Cracker by Damian Christie

I flew down to Wellington on Friday. It was a work thing, and despite some of the best weather I’ve seen down there – ever – the prime hours were spent indoors, curtains pulled, windows shut while artificial lights brought out the best of our assembled talent. Of course, that’s why it’s called work and not ‘lazing around Wellington on a picture perfect afternoon, getting plastered.’

The flight down was fairly eventful, if only in my own mind. On the way to the airport I called in at Customs, to pick up a Certain Item, which had been (not surprisingly) stopped by the guardians of our borders. They required a police permit, I had one, it all seemed too easy. Until I realised I had to take the damn thing onto the plane with me.

Anyway, my small hand luggage became ridiculously undersized checked luggage and I thus avoided making it onto one of those reality TV shows:

There’s a problem at Gate 17, and Darryl’s called to smooth it out. Two businessmen are drunk and aren’t going to be allowed to board the plane. However one of them has a connecting flight to Ibiza, and isn’t taking the news well…

On the plane, I was seated next to a high-profile businessman. I only knew who he was because he said his name when he answered his mobile (the plane was still boarding). He pulled out an apple, peeled off its sticker, and with a surreptitious glance in either direction, cheekily affixed it to the front of the Airways magazine stowed in front of him. I quite liked that.

After necking a couple of pills (halcyon? SSRI? E? – who can tell with today’s high flying businessman) he pulled out a copy of the NBR. Every few pages, he’d examine an article, look at what was on the reverse page, and carefully tear it out. There was probably a good reason for what he was doing, but I prefer to think he was taking the little scraps home to make a right-wing collage, or perhaps a papier mache model. Most likely a piggy bank.

Due to record responses from last week’s invitation to submit words you love/loathe, I’ll keep it open another week. I’ve obviously touched a nerve, and brought a fair few lurkers out of the woodwork, but I know there are plenty more of you out there. I think you’ll be quite surprised to find what the number one most hated word is at present. It’s an odd one, it really is.

By way of bribes, the nice folks at Penguin have kindly offered to sweeten the deal. So rather than literary detritus from my bedroom floor, three of you will be getting a brand new book. I know some of you don’t read fiction, so you’ve got a choice of three, all of which are very good:

Christopher Brookmyre's work makes for a very enjoyable read. Read a review here

From the blurb: "Pulitzer Prize-winning author Jared Diamond has topped bestseller lists across the U.S. Diamond examines what caused some of the great civilizations of the past to collapse into ruin, what we can learn from their fates and how our world can best avoid committing ecological suicide."

And finally, this morning I woke to some pretty sad, but I guess given the way this man lived his life, inevitable news. Hunter S Thompson has died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. His recent autobiography, Kingdom of Fear is very good, so there's a copy of that up for grabs too.

Entries on the back of an SAE, to Cracker HQ… oh just hit the feedback button already...

I had been hoping to regale you with tales of a wonderful weekend spent diving and driving. My dive-buddy cousin has finally recovered from a serious bout of pneumonia – which has left both of us grounded – so we were planning to head to Goat Island for an easy reintroduction to the wonders of underwater living.

Sadly, ‘twas not to be. Broken car, bad weather, inconvenient tide times, it seemed easier to postpone once again. This diving lark is pretty simple in theory. I own all my own gear, other than tanks, and there are great spots within easy driving distance. But despite all the best intentions, the last time my wetsuit earned its name was May last year. I can see why so many people get their PADI ticket and never end up diving again.

(A not-so-subtle call to any readers who dive with any regularity and don’t mind a rank amateur tagging along, you know how to get hold of me…)

I’d also hoped to boast some pictures of a brand new (old) car I was hoping to buy on Sunday. The car was a model I’ve admired for a long time (1974 BMW 2002 tii), the price was right, the money was there, and damn it, I was going to buy it. Until my car-savvy mate Martin put a screwdriver through the rusty floor panels and shook his head. I’ve decided to put more effort into getting the Sprite up and running. In the 10 years I’ve owned it, it’s only been on the road for three, at best. I think I’m owed some good karma.

I never did write about the tale of the mechanics who had my car for 14 months. It’s a long boring tale, and it ended badly, with liars, lawyers, a bill in the thousands, damage to my car, shoddy workmanship and a vehicle that still doesn’t go. Suffice to say, I will not be recommending Mopower Performance to anyone. If I had more time on my hands, I’d be heading to court right now.

The other annoying thing about the weekend involves the cat, a scrap and an abscess. It’s the second this year, the first took place on New Year’s Day and cost me $340. (I said to the vet nurse, "Jesus, for $10 more I could get a new one!" She didn’t see the humour.) This Sunday’s stoush only cost $80, but involves twice-daily application of a warm flannel and pressure, to squeeze out pus from a scabby sore – the joys of pet ownership, I tell you.

Which brings me to my next (many might say, first) point. The sentence above contains a word that gives my flatmate the absolute willies. It’s not ‘scabby’, or even ‘pus’, but ‘flannel’. Who can say why; it just is.

We’ve all got words that make us shudder. In many cases, the reason is semi-obvious. Gusset. Panties. (I’m dreading some of the google hits I’m going to get this week). My big one is ‘corsage’. No idea why, I just hate it. Olivia over at DogBitingMen says ‘hubby’ gives her the creeps. Telephone call for Mr Freud…

On the flipside, ‘jamboree’ is the flannel flatmate’s big favourite. It’s a word filled with almost onomatopoeic joy, he claims, what’s not to love about a jamboree? Um, young boys, in little uniforms, with scarves and woggles? I’m worried.

So I’d like to compile a lexical list of everyone’s hot and nots. The words that make you shudder, whether for good reason, or none at all, send them in. Explanations welcome, but not necessary. Similarly, the words you savour as they roll around your tongue. Flick ‘em to me.

By way of bribe, I’m prepared to offer three random entrants a free Home Entertainment System. By which I mean a book. A good one though, carefully chosen by yours truly to guarantee hours of amusement. I’ll publish the list in a couple of weeks’ time. Go on, give it a go…you know you want to.

Despite being what most people would call a music freak – walls full of records and CDs – I’m not often moved by live performances. I mean, I appreciate them, and I like seeing the band members on stage, but I’m not often transported anywhere in an emotional sense.

Which makes Shapeshifter’s performance with the Auckland Philharmonia at yesterday’s Groove in the Park all the more amazing. Chills I tell you, chills running up my spine, the hairs on my neck literally standing on end. And no, I wasn’t on the party pills, just a glass or two of Kim Crawford.

Originally it was reported a tree had forced the act to be cancelled, however on the day the Philharmonia was merely condensed to a 25-piece, proving man and nature can live in harmony… As the strings rose and fell over the band's atmospheric intro to "As of Lately", I could tell we were in for a goody.

If you’ve never seen or heard Shapeshifter, you really are missing out. Both the albums to date are absolute staples in my collection. Their guest vocalists, such as Dallas and Ladi 6, add an incredible new dimension to carefully crafted broken beats.

I was initially disappointed to find no guest vocalists (after all, Ladi just lives down the road from me), but singer/MC P Diggity did himself proud. He launched a capella into the opening verse of Nina Simone’s ‘Feeling Good’ and it was a beautiful thing. When the (superbly played, live) drums and (gut thumping) bass kicked in, I nearly cried.

It was the best live set I’ve witnessed in years.

Elsewhere on Waitangi Day, a new all-kiwi radio station was launched. I think it’s an admirable idea (even though corporate giant CanWest is unlikely to do anything without the bottom-line in mind), and I hope it succeeds, but it’ll be a difficult beast to programme... They might both be from Christchurch, but how far apart would you have to schedule Shapeshifter and The Feelers to stop the latter from contaminating the former? Is there enough pop-punk (Goodnight Nurse, Elemeno P etc) to keep the kidz from switching over to get their fix of the latest Sum 41? Two-thirds of Crowded House’s original members were Australian – does that disqualify them?

I suspect some of these issues can be dealt to by programming solid specialist shows. People are increasingly treating radio like they do TV, what marketers like to call “appointment viewing”. We don’t sit in front of one channel all night, we tune in for certain shows, and the rest of the time, we surf. Good radio should be the same.

Obvious loyalties aside – as a random builder said to a friend the other day, “it might be number two in the alphabet, but it’s number one on my dial” – if there are good shows on Kiwi, or National Radio, or wherever, then I’ll seek them out. But don’t expect me to stick around when the show I’ve switched to ends, and I’m left with Wayne Mowat’s “In Touch with Palmerston North” or Tadpole’s Renee Brennan presents “The Best of True Bliss”. Regardless of the hosts’ commands to do otherwise, I’m touchin’ that dial.

“We are ready for the greatest achievements in the history of freedom.”

Okay I know that finding nonsensical statements in the words of George Bush is up there with shooting kittens in a barrel, but even I did a double take when I heard this line, the crescendo of his inaugural address the other day.

How long is freedom’s history then? The historian Lord Acton had some interesting points on the matter, but somehow I can’t imagine George W having a copy of The History of Freedom in Antiquity sitting on his bedside table. Although, as the author of the "power corrupts/absolute power corrupts absolutely" maxim, Acton may have unwittingly given the Bush administration a few tips: “Hey guys, it says here that if we can get absolute power…”

Depending on your definition, freedom’s history started a long time before we were around. In fact, there was nothing but freedom until humans came along and started imprisoning, enslaving and generally acting all oppressive. I guess you could argue that freedom didn’t exist until whatever it’s opposite came into being. Much like there being no such thing as duty-free until someone decided to charge duty. Or something.

Anyway, without getting all esoteric on it, the idea of freedom’s been around for a pretty long time. So whatever these achievements are, they’ll have to be pretty big. Of course there’s always the possibility Bush was just spouting a pile of rhetorical arse.

So Don Brash has delivered his much-anticipated Orewa address. Unlike George Bush, who used it some 27 times, Brash didn’t mention the word freedom once. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.

Quoted in the Herald, even Don doesn’t think his speech will cause any major change in the polls. Way to back yourself, dude. Discussing whether or not there was going to be a leadership coup, Brash said he didn’t see it happening, but acknowledged he probably wouldn’t be the first to know if that were the case:

It may well be, of course, that I am shielded from that discussion, but I don't sense any mood for change at all.

And the reason he gave for thinking he’s safe? Because he’s doing a sterling job? There’s no-one else to take his place? No: It’s too close to the election. Which doesn’t suggest he has much hope beyond that.

I have to admit, I quite like the fact he’s stating the obvious here, essentially saying ‘well they’re hardly going to tell me, are they?’ Bill English always scoffed heartily at the idea he was about to be replaced, despite month after month of poor polling, speculation, rumour and pundits doing the maths on the chances of a coup working. And in the end, English looked the fool. I don’t know how much sleep Don would lose if he never made it to the ninth floor of the Beehive, but I suspect it wouldn’t be a lot.

Congratulations to Taika Waititi for getting the Oscar nod for his incredible short 2 Cars, 1 Night. As I wrote back in May last year, it’s my favourite short film, ever. But while I can force it upon everybody who walks into my flat (and I do), I dare say this Oscar nomination will be what it takes to get Taika and his film the public recognition he/it deserves. Now fingers crossed for the win!

FYI: Taika’s new film, Tama Tu, premiered at Sundance on Sunday. A copy is winging its way to me as I write, and I’ll let you know how it measures up… In the meantime, anyone who wants to see 2 Cars, it’s available on the very worthwhile CD/DVD combo, Loop Select 005.

I don’t know how this weather keeps up. Must be something to do with all the water left over from the Tsunami. How about that eh?

I have to say, I’m getting pretty sick of the foreign correspondents on the telly each night, particularly the Brits. I’m tired of “poignant reminders”. Some of these reporters must spend their entire time searching through rubble and ruins in the hope of finding something tangible to base their reports around. I'm reminded of the rumours about certain correspondents carrying an assortment of such items – teddy bears, children’s shoes and the like.

The other night the “poignant reminder” was a photo album.

“In it, photos of people, families, now dead.”

“Photos of weddings, birthdays, religious ceremonies… all the participants, now dead.”

“And this photo, of people at the beach, the beach which killed them, a poignant reminder…”

Oh fuck off.

One hundred and fifty thousand-odd people are dead. Houses, villages and vast tracts of coastline have been demolished. I don’t need to see a photo album, poignant or otherwise, to realise exactly how devastating this is.

As for the story “a glimmer of hope among all the destruction” about the Thai rescue of two dolphins who were trapped inland… Do we really need this? We need a cutesy animal story about two marine mammals who are completely insignificant in the scheme of things [sorry animal lovers, but you know what I’m saying], so we can feel okay for a while?

Anyway. The long break was nice, thanks for asking. I managed to find myself at beaches in Waiheke and Northland during what seemed like the only four sunny days in weeks (27th/28th and the 4th/5th).

The trip up North was long overdue, the first time in my conscious memory I’ve been past the Bay of Islands. It’s getting a bit yuppified in parts (Mangonui, Cable Bay, Rangiputa), but at least that means you can find a decent feed…

A month off (I start work next Monday, but thought I’d do the honourable thing, by providing those back at work today with a five minute diversion) has finally provided me with the time to knock off a few books.

I interview an author every week or two on my radio show, and usually only have time to read about 100 pages between the time the book arrives, and the interview itself. Regardless of how good the book might be, it’s almost impossible to finish after the interview, because the book for the following week’s interview needs reading. Yeah, I know, tough job.

I quite it when bloggers do the “what I’m reading/listening to” thing, so I think I’ll follow suit, albeit sporadically. Anyway, here’s three you might enjoy.

What I read these holidays, by Damian Christie.

What I Loved – Siri Hustvedt. Best book I’ve read in ages. It follows two families living in New York over a period of 20 or so years. Highly recommended, so much so that I’m going to track down everything else Hustvedt has written and read it.

The Big Year - Mark Obmascik. A true account of America’s biggest bird watching competition, The Big Year follow four birders who spend an entire year – and tens of thousands of dollars – competing to see who can spot the greatest number of bird species within continental North America. A great tale of human obsession.

Cosmopolis - Don DeLillo. A friend of mine rates DeLillo very highly. He’s written a dozen or more novels, but this is the first I’ve read. A very stylish piece of literature, set in April 2000, tracing a day in the life of a billionaire currency analyst. DeLillo creates a great atmosphere.

And sticking with the theme, and conscious of providing a few more minutes of much needed respite from work, here’s a review I wrote a while back:

The Resurrectionists
By Michael Collins
Phoenix

In 1988 Irish rock band U2 travelled through America. They visited Graceland, walked the streets of Harlem, played with blues legend BB King, covered a Dylan tune, penned a tribute to Billie Holiday and generally discovered the heartland. The resulting album, Rattle and Hum, was awful.

If that same CD was what inspired Michael Collins to leave Limerick and cross the Atlantic in search of a better life, I shouldn’t be at all surprised. His first offering, The Keepers of Truth, was set on the ‘rust belt’ of the USA, and in its opening four pages manages to name-check no fewer than four makes of American car, ten different American fast food outlets and the ubiquitous Coca-Cola.

Rather than now having it all out of his system, Collins seems to have redoubled his efforts to capture the American essence in his latest work, The Resurrectionists. Again, for reasons best known to the author, the first chapter earns not just one but two thick coats of luscious red, white and blue. In those first few pages, the reader is introduced to burger jockey Frank Cassidy, whose parents died in a mysterious fire when he was five, his wife Honey, a truck dispatcher whose ex is on death row in Georgia, and their children Robert Lee and Ernie. Frank gets free sodas by banging on the machine just so; Honey says ‘goddamn’ a lot. Robert Lee calls Frank a ‘son-of-a-bitch’; Ernie plays with his dinosaurs.

When Frank learns that his uncle, a farmer in bleakest Michigan, has been shot dead, he steals a car – what else, a Cadillac – bundles up the wife and kids and sets off to reclaim the family acreage. Arriving in the “sleepy backwater town” of Cooper, the mysteries behind the deaths of Frank’s mother, father and uncle simultaneously unravel and intertwine and unravel again.

One suspects that Collins could be a very good writer, if he were writing an entirely different book than this. As an American Gothic mystery, it fails: ‘All is not as it seems!’ the author cries. ‘Who cares?’ comes the response. His descriptive style is often rich and poetic but over the course of the book seems more like endless padding, and any requisite tension is lacking. Collins has a hundred imaginative ways of describing a stormy sky, but leaves many central characters as flat as the pages on which they appear. When characters do speak, their voices are muddled, sounding remarkably like an intelligent Irish writer putting on a bad Southern drawl.

In an interview after the release of The Keepers of Truth, Collins spoke of his concern in not breaking into the American market, and The Resurrectionists seems to be a none-too-subtle attempt to remedy this. If he succeeds, then all power to him, but it ain’t working for this cowboy, that’s for darn tootin’.