He aint heavy...

My brother, who lives in Christchurch, phones me frequently these days. I say these days because for much of his fifty-odd years he rarely rang anyone, let alone made a toll call to me in Auckland. But now he does, and it is a joy to hear from him. He calls me not about the earthquakes or the continuing after-shocks; they do not faze him—and in that regard he is more fortunate than most in Christchurch. No, he rings to discuss the relative merits of our respective rugby league teams, and again he is fortunate; his, The Warriors, are on an upward swing; while mine, The Bulldogs, decidedly are on the downward slope. I should explain that my brother, Peter, is quite a character, and well known around Christchurch particularly in sporting circles through he plays no sport and is content to volunteer for any role that most helps those who do play. He is well liked for that. For that and for various idiosyncrasies such as calling his dog Sarah. The thing about Peter is that from force of circumstance he is the most honest and self-effacing person on this earth. Yet because of that he was for half a century protected by our parents. That protection is no longer there and, as is becoming increasingly obvious with each new day, nor is it needed. My brother is making his own way in the world. He and his dog Sarah. I am immensely proud of who he is and of what he has become.

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Now playing: John Lennon - Imagine
via FoxyTunes

Hitting a Roar Nerve

I was saddened to see on last night’s news the beginning of the end for the venerable Press building in Cathedral Square Christchurch.
It was there in 1967 that I began my earlier career in newspapers. It was there in 1969 that I sat in the company of crusty journos and watched in mutual and ageless awe the first man to walk on the Moon. It was there, a year later, that I had my only knife fight, in the top right corner we saw being demolished last night. And it was in the opposite corner that I communed vicariously with the man of the moment Bob Dylan and shared a light bulb.
It was from there that I began a new life.
So the building is about to go. No doubt the decision to demolish it is justified (though there are those who will dispute that) and I have no issue with the decision—just an incredible sadness, and a baseless anger that Nature and Mortality has in the last 12 months wrought such havoc on my youthful years.
But I was somewhat brightened by the experiences and pontifications of another group for whom the Earth (apparently) moves in far more pleasurable terms. This was the Campbell Live item later in the night about The Obedient Wives Club. Now, that sounds like one of those movies from the 80s starring Dianne lane or Diane Keaton. But, no, this is a group of Islamic wives who believe in complete subjugation to their husbands’ wishes, including sexual. They even include a support group in which they share notes and experiences aimed at being a better “whore” in bed. That seems to me and my untutored but omnipresent voyeurism a totally new perception of Islam. Who thought? We all knew that treatment of Islamic woman, particularly wives, did not meet Western mores, but for Islamic wives to have a position on positions is mind-blowing (so to speak).
Do I condone it? I am Man!! Hear me roar.
After I get Maggie her coffee.

Swear it or wear it

I don’t trust Americans. This is the nation that voted in George W. Bush. Twice. And may well have done so a third time if the Constitution had allowed it. But I will say this for George W, he had belief. He believed in what God and that higher deity the American Arms Lobby told him, and he acted on that belief. Hone Harawira has only one belief—self, and none at all of belief’s bedmate scruples. But I am now pleased to note that in his grandstanding he may well have backed himself into the corner to which all other naughty juveniles are consigned. This is of course his refusing to swear fealty to the Queen. Oh yes, you are making a statement Hone—which is you are an idiot. Have you had a thought Hone as to where to next? You see, until you so swear you can’t sit in Parliament. And if you do now so swear you are backing down and showing the lack of scruples and beliefs you never had in the first place. The rather pleasurable, though tragically remote, irony is that through this action we may well have seen the last of you—and it will be of your own doing.