Above the bush-line

The similarities between Sir Edmund Hillary and George W. Bush are obvious.

Both were driven by a need to hang in there when the going got tough; Sir Edmund’s need was personal passion—George’s a righteous fear of getting spanked by a collective of Daddy, a myriad of shadowy Texas investors and God, in that order. Sir Edmund was a bee-keeper; B was the grade George aspired to much of his school life and was the best he ever attained as President. Sir Edmund scaled great heights; George plunged unprecedented depths. Sir Edmund was a man of few words; George knows only a few. Both were courted by world leaders—Sir Edmund for who he was; George for what he was. Both got mentioned in the same Fryday; the only time in history both men would be mentioned in the same breath.

I met Sir Edmund several times; many of us of an age in this small country did. Tomorrow I shall attend a commemoration service in his honour. I do so from a sense of duty and pride and in the desire, shared with many, that this man’s legacy and memory lives on. In a few months’ time the George W. Bush presidency will end and again there will be a shared desire (and world-wide relief) that this man’s legacy and memory do not.

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The Panelbeater's Wife

Nickname’s etymology is drawn from the Old English misdivision ekename, meaning (then as it does now) an additional name. Many of us have them. They can stem from any number of facets, including our physical characteristics, occupations and, often most endearingly of all, relationships. Rarely are nicknames derogatory and for that reason most are accepted by the recipient, even if begrudgingly.

In its formative years Fryday made good use of nicknames. Usually they were used at the end of each Fryday in a pithy but prescient message to a specific reader. Nicknames such as Hardman, Petmeat and Frybrosis hid the identity of those readers but were descriptive enough so they at least knew who they were. The aforementioned are still readers, as are Raygunn, Rust and the much loved LilTease and Paris. But the concept itself has fallen into disuse. I don’t know why—perhaps it was because thinking up those statements often took longer than Fryday itself. And, in any case, no-one seemed to mind that they were no longer mentioned; some may have been even glad of it.

It is not my intent to renew the practice but it is my intent to use it to pay tribute to two sincere friends, one of whom I farewell today: They are Vicks and Smitten. They know who they are. Vicks is the more recent friend but alone of the two brings with her that most gratifying if perplexing of tautologies: fate and destiny. I know she will always be there; moreover I know she was always meant to be. Smitten I have known longer. When I first met her she was a panelbeater’s wife and needed help in all manner of matters. She was and is a strong person but much has gone on in her life that is unconscionable and undeserved. I have never had any doubt of her survival but how she has survived with the retention of such good humour and generosity is beyond me. Vicks, because she knows her, will I think be of the same view.

Today Smitten leaves the job that has drawn us together for the second time. In that and in the job she is going to she has made the right decisions and I wish her well. But there is a degree of sadness and loss there as well. Friendships are resilient and always to be revered, but one that lacks the intimacy of proximity and any substance but memory is always a little more…empty.

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When towns go mild

Has anyone heard of Hamilton lately? The city is silent. Gone are the pronouncements, pontificating and artless hyperbolae that greeted the acquisition of the street race, and deluded Hamilton that it was better than Waimate North. Instead Hamilton seems to have reverted to its somnolent self (and rightful place) as New Zealand’s capital of conceit, covert decadence and overt hypocrisy. I for one am glad of that. The masking fog and the orgasmic screams of cows and sheep from within have always made Hamilton a place of mystery and intrigue for me, akin to its street system. I love mystery, and Hamilton abounds with them:

• The fore-mention street system
• Why anyone would choose to live there
• Why it has a museum when it is one.

These are the unknowns that tax the brain. But what do we know of Hamilton? Surprisingly and somewhat paradoxically we know a great deal, such as:

• Hamilton’s idea of great art is Happy Meal packaging
• The essential truth of Rocky Horror Picture Show is that it is a biography of the author’s town
• For a time the town’s favourite film was Gone With the Wind, which they thought alluded to the withdrawal of the fart tax.
• The current film is Dukes of Hazard—now that’s real life on film, Gawd Dang
• Babe has been banned for its portrayal of child sex
• The favourite books are the Tui’s Yeah Right series because of the basic tenets to live-by they provide
• Hamilton’s favourite sport after self-abuse is Find the Cricketer, a variation of the core game, in which batsmen try and work out where fielders are in the fog and what bowlers are doing with their balls
• The most cut out and stolen pictures from magazines in the Hamilton Library are from The Contented Cow, and National Geographic’s pre-1970 series on African women
• The most stolen book is How to Steal for a Living.
• The most borrowed book is a tie between Knots for the Bedroom and The Zen of Boy-Racing
• The most read is the Hamilton street map
• There is more to come.
  
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