Saturday, March 25, 2006
The Last Post
Good news everybody! This is the last post of goNZoFreakpower.blogspot.com. I have tired of the Blogger interface screwing up when posting pictures, among other niggles. Catch up with the latest musings at http://gonzofreakpower.typepad.com/gonzo_freakpower/.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Everything all the time
Jeez, it's been woe to go in three manic weeks. Time for a decent blog post. In this issue: Census, Student Loans, what's happening with Labour, Balmy Palmy, and a note that Great Things Are Afoot.
As some of you may know, I've been helping Jeremy Greenbrook out doing some census delivering and collecting. It proved to be an enlightening experience, which I am not at liberty to tell you anything about. I have been sworn to secrecy by many oaths, at least three to big and powerful government departments, as well as a number to jaded householders. Suffice it to say, it's something I would recommend everyone tries once.
I got a call from Mr RRB (Rugby Racing Beer) in Orkland during census week. "I am not fucking filling this in," he said. "Mate, it almost asks me how big my dick is." He accused me of selling out on my Right to Privacy cred, working for the Machine. Which sort of hurt, coming from someone who works in the finance market. Of all people, I thought RRB would realise the importance that good information has on good decision-making.
The questions aren't asked to piss people off, but to get a five-yearly snapshot of NZ. The information provided in available to anyone who wants it. For example, it helps researchers such as your truly to have something to back up our hunches and arguments with. For RRB, I said that it's important for his three kids to have the correct number of health, education and welfare provisions allocated to them. Without accurate numbers to go off, the electorate with the most eloquent pork-barreller gets the funding. Funny how Tauranga has a new toll-free bridge while Orklanders might be forking out for a bridge they finished paying off 20 years ago. RRB did his duty and completed the census online, a less painful method of necessary evil.
The census job also helped provide a cash cushion for my return to university. Yep, I'm back at Vic doing Politics Hons, student loan set to maximum. I'd be stupid not to. Just as well I'm thoroughly enjoying my papers while I'm clocking it up. The best value so far is Margaret Clark's Contemporary Political Thought. If Margaret was cast for Star Wars, she'd be Yoda. There's a hundred pages of reading material handed out every week and a discussion on last week's readings. For the second hour, we chew the fat at Ilott Cafe where the Professor shouts for coffee. I'm researching post-capitalist theory and Ralston Saul in particular. Fucking brilliant.
The most fun class is DEAF101, where I'm learning NZ Sign Language. As Rodney discovered last week, NZSL is full-on. It's also full of distinctively kiwi twang. It's not Total Communication, it's not British, US or even Oz style, although it has links to all of them. It's ours. We made it ourselves. I promptly went out, bought the dictionary and looked up all the swear words. I learnt sign for 'Bossy Bitch' from an extra-curricular tutorial. I might have never got round to learning this great vernacular if it weren't for The Insiders' Guide to Love showing it off, so thanks guys whoever you are.
I have no problem at all with making NZSL the third official language. This shit is indigenous. It doesn't exist anywhere else. It's valid and alive. And it's not as if you'll need to subtitle the paperwork or anything. I wonder how much fun it would be to give a maiden speech in NZSL? Speaking of which, it's about time for me to clear the air, if only for a moment. I am now officially a paid-up member of only one political party; Labour. I will not be attending the Act conference later this month. I don't see the point. Labour is in need of new blood, and I hope to be part of the much-needed rejuvenation that is needed if Labour is going to be able to salvage some long term goodwill.
It must be getting heavy going for Helen and Cullen pushing all that shit uphill. While the DBP pustule lies festering defensively in his portfolios, Dover Samuels has taken a mighty step into the arena, taking the piss out of Department of Conversation Minister Chris Carter and Fisheries Minister DBP over the Whangamata marina veto. As well he should. What's the PM going to do? Fire him? Talk of dissention in caucus does little to stem the perception that Labour V is about to go nova.
It all makes my weekend in Palmy look almost painless. I stayed with Miss Tigger, who is slumming it in a gargantuan student flat while studying Vet Nursing at Massey. She pays $35 a week for the largest bedroom, has a backyard big enough to play most team sports in and still have enough space for a wilted vegie garden. It hadn't rained there for months. The lawn was a uniform brown tapering off into the distance. Unlike Wellington, which is full of evergreen natives and shrubs, Palmy is littered with imported trees. Literally. Their leaves are falling off everywhere.
After meticulous preparation, involving many beers and a bottle of bubbly, we headed into town for St Pats. Melody Lane had been cordoned off, a band playing at the far end, the Celtic Inn doing a roaring trade. Across the narrow lane, the err, other pub featured a couple of scantily-clad women serving the beers from a chilly-bin. One was Asian, the other blonde. Neither was likely to have ticked Irish on their census forms, but I'd put money on their profession being strippers. Miss Tigger corroborated this by saying she had seen the dark-haired one at Firecats not so long ago.
We moved on to Guvnors Tavern, which I remembered as The Royal (followed by The New Royal). That night, the venue was hosting Palmy's premier death metal band, Hellborne. Their T-shirts feature the Palmy clock tower with an upside-down cross, and one of Miss Tigger's flatmates is in the band. We got there too early, the band still setting up. We had to content ourselves with stories about that girl over there by the bar who is so-and-so's ex-girlfriend who's also a real psycho bitch. How the long winter evenings must just fly by.
We excused ourselves to play some pool down the road at what I swear used to be a Westpac bank. That's one thing Palmy is good for. Drinking, just so long as it's quantity you're after, not quality. For example, you can get decent change back from your $20 note for a couple of drinks but don't expect a slice of lemon in your vodka, let alone lime.
It was inevitable that we'd end up at Firecats, where I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of strippers. Miss Tigger went to the bar and ordered a bottle of Bernadino, a vile alleged wine I haven't touched since I was underage. After my first vodka however, the Bernadino seemed somehow more appropriate for the circumstances. To our left was a couple of paraplegic men getting their kicks. On our right, two old geezers enjoyed the show, wishing both of us a good night on their way out. Across from us were the usual louts, getting a grope but not slipping a bill for the pleasure. Bloody plebs.
We parked the Bernadino behind the bar and went out for a ciggie, where we bumped into one of the stippers' flatmates. He was hanging around outside as he didn't want to pay the $10 cover charge, seeing how he flatted with one of the workers. The bouncer wasn't impressed with this and that's where we met him. He invited us back to his really cool pad for a beer. Miss Tigger is the first to admit she has the attention span of an ADD fly when drunk, so decided this new idea sounded great. Although I had been quite happy, ensconced in a bar distracted by beautiful women strutting their stuff, I felt obliged to keep watch over this flighty one.
The really cool pad was up a few stairs overlooking a dreary Broadway intersection. Palmy Broadway is not London Broadway. Even with a really vivid imagination, one cannot see the slightest resemblance. The flat was cramped and squalid. A couple sat in the lounge in their own private universe. The host served up a can of Double Brown beer, something I have not had since I lived in Palmy nearly twenty years ago. After a few swigs, the taste threw back all the associated memories. Things went all Grosse Pointe Blank on me. I managed to excuse myself in time to get out the door and throw up over someone's car.
I was in Palmy to help RRB, down from Orkland with the whanau, tidy up some unfinished business. After a hard day's slog, Mrs RRB and the kids went out Ashhurst way for the night, while RRB and me had a few quiet beers in town. The Fitz looked a shadow of its former self. It's just not the same without all the broken glass and wall-to-wall vomiting. We were about to leave after one jug, when a paralytic party of 21st birthday bashers staggered through to relieve the dullness. We had a good yarn with the group over the second jug before sliding back out into the street in search of more life.
It wasn't to be found at the Indian restaurant we chowed down at in George Street. Although the food was good tucker, only one other table was occupied. Everyone must have been psyching themselves up for another hurly-burly week or something. The attentive hostess told us that people do not go out on Sunday nights in this town. Our forlorn search for a busy bar continued to Aqaba, which was the busiest place we'd seen all night. It was just a shame that indoors was pantingly stuffy and everyone was leaving at the ripe old hour of 9pm. We gave up at the Celtic Inn. If we had wanted to drink by ourselves, we would have stayed at the house.
On the walk back, we confided that we had both arrived in Palmy with open minds. We were both evaluating moving back to Palmy. For RRB, he was thinking of his family. For me, I was thinking of my sanity. We had both surmised that our hopes would not be improved by
a move to Palmy. John Cleese was absolutely right.
Good news everybody! This is one of the last posts for goNZoFreakpower.blogspot.com. A new site, with greater potential, is currently being tested. This will go live sometime this month, just as soon as I've manged to wangle the watchama-call-it with the thingme-bob.
As some of you may know, I've been helping Jeremy Greenbrook out doing some census delivering and collecting. It proved to be an enlightening experience, which I am not at liberty to tell you anything about. I have been sworn to secrecy by many oaths, at least three to big and powerful government departments, as well as a number to jaded householders. Suffice it to say, it's something I would recommend everyone tries once.
I got a call from Mr RRB (Rugby Racing Beer) in Orkland during census week. "I am not fucking filling this in," he said. "Mate, it almost asks me how big my dick is." He accused me of selling out on my Right to Privacy cred, working for the Machine. Which sort of hurt, coming from someone who works in the finance market. Of all people, I thought RRB would realise the importance that good information has on good decision-making.
The questions aren't asked to piss people off, but to get a five-yearly snapshot of NZ. The information provided in available to anyone who wants it. For example, it helps researchers such as your truly to have something to back up our hunches and arguments with. For RRB, I said that it's important for his three kids to have the correct number of health, education and welfare provisions allocated to them. Without accurate numbers to go off, the electorate with the most eloquent pork-barreller gets the funding. Funny how Tauranga has a new toll-free bridge while Orklanders might be forking out for a bridge they finished paying off 20 years ago. RRB did his duty and completed the census online, a less painful method of necessary evil.
The census job also helped provide a cash cushion for my return to university. Yep, I'm back at Vic doing Politics Hons, student loan set to maximum. I'd be stupid not to. Just as well I'm thoroughly enjoying my papers while I'm clocking it up. The best value so far is Margaret Clark's Contemporary Political Thought. If Margaret was cast for Star Wars, she'd be Yoda. There's a hundred pages of reading material handed out every week and a discussion on last week's readings. For the second hour, we chew the fat at Ilott Cafe where the Professor shouts for coffee. I'm researching post-capitalist theory and Ralston Saul in particular. Fucking brilliant.
The most fun class is DEAF101, where I'm learning NZ Sign Language. As Rodney discovered last week, NZSL is full-on. It's also full of distinctively kiwi twang. It's not Total Communication, it's not British, US or even Oz style, although it has links to all of them. It's ours. We made it ourselves. I promptly went out, bought the dictionary and looked up all the swear words. I learnt sign for 'Bossy Bitch' from an extra-curricular tutorial. I might have never got round to learning this great vernacular if it weren't for The Insiders' Guide to Love showing it off, so thanks guys whoever you are.
I have no problem at all with making NZSL the third official language. This shit is indigenous. It doesn't exist anywhere else. It's valid and alive. And it's not as if you'll need to subtitle the paperwork or anything. I wonder how much fun it would be to give a maiden speech in NZSL? Speaking of which, it's about time for me to clear the air, if only for a moment. I am now officially a paid-up member of only one political party; Labour. I will not be attending the Act conference later this month. I don't see the point. Labour is in need of new blood, and I hope to be part of the much-needed rejuvenation that is needed if Labour is going to be able to salvage some long term goodwill.
It must be getting heavy going for Helen and Cullen pushing all that shit uphill. While the DBP pustule lies festering defensively in his portfolios, Dover Samuels has taken a mighty step into the arena, taking the piss out of Department of Conversation Minister Chris Carter and Fisheries Minister DBP over the Whangamata marina veto. As well he should. What's the PM going to do? Fire him? Talk of dissention in caucus does little to stem the perception that Labour V is about to go nova.
It all makes my weekend in Palmy look almost painless. I stayed with Miss Tigger, who is slumming it in a gargantuan student flat while studying Vet Nursing at Massey. She pays $35 a week for the largest bedroom, has a backyard big enough to play most team sports in and still have enough space for a wilted vegie garden. It hadn't rained there for months. The lawn was a uniform brown tapering off into the distance. Unlike Wellington, which is full of evergreen natives and shrubs, Palmy is littered with imported trees. Literally. Their leaves are falling off everywhere.
After meticulous preparation, involving many beers and a bottle of bubbly, we headed into town for St Pats. Melody Lane had been cordoned off, a band playing at the far end, the Celtic Inn doing a roaring trade. Across the narrow lane, the err, other pub featured a couple of scantily-clad women serving the beers from a chilly-bin. One was Asian, the other blonde. Neither was likely to have ticked Irish on their census forms, but I'd put money on their profession being strippers. Miss Tigger corroborated this by saying she had seen the dark-haired one at Firecats not so long ago.
We moved on to Guvnors Tavern, which I remembered as The Royal (followed by The New Royal). That night, the venue was hosting Palmy's premier death metal band, Hellborne. Their T-shirts feature the Palmy clock tower with an upside-down cross, and one of Miss Tigger's flatmates is in the band. We got there too early, the band still setting up. We had to content ourselves with stories about that girl over there by the bar who is so-and-so's ex-girlfriend who's also a real psycho bitch. How the long winter evenings must just fly by.
We excused ourselves to play some pool down the road at what I swear used to be a Westpac bank. That's one thing Palmy is good for. Drinking, just so long as it's quantity you're after, not quality. For example, you can get decent change back from your $20 note for a couple of drinks but don't expect a slice of lemon in your vodka, let alone lime.
It was inevitable that we'd end up at Firecats, where I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of strippers. Miss Tigger went to the bar and ordered a bottle of Bernadino, a vile alleged wine I haven't touched since I was underage. After my first vodka however, the Bernadino seemed somehow more appropriate for the circumstances. To our left was a couple of paraplegic men getting their kicks. On our right, two old geezers enjoyed the show, wishing both of us a good night on their way out. Across from us were the usual louts, getting a grope but not slipping a bill for the pleasure. Bloody plebs.
We parked the Bernadino behind the bar and went out for a ciggie, where we bumped into one of the stippers' flatmates. He was hanging around outside as he didn't want to pay the $10 cover charge, seeing how he flatted with one of the workers. The bouncer wasn't impressed with this and that's where we met him. He invited us back to his really cool pad for a beer. Miss Tigger is the first to admit she has the attention span of an ADD fly when drunk, so decided this new idea sounded great. Although I had been quite happy, ensconced in a bar distracted by beautiful women strutting their stuff, I felt obliged to keep watch over this flighty one.
The really cool pad was up a few stairs overlooking a dreary Broadway intersection. Palmy Broadway is not London Broadway. Even with a really vivid imagination, one cannot see the slightest resemblance. The flat was cramped and squalid. A couple sat in the lounge in their own private universe. The host served up a can of Double Brown beer, something I have not had since I lived in Palmy nearly twenty years ago. After a few swigs, the taste threw back all the associated memories. Things went all Grosse Pointe Blank on me. I managed to excuse myself in time to get out the door and throw up over someone's car.
I was in Palmy to help RRB, down from Orkland with the whanau, tidy up some unfinished business. After a hard day's slog, Mrs RRB and the kids went out Ashhurst way for the night, while RRB and me had a few quiet beers in town. The Fitz looked a shadow of its former self. It's just not the same without all the broken glass and wall-to-wall vomiting. We were about to leave after one jug, when a paralytic party of 21st birthday bashers staggered through to relieve the dullness. We had a good yarn with the group over the second jug before sliding back out into the street in search of more life.
It wasn't to be found at the Indian restaurant we chowed down at in George Street. Although the food was good tucker, only one other table was occupied. Everyone must have been psyching themselves up for another hurly-burly week or something. The attentive hostess told us that people do not go out on Sunday nights in this town. Our forlorn search for a busy bar continued to Aqaba, which was the busiest place we'd seen all night. It was just a shame that indoors was pantingly stuffy and everyone was leaving at the ripe old hour of 9pm. We gave up at the Celtic Inn. If we had wanted to drink by ourselves, we would have stayed at the house.
On the walk back, we confided that we had both arrived in Palmy with open minds. We were both evaluating moving back to Palmy. For RRB, he was thinking of his family. For me, I was thinking of my sanity. We had both surmised that our hopes would not be improved by
a move to Palmy. John Cleese was absolutely right.
Good news everybody! This is one of the last posts for goNZoFreakpower.blogspot.com. A new site, with greater potential, is currently being tested. This will go live sometime this month, just as soon as I've manged to wangle the watchama-call-it with the thingme-bob.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
A new Agenda
Summer is over. The governmentally legislated Sunday sleep-in known as the End of Daylight Saving is upon us. Thankfully, there is something to help ease the transition into hibernation. The last intelligent piece of televised current affairs, Agenda, is back. Replacing Simon Dallow, currently headlining the muppet show at 6pm, is a frankly evil-looking Lisa Owen. Goodstuff, just a shame it's still slotted in at the unreasonable hour of 8:30am Saturday.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Jesus I was evil
| You Are 80% Evil |
 You are very evil. And you're too evil to care. Those who love you probably also fear you. A lot. |
Monday, March 13, 2006
Humour is inefficient
Pardon my scarcity. I've been a busy bastard in the real world. However, I just have to get this rage out of my system. Fucking corporate censorship filters. Fuck you. Fuck you very much.
A few years ago, I was emailling a mate who unfortunately was working in ACC (the safety nazis, not the Auckland City Circus, er, Council). An entirely innocuous email was bounced back from the Mailmarshall. I carefully scanned the email looking for un-PC thoughts and rude words to no avail. I sent it again. It bounced back. I then tried sending the email with one word deleted at a time to find out what I had done to offend. The offending phrase was " bar cum restaurant".
Cum was banned. Cum was wrong. Even it you were talking about summa or magna cum laude, you were wrong. I could understand it somewhat. The ACC is a government entity and is meant to be as culturally neutered as possible. That is just one of the many reasons people cite when they say to me they'll never work for a government department.
It was an even greater shock when I sent a copy of Zen State's post on religious shit to a mate at the BNZ, to help cheer him up through a mundane Monday and get this:
There. That's much better.
A few years ago, I was emailling a mate who unfortunately was working in ACC (the safety nazis, not the Auckland City Circus, er, Council). An entirely innocuous email was bounced back from the Mailmarshall. I carefully scanned the email looking for un-PC thoughts and rude words to no avail. I sent it again. It bounced back. I then tried sending the email with one word deleted at a time to find out what I had done to offend. The offending phrase was " bar cum restaurant".
Cum was banned. Cum was wrong. Even it you were talking about summa or magna cum laude, you were wrong. I could understand it somewhat. The ACC is a government entity and is meant to be as culturally neutered as possible. That is just one of the many reasons people cite when they say to me they'll never work for a government department.
It was an even greater shock when I sent a copy of Zen State's post on religious shit to a mate at the BNZ, to help cheer him up through a mundane Monday and get this:
Message blocked by Bank of New Zealand due to inappropriate contentYou wunch of bankers. You censorious controlling know-nothings. What have we stooped to when we can't talk shit? You do not deserve the name Bank of New Zealand.
The content of your email sent at Mon Mar 13 ****** 2006 Subject:"[Fwd: Religious shit]" has meant that it has been blocked by Bank of New Zealand content filters and will not be delivered to *********. You may wish to revise the content of your message. If you have any questions or comments please contact Bank of New Zealand Helpdesk by phoning 0800 ASK BNZ (0800 275 269)
There. That's much better.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Stupid stupid stupid
"I have not been guilty of, or involved in, any inappropriate behaviour in my 24 years as a secondary school teacher. As well, I am not aware of any complaint of any kind."
I raised complaint with Benson-Pope, says Headmaster
I raised complaint with Benson-Pope, says Headmaster
How to get to Galli Galli Sim Sim
Not so long ago, I expressed my outrage at Kermit and Piggy getting pimped by Pizza Hut and Ford. In what I'm treating as an equal and opposite reaction, India is launching its own version of Sesame Street.
Mr Hooper's bakery has been supplanted by a corner store run by the multi-lingual Basha Bhaijaan. Basha's wife, Dawa Di, hails from north-east India and teaches dance. Although Elmo and Big Bird will have guest spots, the main muppets include a surreal hedonistic lion called Bhoombah, a character named after either a cricketing term or subtle product placement (Googly) and a storyteller called Aanchoo, who is transported to another place when she sneezes. The UK Independent has the story.
For more Indian spin on an English-originated story, check out the Bollywood version of Fight Club!
Mr Hooper's bakery has been supplanted by a corner store run by the multi-lingual Basha Bhaijaan. Basha's wife, Dawa Di, hails from north-east India and teaches dance. Although Elmo and Big Bird will have guest spots, the main muppets include a surreal hedonistic lion called Bhoombah, a character named after either a cricketing term or subtle product placement (Googly) and a storyteller called Aanchoo, who is transported to another place when she sneezes. The UK Independent has the story.
For more Indian spin on an English-originated story, check out the Bollywood version of Fight Club!
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Telephone numbers
I'm no accountant, but things at Telecom must be getting dire. Back in '99, AAPT was worth A$2,300,000,000. Now it's reckoned to be about A$628,000,000, although comms analyst Paul Budde says it could go for half that.
Then there's the imminent death of CDMA in Oz, which will portend Telecom's inevitable switch from CDMA to GSM here. Rebuilding a GSM network is estimated to be between NZ$500,000,000 to 800,000,000. That's not including the opportunity cost on the redundant CDMA equipment, currently used to cover less than 10 percent of the globe. I could have told Telecom back in '99 that they should go GSM instead of mucking about with CDMA. In fact, I did tell them. Just no-one was listening.
Assuming rough parity with Oz & Kiwi dollars:
628,000,000
- 2,300,000,000
= -1,672,000,000
- 500,000,000
= -2,172,000,000
To give some perspective to this $2.2 billion or more pricetag, that is around 2 and a half times Telecom's annual net earnings for last year. $2,200,000,000 could have bought a LOT of fibre.
Then there's the imminent death of CDMA in Oz, which will portend Telecom's inevitable switch from CDMA to GSM here. Rebuilding a GSM network is estimated to be between NZ$500,000,000 to 800,000,000. That's not including the opportunity cost on the redundant CDMA equipment, currently used to cover less than 10 percent of the globe. I could have told Telecom back in '99 that they should go GSM instead of mucking about with CDMA. In fact, I did tell them. Just no-one was listening.
Assuming rough parity with Oz & Kiwi dollars:
628,000,000
- 2,300,000,000
= -1,672,000,000
- 500,000,000
= -2,172,000,000
To give some perspective to this $2.2 billion or more pricetag, that is around 2 and a half times Telecom's annual net earnings for last year. $2,200,000,000 could have bought a LOT of fibre.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Cult of Dagg
My twenty-something mates may look blankly at me at the mention of Fred Dagg, but Fred Dagg is in the panthenon of my household gods. Without him, there would be no Gumboot Day in Taihape. We wouldn't have that in-joke of "That'll be the door." We would have never known how lucky we were. Without him, NZ would have been left with the sole male role model of that fucking bastard Barry Crump.
Fred Dagg is one of many who will one day end up as a link somewhere in the Wall of goNZo. A big "we are not worthy" to RB for raising the Dagg Sea Scrolls to my attention. Tune in to TV One on March 6 at 9:35pm for a sniff of Dagg.
While RB hopes some more Dagg material gets released online, I'm going for broke. Fingers crossed that the doco makes its way online somehow, and I find out about it beforehand. It's on at a time that would clash with another god, Shihad. There's a students only gig at Vic Uni on March 6. The doors open at 8pm, with Autozamm opening. If I'm lucky, Shihad will start after 11pm, so I can have my Dagg and Toogood. Realistically, Shihad would probably start their set around 10pm. Bugger.
March 6 also happens to be my 36th birthday. I was born in yep, you guessed it, Year of the Dog. As you can see, this is a matter of some import. What should it be, people? The Shihad or the Dagg?
Fred Dagg is one of many who will one day end up as a link somewhere in the Wall of goNZo. A big "we are not worthy" to RB for raising the Dagg Sea Scrolls to my attention. Tune in to TV One on March 6 at 9:35pm for a sniff of Dagg.
While RB hopes some more Dagg material gets released online, I'm going for broke. Fingers crossed that the doco makes its way online somehow, and I find out about it beforehand. It's on at a time that would clash with another god, Shihad. There's a students only gig at Vic Uni on March 6. The doors open at 8pm, with Autozamm opening. If I'm lucky, Shihad will start after 11pm, so I can have my Dagg and Toogood. Realistically, Shihad would probably start their set around 10pm. Bugger.
March 6 also happens to be my 36th birthday. I was born in yep, you guessed it, Year of the Dog. As you can see, this is a matter of some import. What should it be, people? The Shihad or the Dagg?
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Good for a laugh
Jeremy Greenbrook has a plug for Wellington's answer to the Orkland's Classic Comedy Bar New Faces gig. The Green Room upstairs at Kitty O'Sheas is a chance for new comedy talent to give it a go on stage. Hosted by MC Cori Gonzalez Macuer (no relation), the next show on March 5 features 6 acts for $8. At less than a tenth of price of a shrink, it's good value medicine. See you there.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Bullshit detectors work best at night
Everyone has three bullshit detectors; the head, the heart and the gut. John Ralston Saul broke these down further in On Equilibrium: the head (reason and common sense), the heart (ethics and imagination) and the gut (memory and intuition). I prefer to reduce his complexity somewhat. Besides, three is a good strong number.
An interesting experiment in the Netherlands seems to show that high-cost decisionmaking works better when we sleep on it. If the brain alone is allowed to wield too much control, it tends to overanalyse the problem, resulting in poor decisions. Another important prerequisite is that the decisionmaker must be aware of the choice in order for the bullshit detectors to work properly.
The upshot of all this would be that complex questions should not be answered the same day, if one is to maximise one's critical faculties. Read more about the experiment here.
An interesting experiment in the Netherlands seems to show that high-cost decisionmaking works better when we sleep on it. If the brain alone is allowed to wield too much control, it tends to overanalyse the problem, resulting in poor decisions. Another important prerequisite is that the decisionmaker must be aware of the choice in order for the bullshit detectors to work properly.
The upshot of all this would be that complex questions should not be answered the same day, if one is to maximise one's critical faculties. Read more about the experiment here.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Close to Homer
Nostalgia may be tinting my sunnies, but state television isn't what it used to be. I hated Close to Home. The theme music grated in much the same way as Coronation Street's still does. Thankfully, there was plenty of other local content to keep me happy. Who can forget the fantastic Natural History Unit which produced such gems as Landmarks, or the kid-news Video Despatch. McPhail & Gadsby introduced some treasured NZ colloquialisms. Before Billy T James went solo, he performed as part of the ensemble of Radio Times. For the tone deaf and tasteless, there was That's Country.
The loathing of Close to Home has been replaced by the equally loathesome Shortland Street. Instead of Landmarks, we have Frontier of Dreams. Dragonball Z has replaced Video Despatch as market research shows that children don't give a shit about the world around them. Eating Media Lunch has superceded McP&G, Dancing with the Stars instead of Radio Times. Nothing could replace That's Country, thank Dagg. Speaking of whom, characters such as John Clarke's Dagg have been eclipsed by celebrities such as... well, none are worthy to be compared with Fred Dagg.
I have some sympathy for the likes of Dame Cath, Sir Ed, et al, and their letter to Steve Maharey stating that an excessive zeal for advertising revenue has ripped the guts out of public broadcasting. They are largely correct. While we have greater width of NZ content than almost ever before, the depth is sadly lacking. For every nugget of meaty goodness such as EML or Beginners' Guide, there are a dozen cheap and nasty reality programmes that require no writer to imagine, no director to steer, no brain to engage.
Investigative reporting and in-depth analysis on current affairs are anathema to advertisers. How many toothpaste salesmen want the audience so enlightened by thinking during a program, they dicuss the import of discussion and rebuttal during the ad break and ignore their pearly whiteners? None, if they wish to continue employment. Braindead viewers are uncritical sponges with money. Little wonder we have presidential election campaigns like the Yanks. Television programming has been subsumed into the US TV format, a Milky Way bar of wanky packaging and appearance, of little substance or sustenance.
TVNZ is bleeding out its arse so badly, it makes South Park's Bloody Mary look like light spotting. For almost ten years, a series of clusterfucks by various partisan cronies has reduced a once-sellable and highly successful company to a postmodern parody of The Larry Sanders Show. Digital TV, the only realistic long-term survival option, was sold off with the Sky TV shares. The glorious TV Charter, that hormunculus of wishful thinking, lies stillborn on the floor. All the wrong people are in the headlines. And there's no sign of light at the end of this tunnel. It looks set to go on and on and on...
So where to from here? This is a chance for Labour V to do the Vision Thing. In her speech from the throne earlier this week, Helen Clark has shown a willingness to adopt a Big Picture on the Telecom broadband thing. I'm hoping she has the guts to do the same to TVNZ. After all, she is the Minister of Arts & Culture. Here's a few starter ideas:
The loathing of Close to Home has been replaced by the equally loathesome Shortland Street. Instead of Landmarks, we have Frontier of Dreams. Dragonball Z has replaced Video Despatch as market research shows that children don't give a shit about the world around them. Eating Media Lunch has superceded McP&G, Dancing with the Stars instead of Radio Times. Nothing could replace That's Country, thank Dagg. Speaking of whom, characters such as John Clarke's Dagg have been eclipsed by celebrities such as... well, none are worthy to be compared with Fred Dagg.
I have some sympathy for the likes of Dame Cath, Sir Ed, et al, and their letter to Steve Maharey stating that an excessive zeal for advertising revenue has ripped the guts out of public broadcasting. They are largely correct. While we have greater width of NZ content than almost ever before, the depth is sadly lacking. For every nugget of meaty goodness such as EML or Beginners' Guide, there are a dozen cheap and nasty reality programmes that require no writer to imagine, no director to steer, no brain to engage.
Investigative reporting and in-depth analysis on current affairs are anathema to advertisers. How many toothpaste salesmen want the audience so enlightened by thinking during a program, they dicuss the import of discussion and rebuttal during the ad break and ignore their pearly whiteners? None, if they wish to continue employment. Braindead viewers are uncritical sponges with money. Little wonder we have presidential election campaigns like the Yanks. Television programming has been subsumed into the US TV format, a Milky Way bar of wanky packaging and appearance, of little substance or sustenance.
TVNZ is bleeding out its arse so badly, it makes South Park's Bloody Mary look like light spotting. For almost ten years, a series of clusterfucks by various partisan cronies has reduced a once-sellable and highly successful company to a postmodern parody of The Larry Sanders Show. Digital TV, the only realistic long-term survival option, was sold off with the Sky TV shares. The glorious TV Charter, that hormunculus of wishful thinking, lies stillborn on the floor. All the wrong people are in the headlines. And there's no sign of light at the end of this tunnel. It looks set to go on and on and on...
So where to from here? This is a chance for Labour V to do the Vision Thing. In her speech from the throne earlier this week, Helen Clark has shown a willingness to adopt a Big Picture on the Telecom broadband thing. I'm hoping she has the guts to do the same to TVNZ. After all, she is the Minister of Arts & Culture. Here's a few starter ideas:
- Dump the Charter in a way that allows Labour to save face. NZ on Air has proved it can handle the jandal. Focus funding on this and this only. Partition a set percentage of TVNZ revenue and direct it straight to NZ on Air.
- Promote the Maori TV model to introduce seat of the pants production in much the same way as South Pacific Television did back in the late '70s.
- Headhunt down at the art centres, the theatres, the comedy lounges. Hell, even the universities might have some ideas. Take risks, or at least delegate the risks to someone who has an eye for this stuff.
- Introduce more online NZ material through the Film Archive, in a similar way that British Pathe has open sourced its archives. Context is everything.
Days of miracle and wonder
Congratulations to Aysser Aljanabi, the new Head Prefect at St Mary's College and the first Muslim Head Girl at the state integrated Catholic School. While the Old Girls Association thinks the choice is controversial and the principal deems it inappropriate to comment, this blogger says Nice One, Aysser! It's great to see someone overcoming religious snobbery and breaking through the stained glass ceiling.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
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