Absinthe without leave

As a collector and consumer of single-malt whiskeys I rarely turn my taste-buds to other drinks. I know what I prefer and I stick with it. But one drink, Absinthe, has always intrigued me. I first came across it when I read that it was the preferred drink of Oscar Wilde, of whom I have a life-long fascination. I have since learnt that Wilde shared that proclivity (as well as some others) with Zola, Hemmingway, Verlaine, Modigliani, van Gogh, Twain and, perhaps most infamously, Aleister Crowley.
Absinthe is purported to be a hallucinogen, though this effect may be more accurately attributed to the mind-blowing (literally) 70% alcohol by volume (ABV) that Absinthe can get up to; a single-malt by comparison is somewhere around 40—50%.  It is true though that it contains the chemical compound thujone which is considered both addictive and dangerous leading to Absinthe being banned in Europe and the United States for a time. The anise-flavoured spirit is however back on the market and can be bought in New Zealand, though not in Mataura where it is banned.
I have never tried it and perhaps never will. As I said at the outset I have my preferences, and my proclivities, unlike Wilde’s, don’t extend to experimenting.  But if you are tempted, one of the favourite ways to drink it is to place a sugar cube over a slotted spoon and pour water over the cube and into the Absinthe. The resulting liquid would be sweetened and turn cloudy. Be warned however: you do so at your own risk. Absinthe has been described thus:
“It (Absinthe) makes a ferocious beast of man, a martyr of woman, and a degenerate of the infant, it disorganizes and ruins the family and menaces the future of the country.”
Bit like Hamilton really.

De Profundis

Win or lose at conclusion it can now be said that the America’s Cup racing and the performance of Emirates Team New Zealand are nothing short of sublime. The first seven races have made for riveting viewing and been great fun to watch, if a little anxiously at times. It would be churlish, I think, to be critical of the regatta. However, some are. And that’s not unexpected. The hoary old criticisms of the America’s Cup being a rich man’s sport and disgraceful use of taxpayers’ funds are again being trotted out. To me, that’s fine. People are allowed their opinion and no doubt in their opinion they are heart-felt opinions. But they are not new nor are they profound. They have been around for every regatta in which Team New Zealand has competed. Is that a problem? Not really. To me it’s just annoying that these critics make these statements with a certain smugness that they are saying something profound. There is nothing profound about them.  In fact if this regatta is lacking anything it is just that…profundity. For example, Martin Tasker’s repeated (five times) exclamation in race two that “we have a boat race.” That, I would have thought self-evident. What I think he meant to say was that we had a real competition on the water. Which we had. But he didn’t. And then there are the equally evident “it’s early days yet” and “we have a long way to go.” I can’t argue that these statements aren’t intended to manage expectations or they aren’t accurate. But we all know that the regatta has a long way to go (less now) before Dean Barker can hold the Auld Mug aloft, so it is vaguely patronising to be told so…repeatedly. But none of this and none of the critics should or will tarnish what is an exciting event and time for New Zealand. And there is the crux of this Fryday. If you are going to moan and groan about The America’s Cup go for it. Just accept that there is a lot to enjoy, to celebrate and to be proud of what is going on here and in San Francisco.  And that is exactly what most of the rest of us are doing.

The Whores on Seventh Avenue

I have a friend who said he once shared a limousine with these two. They barely spoke to each other and, to his mind, there was palatable dislike between the two. I have a relative in Christchurch  who for a time hosted them both. Briefly. In the end one went to Queenstown the other to North Island. They simply didn't want to be together. But when they were together they created great music such as this. For those who know the original recorded version well, note the extra verse; the lyrics are so perfect you have to wonder why that verse was left out.

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xqxxwk_simon-and-garfunkel-the-boxer_music

The Kindness of Strangers

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I am not sure where Whetu lives. He seems to be a person of, as they say, no fixed abode. I know he “goes bush” sometimes, but whether that is literally or figuratively I do not know. I do know he has never asked to stay at my place, and I am sure that he and I can both interpret that as an act of kindness. Whetu is strange like that; he can be incredibly mercenary, yet equally generous, thoughtful and at times even introspective—as I found him yesterday when my cellphone rang:

ME: Hello.

HE: Kia Ora Bro.

ME: Whetu. Long time?

HE: Been down visiting the cuzzies.

ME: Oh? Where?

HE: Paremoremo.

ME: Day visit?

HE: Nah. Stayed a few nights…weeks. Give me time.

ME: The judge did?

HE: Nah. Me. Give me time to do some thinking. Examining my conscious.

ME: You have one then?

HE: Except when I have a few beers, then I loses it.

ME: So, what did all this self-examination produce?

HE: I has a dream bro.

ME: You has…have a dream?

HE: Yus. Just like that King fella that was on TV todays with those fellas from the Destiny Church. He had a dream.

ME: He did. A great one. And what did your dream tell you?

HE: That I won Lotto and I travels the world.

ME: Well, that would be right up there with Martin Luther King.

HE: But it come true Bro!

ME: You won Lotto?

HE: Nah. Not that part. But I gonna travels the world for all my days from now on. Stay all the choice places. Have some beers.

ME: That’s your destiny?

HE: You knows?

ME: We all have one. Destiny.

HE: Youse joining too? Ise just joining their haka party. Want nothing to do with the rest of them fellas. Theys strange bro.

David V Goliath of Depravity

Hone Harawira said it best: “Nice guys don’t last long in this game.” Attorney General Chris Finlayson described him is a good man, who had great experience in dealing with civil wars and humanitarian crises. But that, said Finlayson, was not enough to prepare him for the Labour leadership. "Nothing could have prepared him for dealing with that lot.”

Both neatly summed up David Shearer and his fate. David Shearer to all appearances seems a nice guy; yesterday all his friends and political foes said so. All except John Banks who called him useless. What is it about small men? And if Shearer’s adventures and bravery in the Middle East were perhaps a little over-stated—the Al Qaeda he would have likely met would have been much like Australian Masterchef’s Samira El Khafir, not dangerous, just vaguely annoying—he has nevertheless served this country well. Just in another environment.

Politics is not a nice place to be. Nor does it necessarily nurture and protect nice people. That was David Shearer’s problem: Little Red Riding Hood in the midst of a feral pack. Even so, he may have survived, but this week he committed the cardinal sin of politics and politicians. As a politician you can lie and cheat, have adulterous affairs and even run off to Paris at taxpayers’ expense. But what you cannot do is be ridiculed and humiliated. That happened this week with the snapper affair. It was a disastrous mistake: the last straw for some and the opportunity for others. The pack attacked. And David was devoured.

David Shearer will be remembered as a nice guy; his 20 months as Leader of the Opposition will not be remembered at all. But what I will remember and take from this whole depraved business is that sadly we have further evidence that all too often nice guys do indeed finish last. Or in David Shearer’s case, and in retrospect, they are possibly finished before they start.

Absolutely Positive

I am blessed to have a niece, a goddaughter and several friends who write letters. Not emails, though they do that as well, but snail-mail. It is a delight to receive such letters; there is of course the tactile sensation and also the implicit care, consideration and affection of such a missive. Usually I reply in kind and have bought special stationery fit for purpose. I wrote two letters this morning, both complimenting companies on their service. One is an electrician in Helensville, whom you will probably never meet and never need—unfortunate, because he is the best I have come across. But the other, an auto mechanic and tyre merchant in Silverdale called Cranefield Automotive, is well worth a try if you live in the vicinity. Both provide service well beyond expectation and, in the case of the mechanic, a complimentary bottle of wine! I have had a good run with service lately—Sam’s Butchery, also in Silverdale, is another and his bacon (thanks Rachel) is to die for. The common element with all of them is that they are good people with positive outlooks. That I find refreshing because it is the nature and role of my primary occupation to deal with the exact opposite. I saw both natures exhibited with some intensity on television this week. It was the Campbell versus Key debate over the GCSB. I am not saying Campbell is bad person nor am I saying I support Key in all he does, but on this occasion Campbell came across as churlish and even childish at times, whereas Teflon John came across as positively (literally) ebullient. No wonder he (Key) offered to come back to the show again; he obviously enjoyed himself so much on this occasion, and even Campbell if he puts a positive spin on it will I think welcome that as an opportunity to redeem himself. I look forward to round two. Anyway, try the two companies I mentioned and if you want the name of my electrician I’ll throw that in too—positively.

Going nuts

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The possession of which I most proud is my BMW, christened Priscilla after a role I was playing when I bought her. This week I took her for her six-monthly WOF; she is after all 20 years old. She failed.

It was a small matter, of sorts; a nut was loose in the left-front bearing which, I was told by the inspector, would be catastrophic if it fell off. He urged me to take it to my mechanic immediately as it was “dangerous”. I did so. My mechanic, a dour German, who says little but is very good at his job and has a real affection for Priscilla, took the inspector’s report, shook his head, reached under the left-front wheel and as far as I could tell tightened the nut with his fingers. No tools. And no charge. He told me to take it back to the WOF station and I would get a warrant. I did and I did.

Now, that raises a question: if tightening of a nut (with the fingers) was all it takes and the situation was dangerous and potentially catastrophic why couldn’t the inspector have done it?

Yes, I know there is apparently a protocol in WOF stations that they don’t do repairs—and that is part of their advantage in that they are truly dispassionate and not touting for business—but really? To tighten a nut? Is that a repair? Seems nuts to me.

Strange Days

Strange thing about getting old and residing with the Spectre of Mortality is that every day seems to be briefer and consequently so do the weeks, months and years. Let’s not court fate by talking decades. It’s not as if the days are busier and the mind more occupied; it is just seemingly a fact of life, as if some entity is trying to get you to hurry on. “We need the space.” I am not the first to recognise it; cruise liners capitalise on it. Nor do I use it as an excuse to pine for what might have been and the opportunities missed. Not for me retrospective regrets, nor moribund morbidity. But nor will I succumb to trite sayings such as “today is the first…” etc, still less for the contrived inspirational sayings that are supposed to change your life and are usually presented to a backdrop of a beautiful sunset. I’ll leave Facebook posters to those—they do them so well, and frequently. No, for me it’s just a case of getting on with the rest of my life, living for the day (trite?) and enjoying the people around me—most of them. Life is after all what it is. And I am what I am. Content.

I have the foggiest

I am red with embarrassment.
Having taken the mickey out of Hamilton last Fryday because it was shrouded in fog I now find that Auckland too is susceptible to the same spoliation. This morning has to the foggiest I can recall. I cannot see as far as my front gate and what is beyond I leave to intuition and memory. At least such it is in Helensville; and that is deeply worrying. I would hate to think the fog is confined to Helensville rather than blanketing all of Auckland, because that would mean the town I live in has yet another similarity to Hamilton. It is already going nowhere, deeply depressed and shut on Sundays. Now it too is afraid to show its face.  Helensville has become, I am afraid, like Hamilton—the Peter Dunne of towns.

Flat, below sea level and shrouded in fog

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When I was a young man I was visited from beyond the grave.

My visitor, in most respects courteous and gracious though dead, told me a curious story. He said that when he was alive and I was a boy he had been introduced to me but not as it transpired accurately. He was, he said,  introduced as a family friend. He was not. He was in fact my grandfather’s brother, my granduncle or great-uncle depending on the nomenclature. The reason for the duplicity was that he had been disowned by the family when he became a conscientious objector in WWI. From that time and until his visit, and after, the family had not spoken to or of him. *

I have not spoken of Hamilton for a long time. No problem. Nor has anyone else. We all seem to have forgotten Hamilton. Forgotten—not ignored; to ignore someone he or she must have done something to ignore. Hamilton has not.

She has certainly kept a low profile. Not hard when you are flat, below sea level and shrouded in fog. I am certain she still exists, why else would the multitude of travellers going south go the long route to avoid her? Or are they too being deceived?

Has Hamilton simply disappeared?

Yes. I am afraid to say it has. Proof has come from Hamilton itself (a dichotomy) evidenced by a visit to the Passionate Hamilton (an oxymoron) Facebook page, which often features live-cam photos of the city. Above is this morning’s.

 

* Many years later I spoke to my grandmother about my granduncle. She was shocked but confirmed the veracity of the story he told. It was true. I suppose many families have relatives they would rather forget or not talk about for whatever reason. In our case it was my granduncle; In New Zealand’s case it’s Hamilton.

 

Stuck in a Rudd

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Queenslanders have had a good week.

Not only did their team win the second State of Origin, their man won the prime ministerial post…back. Some say that both were foregone conclusions, and they are right though few could have predicted how emphatic the wins would be.  But that is not all they had in common; both were in a sense farces: in the case of State of Origin, the sin binning of four players (two from either side to even it up) was ludicrous and, if not addressed, could dilute the great game—a game which incidentally is perhaps more important to Queensland than Kevin Rudd. And Kevin Rudd’s win also had an element of farce about it—or at least very poor theatre. The Ruddless government of Julia Gillard never quite managed to navigate its way through the cauldronian conundrum—for conundrum it is—of Australian political life, particularly Labour life. Voters fled and the backroom contrived and connived. With a massive election and limousine loss looming something—someone—had to go. Gillard had to go, and she did. Ousted. It was predictable and understandable, but replacing her with someone who had already been there done that is questionable. So is how long Kevin Rudd will be there.

But somehow there has been something lost in the subsequent media coverage. Have a look at this series of headlines:

·      Was Julia Gillard a 'real' female prime minister, or a leader who was female?

·      Gillard's tumultuous term showed difficulties women face in top job

·      Gillard right to play gender card

·      Was Gillard a 'real' female PM?

There are other headlines of course but those I have selected are representative of a fairly large group focussing on two things, that Julia Gillard was female and the part that (may) have played in her defeat. That is disquieting because of what it says of Australian misogyny. When “our” Helen Clark was ousted there was nary a word about her gender—or lack of. Nor in Britain with Margaret Thatcher. Nor even in Pakistan with Benazir Bhutto. Yet in Australia gender is the first thing they point to when their first female prime minister is thrown out of office. There are even headlines saying that (Julia Gillard) has destroyed all chances of a woman becoming prime minister for a long time to come.
Was Julia Gillard simply an unfortunate experiment then?
In Australia, it seems so.

Or will Australians confound us all again and go the other way, so to speak?

Having tried a woman, will they now give a gay a go?

Speedos, anyone?