Cracker by Damian Christie

I have this problem with rock concerts. It's not the loud music, it's not the pushing, the shoving, or the sweet smell of sensimilla. It's what to do with my hands. At a dance party (or is that rage?) you have any number of options to keep your limbs busy. One can 'feed the ducks', move boxes' or as a last resort, do the 'Kraftwerk robot'. You can see why I don't go out much any more. At a hip-hop gig you get instructions, from the direct 'throw your hands in the air' to the more open to interpretation 'wave them around like you just don't care'. But rock gigs? Hands in pockets, arms folded, limbs just dangling, nothing seems quite right.

The Blondie gig last night presented no such problem. Not once was I left worrying about my arms, legs, any part of my body. Quite simply, it rocked. They rocked, she rocked, the whole damn thing rocked.

It started early; doors opened at eight, and having a few things to do beforehand I thought I could pretty safely turn up at nine and maybe reduce my time spent standing around waiting, worrying about my arms to a minimum. As I walked towards the doors of the Civic at ten past nine, I thought (very briefly) to myself "hey wow, the support band is doing a cover of my favourite Blondie song, Dreaming, how cheeky is that!" I'm none too smart at times. I walked into the hall just to hear the closing guitar strains, damnitall.

For the next hour and a half, and two encores, we the audience were treated to most of Blondie's greatest hits, which let's face it, was what we were there to hear. Blondie may have a new album out, but I doubt many in the crowd could name it, much less sing along to any of the songs contained therein. From 'Dreaming' they went straight into 'Hanging on the Telephone' and then 'Call Me'. I think these three songs actually appear in that order on the Blondie's Greatest Hits album I own, which was a bit disconcerting, subconsciously anticipating each song a second before it began.

The band were a mixture of original members and ring-ins. Young or old, they were all leather trouser-clad and remarkably rakish; there's obviously something about the rock 'n' roll lifestyle that staves off middle-age spread… Clem Burke, the drummer was particularly good, other than a penchant for throwing his sticks in the air, which is all a bit stadium rock for a Thursday night at the Civic.

We spent most of the concert about three-quarters of the way back in the stalls (it was a seated gig, and I'd only forked out $100 for the B tickets), and with a couple of beers, and squinting a bit, I could still see the Debbie Harry of my dreams. I was five when she oozed sass in that Heart of Glass video – she was already thirtysomething. Realising the security really didn't care, we moved down the front in time for the encore. In retrospect this was not the best move, aesthetically speaking. Even I can't squint that much. But the voice is still there, as distinctive as ever, and when she launched into the chorus of 'Union City Blues', there was a chill up my spine and a lump in my throat.

For the second encore (Heart of Glass), Ms Harry walked out with a cup of tea in her hand, signalling imminent bedtime for her and the crowd. It was, after all, nearly 11 o'clock, and we'd had a big night.

The floors finished, we ventured bravely back into number 15. I needn't have worried about the cats getting stuck; the smell of polyurethane still hangs acridly some days on and would surely have repelled all but the most delinquent of juveniles.

A friend told me the other day it is impossible to feed a cat poisoned food. I accepted this on the face of it, and it wasn't until some days later I started to worry – "how does he know?" Needless to say, he won't be invited to feed the cats over Christmas.

So the floors look great, although once all our shabby belongings have been carted back it's not quite so noticeable. There's a pronounced echo in the hallway, and it affects me, reminding me of the sound an empty house makes. When you're an army brat, and have lived in as many houses as you've had birthdays, such an echo carries with it a mixture of memories.

A great weekend to reclaim the lounge though, with a few games of rugby, and one very important game of soccer. The start of the NPC on Friday between Auckland and Otago didn't bode particularly well for the competition. With a final score of 6 points to 3 in favour of the Mainlanders, it was bad enough sitting at home – imagine if you'd actually dragged yourself out in some shocking weather on an already cold Dunedin evening to see the Big Match that Wasn't. Followed almost immediately by a disappointing loss by the Warriors to Newcastle, the entrails weren't reading well for Saturday night.

And goddamit no, I didn't win the special All Blacks limited edition Ford XR6 up for grabs. But, some consolation, the All Blacks managed to secure the tri-nations and welcome home the Bledisloe Cup. It wasn't perhaps quite as tight as the 21-17 score would suggest, but history shows out that a four-point lead heading into the last five minutes of a game against the Wallabies is not a safe place to be. Despite not being the drubbing handed down two weeks ago, it was a better spectator match for its closeness.

For months now I've been hassling my soccer-playing flatmate about dubious spectator merits of the game. "Oh look, nil-all, you don't see that every day", "Wow, another one decided by penalties, there's something for the record books." Yeah, I'm a right laff, me. So I feel obliged now to eat humble pie on a couple of accounts. First, I have to now admit that every game I've gone and watched of Heath's this year has been most entertaining, goals or no goals. A flying elbow there, a "he's been doing it all day ref" there – always something to see and yell.

Second, with a 3-1 win in the Chatham Cup final yesterday, there were more goals scored than in the NPC match between Otago and Auckland. Heath scored two of the three in University-Mt Wellington's win over Melville, and after staying out well into the wee smalls last night, is probably right now reacquainting himself with our lounge, its shiny new floors, and the hangover-curing power of the brown and orange nightmare we call a couch. Congratulations buddy!

We've had to move out of the Ham for the week, as the floors are being sanded and varnished. We've left the cats behind, and the tradesmen have been charged with the task of keeping them outside and off the sticky floors. I don't think they've properly accounted for the wily ways of the feline, and their insatiable desire to be Places They Aren't Supposed to Be. My cat Tonka has, over the years, ended up stuck in every cupboard, the dishwasher, washing machine and dryer without being noticed. Despite his stature (he's big boned, I tell you), I don't see gaining clandestine entry to a house with all number of tradesmen coming and going posing a particular challenge. They call them cat burglars for a reason, you know.

So I think it wise to ask readers in advance: Does anyone know a pain-free environmentally-friendly method of un-stucking a cat (or three) from a polyurethane floor?

As a result, I'm writing this blog from a cardboard box (roomy, thanks to a sponsorship deal with New Zealand's premium whiteware manufacturer – cheers Fisher & Paykel) somewhere near Grafton. I'm feeling all very Intrepid Journeys. It's starting to rain, and I think if I don't acquire some corflute soon I'm going to have to put my laptop back inside its New World carry bag. I wonder if exiled Liberian President Charles Taylor is dealing with the same issues, although I doubt it.

The dog control issue is back in the news, with parliament's Local Government select committee hearing submissions on the proposals. Not surprisingly, (at least not for those smarty-pantses who predicted it a few months ago), the greatest concern in the submissions to date is over the requirement for dog owners to fence their property AND YET still provide dog-free public access to at least one door of the house. Dog owners are furious at the extra costs of providing some labyrinthine series of gates, fences and tunnels all for the benefit of being doorknocked by all and sundry.

Councils are objecting the extra costs faced in inspecting said labyrinths, saying it will result in 'rates rises for all', although councils being councils you could equally see them arguing that not having dogs fenced in will necessitate extra dog control officers, and inevitably, 'rates rises for all'. With the dreadful attack on Carolina Anderson now some months past, the media beat-up on dogs all but over, the Government isn't going to find passing this one as easy as it once might. Funny how that happens with ill-advised knee-jerk legislation, isn't it?

Access is at the heart of a couple of other Government debates at the moment too, albeit on a much grander scale. Should we be able to traipse over our country cousins' land in order to get to our nation's beaches? who owns those beaches? and do we have to pay koha if we want to go swimming? In theory they're separate issues, but you won't be shocked to discover that in the world of talkback radio, they're all a muddle, even for the hosts.

As regards the first, I have to have some sympathy for the farmers. For years farmers on the whole have been pretty reasonable in allowing access across their land for one reason or another. They've had to endure stupid townies who don't know the rule about gates (if you find it closed, shut it behind you, if you find it open, leave it so), frighten stock, litter and generally make their lives more difficult. And yet, they've generally been pretty good about it. As townies get more out of touch with rural NZ –and personally I blame TVNZ pulling A Dog's Show from prime time – so they care less about that environment. On the flipside, farmers are being forced to care a lot more about the townies, thanks to OSH they are now largely liable for accidents suffered by townies on their land, whether invited or not. It's understandable why some of those gates are now locked.

Whether the gates will remain locked, and exactly how they will be opened is the issue. The outdoor rec people are calling for the Government to secure permanent access to public land. The Government are, at this stage, talking about negotiated public access, although it hasn't yet been said what will be offered in return. Financial compensation, removal of OSH liability apropos the general public, tax breaks, who could say? It will have to be something tangible though; even this Labour party won't want to be known as the government that substantially reduced private property rights by removing the right of farmers to exclude people from their land.

The battery on my laptop is about to go. I'm going to find a friendly retailer who wil let me recharge for half an hour, then it's off to hunt for some corflute.

A couple of weeks ago a few of us at bFM received a little brown envelope in the mail. It was the same type of envelope in which the wages from my first job used to arrive, and it brought back a flood of memories of those days in the music shop. Meal allowances, smoking in the shop, time and a half for Saturdays, double time for Sundays, automatic pay rise when I passed 6th form cert, and a princely $4.80 an hour. For one reason or another, and for better or for worse, each of these concepts is now consigned to history.

That was only 1991, and yet already it has joined such tales as "we used to have to stand and sing 'God Save the Queen' when we went to the talkies" and "we used to buy eels from the Maori family down the road, three for a ha'penny". Not that I'm getting nostalgic for the times when I used to earn less than a fiver an hour. Similarly, there was very little appealing about having smoke blown in my face while trying to explain to an irate bogan why the fact his Razor's Edge tape had chewed from constant usage wasn't really my fault.

But what was in the envelope? Glad you asked. A badge, the pin-on variety, the single word 'Staple' against a denim background. I was excited, not so much because of some strange badge fetish, but because last time I was the subject of this kind of teaser marketing I ended up with a free camera phone (cheers, Vodafone).

Two weeks later, nothing had turned up, and the badge had been all but forgotten about, tossed in the bottom drawer along with everything else that will Come In Handy One Day. Should you be interested, the items which are the most optimistically so-categorised are an Adam's Apple, Wrenched Ankle, and Writer's Cramp, the only remaining pieces from an Operation game. Having said that, we live in a global economy, and a quick Google shows me myriad contributors to the underground and much-maligned international trade in plastic bodyparts.

Long story slightly less long, this Sunday just been I was at the dairy on the way back from my more-often-than-perhaps-is-normal weekend browse at Jansen's. (More fun than the zoo, and free). Looking at me from the shelves, slightly to the left of Kylie Bax's right breast, was Goldenhorse's Kirsten Morrell, on the front of a magazine named Staple.

Staple is a new magazine from Wellington, and judging by its debut offering, is going to be worth keeping an eye on. Unlike Loop, Wellington's last attempt at a lifestyle magazine, it's not Absolutely Positively Parochial. It has crisp clean design, the text is refreshingly readable, and the articles similarly so. The quality stock gives it tactility. It even smells nice, in the way that fresh paper can.

In issue one there are features on Goldenhorse, photographer Blink, migrant artists in NZ, our leading vocalist wahine, and a beautifully-shot black&white photo essay on the Ngawha prison issue, as well as a plethora of columns, reviews, fashion spreads and the like. There's even, (and I didn't even notice this until I started writing this column, no mutual back-scratching going on here) a mention of Ours Truly in an article about the wide world of blogs.

What strikes me most, and the reason I'm writing about it, Staple seems to have some depth. Not five page articles of faux-erudition sans pictures 'depth', like its predecessor, but a sense of awareness, of being part of something, rather than just a collection of words and pictures. All that and make-them-yourself Fluff Cuffs.

Despite being somewhat limited, the magazine market in NZ is notoriously difficult to survive in, and some promising titles have dropped by the wayside over the years. For as little as $8.95, you can help show your support for a fledgling magazine.

(In case you were wondering, it wasn't until a day later that I got the connection with the badge. I guess I was still hoping for something free...)

I guess I'm not surprised that I got more feedback from my last post than any I'd written before. Thanks for your support! Parking fines is a topic that resonates fairly widely; even the most law-abiding citizens among us have had to clear the windscreen wiper of a little white & blue shred of dread at least once.

One thing that did surprise me was the regularity with which the Wellington City Council popped up in people's complaints. Apparently Auckland City is a doddle to deal with by comparison.

Thanks also to Merc who came up with the idea of complaining to the Ombudsmen about the Dept for Courts not letting me pay my fines in order to cause me psychological distress, and thereby allowing me to claim ACC. Great in theory, but from what I hear, dealing with ACC makes paying parking fines look like a day at the beach.

As a friend reminded me recently, people need to be told when they are doing well. With that in mind, I have to add that after writing my last post, I began dealing with a wonderful woman (We'll call her Jane, mostly because that's her name) at the Auckland District Court who was sympathetic to my plight, understanding and best of all, got things done. I can report that I am now (relatively) happily paying my pound of flesh off until some time in 2004.

The same can't be said for the standoff over the Auckland Regional Council rates. Much like John Mitchell's selections, everyone seems to have something to say on this one. Most surprisingly perhaps, the Reserve Bank Governor Alan "I'm actually renowned for my dry sense of humour" Bollard. Dr Bollard has been notable over his fledgling tenure for saying virtually nothing about anything, but on the ARC issue he saw fit to let fly, warnings local authorities they should carefully consider the potential impact on inflation when raising rates. A tad optimistic, given that in the ARC's case at least, they don't even consider the ratepayers, let alone some abstract fiscal computation.

President of Local Government NZ, Basil Morrison, today said Dr Bollard's suggestion was naïve and extremely disappointing. If I'm not much mistaken, I believe they're currently taking nominations for this year's Fight for Life…

In an equally bold move, Peter Winder, CEO of the same august institution, seems to be suggesting that the rates increase is actually our fault:

Every council every year goes through an annual plan process, puts that out for public consultation and hears submissions. I suppose one of the lessons from the Auckland experience at the moment is that there are a lot of people that are currently very frustrated who didn't necessarily participate in the process.

Okay, we've learnt the lesson about not voting in the Mayoral elections, but are we really expected to believe that rates increases of up to 500% are an inevitable consequence of not reading the ARC's annual plan? Surely as the one with the information, a change as radical as this should have been so well-publicised by the ARC (and by that I'm not talking about a segment on Wayne Mowat's "In Touch with New Zealand") that no-one can claim to be surprised by their rates bill. One thing I learnt very early on as a lawyer, if you want to get paid, make sure your clients know how much they're going to be paying well before they see your invoice.

Meanwhile Christchurch Mayor Garry Moore has said that Aucklanders should "stop whinging" about the increases. David Thornton, no doubt basking in his elevation from spokesperson for the Glenfield Ratepayers' Association to heading the Regional Ratepayers' Rebellion has told Moore to "butt out". I could suggest a couple of equally apt words, but realise that as an Aucklander I'm not really in much of a position to criticise the people of Christchurch for electing a dickhead. I wonder if Moore also claims an "overwhelming majority."

Speaking of which, I watch with interest to see whether the Government ends up introducing (under extreme urgency, no doubt) the Keep Harry Duynhoven from Losing His Seat Bill. I can't see any other way of looking at this one. Labour MP Duynhoven applied to reinstate his Dutch citizenship, and under the Electoral Act his seat therefore should be vacated. It's not, as many media are portraying, an archaic law from the 1800s – this law was last reaffirmed by Parliament in 1993, and Duynhoven voted for its affirmation at that time. I'm not saying that he knowingly broke the law, but if ignorance of the law is no defence for Joe Citizen, then why should it be for an MP who voted for the damn thing!

Sure, a byelection is going to be costly. Sure, Duynhoven (to quote the New Statesman) has a Huge Majority. But I have to agree with Act leader Richard Prebble on this one. If we follow that thinking, why bother having elections for "safe seats" at all? Duynhoven broke the law, and I can't see how the Government can justify passing legislation which is a) retrospective and b) applies only to one person, c) who just happens to be one of their own MPs. To the polls we must go.

Today also sees the passing of the original American idol, Bob Hope, who turned 100 only a few weeks earlier. A great comedian and singer, and it's good to see that Graham, a caller to Leighton Smith this morning didn't lose any perspective:

Bob Hope represented the same principal that this radio station represents, it's freedom of speech. Nobody epitomised freedom of speech better than Bob Hope.

Let's hope for the sake of our national pride that Arun Ghandi, grandson of a different 'free speaker', and currently visiting this country wasn't tuned in to ZB at the time.