Going to to the dogs

I have nothing against people who dislike dogs. It’s just that many of them seem to be intolerant of those, like me, who do like dogs. I have become aware again of this Holden v. Ford chasm since taking delivery of two dogs on Boxing Day—one aptly a boxer. For my wife and I they have replaced most everything, except each other, as the loves of our lives. There is no doubt they are challenging, hair-tearing, frustrating and their toiletry habits and remains reminds one of those dreadful minefields that blight our world and history. But they are also lively, lovely, cute and adoring. Despite being different breeds and with an age and size difference they get on well together and they have taken to their spectacular new home and to us with alacrity and unrestrained joy. Our border collie is called Luke; our boxer is called Laila, after Mohammed Ali’s daughter—herself a famous boxer. Luke and Laila will offer little to you as Fryday reader but they offer a lot to me. And they are offered here as record of their presence rather than any precursor to the unrelieved tedium of my always talking about my dogs. Don’t you hate it when people do that? Almost makes you want to dislike those who love dogs, doesn’t it? No. :-)

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Now playing: Eric Burdon & The Animals - Anything
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Virgin Territory

A friend of mine recently and cleverly described France as a country as much in need of change as it is against it. I am sure this holds true of many countries. But my friend’s adroit and intimate view of France (she lives there) will confirm what many of us feel about the perpetual Peter Pan of Europe.
It is also the way I feel about the district in which I live—Rodney, just north of Auckland in New Zealand. Rodney is something of an eddy in the comparatively swift current that is Auckland. Those who choose to swim against the current are grateful to be swept into the Rodney eddy to rest, relax and enjoy the relative peace and solitude. Some only visit, while others plan to stay forever. It is the latter who seem most reluctant to accept change to their quiet little backwater. But change is about to be forced upon them, for later this year Rodney will cease to exist as a legal entity. It is about to drown as Auckland bursts its banks, literally and figuratively, and floods its hinterland. We are all to become part of one of the largest metropolises by area in the world. We are to become each of us one of those much-maligned In New Zealand and derided elsewhere commercially crafted articles—an Aucklander. Uncharacteristically for the normally indecisive Auckland we even have a date for it: November 1. Most of us approach our date with decadency with the same foreboding we would an adult circumcision and we anticipate much the same pain. Only this time we in Rodney will be adding something rather than taking away from what could (still) be the biggest cock-up in recent New Zealand history. Nevertheless, we are ready for you Auckland. Come and have us. Do your will. Deflower us if that is your want. But forgive us if, while you do so and you have your wonton way, we Rodneyites lay back and think of Hamilton.

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Now playing: The Doors - When The Music's Over
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In Your Face

I can understand how it happens. I can understand how it can be addictive in the fashion of assorted drugs, chocolate, coffee and, in my case, slaggng off Hamilton. I can also understand how some would get a degree of self-aggrandisement from it. But I don’t understand it at all. I cannot get my head around Facebook. Nor Twitter nor the myriad of other social networking methods that seemingly now dominate the Internet. I know how to use Facebook. Mostly. What I don’t know or understand is its attraction to its millions of users. Perhaps I cannot understand why anyone is in the least interested in “What’s on (my) mind” or maybe I find the predominantly congratulatory and laudatory messages somewhat implausible—I know that there a lot of nice people out there, but that many that often? One section of Facebook interests me though; it’s called The Wall. People leave messages on it. And in that, they are carrying on one of the longest traditions known to man—leaving a message for someone else to read at their leisure if that is their wish and their will. One knows that earliest Man did it and the tradition carries on today. I honour that, and I acknowledge the role Facebook has in that. But I did wonder what, of all the messages left through the aeons, which was the most famous and most resilient. It would depend on the language of course, but of English my vote would go to the ubiquitous Kilroy. Nobody knows who he was—if indeed there was a “he.” The not always reliable Wikipedia attributes the phrase and its associated graffiti to “calling cards” left by American servicemen serving in WWII. There are many urban legends attached to the Kilroy graffiti. One states that Adolf Hitler believed that Kilroy was some kind of American super spy because the graffiti kept turning up in secure Nazi installations, presumably having been actually brought on captured Allied military equipment. Another states that Stalin was the first to enter an outhouse especially built for the leaders at the Potsdam conference. Upon exiting, Stalin asked an aide: "Who is this Kilroy?" Another legend states that a German officer, having seen frequent "Kilroys" posted in different cities, told all of his men that if they happened to come across a "Kilroy" he wanted to question him personally. The graffiti is supposedly located on various significant or difficult-to-reach places such as on the torch of the Statue of Liberty, on the Marco Polo Bridge in China, in huts in Polynesia, on a high girder on the George Washington Bridge in New York, at the peak of Mt. Everest, on the underside of the Arc de Triomphe, scribbled in the dust on the moon, in World War II pillboxes scattered around Germany, on a tile in the bathroom of a Grainger in Baltimore, around the sewers of Paris, and, in tribute to its origin, engraved in the National World War II Memorial in Washington, D.C. So, this Kilroy, whomever he may be, seems to have been here, there and everywhere. Except on Facebook. I am yet to see him make an appearance there—other than a site in homage to him. Perhaps he has passed on. Or simply perhaps the world has passed him by and he, like me, finds Facebook’s Wall sends him…well…up the wall.

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Now playing: The Cure - Secrets [Home Demo]
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Body of Work

Death has dogged me this New Year. Yesterday, New Year’s Eve, I was enthralled, if a little taken aback, by a radio series titled 14 Entertainers Who Died in Plane Crashes. The programme informs me that there are more than 14 but these in ranking order are the most affecting. I imagine for the deceased they were all affected in much the same way—Death has a certain commonality about it—and some will be mortified (!) that they didn’t make the Top 14 cut, particularly as 3 of the 14: Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and the Big Bopper were all on the same plane. One would have thought that a more equitable dishing out would have been…well…more equitable. My other brush with death came today when I visited the cemetery across the road. It is an ancient and gracious cemetery. One hears nothing from the occupants of course, but their inscribed tombstones speak volumes. For anyone for whom this would be practical, I suggest a visit to the Helensville Cemetery. I would however proffer one caution—it truly is one of those nice places to visit but one wouldn’t want to live there places. But you may well be drawn to ask why on a beautiful New Year’s Day I am visiting a cemetery. In truth, I cannot answer that, but I have a feeling that 2010 is going to be a particularly perverse year for your Fryday scribe.