Dave is my oldest friend. We met way back in primary school and bonded over scale models and a fondness for inconsequential facts.
Dave is probably the most intelligent person I have ever met. He has an encyclopedic memory and can recount what I was doing 5 years ago, date and time of day. That's no exaggeration - he really can, I've tested him.
We were nerds together through school. His dad had built him a shed out back of his place and we'd hide there with our ship models and history books away from our fucked up families.
Dave's family had a penchant for alcoholism and suicide that would see off one of his brothers and his father. His mother was heavily inebriated for most of his childhood and his other brother was a full time car thief. Not that Dave would ever talk about that - he'd rather talk about ancient Rome and the latest model of the Graf Spee.
We knew that Dave would go far. He'd pass with honours any exam placed in front of him and would continue to do so as my schooling unravelled amid a dizzying variety of pharmaceuticals.
Socially awkward, Dave would still come to our parties. He'd be hanging out the window lest he got a whiff of dope smoke.
Dave was perfect as the straight guy you could always rely on as a comparison. We'd be having so much fun, then there'd be Dave, morose, out of place. We were certain he'd eventually commit suicide - we just weren't sure of the time and place.
Dave went on to Varsity while our school band, 'Swipe' petered out. He was doing science and history and didn't know whether he was going to be an astro-physicist or a history professor. He could do both if he liked.
Our guitarist, 'Rock' and I went on a series of motorbiking road trips that would leave us both hooked on smack. We drifted around various squalid flats, losing jobs and getting high, until he found a beautiful girlfriend and cleaned up.
A little later I, too, fell in love - with Dave's girlfriend. I contrived to hook up with her in a stunning bit of self-serving cunningness that even surprised me with it's success.
I felt a little bad, sure, but some things were meant to be. W and I remained together for 6 years and she probably saved my life. Dave never said anything but I know he was profoundly hurt. He cared for her a great deal.
I lost touch with Dave for a few years while I spent time in Europe. Eventually, though, I was to return and Dave and I met up again.
The change in him was unbelievable. From class nerd, he'd embraced punk rock with a passion. He now had a band, 'Domestic Blitz' that had been something of a pioneer on the scene in Wellington. He wore stove pipe trousers and jacket loaded with Union Jack buttons. He'd shaved his hair and clumped around in Doc Martin's.
Dave now had a vast circle of acquaintances and admirers including a fair number of women. The fact he never seemed to be interested in dating them led me to question his sexuality. They liked him - I couldn't see why - unless?
Dave also had a prodigious appetite for other people's stash - he took his Scottishness seriously. I'd kind of cleaned up - I was now the straight guy.
We never so much as talked as hung out, unless I primed him with a few scotches. Then he do 'morose' or ramble on about me being a 'bloody commie.' It bugged him and I'd blatantly tease him to death about it.
About the late seventies, I tried to regather my education and subsequently won a place at WTC. I took Drama and Geography as my majors and set about studying, taking odd jobs to pay for our house, be a daddy to our two children and work on a failing marriage. After a year, the strain was too much.
The roof of my domestic life fell in among much rancour and accusations. I called on Dave, depressed and desperate. He didn't know what to say - merely took me to some ghastly club where we sat on our own and got pissed. None of his friends were around - punk had metamorphised into New Wave and left him behind.
I thought he wasn't interested in my problems. Instead, he rambled on about nothing in particular and people I didn't know.
But, he did care. He got on the phone and rung people he knew would help. Soon, support arrived - support old Dave felt he was unable to offer personally. He hooked me back up with old friends and helped me reclaim some social life.
Later, I heard he'd gone on tour with Siouxie and the Banshees as - God knows what. He's also friends with Robert Smith of the Cure. Dave has a unique ability of coming on to celebrities without appearing a suck-up. He's also writes to Robert Fripp of King Crimson and the guy out of Van Der Graaf Generator - they write back, go figure?
He soldiers on someplace - probably back down in Wellington. Most likely he's in some job way below his skills so he doesn't have to break a sweat. If he'd topped himself I'd have heard on the grapevine.
I'll never forget the old bastard.
Don
Friday, October 17, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Swipe
My old friend claimed influences such as Brian Eno, Peter Gabriel's Genesis, Yes, Emerson Lake and Palmer, Premiata Forneria Marconi... In short, progressive rock, English style.
I'd venture Vanilla Fudge, but he'd scoff. Americans didn't play prog rock as she was written.
I didn't actually mind most of that - at least, when they actually played songs rather than 30 minute symphonies. But, Brian Eno was just a little too far out for me at the time. My tastes hadn't run much past Deep Purple and Black Sabbath. Jefferson Airplane, Grateful Dead and English folk was my little secret.
Bruce wanted to form a band. I was barely out of High School and with my first pay I'd bought a second hand drum kit. A friend of ours, 'Rock,' acquired himself an electric guitar, a genuine Burns Bison. We were in business. Rock was still at school so we used the hall as a rehearsal space.
Bruce electrified his mandolin and a mate had built him a bank of oscillators. The result was not unlike inoculation time at the cattery.
"Give us a 4/4, Don?"
"A 4 what?" I replied. I'd had the drums a week and I couldn't even change a drum head. I'd no musical training whatsoever and didn't know a time signature if I fell over one.
"Like this, tat, tat, tat, TAT..."
"Oh!"
In truth, the only reason I chose the drums was because I thought it was easy to play. I'd also bought an acoustic guitar and a fly string banjo - upon neither of which could I form so much as a basic chord.
The name of the band was 'Swipe,' Bruce's idea. He didn't know it was also the name of a domestic cleaner. 'Swipe, the cleanest band in town,' was to haunt us during our short career.
Bruce and Rock immediately launched into a jam that was impossible to drum to. Suddenly, they'd change times without saying anything, leaving me banging aimlessly trying to pick it up again. After a while I was completely ignored, so I wandered off to fetch a beer.
Eventually, one day I turned up for practice to find this other guy, Shane, in my seat. He did know how to play, but lacked a kit. From then on my role was to provide the drum kit and hump the fucking thing around.
A bass player answered the advertisement, Ari, an Indonesian guy who was stoned most of the time. He always wore shades and his well groomed long hair never moved when he shook his head.
That's the other thing. Both Shane and Ari were babe magnets and that fact became more important than actually playing music.
We did have a couple of good songs - mostly when Bruce left his horrendous home built Moog synthesiser alone. The kind of Brian Eno, John Cale pre-punk stuff really rocked - a bit like 'Babies on Fire" - but, the symphonic, early Genesis/Yes was going way beyond our collective expertise.
Our first gig was in Wellington, at the Opera House, no less. We'd entered into some rock quest thing.
Bruce wanted a persian carpet to stand on, like Greg Lake. Shane wanted dead leaves poured all over him like some dude in King Crimson. As official roadie, I tried to cater for all the band's needs. Ari got trashed all on his own, however, as he was a part time dealer.
We came third, behind a rock and roll outfit, whose 15 year old guitar whizz played a pearly white Les Paul. The winner was some outfit in matching clothes and choreography playing old sixties stuff like the Tremeloes.
The world clearly wasn't ready for 'Swipe,' yet.
Bruce went up to Auckland and held art/spoken word events until emigrating to Australia. Rock, eventually wound up in Canada, a history professor. Ari went back to Indonesia and Shane got married.
By then, another pal, Dave, had bought himself a Rickenbacker and plastered 'Never Mind the Bollocks,' over it. 'Domestic Blitz' and Punk were born and prog rock went into the museum.
Don
I'd venture Vanilla Fudge, but he'd scoff. Americans didn't play prog rock as she was written.
I didn't actually mind most of that - at least, when they actually played songs rather than 30 minute symphonies. But, Brian Eno was just a little too far out for me at the time. My tastes hadn't run much past Deep Purple and Black Sabbath. Jefferson Airplane, Grateful Dead and English folk was my little secret.
Bruce wanted to form a band. I was barely out of High School and with my first pay I'd bought a second hand drum kit. A friend of ours, 'Rock,' acquired himself an electric guitar, a genuine Burns Bison. We were in business. Rock was still at school so we used the hall as a rehearsal space.
Bruce electrified his mandolin and a mate had built him a bank of oscillators. The result was not unlike inoculation time at the cattery.
"Give us a 4/4, Don?"
"A 4 what?" I replied. I'd had the drums a week and I couldn't even change a drum head. I'd no musical training whatsoever and didn't know a time signature if I fell over one.
"Like this, tat, tat, tat, TAT..."
"Oh!"
In truth, the only reason I chose the drums was because I thought it was easy to play. I'd also bought an acoustic guitar and a fly string banjo - upon neither of which could I form so much as a basic chord.
The name of the band was 'Swipe,' Bruce's idea. He didn't know it was also the name of a domestic cleaner. 'Swipe, the cleanest band in town,' was to haunt us during our short career.
Bruce and Rock immediately launched into a jam that was impossible to drum to. Suddenly, they'd change times without saying anything, leaving me banging aimlessly trying to pick it up again. After a while I was completely ignored, so I wandered off to fetch a beer.
Eventually, one day I turned up for practice to find this other guy, Shane, in my seat. He did know how to play, but lacked a kit. From then on my role was to provide the drum kit and hump the fucking thing around.
A bass player answered the advertisement, Ari, an Indonesian guy who was stoned most of the time. He always wore shades and his well groomed long hair never moved when he shook his head.
That's the other thing. Both Shane and Ari were babe magnets and that fact became more important than actually playing music.
We did have a couple of good songs - mostly when Bruce left his horrendous home built Moog synthesiser alone. The kind of Brian Eno, John Cale pre-punk stuff really rocked - a bit like 'Babies on Fire" - but, the symphonic, early Genesis/Yes was going way beyond our collective expertise.
Our first gig was in Wellington, at the Opera House, no less. We'd entered into some rock quest thing.
Bruce wanted a persian carpet to stand on, like Greg Lake. Shane wanted dead leaves poured all over him like some dude in King Crimson. As official roadie, I tried to cater for all the band's needs. Ari got trashed all on his own, however, as he was a part time dealer.
We came third, behind a rock and roll outfit, whose 15 year old guitar whizz played a pearly white Les Paul. The winner was some outfit in matching clothes and choreography playing old sixties stuff like the Tremeloes.
The world clearly wasn't ready for 'Swipe,' yet.
Bruce went up to Auckland and held art/spoken word events until emigrating to Australia. Rock, eventually wound up in Canada, a history professor. Ari went back to Indonesia and Shane got married.
By then, another pal, Dave, had bought himself a Rickenbacker and plastered 'Never Mind the Bollocks,' over it. 'Domestic Blitz' and Punk were born and prog rock went into the museum.
Don
Monday, October 13, 2008
The Power of Love
The walls of Ward 21 were painted a kind of puke yellow. I remember the smell of iodine and the rattle of heels down the hallway. They seem to reverberate forever. I also recall the crash of the dinner trolley - a kind of chrome steel thing always polished to a mirror.
Sometimes I'd play in the day room at the end of the ward. They had these art deco windows from ceiling to floor and a real potted palm. There I'd build machine guns with the Meccano set some charity donated.
I knew my Bren gun from my Vickers, and I'd tell the nurses how I knew it was a Bren because the magazine slots into the top, see? Sometimes they'd nod and smile, or caution me not to disturb the other patients.
Ward 21 was truly God's waiting room. Only the most serious 'cardio-pulminary' patients wound up there. In those days, there was no such thing as an ICU - they just screened off a room and wheeled in all the equipment.
I'd get to know someone, then suddenly they were gone. My dad sometimes gave me the body count - the nurses only telling me that, 'they've gone to another ward,' or, 'so and so's gone home.'
"But they never said goodbye!!"
That was usually worthy of a double helping of steamed chocolate dessert that night for dinner.
I remember a girl, about my age or a little older. I used to visit her a lot and we'd play snakes and ladders and ludo. My dad later told me she had a hole in her heart, that it was too severe to operate, and she'd died. I still see her blond curly hair and smile. I never knew how sick she was.
Ward 21 was my home for the first ten years of my life. At age 12 months, I'd contracted German measles and it had wrecked my left lung. I could never be far from the oxygen, and I needed my lung drained every second day or so.
I would also develop pneumonia if I so much as pass by an open window. I've lost count the number of times I've had it.
Home visits rarely lasted longer than a couple of weeks. I tried school a few times, but no sooner I'd start, I'd get hit with pneumonia. I recall having to spend lunch hours inside and watch the kids playing through the windows.
Even now, hospital has a kind of uneasiness for me. But, they're nothing like my childhood memory. Years of taking kids to the ER - and having four of my babies born in them - has cured most of my aversions.
I was the youngest of a large family. Most of my siblings had something wrong with them - like we'd all chosen a mystery card at birth. Mine was 'fucked lungs,' but even so, I considered myself fortunate.
A brother and sister were born deaf - another brother continues to have eye problems - still another sister is developmentally locked into 5 years old. Why our family should be cursed so, never bothered me much as a child. A kid accepts what's around them as normal.
Other anomalies concerning our relatives didn't resonate either. Why my parents chose to live in the Wellington area while the bulk of my extended family lived in Auckland? How come none of my aunties and uncles ever visited? Tensions and long standing bitterness evident? I could never figure out the plethora of relatives - they were like some jumbled up word game.
Then I was about 24, and due to marry. My fiance and I needed to know whether there were any genetic issues we should be aware of. My dad took me to the pub - he'd never in his life taken me there before. I felt privileged.
It was there he gave me the last piece of the puzzle - like some game of Vulcan kelto. Suddenly the puzzles resolved into a coherent shape and our family made sense, finally.
Shall we say, my mother and father were a lot more closely related than I ever imagined.
How do I feel? Well, it's plain to me that my life was substantially different as a consequence. But, I'm too tied up with the here and now to devote too much emotional energy to regrets and 'might have beens.'
My brothers and sisters and I were never close. There was quite a gap between them and me and I was mostly in hospital. When I was finally discharged after a lobectomy, age ten, my siblings had mostly moved on or were in care. My brother Emails me now and again - that's about it.
Suffice to say, there was no great a risk of passing on bad genes to my kids than anyone else. I have had advice that consanguinity was unlikely to have been a factor affecting by brothers and sisters. Apparently, there needs to be a little more intergenerational inbreeding. I don't know - but my dad believed it was.
One positive thing my parents passed on to me was their utter faith in the power of love. They remained completely devoted to each other their whole life. I can't think of a greater gift.
Don
Sometimes I'd play in the day room at the end of the ward. They had these art deco windows from ceiling to floor and a real potted palm. There I'd build machine guns with the Meccano set some charity donated.
I knew my Bren gun from my Vickers, and I'd tell the nurses how I knew it was a Bren because the magazine slots into the top, see? Sometimes they'd nod and smile, or caution me not to disturb the other patients.
Ward 21 was truly God's waiting room. Only the most serious 'cardio-pulminary' patients wound up there. In those days, there was no such thing as an ICU - they just screened off a room and wheeled in all the equipment.
I'd get to know someone, then suddenly they were gone. My dad sometimes gave me the body count - the nurses only telling me that, 'they've gone to another ward,' or, 'so and so's gone home.'
"But they never said goodbye!!"
That was usually worthy of a double helping of steamed chocolate dessert that night for dinner.
I remember a girl, about my age or a little older. I used to visit her a lot and we'd play snakes and ladders and ludo. My dad later told me she had a hole in her heart, that it was too severe to operate, and she'd died. I still see her blond curly hair and smile. I never knew how sick she was.
Ward 21 was my home for the first ten years of my life. At age 12 months, I'd contracted German measles and it had wrecked my left lung. I could never be far from the oxygen, and I needed my lung drained every second day or so.
I would also develop pneumonia if I so much as pass by an open window. I've lost count the number of times I've had it.
Home visits rarely lasted longer than a couple of weeks. I tried school a few times, but no sooner I'd start, I'd get hit with pneumonia. I recall having to spend lunch hours inside and watch the kids playing through the windows.
Even now, hospital has a kind of uneasiness for me. But, they're nothing like my childhood memory. Years of taking kids to the ER - and having four of my babies born in them - has cured most of my aversions.
I was the youngest of a large family. Most of my siblings had something wrong with them - like we'd all chosen a mystery card at birth. Mine was 'fucked lungs,' but even so, I considered myself fortunate.
A brother and sister were born deaf - another brother continues to have eye problems - still another sister is developmentally locked into 5 years old. Why our family should be cursed so, never bothered me much as a child. A kid accepts what's around them as normal.
Other anomalies concerning our relatives didn't resonate either. Why my parents chose to live in the Wellington area while the bulk of my extended family lived in Auckland? How come none of my aunties and uncles ever visited? Tensions and long standing bitterness evident? I could never figure out the plethora of relatives - they were like some jumbled up word game.
Then I was about 24, and due to marry. My fiance and I needed to know whether there were any genetic issues we should be aware of. My dad took me to the pub - he'd never in his life taken me there before. I felt privileged.
It was there he gave me the last piece of the puzzle - like some game of Vulcan kelto. Suddenly the puzzles resolved into a coherent shape and our family made sense, finally.
Shall we say, my mother and father were a lot more closely related than I ever imagined.
How do I feel? Well, it's plain to me that my life was substantially different as a consequence. But, I'm too tied up with the here and now to devote too much emotional energy to regrets and 'might have beens.'
My brothers and sisters and I were never close. There was quite a gap between them and me and I was mostly in hospital. When I was finally discharged after a lobectomy, age ten, my siblings had mostly moved on or were in care. My brother Emails me now and again - that's about it.
Suffice to say, there was no great a risk of passing on bad genes to my kids than anyone else. I have had advice that consanguinity was unlikely to have been a factor affecting by brothers and sisters. Apparently, there needs to be a little more intergenerational inbreeding. I don't know - but my dad believed it was.
One positive thing my parents passed on to me was their utter faith in the power of love. They remained completely devoted to each other their whole life. I can't think of a greater gift.
Don
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Yje Power of Love
The walls of Ward 21 were painted a kind of puke yellow. I remember the smell of iodine and the rattle of heels down the hallway. They seem to reverberate forever. I also recall the crash of the dinner trolley - a kind of chrome steel thing always polished to a mirror.
Sometimes I'd play in the day room at the end of the ward. They had these art deco windows from ceiling to floor and a real potted palm. There I'd build machine guns with the Meccano set some charity donated.
I knew my Bren gun from my Vickers, and I'd tell the nurses how I knew it was a Bren because the magazine slots into the top, see? Sometimes they'd nod and smile, or caution me not to disturb the other patients.
Ward 21 was truly God's waiting room. Only the most serious 'cardio-pulminary' patients wound up there. In those days, there was no such thing as an ICU - they just screened off a room and wheeled in all the equipment.
I'd get to know someone, then suddenly they were gone. My dad sometimes gave me the body count - the nurses only telling me that, 'they've gone to another ward,' or, 'so and so's gone home.'
"But they never said goodbye!!"
That was usually worthy of a double helping of steamed chocolate dessert that night for dinner.
I remember a girl, about my age or a little older. I used to visit her a lot and we'd play snakes and ladders and ludo. My dad later told me she had a hole in her heart, that it was too severe to operate, and she'd died. I still see her blond curly hair and smile. I never knew how sick she was.
Ward 21 was my home for the first ten years of my life. At age 12 months, I'd contracted German measles and it had wrecked my left lung. I could never be far from the oxygen, and I needed my lung drained every second day or so.
I would also develop pneumonia if I so much as pass by an open window. I've lost count the number of times I've had it.
Home visits rarely lasted longer than a couple of weeks. I tried school a few times, but no sooner I'd start, I'd get hit with pneumonia. I recall having to spend lunch hours inside and watch the kids playing through the windows.
Even now, hospital has a kind of uneasiness for me. But, they're nothing like my childhood memory. Years of taking kids to the ER - and having four of my babies born in them - has cured most of my aversions.
I was the youngest of a large family. Most of my siblings had something wrong with them - like we'd all chosen a mystery card at birth. Mine was 'fucked lungs,' but even so, I considered myself fortunate.
A brother and sister were born deaf - another brother continues to have eye problems - still another sister is developmentally locked into 5 years old. Why our family should be cursed so, never bothered me much as a child. A kid accepts what's around them as normal.
Other anomalies concerning our relatives didn't resonate either. Why my parents chose to live in the Wellington area while the bulk of my extended family lived in Auckland? How come none of my aunties and uncles ever visited? Tensions and long standing bitterness evident? I could never figure out the plethora of relatives - they were like some jumbled up word game.
Then I was about 24, and due to marry. My fiance and I needed to know whether there were any genetic issues we should be aware of. My dad took me to the pub - he'd never in his life taken me there before. I felt privileged.
It was there he gave me the last piece of the puzzle - like some game of Vulcan kelto. Suddenly the puzzles resolved into a coherent shape and our family made sense, finally.
Shall we say, my mother and father were a lot more closely related than I ever imagined.
How do I feel? Well, it's plain to me that my life was substantially different as a consequence. But, I'm too tied up with the here and now to devote too much emotional energy to regrets and 'might have beens.'
My brothers and sisters and I were never close. There was quite a gap between them and me and I was mostly in hospital. When I was finally discharged after a lobectomy, age ten, my siblings had mostly moved on or were in care. My brother Emails me now and again - that's about it.
Suffice to say, there was no great a risk of passing on bad genes to my kids than anyone else. I have had advice that consanguinity was unlikely to have been a factor affecting by brothers and sisters. Apparently, there needs to be a little more intergenerational inbreeding. I don't know - but my dad believed it was.
One positive thing my parents passed on to me was their utter faith in the power of love. They remained completely devoted to each other their whole life. I can't think of a greater gift.
Don
Sometimes I'd play in the day room at the end of the ward. They had these art deco windows from ceiling to floor and a real potted palm. There I'd build machine guns with the Meccano set some charity donated.
I knew my Bren gun from my Vickers, and I'd tell the nurses how I knew it was a Bren because the magazine slots into the top, see? Sometimes they'd nod and smile, or caution me not to disturb the other patients.
Ward 21 was truly God's waiting room. Only the most serious 'cardio-pulminary' patients wound up there. In those days, there was no such thing as an ICU - they just screened off a room and wheeled in all the equipment.
I'd get to know someone, then suddenly they were gone. My dad sometimes gave me the body count - the nurses only telling me that, 'they've gone to another ward,' or, 'so and so's gone home.'
"But they never said goodbye!!"
That was usually worthy of a double helping of steamed chocolate dessert that night for dinner.
I remember a girl, about my age or a little older. I used to visit her a lot and we'd play snakes and ladders and ludo. My dad later told me she had a hole in her heart, that it was too severe to operate, and she'd died. I still see her blond curly hair and smile. I never knew how sick she was.
Ward 21 was my home for the first ten years of my life. At age 12 months, I'd contracted German measles and it had wrecked my left lung. I could never be far from the oxygen, and I needed my lung drained every second day or so.
I would also develop pneumonia if I so much as pass by an open window. I've lost count the number of times I've had it.
Home visits rarely lasted longer than a couple of weeks. I tried school a few times, but no sooner I'd start, I'd get hit with pneumonia. I recall having to spend lunch hours inside and watch the kids playing through the windows.
Even now, hospital has a kind of uneasiness for me. But, they're nothing like my childhood memory. Years of taking kids to the ER - and having four of my babies born in them - has cured most of my aversions.
I was the youngest of a large family. Most of my siblings had something wrong with them - like we'd all chosen a mystery card at birth. Mine was 'fucked lungs,' but even so, I considered myself fortunate.
A brother and sister were born deaf - another brother continues to have eye problems - still another sister is developmentally locked into 5 years old. Why our family should be cursed so, never bothered me much as a child. A kid accepts what's around them as normal.
Other anomalies concerning our relatives didn't resonate either. Why my parents chose to live in the Wellington area while the bulk of my extended family lived in Auckland? How come none of my aunties and uncles ever visited? Tensions and long standing bitterness evident? I could never figure out the plethora of relatives - they were like some jumbled up word game.
Then I was about 24, and due to marry. My fiance and I needed to know whether there were any genetic issues we should be aware of. My dad took me to the pub - he'd never in his life taken me there before. I felt privileged.
It was there he gave me the last piece of the puzzle - like some game of Vulcan kelto. Suddenly the puzzles resolved into a coherent shape and our family made sense, finally.
Shall we say, my mother and father were a lot more closely related than I ever imagined.
How do I feel? Well, it's plain to me that my life was substantially different as a consequence. But, I'm too tied up with the here and now to devote too much emotional energy to regrets and 'might have beens.'
My brothers and sisters and I were never close. There was quite a gap between them and me and I was mostly in hospital. When I was finally discharged after a lobectomy, age ten, my siblings had mostly moved on or were in care. My brother Emails me now and again - that's about it.
Suffice to say, there was no great a risk of passing on bad genes to my kids than anyone else. I have had advice that consanguinity was unlikely to have been a factor affecting by brothers and sisters. Apparently, there needs to be a little more intergenerational inbreeding. I don't know - but my dad believed it was.
One positive thing my parents passed on to me was their utter faith in the power of love. They remained completely devoted to each other their whole life. I can't think of a greater gift.
Don
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Busted Finger
I busted my finger at work the other day. It was one of those insanely stupid moments that, in my arrogance, I'd never believe I was capable of. But, shit happens!
I was in a hurry to finish a job before lunch. The centre mowing deck blocked up and, rather than run it up the ramp of my transporter, I pulled the tractor over a drain then rolled underneath to clear it. Foolishly, I forgot to allow the blades to run down - I reached underneath while they were still spinning.
Luckily, I was wearing protective gloves. The first blow felt like a hard punch on the hand and I immediately rolled away. The blade took me on the second knuckle and knocked my hand away. Otherwise, I'd have lost fingers.
'Flagrant disregard for elementary safety rules.' There'd be consequences, and I figured I could never formally report it.
So, I decided to cover it up. I obtained the help of a trusted workmate and together we strapped up my digit with a popsicle stick as a splint. The pain I had to live with.
My hand I keep firmly out of sight or inside a leather glove. I must remember not to shake hands and suck up any offense that may cause.
So where did my stoicism come from? God knows. I hate pain of any kind. Like all Kiwi boys of my generation I felt compelled to play rugby. I was never very good, being too light, too slow, with poor stamina. Consequently, about Form six, I drifted away and joined the Drama Club. That was 1971, and it was growing acceptable to do that sort of thing. I miss playing body contact sport like a favourite boil on the arse.
Geminis are noted for their contradictions. I took up the sport of motorcycling, both as a competitor and as a mode of transport. Falling off is part of the learning curve and I've lost count the number of times I took a tumble. Up to a couple of years ago I was still racing on Club days until the sheer cost, and other priorities, wound up my career for the present.
Gravel burns are the pits, but the sheer adrenalin rush is indescribable. It's an exercise in concentration and reflexes and it makes little difference if you're big or small. To make a bad judgement could bring down other riders and lose friends - a crash costs a lot of money and you can't get insurance.
Yeah, I love racing.
So what is this stoicism shit? I think the fear of being censured outweighs my need to complain. My finger hurts like hell and that should be sufficient to ensure I never do that particular thing again.
But, there's always some other dumbass, stupid act - I hope I get away with just a busted finger next time.
Don
I was in a hurry to finish a job before lunch. The centre mowing deck blocked up and, rather than run it up the ramp of my transporter, I pulled the tractor over a drain then rolled underneath to clear it. Foolishly, I forgot to allow the blades to run down - I reached underneath while they were still spinning.
Luckily, I was wearing protective gloves. The first blow felt like a hard punch on the hand and I immediately rolled away. The blade took me on the second knuckle and knocked my hand away. Otherwise, I'd have lost fingers.
'Flagrant disregard for elementary safety rules.' There'd be consequences, and I figured I could never formally report it.
So, I decided to cover it up. I obtained the help of a trusted workmate and together we strapped up my digit with a popsicle stick as a splint. The pain I had to live with.
My hand I keep firmly out of sight or inside a leather glove. I must remember not to shake hands and suck up any offense that may cause.
So where did my stoicism come from? God knows. I hate pain of any kind. Like all Kiwi boys of my generation I felt compelled to play rugby. I was never very good, being too light, too slow, with poor stamina. Consequently, about Form six, I drifted away and joined the Drama Club. That was 1971, and it was growing acceptable to do that sort of thing. I miss playing body contact sport like a favourite boil on the arse.
Geminis are noted for their contradictions. I took up the sport of motorcycling, both as a competitor and as a mode of transport. Falling off is part of the learning curve and I've lost count the number of times I took a tumble. Up to a couple of years ago I was still racing on Club days until the sheer cost, and other priorities, wound up my career for the present.
Gravel burns are the pits, but the sheer adrenalin rush is indescribable. It's an exercise in concentration and reflexes and it makes little difference if you're big or small. To make a bad judgement could bring down other riders and lose friends - a crash costs a lot of money and you can't get insurance.
Yeah, I love racing.
So what is this stoicism shit? I think the fear of being censured outweighs my need to complain. My finger hurts like hell and that should be sufficient to ensure I never do that particular thing again.
But, there's always some other dumbass, stupid act - I hope I get away with just a busted finger next time.
Don
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Notorious at Last
I once was refused entry to the USA. I kept the letter for many years until lost in some move somewhere. It was polite and gracious and gave no reason - just that 'your application for a visa to enter the United States has been declined.' I was at last 'notorious.'
It happened back in 1984, ironically. The Soviet Union was busy offering fraternal assistance to the Afghans and US buddy Saddam Hussein was slaughtering Iranians and Kurds. In Central America the Sandanistas had booted US's man Anastasio Somoza out of Nicaragua and the Americans had imposed an embargo in retaliation. Anyone named 'Anastasio' HAS to be a villain.
Outraged US aid groups decided to test the blockade by driving a convoy of humanitarian aid down to Nicaragua through Mexico. (Managua had been devastated by an earthquake 2 years before and Somoza had stolen most of the international aid). About eight of us from the NZ Socialist Action League thought it really cool if we paid a visit to our fraternal comrades on the way to Managua.
See, an 'International friendship Brigade' was being formed in Cuba to go to Nicaragua to help bring in the coffee harvest. I'd never been to Central America and I was keen to learn a bit of Spanish.
'Visa denied' to all of us. I raised the possibility of going to the Press with it - 'aid workers denied US visa,' or some such.
"We can't do that!" someone objected. "We're a secret revolutionary organisation. The press will want our names."
"So? The fucking US State Department has them," I replied, to no avail.
So we had to fly to Mexico. We changed planes at Honolulu, which you can do as a transit passenger. From Mexico City to Havana, Cuba, then from Cuba to Nicaragua.
The convoy did get through. Someone in the State Department pointed out to Ronald Reagan you can't stop US citizens leaving the United States and holding up a convoy of medicine was bad PR.
A better idea was to mine the harbour, which, of course, they did.
Cuba's contribution was 4000 odd doctors and engineers with a penchant for toting assault rifles and marching in columns. A battalion of Cuban doctors was camped near us at Bluefields on the Caribbean Coast, complete with BMP armoured personnel carriers and a Mi-8 attack helicopter. Our medical needs were well looked after.
President Daniel Ortega, himself, dropped by the first Sunday. He arrived in a Russian biplane, an Antonov An-2, that looked like it had come from the second world war. I was impressed with his courage.
I really liked Daniel Ortega, he was cool. There was a certain sang froid in his manner and tons of boyish charm. Okay, he was accused of accepting a few too many gifts from a grateful people, but that's hardly exceptional in that part of the world. He was a damn sight less corrupt than his predecessor and never made much of a fortune out of the job.
He shared a few bottles of Czech beer with us - Czechoslovakia's much appreciated humanitarian contribution involved daily shipments of Pils Urquell. His English wasn't terrific, but he arrived with a sexy young translator. Central and South American leaders accept young women as fringe benefits and Daniel sure didn't pass that up while building a socialist paradise.
Our guides were a pair from the Sandanista Youth, wearing the ubiquitous red neck scarves. They'd nicked the idea from Comsomol and I wanted one too. I still have it.
The woman, Maria, was cool and the only reason I would've stayed on if I was allowed. Frankly, it was far too hot and picking coffee lost its attraction after a week or two.
Maria had been educated in the US and Poland, for some reason. Poland is bleak, and I can understand why she wanted to come home to the Caribbean. She was 22, idealistic and happily married, unfortunately.
Our Cuban doctor friends had a habit of practicing at an improvised rifle range 6am every morning and far too close to our camp. They substituted accuracy for volume, insisting on blowing shit out of the targets on full automatic. I pity any Contra coming down from the hills dressed as a hay bale - they'd be shredded.
A doctor called Alessandro taught me to strip down an AK-47 in 40 seconds and basic triage. He really WAS a doctor. I reckon I could still strip down an AK-47, shoot it, and stop the bleeding afterwards.
I was once pompously labelled 'naive' by a snooty American on an Author's message board. I volunteered 'notorious', but he wouldn't buy it.
"You guys lost!" he declared, triumphantly.
So glad of that. Now the world can be at peace.
Notorious Don
It happened back in 1984, ironically. The Soviet Union was busy offering fraternal assistance to the Afghans and US buddy Saddam Hussein was slaughtering Iranians and Kurds. In Central America the Sandanistas had booted US's man Anastasio Somoza out of Nicaragua and the Americans had imposed an embargo in retaliation. Anyone named 'Anastasio' HAS to be a villain.
Outraged US aid groups decided to test the blockade by driving a convoy of humanitarian aid down to Nicaragua through Mexico. (Managua had been devastated by an earthquake 2 years before and Somoza had stolen most of the international aid). About eight of us from the NZ Socialist Action League thought it really cool if we paid a visit to our fraternal comrades on the way to Managua.
See, an 'International friendship Brigade' was being formed in Cuba to go to Nicaragua to help bring in the coffee harvest. I'd never been to Central America and I was keen to learn a bit of Spanish.
'Visa denied' to all of us. I raised the possibility of going to the Press with it - 'aid workers denied US visa,' or some such.
"We can't do that!" someone objected. "We're a secret revolutionary organisation. The press will want our names."
"So? The fucking US State Department has them," I replied, to no avail.
So we had to fly to Mexico. We changed planes at Honolulu, which you can do as a transit passenger. From Mexico City to Havana, Cuba, then from Cuba to Nicaragua.
The convoy did get through. Someone in the State Department pointed out to Ronald Reagan you can't stop US citizens leaving the United States and holding up a convoy of medicine was bad PR.
A better idea was to mine the harbour, which, of course, they did.
Cuba's contribution was 4000 odd doctors and engineers with a penchant for toting assault rifles and marching in columns. A battalion of Cuban doctors was camped near us at Bluefields on the Caribbean Coast, complete with BMP armoured personnel carriers and a Mi-8 attack helicopter. Our medical needs were well looked after.
President Daniel Ortega, himself, dropped by the first Sunday. He arrived in a Russian biplane, an Antonov An-2, that looked like it had come from the second world war. I was impressed with his courage.
I really liked Daniel Ortega, he was cool. There was a certain sang froid in his manner and tons of boyish charm. Okay, he was accused of accepting a few too many gifts from a grateful people, but that's hardly exceptional in that part of the world. He was a damn sight less corrupt than his predecessor and never made much of a fortune out of the job.
He shared a few bottles of Czech beer with us - Czechoslovakia's much appreciated humanitarian contribution involved daily shipments of Pils Urquell. His English wasn't terrific, but he arrived with a sexy young translator. Central and South American leaders accept young women as fringe benefits and Daniel sure didn't pass that up while building a socialist paradise.
Our guides were a pair from the Sandanista Youth, wearing the ubiquitous red neck scarves. They'd nicked the idea from Comsomol and I wanted one too. I still have it.
The woman, Maria, was cool and the only reason I would've stayed on if I was allowed. Frankly, it was far too hot and picking coffee lost its attraction after a week or two.
Maria had been educated in the US and Poland, for some reason. Poland is bleak, and I can understand why she wanted to come home to the Caribbean. She was 22, idealistic and happily married, unfortunately.
Our Cuban doctor friends had a habit of practicing at an improvised rifle range 6am every morning and far too close to our camp. They substituted accuracy for volume, insisting on blowing shit out of the targets on full automatic. I pity any Contra coming down from the hills dressed as a hay bale - they'd be shredded.
A doctor called Alessandro taught me to strip down an AK-47 in 40 seconds and basic triage. He really WAS a doctor. I reckon I could still strip down an AK-47, shoot it, and stop the bleeding afterwards.
I was once pompously labelled 'naive' by a snooty American on an Author's message board. I volunteered 'notorious', but he wouldn't buy it.
"You guys lost!" he declared, triumphantly.
So glad of that. Now the world can be at peace.
Notorious Don
Monday, September 29, 2008
I was a KGB spy
I was a KGB agent - that is, I wanted to be a KGB agent. I used to hang out at the Soviet Embassy pretending I wasn't just picking up Russian magazines and newspapers.
Across the road, rumour had it the NZ security service photographed everyone who came and went. Sometimes I'd wave - just to be a smartarse - at other times, I'd slink out holding magazines up over my face.
I guess if New Zealand had important secrets - and I was party to them - the Russians may have been more interested. At any rate, I was never recruited, nor caught in a honey trap. Pity - I would've liked being caught in a KGB honey trap.
'Notorious Soviet spy arrested!' the headlines would scream. There would be me - face shielded from the cameras with a copy of 'Spotlight on Astrakhan' by Panorama Press. I think I would've liked being 'notorious.'
Leningrad was far more interesting in those magazines than in the flesh. It was cold, it was full of architecture and tourists - not unlike most old European cities. It was cluttered with drunken Finns and plain clothes cops - militsya in shades and ill-fitting suits.
The cops were more worried about the Finns pissing in the seventeen century fountains than the clusters of illegal foreign currency traders.
Leningraders wanted dollars, Levi jeans, T-shirts and rock records. Dealers called Yuri would descend - all the while nervously watching for the militsya, who couldn't give a fuck, but, they wanted a percentage.
1979 - the Soviets had just entered Afghanistan offering fraternal assistance to the Afghan people. It said so in Tass, and to prove it, smiling Soviet Tajik soldiers offered cigarettes to smiling Afghan soldiers.
What was the opinion of socialist youth? A shrug, and 'I'll give you ten rubles for your watch.'
I went back to Stockholm with the opinion that THAT socialist paradise wasn't exactly MY socialist paradise. There were too many cops, too much paranoia, as much capitalism as anywhere and utterly boring newspapers.
I stayed with the local 'Trots,' the Swedish Socialist Workers. With social legislation light years ahead of just about anybody, I wondered why the Hell they had a Socialist Workers Party. I made friends with the 'raggiare,' Swedish retro rockers who liked old American cars and faded denim.
1979, too, was the onset of the Iranian Revolution. I was down in Copenhagen and the hostel was full of an interesting mix of ex employees of the Shah and members of Iranian Communist Youth - still wearing their red neck scarves.
These disparate refugees found common cause to lay every Western woman under the age of eighty. In this enterprise they were only partially successful, but even so, an extraordinary number of English female backpackers succumbed to their charms. I wished there was something more than a curtain separating the sleeping areas.
For all that, the Iranians were smart, interesting people with passable English. Most had been educated in Europe and America - middle class and from Tehran and Isfahan.
Had they been in fear of their lives? Sort of - they'd mostly escaped the draft.
Lentils, Talking Heads, nocturnal humping and Iranian draft dodgers are my memories of that godawful Danish hostel.
In 1992 I married an English/Iranian. I'm thinking of applying to the spy department of the Iranian Revolutionary Council. Life seems to have this weird symmetry.
Don
Across the road, rumour had it the NZ security service photographed everyone who came and went. Sometimes I'd wave - just to be a smartarse - at other times, I'd slink out holding magazines up over my face.
I guess if New Zealand had important secrets - and I was party to them - the Russians may have been more interested. At any rate, I was never recruited, nor caught in a honey trap. Pity - I would've liked being caught in a KGB honey trap.
'Notorious Soviet spy arrested!' the headlines would scream. There would be me - face shielded from the cameras with a copy of 'Spotlight on Astrakhan' by Panorama Press. I think I would've liked being 'notorious.'
Leningrad was far more interesting in those magazines than in the flesh. It was cold, it was full of architecture and tourists - not unlike most old European cities. It was cluttered with drunken Finns and plain clothes cops - militsya in shades and ill-fitting suits.
The cops were more worried about the Finns pissing in the seventeen century fountains than the clusters of illegal foreign currency traders.
Leningraders wanted dollars, Levi jeans, T-shirts and rock records. Dealers called Yuri would descend - all the while nervously watching for the militsya, who couldn't give a fuck, but, they wanted a percentage.
1979 - the Soviets had just entered Afghanistan offering fraternal assistance to the Afghan people. It said so in Tass, and to prove it, smiling Soviet Tajik soldiers offered cigarettes to smiling Afghan soldiers.
What was the opinion of socialist youth? A shrug, and 'I'll give you ten rubles for your watch.'
I went back to Stockholm with the opinion that THAT socialist paradise wasn't exactly MY socialist paradise. There were too many cops, too much paranoia, as much capitalism as anywhere and utterly boring newspapers.
I stayed with the local 'Trots,' the Swedish Socialist Workers. With social legislation light years ahead of just about anybody, I wondered why the Hell they had a Socialist Workers Party. I made friends with the 'raggiare,' Swedish retro rockers who liked old American cars and faded denim.
1979, too, was the onset of the Iranian Revolution. I was down in Copenhagen and the hostel was full of an interesting mix of ex employees of the Shah and members of Iranian Communist Youth - still wearing their red neck scarves.
These disparate refugees found common cause to lay every Western woman under the age of eighty. In this enterprise they were only partially successful, but even so, an extraordinary number of English female backpackers succumbed to their charms. I wished there was something more than a curtain separating the sleeping areas.
For all that, the Iranians were smart, interesting people with passable English. Most had been educated in Europe and America - middle class and from Tehran and Isfahan.
Had they been in fear of their lives? Sort of - they'd mostly escaped the draft.
Lentils, Talking Heads, nocturnal humping and Iranian draft dodgers are my memories of that godawful Danish hostel.
In 1992 I married an English/Iranian. I'm thinking of applying to the spy department of the Iranian Revolutionary Council. Life seems to have this weird symmetry.
Don
Friday, September 26, 2008
grrrls 3
L7 - Influential, hard case, and gained a degree of popularity with a major label deal and tough image. I've listened to a fair bit of L7 but they don't quite do it for me. Whereas some bands seem to be on a mission, L7 are the brawlers of the genre, IMO.
They tend to lapse into the one beat, risking tedium, ponderous and unvarying. Bitter Wine off 'Triple Platinum' is one of my favourites.
Still, I'm listening to Donita Sparks's and the Stellar Moments' Transmiticate and it's growing on me.
SLEATER-KINNEY - woohoo! I came to these old grrrls a few years back and never looked back. Polished, innovative, original, with Corine's down tuned guitar as bass and sonic warble. S-K should be outselling Madonna - they are simply great!
I've tracked down all their albums and none of them has disappointed. No favourites - just put any S-K on the stereo, turn up the volume, and STFU.
RED AUNTS - anarchic Ramones fanciers from LA. All songs are short, rapid, breathless. Scratchy Epiphone guitars, lots of screaming and howling - great stuff!
THE GOSSIP - Portland's finest. Formed 1999 (so outside of the time frame) But I'm absolutely sold on these ladies. Jealous Girls, Standing in the Way of Control - Beth Ditto is astonishing. Signed to Sony - waiting with baited breath for their next release.
Worthy of mention but outside of the genre - Le Tigre, Peechees, Katastrophy Wife, Jack Off Jill, Lunachicks...
They tend to lapse into the one beat, risking tedium, ponderous and unvarying. Bitter Wine off 'Triple Platinum' is one of my favourites.
Still, I'm listening to Donita Sparks's and the Stellar Moments' Transmiticate and it's growing on me.
SLEATER-KINNEY - woohoo! I came to these old grrrls a few years back and never looked back. Polished, innovative, original, with Corine's down tuned guitar as bass and sonic warble. S-K should be outselling Madonna - they are simply great!
I've tracked down all their albums and none of them has disappointed. No favourites - just put any S-K on the stereo, turn up the volume, and STFU.
RED AUNTS - anarchic Ramones fanciers from LA. All songs are short, rapid, breathless. Scratchy Epiphone guitars, lots of screaming and howling - great stuff!
THE GOSSIP - Portland's finest. Formed 1999 (so outside of the time frame) But I'm absolutely sold on these ladies. Jealous Girls, Standing in the Way of Control - Beth Ditto is astonishing. Signed to Sony - waiting with baited breath for their next release.
Worthy of mention but outside of the genre - Le Tigre, Peechees, Katastrophy Wife, Jack Off Jill, Lunachicks...
grrrl 2
SEVEN YEAR BITCH - was next in my journey into riot grrrl. Selene Vigil was backed by some first class axewomen in Elizabeth Davis on bass and firstly Stephanie Sergeant then Roisin Dunne on lead.
Big friends and devotees of Mia Zapata, her horrible death, and the OD of Stephanie Sergeant, nearly finished the band. Elizabeth Davis put her grief to good use in founding 'Home Alive' to fight domestic violence.
SYB were frustrating and I think never reached their potential. They never quite found a groove, IMO. Punk, rap, metal, what? 'Knot' is astonishingly good - off 'Sick em' with a great live version on the movie 'Hype.' It's punk, it's rage, it's from the heart.
Selene Vigil has a great voice, but she persists with a kind or rap/talking which annoys me. Davis and Vigil harmonize really well, but there's not enough of it. Selene can howl like a banshee - but, she doesn't do enough of that, either. When they do hit their straps it's wonderful. I just wish they'd done it more often.
For all that, I love the 'Bitch.' (RIP - Stephanie Sergeant)
BABES IN TOYLAND - Ahhh!!! scary, wonderful!!! Setting aside the major label CD 'Nemesisters' few can deliver the vitriol quite like our Kat Bjelland. Whereas Courtney was clever, Kat cuts loose with abuse that would shame a stevedore. Awesome live, Kat is four foot nothing of fury.
Almost imploded following the murder of Joe Cole, roadie and partner of their first bass player, Maureen Herman admirably stepped into her shoes. Lori Barbero is a weird drummer - after the fashion of Mo Tucker of the Velvet Underground.
Courtney Love, Kat Bjelland and Jennifer Finch - Sugar Babydoll? Where are those lost tapes? I wanna hear them!! (RIP Joe Cole)
BIKINI KILL - Punk purists and ground zero for riot grrrl. Kicking guys out of the mosh pit for hassling the grrrls, Kathleen Hanna was unofficial spokeswomen of a movement that eschewed 'alternative hierarchies.' Trendsetter with a shrill voice, Hanna was whom the press descended on. Four foot nothing, she bounced around like a superball with ferocious energy.
Better live than on record, nevertheless, their collaboration with Joan Jett produced 'Rebel Girl,' a classic. 'Reject all American' is my favourite BK album, and IMO, the most varied and listenable.
THE GITS - from Ohio's Antioch College via Seattle. Mia Zapata was Godmother to the riot grrrls with her punk sensibilities and throaty. bluesy voice. Three of the Gits were guys - with guitarist Andy Kessler Mia's partner. Arrived in Grunge Zero Seattle late 80s and established themselves as a class act on the scene.
Mia was an alcoholic who expressed her battle with addiction through her confessional, tragic lyrics. 'Seaweed' 'Precious Blood' 'Second Skin' 'Social Love' iconic, anthemic, intense, moving songs and drum-tight musicianship.
The band splintered following Mia's rape and murder in April 1993. Became 'Dancing French Liberals of '48', then 'Evil Stig' with Joan Jett on vocals.
I listen to at least one Gits song a day - does it show? (RIP - Mia Zapata)
BRATMOBILE - Allison, Erin and Molly. Allison's voice takes a bit of getting used to. Solid feminist cred - Allison Wolfe's mother founded the first women's health clinic in Olympia.
Along with Kathleen Hanna, Kathi Wilcox, and Toby Vail of BK, became the political heart of riot grrrl.
Went to DC for the summer in the early 90s and eventually relocated there following the fall out over the deaths of Mia Zapata and Kurt Cobain.
Very DIY - good, but not great, IMO. Allison Wolfe has a current project called Partyline, better, IMO than the Brats.
Big friends and devotees of Mia Zapata, her horrible death, and the OD of Stephanie Sergeant, nearly finished the band. Elizabeth Davis put her grief to good use in founding 'Home Alive' to fight domestic violence.
SYB were frustrating and I think never reached their potential. They never quite found a groove, IMO. Punk, rap, metal, what? 'Knot' is astonishingly good - off 'Sick em' with a great live version on the movie 'Hype.' It's punk, it's rage, it's from the heart.
Selene Vigil has a great voice, but she persists with a kind or rap/talking which annoys me. Davis and Vigil harmonize really well, but there's not enough of it. Selene can howl like a banshee - but, she doesn't do enough of that, either. When they do hit their straps it's wonderful. I just wish they'd done it more often.
For all that, I love the 'Bitch.' (RIP - Stephanie Sergeant)
BABES IN TOYLAND - Ahhh!!! scary, wonderful!!! Setting aside the major label CD 'Nemesisters' few can deliver the vitriol quite like our Kat Bjelland. Whereas Courtney was clever, Kat cuts loose with abuse that would shame a stevedore. Awesome live, Kat is four foot nothing of fury.
Almost imploded following the murder of Joe Cole, roadie and partner of their first bass player, Maureen Herman admirably stepped into her shoes. Lori Barbero is a weird drummer - after the fashion of Mo Tucker of the Velvet Underground.
Courtney Love, Kat Bjelland and Jennifer Finch - Sugar Babydoll? Where are those lost tapes? I wanna hear them!! (RIP Joe Cole)
BIKINI KILL - Punk purists and ground zero for riot grrrl. Kicking guys out of the mosh pit for hassling the grrrls, Kathleen Hanna was unofficial spokeswomen of a movement that eschewed 'alternative hierarchies.' Trendsetter with a shrill voice, Hanna was whom the press descended on. Four foot nothing, she bounced around like a superball with ferocious energy.
Better live than on record, nevertheless, their collaboration with Joan Jett produced 'Rebel Girl,' a classic. 'Reject all American' is my favourite BK album, and IMO, the most varied and listenable.
THE GITS - from Ohio's Antioch College via Seattle. Mia Zapata was Godmother to the riot grrrls with her punk sensibilities and throaty. bluesy voice. Three of the Gits were guys - with guitarist Andy Kessler Mia's partner. Arrived in Grunge Zero Seattle late 80s and established themselves as a class act on the scene.
Mia was an alcoholic who expressed her battle with addiction through her confessional, tragic lyrics. 'Seaweed' 'Precious Blood' 'Second Skin' 'Social Love' iconic, anthemic, intense, moving songs and drum-tight musicianship.
The band splintered following Mia's rape and murder in April 1993. Became 'Dancing French Liberals of '48', then 'Evil Stig' with Joan Jett on vocals.
I listen to at least one Gits song a day - does it show? (RIP - Mia Zapata)
BRATMOBILE - Allison, Erin and Molly. Allison's voice takes a bit of getting used to. Solid feminist cred - Allison Wolfe's mother founded the first women's health clinic in Olympia.
Along with Kathleen Hanna, Kathi Wilcox, and Toby Vail of BK, became the political heart of riot grrrl.
Went to DC for the summer in the early 90s and eventually relocated there following the fall out over the deaths of Mia Zapata and Kurt Cobain.
Very DIY - good, but not great, IMO. Allison Wolfe has a current project called Partyline, better, IMO than the Brats.
grrrls 1
riot grrrl has fascinated me or over ten years now. I'm not sure why, I just latched onto the music, maybe around 1996, perhaps, and then followed on from there.
It not hard to track down the origins, but it's difficult, particularly from a foreign perspective, to separate fact from hype.
I get that riot grrrl was originally a fanzine and the name coined by Toby Vail and Molly Neumann. The name should be written lower case with three 'r's - according to Alison Wolfe.
I understand as a dynamic force it had mostly blown over by 1993/4 with the dispersal of bands to Washington DC, Portland, etc, following the heroin deaths of Stephanie Sergeant, Kristen Pfaff, Andrew Wood, the murder of Mia Zapata, Joe Cole and lastly the suicide of Kurt Cobain.
What also interests me is the politics - the conflict between agendas aggravated by commercialism - the effect of media hype and corporate money - and the effort to keep the music pure through all of this. There's a familiar theme that runs through all of this.
I kinda thought I'd run through the bands that interested me for various reasons. Feel free to add comments and anecdotes.
HOLE - Not strictly a riot grrrl band, but my entry into the genre. Pretty on the Inside was Kim Gordon's attempt to make a Sonic Youth album in the Northwest. It's scratchy, quirky, obnoxious and tough to listen to in one sitting. As a debut, it reminds me a little of Nirvana's first record, but less focussed.
Live Through This, by contrast, is absolutely brilliant. Courtney Love spears each of her targets with clever lyrics and Nirvana inspired arrangements. Kat Bjelland, Kathleen Hanna, the Evergreen College alumni, and herself, gets royally nailed by CL with thunder and rage. One of my favourite records of all time and, IMHO, better than Nevermind.
Ask For It- an EP with a great cover of Greg Sage and the Wiper's 'Over The Edge.'
Celebrity Skin - too many hands in the pie, not enough gas in the tank, too many mixed metaphors. I know there was a lot of pressure to get the CD finished and save Geffin's arse, but it should've been an EP. 'Reasons to be Beautiful' is okay and 'Northern Star' is nice. I'm not sure why 'Wedding Dress' wasn't in the main CD, because it's way better than a lot of stuff that was included. It went platinum - go figure?
Courtney Love is one of these people who you either love or loathe. Outspoken, erratic, vengeful - I'm glad I'm neither her friend nor enemy. But there's no doubting her intelligence and, when she throws away the Rhyming Thesaurus, she writes brilliant lyrics.
She was quick to dump the riot grrrl tag - likely when she hooked up with Nirvana and began to screen the women who hung around the band. Mary Lou Lord, Juliana Hatfield, Kathleen Hanna all were on the thick end of her jealousy, insecurity and ambition. A grade A controller, I'm in admiration of the musicians who stuck with her, Eric Ehrlandson, Patty Schemel and Melissa auf de Maur. (RIP - Kristen Pfaff)
More to follow...
It not hard to track down the origins, but it's difficult, particularly from a foreign perspective, to separate fact from hype.
I get that riot grrrl was originally a fanzine and the name coined by Toby Vail and Molly Neumann. The name should be written lower case with three 'r's - according to Alison Wolfe.
I understand as a dynamic force it had mostly blown over by 1993/4 with the dispersal of bands to Washington DC, Portland, etc, following the heroin deaths of Stephanie Sergeant, Kristen Pfaff, Andrew Wood, the murder of Mia Zapata, Joe Cole and lastly the suicide of Kurt Cobain.
What also interests me is the politics - the conflict between agendas aggravated by commercialism - the effect of media hype and corporate money - and the effort to keep the music pure through all of this. There's a familiar theme that runs through all of this.
I kinda thought I'd run through the bands that interested me for various reasons. Feel free to add comments and anecdotes.
HOLE - Not strictly a riot grrrl band, but my entry into the genre. Pretty on the Inside was Kim Gordon's attempt to make a Sonic Youth album in the Northwest. It's scratchy, quirky, obnoxious and tough to listen to in one sitting. As a debut, it reminds me a little of Nirvana's first record, but less focussed.
Live Through This, by contrast, is absolutely brilliant. Courtney Love spears each of her targets with clever lyrics and Nirvana inspired arrangements. Kat Bjelland, Kathleen Hanna, the Evergreen College alumni, and herself, gets royally nailed by CL with thunder and rage. One of my favourite records of all time and, IMHO, better than Nevermind.
Ask For It- an EP with a great cover of Greg Sage and the Wiper's 'Over The Edge.'
Celebrity Skin - too many hands in the pie, not enough gas in the tank, too many mixed metaphors. I know there was a lot of pressure to get the CD finished and save Geffin's arse, but it should've been an EP. 'Reasons to be Beautiful' is okay and 'Northern Star' is nice. I'm not sure why 'Wedding Dress' wasn't in the main CD, because it's way better than a lot of stuff that was included. It went platinum - go figure?
Courtney Love is one of these people who you either love or loathe. Outspoken, erratic, vengeful - I'm glad I'm neither her friend nor enemy. But there's no doubting her intelligence and, when she throws away the Rhyming Thesaurus, she writes brilliant lyrics.
She was quick to dump the riot grrrl tag - likely when she hooked up with Nirvana and began to screen the women who hung around the band. Mary Lou Lord, Juliana Hatfield, Kathleen Hanna all were on the thick end of her jealousy, insecurity and ambition. A grade A controller, I'm in admiration of the musicians who stuck with her, Eric Ehrlandson, Patty Schemel and Melissa auf de Maur. (RIP - Kristen Pfaff)
More to follow...
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Ducklings, Redwoods and Stupidity
The Birdman gives racist bigotry a bad name. His jokes are predictable and thus rendered tedious by the punch line. 'There was this Englishman, Irishman and Maori...' I sidle towards the door, hoping he won't notice I've left.
I don't feel too affronted by the man, though. He had a tough childhood. Besides that, there's a ludicrous quality about him - like he's stuck in some fifties timewarp - a regular Rip Van Winkle.
Outside it's raining, but, I consider it preferable than the cringing unease inside as the Birdman launches into another joke. Gardeners seem to have thicker skins than mine - I guess being outdoors all the time does it.
I'm besieged by ducks hopeful for a handout. They're mingled with ducklings so small I doubt they'll survive the cold snap. How can little things like puffballs be so robust? Feral cats and children will account for a few, that's true. But a good many will survive to learn where the gardener's lunchroom is.
Way off towards the camellias there's stand of totara and a lone confused redwood that stabs the grey sky above me. This one is a beauty - I so love these trees. The stand is where I go to do crazy things.
A bunch of Bikini Kill found its way on my iPod mix today and Kathleen Hanna screeches sarcasm into my ears. It's so good, appropriate, and I dance away under the Redwood where no-one can see.
On Monday I did a perk job for this old guy. He paid me in beer, which far exceeded the value of the work - it was Monteith's, a good brew. I felt obligated to listen to him.
He told me he did his edges by drenching them in creosote. Creosote is a wood preserver and my Father's generation used it as a weed killer. It's highly toxic and you can't use it where it can leech into the water table. This guy couldn't honestly give a shit. My dad also used DDT and 24D way up to when it was banned in the early 70s. I shudder to think what my dioxin level is. (More Agent Orange sprayed on the chickweed in our backyard than Vietnam's Central Highlands.)
"I suppose the hairy leg, tree huggers would have a fit," he tells me.
"Uh, yeah," I reply, clutching my beer.
I didn't want to disappoint the guy or he might take back his beer. But it was fucking outrageous that this old boy should pour poison on his garden and not give a shit. These days they have stuff like Glyphosate that will break down after a few days. There's no excuse to use shit like Creosote.
I figured this guy and the Birdman would get on famously. They could happily peel back a generation or two of environmental technology secure in the knowledge it's all being done to frustrate them. They can toss in a little racist and sexist bigotry to go along with it.
"Never did us any harm, eh?" he grunts as I make an excuse and leave.
"Good luck with the DNA," I call back, loading the man's beer into the truck.
"Huh?"
Don
I don't feel too affronted by the man, though. He had a tough childhood. Besides that, there's a ludicrous quality about him - like he's stuck in some fifties timewarp - a regular Rip Van Winkle.
Outside it's raining, but, I consider it preferable than the cringing unease inside as the Birdman launches into another joke. Gardeners seem to have thicker skins than mine - I guess being outdoors all the time does it.
I'm besieged by ducks hopeful for a handout. They're mingled with ducklings so small I doubt they'll survive the cold snap. How can little things like puffballs be so robust? Feral cats and children will account for a few, that's true. But a good many will survive to learn where the gardener's lunchroom is.
Way off towards the camellias there's stand of totara and a lone confused redwood that stabs the grey sky above me. This one is a beauty - I so love these trees. The stand is where I go to do crazy things.
A bunch of Bikini Kill found its way on my iPod mix today and Kathleen Hanna screeches sarcasm into my ears. It's so good, appropriate, and I dance away under the Redwood where no-one can see.
On Monday I did a perk job for this old guy. He paid me in beer, which far exceeded the value of the work - it was Monteith's, a good brew. I felt obligated to listen to him.
He told me he did his edges by drenching them in creosote. Creosote is a wood preserver and my Father's generation used it as a weed killer. It's highly toxic and you can't use it where it can leech into the water table. This guy couldn't honestly give a shit. My dad also used DDT and 24D way up to when it was banned in the early 70s. I shudder to think what my dioxin level is. (More Agent Orange sprayed on the chickweed in our backyard than Vietnam's Central Highlands.)
"I suppose the hairy leg, tree huggers would have a fit," he tells me.
"Uh, yeah," I reply, clutching my beer.
I didn't want to disappoint the guy or he might take back his beer. But it was fucking outrageous that this old boy should pour poison on his garden and not give a shit. These days they have stuff like Glyphosate that will break down after a few days. There's no excuse to use shit like Creosote.
I figured this guy and the Birdman would get on famously. They could happily peel back a generation or two of environmental technology secure in the knowledge it's all being done to frustrate them. They can toss in a little racist and sexist bigotry to go along with it.
"Never did us any harm, eh?" he grunts as I make an excuse and leave.
"Good luck with the DNA," I call back, loading the man's beer into the truck.
"Huh?"
Don
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Two Way Mirror
I was sitting outside my favourite hotspot the other night. I didn't actually know who owned the wireless connection – just they never bothered putting on a password. Some cafes do it, I rationalised, as a favour to their customers. I made a mental note to have a coffee at all of them over the next week or so.
Well, up popped three shared folders from someone's computers. Curiosity, and all that, I opened them one by one to see who my anonymous benefactor was.
...A computer shop - and there before me were files containing stock inventory, personnel information and other shit I shouldn't be party to. Most of the stuff didn't interest me and I passed on. One computer had tons of music so I checked it out.
Now, I know my playlists when I see them. I'm fussy, a completist when I can, and I have a system of categorising my music collection. There, amid sundry 'top 100s' and 'music to drink beer by', was my entire Evanescance collection from a couple of years ago. Once, when I'd taken my old Windows machine in for servicing, the tech evidently helped himself to my music files.
I wonder how often that happens? It never occurred to me before, but, there must be millions of computer technicians the world over cunningly downloading customer's music collections onto their own computers. What other stuff are they helping themselves to, though? Curiously, I'm a little pissed and a little worried.
Pissed, because the guy never asked to download my music. Like most people, I buy the cd and back it up on the computer. The guy's getting it for nothing.
But, then, his company is presumably paying for the bandwidth I'm using. In retrospect, I considered it a fair trade and don't feel so guilty.
But, it shouldn't be that easy to break into a company's personnel records. Do they realise how wide open they are? They have a duty of care, under privacy regulations, to safeguard information they hold on people. A computer shop, for Christ's sake, ought to be computer savvy and lock up their files behind some kind of security system. All I had to do was turn the MacBook on outside the shop and I was into their files without having to do anything else. It was scaringly simple.
And it's not illegal, so I'm told by the Police. I didn't steal passwords – I didn't have to – I didn't sabotage their system – although I could have – and I didn't steal information. If I find a folder of personal information lying in the street, I have an ethical duty to turn it over to the owner or the Police, but not a legal one.
What I can't do is use the information I might come across without the permission of the owner. The same as finding someone's credit card – to try and use it, knowing it's not mine, is theft. To take reasonable steps to find the owner or, failing that, to turn it into the police, is morally right and part of being a good citizen, but I can't be locked up for not doing it.
Should I plant a message on their computer telling them how insecure they are? I know folks who have done this – there's no legal question involved. But did that technician seek my permission to download files off my computer for his own use? There's irony involved here, and I haven't solved the ethical dilemma.
Don
Well, up popped three shared folders from someone's computers. Curiosity, and all that, I opened them one by one to see who my anonymous benefactor was.
...A computer shop - and there before me were files containing stock inventory, personnel information and other shit I shouldn't be party to. Most of the stuff didn't interest me and I passed on. One computer had tons of music so I checked it out.
Now, I know my playlists when I see them. I'm fussy, a completist when I can, and I have a system of categorising my music collection. There, amid sundry 'top 100s' and 'music to drink beer by', was my entire Evanescance collection from a couple of years ago. Once, when I'd taken my old Windows machine in for servicing, the tech evidently helped himself to my music files.
I wonder how often that happens? It never occurred to me before, but, there must be millions of computer technicians the world over cunningly downloading customer's music collections onto their own computers. What other stuff are they helping themselves to, though? Curiously, I'm a little pissed and a little worried.
Pissed, because the guy never asked to download my music. Like most people, I buy the cd and back it up on the computer. The guy's getting it for nothing.
But, then, his company is presumably paying for the bandwidth I'm using. In retrospect, I considered it a fair trade and don't feel so guilty.
But, it shouldn't be that easy to break into a company's personnel records. Do they realise how wide open they are? They have a duty of care, under privacy regulations, to safeguard information they hold on people. A computer shop, for Christ's sake, ought to be computer savvy and lock up their files behind some kind of security system. All I had to do was turn the MacBook on outside the shop and I was into their files without having to do anything else. It was scaringly simple.
And it's not illegal, so I'm told by the Police. I didn't steal passwords – I didn't have to – I didn't sabotage their system – although I could have – and I didn't steal information. If I find a folder of personal information lying in the street, I have an ethical duty to turn it over to the owner or the Police, but not a legal one.
What I can't do is use the information I might come across without the permission of the owner. The same as finding someone's credit card – to try and use it, knowing it's not mine, is theft. To take reasonable steps to find the owner or, failing that, to turn it into the police, is morally right and part of being a good citizen, but I can't be locked up for not doing it.
Should I plant a message on their computer telling them how insecure they are? I know folks who have done this – there's no legal question involved. But did that technician seek my permission to download files off my computer for his own use? There's irony involved here, and I haven't solved the ethical dilemma.
Don
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Strange
Such a strange week so far – like a punch in a velvet glove. I had a last cigarette Saturday morning and resolved to go the distance. The patches were okay for the first couple of days, but the effects have become less apparent. The nurse advised gum and a double patch next week if the cravings become too much. A 40 year habit is a hard one to kill.
Of course I feel like crap and it doesn't help folks telling me how well I'm doing. It feels like I'm barely holding my head above water and that I'll fold any minute. All I'll admit is that I've resisted thus far.
Then the IRD send a tax notification. I naturally expect a huge amount to pay, laugh hysterically and toss the letter in the bin. No!
It's a refund with a nice row of noughts following a 1. This is serious money to us – not the buck fifty I received last year. 'Did I want to check it and call the number to confirm?' Um, in the time it takes to dial, yessir! I've learned not to argue with the IRD.
Of course I feel like crap and it doesn't help folks telling me how well I'm doing. It feels like I'm barely holding my head above water and that I'll fold any minute. All I'll admit is that I've resisted thus far.
Then the IRD send a tax notification. I naturally expect a huge amount to pay, laugh hysterically and toss the letter in the bin. No!
It's a refund with a nice row of noughts following a 1. This is serious money to us – not the buck fifty I received last year. 'Did I want to check it and call the number to confirm?' Um, in the time it takes to dial, yessir! I've learned not to argue with the IRD.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Bird
Better, today. The storm clouds have given way to mile high puffy cumulo. Rohan did his 'bird' yesterday, ironically, at an animal shelter.
Now he wants a dog, oh well!
A boarding school in an neighbouring town seems a possibility. It will remove him from evil influences and offer more positive role models. I've heard some good things about the school and my fingers are crossed we can get the funding.
After the panic last Friday, things seem a little easier at work. There's a little more understanding of the problems we as a family are facing. There's something of a relief I don't have to watch my back all the time.
Financially, it's still a bit of a soup, but I'm hoping we can deal with the worst of our problems in the next week or so. In that case, we can do stuff that had been put off, such as getting the car serviced and putting the landline back on.
We do have phones, now, thanks to a bit of good fortune. The Social Worker from the HDA organised one for Tine and I found my old one. This I converted to a prepay and so dodged the huge bill we still owe the phone company. An old Nokia had been given to us and I passed that down to my son. He was hoping I'd give him mine, which, of course, is way fancier but, slim chance.
The ground is still saturated so there's little lawn grooming possible. I'm making myself busy with some weeding in the reserve, but, it's taken a toll on my back. I'm working near a flooding stream and I'm dreaming of losing my footing. At least it keeps me gainfully employed and the boss off my back.
I've misplaced my iPod which is driving me nuts. I'd just loaded my new 'workmix' and was looking forward to it. The 'pod' keeps me sane, raising my dopamine up to agreeable levels. The silence is deafening.
Don
Now he wants a dog, oh well!
A boarding school in an neighbouring town seems a possibility. It will remove him from evil influences and offer more positive role models. I've heard some good things about the school and my fingers are crossed we can get the funding.
After the panic last Friday, things seem a little easier at work. There's a little more understanding of the problems we as a family are facing. There's something of a relief I don't have to watch my back all the time.
Financially, it's still a bit of a soup, but I'm hoping we can deal with the worst of our problems in the next week or so. In that case, we can do stuff that had been put off, such as getting the car serviced and putting the landline back on.
We do have phones, now, thanks to a bit of good fortune. The Social Worker from the HDA organised one for Tine and I found my old one. This I converted to a prepay and so dodged the huge bill we still owe the phone company. An old Nokia had been given to us and I passed that down to my son. He was hoping I'd give him mine, which, of course, is way fancier but, slim chance.
The ground is still saturated so there's little lawn grooming possible. I'm making myself busy with some weeding in the reserve, but, it's taken a toll on my back. I'm working near a flooding stream and I'm dreaming of losing my footing. At least it keeps me gainfully employed and the boss off my back.
I've misplaced my iPod which is driving me nuts. I'd just loaded my new 'workmix' and was looking forward to it. The 'pod' keeps me sane, raising my dopamine up to agreeable levels. The silence is deafening.
Don
Friday, June 27, 2008
Cops
It's not that I've anything against the local police here. There's is some residual uncertainty, sure, from the time when cops meant I was in trouble. But, I've had more to do with the police this year than I've ever had in my life.
My boy was returned, again, his morning having disappeared from 4.30pm yesterday. They found him with an 18 year old youth, known to groom young teenage boys. It's becoming so serious, now, that I fear there's little recourse but to have him taken away by Child Services.
The Police Youth Aid officer s a good guy. I feel he cares as much about my son as do I, but he's growing frustrated. It flows in one ear and out the other. My boy knows how to placate, to appear remorseful before muttering 'fuck you' under his breath.
This paedophile arsehole is 'a cool guy' and everyone is mistaken about him. Rohan repeats this refrain constantly with the certainty of the well-manipulated. Of course he knows he's gay and he has a boyfriend the same age. In fact, his 'boyfriend' is only 14.
We have lots of gay friends and I'd trust any one one of them with my children. They don't prey on kids. This guy is not gay, he's a paedophile and my boy is not sophisticated enough to tell the difference.
A 'friend' has only your best interests at heart. A friend doesn't draw you away from school, from responsibility, from maturity. A friend doesn't exploit you but offers companionship without strings attached.
I went around to this guy's place one day. I wanted to scope him – see for myself, what he looked like and hear his story.
He told me Rohan clambers in the window and wants to hang out. He explains he sends him away, because he knows he shouldn't be there and his older brother would beat him up. He says so with conviction, but with a matter of factness which is almost compelling. I ask whether he sends him away all the time and he replies, 'of course.' Compelling, maybe, but a complete lie.
He lives with his grandmother. I wonderful old woman in her eighties and completely oblivious to what's happening under her roof. Either that, or she's a past master at covering for him. She's of German/Maori ancestry and in other circumstances I could share a cake and a cupper with her and listen to her story.
The cops don't understand why she doesn't throw him out, but the familial ties are strong. Her generation don't do those things to family.
They locked him up yesterday – suspecting him of burglering a liquor store. Rohan denies his 'friend' had anything to do with it – even though the cops found stacks of booze in his house. How this guy can suck every ounce of reason out of my boy is a fascinating study, if it was anyone else but my son.
The guy's not even smart enough to stash the loot some place else. What burgler plants the evidence in his own bedroom? A real stupid criminal imagines the cops are as stupid as them. A smart criminal doesn't do a job five doors down the road from where he lives.
My boy was returned, again, his morning having disappeared from 4.30pm yesterday. They found him with an 18 year old youth, known to groom young teenage boys. It's becoming so serious, now, that I fear there's little recourse but to have him taken away by Child Services.
The Police Youth Aid officer s a good guy. I feel he cares as much about my son as do I, but he's growing frustrated. It flows in one ear and out the other. My boy knows how to placate, to appear remorseful before muttering 'fuck you' under his breath.
This paedophile arsehole is 'a cool guy' and everyone is mistaken about him. Rohan repeats this refrain constantly with the certainty of the well-manipulated. Of course he knows he's gay and he has a boyfriend the same age. In fact, his 'boyfriend' is only 14.
We have lots of gay friends and I'd trust any one one of them with my children. They don't prey on kids. This guy is not gay, he's a paedophile and my boy is not sophisticated enough to tell the difference.
A 'friend' has only your best interests at heart. A friend doesn't draw you away from school, from responsibility, from maturity. A friend doesn't exploit you but offers companionship without strings attached.
I went around to this guy's place one day. I wanted to scope him – see for myself, what he looked like and hear his story.
He told me Rohan clambers in the window and wants to hang out. He explains he sends him away, because he knows he shouldn't be there and his older brother would beat him up. He says so with conviction, but with a matter of factness which is almost compelling. I ask whether he sends him away all the time and he replies, 'of course.' Compelling, maybe, but a complete lie.
He lives with his grandmother. I wonderful old woman in her eighties and completely oblivious to what's happening under her roof. Either that, or she's a past master at covering for him. She's of German/Maori ancestry and in other circumstances I could share a cake and a cupper with her and listen to her story.
The cops don't understand why she doesn't throw him out, but the familial ties are strong. Her generation don't do those things to family.
They locked him up yesterday – suspecting him of burglering a liquor store. Rohan denies his 'friend' had anything to do with it – even though the cops found stacks of booze in his house. How this guy can suck every ounce of reason out of my boy is a fascinating study, if it was anyone else but my son.
The guy's not even smart enough to stash the loot some place else. What burgler plants the evidence in his own bedroom? A real stupid criminal imagines the cops are as stupid as them. A smart criminal doesn't do a job five doors down the road from where he lives.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Another bout of Belt tightening
Last night I threw all that I could from the food parcel into the pot. It came out okay, a kind of fried potato, Tuna and vermicelli hot pot, finished in the slow cooker. There was a pile of it and we all woofed it down, even the kids. I put on a large pot of porridge this morning before work and it was scraped clean.
Rohan eats like it's his last meal. We have less than 70 bucks for groceries this week. I buy rolled oats by the sack, five loaves of bread, and tons of tinned baked beans and spaghetti. It ought to get us through, providing Rohan doesn't scoff it all.
We're waiting on whether Rohan can get into Hato Paora College. It's a Maori boarding school but has a day school attached. It's had some problems in the past and has a declining roll. One ex teacher's been up on sex charges and there was an issue with playground bullying. It ain't ideal, but it might be the only one we can realistically get.
Tine's chasing the legal angle. Rohan was supposed to be interviewed by the school in our presence. He was forced to confess without representation - a clear breach of process. We think we've nailed them.
A lot of people have expressed support for our stance. Feilding High School has expelled huge numbers over the years and no-one has mounted a legal challenge - as yet!!!
Don
Rohan eats like it's his last meal. We have less than 70 bucks for groceries this week. I buy rolled oats by the sack, five loaves of bread, and tons of tinned baked beans and spaghetti. It ought to get us through, providing Rohan doesn't scoff it all.
We're waiting on whether Rohan can get into Hato Paora College. It's a Maori boarding school but has a day school attached. It's had some problems in the past and has a declining roll. One ex teacher's been up on sex charges and there was an issue with playground bullying. It ain't ideal, but it might be the only one we can realistically get.
Tine's chasing the legal angle. Rohan was supposed to be interviewed by the school in our presence. He was forced to confess without representation - a clear breach of process. We think we've nailed them.
A lot of people have expressed support for our stance. Feilding High School has expelled huge numbers over the years and no-one has mounted a legal challenge - as yet!!!
Don
Today
Things are a little better today. We found we have names to drop and might get my boy into a Maori High School.
"Huh?" his jaw drops to the floor. He's not a Maori, no Iwi or Whakapapa, and he thinks they'll kick the shit out of him.
I tell him to wait and see, have a look and keep an open mind. There's definite advantages in becoming bilingual.
"Huh?" More expressions of terror. 'Bilingual', I tell him, is being fluent in both languages, Maori and English, not a deviant sexual practice.
We hear from the lawyer from the Children's Commissioner. She's adamant we can ping the school on several points of law in their dealing with my boy's expulsion. It's unlikely to do him much good, however, because, if he gets to go back, he can't put a foot wrong. There'll be strict conditions, and the school will likely ensure he breaks every one.
Meanwhile, I mow in the rain, wondering why me sweats keep drifting down my arse. Could I've lost so much weight? A cold breeze stings half acre of flesh below my waist.
Don
"Huh?" his jaw drops to the floor. He's not a Maori, no Iwi or Whakapapa, and he thinks they'll kick the shit out of him.
I tell him to wait and see, have a look and keep an open mind. There's definite advantages in becoming bilingual.
"Huh?" More expressions of terror. 'Bilingual', I tell him, is being fluent in both languages, Maori and English, not a deviant sexual practice.
We hear from the lawyer from the Children's Commissioner. She's adamant we can ping the school on several points of law in their dealing with my boy's expulsion. It's unlikely to do him much good, however, because, if he gets to go back, he can't put a foot wrong. There'll be strict conditions, and the school will likely ensure he breaks every one.
Meanwhile, I mow in the rain, wondering why me sweats keep drifting down my arse. Could I've lost so much weight? A cold breeze stings half acre of flesh below my waist.
Don
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Broke
Anxiety levels are right through the roof - so much so, I'm barely able to function. Like all addicts, I plant emergency supplies or have known sources from which to tap. A packet lies concealed in the truck with a couple of cigs. Around mid morning I take advantage, but it has little effect and I resist the temptation to smoke another.
I sit outside in the cold rather than participate in the lunchroom banter. It's isolate behaviour I learned from an early age. I always used to lose myself somewhere or sit out in the hallway at school - deliberately provoking the teacher for the privilege. There I'd read uninterrupted without being asked dumb questions or told it's math's time, not reading.
It's cold and the smokers come out for a puff. The air's suddenly thick with smoke and dumb comments about laptops at work. I field them okay, but the smoke's making my head reel.
Earlier, I sweep by Presbyterian Social Services to organise a food parcel. We're worse than flat broke at the moment and we've nothing to feed the kids. We had to pay mortgage arrears or lose the house. It was eleventh hour. They oblige, and I pick it up at 4.
Tine's nearly out of gas, but she reckons she'll get home okay. We've been there before, and I'm not confident. The Primera's fuel clock doesn't seem to read properly when it drops below a quarter. I've had to bum a ride to take her some fuel a couple of times. Women always run on empty, they tell me. Tine's faith doesn't run to gas tanks.
So what's to be done? The hits keep coming and logic tells me it's not a coincidence. Misfortune surely doesn't strike this often. Maybe Tine's God is trying to include me in the fold? If I declare myself a Muslim, maybe Allah will take better care of us? My cynicism is well-earned, unfortunately, and I'm not ready for religious dogma at this time. Next Ramadan maybe we'll see?
It's lunchtime now and I'm still cold. I hide outside once again so no-one will notice I've brought no lunch with me today. They've put in coffee machines, but the coffee's foul. Powdered milk, I think, and the word 'Nescafe' should've alerted me. Soup's vile, chicken allegedly, and I'm still starving.
I've had nothing to eat for 24 hours. I dreamed up excuses, but, the truth is I can't bear to see the kids go hungry. If I don't eat, that leaves more for the children. I'm from a long line of martyrs.
It's all nothing more noble than guilt, of course. Guilt because I can't provide the basic necessities for my family. My upbringing was strictly 60's Protestant where the man was the provider and women raised the children. 70's deprogramming ejected all that, of course, as gender equality raised their colours. But, my responsibilities have been planted so deep no amount of modern rationalisation has shifted it.
Left the yard early this morning. Storm front coming and there's not much chance of work. Yesterday, I arranged a food parcel from PSS and picked it up after work. No milk or bread, unfortunately, so I don't know what Tine's going to organise for school lunches. Vegemite on Weetbix, the kids have already rejected. No fruit for four days but the PSS gave us some apples the size of grapes. We thought they were cherries at first.
The nicotine withdrawals have kicked in big time. I can't take so many meds for the depression it's not funny. Pretty much nothing's completely safe for me. By morning smoko, I've had enough, mumble to a supervisor and split.
Tine's home as well - there not being enough gas in the car to get her to work. It's crappy weather and I don't want her running out somewhere. She's exhausted, in any case.
Don
I sit outside in the cold rather than participate in the lunchroom banter. It's isolate behaviour I learned from an early age. I always used to lose myself somewhere or sit out in the hallway at school - deliberately provoking the teacher for the privilege. There I'd read uninterrupted without being asked dumb questions or told it's math's time, not reading.
It's cold and the smokers come out for a puff. The air's suddenly thick with smoke and dumb comments about laptops at work. I field them okay, but the smoke's making my head reel.
Earlier, I sweep by Presbyterian Social Services to organise a food parcel. We're worse than flat broke at the moment and we've nothing to feed the kids. We had to pay mortgage arrears or lose the house. It was eleventh hour. They oblige, and I pick it up at 4.
Tine's nearly out of gas, but she reckons she'll get home okay. We've been there before, and I'm not confident. The Primera's fuel clock doesn't seem to read properly when it drops below a quarter. I've had to bum a ride to take her some fuel a couple of times. Women always run on empty, they tell me. Tine's faith doesn't run to gas tanks.
So what's to be done? The hits keep coming and logic tells me it's not a coincidence. Misfortune surely doesn't strike this often. Maybe Tine's God is trying to include me in the fold? If I declare myself a Muslim, maybe Allah will take better care of us? My cynicism is well-earned, unfortunately, and I'm not ready for religious dogma at this time. Next Ramadan maybe we'll see?
It's lunchtime now and I'm still cold. I hide outside once again so no-one will notice I've brought no lunch with me today. They've put in coffee machines, but the coffee's foul. Powdered milk, I think, and the word 'Nescafe' should've alerted me. Soup's vile, chicken allegedly, and I'm still starving.
I've had nothing to eat for 24 hours. I dreamed up excuses, but, the truth is I can't bear to see the kids go hungry. If I don't eat, that leaves more for the children. I'm from a long line of martyrs.
It's all nothing more noble than guilt, of course. Guilt because I can't provide the basic necessities for my family. My upbringing was strictly 60's Protestant where the man was the provider and women raised the children. 70's deprogramming ejected all that, of course, as gender equality raised their colours. But, my responsibilities have been planted so deep no amount of modern rationalisation has shifted it.
Left the yard early this morning. Storm front coming and there's not much chance of work. Yesterday, I arranged a food parcel from PSS and picked it up after work. No milk or bread, unfortunately, so I don't know what Tine's going to organise for school lunches. Vegemite on Weetbix, the kids have already rejected. No fruit for four days but the PSS gave us some apples the size of grapes. We thought they were cherries at first.
The nicotine withdrawals have kicked in big time. I can't take so many meds for the depression it's not funny. Pretty much nothing's completely safe for me. By morning smoko, I've had enough, mumble to a supervisor and split.
Tine's home as well - there not being enough gas in the car to get her to work. It's crappy weather and I don't want her running out somewhere. She's exhausted, in any case.
Don
Thursday, June 19, 2008
The Good Fight
It always used to tingle. We'd all travel together - sharing last minute ideas - arriving at the venue with a mixture of apprehension and sense of purpose. Tine and I had done this many times in the past as part of a Union team - negotiating or advocating on behalf of a member in trouble.
I reminded her in the car last night. I said 'it felt like old times.' She agreed with a sheepish grin. This time, however, we were trying to rescue our son's education. He was going before the School Board to decide whether he was to be 'excluded', expelled!
He'd been involved in a couple of schoolyard fights, both on the same day. He'd been an idiot - as only 13 year old boys can be. He needed reprimanding and some sanction, of course, but to be kicked out seemed an extreme act.
The Chairman was unsmiling, a bad sign. She was taking prompts from the dean and principal, also a bad sign. I should have realised it was a done deal, but we must keep our focus - remain optimistic.
I'd been a Union President for four years. On top of that, I'd graduated from a three year Drama course. I went into the meeting bringing those skills to the table. I felt 'buzzy' and confident.
There was a little roughing up at first. I charged in, seized a point and demanded an answer. Eventually, she caved - I'd made a point - we weren't going to be screwed with.
We had with us a Social Worker and a ton of research. We knew my son's and our rights and I listened to every remark carefully, waiting to use it to our advantage.
I even convinced myself we were on a level playing field and we had a chance of restoring our son's education, but, it was 'process' - his fate had been decided before we ever left home.
An offense against natural justice it must be, but virtually impossible to prove. These guys were used to throwing kids out of school and must be relied on to keep on the side of the law. The High School here has one of the worst reputations in the country for 'excluding' pupils. It offers token support to their 'problems' then dumps them on other schools to repair.
Those 'other schools' are fed up with it and our information is that none of them will take our boy as a pupil. The High School is the only game in town, in any case, and those 'other schools' are far away in the city.
Tine used to have the tenacity of a pit bull in negotiations. She could always be relied on to spit venom at the smug suits. She was great, with her orange, cropped hair - English working class attitude - Persian fire.
I watched her beside me last night struggling to focus, to process, at times confused - it was sad. It was left to me to lead.
I took over, as I can when I'm in form. I spoke at will and reset the agenda. The Chairperson was on the defensive, I could tell from her expression. Everyone told me how well I advocated for my son, with the right amount of levity, charm and emotional intensity - all a colossal waste of effort in the end.
They were never going to allow him to return to that school and we had no chance of persuading them otherwise. We were devastated - it's only slowly sinking in - my son's education is fucked and I couldn't save him.
Could've I done something differently? I've never known a negotiation where one hasn't had misgivings - where there isn't a nagging feeling one could screw a bit more out of the system. I don't know what else I could've said or done.
We continue to pursue the legal angle and are determined to challenge their ruling. It's unlikely to make any difference to my boy, but it might help future pupils and their families from having to go through this.
One last point. One of the board members I felt I recognised. I'm sure we knew each other in the past. It only hit me afterwards.
He was a Hutt Valley boy, like me. He and I did rehab together about 15 years ago. The guy had a 'history.' He was one of us, who's now dogging on all that he came from. He knows what a troubled teen is because he was one. Folks gave him a break, helped him out, set him on the right track so he can pour judgement on kids going through the same shit.
I wish I'd realised that at the time. The Chairperson, herself, was just a dimwitted aparatchnik, but he ought to know better. Screw them!
Don
I reminded her in the car last night. I said 'it felt like old times.' She agreed with a sheepish grin. This time, however, we were trying to rescue our son's education. He was going before the School Board to decide whether he was to be 'excluded', expelled!
He'd been involved in a couple of schoolyard fights, both on the same day. He'd been an idiot - as only 13 year old boys can be. He needed reprimanding and some sanction, of course, but to be kicked out seemed an extreme act.
The Chairman was unsmiling, a bad sign. She was taking prompts from the dean and principal, also a bad sign. I should have realised it was a done deal, but we must keep our focus - remain optimistic.
I'd been a Union President for four years. On top of that, I'd graduated from a three year Drama course. I went into the meeting bringing those skills to the table. I felt 'buzzy' and confident.
There was a little roughing up at first. I charged in, seized a point and demanded an answer. Eventually, she caved - I'd made a point - we weren't going to be screwed with.
We had with us a Social Worker and a ton of research. We knew my son's and our rights and I listened to every remark carefully, waiting to use it to our advantage.
I even convinced myself we were on a level playing field and we had a chance of restoring our son's education, but, it was 'process' - his fate had been decided before we ever left home.
An offense against natural justice it must be, but virtually impossible to prove. These guys were used to throwing kids out of school and must be relied on to keep on the side of the law. The High School here has one of the worst reputations in the country for 'excluding' pupils. It offers token support to their 'problems' then dumps them on other schools to repair.
Those 'other schools' are fed up with it and our information is that none of them will take our boy as a pupil. The High School is the only game in town, in any case, and those 'other schools' are far away in the city.
Tine used to have the tenacity of a pit bull in negotiations. She could always be relied on to spit venom at the smug suits. She was great, with her orange, cropped hair - English working class attitude - Persian fire.
I watched her beside me last night struggling to focus, to process, at times confused - it was sad. It was left to me to lead.
I took over, as I can when I'm in form. I spoke at will and reset the agenda. The Chairperson was on the defensive, I could tell from her expression. Everyone told me how well I advocated for my son, with the right amount of levity, charm and emotional intensity - all a colossal waste of effort in the end.
They were never going to allow him to return to that school and we had no chance of persuading them otherwise. We were devastated - it's only slowly sinking in - my son's education is fucked and I couldn't save him.
Could've I done something differently? I've never known a negotiation where one hasn't had misgivings - where there isn't a nagging feeling one could screw a bit more out of the system. I don't know what else I could've said or done.
We continue to pursue the legal angle and are determined to challenge their ruling. It's unlikely to make any difference to my boy, but it might help future pupils and their families from having to go through this.
One last point. One of the board members I felt I recognised. I'm sure we knew each other in the past. It only hit me afterwards.
He was a Hutt Valley boy, like me. He and I did rehab together about 15 years ago. The guy had a 'history.' He was one of us, who's now dogging on all that he came from. He knows what a troubled teen is because he was one. Folks gave him a break, helped him out, set him on the right track so he can pour judgement on kids going through the same shit.
I wish I'd realised that at the time. The Chairperson, herself, was just a dimwitted aparatchnik, but he ought to know better. Screw them!
Don
Saturday, June 14, 2008
My boy
It's difficult to give a lengthy narrative. My son's problems probably started when he realised his mother was suffering from Huntington's Disease. Like most kids embarking on teenagehood, he often finds it difficult to express his feelings, and even understand them.
He's intelligent, but undersells himself because of the culture he's inclined to associate himself with. Kids who have few boundaries, disruptive home lives, or just plain emotionally damaged seem to gravitate to him - enlist him as one of their own.
A few weeks ago, we discovered he was becoming involved in petty crime. We knew he had an anger problem and we'd all gone to counseling. But the process didn't take. Now, he's been suspended from school pending an expulsion hearing next Wednesday. This was for assault - twice on the same day.
He's also been caught shoplifting, creating a disturbance, sly grogging. We have very little booze in our house. My wife is a Muslim and doesn't drink. My own consumption is the odd beer after work. He's never seen me drunk.
The booze is given to him by friends. We discovered he'd been using tobacco, he claims for a year. The smokes he pinches or is shared by his friends.
As a result of trying to steal from a chain store here, he has a month's sanctions which he has to follow. There are a number of non-association orders, a curfew, letter of apology to the store and community service. He's been trespassed from all three supermarkets and our version of Wallmart, The Warehouse.
I cannot say whether he is conforming to the conditions in a public forum. I will say he is trying hard and we're doing our best to keep him on track. I don't want to see him fail - we will likely lose custody and he'll wind up with Child Services in that case.
The weekend's are tough on us because of the numbers of teenagers out on the street late at night and early morning trying to smuggle in booze and dope. I'm having to patrol, sometimes till 4 in the morning, to keep my boy safe. Hopefully, these guys will now see me as not a soft touch and will stay away. They hang around outside our house and I'll call the police. They turn up with booze and I dump it down the drain in front of them. I then tell them to fuck off in no uncertain terms and if they try aggression , I will drop them, one by one. They now know the score - we will see.
Don
He's intelligent, but undersells himself because of the culture he's inclined to associate himself with. Kids who have few boundaries, disruptive home lives, or just plain emotionally damaged seem to gravitate to him - enlist him as one of their own.
A few weeks ago, we discovered he was becoming involved in petty crime. We knew he had an anger problem and we'd all gone to counseling. But the process didn't take. Now, he's been suspended from school pending an expulsion hearing next Wednesday. This was for assault - twice on the same day.
He's also been caught shoplifting, creating a disturbance, sly grogging. We have very little booze in our house. My wife is a Muslim and doesn't drink. My own consumption is the odd beer after work. He's never seen me drunk.
The booze is given to him by friends. We discovered he'd been using tobacco, he claims for a year. The smokes he pinches or is shared by his friends.
As a result of trying to steal from a chain store here, he has a month's sanctions which he has to follow. There are a number of non-association orders, a curfew, letter of apology to the store and community service. He's been trespassed from all three supermarkets and our version of Wallmart, The Warehouse.
I cannot say whether he is conforming to the conditions in a public forum. I will say he is trying hard and we're doing our best to keep him on track. I don't want to see him fail - we will likely lose custody and he'll wind up with Child Services in that case.
The weekend's are tough on us because of the numbers of teenagers out on the street late at night and early morning trying to smuggle in booze and dope. I'm having to patrol, sometimes till 4 in the morning, to keep my boy safe. Hopefully, these guys will now see me as not a soft touch and will stay away. They hang around outside our house and I'll call the police. They turn up with booze and I dump it down the drain in front of them. I then tell them to fuck off in no uncertain terms and if they try aggression , I will drop them, one by one. They now know the score - we will see.
Don
Friday, June 6, 2008
A Day in the Life
Rongotea, and there really is nothing here to speak of. They have a few town gardens that'll take an hour or so to tend.
The rig's steering feels too light and I'm not sure why. I doubt I'm hauling more than a couple of tonnes - tractor and mowing deck. Tyres seem ok - a mystery.
The Hino seems untouched since when I parked it up on Friday. Engine hours are where I left it. My shit is scattered about the cab as per normal.
I like the filled sausages they sell at the only store in town. There's a light rain falling on a slate grey day. There'll be snow about someplace, but not this near the coast.
There's really not much to do and I figure I'll rip into it and then to the store for a sausage and crappy coffee.....
.... And hideous the coffee was. It's now nearly lunch and I'm fetched up at a nature reserve called Mount Lees. There's a few hours of mowing to do, which is why I'm hauling around the tractor.
Frosts have curbed the growth so it'll be a cinch. The Manawatu is very green at the moment even though we haven't had that much rain.
Fantails witter at me and I see a big fat native pigeon glaring at the intrusion. In truth, few people make it here this time of year. It's too isolated.
The last of the agapanthus wave their deep blue flowers amid yellowing beeches, olive greens of ratas and titokis. Wispy maidenhair ferns peek out - yeah, it's pretty cool here!
Later, at home and safely knocked off, my boy tries to tap me for cigarettes. I'm just grateful he's home and not out creating mayhem. There can be few shops in town he hasn't been banned from. Why does he rebel in such a fashion? My own father and I fell out over politics - it seems more dignified than thieving.
Of course, I'm no shining example, but I know the end game and it isn't pleasant. The clang and crash of the cell doors, the drunken ravings, snarling authoritarianism and, above all, the excuses and denials of one's room mates. I never spent much time in the crossbar hotel - just long enough to realise I didn't want it for my future.
The rig's steering feels too light and I'm not sure why. I doubt I'm hauling more than a couple of tonnes - tractor and mowing deck. Tyres seem ok - a mystery.
The Hino seems untouched since when I parked it up on Friday. Engine hours are where I left it. My shit is scattered about the cab as per normal.
I like the filled sausages they sell at the only store in town. There's a light rain falling on a slate grey day. There'll be snow about someplace, but not this near the coast.
There's really not much to do and I figure I'll rip into it and then to the store for a sausage and crappy coffee.....
.... And hideous the coffee was. It's now nearly lunch and I'm fetched up at a nature reserve called Mount Lees. There's a few hours of mowing to do, which is why I'm hauling around the tractor.
Frosts have curbed the growth so it'll be a cinch. The Manawatu is very green at the moment even though we haven't had that much rain.
Fantails witter at me and I see a big fat native pigeon glaring at the intrusion. In truth, few people make it here this time of year. It's too isolated.
The last of the agapanthus wave their deep blue flowers amid yellowing beeches, olive greens of ratas and titokis. Wispy maidenhair ferns peek out - yeah, it's pretty cool here!
Later, at home and safely knocked off, my boy tries to tap me for cigarettes. I'm just grateful he's home and not out creating mayhem. There can be few shops in town he hasn't been banned from. Why does he rebel in such a fashion? My own father and I fell out over politics - it seems more dignified than thieving.
Of course, I'm no shining example, but I know the end game and it isn't pleasant. The clang and crash of the cell doors, the drunken ravings, snarling authoritarianism and, above all, the excuses and denials of one's room mates. I never spent much time in the crossbar hotel - just long enough to realise I didn't want it for my future.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Zen and the art of negotiation
Sitting outside the lunch room at work on a fine, clear day. There's still a little chill from this morning's frost and a faint wisp of steam rises where the sun shines. It seems such a perfect day.
They let me take the laptop to work. So much stuff has gone missing from our house the insurance company cancelled our cover. I don't want the laptop to go - that would be too much!
I always thought it axiomatic that the tighter you hold on to something the more likely you'll lose it. That's stood me in good stead over the years, but presupposes everyone else is as trusting and honest as myself. Inevitably, to leave something lying about unattended is an invitation for a significant cross section of the community.
A supervisor passes and grunts some sarcasm. Sarcastic supervisors are not thin on the ground at my job. I've learned to cope with a touch of Zen and a modicum of detachment.
I think everyone would benefit from a spell of rehab. I went for the Buddhism - 12 step teaches you process, Buddhism, a life view.
Buddhism separates thought, feeling and action. It reminds you you have as much right to breath as anyone. It teaches you to disengage the ego. It shows you how to cherish every moment.
The only power a word has is in the listener. I have a room in the cellar of my heart where I lock away negative emotion for future action. It mostly works, but, I'm not a cold fish nor a Zen Master.
I assist myself by concentrating on the speaker. 'Why is he saying this? What is his story that made him into such an arsehole? Why do we not see eye to eye?'
Such questions are mostly unanswerable, but it serves to divert me away from the hurtful remark.
Of course, I was once quick to take offense and used to go off like a sack of week old fish heads. A raging temper was followed by intense regret and depression. Something was afoul with the old noodle, the top shelf, the executive suite - a steak sandwich short of a picnic.
Now, I could load up on drugs, kill my fiends, etc, which I did, and still could, with a fistful of prescriptions. Or I could turn to a spot of Zen. Zen doesn't slap you around so much and the only side effect is an enigmatic smile.
That dark room in the cellar is opened in those quiet moments with a spot of meditation followed by writing - I write myself back into balance.
Of course it is never that simple or I would be doing overpriced lecture tours and writing a book of my revelations. My revelations, in any case, are not mine but someone called Satyanand Somebody. I just read them when having nothing better to do.
Robert Kiyosaki gave me the key to going on overpriced lecture tours, but I never had the bottle to turn it.
My supervisor doesn't like me because I can use a computer and therefore he suspects I'm smarter than him. I DO have a better formal education, travelled much more, more articulate, etc, but he's way more practical and experienced. He ought to know I don't want his job - I'd be useless at it.
I suspect he can't figure me out. He's a micro-manager who needs the pieces of the puzzle fitted neatly together. He's perpetually pissed at me but can't figure out why. He's pissed that he's pissed and doesn't know the reason. I defy his concept of manhood. He may think I'm queer or my door swings both ways? Little does he know, but the hinges seized up long ago.
I'm a sissy, a nance, a bumbler who bitches over a broken finger nail. I don't care for getting down and dirty. I'm a runt who can't lift loads. And I don't give a flying fuck.
I'm more at peace than he'll likely ever be. I know who I am and my strengths and weaknesses. I've done the pain and made the gains. I surprise myself every day with new found skills and accomplishments. I let criticism slide off my back. I am bloke!
Zen teaches we are born with all the knowledge and skills of the universe. Our lives are then spent in self discovery. Drugs confine you to childhood, but, once released allow you to grow - to transcend into enlightenment.
Not all of that sits happily in my court, I have to say. Western culture is innately cynical in outlook and I'm a Westerner by birth. We have hyperactive bullshit filters that inhibit accepting that which you can't see, touch and hear.
We are egoists and clutter our lives with material possessions. Our self-concepts are tied to what we own, not who we are. We neglect the heart in preference to the head. We rationalise and seek explanations. We don't learn about the inner realm of the self. Our hearts are what we pour out when we've downed a few whiskeys.
I remember a story about two bands of Lakota sitting own with a BIA agent to solve a grazing land dispute. The elders sat all day outside their teepees saying nothing. When it grew cold in the evening, they rose and left.
"What the hell was that all about?" asked a confused BIA agent.
"It was such a nice day," answered one of the Lakota, "and the dispute is vexing. The chiefs didn't want to spoil it by arguing with one another."
Now that is very Zen!
Don
They let me take the laptop to work. So much stuff has gone missing from our house the insurance company cancelled our cover. I don't want the laptop to go - that would be too much!
I always thought it axiomatic that the tighter you hold on to something the more likely you'll lose it. That's stood me in good stead over the years, but presupposes everyone else is as trusting and honest as myself. Inevitably, to leave something lying about unattended is an invitation for a significant cross section of the community.
A supervisor passes and grunts some sarcasm. Sarcastic supervisors are not thin on the ground at my job. I've learned to cope with a touch of Zen and a modicum of detachment.
I think everyone would benefit from a spell of rehab. I went for the Buddhism - 12 step teaches you process, Buddhism, a life view.
Buddhism separates thought, feeling and action. It reminds you you have as much right to breath as anyone. It teaches you to disengage the ego. It shows you how to cherish every moment.
The only power a word has is in the listener. I have a room in the cellar of my heart where I lock away negative emotion for future action. It mostly works, but, I'm not a cold fish nor a Zen Master.
I assist myself by concentrating on the speaker. 'Why is he saying this? What is his story that made him into such an arsehole? Why do we not see eye to eye?'
Such questions are mostly unanswerable, but it serves to divert me away from the hurtful remark.
Of course, I was once quick to take offense and used to go off like a sack of week old fish heads. A raging temper was followed by intense regret and depression. Something was afoul with the old noodle, the top shelf, the executive suite - a steak sandwich short of a picnic.
Now, I could load up on drugs, kill my fiends, etc, which I did, and still could, with a fistful of prescriptions. Or I could turn to a spot of Zen. Zen doesn't slap you around so much and the only side effect is an enigmatic smile.
That dark room in the cellar is opened in those quiet moments with a spot of meditation followed by writing - I write myself back into balance.
Of course it is never that simple or I would be doing overpriced lecture tours and writing a book of my revelations. My revelations, in any case, are not mine but someone called Satyanand Somebody. I just read them when having nothing better to do.
Robert Kiyosaki gave me the key to going on overpriced lecture tours, but I never had the bottle to turn it.
My supervisor doesn't like me because I can use a computer and therefore he suspects I'm smarter than him. I DO have a better formal education, travelled much more, more articulate, etc, but he's way more practical and experienced. He ought to know I don't want his job - I'd be useless at it.
I suspect he can't figure me out. He's a micro-manager who needs the pieces of the puzzle fitted neatly together. He's perpetually pissed at me but can't figure out why. He's pissed that he's pissed and doesn't know the reason. I defy his concept of manhood. He may think I'm queer or my door swings both ways? Little does he know, but the hinges seized up long ago.
I'm a sissy, a nance, a bumbler who bitches over a broken finger nail. I don't care for getting down and dirty. I'm a runt who can't lift loads. And I don't give a flying fuck.
I'm more at peace than he'll likely ever be. I know who I am and my strengths and weaknesses. I've done the pain and made the gains. I surprise myself every day with new found skills and accomplishments. I let criticism slide off my back. I am bloke!
Zen teaches we are born with all the knowledge and skills of the universe. Our lives are then spent in self discovery. Drugs confine you to childhood, but, once released allow you to grow - to transcend into enlightenment.
Not all of that sits happily in my court, I have to say. Western culture is innately cynical in outlook and I'm a Westerner by birth. We have hyperactive bullshit filters that inhibit accepting that which you can't see, touch and hear.
We are egoists and clutter our lives with material possessions. Our self-concepts are tied to what we own, not who we are. We neglect the heart in preference to the head. We rationalise and seek explanations. We don't learn about the inner realm of the self. Our hearts are what we pour out when we've downed a few whiskeys.
I remember a story about two bands of Lakota sitting own with a BIA agent to solve a grazing land dispute. The elders sat all day outside their teepees saying nothing. When it grew cold in the evening, they rose and left.
"What the hell was that all about?" asked a confused BIA agent.
"It was such a nice day," answered one of the Lakota, "and the dispute is vexing. The chiefs didn't want to spoil it by arguing with one another."
Now that is very Zen!
Don
Saturday Rant
In the eighties I joined another Communist group called the Socialist Action League. The League generally followed a Trotskyist line, being associated with the 4th International. In contrast to Socialist Unity, it opposed seeking control of Trade Unions - preferring to build a movement by way of 'Fractions' or activist groups from the shop floor.
It satisfied a thirst for conspiracy and, at the same time, comradeship and a need to be 'doing something worthwhile (shit-stirring)'
At that time in New Zealand, there was a fair bit of sensationalistic journalism and a campaign by the Government to expose 'Reds under the bed.' It was all for political ends, of course, and no-one really believed NZ was on the verge of revolution.
I enjoyed turning out for demonstrations. I generally held the red flag and, therefore, got my picture taken a lot by the press. It scarcely mattered what the cause was - I felt we were the 'real deal' and shared a revelation.
In fact, Trotsky and Lenin were tedious reads and barely more interesting than Karl Marx. I struggled through the required texts, but most of it flew over my head. I was more interested in their lives, rather than their theories. I read a lot more history, of course, and was able to impose a Socialist analysis. That was a more fascinating game and I still do it.
There were conspiracies in the press about paid informants and such and someone was exposed as being an Intelligence agent within the Socialist Unity Party. We all wondered whether our group had been penetrated and began to look askance at our comrades.
One day, I was looking out the window of our secret headquarters on Jackson Street, Petone, watching to see what cars were parked outside full of spies. I then asked Mike Treen, our beloved leader, whether he thought I worked for the Security Intelligence Service.
"Don't know," he shrugged. "Don't care either."
In fact, I could blow the whole lot to the Government, in banner headlines, and Mike would've been delighted. It would just go to show how paranoid capitalism becomes when it perceives it's under threat. It would raise the profile of Socialist Action well beyond its numbers. That suited him fine.
Actually there was very little threat. There were only 53 of us throughout the country and had remained so for the last ten years. The movement was hardly growing. Workers were more interested in 50 cents an hour more and a longer lunch break than learning about the nature of the capitalist economy.
I was equivocal myself and remained outside a Fraction. I was then an elected Trade Union official in a Union controlled by adherents to a rival Communist group, the Workers Communist League. As such I'd broken a number of Socialist Action's rules.
I was also a drug user, and drugs were anathema to the League. Drugs could be used by the State to bust the League's members. I was pretty good at covering everything up, however, and Mike either didn't notice or chose not to.
I still keep in touch with Mike now and again. Paradoxically, he heads a Union now called 'Unity' and I admire its brief. It targets poorly paid young workers in retail - a neglected sector, in my opinion.
Of course, in the late nineties everything turned to custard for me and I was exposed as a fraudster, thief, liar and drug user - unceremoniously asked to leave the Union and told not to come back. Politically, I was unaffordable and had disgraced the Union I worked for and my employers I cheated.
Friends fled and wrote unkind things in publications and newspapers. I was branded one of the 'Gang of Four' and eventually I had to leave town and rebuild my life from scratch.
I choose not to reveal the details of my activities only that my criminal spree - or that for which I was caught - spanned two years and involved over 30 grand net. I still feel a mild satisfaction at the cleverness of it all, but, otherwise the shame and all the other stuff is gone.
I put my family through hell during that time but we've moved well and truly on. The only reason I can speak so candidly is because I feel nothing. In that sense I'm healed - for good I hope.
It satisfied a thirst for conspiracy and, at the same time, comradeship and a need to be 'doing something worthwhile (shit-stirring)'
At that time in New Zealand, there was a fair bit of sensationalistic journalism and a campaign by the Government to expose 'Reds under the bed.' It was all for political ends, of course, and no-one really believed NZ was on the verge of revolution.
I enjoyed turning out for demonstrations. I generally held the red flag and, therefore, got my picture taken a lot by the press. It scarcely mattered what the cause was - I felt we were the 'real deal' and shared a revelation.
In fact, Trotsky and Lenin were tedious reads and barely more interesting than Karl Marx. I struggled through the required texts, but most of it flew over my head. I was more interested in their lives, rather than their theories. I read a lot more history, of course, and was able to impose a Socialist analysis. That was a more fascinating game and I still do it.
There were conspiracies in the press about paid informants and such and someone was exposed as being an Intelligence agent within the Socialist Unity Party. We all wondered whether our group had been penetrated and began to look askance at our comrades.
One day, I was looking out the window of our secret headquarters on Jackson Street, Petone, watching to see what cars were parked outside full of spies. I then asked Mike Treen, our beloved leader, whether he thought I worked for the Security Intelligence Service.
"Don't know," he shrugged. "Don't care either."
In fact, I could blow the whole lot to the Government, in banner headlines, and Mike would've been delighted. It would just go to show how paranoid capitalism becomes when it perceives it's under threat. It would raise the profile of Socialist Action well beyond its numbers. That suited him fine.
Actually there was very little threat. There were only 53 of us throughout the country and had remained so for the last ten years. The movement was hardly growing. Workers were more interested in 50 cents an hour more and a longer lunch break than learning about the nature of the capitalist economy.
I was equivocal myself and remained outside a Fraction. I was then an elected Trade Union official in a Union controlled by adherents to a rival Communist group, the Workers Communist League. As such I'd broken a number of Socialist Action's rules.
I was also a drug user, and drugs were anathema to the League. Drugs could be used by the State to bust the League's members. I was pretty good at covering everything up, however, and Mike either didn't notice or chose not to.
I still keep in touch with Mike now and again. Paradoxically, he heads a Union now called 'Unity' and I admire its brief. It targets poorly paid young workers in retail - a neglected sector, in my opinion.
Of course, in the late nineties everything turned to custard for me and I was exposed as a fraudster, thief, liar and drug user - unceremoniously asked to leave the Union and told not to come back. Politically, I was unaffordable and had disgraced the Union I worked for and my employers I cheated.
Friends fled and wrote unkind things in publications and newspapers. I was branded one of the 'Gang of Four' and eventually I had to leave town and rebuild my life from scratch.
I choose not to reveal the details of my activities only that my criminal spree - or that for which I was caught - spanned two years and involved over 30 grand net. I still feel a mild satisfaction at the cleverness of it all, but, otherwise the shame and all the other stuff is gone.
I put my family through hell during that time but we've moved well and truly on. The only reason I can speak so candidly is because I feel nothing. In that sense I'm healed - for good I hope.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Royal First
.jpg)
The battleship that set the standard, HMS Devastation. This ship was built in 1871 and demonstrated the features that would become common to the pre-dreadnought battleship.
She was originally equipped with 13.5inch muzzle loading cannon - two per turret, one aft and one forward. She was built entirely for steam and had nothing but a signal mast. Even so, she had a range of over 5000 miles - pretty good for the day.
Devastation gave over 30 years service - subsequently equipped with 10 inch breech loaders.
The Devastation was widely admired and even more widely copied by the world's navies.
Don
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Victorian Innovation
.jpg)
HMS Inflexible and the vessel that inspired its design, Italy's Duilo of 1880/1. The guns about reached the limit for breech loaders on a warship in the Victorian era. They were just too damned difficult to operate.
The barrels had to be first depressed into a glacis below which an army of gun crew rammed the shell and charge up the barrel. The turret then was turned, aimed and fired, if lucky, inside 15 minutes.
The turrets themselves were mounted en enchelon amidships so, in theory they could both fire across the deck broadside. In practice, the muzzle blast caused more damage to the superstructure than any theoretical hit from the enemy.
The amidships section was an armoured box within which were the machinery spaces and the magazines. The ends were soft, ie unarmoured, but, it was reckoned, the armoured section would be sufficient to keep the ship afloat if the ends were punctured.
Another problem with the type of gun was the use of black powder. This caused a huge amount of smoke which had to clear before the gunlayers could relocate the target.
Lastly, the detonation factor of black powder meant these guns had to be very strong in the breech to cope with the sudden expansion of gases. This pushed the weight of these monster guns to over 120 tons for the 13.5 inch.
Don
Friday, May 2, 2008
Reluctant Turncoat
SMS Pillau - fast light cruiser originally designed and built for Russia by Schicau of Elbing. It was to have Oblukhov 130mm main guns but the Germans mounted Krupp 150s. Upon the outbreak of war in 1914 the German Navy took over her and her sister SMS Elbing.
German cruisers led much more busy lives than the capital ships and Pillau was no exception. She was at Jutland, Heligoland Bight, Riga Gulf and numerous skirmishes with the enemy throughout the war. In 1919 she was handed over to the Italians as part of reparations and renamed Bari. As such, she was sunk by the British in 1943.
Monday, April 21, 2008
The Victorious King
Germany's Konig and why old pre-dreadnoughts like the Slava stood little chance. That' s ten twelve inch guns she's packing against 4 on the Slava. Steam turbines pushed her along at over 21 knots, as opposed to the Slava's 16kts at the time of the Moon Sound battle.
Don
Glory
Slava (Glory) scuttled in Moon Sound, off Muhu Island, Gulf of Riga. She was last of the Borodino class, finished in 1906 and thus too late for the Russo-Japanese War.
In late September 1917 her and the Tchesma, the renamed Tessarevich, fought against an attempt by units of Germany's High Seas Fleet to break into the Gulf of Finland. The ensuing Battle of Moon Sound was an unequal contest between German Dreadnought battleships and the remnant of the Tsarist Baltic Battlefleet.
Slava was disabled by heavy hits from the German SMS Konig and, down by the stern, couldn't negotiate the shallow passage and so scuttled herself.
It was the last battle fought under the Andreevsky Flag.
Don
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Pious Peresviet
A stunning shot of Peresviet some time before 1905. The detail in this photo is exceptional for the time.Peresviet and her sister, Oslyabya, were named after medieval warrior monks. The other of the class, Pobieda, is Russian for 'Victory.'
The sailor standing on the bow below the jack gives some idea of perspective. By the standard of five years later, they were small battleships - around 11,000 tons fully loaded.
Although the flag looks to be the British Union Jack, it's actually the Russian Naval jack. The crosses are blue and white on a red field - the opposite to the British. The ensign was the 'Andreievsky Flag,' blue St Andrew's cross on a white field. This flag was adopted back into the modern Russian Navy in 1994.
Don
Saturday, March 29, 2008
The Boss
Commander of the Russian Second Pacific Squadron, Zinovi Petrovich Rhozdestvensky. Likely this photo was taken after Tsushima as his beard has been trimmed. Contemporary photos show him with a long white beard, as befitting a Tsarist senior military officer.
Rhozdestvensky's early career was blighted. Allegedly, he invented a battle with a Turkish gunboat, which he claimed to have sunk. Later research proved no such battle took place.
He was gunnery specialist and commander of the Baltic Fleet in 1904.
There's no doubt he was a hard driver with a blistering temper. He had no problem firing a live round across the bows of any of his command who displeased him. He was prone to episodes of despair, however, and who could blame him? He'd shut himself away for days on end - particularly at Nossi Be where the fleet paused on its journey around the world.
He was given almost an impossible set of orders - to sail the Baltic Fleet around the world and beat the Japanese. It was a bold move by the Russians, but also displayed breathtaking arrogance.
The Tsar constantly referred to the Japanese as 'little yellow monkeys' who needed to be 'tamed.' The Russo-Japanese War was going to be a 'short victorious war' to divert Russia from its problems. Proconsul in the Far East, Alexiev, was a champagne diplomat and vacillator but Russia's most experienced military commander, Kuropatkin, described the war as 'folly.' He should have been listened to.
Russian Intelligence wildly underestimated both the size and efficiency of the Japanese armed forces. They took no heed of the circumstances of the Japanese defeat of the Chinese in 1894. The Japanese attacked without a formal declaration of war - an obvious lesson. Port Arthur was virtually undefended while Russia poured millions into the civilian port of Dalny - a strategic mistake.
After Port Arthur's loss, Rhozdestvensky should have been recalled or his fleet made to wait at Cam Ranh Bay. But the Admiral was being pushed on by an Admiralty living in a fantasy. The Tsar needed a victory, no matter how unlikely that was going to be.
The decision to encumber the Admiral with Nebogatov's third squadron showed the Russian autocracy was dominated by military thinking, not naval. Increasing numbers by swelling your fleet with old and obsolete hulls might make some military sense but was a crazy idea at sea. Inferior troops could be left to hold a strong position while your elite units used in maneuvre. No such option exists in a naval battle. Your slowest ships set the speed of the fleet - and Rhozdestvensky was held to 9 knots by his auto sinkers and transports. That handed Togo the freedom to maneuvre.
Rhozdestvensky was criticised for steering his first division across the bows of the second to get at Togo's point of turn. In hindsight, it was the best chance he had of damaging the Japanese. With Suvorov disabled and the Admiral unconscious, it was all over after 15 minutes and it was his subordinates who tried to recover the situation.
After the debacle, Rhozdventsky, now in poor health with a scrap of iron in his head, fiercely defended Nebogatov and those of his captains who surrendered. Risking the firing squad himself, he took all the responsibility upon himself and ultimately influenced the Tsar to get them released. He died soon after in 1909.
Don
Danish Nobleman
Boyarin (Noblemen) 3rd rank protected cruiser built in Denmark in 1902. She was at Port Arthur and sank after striking a mine early on in the siege.Don
A Bad Hand
Orel. The fourth ship of the Borodino class seemed to have been dogged by ill-luck from the outset. Revolutionaries sabotaged her engines by tipping iron filings into the bearing cases before she set out with Rhozdventsky. Orel broke down at least four times on her journey around the world.Named after a fortress town in Southern Russia. Orel's crew consisted of more agents provocateur than the rest of the fleet put together.
Following the Battle of Tsushima, she was found by the Japanese abandoned with white flags at her mastheads on the morning of the 28th. Her crew were in the boats, drifting nearby. Orel was towed back to Japan for extensive repairs including the removal of one of her decks to improve stability.
Mystery still surrounds her tame surrender. Her captain was tried by courts marshal and, in his defense, claimed he had no confidence in the crew. He and Admiral Nebogatov were sent to prison, but their sentences were commuted after three years or so.
Although she was unable to raise steam when the Japanese came upon her, the suspicion is that her own crew sabotaged her to prevent the captain from continuing the fight.
Don
The Baltic Bard
Bayan (Bard or Poet) Armoured cruiser. By this, the fourth class of armoured cruiser built for the Imperial Russian Navy, they were starting to get it together. Four were built, Bayan, Admiral Makarov, Bayan II, and Pallada II.Bayan was with the first Pacific Squadron in 1904 and was sunk, raised, and incorporated into the Japanese Navy. The name was shifted to the third vessel of the class and, I suspect, the photo above is the second Bayan. Pallada II must not be confused with the earlier Pallada of the Aurora class, again, bottomed at Port Arthur.
The Bayans were designed from the outset as fleet scouts rather than commerce raiders, as the three previous classes were. The first two were built in France and, although two thirds the displacement, were just as powerful as Gromoboi and faster.
Bayan became the IJN's Aso and served on under the Japanese flag until 1930.
All three survivors served in the Baltic in WW1. Pallada II was torpedoed in 1914 by U-26. Bayan II and Makarov fought at the Battle of Moon Sound, participated in the famous Ice Cruise of the Baltic Fleet and were scrapped in Germany in 1922.
Pallada was named after the Greek Goddess, Pallas Athena - Makarov after Admiral Stepan Makarov who went down in the Petropavlovsk.
Don
Friday, March 28, 2008
Baltic Battler
Dimitri Donskoi, below as a trailer sailer with modified ship rig, about 1898. Square rigged, she could hoist lateens on all three masts if needed. Above, her running rigging had been stripped, about 1900, and here she wears Rhozdventsky's livery.
The Donskoi's final battle was remarkable for such an old ship. She'd been built in 1888 and was by no means in the peak of fitness for the battle of Tsushima. Nevertheless, she made an heroic final stand - holding off Japanese torpedo boats - until late on the 29th, when her crew blew her up to avoid capture.The name Dimitri Donskoi is still held in high esteem and the modern Russian navy named one of the surviving 'Akula' class, ballistic missile submarines in her honour. (ie, 'Typhoon class' by NATO nomenclature)
Don
Coastal Flatiron
General Admiral Ushakov, a coast defence ship forming part of Admiral Nebogatov's third Battleship Squadron at Tsushima. They were variously dubbed, 'auto sinkers' or 'flatirons,' because of their low freeboard, beamy raft bodies.Nebogatov had three of them, and not a lot was expected of them. Commander Klado, who sold the idea of their inclusion to the Russian Admiralty, opined they would be useful for 'diffusing Japanese fire' - tough break for the poor crews who had to provide target practice for Togo.
In any case, their old fashioned 305mm guns hadn't the elevation to compete in range with Togo's battleships. They did their best, particularly early on, and Nebogatov was a determined customer with crews who, in the main, had never gone to sea before.
Ushakov, reputably, landed a hit on one of Kamimura's armoured cruisers, the Nisshin, and set it on fire.
They were small ships, even for their day, fractionally under 5000 tons, with shallow drafts for defending harbours and river mouths. Built in 1895, a triple expansion engine pushed them along at 15 knots - if they were lucky.
Ushakov became detached from the squadron during the night of the 27th May and refused to surrender when called on by Togo. She took three damaging hits, two below the waterline and one above, and, blazing from end to end, opened her seacocks and sank herself.
Her sisters, Seniavin and Apraxin, surrendered and were taken into service by the Japanese.
Note: All images in this blog were published before 1st January 1954 and so considered in the public domain according to Russian Copyright Law.
Don
Baltic Oddity
The Navarin, 3rd battleship of the 2nd Division, 2nd Russian Pacific Squadron of Admiral Zinoviev Rhozdventsky - lost to Japanese floating mines, Tsushima Strait, the night of 27th May, 1905.Navarin was built in the early 1880s, Galernyy Yard, St Petersburg, Imperial Russia. Her designers modeled her on HMS Trafalgar, built late the previous decade.
Navarin and Sissoi Veliki sailed with the fleet on the mistaken belief the Japanese under Admiral Togo Heichiro had 6 modern battleships. Navarin was sent to make up the numbers - nothing more.
Ironically, Togo had been whittled down to four following the loss of two of his battleships to Russian mines outside Port Arthur. It was Togo who worried the Russians outgunned him and therefore made the dubious decision to flesh out the battlefleet with his armoured cruisers.
Don
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
