Every Little Boy's Dream House

Were things in the 60s and 70s simpler or just different?

We didn't have computers or iPods or iPads or Wii or Xbox. We didn't even have TV. I remember my first direct brush with technology was listening to Dad's Army on a valve radio in my bedroom on Sunday nights. I wonder if Josh will remember, 40 years from now, huddling under the covers playing Minecraft on his iPod.

As nostalgic as I tend to be, I realise times have changed, priorities are different, and it's a brave new world. But every now and then I enjoy how Josh simply does not understand what it means when I tell him that I did not have a TV or a computer when I was his age. We comprehend these things as adults, but children simply have no concept. "No TV? You mean, you didn't have one in your room?" "No Josh, we didn't HAVE one. At all. Possibly no one on the whole street had one." Oh, yeah. He finally understands. "So why didn't you just go buy one?"

Arrgghhh...

Anyway, I digress. Sort of. When I was a boy, an awesome treehut was probably the epitome of entertainment. Sure we had bikes, and toy cars, and even train sets. We made guns out of bits of wood, and bows and arrows out of tree branches. Those things were common. But not many boys I knew had really cool tree huts. In fact, none of them did. Secretly we longed for a tree hut. A proper one. Not just a few planks nailed into some branches for a semblance of a barrier. We wanted an enclosed, roofed, windowed haven in the canopy. Something with a lockable door to keep girls out. And even beyond out wildest dreams of what was possible, one with a separate lookout point, some sort of platform high-point so we could see those nasty girls coming! But even the most ambitious of us wouldn't have dared to desire such a thing.

So when I saw this recently, I realised that the impossible does exist! I just found it 40 years too late. It was tucked in the back of a house near Hagley Park. It backs on to a nice little reserve beside the river. I can so imagine  me and my mates sitting in their with dad's binoculars spying on unsuspecting passersby (okay, yes, the cute girl across the street). I wonder if nowadays the children who own this cool treehut sit in there and play on their iPads, with iPod music playing in their ears. The viewing platform is probably closed because of Health and Safety concerns. In fact, the whole thing may be closed pending consent from the Council.

Yes, perhaps life was simpler.

Strange Things You See #316

So, it's a cool Canterbury Sunday evening. There's a supermoon threatening to show itself on the horizon so I head down to New Brighton to meet up with some tog friends take some photos.

Actually, it's beyond cool. It's cold. Not freezing; not icy or snowy feeling. But cold. Thick winter coat, beanie with the tassels and fingerless gloves, fresh May wind cold. Wrap up warm because it's only going to get colder cold.

So in this kind of weather, the most daring thing you expect to see at New Brighton is only the most committed of surfers, if there are any worthwhile waves. Of course, there's seagulls. Do they feel cold? You expect there to be seagulls in even colder weather. And there's probably going to be the odd warmly jacketed beach-walker, lovers hand in hand sharing a scarf, or a few crazy dog owners running their pets.

But the last thing I expected to see was this:

Yes. Here's this woman, fully clothed except for bare feet, kneeling in the surf. But not only is she kneeling in the surf. She's ...

... body surfing! And generally lolling about sexily in the water. Sexily? Well, you can't help but go there as generally woman+lolling+surf generally = some kind of "sexily" connotation. Doesn't it?

But even the seagulls seemed to think this was a little strange. You can almost hear them thinking, Hey! Human! What the %£*%$& are you up to?

Anyway, strange things you see, eh?

The supermoon was pretty cool, but the following day's not quite so supermoon was better.

Lest We Forget

Someone asked me last night if I had any relatives in the war(s). To my knowledge I do not. I guess I may have some distant relatives who served, but we were always a relatively disparate family. I did not know most of my relatives past first status. After I was about 9 or 10, I rarely had any contact with most of my uncles, aunts and cousins. My only regular contact with extended family was my mother's brother (half-brother I think), his wife and their two children.

To my further shame, I don't know what my father's military experience was. There's this photo of him in uniform, and a few others, so he had some association with the military. But I'm pretty sure he never saw any action. If either of my grand-fathers were in the war, I never heard about it. They both died before I was old enough to think about such things.

So apart from the usual fascination young boys have for war and blowing things up, and a philosophical interest in the concept, I have not had much to do with war, or even things military.

Some years back I discovered a deep connection with the American War Between the States (the Civil War that was mostly anything but civil). Until then, most of what I had seen or heard about war came from movies, TV, and Commando comics. Which, one has to agree, do nothing to portray the reality of war. It was not until I began to study the Civil War that I started to get an idea of just what war was really like. The horror. The death and destruction. The terror. The potential for

Spot the Tourist - Cycle Trips of Death

Spot the Tourist - cycles in Hagley Park

With all due respect I cannot imagine a worse holiday than cycling around some foreign country.

Notwithstanding a violation of the Number One Universal Rule that states thou shalt not work on your holiday, I am firmly in the school that says a "holiday" must be spent in a swanky hotel, sipping Harvey Wallbangers by the pool (not the sea...another blog post). Otherwise it's not a "holiday"! Cycling around some foreign country seems to me to be the ultimate self-flagellation.

When I worked at the airport, with frightening regularity - I'm talking every day - we would watch cycle tourists arrive from overseas, struggle through Customs and MAF with those huge boxes that look like manila envelopes. They'd transport them perpendicular on the trolleys and knock little children and old ladies over, and if the tyres weren't full of heroin or cocaine, they'd make their way to the dedicated "cycle assembly" area. Well, some of them would. The majority simply opened up their box in the middle of the arrivals greeting area and started to assemble their bikes right there in the middle of the crowd.

Calendar Girls (not the strip club)

 "No front bottoms!" "Flesh sells!" "Can anyone see my nipples?"

These may be (in)famous lines from one of the West End's most popular plays, currently on stage at The Court Theatre (and until April 28).

Surely everyone, by now, knows the story? Conservative (ostensibly) Yorkshire Women's Institute ladies turn Calendar Girls for the good cause of raising money for Cancer research and, perhaps, the naughtier cause of spicing up their lives? You've seen the movie.

Having lost her husband to the dreaded disease, Annie's (Annie Whittle) and BFF Chris' (Jude Gibson) motivations are clear. The others', a cross section of femininity from elegantly ancient Jessie (Janice Gray) through anxiously demure Ruth (Avril Thresh) and confident page-three-lookalike Celia (Ali Harper), to the belligerently effervescent Cora (Juliet Reynolds-Midgley who is *whispers* my favourite of the sextet!) motivations are not so obvious, except for the want of supporting their friend.

What ensues is titillating mirth at its best.

What I'm Going To Do With $25m

There's is only one guarantee with Lotto: if you don't have a ticket you won't win. Of course, if you do have a ticket there's a pretty good chance you won't win, too. But ya gotta be in to win.

Everyone fantasises about what they would do with such a large amount of money. Just say it. Twenty Five Million Dollars. TWENTY FIVE MILLION DOLLARS!!

It's a lot of money. Surely enough to set anybody up for life. And with a little left over to spread around. Many times I've secretly wondered what I'd like to do if money were no object. So, here's a list.

I've always wanted to put a couple of hundred dollar notes into the hat/cup/guitar case of a particularly good busker. The best guitar playing busker I've ever seen/heard was a guy in New Orleans who said he had toured with John English. I kinda doubted that, but the man could play the guitar. He was incredible. I watched for ages, chatted to him, and put a few bucks into his pot. Every now and then you come across someone incredible like that.

10 Things I've Learned as a Tog Noob

I thought I'd throw out into the public arena (which is already saturated with such posts) a post about being a very new and moderately skilled photographer - a label I still feel a little cheeky giving myself.

With the advent of digital, and cheap but decent, DSLR cameras, it is very true that every man and his dog is a photographer. There now exists a huge divide between those professional photographers who have studied the craft all their life and do some good work, and those who recently picked up a decent camera and think they have a good eye. There is also a lengthy spectrum between those two groups.

Of course, lest anybody think I consider myself near the expert end, let me dispel anything like that immediately. On the spectrum I'm a noob. I've taken a few decent snaps, but I have a ways to go before I get noticed (if ever).

But I know what I like, and what I don't. I reckon I know to some degree what makes a good photograph, and doesn't. I think everyone has a little of that talent. We are all familiar with "experts" who may have all the knowledge in the world about a certain subject, but really have no clue. One may have studied the Masters and know everything there is to know about art and its history and fancy themselves an artist. But cant draw a decent stick figure.

Earthquake Memorial

You know... I wasn't terribly impressed with the memorial at Hagley Park the other day.

Don't get me wrong. I thought it was apt. I thought it was necessary. I thought the concept was executed well. But something was lacking.

names of victims are read out

names of victims are read out

There were poignant moments. The choir was particularly sonorous. The reading of the names by Fire Service and Police personnel was evocative. Despite the criticisms they struggled with some of the names, I think they did well with them. I do think, however, I would have preferred a national reading the names of people from their own country, but that may just be me. Hillary Clinton's video message was heartfelt, but for me it came out of left field. Huh? Hillary Clinton? I can understand messages from the Queen and Prince Charles. Nothing from Australian leaders? But Hillary Clinton?

sam johnson

Sam Johnson read a passage that was short and sweet, then disappeared off the stage. I would have liked to hear more from him. Someone sang a song. A few more people spoke, and I think the point for me is I have no idea what any of them said. It was a bunch of politically correct platitudes offered by entirely the wrong people, in most cases, to a crowd that in many ways is still searching for understanding and security for the future, neither of which was available at that service.

john key

John key spoke. Why? Other than being the political leader of New Zealand who left Christchurch decades ago, why would he have anything pertinent to say? Jerry Mataparae, our Govenor General spoke, too. Why? He is a military man whose personality and presence command respect. But I'm not sure why he was given the podium. Bob Parker spoke, but his fifteen minutes is up. Victoria Matthews, while supposedly representative of the spiritual pulse of Christchurch, is rather representative of all that is wrong with religion in the world. Is there a more boring speaker in the church? Any time I've heard her speak I want to slash my wrists by the time she finishes the first paragraph. Of course, every religion had to be represented, so, meh, whatever.

victoria matthews

But what was lacking? Real words from real people. I know we've heard ad infinitum from the victims of the earthquakes. To varying degrees we are all victims of the earthquakes. But instead of hearing from a bunch of stuffy boring people who have little to do with our reality, I'd have preferred to hear five minutes from a few of the people at the real front line of this disaster. Perhaps a few words from some of those who were receiving awards after the "service". Five minutes from Sam Johnson; three minutes from one of the USAR heroes; a few minutes from a few of the families. At the very least a keynote speaker with the ability to capture an audience with something interesting and god forbid inspiring to say.


There were just a little too many things wrong with it. Hone Hawawira was there. Metiria Turei and Russell Norman (omg that hat!) were there. Phil Goff was there. I'd hate to think they were all there simply to try and score political points, but I'd be hard pressed to remember hearing a single word Hone Harawira has ever spoken about the earthquakes. Does he have any direct connection to Christchurch at all? With political clouds hanging over John Key and Bob Parker, it's hard to take them seriously. Same with Phil Goff and Victoria Matthews. Peter Beck was there, and I'm not sure I saw those two communing together in the Lord.

I've long given up the expectation of ever hearing anything inspiring from any New Zealander. I don't think we have any great orators. Have we ever had any? If we do have any, in these days of carefully prepared politically correct PR approved speeches designed to offend no-one and say nothing, anyone taking a public stage is probably terrified of saying something that will get him or her into hot water. So instead they opt for the say nothing approach. Which doesn't do much for the audience.

Some woman came along and told Gudrun and I, and a couple other photographers, that we couldn't take photos of the families. Not that I was, but did she happen to notice the plethora of press photographers right beside us? And the TVNZ camera swinging right in their faces? Hmmm?

And did I mention how uninspiring the speakers were?

So I left feeling a little flat and a lot uninspired. So the day for me was won by the non-people symbols and moments.

half mast

everyone has an earthquake story

flowers in cones - the enduring image of
post-eq christchurch

monarch butterfly

Oh To Be Slim and Pretty

This sort of ignorance bugs me. If she's truly in the dark about it, then she must be completely insensitive and self-centred. If it's just a writing tool, then... she must be completely insensitive and self-centred.

Unhealthy body image seems to be the domain of women. But it isn't.

Does Feeney imagine for one second that little boys don't notice the world around them? Does she think they don't hear and see the messages little boys, teenagers, and adult men are bombarded with every minute of every day?

I don't know when she "grew up". I'd like to give her the benefit of the doubt, but I don't see an ounce of maturity in her article so I'll assume she's a really old, wise, 20 something knowitall. I'd wager she's thin and doesn't have a "cellulite concern" either.

Ahh... what would we do without Google. After writing the above I looked her up, and check, check, and probably check (although, to be fair she might be an old, wise early-30-something knowitall). And she's "an expert" on sex and relationships. The mind boggles.

What magical formula in Feeney's Universe allows girls and women to see and understand the negative body messages surrounding us, but delivers boys and men from their harmful effects?

Busker's World First

Mild-mannered plate-spinning
Peter Mielniczek

On the last show of the last day of the World Busker's Festival, no one could predict what was going to happen. Add to the tension a cooling rain, a red beret, and a precocious 4 year old, and the inevitable transpired. Dry-humoured plate-spinning Brit Peter Mielniczek created history (we think). For a full seven minutes, Mielniczek (pronounced "Mielniczek") worked two crowds, two shows at two venues, two sets of gags, and wowed everyone, including (it seemed) even his fellow buskers.

Le Tigre Bleu, Group Show @ 4.30

Well into his plate-spinning, chocolate bar stomping, topless dashing routine, it appeared he was losing control. A young boy named James was stealing the show. Precocious, cute, but a little annoying, James wooed the audience with his cute philosophising. Mielniczek was visibly shaken by the boy's clever responses. Time was running out. He was losing the crowd (not really, but it sounds more dramatic that way. The kid was adorable and Mielniczek was working it like a master). But time was running out. Mielniczek was due in Le Tigre Bleu, an indoor stage opposite the CocaCola Stage where he was, for a bit part in the group show.



So, with time against him, and after two (good-hearted) warnings from fellow buskers, Mielniczek did the unthinkable (at least, to the uninitiated, I imagine such a thing would be unthinkable). He told his audience to wait. He'd be back. Yes. He told the gathered crowd, who had not paid to see him, who were sitting in the cold spitty rain, and from whom he was expecting/hoping to get money as long as they stayed there, to wait. Just let me do this little thing, over there, and I'll be back.