Club Politique by Che Tibby

I'll have to agree with Tze Ming on this one. The purpose of putting 'New Zealand European' on the census form is to indicate what your racial background is. It's supposed to be a generalisation, and not goo long ago read'what's your race' (as far as I can remember). I can understand the desire to put your race down as 'New Zealander', and there is an argument that 'New Zealander' is a different category to 'European', but really it smacks of a particular narrowness you only get in petty nationalists.

But hey, if it makes you feel like you're the shizzle to try and get a new category added, then have at. Like I give a hoot.

I'm not caring because New Zealander is a nationality and an ethnicity all kind of bundled into one, and one that's gradually finding its feet over time. And the interesting thing about nationality is that you can't really conclusively define it except via rubber-stamping.

What I mean by that is that the essence of what it is to be a New Zealander is beyond definition. I'm sure you're all bored with me telling you about how if you try to define a nationality you'll always get a few people who are obviously nationals, but still just don't fit the mould. Not all New Zealanders like rugby for example. That probably makes them horses hoofs, but that's just the way it is, aeh maaaaaate?

The main marker of a nation is a kind of mutual recognition of belonging, although this mutual recognition has to be backed up with something tangible. All liking a particular sport usually doesn't cut it as a stand-alone marker, but the culture that surrounds that sport and its supporters do contribute to nationality. People who follow the sport will all be able to communicate in and around the game, and that makes them a community.

Nations are much the same. So when you say, "I'm a New Zealander" you're probably saying it with something cultural and something tangible to back it up, and a community of like-minded individuals who think themselves the same. But more importantly, you'll also have the rubber-stamping to accompany it. A passport is a good example.

What we can glean from this is that the people writing 'New Zealander' on their census forms are likely to be both ethnically and formally 'New Zealanders'. The ethnic dimension is probably shallow relative to older cultures like those of Western Europe, the Far East, Africa etc., but it's not because it's a new nation. There's a fair bit of argument in the academic literature that all nations are less than 150 or 200 years old.

I'll save you the boring details. In a nutshell it's because our ethnicity just hasn't worked itself out properly yet.

New Zealander is an ethnicity then. But writing it on your census is a bit stupid because it's not what they're asking for, they want your racial background.

Ah well. It's not as stupid as writing 'Jedi' as your religion.

But I can't help it.

The truth of the matter is that I received more wisdom from the first three films than I did from any visits to Sunday School. I think the second three films are a bit like the New Testament though, an unnecessary sequel to a perfectly good set of stories.

But here are a few things I learned so you get the idea:

Whiney bastards don't get the girl.

Sometimes great heroes look like frogs with Spock ears.

Believe in yourself.

Never trust 'the man', he'll call in favours you don't owe.

Money will sometimes turn Wookie into Ewok.

Being closeted causes social disfunction and dependency, even in robots.

Do anything for your friends, one day they'll save your arse.

Inside every black man is a white man waiting to get out, seemingly.

The universe is populated by muppets.

How can a man go wrong with a set of moral markers like that?

I should start by saying thanks to well-wishers who have gotten in touch over the past week. While my intention wasn't entirely to draw a spotlight to my health, it's always good to know there are people out there who think well of you.

The latest news is that after a few more trips to the hospital seeking attention I did finally get someone to prescribe a little medication, and it's making all the difference in the world to my piece of mind. There's something slightly frightening being told that you're at risk of a stroke at 34, and a drug that soothes the heart is all good.

Worse still, I'm told that I can't really consume alcohol for the duration of the prescription. But I guess one beer while you're blogging can't be all bad, aeh?

The heart issue is this erratic and speedy heartbeat that had every doctor asking me, "do you take recreational drugs?" I can only assume they mean BZP. One registrar went as far as to ask for a full drug history, and then looked a little shocked at the end of my sorry list. Hopefully it's because she's done even crazier things than I have.

Those of you who've experienced the feeling of helplessness that accompanies this type of trouble will understand what a relief getting on the drugs really is. To use an analogy, it's a bit like having a tiny ADHD kid strapped to the inside of your ribcage. The jumpy bugger won't stay still till you feed him something that's probably not doing him all that much good.

Then it's a bit like having a stoned ADHD kid strapped in there. He kind of wants to go, "AAAAARRRRGGGGGHHHH!!!!" but only gets to "AAA... craaap... I'm stoned again aren't I?"

I'm listening to a little Nick Drake to calm him down.

He main thing that people seem to wonder about is the issue of "CONFRONTING DEATH". You kind of have to capitalise it, BECAUSE IT'S A TRULY FRIGHTENING AND ENLIGHTENING EXPERIENCE.

The truth of the matter is that the whole DEATH-CONFRONTING thing was done the first time this heart trouble popped up about ten years ago. An over-enthusiastic GP jumped to the very wrong conclusion that I had a particular, and possibly very nasty hereditary disease. I say nasty because one probable cause of DEATH was your aorta separating from your heart.

That one freaked me out a little.

A man takes stock of his life in that situation, and wonders, "what in the hell have I been doing all this time?" When the answer is, "nothing to make this threat to me any less", it's very enlightening. Not as 'enlightening' as "whhhooooooa... all the stars look like light glowing through pores in the skin of the sky", but one has to make sacrifices.

On the upside, none of this has anything to do with poor diet or lifestyle. Which means I can eat all the BBQ Duck I want to. I'm doing my best to prevent bird flu in New Zealand by eating as many of the little bastards as possible.

The plan at present is to perhaps to a tour of Wellington noodle houses, much the same as Well Urban is doing to Wellington bars. I figure that I can probably stay with three common dishes, BBQ duck on noodle soup, curry laksa or wonton noodles, and pretty much cover every noodle shop in town. I've already got Basin Noodles and Tans BBQ duck lined up for the next week.

We shall see. Although, even as I type this I can feel Tze Ming sending me an email demanding that I try eating something a big cracker like me probably wouldn't be comfortable with.

Tze Ming love, it'll be honky-dory. Be nice to me, bad heart, remember?

So I'm stripped to the waist and lying on a gurney and have been for about five hours. I've got a couple of different types of sticky patch electrode things all over my chest, and one on either ankle. The room is full of bright light, this freaking heart monitor behind me is beeping about three times faster than it should be, and all I can think is "Bored. Really, really, bored".

If you haven't yet experienced the joy of public hospital emergency departments, then let me first thank you for your contribution to my well-being (along with the well-being of many others), but damn I wish you all had contributed a little more.

Since last Thursday I've been in and out of the local emergency with this weird heart trouble and have only just extracted myself from it for at least a few hours of non-hospital food and non-ill people. There's every chance I'll be back in there sometime in the next couple of days. Joy.

What's going on? Well, despite a number of years of ensuring that I exercise, eat reasonably, don't over-indulge in all the fun things, and generally take care of numero uno the old ticker seems to have other plans for me.

Luckily it doesn't seem to be anything immediate or dangerous, else they never would have discharged me with one aspirin and a promise to mail my paperwork with me. That said, after a day of erratic behaviour the heartbeat had leapt up to 170 from a normal state of about 50-70 and sat there for two hours before I started thinking, "hmmm... this ain't right", and took myself over to Newtown. The emergency people were kind enough to take this seriously (again), found me a bed and a monitor, and there I lay.

Let me reiterate that this was my third trip in four days to the same emergency with slightly different symptoms.

Let's be clear that my gripe isn't about any of the staff, including the cardiologist who had to head home last night after spending 16 hours in surgery (apparently). My gripe isn't about the facilities, which seem to have had all the bells and whistles you'd expect in a city the size of Wellington (and which weren't too different from anything I saw visiting friends hospitalised in Melbourne). I think my gripe is with anyone who suggests that too much money is spent on public hospitals.

Sure there was a woman on the other side of the emergency room who kept getting up and going outside for a smoke. Turns out that she was in with chronic emphysema, though that didn't stop her getting a cancer stick in her. Sure there was someone who hadn't been taking their insulin correctly. And there was one emergency involving medical people running left and right that turned out to be nothing more than a chunder, but you still can't tell me that providing a free service isn't a public good.

My main gripe is that despite having lain on the gurney for 4 hours a registrar was finally free and able to get some medication in me (the heartbeat had been freaking out for over 6 hours by then), and having laid on the gurney for another three hours till a bed turned up in the cardiology ward, that I laid in the ward for 18 hours until I could be told that the cardiologist still didn't have time to see me, and here's a couple of aspirin.

There's a small tinge behind the sternum telling me I'll be back in there sometime in the next two or three days. I've already packed a bag with a toothbrush, book etc.

Now, I understand the concept of triage. But you've got to wonder how much work they're loading on that cardiologist if he can't find 10 minutes to tell someone, "You need to take this, and this" (which is what a succession of very pleasant nurses told me).

And that's my last gripe. Poor bastard must be run off his feet.

I resolved to come home and listen to a little Mclusky Do Dallas to reflect my mood. I could have elected to lie in the hospital bed for up to another 24 hours till the cardiologist was free, but...

Anyone out there feeling a bit sick and tired of all the screaming going on in the media lately? Just over all the waving of the arms and hysteria descending on various parts of the world? Fed up with New Zealand media trying to manufacture a little bit of our own to keep the ratings up?

Yeah, me too.

Life's too short to spend all day being yelled at.

I was planning on getting home and switching on the tiv for the news, but then thought, 'stuff it, I'd rather put on a nice sleepy album like Nebraska and chill'.

And I did, and it's good.

Geez, bit of a to-do about that blimmin episode of South Park aeh? Funny as all hell, but nothing to kick up a fuss about. I'm kind of with Keith on this one. There's a chance the cafflicks are just showing a little solidarity with 'da mozlins' over the cartoon fiasco thing. Pity no-one showed any solidarity for the Church when South Park showed the episode where the Bishops hui on the pressing issue of not being able to molest kids.

Catholics, ever wonder why no one takes your religion seriously? Think about it.... there ya go, it's because your clergy is corrupt.

Was corrupt? Who cares... you'll still be generations washing that stink out. If the Germans can be continually embarrassed and the Simon Wiesenthal Centre can be persecuting old men 60 years after the fact, then you buggers can stand next to your own personal elephant in the room.

And angry Islam. Feisty little bastards aren't they?

Mind you, if I was brought up poor, with no education, no prospect of decent work, and in a hut with mud walls, I'd likely also get a little stroppy about smug, rich, white Christians taking the piss out of the only light in my life.

Ah well.

At least they don't have to worry about their taxes being used to provide four-wheel drives with extra space to drive. Aucklanders? If you want extra roads, pay tolls. I know there's a argument that more roading is better for the economy, but I'm sure all those user-pays and ACT Party people will get behind me in saying, 'get your wallet out'.

There was a similar argument going on in Melbourne just before I left. There's this road called the Scoresby highway or motorway or some such shit and people who wanted to use it were asking for everyone else to pony up with cash.

I thought, 'get stuffed'.

First, why should my money be used so people who refuse to pay taxes to support anyone but themselves get the advantage of public funding? Second, I'm all in favour of public money being used for public utilities, but if that utility is going to facilitate significant pollution, which is what roads do, then there needs to be disincentives.

Maybe you guys can get a flashy eTag system like they have in Melbourne. It's a tag you put in the windscreen, and it automatically subtracts money as you drive past electronic toll bridges at 1[0]0km/hr.

Thing is, you don't use it unless you don't care about the cash, have enough cash to not care about the cash, or just plain have to. Otherwise, you just use other roads. No-one is disadvantaged because [last I heard] the highway has eased congestion on in the area, and those who can't afford the tolls are likely to be taking a freaking bus or train anyhow.

Oh... no decent buses or trains in Auckland? Feel free to use my taxes for that instead.

And finally, the P hikoi. That's something everyone should be getting behind. If you've never been close to someone who's life has been destroyed or closed by drugs then simply be thankful. Sometimes the grief is, well, overwhelming.

Maybe one of the highlights of 2001 was seeing the Rev. Horton heat not once, but twice, in concert in a respective couple of cities. The second city was Melbourne at the renowned Corner Bar, Richmond. But the first was the more memorable, a place in Fort Worth filled with Psychobilly goons and their poodle-skirted ladies.

And the song the Reverend did not play? 'Cowboy Love'.

I remembered this because the song has always made me chuckle, mostly due to such classic lines as the opener "I want to go two stepping, with a good looking big black buck", and was guaranteed to start a riot. Also because I saw on the news this evening that Willy Nelson has gone and released a gay cowboy song. As you do.

Me surprised? No. Thing is, in 1989 while many at Robert E. Lee High seemed to think that guys wearing skin-tight clothes, big belt buckles and snappy shirts was 'macho', I wasn't really convinced.

When you come from the Mount you get used to seeing people in baggy tracksuits and the like. Then you get sent to Texas on a student exchange and get exposed to horrors in your peripheral vision. Like guys in tight jeans rolling their balls into more comfortable spots. Eeeeshhh...

Anyhow, if you're going to be exposed to anything from the Country and Western school, go the more modern versions. And psychobilly is one such way to go. Find yourself something off Sub Pop and get into it. If you can find it, get yourself a copy of the Flametrick Subs (they were on their own label when I bought the album). They're nutters. All I can really remember is the tiny cowboy hats and the stage lighting, only red, from below. They had these cheerleaders with red and black pomp-pomps and '666' on the front of their very small leather dresses.

Live, songs like "Beer-run" and "Plastic Jesus" are genius. If I had a band, or talent, I'd do a cover of their song "Government Issue Bathroom Tissue" in a second.

Otherwise I think I may have mentioned Supersuckers' "Must've been high", a classic known to far too few. The next cover I'd do is "roamin' round", or "Juicy Pureballs Hungover Together".

The theme to all this, you might notice, is Country and Western. Unfortunately, living in Texas kind of means that listening to crap country music kind of rubbed off on me. Before I left to go overseas a dude from school used to listen to Johnny Cash, and it was a long time in the South before I realised just how much foresight the guy had.

Just the other day I heard Radio Active playing Cash's cover of "Mercy Seat". His version of the song has been giving me cold shivers for years. It's far better than Giant Sand singing "Red Right Hand" (although the latter is still a good cover).

I digress though. Go and see Walk the Line. I'm sure in a week or two every second person in the office humming "Ring of Fire" will become tedious, but for now, it's kinda cool. Plus, I hear it's a much better film than Brokeback Mountain. Hayden has a report of the average response to the latter.

Yeah... cowboys... what I mostly remember was the way the place had barely changed. I had headed back to Texas as an ordinary tourist after spending a year at home. After spending a month or so in a smallish town working as a roofer with these guys who liked to call Arabs 'sand-niggers' (it was a few months before Gulf War One), a friend and I drove this 70s Mercedes down to Austin for a little contrast.

What I immediately noticed was the lack of really tight jeans. For some reason as Texas gets more liberal the dress becomes less homoerotic. Kind of a weird reverse-gayness thing going on there. Guys start doing stuff like actually 'hanging out with girls' instead of each other, and there's a lot less chewing tobacco. Hitting each other becomes less of a form of bonding.

Once again, there's nothing about the idea of a Brokeback Mountain-type film that surprises me. Any group that routinely refers to the best things in life being 'stallions', 'bull-riding' and that whole mythology Speights has bought into has got to be questioned.

Seriously. Two guys up in the Alps who prefer beer and each others company to women? You gotta wonder.