Club Politique by Che Tibby

Back in Melbourne I used to sit around on Sunday afternoons and listen to Radio 3RRR, a community station that had this great series of shows. The journalism/politics one was just after a restaurant/trade show, and in waiting to listen to that I soon got in the habit of listening to the morning film show. I'll be honest and admit that after visiting some friends in LA in 2001 I was thinking pretty seriously about dropping the study altogether and going to film school.

All that stopped me was the thought of pretty much going back to square one in my chosen profession. Of course, no sooner had I finished the study in that chosen profession I went back to square one in the public service. But at least I get things like paid sick days, something never to be overlooked in the job satisfaction stakes.

You can imagine then that chipping in to make 'Coupled' this past weekend was something of a fulfilment of a long-standing want. So big thanks to Hayden and Mike for letting me talk them into being an odd-body on the set.

For starters I got to work with one of only two Weta Workshops crews (as far as I'm aware). A bloody nice people they were too. If you're going to be hauling your sorry arse out of bed at 6am to volunteer for 18 hour days, it's all good when they're decent people. But this also means that we've put together what, in my most humble opinion, is a pretty good film. I also think I'm not alone in thinking that 'Coupled' is not a barker.

If you're not aware of how this 48 Hours thingo works, you get given a genre, a line or two, a character name, and an event. Each of these things has to appear in the no-longer-than-7min short film. One previous character name was 'Bodil Drezney'. How freaking annoying is that? Luckily this year it was 'Robin Slade', a name dutifully applied. The genre was 'based on a true story', which isn't absolutely the worst. The film also had to include the line, "That's what I'm talking about', and a mirror.

Armed with this information, away we went.

After having seen Hayden's post this afternoon I was surprised at the company I was keeping. You'd think people with as much experience as that crew would be a little more, well, 'wanky'. But no, and should the opportunity arise I'll happy whip up a couple of roast chooks and fresh bread again.

Other highlights include.

- Being too knackered to get it together to blog about the weekend until just now.

- Trying to explain to a rather small dog that mandarins are monkey food. If his ancestors could climb trees, he'd be getting his own citrus. And then watching him eat several segments. Jay, if Charlie carks it, it was Mike's idea.

- Having to get Tom, who was exhausted from being the leading man for 18 hours, help me crash-start the Civic, it having broken down again. It lurched into action so quickly that he almost face-planted. The remainder of the crew near wet themselves laughing. Heh Heh. Fatigue makes other peoples misfortune funny.

- Attending the last few minutes of event, where people rushed to get their films in. At 20 mins to the deadline the huge 'master' clock on the wall accidentally flicked to 0:00:00. I've never actually seen to so many people looking like they just dropped one in their undies.

- Actually a lowlight, but the poor bastard I saw running his film and paperwork up the stairs at the Embassy a good five or ten minutes too late. If he'd done as much work as we had, he'll be gutted to not make it on time. Sorry bro.

All in all a very good weekend. If you're interested in seeing 'Coupled' it's screening tomorrow night at the Regent, look out for the team name 'Bongo and the Sponge Monkeys'. I'll try and get my hands on some of the photos that were taken of the days, so you can get a feel for what happened.

And honestly, if I had have known making films was going to be this much fun? I would have sought the titles, 'Music Supervisor' and '1st AC' many years ago.

Maybe.

I'm tired. I'm grumpy. I've started to smell a little. The producer sent me out on a mission to get stuff together for lunch tomorrow, and my freaking car broke down. The rest of the crew is alternately underworked or just plain worn out. There are five different things going on in different parts of the house. There are cords, leads, equipment and actors lying around everywhere. In the middle of it all, I’m just trying to not get in anyone’s way. Sound familiar? Then your probably enough of a sucker to be working on the 48 Hour Film comp, Furious Filmmaking.

For some reason I thought it'd be 'cool', and 'funky'. Well, I can tell you that the only thing getting funky round here is my armpits. Funkier by the hour. The stubble is starting to take on a life of it's own, and the only part of me that isn't complaining is my stomach. Thanks be to film crew food.

The car not working is probably what inspired me to get this blog written. Half the crew is away on location somewhere, so I thought I'd take the opportunity to knock out a few words. Mostly because it's better than hurrying up and waiting, and also to get the complaint about those goddamn wheels off my chest before some poor gaffer cops it.

What we’re all familiar with is the idea that teams run on their stomach. Back in the days of the kitchen, if you didn’t feed the front bunnies they got awfully tetchy, and this place doesn’t seem to be any different. The chief goes ‘JUMP!’ and we all jump. The producer goes ‘PAPER!’ and I grab paper. So, as long as you have whatever someone needs, right then and there, you’ll not be yelled at. Too much. And food is the key to not being yelled at, full stop.

Off I go to the supermarket to get some provisions for tomorrow, on the order of the producer, and take my marvellous Honda Civic. Ok, well maybe not so marvellous. Freaking piece of crap. I get to the bit where I’ve got the food to the car, but the damn thing won’t work. At all.

Now, knowing that I’ve had a few issues with the starter motor I figure that I can put start the sonofabitch no worries, but I forgot to bring an offsider. This means I’m forced to kind of haul the Civic out of it’s park, wheel it backwards over towards the hordes of elderly drivers looking on, and looking pissed off in that sour-faced, might have inadvertently urinated in my slacks look that only the elderly can get, and then try to crash start.

Naturally it’s raining. Once I get up enough momentum I manage to leap into the car and get it to turn over. Of course, I’m a little wet, a little sweatier, and a whole lot more tired than when I started out. But like the trooper I have to be, I’m back on set, helping tidy up for the next scene.

And mind you, we’ve only been going for 21 hours. That kitchen-handing stamina will be coming in useful, I reckon. And so will the kitchen cooking skills. They’ve roped me in to make lunch for a tired and grouchy crew tomorrow, and I’m thinking that Che’s Famous Roast Chicken Sandwiches will be the go.

Maybe they’ll give me a credit, “Famous Chicken Sandwiches, Dr. Che”. It’s better than the original credit, “Undie Monster”. That one will take a little explaining.

How do you organise your music collection? Let's assume for a moment that you don't have an MP3 player and rely on old-fashioned stacks like I do. What sort of system do you use?

I know this is a bit of a 'Hi Fidelity' line of questioning, but it struck me the other day that in my otherwise chaotic world there are small islands of order. One of which is getting to work. There's nothing worse than having no system for getting out of bed and into a tie. If you haven't got your act together by the time you're walking into the office you'll be having bad days every day of the week.

My sock and undie drawer on the other hand? Chaos. Some days just trying to find a pair of socks to suit the weather outside is infuriating. Likewise my dinner schedule. There is none. It's a "stand in front of the fridge scratching my belly and grunt and coo alternately till I settle on something" kind of situation.

My music though? Another story. Somewhere around the house I've an old box that still has the address of the first place I lived in Auckland written on it. There are tapes in there from the 80s, some from the early 90s, and more than a few bad mix tapes for, 'the ladies'. But, those tapes are well and truly organised out of the way.

Ok, confession time as an aside. The very first tape I ever bought was Crowded House, 'Crowded House'. So, so damn catchy. The first vinyl? A rare single of 'Harold and Joe' a Cure song off christ-knows-which album. I've never actually bought an LP, but I did pinch a copy of Dire Straits, 'Making Movies' when I was 14 or so. My first CD though? Digital Underground, 'Sex Packets'.

I mention all this because I was reflecting the other day on albums that I just can't stop listening to. I like for instance to put a CD on when blogging. I'm listening to the Delgados 'The Great Eastern' at the moment for example.

What I tend to do is to keep all of my CDs in the one place with a little system I evolved. Luckily there's only a couple of hundred of them, so there's little chance of them getting lost under piles of paper or assorted junk, but enough to make them a presence. Even better, I found a perfectly good CD tower on the street during the hard rubbish collection in my neighbourhood in Melbourne, and it lets me keep most of them in what amounts to a bookcase on my desk.

Crap. Delgados finished. On goes Roots Manuva 'Run Come Save Me'.

The good news about the CD tower is that it holds all the CDs I can't do without. Although having back-ups of albums I legitimately own is good, because it increases the range of music I listen to (you know, when someone says, 'you really need to listen to this'), it's not the same as having the colour and presence of a decent stack. Even better it serves as a decent leaner for the albums I listen too so frequently that putting them back on the tower is a hassle.

So here's the way it works. In front of the CD tower are two sorts of albums. The ones I've recently acquired, and the ones I play non-stop. Then, behind these (and therefore inaccessible without a slight reorder) are the artists I've stopped listening to, e.g. The Avalanches, Jeff Buckley (though not because they're bad, just not permanent). At the top of the CD tower and slightly out of reach when sitting in front of the PC are the slightly more frequent albums, and then in the middle, the 'rotation' stock. A few I still listen to, which can be brought out if an 'A-list' CD needs to be pushed back in the stack, to then gradually work it's way up, then waaay down the tower.

Thing is, music is incredibly important. Not only does it reflect who you are, but it reflects your ability to discern. Do you just buy whatever you see advertised on TV? I don't. Naturally this is a hassle when I'd like to listen to something like the Arctic Monkeys, but some time ago I convinced myself that anything advertised on the telly will be shyte. Why? Because these are the albums that aren't selling on the strength of the music alone. I reckon the music should be so good you can listen to 10 seconds of a single, and then know the album will be great.

That rule has lead to me buying some really, really bloody awful albums. The International Noise Conspiracy being an example. On the other hand, it has lead to some great ones. The Stone Roses, The Moldy Peaches, and The Teaches of Peaches are just such a product.

But, before this blog degrades into me being one of those record-store dickheads all to happy to condescend about your taste (as happened to me in Polyester in Melbourne at least a couple of times, for example), let's move on. So here's my list of albums that just never really cycle out of the A-list and into the tower. I can recommend all of them. In no particular order:

Gillian Welch, Time (the revelator)
Make Up, Save Yourself
McLusky, Do Dallas
DLT, Altruism
Sparklehorse, Vivadixiesubmarinetransmissionplot
Mojave3, Excuses for Travellers
Doves, Last Broadcast
Tricky, Pre-Millennium Tension
Supersuckers, Must've Been High
Bailterspace, Whammo
The Bees, Sunshine Hit Me
The Sleepy Jackson, Lovers
Dimmer, I Believe You Are A Star
The Hives, Veni Vedi Vicious
Augie March, Sunset Studies
The Wedding Present, Seamonsters
Thievery Corporation, The Mirror Conspiracy
Bressa Creeting Cake
Life Without Buildings, Any Other City
The Drones, Here Come the Lies
Hilltop Hoods, The Calling
Bruce Springsteen, Nebraska
Radiohead, OK Computer
The Frames, For the Birds
The Flaming Lips, Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots
Souad Massi, Deb
Cat Power, Moon Pix
Matt Ward, The Transformation of Vincent.

Jesus... I just realised how damn white I am...

The announcement that a bunch of New Zealanders are a bit on the cuddly side should hardly be surprising. As reader Tony mentioned to me a wee while back, the application of the label 'obesity epidemic' is just using a fancy medical term to justify 'letting yourself go'.

Ok, so Tony actually had a little rant. But I laughed because it is very true. His main suggestion for not getting too broad in the beam was to sidle up to a really large person in the supermarket, and glance in their trolley. Whatever they have in there, don't buy it.

Now that is a very simple suggestion for those of us who are worried about the puku turning into a small mountain of lard.

The far more complex suggestion, and the one I alluded to in this post, and which I heard suggested by some wowser on the telly, is to get the gubbermint to sort it out.

People... for christssakes... Aunty Helen cannot hold your hand forever. Sooner or later you're going to have to get that great fat arse of the couch and... dare I say it... get the fuck out of the house... and go for a walk. It's not difficult. Really. If two year olds can do it, so can you. Usually it involves just kind of putting one gigantic chubby foot down on the ground. Then, you lift the other hoof and put it down out in front of the first one. Repeat with the first. Before you know it you'll we wedging that spacious tookus through the front door and into the fresh air.

Next, walk to the nearest greengrocer and buy an apple. Just one. Then walk home. Do not, repeat, do not stop at the Dairy for a Trumpet, a bag of Eskimos or a Toppa. Tomorrow, do the same thing again.

Because I'm a man who doesn't just do the talking I can reveal that my solution to the need to get out and about, wandering into stores and pricing electronics I can't actually afford, has the people at the local Harvey Norman thinking I'm a well(ish)-dressed bum. One day I'll buy that damn speaker set. In the meantime though, the all-too-frequent visits are stopping all that duck I ingest from making me waddle.

But seriously, 'The State' cannot regulate to prevent people getting tubby. While I agree that there is some mighty exploitative advertising out there, and that kids do eat too much fat and sugar for their own good, having regulations in place to do the thinking for people is just too much. When it boils down to it, no one is tying you to the couch and stuffing crap in your mouth. If they are... seek help.

Another alternative is to become a journalist. Especially when you attend a gala event, which apparently has a "wonderful three course meal", you are likely to only be fed cheese and crackers. Sure-fire way to lose weight there I reckon. Strangely enough though, I don't actually remember any media coverage of said gala event. Did I miss something?

Journo's aeh? Who needs those nosey parkers who take all those self-aggrandising things you say and you know, publicise them, for free?

Finally, if like me you've never really trusted mobile phones then you'll be even more worried by this story. I heard one of those 'way-out' and 'disproven' theories a few years back that mobiles phones will cause cancer if used heavily, but I've never heard any evidence that convinced me either way. But it seems that people continue to seriously consider the issue.

It's one of those stories that seem to produce different outcomes dependent on who you're talking to. But, it's not as crazy as this theory I uncovered while Googling the subject.

The Melbourne Age story linked to above has seven staff members developing brain tumours, the apparent link between them being exposure to mobile phone towers on the roof of their building. Phones themselves don't put out as much juice as a tower, but it will be interesting to see if the link between the mobile frequencies and the illness is established anything like conclusively. Especially when the conspiracy theorists have been claiming for years that phones are a danger.

As they say, ma te wā.

PS. How could I forget! To all those people leaving Godzone for the fair shores of Australia. Bloody good on you. Seriously. The whole situation sounds a lot like the unhappy days of Muldoon, but I’m guessing that today there’s probably a lot more South Africans and Britons splitting now they’ve got their New Zealand citizenship.

For those of you who’ve forgotten, during the First ACT Government (1987-1990), we installed this miraculous thing called ‘the Market’. What this thing ‘does’ is ensure that things are paid for at their ‘current going [read: ‘Market’] rate’, without state intervention. Now, theoretically, ‘the Market’ causes salaries to rise when ‘demand’ is high.

So to all you skilled workers pissing off to Australia, I thank you, and my credit card thanks you.

And to all those kicking up a big fuss, I guess you’ve already made your money. Please be quiet then and let the rest of us get rich. I’m sure actual Kiwis will come home again when salaries, and especially wages, rise to something worth enduring the shitty weather.

Let's get one thing straight here. No disrespect to the members of the Māori Party, but they are not the representatives of Māori. Without question they are Māori representatives, but they are no more the Māori representatives than Don Brash or Helen Clark are the representatives of mainstream New Zealand.

This is a small distinction that seems to be constantly lost in Treaty debate, here in Aotearoa. A question I've been pondering for awhile now is, why is there an onus placed on Māori to produce a single voice? And further to this question, why do white rednecks always think that there is only "one Māori culture"?

By definition a 'culture' does not present a unified face. Any culture is a mixture of all kinds of overlaid ideas, values, mores and issues. Furthermore, no culture is 'static'. Again this is impossible. Not only do cultures constantly change within themselves, but as soon as you expose them to almost any other culture, they change in response.

This isn't rocket science. Your culture, whatever it is, is constantly under change at variable speeds. Sometimes that change is very slow, for instance when the leadership within the culture is both entrenched and very conservative or 'traditional' (and discourages change or enforces conformity). Sometimes that change is very fast, for instance in the case of Māori post-1800.

Here's an example. In my te reo class (I'm walking the walk) I learnt last week that Māori is a bit like the Romance languages. Then you're addressing someone, or talking about something, the 'o' or 'a' used in particular part of a sentence will change. I've embarrassingly left my notes behind, but as I remember it the words 'tōku' and 'tāku' both indicate belonging, as in "Ko Che tōku ingoa' (My name is Che).

The difference between the two is in their usage. In French for example, 'La' denotes a feminine noun, 'Le' a masculine. In Māori though, 'tōku' can indicate a superior relationship, 'tāku' an inferior. The kicker, the one that would put the spin in the tail of our stronger sisters, is normally I'd use 'tāku' when referring to a woman, so "Ko Marian tāku wahine" could be translated as "Marian is my woman".

That usage of 'tāku' when referring to women is common to most iwi. Except Ngāti Porou that is. There, everyone uses 'tōku'. And why? Because no one pushes Ngāti Porou women around, and they're proud of it.

Refering to 'sexism in Māori culture' in shorthand is a bit like saying that the Māori Party represents all of Māori society. It is both right and wrong. And therein lies the problem. I think I'll be having a little trouble expressing things as well as Phil here, who really takes the condescending white women to task. I particularly like the bit where he points out that to stand and respond to the challenge laid down is exactly the right thing to do, not to run off bleating to the media with a monocultural axe to grind.

And it's a bit of a line I've heard run in different forums this week. It usually goes, "why are white women the only ones bitching about this?" I'd add, how about spending a little more time insisting that white menfolk spend more time doing their own cooking, or cleaning their own toilets, and less time complaining about things you don't really 'get'?

You'd think that people would learn that bashing a culture you don't really understand is really just preaching to the converted?

There are at least a couple of well-known stories I've heard about Ngāti Porou women being asked to sit down in. And they refused. They stood up to the men and explained to them in no uncertain terms, and in a language they understand, that they had the right to stand.

What we have there is an instance of cultural change. Māori are not partaking of a 'stone age' culture, as Dr. Bassett seems to state, but are part of an evolving culture still assimilating globalised mores. When you start talking about feminism, you're referring to a concept only grudgingly made mainstream as few as thirty years ago. Using it as a stick to justify petulance and a lack of understanding is petty, churlish, and childish.

Once again, you can't assume that all of Māori society and social protocol is sexist just because the women sit in the back. As Phil points out, women play key roles in traditional ceremonies, and I'd add to that that anyone whose total exposure to Māori society is likely to be watching 'Once Were Warriors' is not the right person to be commenting on how a diverse Māori society and culture advances.