imminent|7th January| 2006

............................2006 A name Odyssey
.............................
...........................0 0. Lurking about ....

Ok. So the Mrs K is now two weeks overdue and the baby is still not here.
So we can assume a certain tardiness or an ‘I’ll wait till I’m good and ready’ independence.
We, the parents, are over-ready.
We have performed all known rituals and to no avail. All that is left is castor oil. Maybe the oldest birth inducing tonic of all.
We’ll see.

Maybe the baby wont come until we have a name for it. We have plenty of girls names but it’s the boys who are causing the problems.
We’ve tossed a few ones around but mostly they kept spinning around and around, they were rejected, we let go of them and they flew out of orbit, into space.
Pinnochio, for instance, is headed for deep space.
It gave me great joy while it was here though. The absurdity of it.
Pinnochio.
The period of confusion followed by horror when I related it to the mother in law. Precious moments.
Thank you Pinnochio.

The other day I had a boys name revelation while listening to the ghastly ‘matinee idle’ show on the radio.
“What about ELVIS?”
“No one is called Elvis” I said eyes wide with anticipation.
But, sadly Mrs K’s withering stare spoke volumes about the way she felt about ‘Elvis’.
“No-one is called Elvis for a reason’ She said.
and the no-one that was never going to be called Elvis was jettisoned to the stars also.

ELVIS IN SPACE! SHOCK!!

Recently I intoned;
‘What about Jimi?”
“Jimi Jnr”
“jimi J”
I realised quickly that Jimi J would be destined to become a DJ.
(“DJ JIMI J - at the khuja Lounge tonight!).
It’s not that I dislike the idea of being a DJ it’s just that everyone seems to be one.
I was at a café the other day and the young guy (actually he was more of a haircut than a guy) basking in the glow of own his nascissism took a break from ignoring his customers to tell the pretty waitress the following;
“There’s record swap at real groovy I might check out”
Bored indifference from girl.
“yeah. I guess I didn’t tell you but, I’m a DJ. . .”
I laughed aloud.
They gave me a combined ‘whatever’ but, really as a chat up line it has to be one of the most clichéd, circa – 2006.

So if the baby is born a boy then it will have no name at the moment.
It will just be known most excellently as ‘the boy with no name’.
Which is kinda cool, like ‘the man in black’.

Interior of Film Noir Office – It
is poorly lit, has venetian blinds, a fan rotates slowly.
A man is hunched over a pile on the floor.
Humphrey Bogart walks in.
“What happened? Whats that smell?”
“The boy with no name was just here…
He left this . . .”

Close up of a pooie nappie.
Dramatic music.

Extreme close up of pooie nappie. .
very dramatic music.

“ARE MY EYES DECIEVING ME! or does that thing smell disgusting!”
In the name of god lets get out of here. .”
Exeunt Door
Bogie: “of all the smells, in all the office’s, in all the world. I have to walk into this one..”

Topically, the herald had a list of the most popular names in New Zealand in it today. On the list a few of our ones.
The name MAX was there, in the top ten. Which is bloody annoying because I thought it was an unusual name, but it seems to be unusually usual instead.

At the moment I don’t care what it called I just want it here. Out.
Reducing my sleep. Making me busy. Confounding expectations. And creating the smell that would make Bogart Exeunt (whoever made that word up anyway?)

IF nothing happens before then, Mrs K will be induced tomorrow night, so this will be my last blog as barren J Kumara.

Seasons 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!!

Six feet under, The Haka, |2nd December | 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.
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.