Public Address - Cracker (Home)

Give Dick a Chance | Sep 02, 2004 18:38

If I haven't said anything yet about the Auckland mayoralty, it's because I don't feel especially qualified to comment. But that's never stopped me before, so here goes.

I was thrilled when Dick Hubbard joined the other Bugs 'n Mud in the mayoral race, and it seems a good portion of Aucklanders feel the same way. While his policies might be a tad under-developed, for me the most important thing is that he seems the right sort of person for the job.

Banks doesn't rile me as much as he does others, and if it came down to a choice between him and Fletcher, I just wouldn't vote. It's not a tactic I recommend – people died to give me this right apparently – but Banks vs Fletcher seems like the contest the phrase "don't vote, it only encourages them" was coined for.

Early on in his mayoralty, I held out some hope for Banks. Sure, he's a complete twat, but politics isn't about people I'd invite to my birthday party. What I liked was that he wasn't concerned about being popular, or consulting with everyone before making decisions – he was going to Make Things Happen.

Except of course, he didn't. This might have been forgivable, after all, three years isn't long when it comes to multi million dollar roading projects or even getting RMA consents. But Banksie being who he is, he had to go and talk up his achievements. And his strong leadership descended into abrasive mean-spiritedness.

Fletcher's no better of course. The first press release I received from the Fletcher4Mayor campaign office was titled "Banks lazy and arrogant". Well yes, quite possibly he is, but is this really the way to kick off a mayoral campaign?

One thing that's always annoyed me about Chris Fletcher is her time working as both Auckland's Mayor and MP for Epsom. Apparently she donated the mayoral salary to charity, but wouldn't it be preferable to pay someone to actually do the job properly? I wasn't living in Auckland at the time, but I was working at Parliament, and down there Fletcher didn't have a reputation for being particularly hard-working. In any event, there are only so many hours in a day, and either position seems like it should realistically take the lion's share.

Which leaves Dick. While he lacks much detail on the policy front, at least he seems like a fairly decent bloke. He's got enough business sense to have built up a very successful company. His business is based around high quality products (as compared with say, Stephen Tindall). He looks after those around him, even when he doesn't have to. He invented Berry Berry Nice. These seem like pretty good qualities for a civic leader, don't they?

By way of epilogue however, I do I have to raise the matter of Banks offering $20,000 if Hubbard could provide proof that the mayor had made certain comments. Just a quiet word in your ear, Dick. If you're offering proof, an article by Renee Kiriona probably isn't the best evidence…

I know it's probably time to let sleeping dogs lie, but I can't resist highlighting this little excerpt from an article in the Sunday Star Times about National's Katherine Rich and Act's Deborah Coddington top 'n' tailing.

"'We're here to fight socialism, not to compete with each other', Coddington said."

Wow. It must be just like living in a sorority house.

I should add, continuing my theme of inadvertently funny Googlisms, when searching for the above article, I got this response. Aha.

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You know... for kids | Aug 27, 2004 14:22

I thought this Olympics had been relatively free from stupid comment. Usually, especially as the Games enter their last few days, the commentators get caught up in the spectacle of it all, and spout forth enough lyrical wax to clean all of Mr Myagi's cars…

"And they're diving off the platform of all who have gone before, and into history."

"Actually Keith, that's just water."

"Right you are. Water of History."

I hadn't heard any silliness of this magnitude, at least not until I turned on the radio this morning. National Radio at that. The headline, the very first thing leading the 9am bulletin:

"The wife of gold medal winning triathlete Hamish Carter says she couldn't eat for the entire day before the Olympic race"

To quote the great Charles M Shulz, "Good grief". I mean, really. That Hamish Carter was a bit nervous after his false start four years ago, interesting to a degree. But does anyone other than Mavis Carter herself – or whatever her name is – and perhaps her nutritionist, care whether she was able to eat?

On that note, I've been trying to work out why some Olympians (notably the swimmers) look really healthy and really fit, while others (notably the track 'n' field athletes) look like Crack Addicts. The only answer I've come up with so far is this: They're on drugs.

I had the pleasure of meeting John Walker the other day. Actually, I've met him before, I'm pretty sure he popped in to my grandparent's place in Manurewa one Christmas about 25 years ago. He didn't seem to recall, but when you're five and a national hero pops by on Christmas Day, you remember. Mind you, I also remember a tree ate my kite around the same time, so perhaps a five year old isn't the most reliable witness.

We were interviewing John about the new lenticular stamps showing famous New Zealand Olympic moments. During the discussions, off-air, he said he believed a great number of athletes these days use performance-enhancing drugs. Rather than "if", it was instead just a question of who had the best and the newest masking agents, and who stopped taking them early enough to avoid detection.

If that's the case, and looking at some of the sunken-eyed, gaunt, sick-looking people who are supposed to be elite athletes, why don't we just take the Olympics to their illogical extreme. Why not have the Hyper-Olympics, where everyone gets as juiced up as possible? You want to see the human body really pushed to its limits, wait til ya gedda load of these guys. If it's possible to do the 100m in less than 7 seconds then I want to see it, goddamnit. That's perverse, you say? No more perverse than The Swan, say I, and that's apparently fit for human consumption.

I went to a whisky tasting last night. I'd expected it to taste a lot like chicken, but no.

Sitting down with a bunch of nice albeit fairly straight-laced individuals, we were issued with a sheaf of explanatory notes and tasting guides. Of course once the scotch started flowing, that's when the real fun began.

I'm a bit of a fan of the ol' single malt, but I think my nose needs a little work.

"Sniff it", they say. "What does it smell like?"

"Um, Whisky?"

"Mmm…yyyyes. Okay, now taste it. What does it taste like?"

"Good whisky?"

"You're not really getting this, are you?"

"Not really. May I have some more please?"

However once I'd found the tasting wheel among my notes, it all made sense. It provided all manner of options, from the familiar (butterscotch, peaty, caramel, flowery) to the less so...I mean how does anyone actually know what "Dirty Shotgun Barrel" or "Wet Retriever" tastes like? Bakelite anyone?

As the scotch flowed, my already rudimentary judging system deteriorated into a flamboyantly-executed (intoxicated) tick or cross – occasionally both. I narrowed it down to two favourites, and spent a lot of time reconfirming my earlier suspicions. Yes indeedy, I concluded, they're definitely both whisky.

By the end of the night I was slumped in a corner clutching my sides, nose like a reindeer, giggling hysterically... "heeheeheehee…dirty shotgun barrel… how do they KNOW!"

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Googling You, Googling Me | Aug 22, 2004 18:07

The Google float seems to have gone pretty well, at least from where I'm sitting. While the dynamic duo were expecting a bit more, at US$27.2 billion, Google is now on par with General Motors. Not bad for a company that found its genesis six years ago in a college dorm room. Founders Larry Page and Sergey Brin are worth a bit over three billion each. 1,000 of its 2,300 employees have become instant millionaires.

Of course, what this means is that 1300 employees didn't. Presumably a few years back they turned down the share options in favour of a nicely embroidered latop bag ("...don't you suckers remember the dotcom bubble…") You can almost hear the sound of those bags being dragged across the tarmac parking lot as their owners head to work the day after the float. Don't be surprised if 13 out of every 23 searches you perform in the next week come back with the result "0 Matches Found – Why don't you f*** off and Ask Jeeves."

Google has rather famously entered the lexicon, in some cases, literally. In Pattern Recognition, William Gibson uses the verb frequently. Google's founders aren't particularly happy with the potential dilution of their very valuable brand, and have issued cease-and-desist letters in the past. Whether Gibbo ever got one I'm not sure, it would seem a bit odd for creators of a mere search engine to chastise the guy who predicted the modern Internet…

Before interviewing Gibson a year or so ago, I googled him as part of my research. He had 124,000 hits. I had 61. Today he has 276,000. I have 752. I'm gaining on him.

And yes, from time to time I do engage a spot of auto-Googling. It was around ten years ago I found my first search-engine. I innocently entered my name… and discovered my Nemesis. Well, when I say "nemesis", I'm not sure he even knows I exist, but despite this, for the past decade I've been waging a trans-Tasman battle against a guy with the sinister-sounding moniker, Damian Christie.

Damian Christie, (if that's your real name), is or was President of the Australian chapter of the Dr Who fan club. He's the editor of a Dr Who fanzine. He has a lot to say in the field of science fiction generally. In short, he's running around reinstating a reputation I've been trying to get rid of for the better part of two decades.

Recently, thanks to on-line outlets like publicaddress, the Listener, bFM etc., I'm winning the battle – the battle he probably doesn't even know the two of us are fighting. Each time I check in on him/us, there's less of him and more of me, kinda like that scene from Back to the Future, where Michael J Fox checks the fading family photo as the band plays 'Earth Angel'.

I find Google Ads a bit odd. In case you don't know, they're the text sensitive little boxes down the right hand side of this page. While the Google search engine works pretty well, Google ads are still an imprecise science. A blog I wrote about smokers' rights prompted anti-smoking ads and invitations to buy hand-cut bohemian crystal. I'm hoping this post will send Google Ads into a self-referential logic loop, causing it to fry its circuit board. Not unlike what Matthew Broderick did to the NORAD computer at the end of the excellent 1983 film War Games.

Shit, now I'm talking like the other Damian Christie.

There are however many opportunities for amusement to be had from this Google Ad randomness. The best example I've seen yet came from a discussion about a certain policy leaving a politician in a difficult position. Google Ads recommended I purchase the new and improved Karma Sutra.

Do readers have any funny Google Ad stories they'd wish to share with Cracker? Send in clippings to:

Over the Teacups
Cracker HQ
Private Bag
Auckland.

The first correct entry will* win this used Parker Pen & Pencil set.

*will not

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And we're living here in Allentown... | Aug 04, 2004 20:02

The problem with sometimes having opinions on stuff is that – by definition – sometimes you don't. Yeah I know, radical concept.

I think that's largely to blame for so many blogs ending within the first year. We've all heard the stories about the majority of small businesses failing within a year or two, and the parallels are quite clear. After all, a good blog is like a small ideas factory. Or a small factory for ideas – either way, you get my point.

Walking around the subdivisions that make up the NZ blogosphere, one can't help notice the abandoned factories, not to mention the boarded up shopfronts and unsanitary homekill outfits. In my brief and very unscientific survey, it seems the right-wing blogs suffer a higher infant mortality rate, but I mention this merely as an observation, rather than a slight on the right. For every runningblogcapitalist, badpolitics and mediacow there may be hundreds of failed lefties, I just didn't find them. It's unsurprisingly difficult to find something that no longer exists.

Except – in the case of most failed blogs – they do still exist. Internet real estate is cheap and easy to come by, so rather than redevelop an abandoned lot, it's just left to decay. In some cases there's a goodbye note, a virtual Dear John (or is it more like a suicide note?); in others, it's like the Marie Celeste. The jug's just boiled, there's dinner on the table, but not a soul in site.

For some, the constant effort simply proves too much. Sure, there aren't any deadlines, in theory you can come and go as you please. But after a week or so, the emails start coming in, "are you okay?", "...haven't heard from you for a while", and there's a definite pressure to post.

In other instances, removing the veil of anonymity seems to have a silencing effect. Media Cow went pretty quiet when his identity was leaked (although his site now promises a comeback). After I confronted him about his identity, Radionzbias disappeared without trace, at least until recently, when he (or someone using his alias) surfaced as a guest blogger on PNN.

[I almost forgot to tell you that story. A few months ago I was shown pretty decent evidence that The Blogger Formerly Known as RadioNZBias was an attractive gentleman by the name of Russell Hutchinson, the principal of a company called Chatswood Consulting. I sent Mr Hutchinson a couple of emails, which remained unanswered (although his alter ego did offer an apology soon after). So I called him up, and asked him whether he was indeed the masked malingerer.

"No comment" was the answer.

I offered to take that as a 'yes'.

"I don't think you should take that as a yes, or a no" said he.

Way to pull a poker face, dude.

Anyhow, that conversation was enough to satisfy me – I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions. Hutchie, if you're reading, far from going to ground after being outed, may you now have enough courage in your convictions to do what the rest of us do every day – put your name to what you say.]

I digress. In some cases, family concerns (or Being in a Family Way) grinds the ideas conveyor belt almost to a halt, or a change in vocation means the man hours just aren't there. When I was working as a media monitor, I was intensely absorbing an average of ten hours of talk radio and television current affairs each day. These days I barely have time to read Sideswipe.

And Cracker reflects this. While I might opine from time to time about the state of the nation, less and less are such matters Cracker's raisin detour. If you want half-arsed opinions, there're plenty about, on both sides. If like me, you just enjoy reading people who have a nice turn of phrase, or an interesting take on "stuff", then hopefully you'll find it here.

I read something today that had been written about this entry. The bilious blogger seemed to like something I'd written, but was at pains to impress that he hated the fact it was me who had said it. Not sure why exactly, although he does refer to me as "self-appointed important person". I must have missed the memo.

Surely it can't be because I have a blog? – everyone has those these days, even the detractor himself. All I can come up with is Blog Envy. And looking at the lack of response to his hard work, it seems to be true. The poor guy has only had ONE comment back in the past six weeks, and even that was only some guy quoting Reagan. That's enough to send even the most mild-mannered blogger on a rampage. So please, go to his page, say nice things about his writing, tell him he's clever. Throw the man a bone.

Enough of that. Thanks for reading thus far, I'll be back in a week with another instalment. I don't promise to change your world, but I promise the Cracker factory will keep on churning out whatever it is you've come to expect. As of this month, I've been writing Cracker for longer than my longest relationship, so I'm kinda attached to it, and to you, especially those who send feedback 'n' stuff. But whatever anyone tells you – even me – I'm not important. I'm just a guy… standing in front of a computer... asking it to love him.

(Sometimes I think I love that movie too much.)

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