Merry Christmas

From all here at Review. We'll be back in the New Year with more local profundity and enthusiams.

With love,

Department Of Conversation



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My Chemical Romance Vector Arena

BY SRIWHANA SPONG

The 6th of December is predictably dark and miserable. It rains and my feet get wet, which is not a good start. But on the corner of K rd and Pitt street Niki gives me three picture discs: Teenagers, Famous Last Words, and I Don’t Love You, and when I see Stevie dressed in a red and black tuxedo jacket I know it’s going to be the only night in the 07 calendar. I then spend a long but rewarding time drying my shoes and inner soles under the hand dryer in the Carlton Hotel/Club/Arms……who can remember? Its name is as innocuous as its décor.

Downtown the merchandise caravan looks like it has been invaded by a thousand teenagers with their mothers’ eftpos card. There is nothing left, but as Justin points out, ‘that logo makes everything look shit’. Which is true. It is pretty desolate outside the arena, but I am beginning to realise that I might be a late twenties minority. Justin buys beer, and gets ID’ed. The guy even checks the back of his drivers license??? I always love entering the Vector Arena, emerging into that warm blackness latent with expectation. Our seats are entry D, door 2, row P, seats 16 and 17. In front of me is a mini black parade of 12 year olds in tour t-shirts. The stand out, and my envy, wears a black and gold marching jacket. Someone I met for the first time earlier that night at Gambia Castle has ended up in the seat next to me. I can only conclude that some strange magic is crackling in the air tonight. We are to the side of the stage, and very close. Through my monocular we can read the set list, and Justin and I pass the time by texting my siblings downstairs that Gerard is whispering the song order in my ear backstage.

The lights get cut, and darkness prepares to crawl onto the stage. When the band finally begins its ascent Gerard waits at the bottom of the stairs, his long white fingers clutching the balustrade, head bent. Waiting. The new king of rock theatrics takes his sweet time before ascending to face a dark landscape full of screaming girls. And then a stream of profanities, flames bursting from the stage with a searing heat, fireworks so loud that every time they explode I jump. For a Guy Fawkes baby this feels like the day I was born.

Mama we all go to hell, but tonight it feels like the doors of heaven have split wide apart. Thousands of outstretched palms appear like daisies opening to the sun, and Gerard Way master of the dark and theatrical, snarls, spits and swears on all. High points are everywhere, the graph flatlines against the roof of heaven. Ray Toro gives a guitar solo, and Justin and I are blinded by a shard of light that explodes from his axe. A moment full of so many clichés, it somehow feels like genius. The night is one big anthem. When I don’t Love You grips the Vector Arena in its bitter embrace, thousands of cameras spontaneously puncture the darkness, and Gerard leads his underage parade to the stars, with the mother of all melodies. Cancer, which is surprisingly good live, envelops the arena in a hush so soft you could almost hear the grim reaper drop his scythe. The Black Parade, ‘the Bohemian Rhapsody of our generation’ (Justin), storms to an end with a fall of blistering auburn fireworks that rain down like tears.

MCR weave an hysterical gothic tale, unafraid in the face of a blinding melody, and as consciously over the top as Lisa Minellis’ false eyelashes in Cabaret. For all their blackness, these orchestraters of lyrical doom, are still good catholic boys, and what they inspire is more ethical hedonism than Rimbaudian tabletop antics. Like true showmen they save the best till last. Famous Last Words is a storming, scornful ode to the end of something you hoped might just last forever.



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The Green Crocodile Sandwich Bar, Darby St, Auckland City

BY SALLY CONOR

Working in the city sometimes feels a bit like an episode of Survivor; every lunch-break is like an immunity challenge and the race is on to find sustenance lest you perish or get voted off. Locating a simple sandwich can be as difficult as canoeing all the way around the island with a dead boar tied to your oar and sometimes you will end up eating something that resembles fermented yak’s testicles anyway. If, like me, you work in the city, you have probably scouted out most of the sweet lunch spots in town, and stick to your favourite haunts day after day, partly out of laziness and partly out of a fear that if you deviate from the tried-and-true, you might accidentally find yourself at McDonald’s eating pureed chicken gizzards cut with asbestos (otherwise known as Chicken McNuggets).

The discovery of a new lunch place is akin to finding fifty bucks in your old jeans pocket. The possibility! All of a sudden, one’s options are blown wide open. I recently received a tip-off about a sandwich place in town, down that sidestreet by The Body Shop and opposite The Recycle Boutique. I could hardly believe my ears! A place that makes ordinary sandwiches? In TOWN?? And what was more it had a cool name, dripping with exotic associations: The Green Crocodile.

I promptly went in search of this fabled food oasis. Now, I know of other places in town where you can get a regular sandwich made: there’s one in the SkyCity cinema complex and one in the Downtown foodcourt. However. These sandwich joints are in horrible neon MALLS. The very experience of visiting them is so unpleasant as to cancel out any pleasure, financial or gastronomic, incurred from getting a sandwich made to your tastes (NB Subway definitely doesn’t count because going in there is like visiting a mall anyway in its revolting same-ness, and all its branches smell of old meat and empty promises of ‘freshly baked’ bread… freshly defrosted blobs of stodge more like). The Green Crocodile is a regular shop on an actual street that catches real daylight and is staffed by real business-owners, not mall drones.

My first impression of The Green Crocodile was that half the title does not lie. It’s painted completely green on the inside! Cool! However, there was no evidence of a crocodile anywhere which was a little disappointing. I was at least hoping to be served by a person in a crocodile suit. Or maybe someone dressed like Steve Irwin. But in this case, reality was better than my imagination because I was served by possibly the nicest lady in the whole world. She called me ‘love’. She listened to my sandwich order like she really cared about me and my nutrition. And she wore beautiful shiny lavender eye shadow. A glance at the health certificate told me that this was Lesley. Lesley is my new favourite Auckland Personality. I am intrigued by her perennially cheery manner and dangly earrings. Her middle name is Pearl!

The sandwich itself was really yum: vogels with nice ordinary cheese, tomato and lettuce. I have simple tastes and am mostly a vegetarian but for everyone else there is a dizzying array of sandwich options for your eating pleasure. Lots of different breads, meats, salads, cheese, pineapple, pickle, condiments, cottage cheese… it was almost enough to make me order a double meat French roll with everything including two types of mustard. AND they do toasted sandwiches and burgers and milkshakes too! You can even buy yummy baked goods for one dollar. Just one dollar! NOTHING costs one dollar anymore. If this is the last bastion of the one dollar sweet in the whole of Auckland I wouldn’t be surprised. If only there was a booth and a jukebox I would make The Green Crocodile my new hang out à la The Peach Pit.

It seems like The Green Crocodile is one of a dying breed. I just heard last week about the imminent closure of another of my favourite lunch joints: Ima on Shortland St. Yael who owns and runs and cooks at Ima has been driven out by the exorbitant rent in central Auckland. She and Lesley operate at opposite ends of the lunch spectrum in terms of cost and ingredients (I like a delicious $8 Moroccan Tuna pie from Ima just as much as a $4.50 cheese sarnie) but they have one thing in common: they make their food with love and understand that lunch is a time to feed more than the coffers of the fast-food chain conglomerates. It’s about eating something that was made just for you with real food value and actually enjoying it. It’s about being able to zone out and drop fresh lettuce and chutney on your lap while you check your facebook page. It’s about somebody calling you ‘love’ even though they don’t know you.

Finding The Green Crocodile is another one of those Auckland moments for me – when you discover a new gem sparkling in amongst the dusty old scoria. A gem staffed by genuine people unaffected by both overpriced High St wankery and the mass-market sterilisation of the city. I intend to make Lesley my friend and enjoy many a chocolate milkshake whilst reading New Idea at the little table in The Green Crocodile. Ronald McDonald can go fuck himself.



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Shoes Sprts Shoes Style Wires for Casual Smart Casual Plus

BY TAHI MOORE

I SEE PEOPLE WEARING VANS
After I noticed people in photos in magazines and ads for jeans wearing Vans, I looked at some in a shop and they still looked the same. Then I saw three people wearing them. They were good. The soles are thick, which is tricky, except when they get it right.

THE INTRACACIES OF SPORTS SHOE DESIGN
I mean when anything gets a bit indistintive in the design it it gets a bit indistinctive. When design gets perfect it tends to get boring unless it's doing something really good. Casual shoes are good when they're plain, but usually they're sports shoes. Vans tend to have thick soles and a wavy logo that can go either way. that thick sole thing really stands out and they really need to be funny in another way to really work, and basic. And basic. aand basic. Sometimes you can do 3 colours, but usually it's 2 colours too much. There's no such thing as smart casual in sprts shoe land there's no such thing as dressed up. It won't work. The sprts shoes you put on today are the shoes you got because they looked really good with your jeans. That's it. You can't save the wavy line. You can't wear them and insist comfort. You can't hope they'll work when you're not looking or when someone else sees the something you don't right now. That happens sure but not usually. Usually it's all hope and a dream follwed by the comfort zone of memory loss oblivion. If they don't work now and you still buy them they'll know they won't have to work later on and you'll still wear them ha ha sucker.

CHEAP SHOES
Went to No1 shoe warehouse to try some Vans turned out to be lookalike nradn I liked the white chuck type shoes 20 dollars but then a voice from the jeans in depth research said don't by me I was made with below subsistence wages, probably. I tried to do research into that but nothing. What does that mean? I don't know.



***

BY RYAN MOORE

Lost Weekend

BY TAHI MOORE

GIN AND TONIC
Gin won't freeze if it's below 40 per cent alcohol or something like that. Having gotten some strong gin, usually from duty free where it's stronger, leave it in the freezer for a long time. 1/3 gin some lime juice from a lime 2/3 tonic. You have to drink it before the gin thaws out from its freezer visousity.

2 WRONGS MAKE A RIGHT
This I think is the law of gin, which can be awful, along with something else, which can be awful, which comes out good.



***

No Pictures

BY SIMON DENNY

We had to give the car a bit of a clean as we had to give it back the next morning. We had a rather dodgy map but knew we were in the right area. There were no signs and after about an hour we were about to give up when Jon spotted it. It was dark by now but we managed to get a picture of it. After cooking up some food in the van we then went to the minus 5 degrees bar. We have a similar one in London. We were given big jackets and gloves. The bar is made all of ice, including the glasses. There were some really good sculptures in there but they would not let us take poictures. The novelty of being cold soon wore off and we went to another bar. There was a big casino in the centre of town. We had used their parking so we had to go inside (convenient for Jon) whilst Jon enjoyed the roulette I enjoyed the free hot drinks. We then had to find somewhere to stay for our final night in the van. It was late and quite a built up city so we settled on a relatively quiet road. I will miss our little moon roof we had, at night you can open it up and see lots of stars. I will not miss waking up and having to drive to the nearest toilet in order to pee though! The next morning we did just that and stayed parked up in order to get our stuff packed up. Jon noticed a hole in one of the mens cubicles (think Shameless, if you have ever seen that episode) and we noticed in the hour we were there that way too many men were using the cubicles. Bit much for a Saturday morning but we were sure we had stumbled accross a little hunting ground for Auckland's gay men.

We were running late for dropping off the van so we knew we would have to pay a $10 penalty which wasn´t much. Now, with this company you had to bring the van back clean. We could not find a car wash but had noticed brushes to clean windows and buckets at most stations. So, in true backpacker style we washed the whole van down with the window brush and rinsed it with a watering can. The man in the garage must have thought we were nuts and was giving us a confused look. When we went to take the van back half an hour late we found the office was closed. I called them and we were meant to take it to their office near the airport but no-one had told us, this meant we didn´t get charged for being late. So we drove there and I managed to pursuade a cab driver dropping someone off to take us to the airport cheaply. We were not due at the airport for another 3 hours but as we were close there was no point going back to the city. With 3 hours to kill before check-in we got a free shower and caught up on our diary.

Once checked in our flight was delayed by 2 hours which meant another 5 hours waiting around. They gave us a voucher which we spent in the bar, well what else is there to do in an airport. I felt rather merry when we finally got on the plane!



***

The Trough

BY ASH KILMARTIN

University - a term which conjures images of quiet leafy avenues, tweed blazers with leather elbow-patches, and dusty shelves of well-thumbed copies of the great works of world literature. The reality, as many of us know, is a far cry from such picturesque notions of Academia. Nothing has proved this to me more, than my experience at the Trough.

The Trough, known properly as the General Staff Morning Tea, is the stuff of snacking legend. Now, every school and every department within the University have some form of Christmas party (or, should I say, 'end-of-year party' - on that note, has anyone else noticed the non-denominational nature of the festive decorations on Queen St?). But The Trough is the mother of all paid-for spreads. Being a young Library Assistant - just a juniorburger - the walk from Fort Fine Arts down to Old Government House for my first Trough was one of high anticipation. I'd been told about the jabbing elbows, the viscious use of sensible shoes, and the napkins-full of booty being ferried back to offices. And I was not disappointed.

From across the rose garden, I could hear the din coming from the usually genteel, hallowed halls of the OGH common rooms. The slurps of tea from polystyrene cups, the satisfied laughter of successful hunters and gatherers, and the occasional gasps when a fresh platter of those prized asparagus rolls arrived at table.

The Dining Hall, to the left of the foyer, held the biggest spread. Three tables of various platters, plus juice and a tea table. The Common Room, to the right, held only one large banquet table and (the result of ill-timed speeches, and the presence of the VC) fewer hungry public servants. However, both rooms were packed, as was the patio outside. Attendees were staff of all descriptions. Academic staff, library slaves, admin bullies and those jovial property services gents. Some looked as though this was their one big outing of the year; others appeared to have "eyes bigger than their stomachs", as my Dad would say. The strangest aspect was that, despite the massive and enthusiastic turnout, I only spotted three people I have met before. Sure, it's a big institution, but having studied across departments and visited every building on the campus in my recent quest to photograph the University's art collection, I expected to recognise a few more faces. Alas, only Doug (who delivers our Interloans crates), Kelly (from behind the desk at NICAI reception), and the Russian lady from the School of European Languages and Literature, who had given me the master key for all the rooms in her deparment (only one painting spotted).

But - to the important part: the food. After all, that's what everyone was there for.

Asparagus rolls (x3)
Fair. Both white and wheatmeal bread, no sign of butter/margarine. Not too dry, in fact, a little soggy. Asparagus of tinned variety, should have been better drained.

Chicken tortilla rolls (x2)
Fair. Very dry and quite salty with small amout of shaved roast chook. However, a good balance to the sweet snacks.

Chocolate almond tarts (x1)
Good. Probably the most sophisticated snack available. Chocolate, cakey outer with almond filling and slivers of almond atop. Perfect size, about the same at base as a 50c coin. Dee-lish.

Christmas mince pies (x1)
Couldn't fit any in whilst on site, but reports were good. Disappointed when tried leter in the day, faint taste of vomit(!). Would not trade again.

Club snadwiches (x3)
Fair. All white bread, with thin fillings. No good egg versions, disappointing. Again, good savoury balance for all the sweets, and the shadows of tomatoes constituted my "5 plus a day".

Cinnamon Brioche
Did not try. Too sickly-looking and big enough to prevent hoarding other snacks.

Cupcakes (4 varieties: mauve-iced, mint-iced, white-iced, double chocolate) (x1)
Again, had to take off-site. Chose the white iced (passionfruit), badly disappointed. Too dense and cakey, icing not tangy enough (more lemon icing, please. On everything).

Custard tarts (x1)
Good. Classic sweet tart, with star-shaped squeeze of bright yellow faux-custard and chocolate-lined pastry base. Substantial slices of strawberry (x4) and the obligatry gelatinous glaze.

Orange juice (x1)
Arano, from bottle. Good tartness and perfect pulp:liquid ratio.

Sausage Rolls (x5)
Good. Optimum temperature - warm, but not burney-hot at sausage centre. Tomato sauce was provided, but these rolls needed no additives. Would trade again.

Savoury muffins (2 varieties)
Did not try. Looked dry and gross.

Tea
Make-you-own, Twinings English Breakfast. But who has time to brew when there are asparagus rolls to be stock-piled?

All under the watch of Goldie's potrait of some-academic/politician-or-other, so began my weekend of snacks. After this, an exhibition opening and a sock hop provided all necessary snack-action, then a day's rest before the next Christmas do: this time with architects and much Belgian beer. My congratulations to the organiser of the sock hop, whose asparagus rolls topped the Trough's, and deserve a full review themselves.



***

Weathering Christmas on the way to Waiheke

BY MARCUS STICKLEY

"Return ticket on the 11 o'clock sailing to Waiheke, please,'' I said, trying to sound bright and awake despite feeling about as grey as the brooding clouds over Hauraki Gulf that were waiting to rain.

I handed over $30 cash I got $1.50 back.

The square of paper I was giving in exchange was clipped as I stepped onto the gangway to the half-full Fullers ferry at the terminal in Auckland City.

Even with the wind up, and rain threatening, I was going to sit outside on the top deck. I needed plenty of fresh air and room to move should the need to heave over the side win the mind-over-matter battle raging in my body.

Sea sickness had never been a problem for me. Even in my worst Cook Strait crossing, where glasses were smashed at the bar and every other person had their colour-drained face in a bag, I hadn't been fazed. I even enjoyed it.

But the night before had gotten heavy. At a music industry Christmas party free drinks were flowing and there were old friends and friends I'd forgot I had to catch up with.

While I was feeling the after effects of all the cheer, I boarded with a group of corporate who were just warming up for a day I suspected they would indulging the Christmas spirit at the Island's wineries. On their excursion a spikey, silver-haired Santa was wearing a sports coat and jeans with his big red sack.

Sitting in an uncovered section of the top deck with me were a group of women made-up with bug-eyed sunglasses who moved for shelter from the blustery wind soon after we pulled away from dock.

I stayed on with a few other blokes and tucked my baseball cap into my backpack to avoid it being whipped away.

Also on the top deck was a cameraman who on our stop at Devonport was joined by a soundman carrying a mic and boom. On the way to the island they shot a passing ferry and some panoramic views.

By the time the boat past Rangitoto my head was starting to clear. The sky was not. It was unsettled, like my stomach. Those scrambled eggs I had for breakfast were in need of some reinforcement.

Two women and a male companion sat in the seats immediately around me, sauvignon blanc's in hand, having just been down to the little onboard cafe/bar. One said she's spilled her glass three times already and struggled to light a cigarette as she crouching for cover behind a row of seats.

Just as get up to find out if there is a steak pie at the cafe counter the ferry's engines drop a gear – we were at the island only 35 minutes later.

Even on a bad day the sailing seemed smooth, spilled wine and self-inflicted pain aside.


Marcus Stickley moved from Auckland three years ago and sometimes misses it, especially the rock'n'roll. He now lives in the South Island.



***

Video Stores

BY DOMINIC HOEY

Even though it’s now possible to download movies before they’re in theaters, a part of me still enjoys wandering aimlessly though video stores. Perhaps it’s the ability to hold something tangible, or the off chance that I’ll stumble across a good movie I haven’t seen. Unfortunately most video shops are to films what airport bookstores are to literature. With this in mind, I’ve put together a short list of stores in order from best to worse, so you never have to watch another Adam Sandler film because there was nothing else to get.

Video Ezy Ponsonby is a rare exception to this chain stores rule of thumb. Most Video Ezy’s are about as likely to have the Herzog film you’re after as Mc Donald’s is to serve you vegan burgers. Not only does this store boast an impressive collection of classic films, it’s also open 24 hours, which is important if like me, you choose to indulge your love of both drinking and films at once. It’s worth checking out the recently released section, which has a few gems among the TV series and National Geographic documentaries. As one staff member recently pointed out to me, its not that they only get good films, they just get everything. Speaking of the staff, the usually intoxacted employees never seem to mind my inane questions like,”what’s that film with the trucks in it”?

Videon is the antithesis of a chain store, no five for ten dollar speacils or prison blue uniforms here. This store located on Dominion rd, has probably the best selection in Auckland if not the country. Unfortunately many of these films are only available on video, which means you’re reduced to watching your movie of choice in snow storm vision. A friend of mine recently let me use his membership card at Video Ezy, warning me it had some fines on it. It turned out the account had 150 dollars owing, but after handing over $2, I was able to get out Worlds Ten Worse Plane Crashes without any trouble. That shit won't slide at Videon. You’ll be charged the cost of hiring the film everyday its late and won't be able to rent a new one to the debts are paid off. The staff are bristling with so much nineties attitude its like walking into a Kevin Smith film.

Civic Video in Surrey crescent is pretty unremarkable. I just put it in here so I could have four stores to review. It’s got an okay selection especially if you own a video player. It closes early, but isn’t too anal about late fees. It’s kinda like the quiet middle child of video stores in between the popular older sibling and the Down Syndrome half-brother.

Which bring us to Blockbuster New Lynn. I know expecting a Blockbuster to have a quality movie selection is an act of futility bordering on madness, but it’s the closet video store to my girl’s house. Instead what you get is row after row of romantic comedies and straight to DVD sequels of shit films. I once spent over an hour there, in a stoned daze only to leave with The Hills Have Eyes 2 and the distinct feeling I’m wasting my life. To be fair there are probably much worse video stores, but since I’m unlikely to be renting films in Bulls anytime soon, it can serve as the bottom of the barrel.



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All I Wanted Was Some Plain Jeans and I Ended Up in a Never Ending Nightmare of Fluff Disasters

BY TAHI MOORE

SHRINK TO FIT 501's ORIGINALS ARRIVE

They say to order 1 size too wide on the pocket but I ordered 2 sizes up. Stood in a hot shower, sat out in the sun. Stuck them in a washing machine. Found out they shrink a lot for three washes and finally stop shrinking after ten.

Okay the whole point of sitting in new jeans in a hot bath and sunbathing in them until dry a few times is to get them to take the shape of your body.

THE CUT AND ALL THAT

High waist, tight but has some give. wideish leg - I took them in a bit -, really heavy denim. They came off the line so stiff I leaned them against the wall. Good pocket art. Possibly the only jeans you can safely experiment with online since there's not much point trying them on in a shop when they'll just shrink on you.

REAL JEANS RESULTS

The Levi's originals were like Evisu's, only more so. I think they're good. Made me feel like I was from the twenties. I've looked at too many bum pocket disasters and too much frilly fru fru that gets put all over nearly every pair of jeans I've seen. It's not as easy as it should be to find good plain jeans. I've also seen enough people in plain Levi's that look like two wide indigo cylinders shoved into their testicles to make me regret I ever started looking at jeans. Just please get something that fits. I'm really sick of this. Oh god. oh god. I don't want choice I want good tailoring. I want jeans, not fruit.

BEST YEAH YEAH

The best jeans are said to be Jomons.
The best denim is said to be Kapital.
In my experience heavier denim tends to look better.
The standard jeans of the now are probably Nudies.
You can get plain skinny cowboy Wranglers from a western shop online for twenty dollars.



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‘I Like A Pina Colada’: The Great Pina Colada Quest – Part One

BY SALLY CONOR

The pina colada may well the lamest drink in the cocktail canon. It is streets ahead of all the others in terms of sheer naffness, and inspired what is quite possibly the worst song in history, thereby increasing its already formidable lameness. Probably the only thing more embarrassing than ordering a pina colada is ordering a VIRGIN pina colada. Pina coladas are so lame that they’ve come full circle and are now officially awesome.

Bar 3, Sky City
The pina colada that started it all.
I was at the Montana Book Awards back in July and was feeling rather fruity. I wanted a special drink, something I’d never had before, something exotic and zingy. ‘I know!’ I thought to myself, thinking I was oh-so-clever and tongue-in-cheek, ‘I’ll order a pina colada! Hilarious!’
The drink took ten minutes to make. The bartender crafted it with such care that you might think he had harvested the pineapples from Fiji himself. It was clear he was A Master. Eventually he presented me with a tall glass filled with a fluffy, faintly radiant lemon-coloured liquid and topped with delicious chunks of fresh pineapple. There were no glace cherries or umbrellas in sight.
I sipped it.
I almost cried with delight.
A really good cocktail is kind of like a cake. When it’s done right, all the ingredients cohere and become something other than the sum of their parts. It’s a chemical thing. This was a Pina Colada in capital letters, because I could no longer taste the juice and the liqueur and the coconut cream, I could only taste delicious tropical ambrosia. I was kind of like how I would imagine Hawaii to taste if it were a drink. It was perfect, right down to the creamy coconut foam on the top.
At this moment, a new obsession was born. I made it my mission to taste as many pina coladas around Auckland as I could.

Deschlers, High St
From an ecstatic high I tumbled to the deepest of lows.
I should have known this was a bad idea when the bartender grumpily made my friend and I go and buy our own coconut cream. I’m not joking. Some fumbling gestures resembling making a drink followed… he may even have consulted a cocktail book. For a pina colada! Possibly the most famous albeit lamest drink ever! Something was whizzed up in a blender. We were presented with two glasses of ungarnished goo.
VISCOUS was the word that instantly sprang to our lips. VOMIT was another one. As in ‘this is kind of like how I imagine it would taste if someone drank a pina colada and vomited it up into a glass’. We were forced to attempt to ‘drink’ the beverage using a spoon, due to its viscosity. It was the single worst cocktail experience of my life. We tried to exchange our glasses of spew for a different drink and the bartender was unapologetic and rude. Don’t do it people! Not for pina coladas. And probably not for anything else either, except maybe if you get a hankering for a seedy old man.

Food Alley, Albert St
I’ve long been a fan of the $2 cask wine at Food Alley. Imagine my excitement when I noticed their incredibly naff cocktail menu. Pina colada! Singapore Sling! Pink Panther! It’s all there, you should check it out. And all only $7! If you’re downstairs that is… upstairs they’re only $6.50! I ordered one upstairs and it arrived bedecked in an adorably naff glace cherry. Yay! It was a very utilitarian drink. Requisite pineapple and coconut flavours present but not a lot of alcohol detected and that glorious alchemy that occurred in the Sky City cocktail bar apparently hadn’t eventuated here. However, it was tasty, refreshing, and less than half the usual price.

These are my first tentative forays into pina colada connoisseurship. There will be many more. What I’m really looking for is somewhere that will serve me a pina colada in a coconut shell. When that happens I may well dance a hula of joy. I’ll keep you posted.



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Rosy Parlane / Sweetcakes : Compact Listen

BY HENRY OLIVER

Rosy Parlane:

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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

SSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHSHHHHHHHH
churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip
SSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHSHHHHHHHH
churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip
SSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHSHHHHHHHH
churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip


ddddddddddddddddddddddddAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
ddddddddDDDDDDDDddddddddAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDuuuuuuuuuuuuuuMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
ddddddddddddddddddddddddAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDuuuuuuuuMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
ddddddddddddddddddddddddAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDuuuMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
ddddddddddddddddddddddddAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDuMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

Hussh…

Applause


Sweetcakes:

Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
huhhh
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Huhh
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
huhhh
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
huhh
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Beeeeeb
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Chick Chick/Chick
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Chick Chick/Chick
Shshshshshshshshshshshshshsh…
Chick Chick/Chick

bbbbbbbbbbbbuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrBBBUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
rrrrrrrrrrrrbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crash/thud/thud/thud/shh/hhhh
bbbbbbbbbbbbuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrBBBUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crassssh/thud/thud/shhh/shhhh
bbbbbbbbbbbbuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrBBBUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crash/thud/thud/thud/shh/shhh
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crasssh/thud/thud/shhh/shhhhh
bbbbbbbbbbbbuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrBBBUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crash/thud/thud/thud/s/shhhhh
bbbbbbbbbbbbuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrBBBUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crssssh/thud/thud/shhh/shhhhh
bbbbbbbbbbbbuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrBBBUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crash/thud/thud/thud/shhh/shh
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbUUUUUUrrrrrrrrrBBBBBBUUUUUURRRRRR
Crash/crash/bang/bang/crasssh/thud/thud/shhh/shhhhh

Click/Click

Hussh

Applause




***

Auckland Chamber Orchestra

BY FIONA CONNOR

Auckland Chamber Orchestra
Summer
Auckland Town Hall on Sunday the 25th at 6pm
(breaking up is hard to do)

Tonight I sat in the first row next to Ben at the Auckland Town Hall
and watched the show. I had seen the poster near K Rd on Saturday and
was impressed by it's cool graphics.

I bought two tickets over the phone for nineteen dollars each. We
were close enough to see sweat beads and eye movements. It was
intense Ben said he could smell grandmas. We were as well lit as the
players I closed my eyes to hear better. It was really beautiful
and we came out better off I think.



***

Grafton Bridge

BY SALLY CONOR

Bridges are kind of like airplanes. We all use them with impunity and with as little thought possible about the delicate physics that keep them from dropping us out of the sky. We trust bridges to get us from one place to the next over impassable distances. And only the tiniest niggle at the back of our thoughts alerts us to the fact that we are REALLY HIGH UP.

Perched as we are on our craggy little isthmus, in Auckland we rely on bridges daily to carry us over waters or gullies or over ridiculously complex bits of motorway. Our largest bridge is possibly the most instantly recognisable symbol of our city, and its efficiency at squeezing ever-growing numbers of us backwards and forwards over its narrow back is a matter of constant hair-rending. Was any bridge ever so loved and loathed as the Auckland Harbour Bridge? I feel a bit sorry for it really. It has done so much for us and yet we dub it ‘the coathanger’ and berate it for not being bigger or more beautiful or for not being a tunnel.

Anyway, I am inclined to think of Auckland as the ‘city of bridges’. I bet a lot more of us use bridges than sailing boats, and I’ve always thought ‘the city of sails’ was a hopelessly elitist and misleading nickname. We aren’t a city of wankers in dinghys, we are a city of people in the shadow of a bridge. We are troll people.
I’m kidding. But there really are some very nice bridges in Auckland – I always get a lot of pleasure out of crossing the Hopetoun Bridge… it swoops so beautifully out from under Ponsonby and drops you down so gently in the central city. And those railings along the side mean you can see everything over the edge in a faintly flickering way like a reel of film.

The bridge I use the most by far is Grafton Bridge. I’m constantly traipsing across it between home and the city – it’s kind of like the passage between my public and private life. My state of mind always alters slightly as I cross it, between interior thoughts of food and laundry and sleeping, and more outward-looking ideas about food and work and where my next drink is coming from.
I’m kidding again. But it’s true – Grafton Bridge marks where I am, both geographically and psychologically. By the time it deposits me at Grafton shops, I feel like I am home. But when I step off it onto Symonds St I realise I am running ten minutes late for work or to meet someone. It snaps me out of myself and reminds me that I live in Auckland City and had better Buck Up My Ideas.

As a piece of architecture I find it rather lovely – a bit chunky yes, but the Perspex sidings lend it a certain shining, blade-like quality, as well as making it feel a bit like Kelly Tarlton’s, especially when it’s raining. A big freckly stingray could float past and I think most people would barely blink. These curved windows also have the effect of containing the bridge, of folding it over into an almost tunnel, so that you feel you are enveloped by it, and in turn, brought a little bit closer to the other people who happen to be traversing it at the same time. I almost feel part of a community when I cross Grafton Bridge. We’re all on it together, going about our business, for a few minutes all carefully NOT thinking about the equations that prevent us from plummeting to our deaths, all reading the traffic for a good time to cross, and all observing the complex footpath etiquette that allows fast walkers to pass and med students to be held up for as long as possible.

Occasionally, the bridge serves as a message board: once someone plastered slightly scary love notes on the pillars down one side. ‘Karin I Love You’… ‘I Want to Have Your Babies’… ‘I’ll Love You Forever’… etc. I always wondered how the recipient received this incredibly public declaration, because the next day, someone had tried to rip several of the notes down. Was it Karin? Or just some bitter old Scrooge who hates love? To whomever posted those notes: thanks for letting us bridge-dwellers into your private life for one brief day, it was very romantic of you, but in the future, maybe you should stick to text messages like the rest of us.

Probably the best thing about Grafton Bridge is the view out over the gully and the glittering ports, across the harbour to Devonport and into the Gulf. That most Auckland of views is always so comforting as we each trudge along our own little predestined threads of pavement to work or home or school. And it is these threads and passageways that form the pattern of our lives. Clip clop, clip clop. If we are the billy-goats, who is the troll under Grafton Bridge?

Probably John Banks. Or maybe Mark Ellis.



***

Watching Flashdance Again

BY KATE NEWBY

Yes, it has been released on DVD and if you have sky or access to it it is also being shown on one of the classic channels.
I have always idolized Alex and was surprised that many years later she remained just as great. She works in a steel mill, is sassy and independent. Dances at night time but doesn’t strip, but does it because she can’t wait to escape in the rhythms of the music. She throws rocks through windows, yells a lot when she is angry, doesn't want charity from her rich handsome boyfriend, and does not play the self-deprecating female. Has a dog, rides a bike, and is a caring friend. So, so much.
I wonder how it would be watching this movie for the first time NOW. If you were a 22 year old watching it fresh it may not carry much weight or punch. I don’t know. But, after a significant break from seeing it I am looking forward to running to the video store to start re-watching it again. Oh, and really great sound track.


***

Jeans in transit, shoes, more online jeans.

BY TAHI MOORE

The Levi's havent arrived yet. So there's nothing to talk about. Here's some filler.

SHOES.

Lots of people in Vans. They're tricky shoes. Sometimes they work and most of the time thery're tricky. The soles are chunky. The side stripey logo can go all wrong when the colours don't match up or when the colours do match up. They should probably be bought from Cheapskates. I'm only guessing.

Clarks are usually pretty good. They don't have a whole range of styles. You get them in suede. All the colours are fine. Black ones don't weather as well as the brown ones. T J Clarks in Queens arcade at the bottom of Queen st and Customs St tend to have the full range.

MORE ONLINE JEANS.

Looked for somewhere that will sell Uniqo jeans. Apparently they have funny sizes. They only sell through their own shops I think so you can't really buy them I think. Anyway shopping for jeans sight unseen has got to be very wrong. If Levi's have the genuine article, which is still being shipped out to me so I really can't tell yet, and jeans have turned into some kind of craftstyle, then I guess those Japanese jeans are probably the real thing of now. I've found something online that doesn't have pocket art or even rivets and only come in small medium and large. Apparently Levi's is trying to law control stop all japan jeans. It's about branding I'm sure but in this warped narrative it is a declaration for craftsyle to be the new real. Sort of.

Maybe I'm going to have to buy some of these, or maybe I'm just going to have to craftsyle my own. But not before the shrink to fit classic style universal jeans that anyone can get has been tested.



***

Christmas in the Summertime

BY AMBER EASBY

Those blurry bug eyes, that come hither finger – there is nothing creepier than the Whitcolls Santa, though he is looking particularly worse for wear this year. Santa doesn’t wink anymore and it took Whitcolls a week to get his forefinger going. You can even see a giant plaster over his moving knuckle.





***

Crazy Crust

BY NICK AUSTIN

It used to be Friends Kebabs and they made a beetroot dip I hadn't seen anywhere else, but now it's Crazy Crust, just close to Brazil, or where Brazil was, on Karangahape Rd. I predict that Brazil will become a Burger Fuel. Crazy Crust has really cheap pizza. You can get a 12 inch Margarita for 6.50 or 6.95 but when I ate there quite a lot last week I think I only munched on someone else's Margarita. I didn't have the Bacon and Chips pizza either but I think Sriwhana Spong did so you'll have to ask her about that. The bases are more like something thinner, a flat bread, and I don't think there's a proper oven, just a grill. I had a really nice cottage cheese pizza, there's definitely something Indian about the place and it's not just the turban. For dessert I had the garlic cheesy bites. That's some garlic and mega cheese and they call it bites because instead of segments, like a pizza, it's cut into a grid. God, they put so much cheese on those pizzas, so much cheeeeese. Someone found a hair on the pizza and they only have a B hygeine rating but it's so cheap and cheesy, it's Crazy Crust! There is also a range of muffins available for purchase. They are like Hany Armanious's muffin sculptures disguised as real muffins. Go see them, they're still there.



***

Beef, Bird and Bag

BY AMBER EASBY

While living in New York, I became a fan of the early dinner. There were two French restaurants in my neighbourhood, both of which had early bird specials. At Robin De Bois, Henry and I would order our own early bird - a roast chicken for two. It was served on a wooden board with green beans and mash. With two glasses of wine, the meal would cost $30 plus tip. At Tabac (not to be confused with the bar on Mills Lane or any store licensed to sell tobacco products in France), I could order an Organic Strip Steak with sautéed spinach and pommes frites for $13.

I was excited when I saw the ‘Early Bird’ sign in the window of Tony’s on Lorne Street. It was 6.30pm – the perfect time for a steak dinner. On a closer look, the discount was nothing to get worked up about: $35 for your entrée and main. Depending on whether you ordered, say, the Shrimp Cocktail ($12) or Crumbed Camembert ($15) to start - it was a $5 saving at best. There was also a review in the window. The writer had taken her hippie/previously vegetarian friend to Tony’s for her first steak in ten years. Maybe it was the review (I love any story about a vegetarian gone bad) or maybe it was the first day of my period, but I wanted a big juicy steak. I convinced Henry we should give it a go, agreeing to his condition of ‘no appetizers’ to keep it cheap. I have been known to over order.

The place was packed and we were the only patrons under the age of sixty. I was surprised that the ‘Early Bird’ special had drawn such a crowd. Then I realised, they all had tickets to the 7.30pm showing of We Will Rock You. The host/proprietor was doing his best to charm the oldies calling them ‘darling’ or ‘young man’. When he took an order, he would ask ‘Rock and Roll for dessert?’

Tony’s on Lorne Street is independently owned and is no longer apart of the John Bank’s affiliated Tony’s Restaurant Group. I got the feeling it was a touchy subject with the proprietor. Like the Tony’s on Wellesley and Lord Nelson on Victoria, this restaurant favours the traditional English pub fittings – leadlight, wrought iron and brass. There were a` lot of lamps, none of which were turned on because it was still light outside. There was a standup piano that hadn’t been used in years. Instead, instrumental versions of songs by Robbie Williams played at a low volume. It was a little creepy.

The waitress came quickly to take our order – we were taking up valuable real estate. We didn’t get much time to peruse the menu and there was a lot to take in. We had to choose our cut, weight (standard or GIANT) and condiment. We also had the choice of baked potato or fries, salad or grilled vegetables.

I have yet to appreciate the Steak/Seafood combo that is kind of joint is known for. I was tempted to give it a whirl until I saw the ‘Carpet Bag’, a tenderloin stuffed with oysters. Repulsed by the name alone, I thought of Tabac and ordered the cut of Prime Scotch Fillet Rib Eye with béarnaise sauce, fries and vegetables ($28.50). Henry ordered the standard Prime Sirloin Striploin with mushroom sauce, baked potato and vegetables ($28.50). We both ordered our steaks medium rare. I caved after a disapproving look from our waitresses and ordered garlic bread to start ($3.00).

I was instantly won over when our steaks were served on hotplates. I love a meal that sizzles! The first bite was a little rare but the steak continued to cook to perfection. The standard size cuts were impressive and the sides were surprisingly tasty. My béarnaise melted into the steak beautifully and had just the right amount of tarragon. Henry said his mushroom sauce was good, not excellent – maybe a 6/10. We both cleaned our plates.

Granted, I could have done without the garlic bread but I left the restaurant feeling invigorated. A meal high in B vitamins and deliciousness was exactly what I needed. The best thing was that we had the rest of the night free - to digest the meaty meal or maybe, take in a show.



***

Auckland Hospital

BY SARAH HOPKINSON

My first piece of advice to you, if experiencing an allergic reaction that appears to be rapidly advancing, is to call an ambulance. After having a lie down to see if it would pass, I called my mum (who lives in another city). This wasn’t an altogether bad start, as she does suffer from a deadly allergy to most antibiotics, but I foolishly downplayed it on the phone. Having not eaten or touched anything untoward or out of the ordinary, and being a generally healthy person, I didn’t want to seem like a hypochondriac. By this stage my face had swollen and turned a frightful shade of red, as had my hand, arms, feet (all itchy) and, I am sure if I had thought to look, most of my body. Mind you, this was far less disconcerting than the throbbing in my ears and tightening in my chest and throat. Both dithering and unnecessary modesty can be dispensed with - it is very unhelpful in such situations.

After checking the house was locked, I decided to walk down the road to such the local doctors. Again, not a great idea but the cool breeze was nice on my Violet Beauregarde-style skin. Family medical centres are fine, great for colds and immunising babies, but can be also by-passed in emergencies. The nurse who took my blood pressure did her best to hide her panic but I could see she was rattled, the fear was palpable. What followed was a flurry of action, a shot of adrenaline was stuck in my thigh (no magic marker like Pulp Fiction unfortunately) and an ambulance called and told ‘to hurry.’ All most unsettling. It was about this time that I began to wonder if I should call my lawyer (any lawyer) and dictate a will to ensure all of my not-very valuable possessions were looked after in the even of an untimely departure. It was also about this time, as I was being carried out to the ambulance, that the GP asked if I could pop in tomorrow and pay my bill. A bit on the nose I thought.

Adrenaline is fun. As you would imagine, 0.5 ml of it straight into the muscle is an instensification of the rush you get when excited or in danger or after you have an intense argument with someone. It makes you shake uncontrollably, which, when you are not cold, is a quite peculiar sensation. This aside, St Johns Ambulance staff - I can’t say enough good things. So calm and collected! Drips, ECG machine, oxygen: the work of a moment. A strapping tattooed ambulance driver recorded my personal details, completed my ACC form (wishful thinking) and finally, on arrival, hefted my gurney with consummate ease and skill that comes of much practice.

Emergency rooms are pretty bleak as a rule, full of worried people and flustered nurses. Optimised for efficency and practicality, these are not the most relaxing of locales. Not that you really care when you arrive - what you care about is that this place and these people have the ability to make you better, or at least bear witness to your demise. In my case, thankfully, they performed the former task sterlingly and by the time I was moved off the main floor and into an observation ward I was feeling fine, the shakes had receded to mere tremors, and I began to take stock of the surrounds.

Hospitals in general, but Emergency rooms in particular, provide one of those strange situations were all claims to privacy dramtaically fall away - it is no longer of any relevance or consequence. So, despite not being curious in the least, it did not take long for me to realise I was, happily, in far better shape than most of my invalid companions. A few minutes after my arrival a generously proportioned chap was rolled in with both legs in full cast. From the conversation that took place between his family and unfortunate friend who had witnessed the accident, I managed to glean (or actually couldn't avoid learning) that he had jumped of something for fun and broken both his legs: one shin, one ankle. His parents seemed very put-out about this and proceeded, in loud English accents, to tell the lad just how stupid he was. When he went to sleep they referred to him as the ‘silly stoner’ (he was pretty whacked out on Kedamine), and discussed his relegation to their garage for 6 weeks. Perish the thought. I began to empathise with his reckless antics.

This is certainly not a complaint, as it is of course necessary and unavoidable, but the noise in these places is quite remarkable. When recovering from a not-insignificant shock to the system, hearing a nurse loudly explain, over the cacophony of beeps from all manner of machines, to a diabetic chap over-the-way how his cathater and diaper works, is not the most soothing to the ear. Nor is the muffled snoring of said dare-devil neighbour, or the middle-age Remuera lady telling her elderly mother (whom she calls Mummy in a baby-voice) not to worry about ruining the cashmere sweater as they have a MILLION more at home. And I swear I heard a staff member use the expression 'shit the bed-pan'. Maybe I was just hyped up on meds, getting my colloquialisms and contexts twisted.

Under the circumstances I had a pretty good time, a little unsettling, kind of novel, mostly just boring. I was treated efficently, kept informed of my condition and discharged promptly (after the 6 hour observation period). I mean, I don't really need to sell the Emergency Room - it is not like you have a choice - if you are going there, you need to be there and that is where you will stay until the threat to your person recedes. Noone feels 'at home' here and the percentage of the population that enjoy their visits must be slim. Strange warped-floral curtains and uncomfortable beds aside, who wants to be confronted with the fragility and inevitable mortality of the human race on a regular basis? The ugliness and despair of the sick - not so fun.

And of course in this context details that one might usually fuss over, or discuss in a 'review' seem awfully insignifcant - I mean, I can mention the shy-making size of my gown (which did nothing to conceal any of my underclothing until Debi helped me wrap it around twice), or the fact that the food was gross, or even that the printed label on the brown paper bag that carried my belongings should've had an apostrophe (it read 'patients property' - which would've usually got me very worked up). But who cares? Emergency Wards aren't supposed to be appealing - they provide the minimum comfort to ensure your recovery, and recover I did. Constantly bombarded with new lives to save they hardly want people hanging out, taking up room and distracting their already over-worked staff. So, sure I will try and steer clear, but until the time they discover what substance actually caused my anaphylactic shock (and eating stops being like a game of Russian Roulette) I will continue to feel confident that in case of an emergency, with the help of St Johns and Auckland Hospital Emergency staff - I will be in capable hands.



***

Three Liam Finn Shows and a Baby

BY SALLY CONOR

Before I begin, let me get one thing straight: I am not stalking Liam Finn. The fact that I went to all three of his Auckland shows recently is not testament to any slavish fandom, unlike the fact that I attended both Ryan Adams shows in August, which sprang from my abiding obsession with and slightly scary infatuation with said musician. Don’t get me wrong. I like Liam’s music a lot and I really enjoy his gigs. But I don’t want any of you getting the wrong idea. Having said that, I found myself showing up to all three shows. Mostly coz my friends did. But it turned out to be a very interesting exercise in how live music can be transformed by surroundings, audience and the relative drunkenness of the performers and punters alike.

Thursday 8th November, Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Newton
The only dry show of the three, and boy was the lack noticeable. The audience were all weirdly respectful and quiet. Almost too quiet because in between songs where there is usually the din of conversation and bar-fights and shouting, there fell an expectant silence. As the applause died from the previous song, the audience seemed to collectively say “That was nice, now what are you going to play next? Huh? HUH??!” Enjoyably for us, the result was BANTER. With the musicians also stone-cold sober, the on-stage banter was of varying quality, but most of it was very funny. The best call of the night was when Liam’s tour partner EJ Barnes told him his face “looks like a vagina”. We all cheered and clapped whilst wondering, are you allowed to say ‘vagina’ in church?
The show itself was awesome. The acoustics of the church really did the music justice and when things got noisy and experimental, our enjoyment was enhanced by feelings of delicious guilt brought on by listening to crazy rock ‘n’ roll music in a house of God. When our eyes wandered from the antics of our hosts, the church provided gorgeous architectural eye-candy of jewel-bright stained glass, warm polished wood and pleasing proportions and shapes. And down the front, the cutest baby in the world was running riot clad in little yellow headphones. It was really funny. And all of this was made possible as a result of the gig being held at a church. The family-friendly atmos, lack of mood-altering beverages and beauty of the room really made the music the focus of the night and I left feeling as if I had just worshipped at the altar of sweet riffs and loop-pedals.
(NB Me and my companion for the night enjoyed the evening so much that we resolved to attend an actual service at the church the following Sunday. We showed up but pathetically wussed out in favour of worshipping the divine Coffee and Croissant at Benediction. At least the café had a religious name.)

Thursday 15th November, The King’s Arms Tavern
I think most people have experienced a night at the King’s Arms when it is sold out - shoulder-to-shoulder packed, hot, smelly and often unpleasant. Feeling unwilling to tackle the mosh, my friend and I stayed down the back most of the night which I later regretted as it was probably the finest show of the tour. Liam was in fine voice and at his daring best in terms of pushing the boat out with experimentation. He played an incredibly gnarly drum-fill at one point. EJ was wearing a really beautiful velvet mermaid dress and was forced to sing one of her own songs by Liam which actually provided a really nice change of pace. Everyone sang along to the big numbers, especially ‘Gather To The Chapel’. Are these things possibly due to the fact that everyone was lubricated by alcohol? Probably. I think it is no accident that drugs and alcohol are so indelibly associated with music. They really do seem to facilitate risk-taking and freedom of expression and awesome drum fills. The crowd was a lot noisier than at the church but then the response to the music was also a lot more enthusiastic.
The King’s Arms isn’t the most inspiring of venues but the way it compresses people into a narrow space seems to create a special kind of atmosphere and focus of collective energy which may have something to do with its longevity as a venue. I wish I’d been right up the front in the thick of it.

Saturday 17th November, The Leigh Sawmill Cafe
On arriving, the first thing we heard was that the musicians had all gotten completely wasted in Wellington the night before and hadn’t been to sleep. Support act Dictaphone Blues appeared wearing a scarf around his head which he said was “holding my brains in”. Our expectations for the show dropped a bit. Then we found out that we weren’t allowed to order food so started drinking on empty stomachs which raised our expectations again (hurrah!). I found scotch and soda to be a very agreeable alternative to dinner. One of my favourite things about the Leigh Sawmill is the way people seated upstairs can peer down at the stage from behind the musicians. With the stage surrounded by expectant punters, the room starts to feel a bit like a coliseum (Which way will it go?? Thumbs up?? Or thumbs down??!!). Watching how performers react to scrutiny is always sadistically fun. Tonight, they responded with alacrity. Liam and EJ were definitely a bit quiet on the banter front (which was a shame as they’re so good at it) but otherwise showed no signs of party fatigue on stage, playing a blistering set that included a tremendous Neil Young cover. You know a musician is good when every time he starts a new song, you say to the person beside you ‘oh THIS is my favourite’ which is more or less what I did. But the highlight was the final song, ‘Wide Awake On The Voyage Home’. A beautiful, elegiac sprawling thing that was the perfect send-off and the enthusiastic country crowd sang along and provided thunderous applause.

Three different nights, three different venues, three different levels of inebriation all made for three incredibly varied but similarly awesome musical experiences. I think the church gig was my favourite for the sheer beauty of the building and the way the unusual circumstances produced a really enjoyable variant of the normal rock ‘n’ roll show, what with vagina talk and cute rampant babies and all. When musicians get creative with venues like this it really pays off for everyone involved and with our already dire number of venues for gigs and the rumoured imminent demise of several other key sites, experimentation like this ought to be encouraged, nay, ought to become the norm. Now if only we can find a way to convince the Church that whiskey and soda promotes holiness in heathens…



***

Standard Jeans Theory

BY TAHI MOORE

DRESSMART

CARPARKS

I went to Dessmart in Onehunga to find the real Levi's. The parking's really busy in the weekends here so I just took a ten minute car park just outside on the street. This has got the advantage of not being able to spend long enough in Dressmart to get run down, which usually takes me about twenty minutes. There are so many promises of bargains and things that are almost okay but not quite, that it can get epic in the search for something, anything, which must be around somewhere.

STRAIGHT TO THE SHOP
LEVIS--> FRENCH STYLE 00 JAPANESE STYLE 90 AMERICAN STYLE 80

The outlet store is at the northwest corner of the enclosed area. Okay it is a shop full of Levi's, BUT. I saw these things that are plain, but they're copying french jeans. They've got the same kind overdone back arseband labels as August 77 jeans, except in a slightly more everyman style, you know, goes to the gym or something.

Nearly everything else was a copy of japanese jeans. I've been told that Uniqlo is the Japanese version of Hallensteins. They sell japan made selvedge denim with exactly the right thread and no bum pocket art for real cheap. You can buy them online from their site if you live in Japan or certain parts of the UK. If you happen to be in NY, you can pick up a pair for 40 dollars rrp. Anyway the online shop only sold them in size 30 and 38.

Levis have that nice number code but you can't wear numbers no matter how hard you try.

STONEWASH

In the far corner was the closest thing to actual Levi's. They had been through a process called stone wash that gives the material this flecked feature feature. You can't wear jeans and this is true because everyone buys style everyone who goes into a shop wants style because style is all there is if you want plain denim well you won't buy it not because you want it you secretly know that style is the only things to be to get, jeans is not the thing and in this knowledge the special jeans people only provide special jeans because nobody buys normal jeans you can't find them in shops anyway and no one makes them so that proves it.

Tried on close to normal stone wash darkish blue denim jeans. They came in size 30 and size 31. They were stretch denim. Since I am size 32 it was a lost cause. The lower leg was too wide anyway.

I also went to Just Jeans. They had some similar jeans in sizes 35 to 38.

Outlet store usually mens there's good chance that if you find what you want, then they won't quite have it in your size. I'd have to say it's a trawling mission on a similar scale to op shopping for something in particular. Ten minutes is up.

OP SHOP

One pair of NZ made pre worn jeans that need a resew. I think they were faded buy actual use, but fades are fades are fades. The only thing you could fit through the belt loops would be piece of string, not rope. Nice job though.

ST LUKES

ANOTHER MALL MORE SIZES

I tried K-Mart, which has Bonds t-shirts, possibly the poor cousin of American Apparel. They say made in Australia and come in all the colours. white black grey navy. There were jeans, which all had the advantage of being able to double as marquee tents. I got a grey Bonds t-shirt.

Hallensteins had jeans, just, no I can't remember.

FRUIT SALAD

Just jeans had a whole wall of Levi's, honestly. More like a whole wall of fruit. Tried the closest to normal pair, the only ones with plain yellow thread. One size too small on the waist and twentythree sizes to big on the legs, honestly. I should have bought them because I could have made three pairs and a dinner suit out of one pair of too small 607's I think they were. So I didn't try on my size.

Farmers had a whole bunch of 607's and some maybe fitting jeans, but by this time the stone wash effect that covered everything was starting to make me feel too ill to continue.

THESIS

Standard jeans don't exist, they're all playing off the idea of jeans
When standard jeans did exist they were just bad
In the end you just have to give up on the idea of it and shop around for something wrong that just works anyway.

MORE

I think people wear what they do because that's what's in the shops when it comes to shopping time.

SOMETHING LIKE THE REAL DEAL

After the short search for Uniqlo jeans and a discovery that the online Levi's shop only ships to the bay area, except when Paul is sick or his scooter breaks down. maybe they assume that everyone will just go to Amazon by default.

Apparently Levi's used to make shrink to fit jeans that came in 3 sizes. Levi's claim to make originals 501's shrink to fit no fades etc. These things are meant to shrink ten per cent and you have to jump in a creek or a water hole. Next week I'll be reviewing a water hole and the difficulties of swimming in wet jeans.




***

Raw Power

BY DAVID LEVINSON

Raw Power is a food café located on Vulcan Street, and which specialises in salads and other vegetarian dishes (such as falafel,tofu sandwiches, etc.). Each Saturday a friend and I would meet there for lunch, and did so for a total of about 4 months earlier this year.
Now while these lunches began as relatively innocuous affairs, consisting of not much more than polite conversation and maybe an occasional browsing of the newspaper (the entertainment section, mainly), one day something switched. When, exactly, it would be hard to say. What was engendered was more a gradual shift in feeling that, maybe due our mutual tendency to become uncertain around those who express affection towards us – in this case, said person being the café proprietor who had taken a great and obvious liking to both of us – on some subconscious level caused us to sabotage the blissful idyll we had discovered.
Our chosen accessory for what would eventual result in us no longer being welcome at the Raw Power food establishment became the bowl of mints they kept beside the cash register – well not the bowl itself, really, but what was inside it, i.e. the mints. So, while the second person was paying for their order, the first would move round the side of the counter and, in some pantomime of searching through magazines, grab as many as several handfuls of mints and place these in their pocket, before we would both convene at our usual table by the window. Then we would place the mints in a small mound on the window sill and cover it with a newspaper, while we politely waited for our orders.
Once the waiter was clearly out of sight, and counter person happily occupied, we would proceed to flick mints out of the window at passersby. Now, three times as a result of this we received verbal threats, but more often than not people would stop momentarily to try and ascertain the source of the threat, before awkwardly moving on. Sometimes when there was a surfeit of mints, we would flick as many as three as a time over the sill. Overall, I would argue that this was not a very productive but overall very pleasurable time in my life.
I can't recall anything being out of the ordinary the day our little pastime finally met its demise - only that there was a deep mixture of sadness and disappointment in the waiter's eyes when he informed us that people had been complaining about us. Since then, all my mint-throwing has been put to a halt but I can't promise that this will remain indefinite.



***

The jeans from before time began and from before the eighties as well

BY TAHI MOORE

I've been looking at Levi's, because they were quoted on a number of occasions as being the best jeans. I haven't been looking in shops, just at what people wear. Now except for a cuople of times, every pair of Levi's that I saw were absolutely not what I would wear. Not that they were bad, but most of the time, they were mid-blue, that's like baby blue, stones washed, eggshell blue, sky blue. Essentially I'm talking about an eighties technique for prefading that is from the time of drum machines as a geniune attempt to replicate an actual drummer.

Okay, so these jeans were eggshell sky baby blue, flecked with white and shapeless, which is fine, it's a particular type that's endured for a while, I suspect because when you want to buy the basic no-nonsense jeans that don't cost an extra ten or five hundred dollars, that's what you get. When I went to Farmers, this was the basic model, NOT plain dark blue actually kind of fits but isn't skin tight.

Other Levi's I saw had silver dots on the back pockets, not being satisfied with having the back pocket art that nearly all other jeans replicate, these Levi's replicate Levi's. Okay so a lot of people obviously buy them, but this detail highlights the idea that the original can only be brought into existence through look alikes, and when you become aware of having the original product, it probably is simply copying itself, or something quiffy about how jeans are jeans and names are names. But what I really wanted to get to was that there are so many kinds of Levi's that there has to be a kind that's right in there somewhere. So I'm no longer saying Levi's are the best jeans. The best jeans are now the ones that work for you, and watch out for the back pocket art. You might be able to live with it, but it is evil, and can turn on you at any moment.

So where do you go to get Levi's? I have been told that there is a Levi's shop in Dressmart at Onehunga that might stock the mythical plain jeans. Due to warrant of fitness circumstances, this pilgramage to these jeans before time will have to wait till next week.



***

Chess

BY KATE NEWBY

Chess.

Depends on how you feel and what you’ve got available to work with.

Somehow it seems to work best for me in the mornings. As much as I like getting on with errands in the a.m. (it is my ‘peak time’ of the day) it is also when I focus on the game a lot more. I think about 8.30 would be my pick if I had to name a particular time. It gives me enough time to make breakfast before leaving the house and then I can also coincide it with my morning coffee.
I seem to always go to Alleluia for it. This is a convenience thing but I also like the space up there because you can sit at a table, be in the daylight and also have lots of room around you from the other patrons.
Also, the staff are friendly and not bothered by the fact that I will sometimes sit there for long periods of time only ordering one or two coffees.
Recently I have being thinking that there are 3 kinds of chess in my life. There is a ‘Normal game’ when you met your opponent and have a game. Then there is ‘Speed chess’ which is also when you met your opponent and play but you end up playing several games with ‘Speed chess’ because depending on what time you set your chess clock; the game never lasts more then 10 minutes. That’s five minutes each to put someone in check.
Then there is ‘Internet chess’ when the game lasts sometimes up to several weeks. A good place to play this is on Facebook or another one I like a bit better is www.realchess.com. ‘Internet chess’ is funny because you can take days to make a move. For instance in my current game of ‘realchess’ I have not moved since Saturday as my opponent just put me in a tricky check-fork position and took my rook and so I have exploited the fact that I can sulk and prolong the inevitable. Playing chess on the Internet is good but it can drag out. You headspace can vary so much from the morning to the evening and then from day to day that I sometimes find this irritating and not a benefit. I also get a bit lost with it in the way that it can also feel like an unwanted text-message that you feel obliged to answer, if you are playing in person you have made a commitment for that game and you just get on and play.



***

There is Nothing Good on T.V. (I'll Love You Forever)

BY HENRY OLIVER

From: Viewer Correspondence
To: henryoliver@gmail.com,
Date: Aug 23, 2007 2:11 PM
Subject: RE: Complaint - A Programme - Seinfeld

mailed-by tvnz.co.nz

Aug 23


Reply


Hi there,

Sorry for the delay getting back to you.

Thank you for your feedback, we love to hear from our viewers what they enjoy watching on TV2. We will most certainly take your views into consideration for future programming decisions around this time slot. Many New Zealanders enjoy watching Friends and the ratings on this run are higher than the previous run. 6pm on TV2 must always have broad appeal for non-news watchers and must also be G rated so it limits us for the programmes that are available to be screened in this slot. Unfortunately Seinfeld was proving problematic in that many of the themes were too adult and so we were unable to screen future seasons of this in this early slot. It will screen in a more suitable slot

Thanks for your email.

Kind regards



Christine Wilton
Communications Executive


-----Original Message-----
From: henryoliver@gmail.com [mailto:henryoliver@gmail.com]
Sent: Wednesday, 22 August 2007 11:47 p.m.
To: ViewerCorrespondence
Subject: Complaint - A Programme - Seinfeld


Name: Mr. Henry Oliver

Email: henryoliver@gmail.com

Age: 25-29

Gender: Male

Location: Auckland

Subject: Complaint Regarding A Programme

Programme Name: Seinfeld

Comments:
Hey TV2,

What happened to Seinfeld?

Put it back on and I'll love you forever.

Yours,

Henry.

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***

Good Radio

BY FIONA CONNOR

It is Sunday and this morning I was lucky enough to listen to the radio in bed, The National Program and it was awesome.

I am living above my parent's garage at the moment which is great (at the moment). I hear them arrive home daily, sit in their cars and wait to catch the end of the show they are listening to. I think this means it is good radio.



The other day I too found myself outside a friend's house sitting in the car listening to the National Program waiting for the segment to end. I think it was an interview with the New Zealand pop sensations Garageland who have decided to reform, the interviewer was challenging: when Mr. Garageland compared himself to the driver of Pavement she said "can you really make that comparison" and he answered intelligently talking honestly about the funny situation that it is being in a band and touring extensively.



This morning I lay in bed trying to rationalize missing out on the peak nesting season of gannets at Muriwai because I was glued to the radio. There was a panel of ministers talking about what it is actually like working in parliament- a kind of day in the life of a cabinet member- they were all actively engaging with the story and each other and it really felt like it was coming from behind closed doors. After this piece of illuminating journalism they played this totally exotic sounding a cappella song that nicely put the whole thing in perspective.



I used to listen to it a lot. Like a lot a lot, but like any radio station you do this to it went from being completely transparent to completely opaque, I went off it. Now after a break I once again set the dial in my errand wagon to 101.4 FM and am treated sporadically to funny music and broad national reporting, a cup of tea for the ears and I'm back on it.



***

Savour and Devour - 478 Richmond Rd, Grey Lynn

BY AMBER EASBY

Admittedly, I was in a bad mood when I arrived - deathly hung over after two bottles of vino and a marathon Scrabble sesh the night before. I was hoping for a quiet brunch, ideally at an outdoor table. I wanted food that would heal me. I guess it was the wrong morning to try somewhere new.

First sign that I was not going to enjoy my brunch

They were playing Massive Attack. The last time I enjoyed Massive Attack was in 1994 and I was on magic mushrooms.

Second sign that I was not going to enjoy my brunch

The outdoor ‘garden’ was completely covered. It was a beautiful day and it was fucking freezing out there. I opted to sit inside.

Third sign that I was not going to enjoy my brunch

They use swivel chairs. It felt like Monday morning and I was eating breakfast at my desk.

Fourth sign that I was not going to enjoy my brunch

The café was full of parents ignoring their screaming children. One eight year-old boy was talking on his cell phone while his folks sat at ANOTHER TABLE!

Fifth sign that I was not going to enjoy my brunch

The menu was a little too ‘funky’. Normally, I am a fan of the twist-on-an-old-favourite but not this morning. I ordered Baked Eggs with bacon and creamed spinach ($14.50). The meal was nicely presented – a small fry pan, containing the said ingredients, and two slices of toast. Unfortunately, the spinach ‘creamed’ the rest of the dish. It was like eating a bowl of chunky Carbonara sauce. Gross.

The one redeeming element: counter service. As soon as I was done with my meal, I was able to leave. Not even the selection of baked goods could tempt me to return.



***

An Open Letter to the Men of Auckland

BY SALLY CONOR

Dear Auckland Guys,
I’ve known you for a while now and one thing has become clear: you need help. In so, so many ways… but mostly in the way you dress.
It’s just not that hard. It’s actually pretty easy to look okay and get girls to like you. We are base and mostly quite shallow and we talk about your butts at least as often as you talk about ours. Probably more. Seriously. Here are some foolproof tips just in case you’re finding it all a teensy bit confusing.

WEAR MORE CORDUROY
I was in the queue at the Grey Lynn Woolworth’s with a friend recently and we were distracted mid-sentence by a particularly fine pair of green corduroy trousers. “Look,” my friend whispered urgently, “Hot Dad in cords!” The fact that he was a Dad didn’t have much impact on his hotness but the corduroy sure offset his nice butt.
Corduroy is good for a number of reasons. Firstly, it isn’t denim. Jeans are cool and generally look good but they’re the lazy option. We all wear jeans when we can’t quite be bothered. Like jeans, corduroy looks better the more you wear it, BUT it comes in more than one colour and feels nicer.
Which brings me to reason number two: corduroy is pretty much velvet, but in stripes. Chicks like things that feel nice on their lady fingers. Just watch a man who is wearing a velvet jacket and see how girls like to run their hands all over it. Corduroy achieves this soft effect but without the risk of making you look like a pimp.
The third thing in favour of corduroy is its associations. Cords evoke images of wooden shacks, forests, fireplaces, pinecones, bears, whittling, pipes, etc. They are worn by nice homely guys who are good with their hands, have perfect stubble and smell of sawdust. The Diet Coke guys probably wear them when they’re not lowering themselves into elevator shafts or cleaning office windows. Even if you like computer games, smell of cheese and have trouble squeezing out a few weak pubes on your upper lip, you will benefit from corduroy’s inherent earthy manliness.

WEAR A SUIT
Seriously. I cannot overstate the effect of a good suit on a susceptible girl. She will be putty in your well-tailored hands. I have a collective crush on everyone that works at Crane Brothers because they always look so goddam amazing. Structured clothes do everyone immeasurable favours and whatever imperfections you have or are in denial about will be compensated for by a sharp dart and a well-proportioned lapel. Guys, it’s official: it’s okay to wear suits again! We don’t mind! Really! We like it! And I haven’t even gotten started on the three-piece yet. Ohmigosh.

CHOOSE YOUR SHOES CAREFULLY
Ask any girl: shoes are key. You can tell EVERYTHING about a man from his shoes. Your shoes are probably the first thing we check out, after hair, eyes, teeth and butt, all of which you can’t do much about (more on hair later). In general, sneakers are good. It’s pretty difficult to get this wrong. And yet, so many seem to. It doesn’t matter how state-of-the-art the little see-through gel bit is in the sole, running shoes are bad bad bad! Any sneaker that looks like you might actually use it to exercise, does not belong on your foot in public, unless that public is the gym. They always look ugly and stupid. Don’t argue with me on this. I have done surveys. It’s The Truth. Even better than a well-chosen sneaker is a good lace-up leather shoe. The laces are important – slip-ons are almost always a terrible idea. Particularly if they are shiny and black and good for wearing to The Viaduct. Slip-ons make you look like you are wearing something huge and oblong on your foot, like a toaster.
You can’t beat a cool brown leather lace-up brogue for top marks in the footwear department. Or a nice boot with a bit of a heel. It makes a cool noise and you will look a bit like Wyatt Earp. Which brings me to:

WEAR A GUN-BELT
Has anyone seen The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford? Holy Moses, there’s something about those gun-belts. The way they slant across the hips and stuff… I don’t know what it is. It’s primal. Primally HOT.

WASH YOUR HAIR
It’s hygiene dudes! No one will think you are gay if your hair isn’t caked with a week’s worth of sweat, dirt and laziness. If you run your hair through it and your hand feels defiled, it’s already WAY past the moment to wash it. Now go out there and work out which Herbal Essences product is best for you, and use it! Regularly! Rinse and repeat! This should be your new mantra.

FACIAL HAIR
Is a tricky one, but it basically goes like this:
- Little beards look ridiculous. Like a giant hairy mole under your lip. Be assured, people ARE laughing at you.
- Beards without moustaches are also out, unless you happen to idolise Abraham Lincoln, in which case it’s intellectual and sexy.
- Stubble is good so long as you keep it tame and don’t allow it to blend into your chest rug. See Queer Eye for the Straight Guy for more on this.

IT’S NEVER OKAY TO WEAR ‘LYNX’
Would you spray mustard gas on yourself? Or roll in skunk roadkill that’s been left to rot in a puddle of petrol? Of course you wouldn’t. Take note: as you walk past we aren’t losing control and ripping our clothes off while miaowing, we’re dry retching into our handbags.

I could go on. But I think these few helpful tips are enough to keep you going. If we work together, things are going to be okay. I believe in you.

Yours truly,

Sally



***

Browns Bay

BY SARAH HOPKINSON

Browns Bay quietly muddles along in its sunny corner of the North Shore unbeknownst (or purposefully ignored) by the majority of Auckland city dwellers. Ostensibly it boasts no glittering attractions; the beach is ok, the sights mediocre, it is very middle-class but not entirely without charm. Elderly drivers congest traffic, sidewalks are roamed by bored youths that haunt the $2 dollar shop and messily eat ice creams on the promenade. Yet to be railroaded by malls, the main street is peppered with the family businesses and boutiques usually confined to small towns and yester-year; including a knitting store (not the trendy type), a Christian book store, pet and pie shops. It is very white, noticeably so. High percentages of British and South African immigrants frequent multiple nationally themed stores such as ‘The British Shop’ (where you can buy those delicious marmite flavoured crisps) and a traditional South African butcher (for the boerworst connoisseurs). On Sunday mornings there is a market where you can select form a vast array of succulents for not much more than 50c each. All in all Browns Bay is a friendly place, perhaps a little backward, familiar and a touch unsettling.

The suburb also boasts a large elderly population and, despite the ghoulish implications, there isn’t a surer signpost for good opportunity shopping. The solid good taste and practicality of our grandparent’s generation, coupled with do-gooder middle-class-ness makes Browns Bay a kind of second-hand store haven. To my knowledge, as well as several furniture outlets, there are 4 stores that stock chiefly clothes and bric-a-brac. It is for these shops that I frequently take the trip to the Shore.

For me good thrift-ing is all about the ratio, you see. For example, a Savemart can be disheartening because the bad monstrously outweighs the good. An inner-city vintage store on the other hand can be too easy; the scales are purposefully tipped in the good’s favour. Browns Bay strikes a near perfect balance: it is hard work but it pays dividends. It offers the thrill of the chase. In Browns Bay, among the usual garish floral synthetic full-length dresses, dime novels and old misshapen men’s shoes that clutter second-hand stores, the discerning eye can find treasures of insurmountable quality. The pure lambs wool cardigans, tapered well-cut trousers and linen sundresses of my Antonioni-inspired dreams, have all been spotted here. I once bought a Harris Tweed, not dissimilar from one my grandmother owns (and probably purchased on from some discerning stockist on Bond St or the like) for the price of Sunday brunch. (I often equate op shop spends with food; the mental use/exchange value comparison is very rewarding.) This I added to a long list of acquisitions that includes everything from sturdy hand-knitted woollen hot water bottle covers to an alcohol cabinet with mirrored shelves and martini glass hooks.

However, it saddens me to say that while the treasures at Browns Bay have never, by any stretch of the imagination, been in abundance there has been a perceptible downturn in the last year. I am not sure whether my tastes have changed, some astute businessperson has cottoned on or simply that the generation that supplied the stores is slowly dwindling. Perhaps all of the above. In saying that it remains a worthwhile trip, if only to take half a day off, cross the bridge, chat to the lovely volunteer ladies, eat a tasty beef and mushroom homemade pie from the local French Café, and immerse yourself for a moment in sunny suburban stupor.


***

Fair Go

BY AMBER EASBY

The Auckland Vinyl Record Collectors Fair took place at the Polish House, Morningside on Saturday November 3rd. The fair ran from 10am to 3pm. Henry and I were driving down McDonald Street at 10.05am, when I saw a fat, bald, middle-age man running to his car with a stash of records. We had arrived.

There was a $2 entry fee into the hall. The doorman asked if we were looking for anything in particular. We answered, hoping he might point out a few sellers. Nothing. He asked how regularly we bought records. We answered and he responded. “Really?” The $2 token was also a raffle ticket. “Make sure you hold onto that. There are some good prizes.”

The Polish House is a small hall but there was a decent amount to look through. I was surprised at how many people there were, though I was only one of three women. I saw a friend flicking through some magazines. “Its all fucking junk. Same shit as last year” he said. I asked what he had looked through. “Nothing. I can’t fucking be bothered.”

Henry and I split up - Henry was on LPs, I was on 45s. My first purchase was a lot of fifteen singles – mostly Motown and Disco, all in good condition - for $20. The seller was eating a sandwich and took a good ten minutes before he noticed me. I later saw him staring into the distance, picking his nose, while another customer waited to pay.

My next purchase was from a nice elderly man. His singles were expensive but when I showed him what I wanted, he cut the price in half. I bought six 45s for $10, including a great Marlene Dietrich E.P and a Dolly Parton/Porter Wagoner (R.I.P) duet.

The proceedings were interrupted by the first, probably last, competition of the day. There was a small stage and the doorman had a microphone. If you guessed the record playing, you won a $5 lunch voucher. Not a single person tried. I could hear my friend calling “turn it off” until the song finally ended.

My third transaction was a mistake. Riding high from my previous scores, I hastily chose some 45s from the stack. I misheard the seller and ended paying twice as much as I wanted. I was too shy to say anything, having just been introduced to the seller by another friend. I am still suffering from post-purchase remorse after spending $20 on three singles I wasn’t even that excited about.

I bought another sixteen singles in my fourth and final acquisition. 1960s Beat, Rock and Pop – all for a buck apiece. Three grumpy men sat behind the table. They were like Statler and Waldorf, the guys who heckle form the balcony in the Muppets. I overheard them critiquing my browsing technique. “At that rate, she is going to be there all day.“ Annoyed, I called for back up. Henry checked the condition of each record as I flicked though more.

I was down $66 but had nearly forty good records to show for it. Henry found five LPs he considered to be a bargain. In true Henry fashion, he spent $40 dollars but saw a $50 return on an HDU album he sold on TradeMe later that day. Maybe we should have stayed for the raffle. GRADE: G+/VG



***

My Review of O’Connell Street Bistro (Alternative Title: Why You Should Never Date Outside Your Comfort Zone)

BY KELLY GIBNEY

I went to O’Connell Street Bistro on a date.

As a result of the evening, I have a little advice for the lads. Do not under any circumstance, mention that drunken foursome you had while on holiday in Mexico years ago and do not ask your date to rate from one to ten how attractive she thinks she is. Trust me, neither topic is charming. That out of the way, I may be in love.

Located at number 3 O’Connell Street and housed in a former bank vault, the restaurant feels like old Europe. High windows and thick walls with strong artwork. The dining room has just 12 tables so reservations are essential.

Our table isn’t ready when we arrive so a drink at the bar is in order. The bartender is friendly and offers us olives to snack on since our table will be another twenty minutes. I should have gone with my first instinct to cancel tonight. At least the wait is a good opportunity to enjoy the effects of alcohol on an empty stomach. From the bar I check out the other patrons. This Friday night it’s filled with small groups of older well-to-do types and some younger couples. I lose myself in the people watching while my date points out how lavish he is, ordering the $25 a glass Veuve Cliquot. The waiter comes to let us know our table is ready. We are lead into the dining room and seated at a street-side table for two. The dining room is smugly refined but cosy. I love this. I feel like a proper grown up just being here.

I read over the wine list to keep focused on what lies ahead. O’Connell Street Bistro is well known for its superb wine selection. Cuisine Magazine awarded them ‘Best Wine Experience’ in its recent restaurant awards. They have a large selection of New Zealand wines as well as plenty of French and Italian drops to choose from. All styles and varieties are well represented. The wine list is well laid out and with bottles starting at $40 it’s not at all intimidating. Champagne born sommelier William Morvan is on hand to make suggestions and guide you through food and wine pairings. Our waitress encourages us to seek his advice.

My date scoffs at the idea of needing any help choosing and selects a bottle of Ch de la Cour Grand Cru (St Emilion). He makes a joke about how lucky I am to be out to dinner with him. I think he is joking. I hope so. There is apparently a crowd of females who would like to be where I am right now. I would like them to be here too.

William delivers the wine and enthuses in a charming French accent about the choice. He has a warm manner and a contagious energy as he speaks. He stays just long enough for us to feel pampered by the attention. Our wine is delicious. I have to give my dinner mate full credit here. It was an excellent choice and worthy of the $120 price tag.

Now for the really fun part. I turn my full attention to the menu. I easily choose my entree: Seared Scallops on grilled black pudding with frisee lettuce, garlic crisps and champagne vanilla syrup ($24.50). As a recovering long-time vegetarian, I’m perpetually seduced by mixing meats. The combo of scallops and black pudding sounds divine. For my main course I’m tempted by both the Roasted Duck Breast with chestnut tortellini, orange, micro watercress and apple cider buerre blance ($35.50) and Pappardelle of Braised Rabbit with rimu-smoked bacon, walnut watercress pesto and parmigiano reggiano ($32.50)

My date is English and conservative about flavors. Yawn. He has decided on a risotto entrée with seared prawns, broad beans, pine nuts, basil and pecorino. His main course will be Oven Roasted Cambrian Beef Sirloin on confit potatoes with wilted kale, bordelaise butter and red wine jus ($34.50).

Our waitress returns and I ask her advice about choosing between the Rabbit or Duck dishes. She absolutely suggests the rabbit. It is the restaurant’s signature dish. She commends my choice of the scallops and black pudding, her favourite. We also order sides of Pommes Dauphinoise ($8.00) (Englishman needs more potatoes) and Roasted Root Vegetables with saporoso balsamic.

Our entrees arrive promptly. My scallops are excellent. The creamy scallop pairs perfectly with the slightly crunchy, rich, salty black pudding. The champagne vanilla syrup ties the whole dish together beautifully. I inwardly high five myself for my choice. Across the table, the risotto is great but after the flavour revelation on my plate, it’s hard to get excited about rice, no matter how good. Date won’t try my entrée (doesn’t like scallops). Another high five.

Between courses we enjoy awkward conversation. I will spare you the details.

Main courses arrive. My pappardelle looks delicious. Wide ribbons of homemade pasta with a rich glossy sauce. Our waitress grates Parmigi Reggiano over my meal as well as cracked pepper. I’m very excited. The portions of the mains and sides are generous. No tiny art food here. My meal is absolutely sublime. Its incredibly rich but the flavours are well balanced. The smoky bacon, braised rabbit and the salty walnut pesto are a heady combination. Bliss.

Back to reality and my date is enjoying his sirloin. Though he doesn’t think it’s as good as the beef he had at Clooney’s last week, I throw out the idea that perhaps he could one day order something aside from beef and potatoes. He might be pleasantly surprised. He laughs. I think that means he doesn’t agree. The Pommes Dauphinoise and Roasted Root Vegetables are excellent. I wish I had room to eat more. I sincerely don’t know the last time I enjoyed a single dish more. I’m thrilled with my meal. Again my date won’t try my dish. What a curse it must be to have a conservative palate. I feel some sympathy for him.

Our waitress checks in on us and I resist hugging her. Instead I thank her for the nudge in the right direction. The wait staff is friendly but polished and professional about everything they do. I have enjoyed every interaction with them. I had read that during the Cuisine magazine restaurant award judging, that this Rabbit Pappardelle was the dish enjoyed the most by the judges. No surprise.

I am so full after dinner that dessert is out of the question. I check out the menu though and am drawn to the baked Tahitian Vanilla crème brulee with macadamia sable biscuit ($14.50). Also stand out is the Vairhona Dark Chocolate fondant with nougat ice cream ($15.00). All desserts are helpfully listed with wine pairings. There is a selection of cheeses and plenty of port and sherry to choose from.

It’s time to wrap things up date-wise. He suggests a drink somewhere else. I make noises about a long day tomorrow and how tired I am. Part of me hopes he sees through this and I can avoid awkward talks at a later stage. We pay our bill and part ways.

I’m in love. If the O’Connell Street Bistro was a man, I would have slipped my number into his pocket and suggested we get together really soon. Instead I’m already planning my next visit, this time with some friends. I want to show off my new crush. 9/10



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