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 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 heaven.

Wayne Mapp, Eglish 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.

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!

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.