Season's greetings

16th December 2005

............................Christmas. Upon us.
..........................................
.................................GOD. A small japanese robot.
....................................(I've always suspected it)

The season of the jolly is upon us. Somehow I’m enjoying it this time around. Maybe it’s because our baby is due on the 23rd and I know soon christmas’s will have the special meaning that seems to come with the presence of children on the occasion. Mind you, I often groan about christmas and bemoan the seasonal ritual and obligation, but always end up having a good time, like the Blondie song- one way or the other.
Tonight’s unheralded Christmas cheer came from the unexpected, at the $2 shop. While the last minute dash to ‘the Warehouse’ for gifts is tacky. The 2 dollar shop offers something potentially cool and excellent, or at least accidentally cool and excellent.
My joy tonight comes courtesy of the mysterious world of engrish, and the superb and entirely unpredictable realm of langauge mangling.
I found a chess set for $2, which is a great gift, because the world of chess requires little and offers a great deal. It hones the brain and can absorb you for hours. It can be playfully competitive and can ruin friendships. I’ve always liked it and I can think of a few Playstation obsessed kids who could do with an introduction to the great game. Funnily enough the only time I am mentioned in a book is in relation to chess. It says
“Jimi’s also a mean chess player.”
I beat a guy (the author of the book) in a couple of chess games and he never forgot it. I think he was fairly competent at chess and was a maths graduate,so he fancied his chances. I beat him in the second game even though I was going to sleep cos I was so drunk and had to be woken up to make a move, which may have given me a minor reputation.
I knew I was never going to do any better than that so I cleverly never played him again. If I did the second match would have been called -
“The Return of the Drunken Master”
Anyway, the world of chess opens up these things to you - competition, humiliation and celebrity. All for $2.
Here is the box for the chess set (Exquisite.Vogue!)-

It seems harmless enough but the tears of laughter, that set me apart at the $2 shop, came from the writing on the box.
Look at this:-

Exploited Wisdom?!

Fire Quality?!!
on the side of the box it says this-

How do know it's going to be closely fought. Can I get my money back if it isn't?
On the back under 'Guardians Should Read' it says-
- Do not play on stairs or in other places where falling may happen.
why would you?
"mate, want a game of chess? let's play on this precipice..."
it also says-
- Do not misuse this toy, like bumping it or waving it around to avoid accidents.
again, What?
"There's going to be an accident. Quick! grab the chess set and wave it around!!"
Bloody great. I’m tempted to run a competition to win a set, but I’m not sure anyone would enter..

My second engrish moment this week came courtesy of the afore mentioned Warehouse. During a visit there this week for swimming googles and a flyswat. There was a sausage sizzle outside and while I can pass many things (exams, cars, my wife’s expectations, wind. . .) the sausage sizzle is not one of them. I can rarely walk by one without giving in to the seductive temptation of sausage, bread and onion. I had to have one. I had to have one before I went in to the red box.
I walked the bargain aisles slobbering and breathing heavily. Concentrating fully on the kiwi classic.
Eventually I was assailed mid aisle.
“Excruse me”
An asian lady approached in some distress. She stopped me mid-aisle and addressed me, and my sausage, with an extremely strong version of that adorable accent that misappropriates constanants and reassigns them in a random fashion.
“you no loud in here with dat.” She informed, gesturing pointedly at my sausage.
“someone repot you spill onrion on froor” she admonished.
I was flabbergasted, but my relationship with the sausage sizzler had reached a zenith and was now a covetous one. I would not surrender it without a fight.
I decided to adopt the Shakespearean “when ignorance is bliss tis folly to be wise” system.
“I’m sorry, onrion? Where?”
and smiled slimily, Stephan Fry like.
“I’m after some flyswats”
“you know fly?” I said, to clarify.
“Fry?” she said.
“no. Fly.” I said.
“Fry?” she said.
“no. Fly.” I said.
We could have gone on like this till the new year but she grew agitated and told me;
“Someone could shit on that onrion!”
“you mean slip on the onion”
“yes, someone shit on that onrion.”
I certainly didn’t want THAT to happen. It would require pinpoint accuracy and a complete lack of modestly. The smell would be awful. It could put me off sausage sizzles forever.
By now my sausage was at an end and I slipped (or shitted) the last piece of the culinary masterpiece into my mouth. So what was I supposed to do now?
“I’m sorry it wont happen again.”
She went off unhappy. But I imagined the endless joy and good tidings to be experienced in her world of engrish. Seasons greetings twisted.
Santa’s name perverted for a good Kraus.

PS - the next post will be on B-day!!

Book, Beach, Boerhurst

9 Dec 2005

Book, Beach, Boerhurst

...

The family Kumara had their first visit to the beach last week. Junior was in utero, of course, but will have enjoyed it’s mother increased endorphins from the swim, being for a while weightless, cool and free from the burden of the burgeoning belly. We went to Mairangi Bay which, like Browns Bay seems to be over run by South Africans. The Burger bar even had a Boerhurst-something burger with all known meat forms on board, and an appropriately excessive calorie count.
9 Dec 2005
There is a small op shop in the village there and Mrs K cannot walk past one without looking in.
I could tell straight away, that for the old lady behind the counter, ‘charity’ came with a few proviso’s. She gave me a disapproving look when I walked in and her crusty, hair laden upper lip, hardened from years of pious judging, formed into a harsh disapproving scowl.
It was a face that had long forgotten the joy of smiling.
I went out of my way to be friendly which always annoys people like that.
“Hi! Nice day isn’t it?”
“A glorious day for ice cream!”
"Or Boerhurst!"
She busied herself grumpily, so I had a look around.
I am usually bored with looking at clothes within seconds these days, but there was a time when I could spend hours trying crap on in the op shop. That was in the 80’s when I would literally wear anything. I would put on a baby nightie, a strange old lady hat and a pair of tights, and come out of the changing room and ask the op shop ladies;
“What do you think?”
“Does this work?”
In those days many op shop workers were kindly, even nana-ish and they would laugh at my outfit, like I was a silly nephew, or a dangerous mental patient who needed placating. Their breath carried the pungent aroma of strong tea...
ahh those were the days.
The other thing I would do was whistle really out of tune and badly. I am a master at it, even now. It really pisses people off but they never say anything.
Bloody childish.
I love it.

Back at the high velt of Mairangi Bay my wife had struck gold, a straw hat, $1. I decided to check out the books. I can always pick up some of the classics at the op shop very cheaply to add to my collection. This place was no different, even though there are South Africans here with high cholestrol.
Soon I struck my own kind of gold, paper gold..with a great bird book, with illustrations and a good version of King Lear. Then I found a fine copy of greatest book ever written.
I went up to the counter to share my good fortune and attempt to cheer the old lady up;
“Were in luck. The greatest book ever written”.
And held up the book – Ulysses by James Joyce.
She glanced at the book and fixed me with a look that said ‘what about ‘the Power of One’ by Bryce Courtney.
Then she said simply.
“50c”
“Not a bad price, considering.”
I felt like telling her how it had been banned from being published for years by the pious and ignorant, but left her alone.

THE BEST BOOK EVER WRITTEN - 50c

I have never read Ulysses because it had always seemed like a pretentious thing people would do to impress people.
“I read Ulysses in two days, it’s brilliant.”
Not having read it hasn’t stopped me from telling people it was over rated though. But I have never been caught out because I suspect that most of the people I have talked too haven’t read it either. Or at least hadn’t understood it fully.
Knowing my own staggering hypocracy and, the ability I have to eat my own words, expect me to declare, after reading it, that it is my favourite book.
I can hear it now, me at pub quiz declaring;
“Molly Bloom’s soliloquy is the finest thing ever committed to paper!”

What I have read, is Joyce’s book of short stories ‘the Dubliners’ and it is fantastic.

The art of concise, perfect English writing, revealed.
I love the way the irish writers (not only Joyce but J P Donleavey and others) can make getting pissed and eating bacon seem exotic and cool.
It just wouldn’t seem appealing in New Zealand:-

‘ After we had finished 30 jug of beers, we smashed up the jukebox and went back to Jakes house. He got out some bacon and told his wife Beth to cook it up for us.
“Anyone want some eggs?”
Jake said, massaging his ego.
“I’ll have a poached one. But make sure they are not over done and are still a bit runny.”
“Can I have scramblers, but made with light soy milk. not So Good, Vitasoy.”
“I SO agree with you, Black Pete, Vitasoy is easily the best soy milk on the market.”
“I like the carob one, in the small container, Yummy.”
"Yes. and less cholestrol too. Although I have heard it contains estrogen which can give men breasts"
They all fell about laughing and Jake said "Breasts." again.
and the word seemed to float there, in the room, encouraging the laughter to continue.
They moved into the lounge with the clunking of boots and the squeaking of leather, being careful to step over the growing pool of blood on the floor from Beth's bleeding head.
“Let’s have a sing a long. Does anyone know any Simon and Garfunkel?.”

You see? In a New Zealand setting it doesn't seem to work there is no majesty, no fat, no guiness.

M airangi Bay was nice but the tide was out and the water was full of jellyfish. I stayed on shore and read the liner notes of the greatest book ever. The activites on the beach were slightly disappointing.
Last time we came over this way we went to Takapuna Beach.
Now, there’s a beach which knows how to put on a show. It was like a live episode of the young and the restless. Prancing overexcited boys, preening coy girls. Older men in speedo’s, who did a bit of preening and tried their hand at prancing but failed to realize speedo’s are an object of either horror or ridicule. Testosterone and the female equivalent filled the air.
As groups of boys circled groups of girls I felt like a social anthropologist, maybe Desmond Morris - the Human ape.
Why don’t they just go up and say hello? It all seemed so simple.
And all I have to do is hold that thought for 18 years until our kid is that age and I will save him/her all that heartache and fucking around.
Of course it will never work, because while some things change and they will probably have video beamed straight into your brain by then , some things never will..
and when I stand up at Takapuna a beach in 2023 and say to my son
“Take you bloody speedo’s off and go and talk to them boy!.”
The endless cycle of parental embarrassment will, once again, be complete.

Six feet under, The Haka

2nd December | 2005

..........................Six feet under the haka
......................................
The British really have a cheek going on about the relevance of haka. Look at all of their stupid traditions and rituals. They have A Queen for gods sake. And a news item recently revealed they have a royal raven keeper at the tower of London and have done since the 16th century. Is that normal or relevant in 2005? No.

In terms of the British, and dances, the world should never forget the rampant and seemingly unending pain and harm caused by RIVERDANCE and it’s many tributaries. Skipping, dancing and stamping over hill and dale, this was a virtual global invasion. Lead by the indefatigible Michael Flatley, (I for one wish he was much more fatigible) a person who was more of an ego with legs than a man, him and his relentless band of stompers have enacted a cultural blitzkreig wherever they have gone. While some people say "look how fast his legs are moving?"
My thoughts are more along the lines of "Why aren't they carrying him away from here?"
Yes, with it's bloody awful irish music, The RIVERDANCE is something truly unforgivable and far more terrifying than any haka.

Also from Britain the news that one of the last great squats in London was finally being emptied of tenants. I must say squats seem to be from another era. I lived in them in Sydney and in London. The one we lived in in London was in Finsbury Park and we were constantly trying to twart the council and landlords. Various notices would be posted on our door and there was a need to always have someone home so that they couldn’t sneak in and kick us out. The squat was under the control of a musician called TJ. He was someone, I think, who could safely list his occupation as ‘dreamer’. I once found a sheet of paper in the lounge on which he listed his projected musical path for the future, it read something like;
Play Finsbury Arms
Record single
Play Islington west
record album
Do Top of the Pops
Play Hammersmith Pallais
Appear on Wogan
Play at Wembley.

He was a pretty good guitarist but, considering he only played live once in the time I knew him and didn’t seem to have a band, he had fairly unrealistic expectations about his music future.

Charles Dickens - imagines Bobby coming out of the shower and is disgusted.
"it's so small!" he said once.

SIX FEET UNDER is back on the screen. I have watched it from the beginning and when it is good, it is very good, but it is prone to an unhealthy dependence on ‘dream sequences’ and fantasy segues. I think TV shows and films need to retain a certain level of ‘reality check’ or else there is a logic free-for-all and they lose all credibility. Six feet Under sashayed into dream and afterlife segments so much that at one stage I thought lead character Nate was dead and the entire last series was a post-death fantasy.
So maybe I have an overactive imagination, I don’t know..

But surely if liberties with time, space and reality go too far it just renders the whole thing stupid. Like in the SUPERMAN movie when he went back time to alter the future and save Louis Lane. It just makes a mockery of the movie logic and pisses me off. What say Lex Luthor goes back further and changes time before him? Why doesn’t he just go back in time -ALL THE TIME and save his xray vision for perving at chicks. These thoughts occurred to me at time and if you were at a session of the film and heard someone yell “Fuck No!” and stomp up the aisle slamming the door on the way out. That would have been me.

The finest and most bizarre example of ‘storyline logic shitting’ was on TV program Dallas.
When TV executives decided that Patrick Duffy (Bobby), who had died earlier on in the series, needed to come back they simply had him step, deftly out of the shower and expected the audience to swallow the fact that two entire seasons of the show were in fact Bobby’s dreams. Brilliant, and the viewing public scarcely raised a protest. This in spite of the fact that many of the events that occurred in Bobby’s dreams were now part of the shows brave new reality. So maybe I’m alone in expecting a level of reality in drama, but there you have it. I do.
The other trick they use is to include a piece of a dream sequence in the shows promo. Shots of characters dying, committing unspeakable sex acts on relatives or making bizarre statements, which will have you tuning in but will turn out to be a red herring (or a rainbow trout) when you finally view the actual program. Fantasy teasing, editing sleight-of-hand and the unfair promise of scandal leading to unfeasibly Great Expectations.

Proto-realist Charles Dickens would be appalled.

Coronation Street afternote: - Go on Sally do it! Shag him on your marriage bed with your wedding picture looking on.
He’s a slimy opportunist, you’re a moaning ladder climbing cow, it’s a match made in TV h

Wayne Mapp, English Pubs, George Best

25th November | 2005

............... George is best and Englands dreaming.

The opposition spokesman (the only spokesman actually) for the eradication of political correctness had a fine example to eradicate this week when government David Cunliffe was attacked for recommending Asian national MP "wead", rather than "read", a particular document.
The obvious ethnic slur was attacked by fellow National Party minister Tau Henare. Surely Mapp was handed an opportunity to declare talkback radio’s rallying catch cry “It’s political correctness gone mad!”. Instead Mapp has remained silent on the matter.
Why? This should be right up his alley. Even the Jimi page is able to suggest follow up, ignorant and disaffected clichés;
“Everyones lost their sense of humour”
or the timeless qualifying rejoinder
“Some of my best friends are Asians”
Which would enable him to talk about how much they enjoy a bloody good old laugh at their own expense.

This morning however, we find that Mr Mapp wasted no time in commenting in todays Herald on the requirement for wheelchair access at a bush walk in Westland. And although he takes the opportunity with both hands he fails once again to use the essential sentence (IPCGM).

I have to admit some sympathy for Wayne’s stance, this is taking the access point one step too far and this will join the bloody hip hop tour to be trotted out when anyone wants to make a politically incorrect point. If one was to extrapolate skyward towards where this whole thing may lead, one can imagine a world where climbing the Himilayas is prohibited until cripples get access there as well, which seems clearly ludicrous. Mind you, building a disability ramp up Mt Everest would be surely earn a place in the Seven wonders of the world (What would it knock out? The pyramids? The great wall of china?). And it would be one the greatest achievements of the modern world. Certainly the greatest politically correct one.

The Himalayas. Once MAF, OSH and Franz Kafka get offices here. Ramps will be required.

And to those who wonder how the disabled could possibly contemplate climbing the worlds highest peak remember, a man with one leg called Mark (“What’s his other leg called? Boom! boom!) climbed Mt Cook.
But he was apparently assisted by a passing helicopter.

Author and bully, Alan Duff who recently said he was ‘sick and tired of hearing about disabled people’ is no doubt unimpressed by the attention again given to ‘bloody cripples (bastards!).’
Duff is currently working on a book called “One Small Worrier” about a whinging midget cripple with cancer.
‘It’s about accepting your lot and getting on with it.” said an angry, gruff Duff.

Closing time's over (I'm not lying).

In Britain years of 11 o’clock closing is about to come to an end. The idea is this will bring about an end to the binge drinking culture that exists there.
They are dreaming.
Like many kiwis I worked in a few bars in London and punters would wander in, set up camp and drink steadily till leaving. This will just mean they leave later. I had one guy called Dave who would arrive say “Hi mate. Pint”
And that was about it, communication wise, for the whole night. When his pint was low I would look over at him, raise my eyebrows, and give him a refill. He would barely say a word to anyone all night. That whole bar was like that. They never talked about the issues of the day, politics, sport, anything.. They just supped. And I think the English culture is largely a supping one, while your at the pub. If they stay longer they will sup more. Simple.
That’s only a minor problem though. The big issue will be finding an Indian restaurant to have a curry at, come 2 o’clock in the morning. Cos that was the other thing my silent supper Dave used do. Have a curry. Apart from the opening ordering salvo, the other great discourse we would have went like this;
Me – “Pint dave?”
Dave – “Hold it for now Mate. I fancy a curry.”
Me – “Right you are then.”
And off he would go into the night in search of a burning arse for the morning.
Frankly I despair of Dave and the thousands like him searching the streets in vain for a curry house and I expect the government in a few months will rush through, with urgency, the first reading of the “Emergency Indian Restaurant Hour amendment bill”.
In my time in London I couldn’t believe how much it shut down at 11. I had been living in Sydney and the nightlife went on like, all night, as night life should. As long as you didn’t mind a sitting at a gay bar in King Cross, where you may have to look up at the occasional cavorting leather jock strap inches from your nose, you could hang out in the bar till the wee hours. In London the pub shut and that was that. After-hours drinking, occurred in increasingly weird and desperate venues. A Spanish club that only sold sangria or a filthy Turkish restaurant.
The best place though, was a takeaway bar in Finsbury Park that also operated as an off-license, I think illegally. There was always a massive, conspicuously disproportionate queue outside the place and once at the counter, people would order some token item on the menu and then booze. So it was like;
“one sausage, chips, a fried haddock and a bottle of vodka mate”
I found it very amusing and could barely contain myself, which I suppose in retrospect was very uncool.
When it was my turn, with little ceremony - I cut to the chase;
“One mussel, a dozen bottles of lager, small hip flask of whisky, bottle of white wine and what red wine do you have?”
Very funny.
I remember they sold deep fried mars bars as well and with the ‘destroying the health of customers’ market so well covered I am surprised they didn’t sell heart bypass operations too.
“Five oily chickens, chips, a dozen deep fried mars bars, two cases of whiskey and throw in a couple of coffins please gov’nor.”

Finally leading on from that, a word about soccer great George Best, who as you read this, is either dying or dead. He was a football genius but he was also an unparalleled genius as a hedonist. In this area only Keith Richards was his superior. He wasted his talent/money/life and quite literally pissed it up against the wall.
He summed it up in this quote;

“ I spent a lot of money on birds, booze and fast cars. The rest I just squandered.”

How superbly punk rock and decadent. He would have taught those romans a thing or two.
The best story, which many of you will know and which will be recounted endlessly on his death, is this one (it may or may not be an orchestrated piece of self-promotion).
A waiter arrives in George’s room with the finest champagne and salmon. He is in bed with a Miss World or a Miss Universe (or both). There is money strewn all over the room, and the waiter says

'So, Mr Best, tell me - where did it all go so wrong?'.

SO have a drink (or 40) this weekend in his honour.

Antenatal Anal Attendence

18th November | 2005

....................... Antenatal Anal Attendence

Wood pidgeons swoop and land on mighty kauri, fishettes leap from the placid waters of the mangrove kingdom and a pregnant wife goes round in circles in search of a misplaced piece of favoured clothing. Which, when she finds it, won't fit her anyway.
These scenes and more are played out in the quiet valley at our new house.

Mostly we cant find anything. We thought we had done well early on in the pack down, labeling our packed boxes prodigiously but in the end that all went out the window and stuff was just chucked into whatever vessel was nearby. The end result is a sense of limbo and frustration. One day we’ll be sorted we say to ourselves, one day. . .
In the meantime, whenever we look outside, our view remains magnificent and all is well.

In the midst, of all our moving and shaking, we have had our antenatal classes. I must admit to a sense of trepidation as they came along.
“Do we really need to go?”
I would say hopefully.
“Weve read. God knows weve read. What can they teach us?”
If I was expecting a reprieve or a late pardon, I was to be disappointed.
Mrs K was having no part of my attempts to ‘opt out’ and in the end the classes were helpful and I can report that I even enjoyed them.

The choice was between six two hour classes or two six hour ones. I could already tell that if we choose the six class option my old latent ability to ‘wag’ classes would emerge. We would go to the first one diligently, that much was certain. We are of course modern parents and as such are subject to the various social pressures that force you to succeed in the production of superb children. We therefore HAVE to go to the antenatal class otherwise we will be remiss in the perfect upbringing of our child.
If we dont go, in twenty years time there will be a knock at our door. It will be the cops.
“Is your son Horatio Kumara?”
“I hope not. I would have thought we would have had a better name than that.”
“Is this your son?”
Shows me a picture of a rather striking, handsome individual in a commando outfit holding a gun.
“yes. That’s him. Bless em’’
“He’s gone on a murderous rampage.”
“Not again!”
“Did you go to antenatal classes when he was in the womb?”
“Well. . . I was busy. . and. . .”
“My god. You people disgust me. Tell that story to the parents of the poor victims of ya sons bloodfest”
The copper slams our door. On the way out he mutters to his mate.
“it’s always the same. A cycle of decline starting just because they didn’t have time. . .only 12 hours. 12 HOURS!”

There is therefore some pressure to do the right thing. But I can imagine faced with six classes from 7 to 9.30 on a weeknight, that after one or two classes the excuses will begin to take effect;
“Coro’s on. Karens leaving..!”
OR
“Theres a documentary about a baby with two heads who wants to be a film star it's called "Mutant Make Over". . .

Eventually, any excuse will work . . .
“the news is on…”
OR
“TV3’s second weather girl is going to singing “Born to be Wild” on Mystery Celebrity Sing a long . .”

So we sign up for two six hour sessions. Our group are nice, ordinary even. But, we are in Titirangi which has a bob each way demographically. There are professionals and TV types. It is not what I would call 'Deep West' like Henderson or Massey. Still, I thought the group would involve, at least some eccentrics, the occasional hippie or surely one archetypal ‘westie’ couple;
A girl in black velvet, smelling of petunia oil, sitting cross legged on the floor in a trance who, when she speaks, talks with a broad healthy kiwi drawl. She will say ‘Hi’ with a ‘w’ in it – ‘hwi’ and will have a fabulous ‘eh’ which she uses with great gusto.
Her boyfriend will arrive later in a Ute with thumping bass. He will have on, tight jeans and his hair cut will be the style favoured by lesbians everywhere – the mullet.
It is a style summarized by the phrase “Business in the front, party at the back”. Which accurately describes our archetype. His mates will tell you he is ‘hard case’, but he will not be afraid of hard work and will be known to enjoy himself with a case of his favourite tipple, pre-mix bourbon and coke.

Anyway, back from my cliché’ and at the real antenatal class I sit in a circle with our group, my chest resplendent with a set of false breasts.
We wear the breasts to demonstrate what it is like to be a mother with a suckling child. I have friends, especially male ones, who have snickered when I tell them that’s what I have been up to, but damn them, this is for junior and I don’t mind. Personally I think I successfully tread the fine line between anal blokey reticence and the sort of complete hippie indulgence you could expect from some individuals. Here I am imagining a flowery german person who hitchhikes everywhere, wearing multi-coloured wollen tights whose only worldy possession will be his favourite hackysack. He will give himself over to the whole experience without restraint; squeezing the nipples and even bouncing the breasts about while rolling on the floor.
Eventually he will demonstrate his absence of inhibition by stripping off entirely. To our (anal) protests he will say (in a voice like Arnie);
“Vat are you worried about. It ees only a body. Dees are jus breasts.”

The men in our group, it has to said, are remarkably open and unconcerned by the ‘group activities’. The one chap who did seem uncomfortable with the new age claptrap didn’t come the second week and I certainly couldn’t blame him.
At the end of our first weeks session, after 5 hours of intense birthing action a dutch woman arrived who looked like an Indian. In retrospect I see that I should have taken this as my cue to leave.
She was to teach us about baby massage. Which is fine. However first she insisted on talking about ‘rebirth’ and taking us inside the womb to see what the baby experienced. To ‘relax’ us, she put on a tape of the baby heartbeat.
Boom boom -
boom boom –
boom boom –
boom boom -
I had to laugh. . .because it was like a horror movie soundtrack and among the least relaxing sounds I have ever heard.
“Close your eyes and let us go on a journey. . .”
After some rebirthing trauma removal, we arrived at our destination.
‘da voom is nice, warm, safe, dark and quiet.. .”
I was doubtful about the quiet bit, I have listened to Mrs K’s tummy and it sounds like a Russian water treatment plant. After a good curry, well .. . its best described as an explosive, wheezing, turbulent place. Not the bastion of peace, Pocohantas is describing.

She went on to explain how after the womb, all is ghastly for the baby.
“It is born terrified”
She said, wide eyed giving her best imitation of a burial ghoul.
“The light, the sound, the harsh air.. absolutely frightened”
I felt like asking if it would help if we smacked it’s arse. Just as a distraction or as a blast from the past.
(It’s probably scared of the future prospect of a fear mongering antenatal class -ed)
Largely though ,the Dutch Indian ladies time was brief, and an amusing (at least for me) distraction from our serious work with positions, breathing, intervention and parenthood.

The final class ended with the swapping of phone numbers and an assurance that we would get in touch after our births. Like school reunions I suspect that maybe we will seek that contact only if the births go well. For instance, after crapping on about our desire for a natural birth, if on the big day we have one contraction then demand a caesarian I cant imagine seeking out this lot to talk about the experience. Of course by that time we will presumably have a baby. A Baby! So we wont care how it came out.
“We were crap but look at this!”
HAH!

Bowing and Scraping

4th November | 2005
...................................Bowing and Scraping

“Our work here is done”
said the master. And with the weary laying down of trowels and paint brushes, a large part of the renovation of the Kumara Patch was over. Walls scraped, sealed, primed, plastered, and painted. Floors scoured and stripped. Surfaces sanded. Venetian blinds forced to endure the withering looks and scoffing asides of non-believers.
“oops” said Nicola airily. Casting the blinds on the ground with offhand disgust, the obvious intention; a fatal wounding.
“I’m keeping them” said I.
“your not!”
“am”
“not”
“oops”
Beauty, you see, is in the eye of the beholder. And I have always liked the old venetians (especially Titian) and therefore at our manor, these blinds are favourably beheld.
“Behold! What light through yonder window breaks - in funny stripes”

They have ironic beauty you see, which is one of my favourite sorts.

A beautiful old venetian.

At Sally Ridges and Adam Parores it would be a different story(Julius Caesar?). A story without ventetian blinds, I suspect, but with lots of money. At our house it is a case of fiscal survival, “making do” and using your imagination. We can ‘imagine’ what Sally and Adam would do. I suspect they would first pull down our fine house and then build an entirely new house. A many angled thing, that would be guaranteed a spot in URBIS. It would be called ‘deconstructed’ which sounds chaotic, free and almost organic but it will be an anal ordered thing, with vast open clean spaces with lonely, forlorn one-seater couches presiding over single white coffee tables.

It will be very ‘right angled’ and symmetrical, nothing will be out of place. The only thing that will look out of place, in fact, will be people in the house, who will make it look untidy and therefore undesirable, urbis-wise. Sally and Adam’s house will be ‘built’ not be them but by a fleet of ‘cocksy’s. Hired in for the task at great cost.
Mind you, to be fair (sorry I borrowed that phrase off Doug Golightly), Sally can chip in and help. Because as well as being ‘her own woman’ she is also ‘her own artist’.
On occasion she can save them a fortune when she comes over all creative. Moments Adam possibly hates, when she turns to him and says;
“I’ve got an idea for that wall. Pass me that potato mate”

Our house will be the opposite. It is by the people for the people. Our renovations can be called ‘do it yourself’ but that phrase is disingenious because it has been done by a faithful team of friends and family (we did help too). Sleeves were rolled up and those attending have self-lessly put their best arms forward, again and again and again, attached to various tools and bits of sand paper.

YOUNG AND OLD: Plastering expert Leon shows how its done and the gardening team in an action pose.

So as a result we have re-plastered and painted the whole house in 10 days. Dissenting doubters cried “Ya cant do it mate” but people said the same thing about our wedding and that was superb. Anyway what are supposed to do? Just give up and go to the pub.

The beauty of getting help, both with our house and with the wedding is it means people have made an investment. One in sweat and labour but also with the gift of aroha. Which means the place is already pre-loved and on the way to becoming a ‘home’ instead of merely a house.

'Plaster master' Dave has been there throughout, plastering on and on, resolute and relentless, a steadying infuence providing sage handyman wisdom and patient advice.
“Dont do that mate, the roof will fall in” etc. . .

Like all workman he has a particular culinary bent, formally eschewing vegetables and fruit (I shan't be offering him a banana again) in favour of a visit to the pie shop ("make sure it's fatty"). This attitude, for someone coming from the rarified inner city world where offering a young lady anything with more than 1% fat, can be regarded as an act of a mental person, is frankly refreshing.

Mmmmm. lunch is ready! a moveable feast.

Presiding over the whole operation have been the resident gnomes. It's hard to say what they think about it all, but for our part we will try to make it comfortable and interesting for them. Wild talk has suggested we get them in a new female gnome, with low self esteem and questionable morals.
Gnome outcast (below), 'undie draw gnome' can barely contain himself.


We move in next week YAY! and our genuine heart felt thanks go to all those who bowed and scraped.

Mrs K awaits the arrival of the entertainment unit and dreams of a life complete, without the need of renovation.

Hypocritic Oaths

21st October | 2005

......................................Hypocritic Oaths

It makes me very sad and sickened to see that great good hearted christian institution ‘The Maxim Institute’ under attack from the left wing media. The people who run this place are lovely people not a mean spirited feeling among them. But they have been so busy turning their other cheeks, someone has forgotten to check whether one of their dispatches was correct or was in fact written by them. Who cares about little things like that? “the truth” etc.
Thats just nit picking.
The main thing is they were not politically correct and were aimed to stop the relentless destruction of our society by the atheist lesbian rebel alliance. Remember, they are just words placed in the same order as some other words- for gods sake. And God will know that their institutes intentions are very christian; The destruction of the left wing conspiracy, especially BLEEDING HEART LIBERALS (Feel free to spit on the ground when you say that phrase), running around worrying about the poor and needy. Awful people caring about everyone else.

What do the institute say they want? Well, they want a country built on strong families caring for one another and for their communities. I am not too sure anyone will disagree with that. I also note from their website that they support hate speech. Excellent. Someone has to stand up for the bigoted and hateful. So perhaps what sets them apart from everyone else who wants strong families, is that they want strong families who retain the ability to speak hatefully about each other. Onward christian soldiers.

I heard a lovely maxim chap on the radio yesterday.

Greg Fleming. Seen here imitating someone from American Graffiti.

He said “people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones” and went on to inform us that, and this will be of bit of surprise to a lot of the press, most of them plagiarise their articles. Wow! He said all of the journalists he spoke to were relieved it wasn't their work under scrutiny. Which means, I would speculate, that he mostly speaks to the wrong journalists. I also wonder, if most of the journalists are plagiarising their stuff, who actually writes the original work.
He also pointed out that the man who preceded him on the radio was “a journalist informed by his own prejudices and biases. He is an activist with an agenda”.
As he said that, radio host Eva was forced to dodge flying stones and listeners were deafened by the sound of breaking glass.

Today he was on the air again, attacking the woman who brought the plagariasm to the attention of the Press. She made an excellent liberal leftie target being someone with a job rehabilitating crippled horses who was working on a childrens book. Greg got stuck right in, exposing her bleeding heart for all to see.


I expect that many people who are inclined towards the left but with a strong interest in the environment, like myself, are pissed off with the make up of the new government. But I think in the long run it may work out alright, especially for the green party.
The wanton play for power demonstrated here by all involved has to lead to some crap sticking to the participants. Winston Peters looks fairly uncomfortable and very defensive currently and in interviews, lacks that sense of unbridled righteousness he has had while in opposition, when he has nothing to lose. All this “I’m not in the government, check the wording of the agreement!” is just that, WORDING. it’s semantics. He hasn’t done what he said he would, before the election, according to any reasonable interpretation of his Rotorua speech.

He should have said “New Zealand first won't go into coalition with anyone who cant mangle constitutional law to allow it. Which may or may not occur in or outside ”the tent” or perhaps in a lean to. We will not be seduced by the baubles of power unless the power lusting government can allow me and my ego to be declared the minister both HAVING his cake and also eating said cake. Accompanied as always, by a glass of whiskey”

The most tainted party in all this is the labour party.. a relatively ugly bare faced grab for power really and if I was Helen’s grandmother I would have had a “Not for sale” sign on for this whole period.

Ghastly Peter Dunne, last seen snivelling over a cup of coffee with Don Brash gets a ministerial portfolio and the greens get well. . . a few important concessions but they aren’t in this bloody tent, which is wrong. “with friends like these ..etc”
It all leaves a very unsavory taste in my mouth, not a sweet taste either. The taste of betrayal perhaps.

This should be the beginning of a brave new era for the Greens. One without braces. also without the faint smell of marijuana smoke perhaps. The greens own bare faced grab for power should be for the young vote and to do that they need to MODERNISE. They are the party most firmly focused on the future but at the same time, there is something about them that remains quaint and rooted in the past. I am thinking of houses made from their own faeces and. . . frankly, I don’t want to. The vague quaker ‘dancing round the maypole’ air they are capable of conjuring up, must go.
Parts of their campaign this last election were a joke. The pamphlet I received in the letterbox was an embarassment. A blurry picture of what I think was a beach and a font from the middle ages. Get with the program people! Focus on environmental issues and put the marijuana issue on the back burner. It is too much of a distraction for some people (I know it affects my concentration).
For the greater good - Greenies! For the greater good.

Facetious All Sorts

14th October 2005

......................................Facetious All Sorts
I have to admit, I find Tariana Turia irritating. She comes up with so much crap. (Holocaust indeed)
How can the maori party seriously entertain the idea of a coalition with National. It’s absurd. For that matter how can the National Party ponder it as well? I think their success was, to a large degree, as a result of their maori bashing.
Maybe their thinking is, that it will be easier to bash maori if they are close at hand.

Winston has survived again. But he is on a hiding to nowhere specialising in the part of the electorate that must insist on dying all the time. Eventually he will do himself out of a job.

NZ First meeting 2010

Peter Dunne has more than overstayed his welcome. He has the eyes of a shark and a small fraction of the charisma of one. His tantrums around election time were embarassing. He says;
"We are for the family" BUT
Who isn't ?

Piss off mate and be sensible elsewhere.

Peter Dunne - WHY?

In Wellington a group of inner city people are not so much opposed to families as opposed to other peoples families.

They want to stop a Child Care centre on their street, which seems a bit mean spirited and slightly strange, unless you have lived in inner city communities and know how “me” orientated they are.
In Grey Lynn , I once had a very serious fire in the kitchen of a house I lived in which almost consumed the whole house. Five fire engines came and not ONE neighbour came to see if we were alright. I am surprised the didn’t complain about the noise.
I observe that Jim Mora’s “Mucking In” show is never about an amazingly community spirited person from say - Parnell or Ponsonby.
Maybe people in these areas imagine they are considerate to their follow man, but in more city-centric ways. For instance:
- Can always be relied upon to join a mate who has been up all night, for a premature drink at SPQR.

- Will form Eco protest group with like minded mothers, with more time than money. Well, perhaps with more time and more money.

- Always ready to help when renovations are in order, with a supply of swatches, colour charts and a stack of UBIS magazines. Also will have a list of reliable workman, who don’t wank in your undies draw when you go out.

I must say I love the hypocrisy of slagging an area I have lived in most of my life, the second I am moving out. Great.

I notice that the great old leftie playwright Harold Pinter has won the Nobel prize for Literature. Good on him. I once, accidentally starred in a class production of one of his plays. I had volunteered to understudy for the main character, mainly because I thought it meant I didn’t have to do anything. Then the bloody guy got sick. I had to go on woefully under prepared and I think it is safe to say, I ruined the whole play.
I remember one scene where I had to pull my glasses off to reveal my blind eyes and say something like;
“Vitriol did this to me!“
but just before I was about to remove the specs, I leant forward and the bloody glasses fell off. So, stupidly I put them back on before pulling them off again. There was a huge outbreak of laughter.
Unfortunately most of it was from me.
When I restarted I improvised saying “being pitifully blind and all..” causing more hilarity. Needless to say my english teacher was less than impressed I had turned Pinters trenchant social comment into farce.

Speaking of farces hasn’t the handling of the Judy Bailey thing been a fiasco. I cant believe the head of TVNZ appeared on his own channel talking about how crap they are. Insane. They out rate TV3 massively, do they really need to emphasise where they are falling behind? It’s about time whoever hires and fires at an executive level, looks at Ralston and Fraser. They have steered (I’m sorry but everyone else seems intent on maintaining the ship coomparison, so I might as well jump onboard) the Newsroom from one disaster to the next.
When they seem to be in placid waters captain Fraser must yell to first mate Ralston.
“Bit boring here my lad see if ya can find us some rocks”
“Aye captain! rocks ahead. ”
“change course Billy Boy! and jettison some bloody good crew while were at it”
“throw them to the sharks Captain?”
“No. Throw them in . . .and we’ll have them eaten by our own sharks!”

Since Bill Ralston has taken over they have simply gone steadily downhill. The 7pm slot is important because it leads on into prime time viewing and at one time the state broadcaster OWNED that slot, now look at it.

I know it’s stating the obvious but the new NZ celebrity idol shows, really set a new low for local product.
Who cares? Who are they? Wheres the remote?
I dont think their families would even watch it. Cant we just be mature as a nation and face the fact that we only have one celebrity - Charlotte Dawson, and stop trying to create others out of the part time news girl, etc... (I cant even summon the attention to type about it).

Good news! We have gone all unconditional on the new house so I had better go and do some packing. YAY!
next weeks despatch will be from the paint face. elbow grease alert!

Kontiki

7th October 2005

..................................Eels and Fishes Ross

Baby kumara looks: 'where the big fishes are'.

I have always liked the idea of fishing using a kontiki, but the first time I ever set one myself was after I talked to some old timers on the beach at Coromandel. The old timers had buses they lived in, and arrived at the beach in convoy. For reasons I don’t understand, people who buy a bus to get away from it all, often do it in a big group.
They had a couple of kontiki’s launched from the middle of the beach. It was around noon on a fine January day, lots of kids playing in the sand. I like to talk to people engaged in activity on the beach, so I resolved to go up and say hello.
They were real friendly people so I assumed they weren’t from my town, Auckland. Over the last five or so years, the culture at our beach and various other holiday spots has been changing as more wealthy Aucklander’s have gobbled up the properties which they could laud and call ‘investments’. I wouldn’t care too much, but they have brought their own manners and expectations with them and some have attempted to convert the beach into another central Auckland suburb. Fences have been erected, as have barriers between people.
I will always say ‘gidday’ to a person on a beach but many of the newcomers can walk by someone on the beach and not even say a word. They will even look away before you pass, under some lousy pretence, so that they don’t have to even make eye contact. I find it irritating and it gnaws at me for a number of reasons, most of them involving the loss of a way of life that I associate strongly with being a ‘kiwi’. If they want to come down here and blight the countryside with their garish new erections they could at least try to be civil to the people who have been here most of their lives.
One day a women was walking her dog and complained about my fishing habits on the foreshore. She had a 'mullet' hairdo and earings from the 80’s, for a second there I thought she was the Sunday Star Times food critic Geraldine Johns (also from the 80's) but she managed to be offensive, without once slagging food.
I say ‘walking her dog’ but the thing was such a fluffy runt she carried it in her arms, in case it was mugged by a crab.
As she walked by, obviously frustrated she had to step over my line, she stood on my marvellous grappling wire rocket sinker.
”What the hell! I could of hurt my foot” she said, by way of introduction.
”you shouldn’t be doing that here!”
My pleasant disposition, nurtured by my time on the seashore dissappeared, and I was forced to resort to suppressed saracasm.
“Where should I be doing it? In my lounge in town?”
The cheek of it. I should have yelled at her for standing on my favourite sinker.
She walked away with her stupid miniature trophy dog, cursing under her breath. She would probably call OSH and try and get me shut down.

The bus oldies were more than happy to have a yarn and were pleased when I asked about the Kontiki.
Even though I understood how the thing worked, I didn’t let on as they patiently explained the principles involved.

”The rope holds the sail up and it is secured by a lolly. The action of the water on the lolly slowly melts it and then the sail goes down. That makes it easy to haul it in”
”As long as the wind is offshore the kontiki can be carried out, beyond the breakers where the big fish are”
’Where the big fish are’ had got my attention cause I like my food, I like my fish, and I - love - my - snapper.
We went home to get the various bits and pieces that make up the kontiki and by the time we returned they were hauling their rigs in. Even though they didn’t catch a fish we wanted to launch our boat anyway, just to surmount the challenge.
On our launch team was my old mate, raconteur Little Ross Hollands and his family. We had a bloody shocker of a launching and we had to go home and get the kayak to complete the task. My poor relationship with the vessel ‘kayak’ is well known and the source of great hilarity - so Mrs K said she would paddle the line out.
Little Ross said “she’s very competent isn’t she mate”
I could embellish the story a little and say that; I clutched my heart, a lone tear running down my cheek and said with impressive gravitas -
"One day, my old friend, that woman will be my wife"
but it wouldn't be true.
I probably said "I'm glad she's doing that. It would bloody bugger me"
After all that effort, when the line was pulled to shore the hooks were bare. No one cared, it had been fun, and I knew we would be back for more.

That night a mate from Dunedin, Sean, arrived and over a few beers we talked about the days failure.
I isolated a couple of problems; We never usually caught fish in the middle of the day and we always caught them closer to the rocks on the southern end of the beach.
The bus people had been nice, but I had something that could give a fisherman a particular advantage - local knowledge.

The next day two hours before sunset we carted the stuff down the beach,
closer to the rocks and set the small yacht adrift. It went out a good 800 metres, right across the point. The theory was, we would intercept the fish as they cruised the coastline with an unavoidable line of delicacies.
‘mmmm squid and bonito cocktail’ they would say ‘ lets eat’
A local woman came along and chatted with us as we pulled the line in.
While sending the Kontiki out is difficult, and can be tricky, the exciting bit is bringing it in. What will be on the line? How many? Where did I leave my beer?
You have to have your shit together too, because as they reach the shallows they can get off the line and escape conspicuous consumption.
As the first hooks appeared we knew we had some fish on them. We all got very excited and I ran down to the shoreline to kill the fish without a knife.
What was I going to do - bore them to death? I could tell them about the lady with the miniature dog, with the ear rings.
There were some snapper on the line and also Gurnard.
Gurnard are absurdly pretty and have rainbow coloured gossamer wings.
“They can fly, gurnard” said the local lady. “some are known as sea robin”

When I went to stick the knife into the damn gurnards head, the wings would come out and then it would start to moan. The more I tried to push the knife in, the more attractive it would become and the louder it would moan.
The local lady came over, pushed me aside and killed the beautiful fish without pretence or ceremony.
In that cold practical manner, that rural people can often speak she said. “Watch the bones on Gurnard”
When we got back to the house I filleted one of the snapper and cooked it in butter in a pan. We ate it on white bread.
It was some of the best fish I had ever eaten and I knew me and the kontiki had started some sort of lifelong love affair.

Last weekend Mrs K and I got the thing out again. Because the wife was pregnant and all, we weren’t going to get too ambitious. But we were going to the beach anyway so I figured while we were idling time away on the sand we might as well chance our arm.
The waves were a bit high so I had to get into the water to get it out past the first set of waves. Just when I thought we were all right, a large freak wave came in and I had to lift the kon tiki high above my head to save it. My sunglasses were knocked off and I was soaked through. I dug my feet into the sand and when the waves had passed I dived under and found the sunglasses. But the boat was underway. By the time I got back to shore Mrs K was already feeding hooks, competently, onto the line.
The tricky part of the launch is to get past the waves.
This launch was almost thwarted when the boat was becalmed in between the first set and the second range of waves. But a stout breeze came up and carried the boat away. After all the hooks were on the line, the wind slowly hauled the rig seaward. We sat down on the sand to do the crossword in the paper but soon a huge gust came up. The paper blew away into the water, and Clue 12 down - 8 letters 'fair description of a reasonable examination' was gone, sadly unanswered.
Tragically, at sea the huge wind had flipped the kontiki end over end.
Even though it wasn’t out far we decided to leave it out while we took in some sun. After a while I was bored with my book .. and thought about pulling the line in.
”it’s still early maybe we should set it again?”
”We don’t have anymore lollies”
”oh yeah”
I went for a walk towards the rocks and before I had gone twenty feet saw a Worthers Original lying on the sand in it’s wrapper. I picked it up, and threw it to Mrs K.
“What are the fucking chances”
Mrs k and I both being superstitious and portentous bastards said as one;
“it’s a sign”

The second launch was a textbook performance and one we could be proud of. The small boat travelled out well but was let down by the Worthers Original, which I had expect to put in a stately, resolute, entirely british performance; like an old reliable grandad, but it dissolved prematurely.
“A soft jube would shit on that thing”
We only got one fish but it was bloody good one. An excellent snapper.
“Fish for dinner, Mrs Kumara” I said.
“Passable” said the wife.
“Passable!! Fresh Snapper” I said, shocked.
“No. The crossword. 12 down, 'fair description of a reasonable examination' ..
”Passable”
Yup, very passable indeed.

Housie!

30th September 2005

....................................GNOME SWEET HOME
............................
For the last few months Mrs K and I have been searching for a place to call our own (The kumara patch?). I have looked at so many houses I don’t think I will ever be able to look at a house again, without checking it’s aspect or assessing it’s paint work. Or without slowing down and looking in when I see a real estate FOR SALE board.
Recently, with my paint plattered stubbies on, around the barbie, I have shocked myself with the house talk, I have had dribbling from my mouth:
“value added”
“capital gain”
“smells like curry”
“negative gearing”
“lick of paint”
etc...
For some reason, and this may be some sort of karmatic (new word alert!) joke, every house we were interested in was just outside our price range. To remedy this problem, like thousands of other Aucklanders, we have been forced to look further out. So now the edge of, what I would call, the city ring is at Avondale, where it once would have been at Sandringham, where we live now.
But Sandringham has ‘gone’ as they say or ‘already gone off’ and unless I win lotto there is no way we could buy here.
Well we could, but it would be a two room unit.
In Ponsonby and Grey Lynn where I have lived most of my life I could probably only buy a damn toilet.
It would be a very fashionable toilet, with a fabulous view of women who know what ‘body control pilates’ is, power walking with three wheel prams, but a toilet nevertheless. The thing I wonder is, how much further out can people continue to go. If the discerning couple, who would once buy a house in Grey Lynn, now look in Avondale where will they look in ten or twenty years time? New Lynn, Glen Eden? and also, where will the people who used to live in those places go? They will be forced into the sea. It’s quite a weird thought and I envision a time where almost the WHOLE of Auckland will be too expensive for a modest family to live in.

In the process of looking we have got to know the strange language, which is peculiar to real estate. It is in some ways helpful but in (many) other ways pretentious and misleading, or just plain old fashioned bullshit.
The pretentious stuff is in phrases like “offering stupendous in and out flow” (I’m not joking these are real, verbatim descriptions -) and
“A restrained use of materials has been utilised throughout”
What the hell does that mean? How can you NOT use materials? How can you restrain them?
and I think that whoever abducted the word ‘offering’ and placed it in captivity in the real estate world, deserves to be thrown into prison by the pretention police.
With the advent of websites such as homesell, people can write the descriptions themselves. Therefore - ( and this, sage advice, can be applied equally to the sale of almost anything)
be wary of anything described as “funky” It will usually mean the house comes from a decade with a dysfunctional relationship with good taste and can involve “conversation pits”, fake archways on doors and colours like purple and orange thrown together during an acid trip in 1974.
If a house is described as “trendy” get the hell out of the website as quickly as your mouse will carry you.

The most disturbing mistruths in real estate are more like outright lies. The most common is to list a house as having say, three bedrooms, when one of them is the size of a coffin. If I am with an agent I will usually make a wee scene about such an obvious stretching of the facts say things like;
“this is the other room is it?”
“This here?!”
“Where does the bed go? I suppose I could just force it in there and lean it against the wall.
But I pretty much like my beds, y’know horizontal. I’m kinda old fashioned in that way ”

If I was more cheeky I suppose I could take a cat along and try and swing it around in there. After it had hit the wall a few times, I think the agent would get the picture.

Future launch site of HMS Creektrek

Until last week, out of the hundreds of houses we had looked at, we had only put an offer in on one single house, which has been pretty depressing. Suddenly last week, when we were about to resign ourselves to life in a trailer park, we had two fantastic opportunities. One needs work, but is a brick and tile with a lot of potential. The other was in a better hood and was completely finished in a style I was not sure we would ever be able to achieve. Suprisingly (I’m still surprised even know as I write this) we put in a low offer on the cheap one and it was excepted. The surprise, is in the fact that they accepted our first offer and more so, that we didn’t take the option of the immaculate, completed trouble-free house.

The thing is, we are in it for the long haul and every single drop of paint lavished on the shoddy walls, every piece of crap removed and every ounce of sweat expelled will be done with great love and will move us closer to the completion of the definitive ‘Kumara Patch’. Which somehow makes it a bit more appealing and more worthwhile. Also the crappy house had a table tennis table, which pretty much decided it for me.

Stately Kumara Manor (ping pong table!)
Although the house is a bit rough now, we know it will scrub up well and, in the parlance slagged above - “it has good bones”. It also has it’s own creek and a bush reserve, which no ugly developer will ever be able to appropriate, and blight with garish faux classical monstrosities.
The deal will get the final ‘go ahead’ in approximately two weeks time, pending a LIM report. Wish us luck. Also, brush up on your sanding skills and expect a desperate call in about three weeks time...

Naming Right

23rd September 2005

...........................................BABY LOVE

Fathers Log. Stardate 2005. 27 weeks on.

I’m happy to report that baby Kumara is well - alive and kicking. The other day I had my ear to Mrs Kumara’s tummy and I copped a beauty. What a kick. If it was, as I hope, a rugby kick - then it was definitely a winner from well over halfway. None of this ‘around the corner holding on to something weird’ shit like Johnny Wilkinson, this was a real old fashioned toe-hacker in the manner of Don Clark.
The ultra sound, we had recently, displayed the offending foot in all it’s unbearably cute glory.

He shoots.. He scores!!!

We also gazed in confused wonder at various bits and pieces and saw a blurry picture of a little face. It is a strange process - as the face and the baby, at the moment, represent an empty slate or an unfinished picture, but one which we are furtively colouring in ourselves. The Kumara’s like, most parents before them, have been engaging in a little premature speculation. Part hope, and in some part dread at what can go wrong. During the ultrasound we peeked cross-sectionally into the babies brain, probably for the first and last time. being partially jewish (see here) I wonder ;
What the hell will THAT thing come up with in the future?
Considering the sort of stuff my brain manufactures, I can only hope it takes after it’s mother

The baby name game also involves a degree of forward planning.
How will it sit:
In a list of famous All Blacks,

as a solo songwriter on the cover of a country album or in a newspaper headline.

Usually a name will not survive this scrutiny. For instance we both wondered about a Maori name and Mrs Kumara suggested ‘Wiremu’.
Wiremu means William in english, which soon became Billy.
As soon as it turned into Billy, it was in trouble. My fertile imagination projected into the future and I could hear it coming, ominously out of a school intercom:
“Can Billy Kumara please come to the headmasters office . . . . . . .
. . . again”
That bloody kid would spend so much time with the headmaster he would know him better than me. I can see it now; Mrs Kumara and I in front of the parole board trying to plead his case:
“yes. I’m afraid he was always a problem”
“When he was young we sent him to a Child Psychologist . . .
. . . But, that kid was no help at all”
Yes, Billy’s definitely a troublesome child and by the time he would get to be called a juvenile that word would surely be eventually joined by the word delinquent.

Does the name matter that much? Much is made of Nuture vs Nature debate but how does a name shape a person's future? I know it would seem unscientific to regard the child’s name as a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy but there you have it. We ARE unscientific, it’s our bloody baby and Billy is out. Also anecdotal evidence from a discussion with a group of teachers would add weight to our name concerns.
“I’ve never met a Jason who wasn’t trouble”
"Sarah's are always lovely"
etc..
Some names seem to be so damn perfect it’s possible to imagine some sort of divine intervention played a part in the naming process.
Jimi Hendrix. How could that be better?
or Jonah Lomu
or Marlon Brando.
While some people's achievements have, over a lifetime, given their ordinary names power (John Wayne springs to mind). It's like these guys were born iconic, or as brands, or were named by a marketing team (Kevin Roberts).

Mind you some people's given names are unfortunate, and just plain wrong. Former bond girl (Live and let die) Jane Seymour was born Joyce Wilhemina Frankenberg and had the good sense to rename herself after one of Henry VIII many wives.
Personally, I would have preferred Catherine of Aragon because it is so dramatic sounding.
“and the oscar goes to . . . Catherine of Aragon!”
But whatever your perferences are, it can certainly be said Jane may have had a troubled career had she kept her original name. Similarly John Denver’s rocky mountain may not have climbed so high had he persevered with his original name - Henry Deuchendorf.

Lately at home we have been nesting and navel gazing. Mrs Kumara, being endlessly amused and surprised with her new body.
"its moving now come, quick"
"Where did that come from"
"What's this thing called love?"
Personally, I have gone straight to the heart of the matter and have been tallking to baby in utero. Mostly garbage of course but it is a baby after all and this will prepare it for all the goo goo's after it comes out.
You hear of people playing classical music and reading poetry and such to their kids so that they can have some sort of advantage later but I don’t want some bloody snobby kid or ghastly child prodigy. I have been educating the baby, culturally, by telling it what’s happening on Coronation Street and Desparate Housewives.
“that bloody cow's a throwback from Eastenders, She doesn’t belong.”
AND
“She loves him. How's that for a twist. junior?”
and I know once it grows up, one day I will find it revelling in a great crap programme on telly, and I will swell with pride.

As a part of the nesting process I have been looking for a few items on Trade Me. Sometimes the way people advertise stuff just cracks me up man, and I really wish I kept some of the photos and blurbs from the past, pre-blog, so that I could share the hilarity with y'all.
Once when looking for a car I saw a photo accompanying the auction that was SO far away I cried. The guy who took the photo was like at one end of a football field and the car was at the other, Brilliant!
There were a few polite comments like:
“can we please see a closer shot of the car please”
But I wanted to post a sarky one like.
“can you please post a photo of the car further away please because I want to see what it would look like from space”

FOR SALE. Toyota Corolla high km's some rust

Anyway the one from trade me this week is from the “Lounge Suites” section.
it reads: “Beautiful One Seater Sofa”
Hello! one seater sofa?!!? where I come from that would be called a chair, pal. Also, it’s bloody hideous AND they want $600 dollars for it.

"Beautiful one seater sofa"

I have been looking for furniture for a while and I swear, for every good piece of furniture made (you know simple clean lines, nice fabric. I’m not asking for too much) , there are approximately one thousand hideous ones.
Just in case you didn’t get the idea of the sofa they posted three photos. My favourite is the one below from the BACK of the seat. This is presumably the view from where the family have to sit because some idiot brought a sofa with only one seat.


So good and so funny. When life steers this sort of thing your way, you have to just give thanks and praise the world's strange ways and infinite variety.
Please say after me:
Aren’t people, even ones with crap names, great?

Election Final

16th September 2005

.................................ANOTHER GREEN WORLD:
.............THE FINAL EPISODE OF THE ELECTION TRILOGY
I am trying to imagine our brave new future under the Green party-
.............
Dolphins and Whales vie for attention off Mission Bay. There is no poverty. When a man walks into the supermarket to buy a potato, genetically modified so that it peels itself, he is wrestled gently to the ground by a benevolent mob and tickled into submission.
"Not on our watch my friend" they say.
Outside on the street, women with large breasts and men with an unfulfilled erections search in vain for a Hooters restaurant. There is a party going on at the local hall and beneath the unflattering glow of neon tubes, men with beards and women in muslin skirts kick up their heels, shamelessly intoxicated on organic feijoa wine. Marijuana is legal and letters to the editor are plagued by great "ideas" people have had the night before.
"why does THE MAN make us smoke cigarettes in tiny white tubes. It would be soooo much easier if we could just buy plastic bags full of smoke...."
Cyclists are everywhere. And jugglers. There is grave shortage of chip oil as cars have been converted to run on the new fuel. Our water is so pure Keith Richards flies in once a week for a glass.
Old journalists bemoan the insipid debate in parliament.
"We miss Rodney Hide. At least he was colourful!" They chant.
But when pressed, no one can remember exactly WHAT colour he was. Eventually Jane Clifton pulls out some felt tips and sets them all straight. He was a kind of puce color, with american spelling.

Meanwhile the Right Wing future is very different:
..............................

All the roads have been widened so that they can accommodate Hummers. It is the car of choice for small men with something to prove in the bedroom. Paul Homes has ordered a Sherman tank with leather seats and crush velvet trim. There is a special compartment for someones undies.
Fencing is the big growth business in the country. Now that people have more money in their wage packets they want to make sure no-one else can get any of it. Especially maoris.
www.bloodymaoris.co.nz is the biggest website in the country. People can go on there to discuss the problems with maori. Some people have never left.
A complaint was sent to the United Nations about the website but when the protest got to New York they found the UN was gone.
George Bush is our best new mate. We have his ear.
Apparently, he wants it back so he can go to the toilet. To hold up our end of the bargain, we have provided him with a list of innocent countries to invade that might have weapons of mass destruction but definitely have oil. Every kindergarten has a nuclear reactor and with a bit of work we should have got rid of that pesky ozone layer by lunchtime. Gerry Brownlee's smug grin has been declared the 'eighth wonder of the world', much to the chagrin of his long-suffering belly. It is on permanent display at the New Lynn Steakhouse.
What's that Noise?
It is Katherine Rich and Muriel Newman riding on a water cannon through the needy suburbs flushing out those on a sickness benefit. In a solemn ceremony the treaty of Waitangi has been burnt and our friends the americans are going to fire it into the far recesses of space. It is illegal to mention it and anyone who has actually read it is banned from speaking in parliament. Fortunately for the National Party none of them had. Their maori affairs spokesman was proud to admit that he learned most of his New Zealand history at the urinal at the pub. After changes to the haka were called for, the maoris took it back. A demand is made for the All Blacks pre-match display to represent the people who swept the national party into power. So now before the an All Blacks game they stand around a barbie in stubbies holding a beer can, moaning about the missus and talking about accounting.

So, there you have it. A fair headed, level appraisal of the two main positions. You can now make an informed choice. The options are clear. Swim with the dolphins or leave your undies in Paul Holmes new tank.
Do the right thing.

Election 2: Exclusive Brethren

9th September 2005

....................................GODZONE ELECTION

Wow ! The surprises keep coming with this election. I decided last week to make no mention of the bloody thing in this weeks post, but I just can’t keep away. It’s too good. And I am forced to take back what I said during the Lange post about it being boring, because it is shaping up as the most interesting for a number of years. Possibly because it is a contest, but also because of the complex manouveuring and unexpected twists. Wily old Winston Peters now home alone. In Epsom, National Voters advised to vote for ACT, Labour voters advised to vote for National.
AND …we now have the creepy Exclusive Brethen figures emerging from the shadows in pressed shirts.
Do you see them? They were like people from the X files or the Stepford Wives. Stepford Husbands perhaps. Who would have thought, in this election, we could have headline like:

Dr Brash " Creepy Christians shot me in my own foot!"

Which we don’t. But we could have, if we had someone as irresponsible, flippant and bad at english as me was in charge of a newspaper.
I wondered if I was perhaps alone in my excited but spooked horror. But then the day after their conference on TV, I went into Dizzengoff for a coffee and a very well-to-do businessmen came in (you know the type: car - audi, sunglasses – gucchi, Girlfriend - blonde, nose – running) and he was holding up the Herald saying, to all and sundry:
”look at these guys, freaky or what?”
and even Holmes (and his amazing personality) were on Newstalk ZB saying:
”they all look alike! Are they from space .. …

I think they came out of pods”

I loved the way the Brethren asked (when the connection between them and the pamphlet first broke) that people - RESPECT THEIR PRIVACY.
This from a group whose propanganda is intruding into every home in the damn country.
To compound the problems for National, and this really is a killer blow, Don Brash has admitted that he knew of the pamphlet plans, after earlier denying it. This change of mind for Brash or flip-flop, raises questions about honesty and credibility. It’s the last thing they need.
The admission was obtained, in something of a scoop, on radio BFM. A few weeks ago I said in a post that Noelle McCarthy was a potential star, well now, in her interview with Brash, she has out performed a legion of parliamentary lackeys and potentially blown the election wide open. Yeah!

Gerry “Bruiser” Brownlee has featured more this week too, out of the Blue corner, gloves on, whenever the going gets tough (Don has another engagement, apparently meeting with a sinister religious group who don’t even vote). After the Sunday night poll came out Brownlee again had the sort arrogant swagger he displayed when the National Party had the mega-boost after the Orewa speech. It’s an ugly thing to watch and the thought of putting up with Bruiser for an entire term, if they won, is daunting. But, New Zealanders do not like bullies and I am sure he has set a few undecided voters swinging. Helen Clark needs to watch herself as well. The incident on the plane was not her fault but does her no good. It was basically a media beat up because the press corp were on the plane as well. I can see it now: the journalists sat on the plane waiting to take off, trying to think of an interesting story, on a day without a compelling one, when a cliché in need of a headline comes strolling down the aisle or out of the intercom. Bossy Helen, control freak overacts with poor pilot etc etc.. The truth is, most of the momentum for the story, the apology and the furore came from others, not the Prime Minister or her office.
She needs to soften her image for the rest of the election and attempt to engage with regular New Zealanders. I am sure of that. The main technique she appears to uses is to regularly overuse the word “kiwis”.
“I don’t think Kiwis…”
”kiwis will understand”
”more kiwis are employed..”
”Kiwis have the biggest penis of any bird.... “ etc..

Thankfully in last nights debate Clark did not “go for the jugular” or go “feral” as the press say. She doesn’t need to. She needs to be kind, nice even.
Kumara News Observation: Drop the laugh while others are talking Helen, it sounds eerily like a ghost from elections past : Muldoon.
The Labour campaign overall has been remarkably benign. The Labour message – Lets go forward together – is a good one, but it is not getting through with clarity. They need to point out that the opposite is also true: If National wins. The country will be socially fractured and that we will go backwards - to the bloody eighties. Market Rents, work for the dole, padded shoulders, leg warmers. Lord help us all.
I imagine Labour have adopted this approach wait-and-see approach because of Nationals remarkable ability to shit on their own campaign. Sure they are setting the agenda, but more often than not in negative ways. I expect the Labour Party can hardly believe their luck.

Nationals, slick advertising efforts I have regarded with grudging respect. But are they effective or too nasty and smart for their own good? Take the thank-you-very-much ad and song. Yes. Guys we get the message. In fact we got the message very quickly - thanks very much.
Has there ever been a more irritating song?
Maybe – “The Warehouse – The Ware house” or “ OOOOOO 800…”
Now when I hear the national ads on the TV or radio it just annoys the hell out of me. And I’m certain I’m not the only one. I’m sure a few people are out there are saying “if I hear that damn ad again I will vote for the Greens”

It’s kinda hard to hate Don Brash and John Key and after yesterday I find myself feeling sorry for the Don. He seems out of his depth.
It’s many of the peripheral figures on the right that really piss me off. The sort wankers you hear on talkback and people like Matthew Hooten and Deborah Hill Cone and her eyebrow. It would be silly to blame her comprehensive ghastliness on jealousy of people with two of them. But all that concentrated bile must come from somewhere. Does anyone remember her seething, unhinged performance on the TV race debate show? Such rabid hysteria surely warranted a slap in the face.
Also the Maxim Institute. Who the hell are THEY? Talk about faceless. Mind you, I find it hard to take seriously an organisation that can have a conference for an ENTIRE weekend talking about ‘Political Correctness’ What a bunch of sad bastards.
Imagine the conversation on Friday night after a few beers:
“and then there was the bloody kid who wasn’t allowed to wear a crucifix to that school”
”yeah. but it’s alright to wear one of those Maori things..”
”OH IT”S POLITICAL CORRECTNESS GONE MAD”
“Bloody Maoris”
”Pisses me off the bloody national anthem has to be in Maori as well now”
”Bloody Hakas in maori too”
”OH IT”S POLITICAL CORRECTNESS GONE MAD”
“You cant even grab a chicks arse or put your hand down her bra anymore without some bastard saying your bloody sexist”
”It’s crazy”
”You cant even yell out compliments to some chick who's askin for it like -
‘ Hey @#$@$ want a @$#& come and &%^% with $@!@& later &%$%@ "
without being called Misogynist"
“No sense of humour. Lesbians I expect"
”OH IT”S POLITICAL CORRECTNESS GONE MAD”

OK. Imagine this crap for the whole night.
Then, the WHOLE weekend. Tragic.
They even bring over speakers from overseas to bang on about what it’s like in the States etc…
”OH IT”S POLITICAL CORRECTNESS GONE MAD” (In an American accent)
“Bloody Negroes”

I have done my bit for the campaign by sending a few well aimed letters-to-the-editor. The FUN FOR ALL THE FAMILY part is that I have being using the Maxim Institute letters wizard.
You can basically write one letter and send it to every newspaper in the country.

Many of my letters are published and my secret is to include humour. The people who pour over the many tedious letters, are human after all and if you can include a joke at the expense of some politician and make the editors laugh you are half way there. I currently use the name Ross Williams, remarkable because of it’s very ordinariness. A virtual trojan horse of a name. In the past, as Craig Frost, I have had ongoing stouches with the ACT party and Michelle Boag. One of my Boag letters was remarkable because it illicited a vanity driven reply. Michelle (I feel I can use her first name because of our special relationship) was trying to get the Northern vote to gain nomination to National president. I said (among other things) “she will barely have parked her BMW in Parnell and poured herself a Chardonnay before she sells the farmers out” I then went on to slag her ludicrous clothes – “When power dressing goes wrong “ She looks like someone who is on her way to appear in a pantomine – the mad hatters wife perhaps”
Now, I am sure it was the slagging bit that got it published AND caused her to respond. I guarantee people who knew her or worked with her would have laughed.
What she wrote in reply was:
“If Craig Frost wants to criticise me he needs to get his facts straight. I do not drink. So I would not have had a glass of Chardonnay” Very sniffy.
The reply was remarkable because obviously, I didn’t literally mean, have a glass of chardonnay. I was stereotyping her as a “Parnell Girl”.
As a famous PR person I would have thought she would have realised that, and the fact she replied, gave my letter so much more power.
So get out there and start writing.
Finally my advice for a sucessful campaign by the Labour coalition:
- Don’t bang on too much more about the Brash/Brethren thing.
- It may be too late but, left leaning backers could help the campaign by stopping large advertisements. They may prove counter-productive in the light of all of the above..
- Be nice. take foot off throat. Kiss babies.
Finally, if Helen something goes insanely wrong and she wants to gaurantee re-election I have some cynical advice which I can assure her will work..
Cry.
Simple, weep on telly.
”He…(sniff) called me a childless lesbo..” (blubberfest)
It worked for Hawke and Clinton - it would work for her too. .