drivers."
I've had the doors locked on me because the bus driver for some reason wants to keep the two factions of brawling homies inside (with the rest of us) until the police arrive. I've had the bus turn up late in Parnell five minutes before my radio show started on the other side of town, gotten on slightly stressed, grabbed the the last seat available, the other occupant of which then turns to me and says wide-eyed, in his best Dustin Hoffman-circa-Rain Man: "I like Fridays, Fridays are my favourite days what are your favourite days?"
I love public transport.
It was a more demure exchange that caught my attention yesterday. I was on the way back home after finishing up at b, a point I raise only to allow myself to express how utterly impressed I was with the absolutely delightful Hayley Westenra, who came in for a chat about her new appointment as UNICEF national ambassador, and the release of her fourth CD, Pure. The lovely wee thing didn't even blink with recognition as I asked whether she was concerned at all about the drug reference (I had to ask, sorry). If it's possible to use the phrase 'little ray of sunshine' in a non-sarcastic way, then consider it so used.
Right, where was I? Oh yeah, the bus. So I overhear these two elderly women, complaining about the rise in ARC rates. Ignore the irony that they're on a bus, it's a Red Herring. Ignore if you will the fact that I'm eavesdropping, because as we all know, conversations on the bus are public domain. Ignore the fact I'm paraphrasing and have added comical 'old-person names' which is a subtle literary device designed to undermine these two…
Mavis: "These rises in the ARC rates are disgusting"
Matilda: "Yes, aren't they."
Mavis: "I mean, I live in Birkenhead, we don't have trains, why should we pay for that."
Matilda: "And I never go to MOTAT, why should I pay for that."
Mavis: "I can't remember the last time I went to the museum…"
Matilda: "Word up."
Anyway, you get the idea. 'Why should we pay for what we don't use'. It's not the first time we've heard this philosophy. It even has a name. It's called User Pays.
Now I'm no fan of the ARC, nor their undoubtedly completely unjustified rates increases. But it strikes me as ironic that most of the people (and trust me, talkback has been full of them) I've heard decrying the rates hike are doing so on the basis they don't offer enough value for money, they're not using what they're paying for.
These are exactly the same people who call up and lament the lack of an effective public health system, claiming two standards of citizenship for those who can afford to go private, and those who can't. These are the same people that shudder at the idea of toll roads everywhere in the city -- the ultimate in User Pays. What am I asking for? A little philosophical consistency, one way or another?
Perhaps too much to hope for on the 243 to Sando.
A few points:
Does anyone else find that ARC Chair Gwen Bull has a Jedi mindtrick-like ability to make all who come into contact with her think "I have absolutely no faith in this woman whatsoever"?
Why does everyone justify their plan for the Peter Blake memorial (yes, it's still going on) by saying "I think that's what Peter would want." If it were me I'd want strippers and an attempt at making a record-breaking giant pavlova. Who's to say he's any different? Assumption, as they say, is the mother of all f***ups.
Go and see Pixar's latest flick Finding Nemo when you get an opportunity (it opens in September I think, I'll remind you closer to the time, don't worry). Beg or borrow (but please don't steal) a kid from somewhere if you need an excuse.
Maurice Dancing | Jul 16, 2003 11:39
Want to know how to become simultaneously the most popular and the most unpopular man in Wellington? Ask Maurice Williamson.
The National Party Annual Conference doesn't rank up there on the top ten junkets a political reporter has to cover, not when the alternative is following Helen Clark to London or Ruth Dyson to New York. Making it even more attractive, this Meeting of the Minds took place in Christchurch. Still further boosting its attractiveness to those in attendance was the fact that they would no doubt get to mingle with the likes of Roger Sowry and Wayne Mapp. Remind me why no-one votes for National any more?
And then on the first day, God created Maurice. As the leader began his opening address, and the Mark Sainsbury's and Barry Soper's of this world were fluffing up their pillows ready to go nighnighs, he struck. Enter stage left The Pakuranga Panther, clad in purple lycra (reportedly borrowed from Michael Laws), who walks up to the podium and Bad Bill English, grabs as substantial a handful of his short back 'n' side coiffure as is possible, repeatedly slams his head into the corner post (accompanied by much grunting and foot stomping, for added effect) before finishing him off with a clothesline to the jugular.
The conference is stunned. Katherine Rich doesn't know what to think, possibly not for the first time. The assembled journalists, still half asleep, are last seen crossing themselves before dragging their duvets out to the lobby where they can file report after breaking report on the incident.
You can't buy this kind of publicity. If only he was on their side. The whole weekend, the National Party Conference was all over the media, when it would otherwise be confined to the obligatory two minute report each day: "And once again Judy, National are talking about one standard of citizensshs.sh...szzzzzz".
Of course, what Maurice was saying wasn't particularly new either: "Bill English has to go." The only difference in this latest message is that rather than throwing him out now, his tenure is tied to a performance target, based on the party's polling. If the people don't like you, you're out. Hardly a radical concept – it's known as the political system – although one the National Party hasn't seemed to accept for some time now.
Of course Maurice's timing left something to be desired, and he of course would have known that. What might have been a reasonable suggestion in the right time, right place, can only appear treasonous delivered as it was. Williamson now faces censure, possible expulsion from caucus, the party and therefore maybe Parliament, which would force a byelection.
National are constantly being reminded that the last time this happened, the result was the creation of a monster who on current ratings is more than twice as popular with the people as English, and his party not far behind. Not that anyone is suggesting the Bearded Brutus will ever be as much a hit as the Man in the Double-Breasted Suit is with the ladies, but National needs a further split about as much as it needs Don Brash as leader. Or Roger Sowry. Or Gerry Brownlee. Things really aren't looking good, are they?
On this point, uncharacteristically good political point-scoring by John Tamihere, coming out in support of Maurice Williamson's "honesty", saying he didn't deserve to be punished for Telling It Like It Is. Not only does it reinforce Tamihere's 'no bullshit' stance, it's a great way to have a swipe at the Nats while doing it.
Oh, as it's my first time 'n' all, I'd like to point out that I've got a book review in the Listener this coming issue. Check it.
The Brian Drain | Jul 07, 2003 12:55
I must be one of the most gullible television viewers around. In the past week I wasted hours and hours of my precious spare time watching TV programmes that looked promising but turned out to be absolute pants. I guess I should have known, the signs were all there – I mean it's unlikely that The Real Truth About Lesbian Sex was ever going to live up to its title. Despite this however, the three lads at number 15 brought in some beers, put the heater on and got ready for action.
Well, to say the title was misleading is like saying Police Minister George Hawkins isn't that sharp. At best it should have been called Some Stuff About Lesbians, but as I said, I suspect deep down we weren't hoping for that much. You would think that someone whose IQ is almost as high as Mary Lambie's should have known better.
Ahh, Test the Nation. As Russell noted last week, the nature of the sample audience meant it was skewed somewhat, but I wasted three hours nevertheless. After seven years of doing the Sunday news, those in the know at TVNZ decided it was Simon Dallow's time to shine. And shine he did; if your definition of shining consists of crap puns and a shit-eating grin that would make Mike King proud. Test the Nation was less like a snapshot of our intellectual prowess, and more like the middle twelve hours of Telethon '86, minus the old ducks dressed in rainbow wigs performing the macarena, although Jackie Clark came close to qualifying.
What has happened to TV One? Where have all the good documentaries gone? As my girlfriend points out, 'if you didn't keep watching the rubbish they feed you, perhaps they'd change'. In my defence, if you schedule a programme about a man who's transformed into a cat with the help of fake whiskers and tattoos, who's not going to watch?
Oh well, we'll see what Bill Ralston's going to do about the situation in his new role as head of News & Current Affairs. In the meantime, at least Six Feet Under is starting to pick up after a distressingly slow start. Fellow viewers will no doubt join me in thanking the TV God (or at least the Six Feet Under screenwriters) for the return of psycho-ex Brenda.
I interviewed National's Broadcasting spokesperson Katherine Rich last week, in the hope of shedding some light on her concerns about the appointment of Dr Brian Edwards as a chat show host on TVNZ, the topic of a press release last week. Now I can think of any number of reasons not to have Brian Edwards hosting any show that is to be described as "entertainment", but his political consulting work is not one of them. I put this to Rich:
A lot of noise about this Brian Edwards appointment, it's hardly controversial is it, he's doing a chat show on a Saturday evening?
I think Brian Edwards is a bit different [from Pam Corkery's current affairs show] because he's a man who's got obviously a huge amount of experience, he's someone who's been... Gee is it 30 or 40 years he's been involved?
So you're not so worried about that one?
No, not so worried.
But in your press release you say "the public should be very nervous about the new programme involving media consultant Brian Edwards who is himself a failed Labour candidate in the Miramar seat."
Well, in terms... I mean that's one of the things I suppose we're saying...we, we want Brian Edwards to, you know, at least be thinking about the sort of show he's going to do, I understand it's going to be a lifestyle show though, where you're focusing more on personalities, as opposed to politicians. Which mightn't be a bad thing, I think people get sick of hearing politicians speak, don't you?
...I supposed it depends what they've got to say, doesn't it?
Pros & Cons | Jun 26, 2003 19:50
Why did the Muslim sit on the fence? As one of my producers remarked before I interviewed Tim Barnett today, it seems like a great opening line for a joke. Well, the punchline is that we have now legalised prostitution in New Zealand.
Depending on who you listen to, Barnett is either the heading the charge of the Four Horsemen (War following by a nose, then Famine, Death a length back, with Pestilence chasing up the rear), or he is the harbinger of a New Age of Enlightenment. Only time will tell, and it's likely to be a photo finish (end of drawn-out horseracing analogy), with neither side completely vindicated. We will likely see more brothels, but perhaps with fewer workers in each one; greater protection for those working in an open industry, but still many people working in the 'black market', whether by choice or otherwise.
How well the legalisation works (I'm still trying to get to grips with whether it's best described as 'decriminalisation' or 'legalisation'; given that rather than having no laws at all it has been turned into a semi-controlled industry, I think the latter is the better term but I'm open to offers) is going to be closely monitored by a review process which was written into the bill. This is fine, dandy even, and of course we should keep tabs on how well our legislation is working, but you get the feeling that once these Gomorrahic gates have opened, they're not going to be easy to close. It'll be great when some highly paid consultant turns around and says "Now I don't believe you wanted to do that" in five years' time.
Or not. And that's the key. We don't know what's going to happen. In five years we might look back, as Russell notes, as we now look back at the Homosexual law reform bill, or Jonathan Hunt's bill giving adopted children the right to know from whose loins they derived. Unlike those issues (perhaps) the prostitution issue contains contradictory pulls at our morality, even for the most liberal of us. Prostitution exists and always will, so let's try and make it safer for those in the industry, and remove some of the stigma. Not too much of the stigma however, because most of us will retain some concerns with the complete normalisation of the oldest profession. Would we be happy with prostitution being suggested at schools as a career option? Would anyone not be worried if their child came home from school with the line "When I grow up, I want to be a whore"? Will we ever see a time where people have their unemployment benefits cut if they refuse to get on the game?
Probably not, but it's worth thinking about how 'normal' we want this business to become. As political columnist Jane Clifton suggested on The Wire, removing the illegality might also remove the part of the thrill for those men who want to be 'naughty'. A listener put it "Great, now I can tell the missus I'm at a brothel to cover up what I'm really doing!" Dare ya.
Time, as always, will tell. The big vote now out of the way, the country gets down to the nuts and bolts of administration. It's funny how a mammoth issue of conscience and morality one day turns into the headline "Ratepayers will bear the brunt of new reforms" the next.
An interesting aside to the fallout today is that Ashraf, our man in the middle, seems to have royally pissed off the Federation of Islamic Associations, by saying he would vote against the bill, and then abstaining. Choudhary's argument that he actually said he would never vote for the bill seems to lounge comfortably between disingenuous and semantic. Stereotypes permitting, you wanna go flipping the bird to an ethnic group, the Islamic community is probably not the smartest choice. Beeeeeg cajones Ashraf.
Finally, I'll leave the last word to Dulcie, a lovely old duck and regular caller to Radio Pacific. If it's words of wisdom you're looking for, you'll find them at 702AM on your dial:
"What people don't realise, this prostitution has been going on for a long time. There are these places called massage parlours – there's more going on there than massaging – it has been going on there for years!"
"More stimulating talk" indeed.
It's that Summer of the Evening | Jun 18, 2003 13:40
It's Inorganic collection time in Sando-upon-Ham. Or at least I hope it is, because like the sheep we are at number 15, we've piled together a smorgasbord of suburban flotsam and jetsam on the kerb. From assorted bric-a-brac to old Kambrook; all, sundry and then some has been unceremoniously strewn on the grass outside, and left for nature to take its course.
'Nature' in this case is human nature. For an accumulation of plastic, rubber and metal, what has happened to our street's collection over the past few weeks must be one of the most organic decompositions I have ever witnessed. Viewed in stop-motion over the last fortnight, it would be difficult to pick the vast difference in forces acting upon the dead mouse the cat had left at the back porch (currently the subject of a flat stand-off), and the old reclining chair we'd left at the front.
On the first morning after the old chair was dragged to the kerb, there is little visible difference. The rain overnight has left the pilled orange fabric – waterproofed through longevity and stain saturation than any silicon-based miracle product – covered in a fine mist that refuses to soak in. A few hours later, I look out from my study, and the seat cushion has gone, whisked away by passersby unknown.
It takes a week before someone comes along with a Stanley knife and surgically removes the brown vinyl from the back and sides of the lounger. The 'leatherette' was always in fairly good nick, sure, but you've got to ask what twisted use it is being put to elsewhere in the 'ham.
Just yesterday, when I thought all the meat had been picked from those particular bones, an elderly woman pushing a trolley load o' wonders barely stopped as she reached out, and ripped the back cushion from its staple fastening.
Like an Inorganic tease, I hold back some of our treasures. In much the same way as trying to ensure the little ducks get some of the bread, I feed it out gradually, so that everyone gets a fair shot. Knowing that the chances of any of our refuse actually reaching its ostensible destination – the dump – means that you can't help but feel you're doing your bit for the less fortunate. I waited until morning to throw out a perfectly working Mac, monitor, keyboard, mouse, modem et al, so it wouldn't get ruined by the moisture overnight. I'd meant to give it away through the T&E, but the Inorganic seemed ideal for my lazy-arse purposes (although it still took me a week or more to haul it from the front door to the front gate).
The story in my head had this aging computer making all the difference in the life of one, or possibly a family of youngsters, inspiring them in their learning, starting them on the path to university and eventually a prestigious – yet altruistic – medical career. Beneath all this was the lingering concern that I mightn't have wiped all the porn from the hard disk…
I needn't have worried. Within fifteen minutes of it hitting the footpath, as though sensing a change in the Inorganic Matrix, a man came along armed with a spanner, and ripped the entire machine apart, my philanthropic dream shattering as easily as a motherboard on concrete. It was too late, but I had to ask. "What are you doing?!" I called out the window. "Getting the wire – you can sell it," came the reply. I was left hoping against hope that he might spend the proceeds on some books for his children.
Presumably the Inorganic truck is on its way, although the council's website is sufficiently vague as to leave a lot of doubt. It's an offence to have your refuse out for more than two weeks prior to collection, although the longer it stays out, the less there is, so you'd think this would work in the council's favour. Also barred is taking something from someone else's rubbish, even if just to make your own pile bigger than your neighbours' (it's apparently a sign of prestige in Sando if your refuse is so prolific that it spills onto the street).
But rules and regulations don't seem to have much to do with the Inorganic though: like an instinctive mass migration of old TVs and faulty microwaves, it takes but one house to start the Great Purge, and the others follow within hours. For two or three weeks every couple of years, the suburbs are alive with scurrying and scavenging. Then, one overcast July morning, as quickly as it began, the parasitic trash orgy comes to an end.
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