Cracker by Damian Christie

Family Christmases can be hard at the best of times. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family. And I love the fact that I’m not an orphan, either legally or self-imposed by being stranded somewhere like London in the midst of an OE. But there’s something about being in close proximity to one’s parents for more than a few hours that turns one into a grumpy teenager again. Something about hearing all those stories that just seem so full of irrelevant detail and without any point…

By the time we get to my aunt and uncle’s house for Christmas though, it’s all good. Extended relatives arrive. Every year someone seems to be newly missing a fingertip or limb or eye (on a good year it’s not unlike the Bounty Hunter bar on Tatooine, or a collection of Mister Potato Heads slowly losing their parts).

Traditionally half the family disappear out the back for a cheeky smoke while the other half stay round the front and pretend they haven’t noticed half the party is missing.

But this year was different. This year two of my cousins chose Christmas Day to get engaged.

Not to each other, obviously. I mean, the whanau might be missing a few limbs here and there, but we do still have standards. Nor are we Moonies. No, by complete coincidence, two of my cousins (a brother and sister) proposed and were proposed to respectively, on exactly the same day. Completing the hat-trick was their cousin (my cousin’s cousin, not my brother, sister or myself, clearly.)

It’s an odd relationship isn’t it, the cousin’s-cousin? You see the cousin’s-cousin at every family function, but to the best of my knowledge, you’re not related as such, unless there’s some “second cousin once removed by marriage” or something. Anyone?

With everyone else already engaged, married and or with child, my middle sister hiding in London and my twenty-year-old cousin still safely “too young”, all eyes focused on me. Apart from those made out of glass. But it was like a scene from Dawn of the Dead when the Zombies realise there’s living flesh amongst them and they start walking slowly towards him… Anything I wanted to announce? Anyone I had waiting in the car I’d quite like them to meet? I knew that Civil Unions were legal now didn’t I, joked one uncle (homosexual humour is still de rigueur at the Cracker Family Christmas). “No pressure” they laughed. Time and time again.

I pretended I was going back for a second helping of pavlova and quietly climbed out the kitchen window. Sis, if you’re reading this, next year I’ll be joining you in London for Christmas.

This will be the last Cracker for 2006. In a couple of days' time I’m off to New York and Mexico for snowfights and diving respectively, back in a month. I may post some pics from over there, but I may simply be having too much fun to bother :)

Happy Holidays everyone!

So a while back I signed up to an internet dating site.

And just like when someone walks in on you with your pants down and your teacher is giving you the cane and that would be not so bad except for the fact that you’re thirty-something now and your teacher had his license revoked over a decade a go, my protestations of “It’s not what it looks like” are probably going to be met with a degree of cynicism. In fact, anyone of my father’s age and general sense of humour would probably think they were being farrrrking hilarious and original by doing the little quote sign with their fingers and saying “Yeah Right”

Never Use the Phrase “Yeah Right”. It’s been ruined, and climate change deniers will all be drowning in their beachfront properties before it ever comes close to being an acceptable way of expressing disbelief. Kind of like what FRIENDS did to ‘Not’.

But whether you believe me or not, my ostensible reason for signing up was because I had a couple of friends on there, and wanted to find out how they pitched themselves. Just to see whether the same sort of euphemisms people employ when selling houses (i.e. DIY Dream = Crackden; Great Rental Opportunity = Crackden with Crackheads still living there) also apply when people are marketing themselves.

Take, for example, my friend who drinks so much that she crossed ‘borderline’ behind years ago and now a permanent resident (and soon to be voted the Mayoress) of Alcoholia. Sure enough, she’s ‘fun-loving’. Another, who’s biological clock is ticking so loud (if you get close enough she sounds like the stopwatch from 60 Minutes), reassures potential love-seekers that she’s “just looking for some fun, a good time, see what happens.” Not a complete lie I guess, if your definition of “some fun” is “choosing items for the wedding register”, “a good time” is “conception” and and “see what happens” only applies to which grammar zone to purchase a house in.

But those are my friends. Good at selling themselves.

One of these friends asked today whether I thought she should go out with a young man who’d replied to her profile. I sized him up. 26. Apparently earns $180,000, which while certainly possible, you’ve gotta be a little skeptical. People who earn $180,000 don’t try to pick up people they’ve never met by saying they earn $180,000 unless they have other issues (*cough* small dick *cough*). Under ‘politics’ he wrote “Glad that John Key has replaced Don Brash”. He’s certainly up with current affairs then, but I suspected my friend, who works for the Labour Party, might not quite find the over-dinner conversation to her liking. And he likes Tool. Nuff said. I gave my verdict and I trust she won’t take him up on his offer.

Anyway. So after signing up, I started getting emailed monthly ‘matches’ suiting my criteria. Scary stuff. Is there anyone who is really tempted by the thought of hooking up with a woman who selects the “Wants to have children within two years” option? Does it come with a free “Impregnate Me” t-shirt?

It might just be my age, but my ‘matches’ proffered nothing but a selection of women wanting to be pregnant, and now, thank you very much. Okay, so at least you probably know you’re going to get invited in at the end of the first date, but seriously? I’d be checking the condom for pinpricks.

Sure, it’s easy being a guy in that regard. No ticking clock, even if all the signs point to “not a young man anymore”. I can see the appeal in still fathering children when you’re old enough to have your grandchildren babysit them. Because your grandkids aren’t gonna let down pop-pop, now are they? But going on a first date with someone who can only let you know on the day, because she’s not quite sure exactly when she’s next ovulating? Does anyone not consider a first date with Ms Babies Within Two Years too much pressure? I’m asking a serious question here. Anyone?

Of course they’re not all like that. There are plenty of “fun-loving” guys and girls out there (glug glug glug), and I must say from time to time a tempting possibility comes along. So far I’ve resisted – I guess part of me still has a little bit of a hang-up answering the “so where did you two meet” with anything that ends in a “dot co dot en zed”.

If I do, I’ll tell you all about it, promise (that way I can later claim it was just a sociological experiment or journalistic enterprise). But for now it’s your turn. Have you been on internet dates? How did the person compare with their profile? How’d the date go? Anyone fall pregnant within two years? Anyone ask to do anything on a first date that would’ve been considered a punishment in Old Testament Times? Meet anyone with a third nipple? Stories please.

Before the papers get hold of it, I guess it’s time for me to confess my own U2 concert fracas.

I asked a young woman standing next to me – somewhat rhetorically I confess – whether she would mind not being so annoying, please.

It was no cigar-smoke to the face, and in my defence it wasn’t without justification, although it’s possible that after arriving hours early so we could get a park, then standing in the rain, my nerves might have been a little raw. When U2 took the stage, the girl’s boyfriend was right behind me. He launched into song, his lung capacity only matched by his complete lack of tune.

Don’t ever assume anyone is more interested in hearing your voice than the singer they’ve just paid $100 to see.

Fortunately, the pitchless wonder in question was clearly a U2 fan-come-lately. I, on the other hand, am a U2 fan-gone-early. So when they finished playing the first few tracks, off some album or other from the past few years, and launched into “I Will Follow”, he shut up, and I could enjoy myself.

It was around this time he was joined by his girlfriend. Not since Sam and TP have two people been so perfectly matched, although while those two seemed perfect because they both worked at Shortland Street and seemed to really like each other before TP died in a car crash on the same day I had my 22nd and we all had to turn the music off and watch the TV because we knew someone was going to die but we didn’t know who it was going to be, these two were perfect together because they were so damned annoying.

Dance appropriately. You’re at a rock concert. Not Showgirls.

Actually while we’re here, all women reading this should take the time to consider to what extent their dancing resembles that of a stripper. I mean, sure, if you want to be a stripper, by all means, but at least earn some money from it. Generally speaking, unless your garter is filled with money that is only legal tender within the walls of the licensed premises you’re dancing in, there is absolutely no need to raise both your hands up and run them through your hair.

More importantly in this case, because this is the bit that ultimately led to my fracas, if you’re not in a Nelly video, there’s no need to shimmy your arse down your partner’s body, all the while looking about as sexy as the local Avon lady. Particularly not when shimmying your arse against him means straddling my calf at the same time. Repeatedly.

I gave a few stern looks, but it didn’t seem to do any good. I left an elbow protruded, hoping that as she bounced and gyrated she’d have a Pavlovian response to the constant pain in her ribs, and stop. I shook off her arm, as she rested it on my shoulder so she could hold her phone up for what seemed like half the concert, playing a garbled mess to the no-doubt thrilled friend at the other end.

Don’t waste your time filming a rock concert on your camera, or playing any of it down the phone to your friends. 3G or not 3G, it will look, and sound, like shit.

Christ, what I would have done for a cigar right then.

Instead, I asked her if she could not be so annoying, please. And it seemed to work. She seemed vaguely horrified, relayed it back to her friends, and then ceased being half as annoying as she had previously. And we all had a good time.

Meanwhile, up in the corporate boxes, people were being entertained by tobacco interests, blowing smoke and being punched out. For two minutes apparently. King hit. Shame perhaps that the first time anyone has every heard of you as an MP and you come across like a tosser, smoking cigars in crowded environments (before getting knocked out). Yes it was outside, on a balcony, but cigars are awfully intrusive and best enjoyed where there’s plenty of space and like-minded individuals. Chugging stogies with your tobacco mates ain’t gonna win the votes of mainstream New Zealand, bud.

You want the real irony though? More so than a health spokesperson being smoked after blowing smoke courtesy of the smoking lobby? Russell Brown was allegedly enjoying the hospitality of Ticketmaster’s corporate box at said concert, and he’s never bought a ticket in his life! And I’m sure if any smoke was being blown around that box, you would have been happy to have been on the receiving end…

(from Close Up, Thursday 23rd... Dr Don Brash explaining his decision to stand down)

Don Brash: We’re almost at the end of the parliamentary year, next week is a recess week in fact, and I thought it was desirable, in fact originally the plan was to go in a few days time, but I thought look, given the end of the parliamentary year, let’s get it dealt with now, so that we can have a caucus meeting and John Key will have a, well, excuse me… (clutching earpiece for guidance)

Susan Wood:[Laughing with Glee] Ohhh, are you telling me John Key’s going to be the leader?

Don Brash: Err, no, eventually the caucus will make that decision…
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He was on my plane today, as I headed north for the U2 concert and other assorted reasons, work amongst them. I told him the girls from the office had suggested he needed a hug. He agreed. As Richard Prebble said in his farewell speech, "Once you are out of Parliament New Zealanders are very forgiving and very kind."

Don may not be gone from Parliament yet, but I think everyone can agree that his best hope is now behind him. So if you end up sitting next to him on a plane, let him share the armrest. He's had a hard few months.

Disclaimer: The following post never claims to be "journalism". Keep your pants on.

While I’m sure being a politician or a doctor or a spy or something probably involves traversing a few ethical dilemmas, other than a brief period working for the Uzbekistani Secret Police (hey it was Victoria University in the early 90s, everyone was doing it), I’ve never done any of those jobs.

What I have done, increasingly over the last few years, is journalism. And by God it can be a tightrope at times. Finding the fine line between sensationalism and simply making something interesting to the viewer. Being overly-friendly in the hope of lining up an interview, so you can haul them over the coals once you get them live on the radio. Trying to convince someone to speak about the death of the nearest and dearest, even though you know the glare of the media is the last thing they probably need. And then there is the wobbly line between journalism and advertorial.

So imagine the moral dilemma provided when I received an email recently offering certain media peeps the chance to win a trip for two to New York – and a stay at the Phillipe Starck designed Hudson Hotel. How? By using the word “Starkish” in the media, such as in an article, TV show, radio broadcast etc.

“Starkish” you say? No, you won’t find it at dictionary.com, and therein lies the issue. It’s a neologism, one quite possibly created very recently for the purposes of said competition. The definition is provided as thus:

Starkish (STAH-kish) – adjective

1 To exhibit a sense of proportion and good taste.

Well, with half the media around the country no doubt receiving the same invitation, how could I possibly get away with using the word on a current affairs TV show without risking not only my credibility, but my job? A journalist from the Weekend Herald called up Canterbury University media lecturer Jim Tully to see whether she was allowed to enter, while National Radio’s Mediawatch has even launched into the issue, saying it will castigate any journalist found taking part in the competition and encouraging people to dob in said journalists. And we all remember what happened in ’97 when Mediawatch turned its attention to journalists using company post-it notes to write flagrantly personal reminders, don’t we? You wouldn’t want to be the next Heather Mahy, would you? Well would you?

On the other hand, New York. It’s hard not to be seduced by the bright lights of the big city. By way of flashback, let me remind readers that I spent my birthday there in March.

I didn’t pay for it that time either – I shaved my head, put on a bandana and applied through the Make-A-Wish programme*. But ever since visiting, I have literally been dreaming about the place. I need to return.

So I put my mind to it. There must be a way. After all, media is such a broad term – a means of mass communication – why restrict myself to the commercial outlets to whom I sell or give my time? I had an idea.

I called John “Macca” McGhee. A retired crop dusting pilot from Feilding, Macca is a legend in the Manawatu, where his North by Northwest-style exploits with schoolkids on their way home regularly has the locals at the Apiti Tavern in fits.

Crop dusting legend and all-round good bugger he might be, but never let it be said he’s a stickler for details:

Then I remembered the trend of people auctioning space on their pregnant bellies or offering to tattoo the name of an internet casino on their babies’ foreheads. Well, if it’s good enough for white trash mid west meth addicts, it’s good enough for me.

I may have been declared legally unfit to reproduce, but thank God there’s no law in this country dictating who’s allowed to own a pet, and only very vague guidelines as to whether you’re allowed to write on that pet with twink and encourage it to wander the neighbourhood.

What I hadn’t taken into account was the fact that my cat is far from energetic. It’s all the fat wee fucker can do to lift his head and miaow when he wants his food bowl filled. Far from spreading the message to the residents of Island Bay, all this achieved was spreading white correction fluid onto my new duvet. And while I might have had the good taste to buy a Birman, it’s drawing a pretty long bow to suggest that my kitty exhibits a sense of proportion… Starkish, Tonka is not.

Realise time was against me, I ran to the beach, and scrawled in the sand.

Two people walking their dog saw it before it was washed clean, giving it a slightly wider reach than my local community newspaper, but I knew it wasn’t enough. Mark Sainsbury mentioned it on Breakfast for God’s sake. And he told me he doesn’t even like New York. Exhausted of inspiration and effort, I lay on the sand and looked to the evening sky.

Shit.

Bloody Ian Wishart and his Friends in High Places.

Oh well, there's always next year.

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*All joking aside, the Make-A-Wish foundation does great work for children with life-threatening illness. If you have a young friend or family member who could benefit from their help, check out the website.