Bic Runga's pretty cool eh?

Should really be packing prior to tomorrow's ridiculously early flight to Adelaide (I do have a reason to be going, not just some sort of masochistic tourism) but I can't do that until I have raved about the Bic Runga concert I just got back from.

Because it rocked.

More than 682 old people in rocking chairs can rock.

I have seen her sister playing in Stellar (who also rock), have all of her CDs, seen her on TV, listened to her on the radio, got the teatowel etc but this was the first time I have seen her live - and 'OMFG' she is cool.

The promo spiel for the night was rather uninspiring at first appearances - 'Bic Runga and studio band' - until you realise that her 'studio band' includes musicians on loan from some of NZs best bands - including Neil Finn on piano.

As for the mysterious Bic in person? Well, it seems she is a beguiling mix of incredible exoticism and supreme nerdyness. The nerdyness doesn't come accross in the media but boy does it ever on stage.

You would think that someone who looks as stunning as she does, with Cleopatra haircut, black stockings and heels and black pinafore-ish frock (complete with large pockets on the front for shoving one's hand into every now and then during a song) would be completely intimidating - and they should - but not when the wearer is skipping around the stage in between songs and giggling like a (very cool) schoolgirl.

And she is SO kiwi.

And I love her for it.

Sample banter (she didn't do a lot) included:

"Right-o"

"Thanks for coming and uh, thanks for buying my new album - it's #26 on the charts - woohoo! - I don't need to get a job!"

"Yeah, and I just wanna thank the band for coming all this way and for hanging out with me"

"We were going to invite the kiwi Commonwealth Games athletes along but we didn't want to bum them out with our loser vibes".

Have I mentioned that she rocks?

Her backup singers looked like they'd just popped into the Opotiki pub on a Friday night - gossiped with each other during songs and, at one point, made 'don't go there girlfriend' hand gestures at each other before (quietly) cracking up.

And Bic did a bit of that too - in between sounding as gorgeous as she does. Her voice is one of the better ones I have ever had the privilege of listening to, and that's not just the one-eyed Noo Zullander in me speaking (much).

The venue was the fabulous Hamer Hall (goddamn awesome acoustics) in the Melbourne Arts Centre (where I saw Antony and the Johnsons a few months back - it seems I have now reached the age when my concerts are in Arts Centres not skanky pubs - not sure this is good for my street cred.

And I have never seen as many bone carvings or paua jewellery items in one place in my life. There were more kiwis per square inch than a London ex-pat pub. And we knew it...and it felt goooooooooooood. As I sat there blissing out (and missing home) I could hear the same happy sighing noises that I was making going on throughout the auditorium.

Time to get me home for an Easter visit methinks...or at least to buy some more paua jewellery ;-)

A claaaaaaaaaaaaaasy barbie [mate]

Last weekend I hosted a very classy BBQ on my fabulous deck, which is attached to my equally fabulous house [modesty is one of my few failings]. A mate who was staying did the catering (cos' I can't cook to save myself - there is definitely something to be said for having trained chefs as houseguests!) and it was all proceeding swimmingly. Refined conversation was taking place and the mood was relaxed yet a little sophisticated.

Then I went and ruined it.

Glancing off the edge of my deck onto the neighbour's rooftop I noticed a magazine lying there and called out to my houseguest to see if it was one of hers that had fallen off the railing.

As she and another mate came to check, the wind flipped the pages of what, at a very cursory glance, had appeared to be a women's magazine - to reveal that it was in fact a reasonably hardcore porn mag. Enough to make all of us go 'oh dear god!' and look away while turning red.

Sure enough, within seconds of this happening, all guests were hanging over the balcony peering at what I can only assume had been hastily chucked out of the neighbour's window when his girlfriend/parents/minister/caseworker came in unexpectedly.

But no, that wasn't enough for said classy guests. An exceedingly complicated rescue mission was mounted to retrieve the lads' mag from my neighbour's roof - which involved 3 adults, who, collectively, have more degrees than a thermometer. This efficiently planned and executed mission involved commandeering my mop and broom, taping them together and clumsily appropriating said magazine:



...which they then had a bloody good laugh at and left on my deck for me to return to the neighbour's roof when they had gone.

So, in the spirit of heartfelt retaliation, here is a lurvely piccy of Mr Terry (Sharanjeev) Johal, university lecturer, PhD candidate and professional porn connoisseur, purveying said magazine during my no-longer-classy BBQ.



N.B. Terry was perfectly happy for me to blog this picture, on the proviso that I added his disclaimers as follows - pick and choose as you wish (and feel free to add your own suggestions):

"I am shocked and honestly appalled at the lack of quality and artistry in this magazine - which is not mine, nor i have never seen it before."

"I was only looking for the WMDs"

"the terrorists made me do it....."

"hey, it was the cartoons that shocked me"

Silent soup

If you have never experienced true silence, this is what it feels like.

Picture a New York soup kitchen. A small one, operated by lovely catholic nuns, and a handful of volunteers (mainly Christian types, with one random person waiting for a visa to be processed). The kitchen is in a state of chaos. There are 150 people to feed, three people cooking meatballs, and a youth group who are just there to torment you by doing nothing, or strategically standing in front of you when you are holding scalding hot food. Then it happens. You drop a pot of sauce, and like a kid with a tick, you involuntarily yell "f***k." And there it is. True silence.

Good question!

Another joy of being an akademik is that the standard of toilet graffiti is somewhat higher than in the average office [ok, so that might be a little debatable but there has to be a hook somewhere].

Although risking some seriously odd looks and a possible harassment case your intrepid correspondent boldly took her camera into the ground floor toilets to capture this little gem for you.

Drinking nuts unite!

Not even engrish this time - just beautifully ambiguous english. Great promotional concept though!

Thanks, yet again, to Dr Steph (ex-NZ, now Nigeria-based but currently in Melbourne...as you do) who spotted this when we were at the supermarket yesterday.

But I promise to pay my taxes....

Amongst all of the tragedy and injustice in this world, no injustice seems quite as pronounced as your own. Your friend's cat dies. Sad. Your cat dies. Absolutely heart wrenching tragedy.

And so it goes with my current views on migration in the US. A couple of years ago, while I was studying at Arizona State University, I would often read about the number of would be migrants dying as they attempted to cross the border from Mexico to the US (460 in 2005 alone). The US solution to this? Increase patrols. Put up more fences.

Then I tried to migrate to the US. I didn't need to endure a desert crossing to do it- but I still didn't go about it in the most legal way. My plan was simple. Come stay with my friend in NY and eventually find someone who might be willing to sponsor a work visa for me. Unfortunately I discovered the hard way that your chances of becoming legal here are much higher if you are (a) a model, (b) an agricultural worker or (c) an Australian. That's right, if you're a hand model, handy with a cherry picker or were born in Burpengary, you are in luck. Of course it also helps if you are rich. Filing a petition for a work visa, once you employ the use of an immigration lawyer and pay all of the relevant fees, can cost you up to $7000US. So here i remain, an unemployed alien (the category my bank put me in when i opened an account) doing voluntary work and contemplating the injustice of it all.

While of course i am reasonable enough to see that my own situation is not a heartbreaking tragedy, i can't help but think of the thousands of illegal workers here, who through whatever means, have risked everything to cross into the US and work primarily in low income jobs. The US administration will claim that there are plenty of ways for these workers to enter the US legally, and will even claim that they have tried to make it easier for them to obtain the proper visas, through those extra places in the agricultural categories for instance. How helpful. Of course, a person who chooses to risk their life running across the desert to enter the land of the free is going to have a spare $7000 tucked away for safe keeping. In fact, I am sure most who choose to cross the border "economy style" are just trying to save a few pennies for the condo they are going to buy on the other side.

If the US is willing to accept that these migrants are currently filling major gaps in the agricultural and service sector, they should also acknowledge that a process which does not reasonably allow most of them to become legally recognised, or does so for three years but gives no guarantees long term (as Bush has proposed) is severely lacking. I have the luxury of being able to give up on the American dream and move on, most do not.

I make no apologies for my presumptuous overly simplistic and personalised rant. My cat just died.

Sigh.

Oh Mohammad Christ.

'Our values or go home: Costello'

Small [nerdy] pleasures.

There are not tooooooo many perks that come with being a univercity lekturer - but yesterday provided one of em' while I was busy doing the 'welcome to our degree you cute little shit-scared first years' BBQ and pretending to be a welcoming lecturer.

Little student: "So, uh, what can we call you?"

Me: [completely straight-faced] "Your Highness will do to start".

Tee hee.

The abominable snowman- alive and well in NY

✍Political rants from an unemployed kiwi in Brooklyn✍

November 1st. My first day in New York. Well technically that would be true if I left Brooklyn that day, but I didn't. Instead I spent a jet lagged day in Bayridge (think Hamilton- the most boring part) cold calling people in apartment buildings for a local city councilman called Vincent Gentille. With the election in a couple of days, Vinny's big sell was that he had gotten rid of sunday parking meters. That's right- because of Vinny you "don't have to pay to pray!" And if you can't get re-elected on your parking policy, then what hope is there right?

Several hundred phone calls later, Vinny won. The democrats mayoral candidate did not. To be fair, running against a Republican incumbent with millions of dollars to throw into his campaign was always going to be a hard ask. You see, here in the land of the free, limiting how much of your personal money you put into your campaign would be an infringement on your freedom of speech. Who knew that you could buy free speech?! Mayor Bloomberg obviously.

But it's not all about the politics right? There's high rise buildings, good pizza, bright yellow taxi cabs and picket lines. But not as we know it. You see, a strike in New York is an expensive business. If you are a subway worker for instance, and decide to take part in an organised strike when the MTA threatens to raise the age of retirement and make you start paying a big chunk of your pay to cover healthcare, you could not only lose your job but be forced to pay a $25,000 fine for each day that you strike. Fined to strike? I'm still not sure if the right to strike is as expensive as free speech. I'm sure there is a catalogue somewhere that could tell me.

The MTA workers went on strike though. For two days Manhattan ground to a halt. Thousands of people walked across the Brooklyn bridge, complaining as they went about how many blocks they would have to trek that morning. I walked across the Bridge with them and wondered- if I asked them whether they would be willing to walk for two mornings so that some guy who has worked under ground for 20 years will have the right to retire next year, instead of in 6 years, would they do it? What if I threw in a free bagel and coffee?

And now it is February. The month that the Young Democratic Socialists of America hold their annual conference. It was I guess the equivalent of Young Labour's summer school, except here the conferences are used as a chance to remind the small number of YDSA members that there are others out there that think the way they do. Like the three guys from Arkansas I met, who drank whiskey like it was beer and had the fist and rose tattooed on their arms.

So there it is. I can testify that America has Democratic Socialists. Not quite enough to give you hope that things will change- the political system here doesn't leave room for that kind of wishful thinking. But they exist all the same. It's a bit like seeing a Yeti though-they are rumoured to exist but only the odd lucky person ever sees them- and even then no one would probably believe you.

I believe in the Yeti. I just hope they can vote.

Bootleggin' the Thaigrish

So, uh, a 'friend' of mine was in Thailand recently, perusing completely illegal CDs and DVDs in a disreputable CD and DVD store.

She was rather taken by the high standards of reproduction on the available wares - especially the geometry-inspired remix of Dido's 'I'm no angel'.



What's more, the display system used left no room for confusion whatsoever - ALL good :-)



N.B. The feet in the photo of definitely my friend's - any resemblance to mine is completely accidental.

One for the laaaaaaaaaaadies.

So have I ever mentioned that I worked as a mobile DJ for a few years in my halcyon youf?

Not something one would boast about I guess - except that it was kind of fun in a ridiculously naff sort of way. I worked for this charmingly old skool bloke called Al who ran an outfit called 'All Star Entertainments'. He was a bit of a legend who used to wear white tux jackets when DJing and had a sideline managing country singers (and an Elvis impersonator - I shit you not) who recorded records in his garage. He paid well, had some kickarse stereo equipment and all the latest music. And he called every group of females he ever encountered 'ladies' (a term that makes me want to throttle anyone who says it...except Al...who somehow managed to be endearing while misogynising :).

And when I say 'DJing', we're not talking all of this fancy schmancy mixing and scratching, no sireee - in the days before itunes and mp3s (which, come to think of it, have probably rooted his business completely) we were using nothing but the sexiest combo of minidiscs (hot shit!) and CDs.

So I would rock on in to a random community hall, school hall, house, barn, pub etc etc, set up my sexy decks and get down to playing ... whatever the drunken bastards wanted. Which, in most cases, involved 'ring of fire', 'the gambler' (no 21st birthday or barmitzvah complete without it!), 'tub-thumping', 'blister in the sun' and probably some AC/DC in for good measure. I got VERY good at dealing with drunken requests for songs that go 'la la de laaaaaaaaaa or something', and other equally unforgettable tunes.

Memorable highlights of my mobile DJing career included the night when the clock struck 12, someone requested 'you can leave your hat on' by Joe Cocker and all men at the pub-based birthday bash got in a circle and took their clothes off. Nothing like a little visual horror to end a great night at work. Another, even less pleasant, version was the Indian bogan 21st where I had to send out an SOS for more metallica and was rewarded with having to play music for 2 strippers who did such a full-on strip (pulling strings of pearls out of..., getting the lucky birthday boy to lick whipped cream out of...) that I was pretty much operating the system blind for fear of being irrevocably scarred.

Sooner or later though, the fun had to come to an end. I finished my degree and ditched the mobile DJing career-path for something a little more morally bankrupt. But the habit of accepting random requests has stayed with me (somewhat opening myself up to hassles there). In fact, I rather enjoy it.

So, with no further ado, I am proudly presenting the latest Nigrish shot from our Nigerian correspondent Dr Steph (below), and an utterly random shot of Paris from Timothy Mark Arnold (above), who, not content with his last mention, is now demanding more space on my blog while refusing to make his own (for the record, there is no engrish/humour etc in the paris shot - just Tim showing off his nascent photoshop skills and me patiently humouring him).

And I must surely win the prize for the most tangential introduction ever.

Over and out :-)

Confidence-inspiring menus courtesy of Thailand.

Hight speed oriental elegancy ... @ cheese.

As promised (I am not one to disappoint my many fans), here are some equally silly shop signs:

Would YOU buy from these stores?

...and more silliness.

Last lot of t-shirts (promise).











Stay tuned for stupid signs in the next exciting installation of Thaigrish revisited :-)

Let the Thaigrish begin!

OK - so I just got back from 10 days in Thailand, evenly split between family time on Koh Samui and slightly less honourable pursuits in Bangkok.

Regardless of where I was, however, it was an opportunity to indulge in a little (well, ok, a LOT) Engrish collecting (Thaigrish?). On Samui every other shop is proudly proclaiming something pretty damn funny - and in Bangkok the mates who I met up with dragged me around every mall in town - which is rather handy cos' Thailand does a REALLY nice line in idiotic engrish t-shirts...which I have risked life and limb and disapproving stares from shopkeepers to collect for you.

And now, because it is my blog and I can cry if I want to (sorry, random age-showing pop cult ref in there for good value), I am going to inflict them ALL on you - ahhhhhh, the slide show of the new millennium.

So let's ease into it gently - with a little competition. My shout to the person who can tell me what a wodoct is when it's at home (and no, don't cheat by googling it - I am the first person to write this word on the internet it seems!). Whatever it is, I reckon it's a pretty profound thing to say on a t-shirt.



...and some more t-shirt fun:






More to come soon :-)

Being slightly less than responsible in BKK

So am wrapping up a little jaunt with some mates in Bangkok now, post-family get together in Koh Samui. No time to blog it up properly but these pics might give some indication of the general tone of the trip ... ;-)

Insectinal fortitude

Also muched through a bag of fried grasshoppers and silkworms the other night (surprisingly good) - surely that gets me some cred to offset the jetski....?

White trash all the way baby!

OK so I have a confession to make.

After years of pooh-poohing jetskis and the wankers who use them I gave in to temptation and tried it today in Koh Samui (Thailand), where I happen to be.

And, fuck it to death, it was bloody marvellous. A waterborne, noisy, white trash, testosterone-inducing blast - combined with the 'wheeeeeeee this is wayyyyyyyyyyyyy too much fun!!!'-factor.

Mutter mutter mutter...

"Curse you Thailand and your white trash tourist temptations!"

(Does the fact that I went to a Thai drag cabaret show complete with Banarama and enough feathers to make a million duvets last night earn me any cultural counterbalance points...?)

Every kowlage acquired is not lost.

I dearly wish I could lay claim to having taken this shot but I cannot tell a lie - it comes courtesy of the fabulous Dr Steph who took it by accident whilst hanging out in Nigeria (her current lunatic assignment that provides me with no end of amusing emails).

It is truly a parable for our modern times - and it really resonates with a post-grad student such as myself who has been working to acquire my own little kowlage collection over the last few years. [beats chest in fit of academic fervour]

Steph has suggested the term 'Nigrish' for this particular sub-species of Engrish - and I rather like the word - not least cos' it sounds just a little rebellious.

Squint and enjoy.

A wee musical appreciation rant.

Thought i'd just take a leaf out of Hammy's blog and do a bit of a rave about the concert I just got back from.

Which, for the record, was goddamn awesome.

Headlining was Antony and the Johnsons. If androgynous gospel-inspired soul from a man with the voice of an angel and a nice sideline in cabaret patter floats your boat then this is the boy (girl?) for you. Props to Timothy Mark Arnold for introducing me to them some time ago and for being my charming date this evening.

In a rare twist of fate and good taste - the support acts were also pretty damn special. Coco Rosie is a little hard to describe, other than being somewhat akin to a gorgeous smacked up mongrel crossbreed of Billie Holiday, Bjork and deep south-referencing white girl rappers. It is actually two sisters (one classically trained in Paris and the other who goes by the name of Red Bone Slim) and a drummer - all of whom took some delight in appearing in white trash costume and wigs while working their spell on us.

And even the support act's support act was good! [rolls on floor in paroxyms of ecstasy]. A local group called the Stiletto Sisters, a joyous, mischievous bodice-wearing trio of violin, cello and accordion who play some damn fine gypsy music. Will definitely turn into a groupie for their regular melbourne gigs.

OK - enough music raving - normal service will be resumed shortly :-)