REVIEW

Big T-Shirts

2008-04-30T21:21:00.000+12:00

Okay I drove out to somewhere and the radio played for me a song from tattoo you it was from 1977 the radio guy said that I remember looking at the record cover wondering that they were still around or they reformed or something I never heard any of it I just assumed from memory it was from the eighties the first year I was aware of was 1979 like I said wow this is 1979 before this I didn't even know about the idea of years. But the eighties. No lets get to t-shirts.
BY TAHI MOORE

T-SHIRTS
I got this idea that big t-shirts and thin pants would be great. I got it from an American Apparel ad with someone in an oversized super low v-neck and would that not be great but so I got a plain oversized t-shirt and it's awful it's like I'm a tiny person in big person's clothes. But the neck was fitting I think that's the problem. I remember a runway shot of someone in a really big sweatshirt with big shoulder pads. That sounds bad too but it's almost good.

SHIRTS
Went for an oversized shirt that sucked also I think it's part because it's white and I'm used to bad white oversized shirts if no one ever wore them to weddings without wanting to it'd be great. Then put on fitting shirt lots better had to tuck it into my jeans but the shirt was white and that was all wrong. In No Country for Old Men, the main guy the star, he wears jeans and shirts that go with the jeans it's really good I think. I went for balck trousers but they didn't go with the white shirt um it's tricky too formal again like the too big white shirt. I think a flash oversized shirt might be good, like polka dot or something.

I say Shirts vs T-shirts shirts win but shirts and jeans are hard going, big t-shirts and jerseys and all that stuff need really big necks, and what else? Who knows. What trousers? Is that why we wear jeans? Really? I watched a Daft Punk movie and this whole town was wearing robot head space helmets and the suits looked good I can see hats making suits make more sense. But who wears hats except for ones that don't go with suits? Should we wear the same suits or find new ones for the future? Is there something new around the corner? Yes.

***

WHat Happened to the Future?

2008-04-28T10:51:00.000+12:00

BY TAHI MOORE

I don't know about suits. They're a bit of uniform. So what? well, If you're in a wearing suit context, then you can talk about what's a good one, but if you decide to just wear a suit, it's can you get away with business pajamas. Seriously. And it's got to include your hair and your shoes especially your shoes and your shirt and where you are as well. So that thing of wearing the wrong stuff okay, but the problem of suits, when they go wrong, I'm theorising, is that they're disconnected. You know, it's not like you're going to a job interview or something. The wrongness of good clothes has got a lot to do with what's the right thing to wear, which is suddenly very boring.

I don't think suits are very different to army surplus, except army surplus is cheaper.

I want to wear a hat, but fedoras are hard work. Uniforms right? Uniforms from other times. What's a uniform of difference. There are band photos from around some time when a couple of them were wearing these expensive casual suitey trousers that couldn't have stayed that good for more than a couple of months. After that either they'd be boring, mark you as having some fruity style, or be replaced by the next thing. I thought they were wrong calls for the future, but now I think they were the only thing that could have been worn at the time, and if the times didn't catch up, then the only thing to do was to keep moving or be lost to the eccentric call of a personal style. So wear really good trousers. You can always get your skinny jeans back out next month. I've been doing it for years.

***

SAAB

2008-04-14T09:44:00.005+12:00

BY TAHI MOORE

Why did SAAB die? I don't know. No um GM bought them and made Opels that looked a bit like saabs or something like that and then um.. They use Fiat engines as well, and something to do with Cadillac Chassis. Now they're moving to Germany so they're promoting the Swedishness and the aeronautics. But also there's this thing now about the distinctive looks. This years models looks like last year's Holden. It's true. 4 wheel drive holdens. So I was cycling up a hill and saw a genereal motors saab red saab with a penis painted on it. It's true. Depressing. People say Subaru is the new saab. But GM is meant to be going down the toilet, or they've gone down the toilet but they haven't realised that yet. Yeah and Holden is GM Australia but I don't they're going down the toilet at all. I'm not sure if the same person took the photos or not. Maybe there's a set of guidelines.

***

High Fashion Low Fashion No Fashion

2008-03-10T22:56:00.000+13:00

BY TAHI MOORE

Watches. Again!

Okay so about a month ago I saw a thing in the Herald saying watches equals jewelery of today blah blah and I remember there being two beige swatch watches. The whole thing about those watches was that they came in blue yellow red block colours. They're plastic. Beige plastic. That's computers from when they looked really ugly until apple sold them in red blue yellow see through block colours and they went like hotcakes right so it's not an eighties thing at all AT ALL. Don't buy a beige plastic watch. You can do better. Example I got a rocket wind up watch stainless steel yellow face super modern design look like something from the bahaus serious. Somewhat cheaper delivered across the world. Except the strap sucks so I gotta custom make something in brown leather or get a cloth strap or something. Anyway I wouldn't bother with watches. I'd bother with a good pair of shoes. This is going in circles. I need a mission.

***

CK Stead

2008-03-10T22:52:00.002+13:00

BY LYDIA CHAI

I never really got into New Zealand authors, unless you count CK Stead. He is the only NZ writer whom I have read serially. I don't love everything he's written and I haven't read everything he's written. I've only just touched the surface of his oeuvre.

My favourite so far is Death Of The Body, the clever story of a professor of Philosophy who specializes in the mind/body problem. Meanwhile, his wife is a Sufi who chants "I am not this body" all day long. Great setup for a story, huh. It's not really about them, though. There's also a crime thriller. And a story about the story's teller, so it is a novel about writing itself. (Note how that last sentence can be read two ways - I can be clever, too!)

Last Monday, I had the chance to attend a packed lecture by Mr Stead at the Maidment Theatre, titled One Thing Leads To Another.

(Does anyone care about audience demographic for these things? Ages 45 and above: 65%. Young tertiary set: 10%. 1 baby. 1 Witi Ihimaera. Recognizable campus faces: 2%. Asians: maybe 3, of different ages.)

He delivered a narrative of his life as a writer ever since he left his teaching job at the university. Sounds indulgent for a topic, but let's face it, that's what we were there to learn about. Besides, he talked about himself with the same self-effacing humour and also,paradoxically, self-confidence as someone like Leonard Cohen. Only, not as sexy.

Among his narrative were: The discipline of keeping office hours. The glowing reviews of a personal favourite that ironically didn't sell well (Secret History Of Modernism). His almost lackadaisical attitude towards the novel he is best known for, Smith's Dream, which was made into a film. His one and only writer's block that came late in his life, which he triumphed over by making it the subject of a story
(Secret History Of Modernism, again).

He jumped from one idea to the next anecdote to his next intellectual phase to his next story idea - in altogether an entertaining and sprightly fashion.

Academicians, bless their souls, they're just so *interested*. But I think it takes a generous spirit to make research material seem interesting to other people. I really do. So Mr Stead does it for me.

***

Oops

2008-03-02T21:56:00.001+13:00

BY TAHI MOORE

Sorry I haven't written for a while. I don't know what's good any more. Someone's wearing something great and someone else is wearing something else that makes the first thing not so great and it goes like this around in circles. All I can think of is to dress well. I don't even know what that means. Stuff that fits well? In good colours? There's so many people dressing sport casual. And there's so many people dressing natty, in loud shirts but pinstriped white and black. How is pinstriped black and white loud? It was invented to be loud, for people who wear perfect fitting suits. I haven't researched that at all. But I think that's how it goes Something about avoiding suits from being uniforms if you can actually wear whatever kind of suit you like. And those loud jeans. Yeah those.

So I predict that if you can find smart casual stuff that fits well then it's hard to go wrong. Maybe. Where can you get that stuff? Do you have to have it made? Can I just go to little brother or something and walk out looking like normal in a sea of ridiculous spoof? Look around. How many people dress like actual human beings and not these this year outlet store six years ago bad super fashions trying to look street but failing even then now you're on some guys arse and cut off at the knees with a patch that says gumf-sports five-oh-seventy with twenty three stitches in green detail. Rebel against rebellion. Go to a menswear shop. Tuck your shirt in or get one five sizes too big and pencil trousers made out of wool or linen or something. Look like there's no chance your clothes are alluding to some tennis club their stable mates belong to and to which they might go if they've got time before hitting the clubs.

***

The Speedway Experience (International Midget* Series USA vs. NZ)

2008-02-17T22:13:00.005+13:00

BY LYDIA CHAI

If you visited my home city, Kuala Lumpur, you would probably be struck by the comparative lack of hoons on the roads. Less roars of souped up cars, more drones of the likes of reliable Volvos, Beemers and Toyota Harriers.

Malaysians. We just don't have a need for speed. Wildly out of character, then, that I spent my Saturday evening at the Speedway, Western Springs!

Robert Crumb once described Harvey Pekar's life as being so ordinary as to verging on the exotic. In this vein, out of curiosity and fascination, I invited my Aussie ex-pat friend E. to check out the rubber-meets-dirt subculture with me.

The hoi polloi did not disappoint. Can we say full marks for ambiance? Consider this: a glorious afternoon with a lingering lilac sunset. Well-prepared oldies with their deck chairs, munching peanut-butter-on-celery-sticks. The smells of hot, fatty foods. Even the burnt petrol smelled sweeter than usual.

I scanned the terraces of heads for an audience demographic (though, this is pure guesswork):
Male/Female ratio: 50/50.
Old/Young ratio: 20/80.
Kids: Mostly boys.
Asians: 5.

If you ask me, the sprint cars stole the thunder from the midget cars. These are larger cars with Z-shaped wings on their tops so as to create downforce round the bends. They grunt more deeply and sound great, but someone needs to improve the aesthetic of those adhoc-looking wings.

The event culminated in a 50-lap midget car race with New Zealander Michael Pickens finishing first, but getting bumped to 3rd place for driving on the in-field a couple of times. 1st place thus fell on the cheeky American Brad Kuhn who had spent all 50 laps hot on Pickens' heels. The boos of nationalistic protest went past our Aussie and Malaysian heads.

I am no petrolhead, but if there ever will be a demolition derby, I am so there. I'll plant a tree today.

*referring to the cars, not drivers. I made that mistake, too.

***

Research and Development

2008-02-17T22:08:00.001+13:00

BY TAHI MOORE

EUROPE
It's been a while. I've been fixing the computer and trying to perfect Gin and Tonic at the same time. I learned that people know a lot about computers because they've destroyed about eight already. I made a cocktail with gin, cointreau, lemon tonic water. Great, but I thought gin and just enough tonic to take the edge off best by far. So yeah the perfect watch I found what I thought was the ideal thing also the plainest thing I ever saw there goes my theory on ugly but it still goes for clothes, most of the time.

BORING IS BESTISH
So what's the ideal jean cut? wore wide jeans around the house. It was great I felt good then they got boring. But they were better than when I sewed them straight and the knees came out saggy it was a fucking mess truly. But I think if you can wear straight thin pants without the shape going funny that's about as good as anything. I was watching a band and they had stoves and the seam at the knees goes forwards in this funny curve. It's off, but I remember cuts from twenty years ago you think they're just recycling but I think the cuts have gotten a lot better. But there's still inherent problems in them that will never go away I think. I think jeans are inherently ugly except by blind luck hence trying on a hundred and eighty seven pairs a year for the average person.

DON'T GO TOO BAGGY ON THE THIGHS THOUGH
The other option apart from fitting thighs and slightly loose calves with no knee bulge was fitting calves and loose around the thighs, jodpured. So I did that. It's great. It looks like the knees are meant to bulge out and they're supposed to be ugly as shit.

***

‘I Like A Pina Colada’ – The Great Pina Colada Quest Part 2

2008-02-03T23:01:00.000+13:00

BY SALLY CONOR

If anything, my pina colada obsession has only grown and pulsated since I first blogged about it. I’ve googled pina colada recipes. I’ve pondered the merits of the various glass shapes and of blending or mixing the pina colada. I can’t count the number of times I’ve tried to organise some kind of pina colada party mission or pub-crawl or some other such excuse for me to drink them in company rather than coping with the shame of ordering one alone. But by becoming a cocktail opportunist and tricking people into going for a drink with me and then sneakily ordering a pina colada before they realise what I’m doing, I’ve managed to gather data on four more bars and their pina colada prowess without once having to drink alone! Bonus!

Honey, O’Connell St

My friend and I were both a bit broke but we’d been working hard and had an hour to kill so went in search of some sweet PC action. Honey Bar SEEMS like a real cocktail bar with its long cocktail menu and oddly shaped furniture, but judging by the calibre of the drinks we were served, I’m now not so sure. It was a bit like Deschlers all over again (reminder: vomit-like, viscous, vile). I’m pretty sure the bartender didn’t know what she was doing. BUT the glass was posh and once we’d given the pina coladas ten minutes or so to defrost a little bit (it was basically a pineapple and Malibu frappé) we found they were almost drinkable. However, by this point we’d already switched to wine and were a bit beyond caring. Disappointing.

Dine, Sky City

My Mum’s birthday dinner at this frightfully wanky and overpriced Peter Gordon eatery provided the perfect opportunity to test a high-end cocktail without having to pay for it. Brilliant! Inwardly, I congratulated myself even as my Dad began to prematurely sweat at the expense of the drink, let alone the meal to follow. As one would expect at a restaurant where minimalism is a virtue, the pina colada that I ordered arrived totally ungarnished in a boring tall glass. I’m beginning to formulate a theory that the pina colada is largely about theatre. It’s a performance, an exercise in frivolous bad-taste. Tacky garnishes and the right sort of novelty glass are inherent to that performance. A place like Dine doesn’t do novelty, and their pina colada certainly betrayed this inability to have fun. Unlike at Deschlers and Honey, it was at least a pleasantly drinkable liquid having escaped being blended to a cement-like consistency with an entire bucket of ice. But there wasn’t enough pineapple and the overall result was pretty bland. I certainly couldn’t detect much alcohol and I didn’t finish drinking it. On the other hand, my meal was too rich. Happy medium, where are you hiding? Not at Dine apparently.

Hyatt Hotel Bar, Cnr. Princes St and Waterloo Quadrant

It seems to me that the hotel bar might be the natural home of the pina colada – tourists notoriously have bad taste in everything so it only seems right that the tackiest of drinks is actually ON THE MENU at the Hyatt! My friend had tipped me off that Teresa the bartender seemed to know what she was doing (shaking drinks in a capable fashion à la Cocktail the movie and performing the trick where they taste-test it with a straw) so we figured we’d give her pina colada a whirl. We sat out in the garden only to find ourselves seated next to a guy with a greasy rat’s-tail growing halfway down his back which was a little off-putting. That’s hotel bars for you though. And the complimentary bowl of cashews made up for it somewhat. Our drinks arrived promptly but at first glance were just as disappointing as those at Dine. Same tall glass, same lack of decorative flair. Alas. But the coconut foam on the top was excellent and the liquid appeared to have shards of real pineapple suspended in it! However, the presence of alcohol was in doubt right up until we looked at the bill and saw that no, we hadn’t accidentally ordered virgin pina coladas but were indeed paying fifteen dollars each for fairly ordinary desserts-in-a-glass. Better than Dine. Tangy-er. But still a bit average.

F.Y.I. The garden had a gate straight out onto the street which was wide open… it’s almost like they WANT you to order seven rum-and-cokes and then do a runner.

Mac’s Brew Bar a.k.a. Northern Steamship Company, Quay St

Yeah so these bars aren’t exactly famed for the quality of their cocktails but we were in the area and wanted to check that the stripey shirt crowd weren’t secretly receiving amazing cocktails while the rest of us suffered with our bad sav. I’ve begun to notice that when on a pina colada tasting mission, it is crucial to carefully note the bartender’s response when you request a pina colada. Doubt seems to be the most common response, followed by mild panic and/or fear. So far only Bar 3 and the Hyatt have been either totally fine with brewing such a drink, or have just hidden their horror better. At The Northern Steamship, there was a long pause while the bartender processed my enquiry as to if there was ‘any way you could make me a couple of pina coladas?’

He paused. He said he thought so. He whispered to another young guy who then appeared to call a meeting at the other end of the bar with two female staff. My friend and I covertly watched as they huddled together whispering furiously and then seemed to come to a decision. The young guy started mixing a very strange drink that contained copious amounts of Malibu (hurrah!), pineapple juice and… cream. Not coconut cream, just regular cream of cows. He kinda mixed it all in the glass as he went along, with the ice already in there. I kept trying to pay for the cocktails but the bartenders were ignoring me. We thought maybe we were being punished for ordering such uncool slash troublesome drinks?? Finally they arrived… again with the tall glass and the no garnish. At last I was allowed to pay. We tasted. The result was surprisingly drinkable but the lactosey richness of the cream hit us in the back of the throat, as did the Malibu. Within a minute, the pineapple juice and cream had started to curdle and the ice was melting and forming a sort of scum on the surface. Revolting little white scabs were floating in it after about five minutes. We bravely tried to soldier on but were defeated about halfway through. Top marks to the Mac’s bar team for creativity but really, those drinks weren’t pina coladas and if I wasn’t such a wuss I would have pointed out as much and asked for my money back. Quite repulsive.

I’m beginning to wonder if I’m asking for the impossible. A pleasant, well balanced pina colada seems to be incredibly hard to find, let alone a pina colada with a nice cocktail umbrella or cherry in it. Has cocktail-making really become so po-faced and generally rubbish?? I think I need to hit the flash bars. I need to find the real professional cocktail-smiths in this town. And then I need to return to Bar 3 to determine if that now-legendary first pina colada was a figment of my imagination.

***

Karaoke Call

2008-02-03T20:01:00.000+13:00

BY AMBER EASBY

I can barely hold a tune and rarely know the words to even my favourite songs. Maybe that is why I love karaoke so much.

Until last night, I hadn’t karaoked in Auckland before. We tried Coherent, having heard about Sally’s killer rendition of Nothing Compares 2 U there a couple weeks back. We were hit with a $20 door charge. It was probably our casual attire (I had worn the same outfit for basketball) so we decided to try our luck elsewhere.

We settled on the old Paradise bar – I am not even sure what it is called now. The host was turning away customers and the place was empty. He gave us a room when we persisted but was reluctant to serve drinks. He said he was working until 8am but they were only open until three. Shady.

The selection was limited and the songbooks, difficult to navigate. It didn’t matter though. We were in a safe place, free of judgment and wait-time for the mic. One hour and $50 later, we had sung nearly twenty songs.

Highlights: Henry’s Lose Yourself, Helen’s Let's Dance and Gemma’s Say My Name. I highly recommend Lovefool as a fun and easy song to sing, especially if you need to redeem yourself after a harder-than-you-thought classic. Gemma’s rendering of Don’t Stop Me Now captured the overall spirit of the night. The finale was a heartwarming group effort: California Dreaming.

I am still feeling the Love Buzz from our efforts and am dying to karaoke again soon. Any recommendations for a new venue?

***

Summer>Torrent

2008-01-27T22:49:00.000+13:00

BY HENRY OLIVER

Okay, so summer is generally pretty great: the sun is shining (duh), friends get together more frequently & generally do more interesting/funner stuff, it is socially acceptable to drink earlier in the day, and people generally seem happier and more fun to be around. So what’s the rub? The rub is that TV sucks in the summertime.

(Yeah, so what if it’s summer? I still want to watch some TV alright? I mean how much time can you really spend at a beach? And who feels like reading a novel after a 4AM Iron Chefesque cocktail competition? Not me. And sure, BBQ’s are fun and all – and delicious! - but everyone has their limits.)

First, the kids are off school so there is all the 7:30 family orientated movies to contend with. Second, most of the shows are reruns, so if you missed what happened in Ugly Betty the first time round you’ll be glued to the set but if you didn’t care last year your remote will remain firmly in hand. And third, there’s the Writers Guild of America Strike.

If you’ve been living under a television for the last few months, it basically boils down to this: all the people who write TV shows are pissed because they want to get paid residuals (continuing payment) for use of their writing on the Internet, they want a bigger percentage per DVD sold, and writers of reality shows (yes, The Hills is scripted) want the same basic contractual rights as the writers of any other TV show. The Man (the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers) doesn’t want to pay up and has hired Arnold Schwarzenegger’s campaign manager to try and reverse the inevitable rising tide.

Anyway, THERE’S NOTHING GOOD ON TV. In an effort to comfort to comfort my short attention span, I’ve turned to the three most ironic (under the circumstances) sources of Television: the Internet, DVDs and Reality Television.

Undoubtedly the best source of television on the Internet is BitTorrent – a file sharing system where you download a torrent or ‘seed’ file from a website that when opened with a specific program puts you in touch with other people who send you tiny parts of the file while you send the tiny parts you already have to others. The key to the whole thing is that the sites that provide the torrents are not breaking any copyright laws because the file itself is not a TV show, movie or album at all. It’s just a birdcall to those that have what you want telling them that they should give it to you should they wish to.

My Current Torrent Obsessions:

The Wire Season Five
The last season! Wholly Shit this show is so good. If you like television and you like drama you will like this. In the realm of HBO, this is the Charles Dickens to Deadwood’s William Shakespeare. This season is a pungent cocktail of mayoral politics, financial misappropriation, drug dealing, and the death of the newspaper. Has the same Decline-of-America/Good-VS-Evil/Crime&Punishment bent as The Sopranos but substitutes the zippy one-liners for gritty realism (when I drove around Baltimore it was pretty scary). I can’t believe it will all be over soon. Please Sir, can I have some more?

A Daily Show/Colbert Report
I never seem to be at home or watching TV when The Daily Show plays on C4 so I download it and watch it back-to-back with The Colbert Report, just like it’s meant to be watched. Having been off air for sometime due to the strike, they are back with The Daily Show being renamed A Daily Show for the remainder of the dispute. Now, the both these shows tried to come to interim agreements with the Guild, like David Lettermen et al, but the Guild put the kibosh on it quick and now both shows are back on air without writers. You can tell. The funniest thing about these shows at the moment is how un-funny they are without the writers. It seems almost like a statement of solidarity: “See how much better our show was when we had writers? Pay the damn writers for iTunes downloads, okay?”

Project Runway Season Four
The best guilty pleasure on the VLC these days is Project Runway - the best reality game show since the early days of Survivor. This show is Fucking Funny. I can’t really talk about this too much because I wouldn’t want to give too much away, but if you’ve seen this show before and liked it, you are in for a continuous treat. The clothes are so-so but the freaks are fierce!

When the torrents are too slow (I’ll save the NZ Internet snail race rant for another time) I reluctantly visit my old friend Video Ezy Ponsonby for some sweet box set action. This will definitely go down as the summer of Deadwood. When I actually had a HBO subscription Deadwood never appealed for some reason but Amber and I watched the entire run of the show in two weeks over the New Year period. AMAZING! Al Swearengen is the best character in recent television. He’s hard to keep up with but his iambic hailstorm will knock you to the cold, hard floor.

What lets the show down and holds it back from Best Show Ever raves is some unfortunate scenery chewing from Timothy Olyphant (as Seth Bullock) and the utterly unconvincing romance between Bullock and widow Alma Garret. But, despite these major flaws from major characters, Deadwood utterly succeeds in ever other facet. The show was not officially cancelled but the actor’s contracts were not renewed, though two movie length episodes were planned in lieu of a fourth season. In October last year Ian McShane (who played Swearengen) told a journalist that the show’s sets were to be dismantled and that the episodes will not be made. HBO however is in denial.

We can only hope.

***

Doing the Arcades of Fire

2008-01-27T22:47:00.000+13:00

BY TAHI MOORE

Yeah so I'm back from the lands of reasonably large shopping malls, so I thought I'd check out some arcades while the perspective is still there.

CHEAP IS GOOD>
The only op shops I found in cheap clothing land had unworn RRL jeans from 1992 for a thousand dollars. I don't know what that means either. After all the struggle last month for an okay pair of jeans, I found myself focusing on increasingly small details to the point where everything became fairly ugly here and there if not all over. It's time not to look too closely. I turned on the radio and didn't bother changing the station. I drove to the op shop where the clothes are 2 dollars a kilo. Either someone had come through earlier or there wasn't much there. I still filled up a sack. I saw some cheap Mondays in Singapore that were almost white, so I got all the really light blue jeans I could. After a bit of basic re tailoring I had some good jeans for eighty cents. Sure you gotta take your chances in these places, but my god, come on. Try to get something you want, that you see people wearing every day, in all the shops in several countries, only to not find it. There it is, sitting on some online shop somewhere that won't ship anything outside of wherever they are. The biggest online shoe store in the world. Come on. All you have to do is stick it in an envelope and write an address. How hard can that be? I guess you can go through a third party international online shopping delivery service for eighty dollars.

THE ARCADES>
Okay so went to St Lukes arcade. What did they have? Um. I'm not sure. Oh yeah. No. Lots of chunky sporty shoes, with the flat broad soles. Well I thought, maybe the time has come for Onitsuka Tigers. I'll go buy a pair.

First we gotta check out Onehunga Dressmart arcade. Here's a few things. In Barkers there were plain t-shirts in a tasteful grey on sale for 30 dollars, which I couldn't handle just yet. In the Converse shop there were some dark blue canvas boat shoes in women's sizes that I thought were good. Um. Some Black Adidas Puffy high tops that came in small and huge. I didn't try any on, so I don't know how they go when worn. The thing about this online shopping stuff is it's tricky trying the stuff on, and when you find something you're sure you'd like, it ends up being a taunt from the strange bureaucracy of capitalissyium . It's true. I don't think they care about money. they just want to not give you anything. it's always available somewhere else. Maybe it's about exclusivity. Lots more chunky shoes. I went to Sole in Vicky Park Market to get some of those shoes that I suddenly decided were good now. I've been to all these places, and there's probably better shops somewhere, I don't know. I'm not that smart.

So In this Sole place, there suddenly weren't any Onitsuka shoes any more. There were always heaps before. I looked around a last time and found one pair, so I got them. These are the ugliest shoes I've seen in a long time. They're mostly purple. They're samples that the shoe co must have sent in case the shop wanted to order some and they didn't because they were TOO UGLY. Maybe sports shoes should look like sports shoes and be ugly and all that, and casual shoes should be minimal and inexpensive, and street shoes should come in brown and black leather, not have logos seared into them, have thin soles, not be pre-distressed, have round toes of varing degress of pointiness depending on how swanky you feel, and should avoid any kind of chunkiness unless they're actually work boots. Or maybe I'm thinking it's good to either dress very well or very badly. Perhaps boredom is the only adversary.

***

Foreign Report

2008-01-23T22:20:00.000+13:00

BY TAHI MOORE

I'm not back in Auckland but then someone was talking about Swedish jeans and then I looked up this company I never heard of, Svensson Jeans, and the pictures looked good, so I looked up a shop that sold them, went there, tried some on, but the fit was really loose on the calf, I mean no good at all. And that was that. I didn't have time to obsess over something I couldn't get hold of it was just down the road. They even had a pair of hand crafted plain the right cut blue jeans from Japan in my size no pocket art or funny threads. They seemed a bit expensive. They weren't overly though, about half what you'd charge in Auckland. This was meant to be a good story, but now I'm just depressed. The sale shall be your only hope young man. Go.

***

Barcelona, 1 de Junio de 2007.

2008-01-21T00:01:00.000+13:00

BY SARAH HOPKINSON

As you may be aware, from the proliferation of gripping hostage crime-dramas on mainstream television, ransom demands are commonly accompanied by an image of the abducted (often blindfolded, looking suitably terrified) holding a local newspaper. I always thought that this role effectively reduced the newspaper to its essence - its currency and locality. Serving primarily as a marker of specific time and place, it acts as unquestionable proof of a subject’s ‘alive-ness’ on a certain day, proof that they continue to exist. For Fiona Connor’s Free Literature newspapers are the sole material. Mining content from a series of tabloids (the ‘free literature’ on a given day), Connor creates a hybrid version of Barcelona’s principal newspaper El Pais.1 The accompanying video (viewable online) offers a short glimpse of Barcelona as a city marked by vast numbers of newspapers, stacked on street corners, littering gutters. Maybe we are supposed to see the newspaper as a leitmotif for a place; a city succinctly summed up in its recurring symbol. One of those funny idiosyncrasies that tourists always notice.

Despite muddying signature styles, and displacing stylistic cohesion (ransom notes are popularly constructed from cut-out magazine and newspaper letters, precisely to prevent authorial detection) the modified El Pais’ spatio-temporality remains intact. In fact, subsuming all other publications into a strange crossbred whole, the newspaper is reduced, via a process of layering and doubling, to its marker of local-ness and current-ness. The collaged result is a mélange of one day’s worth of news; a concoction of information, imagery and advertising, disseminated in a certain city at a particular historical moment: 1 de Junio de 2007.

The content of this chronicle is largely unreadable, but not necessarily incomprehensible. In construction, areas of text and image that resemble one another, deal with the same topical issue or advertise the same product, have been pasted over the ‘master’ edition of El Pais. Idiosyncratic formats, fonts, proportions, wording and colours prevent a seamless assimilation yet a peculiar sense of cohesion prevails. Quite simply, the collaged pieces appear to signify the same (or similar) thing; they speak to shared concerns. The language barrier further allows us, and Connor, to behold this information pared back to its basic sign-value. Guided by the recognisable terms in the headlines, familiar political images (in this instance of pre-election Sarkozy) and ever-present ads for shiny, new-model cars the viewer is faced with a simultaneously discordant and harmonious whole, both foreign and oddly familiar.

While this fittingly subjective product of an encounter with a day in a foreign city maintains a casualness, this is neither a ‘stroll’ nor a meandering journey. It is less flimsy than that, more directed, more decisive, maybe more like a dérive - if we can take the liberty of thinking the ‘terrain’ as the newspaper, as opposed to the city, and the point of departure as El Pais. Despite this abstraction, both practices share a certain situated-ness – the ransom note’s aforementioned crucial spatio-temporal grounding. A paradigmatic derive - the practice of ‘transient passage through varied ambiances’ - took place for one whole day, ‘the time between two periods of sleep’, in a primarily urban setting, as it was in the ‘great industrially transformed cities’ that the social conditioning was considered most pervasive. Like Guy Debord’s practice, Connor is less guided by chance than the ‘psychogeography’ of her chosen environment. Open to the ‘constant currents, fixed points and vortexes,’ Connor is acutely aware and responsive to the recurrence of certain events and imagery, and their varying representational guises.2 The decision-making process has its own logic, developed in the very act of making. Collage causes a necessary fissure or rupture in the previously self-contained microcosm, opening it out to speak to the macrocosm, revealing a communicative system in perpetual movement and flux, constantly slipping and sliding, feeding off and folding in on itself.

Cutting, sampling, reducing, doubling and obscuring, Free Literature unconventionally maps an experience, a city and a moment, via active engagement with a thing inextricable from that experience, city and moment. Can we see the result as one big, unwieldy ransom note? Perhaps, but I am not sure what the demands are, it doesn’t appear to be asking for anything. Maybe just giving testament, maybe working it out for itself.

***

Not-Auckland

2008-01-20T23:55:00.000+13:00

BY SALLY CONOR

Where does Auckland begin and end exactly? In a city that is characterised by its sprawl, it is almost impossible to tell. The only silly metaphor I can think of is a fried egg… built up in the middle and with a fairly definite central area but sort of tapering out into almost translucent thinness somewhere around Albany in the north and Manurewa in the south. Does Orewa count as a suburb yet? It can’t be more than five years before it does, surely.

The disease of mass suburban development is spreading north like a terracotta-tiled architectural plague. The Hibiscus Coast is already being eaten alive by the canker, and soon Orewa will be engulfed, as will acres of beautiful rolling arable land and dark forest. Auckland seems to be something of an insatiable beast, always spreading, always expanding, in the manner of The Blob. Stand still in the outer suburbs for too long and you might find you have been paved over to make way for a carpark.

Two consecutive weekends have seen me uncharacteristically venture north out of Auckland and I have found myself to remark on several occasions: “I really must get out of Auckland more. I find myself forgetting what a gorgeous country New Zealand is”, but if I’m honest, these brief sojourns have left me conflicted. It’s clear that I love Auckland. Most of the time on this blog I won’t shut up about how great I think it is. So any trip away from it, however brief, leaves me feeling mildly homesick and a little discombobulated. The country is so QUIET. You can hear The Wind. You can see the shape of the landscape for miles. You have to drive for ten minutes to get to THE Shop, singular.

For any institutionalised city-dweller, these things are beautiful and pleasant but nonetheless unsettling. I like the country but I miss the city. And then at the same time I resent the encroachment of the city into the country. I want them to be able to exist together in harmony without the growth of the one equalling the death of the other. I want Auckland and Not-Yet-Auckland to sign some kind of Treaty:

“I, Auckland, promise to be a more considerate neighbour and to not keep moving my borders further into Not-Auckland’s territory at night when no one is looking. I promise to be satisfied with the already massive space that I occupy and to focus on utilising it more effectively and making it better for those who already live there rather than exacerbating my already significant problems by ravenously expanding even further. I acknowledge that my expansion problem stems from insecurity and that I need to look inside myself for validation rather than eating more of the country in attempt to fill the void. I promise to respect the integrity of the countryside and to leave it the fuck alone for the sake of Nature and for those small communities that make New Zealand awesome and of which I have already gobbled hundreds. I promise to go on a diet. I promise to purge myself of asshole developers, bad architects and Mark Ellis. I promise to love myself and my brother, Not-Auckland and to respect his private space.”

Cities are characterised not only by what they contain, but by what surrounds them – everyone needs to get away from the city sometimes, and where will we go if Not-Auckland is subsumed into Auckland? Somewhere, somebody needs to draw a line.

***

Note Books

2008-01-20T23:45:00.000+13:00

BY ASH KILMARTIN

A friend, recently returned from visiting family in China, presented me with a set of three notebooks. The largest, about the same length as my hand from fingertips to heel of palm. The smallest, making it just to my first knuckle from the heel.

The covers are of thin recycled paper, the colour of each a slightly varied shade of golden-tan, a colour I can't help but associate with thrift and pleasing uncontrivedness.
The unassuming nature of the books is further stated by the cover inscription: in red, four characters translated as "note book". Below this assertion, in a position on the page that tells pleasantly of well-considered design, lie two parallel lines. Also in red, they echo in the lower third of the page the form of the characters in the top third, encouraging the owner to make their own inscription – a name; perhaps their own or that of a project to which the book is dedicated.

The cheap material and simple form do not entail shoddy workmanship: the pages of each differently-sized book are bound in six sets of leaves, creating six evenly-sized humps at the spine when viewed from above and six small ridges which run the length of the spine, interrupted by the four adjacent rows of stitching which hold the sets of leaves together.

The text-block (the bound-together paper stock) is attached to the cover by glue at the spine, and secured by white end-papers (the pages attached to the inside covers and the first adjoining pages). Such perfectly-glued end-papers are probably my favourite feature of these notebooks.

The pages themselves are of thin recycled stock – like the covers, the pages differ slightly in colour between sizes. Each is finely-ruled (7mm, by my eye) in indigo ink, with two close lines separating the heavy header-space from the lined body of the page. No margins. All perfectly printed and matched, but for one page in the largest notebook, which is charmingly askew. Here, the lines march off the page at a thirty-degree angle, as though heading dynamically into avant-garde Soviet poster design. Quietly combatting loathed dog-earring are gently rounded corners at the upper and lower left-hand corners.

On the back cover, corresponding in place and scale to the parallel lines on the front, are four lines of characters and numbers. What they describe, I can only guess (or, I guess, ask said friend to translate). Their exact origin is unknown to me, although I'm told they're Government-issue books once given free to employees of the state-owned corporations. That they're apparently becoming harder and harder to find only adds to their mystery and appeal, of course.

***

BDO

2008-01-20T23:29:00.000+13:00

BY AMBER EASBY

We made it to the stadium in good time. We arrived a little before 4pm, having missed the traffic and spent $20 on a car park close to the front gate. The security was more relaxed than I remembered – a quick glance in the bag, no physical pat down. As a teen, I hid a cask of wine in my underwear to avoid confiscation. My brother once went to the grounds a week in advance to bury a bag of weed and a bottle of Jack Daniels. This time, I was happy to make it through with my water bottle.

Dizzee Rascal had just started in the Boiler Room. The tent was packed and like stepping into a steamy shower of sweat. For the first time, those bikinis and bare chests made sense to me. I was expecting to see a skinny little kid but Dizzee was totally buff! It was a fun show and overall, the best sounding performance of the day.

We queued for the next 45minutes for the Immortals Lounge. It was only worth the wait for the use of clean, flushing toilets. You could also drink beer from a bottle. I tried Steinlager Pure for the first time and was disappointed. Sure – it’s natural but so is urine.

If I see a band I like at a festival, it usually makes me wish I were seeing them at their own (indoor) show. This was particularly true of Arcade Fire. The barricading of the main stage floor made it impossible to see or hear anything, unless you were the die-hard Rage Against the Machine fans who staked their claim (I am watching a lot of Deadwood) early on. I have seen this system work well overseas but here, it was poorly implemented. Long lines and confused security guards meant the flow of the crowd was heavily restricted. I was stuck on the periphery and might as well have been listening to the radio.

We ditched Arcade Fire to see Battles. They were a little too techy for me but Henry loved them. Maybe it is a dude thing. Gemma and I sat at the back and were still able to hear well. I had hot dogs and chips with the good tomato sauce - delicious! Henry sent me text message that I got four hours later, saying “Believe it or not, this is their hit song."

Determined for a more satisfactory main stage experience, we made our way to Bjork a little early. We caught the end of Shihad, a band that must organise their entire year/career around playing the Big Day Out. We managed to secure a slightly better spot. I stood on my tiptoes for as much as I could for Bjork. The marching band of Icelandic teenagers, the costumes, Bjork’s spidey hands – it was an amazing show. Unfortunately the creep factor was growing in anticipation for ‘Rage’. One guy was yelling, “You suck” throughout. I was stuck behind a loud stoner couple who thought they had lost their weed. If I had been at the movies, I would have ssshed them. When they finally found it (in their pocket), they started to roll a joint. One dude wedged himself between Gemma and me, hoping to catch the joint as it was passed back. Another apologized for pushing in with a slow, inappropriate rub of my arms and a “sorry babe”.

We made our way back to the Boiler Rom for LCD Soundsystem, which was everything you would hope. T O T A L D A N C E P A R T Y. Still, I couldn’t help but worry about the muddy ground ruining my shoes or the young girls wearing t-shirts that said, “I am with the band”. During North American Scum, a sixteen year old pushed me out of the way in excitement and I realised, I no longer have the ability to enjoy the festival for what it is. We skipped The Clean to avoid the traffic and were in bed by midnight.

***

Let's All Plunder Vinyl From Real Groovy

2008-01-16T22:37:00.001+13:00

BY DAVE TAYLOR

You're probably all well aware of this, but Real Groovy is a national treasure. If Nicholas Cage was a kiwi, he'd star in films about trying to find it.

Unlike record shops in London or New York, the racks are raked over relatively lightly. And the prices are a steal. What you can pick up there for 2 bucks would cost you 20 quid on Berwick Street.

As music becomes easier to obtain and more freely distributed via the interweb, I find myself drawn more and more to vinyl. You want the latest release? You can grab it off the internet and stick it on your ipod along with millions of other people. You want to hear a 1960s album by Peg Leg Sam? Well, more than likely you'll have to come round my house to hear it because I bought the only copy Real Groovy had. It's not been re-released on CD so it's not been digitised and let loose on the planet of sound so you won't be able to pinch it off the 'net.

I encourage any of you with a passion for music to head down there. If you see an album that:

a) has a nice cover
b) is by a band you've not heard of
c) is priced at a dollar

then buy it! You might be buying an undiscovered gem - for a third of the price of a Magnum ice cream.

Since moving to Auckland last year, I've taken pot luck on a lot of dollar albums (and some pricier) from Real Groovy. As a result, I have a big stack of totally shit schmaltzy 70s country albums. But I also have a stack of amazing albums which
I would have been hard pressed to find anywhere else.

The purpose of this monthly column is to share some of the best discoveries with you. I'm aware I'm slightly contradicting my 'you can only get this at my house' argument by digitising these tracks, but there you go.

So for my inaugral column, I've picked out records by 60s pre-teen sensations, The Bantams, great 70s country by Loudon Wainwright and an album about being a mental patient by Don Bowman and Chet Atkins.

Beware the Bantams - The Bantams

These guys look like a 60s version of Hanson - three blond mop topped lads not yet into double figures agewise. They look slightly disturbing, and I was worried about the people at the counter thinking I was a peado when I went to pay for it. But it was worth it.

This track is their version of the classic Suzie Q. It's got an awesome garage rock production and fuzz guitar lick running through it. The boys do their best to sound older than they are and only the yelp in the middle reminds you that their balls haven't dropped yet.

> Download Suzie Q

Attempted Moustache - Loudon Wainwright III

OK, so a little easier to get this on CD. But I got this sucker for a dollar, and it's truly awesome. The cover photo makes me laugh - anyone who's tried and failed to grow some top lip furniture for Movember will feel a little better after looking at it.

This track is a fine ditty about random acts of violence. 'let's burn down McDonalds' sings Loudon 'tomorrow is sunday / there's going to be parades/back at the house/i've got some grenades'.

Loudon is sooo much cooler than his irritating son. Or at least, he was back then.

> Download Clockwork Chanteusse

Fresh from the Funny Farm - Don Bowman

On this record, there's Chet Atkins' impeccable country picking (knowingly lampooned on 'world's worst guitar picker'), some nice kitschy country close harmonies and Don Bowman singing about being incarcerated in a mental asylum, in the voice of a southern simpleton.

This track is about writing a letter to his sweet heart from inside the funny farm. 'I'm writing this to you with the blunt end of a spoon' says Don and we all share his pain.

> Download Letter to Ellie Mae

I hope you enjoy the tracks. If you do venture into Real Groovy and take a punt, I'd love to hear about it. Join this blog and add your comments below.

And I do like contemporary music too - read all about it at www.artrocker.com

***

Shaky Isles

2008-01-16T22:35:00.000+13:00

BY SARAH HOPKINSON

Kingsland does not want for good eateries - it has always been over-subscribed in that department. I noticed a new Mexican place has opened in Kalaloo’s place to join Canton, Mekong Nuea, Bouchon, Taboo, Roasted Addiction, Handmade Burgers and The Fridge in the ongoing tussle for our patronage.

When I first moved to the area The Fridge was something of a revelation - with its bountiful deli selection, homemade hot pies and endearing barrista/owner, I was a frequent customer. However general consensus is that since a change in ownership (I can’t think of a cafÈ for which this has been a good thing?) that saw an extension and staff shuffle, it has been on the decline.

Hence my delight when, in the garage-like space that has housed a number of transient ventures, (directly opposite The Fridge) a new cafÈ called Shaky Isles opened its fashionably-unkempt doors.

My first visit was with my father, his partner, my sister, Debi and Harry. A tough crowd to be sure - with an ex-high-country farmer, a winemaker, a vegetarian and a chap that just got back from touring the States frequenting diners - we had most culinary bases and persuasions covered.

And despite my initial reservations that it might be a bit ‘kooky’ (sparked by the wall mural that unhappily resembles a vodafone billboard) I was reassured by the casualness of the order-at-counter service and the great hanging lightbulbs that remind me of the Jeff Wall photograph based on Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man. Whether that association was intentional or not, it worked for me.

I think what Shaky Isles does superbly well is keep it simple. There is not a blue cheese soufflÈ or hollandaise drenched crouton in sight. You can order ‘Good Stuff in a Bun’ or, if you were so inclined, ‘Pig in a Bun.’ They also do some swell pikelets with Raspberry Jam and Marscapone, a very tasty Breakfast Bruschetta and Whittaker’s Hot Chocolate. Everyone was happy with their food and coffee, the only quibble was that Dad's meal was a bit light on the bacon and Harry commented that Petit Bouchon (when it existed) did a better Croque Madame... but c'est la vie.

It is also surprisingly, refreshingly cheap. You’d struggle to spend over $12 on a main, and most of them hover around the $8 mark. Sure, the portions are smaller and the fare simpler but you leave satisfied. I struggle with rich breakfasts anyway and usually opt for a slither of hot buttered toast and a poached egg, especially after drinking too well the night before, so I was certainly not becrying the lack of hollandaise sauce.

I have now been to Shaky Isles three times. All of them good experiences. Always found a table but never found it empty. I now think the honeymoon period is over and we will settle into a comfortable relationship of mutual understanding.

***

Hometown Superette Beverage Round-Up

2008-01-16T22:33:00.000+13:00

BY SALLY CONOR

Jeez it’s hot! Usually I’m the kind of girl to hide away from the sun like a pasty grub in hibernation, but lately I keep finding myself trekking up Newton Rd in the middle of the day and by the time I make it to Symonds St I’m parched and sweaty. Hometown Superette at the Symonds St shops (next to the wig emporium) is like a cool oasis sans camels. One whole side of the shop is lined with fridges full of nice cold drinks. And such a variety! From your standard soft drinks and fruit juices through to incredibly obscure brands of sarsparilla and strange coffee-in-a-can. The choice is dizzying! Wow!! What follows is a brief survey of those beverages that I have sampled from Hometown so far:

Phoenix Elderflower

Okay so Phoenix is by no means obscure these days. Especially now they’re owned by Charlie’s. Fucking Mark Ellis again. Go away you dickbag! We all hate you! And your stupid advertising website is possibly the most abhorrent money-filching scheme ever conceived!! Get out of our faces and get yourself marooned on a rocky island populated by hungry Kimodo Dragons if at all possible!

So the Phoenix Elderflower drink is really really nice. Sweet and floral and refreshing. Good with gin! I tried it.

Ben Shaw’s Dandelion & Burdock

I was intrigued by this drink. It sat next to a whole lot of other weird-looking ones like Irn Bru, that kinda gross Fanta-like stuff from Scotland. The Dandelion & Burdock can was quite ugly, but I allowed myself to wonder what on earth a dandelion drink might taste like. I had visions of a lovely cool chamomile-style golden nectar that fairies drink out of acorn cups. I ignored the ‘burdock’ bit. This was unwise.

The drink is quite a dark brown and fizzy and almost 100% disgusting. Tastes cloyingly sweet and a bit like creaming soda but way more full-on. Perhaps this is what root beer is like? They were always drinking root beer in Babysitter’s Club novels and I never knew what it was. Kind of fake vanilla-ish and revolting. Avoid.

Mello Yello

Re-released! Again!

A bit like Lift. But not as good.

Lilt Fruit Crush Pineapple & Grapefruit

Another one from the weird shelf. Sounds like it should be awesome right? Pineapple and grapefruit together should be DELICIOUS. It even has a cool can! However, it does say in red letters on the back ‘Contains a source of phenylalanine’.Usually a bad sign. And indeed, this drink is a huge disappointment. Little trace of any pineapple or grapefruit flavour, only a vague, generic ‘fruit’ flavour, some bubbles, and an unpleasant furry coating on your teeth in the manner of Coke. Too bad! It seemed so promising. Sigh.

Ch’i

Yuuuummmmmmmm!!!! So eighties. So refreshing. So so good. Makes me feel a bit like Lana Cocroft when I drink it.

Ribena

Given last year’s false-advertising-vitamin-C-in-Ribena controversy, I thought I would re-test Ribena to see if the fact that it has not very much vitamin C in it detracts from its flavour. I got the kind in a juice-box (of course… does anybody actually buy it in those strange sac things?) and hoed into it with gusto. And then I remembered: I never drank Ribena for vitamin C in the first place! I drank it because it’s so goddam delicious. It tastes like my childhood. There’s something regressive about slurping out of a juice-box… it instantly makes one feel three years old again. It makes me wish I still needed two hands to hold onto Ribena! Remember how awesome it felt to have that much juice that you needed both hands?! They should put straw holes in the tops of big tetra-packs of juice, just so us grown-ups could experience that pleasure again. Kind of like when you get four Kit-Kat Chunkys and melt them together to make one giant Kit-Kat. Makes your hands feel really tiny!

I can highly recommend the Hometown Superette for all your beverage needs. They also have Dr Pepper and the full range of energy drinks if you need a bit of a pick-me-up on your way through town. They have an excellent range of chips as well. My kinda dairy.

***

Jeans: The Final Chapter

2008-01-09T21:03:00.000+13:00

BY TAHI MOORE

(JEANS: The Final Chapter)
This is the land of big. I see people wearing stuff I want to buy. Where do they get it? Where do you get a v neck t-shirt. I got a slightly oversized piere cardan t-shirt with a big round neck like a girls shirt that I like. I found a small shop where the guy brings back stuff from Japan and they only get jeans in my size. So I got some.

CRAFTSTYLING
I had to craftstyle the jeans down from a wide straightleg to the cut that suits me. So I did that, and now after months of searching and going to the other side of the world and recraftstyling jeans from france for the japanese market at a reasonable price I have what I've been looking for. It's a letdown. Jeans aren't worth all that effort. I mean they're not that great. You just kind of need them. I understand why people pay four times as much as they should for jeans that look okay when they try them on. From now on I'm just going to make my own suits.

***

Happy New Year

2008-01-06T20:22:00.000+13:00

BY HENRY OLIVER

***

Watches

2008-01-06T20:19:00.000+13:00

BY TAHI MOORE

I'm in KL. A lot of people are wearing watches. Watches I think are hard because there are so many that think like it's a necessary thing that you kind of pretty up a bit. But the whole cell phone thing yeah you know.

Now, I think that watches are just like it's like you wear one for the look so now it wants to just look like a watch. If there is another layer of re-hiding the watch, it's too much it's too complex you have to just have the thing looking like you got the watch because it looks like a watch. It goes the other way too, it can be too basic like you just got a cheap watch because you need one. No they can never be too basic, nor too cheap looking like it's okay to do plastic becasue it looks just like an expensive watch you know with the gold bits and the flashy writing or whatever and that elegance of style or something you gotta get a cheap watch just simple like the person designing it goes can you see the time? Yeah okay, it's done that's it. Sometimes the cheap watches are really good too, but most of the time they're just like the expensive ones, they have way too much details, the time display just hides under all this crap on your wrist. If there's a useful function in having a watch it's that you can read the time in half a second instead of five seconds. You really want that time thing right tere without being too cluttered up.

But more people are wearing watches. The othodox thing to do is to get an old one with good design. I've been predicting that swatch watches will come back, I don't know. But they still do plain ones which are nice.

I'm looking for a good see through watch I really want a quartz crystal digital see through watch no details. Would that just look too much like a mac? Probably. Okay.

Styles: Railroad, which is about readability, but the official swiss ones have this blob on the end of the second hand.

Dive, I've seen a few people wear them well. Then there are all these watches with bezels and it's like having an altometer on your car.

Pilot watches usually have a triangle at the top, often with a couple of dots. It's all a bit whiffy, I'm sure there are lots of watches that work but the whole theme thing I mean it's not fancy dress here.

***

Review in a Dream

2008-01-02T09:48:00.000+13:00

BY LYDIA CHAI

I'm at a party and Wes Anderson is sitting in a corner by himself. I walk up to him and we start talking about his latest film that has just opened in the cinemas, Darjeeling Limited.

Overall, I think it is better, slightly less emotionally detached, than his previous films. Less production geekiness.

Not a very convincing story arc, though. Two brothers are duped by their elder brother into a spiritual journey in India because he wishes to bridge the silence between them; they have been estranged from each other ever since their father's funeral. Somehow, I don't buy into the cathartic effect of their clumsy journey.

Anderson appears bored and looks elsewhere for a friend or nearby bar to save himself. I hammer on with my drunken commentary.

"And the colours of India, you just like the colours," I blurt out, but this isn't what I mean. I have to do some backtracking.

My listener is tiring of my diatribe, expecting me like any other to accuse him of exoticism. But his interest is piqued when I suggest that his portrayal of India is not one-dimensional. It doesn't do what Sofia's Lost In Translation does to Japan. In fact, he completely repackages his impressions of the country, so that it isn't even India that we are seeing. Not even a mythical India. Just colours.

I wonder if he is just enamoured with the colours of India, that's what I meant earlier. It's not offensive, it's just boring, I say.

I am sinking deeper into my own acidic nonsense.

"All your characters in all your movies are the same!"

At this point, he tells me off by pointing out that Darjeeling Limited was written by three different people, so of course the characters can't all be identical, and walks off to someone who has offered to buy him a drink. I feel like a fool. I could've put it better.

***

Black Jeans Okay. Running Shoes No Longer Real.

2008-01-02T09:46:00.000+13:00

BY TAHI MOORE

2 things.

BLACK JEANS>

They seem to be just black jeans now. Not a whole lot of people wear them it's just another colour less different from dark blue than acid washed light blue. Maybe I've been bothered with the the colour of my shrink to fits which I think are slightly not dark blue enough. No. They don't have a very good cut. But anyway now I think black jeans have stopped being a bit funny or past it and they're not a sketchy colour any more, which is nice.

SHOPPING FOR SOMETHING>

I don't think there's enough of everything to decide you want a particular kind of pants or shoes or anything and hope to find it from a week of shopping. You'll probably find something that kind of looks like what you want but isn't any good and you buy it anyway and it's a super mistake. Almost everything works by chance because almost nobody who makes clothes has any idea, or they do and make people what they want. That Simpsons episode where Homer designs his dream car which brakrupts the car company looks wrong to me. It'd probably be a huge hit. Walk into any sports shoe shop and look the array of clown shoes on sale and people actually wear them everywhere. It's a true story.

I went to Sole in Vicky Park Market and they had some nice New Balance retro style running shoes, except they had gaint Ns on the sides. I don't want to know who contracted the same shoe gluers, who make all the other shoes, to put these out. I have this intuitive feeling that shoes are no longer made by the company that owns the name. It feels like imitation shoes that just happen to be legally liscenced. It's like buying fan merchandise. It doesn't feel real.

***

Merry Christmas

2007-12-25T12:33:00.000+13:00

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

With love,

Department Of Conversation

***

My Chemical Romance Vector Arena

2007-12-19T23:57:00.000+13:00

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.

***

The Green Crocodile Sandwich Bar, Darby St, Auckland City

2007-12-16T22:45:00.000+13:00

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.

***

Shoes Sprts Shoes Style Wires for Casual Smart Casual Plus

2007-12-16T22:41:00.000+13:00

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.

***

2007-12-12T20:51:00.001+13:00

BY RYAN MOORE

Lost Weekend

2007-12-12T20:46:00.000+13:00

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

2007-12-09T20:33:00.000+13:00

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

2007-12-09T20:30:00.000+13:00

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

2007-12-09T20:27:00.000+13:00

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

2007-12-09T20:17:00.000+13:00

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.

***

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

2007-12-02T23:16:00.000+13:00

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.

***

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

2007-12-02T23:11:00.000+13:00

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.

***

Rosy Parlane / Sweetcakes : Compact Listen

2007-12-02T22:44:00.000+13:00

BY HENRY OLIVER

Rosy Parlane:

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chip/click … chip/chip/click/chip … chip/chip/chip
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SSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHSHHHHHHHH
churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip
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churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip
SSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHSHHHHHHHH
churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip churp/churp/chip

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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

2007-11-28T23:15:00.000+13:00

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

2007-11-25T22:02:00.001+13:00

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

2007-11-25T21:58:00.000+13:00

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.

2007-11-25T21:55:00.000+13:00

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

2007-11-25T21:35:00.000+13:00

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

2007-11-21T21:18:00.000+13:00

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

2007-11-21T21:14:00.000+13:00

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

2007-11-18T22:48:00.001+13:00

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

2007-11-18T22:32:00.000+13:00

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

2007-11-18T22:29:00.000+13:00

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

2007-11-18T22:18:00.000+13:00

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

2007-11-14T22:11:00.000+13:00

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

2007-11-14T22:07:00.000+13:00

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)

2007-11-14T22:05:00.000+13:00

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

2007-11-11T22:57:00.000+13:00

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

2007-11-11T22:06:00.000+13:00

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

2007-11-11T21:45:00.000+13:00

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

2007-11-07T21:56:00.000+13:00

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

2007-11-07T21:17:00.000+13:00

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)

2007-11-07T21:10:00.000+13:00

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

***

Burger Report (after Meltzer): The Cheeseburger Vol. I

2007-11-04T21:09:00.000+13:00

BY HENRY OLIVER

N.B. The Burger Report uses the burger rating system of music critic Richard Meltzer. In addition to his prolific musings on rock music, aesthetics, golf and Los Angeles ugliest buildings, Meltzer reviews burgers using a self-devised rating system. The over-all quality of the burger is shown by the amount of letters it achieves from B to B U R G E R. B being a terrible burger, B U R G E R being an amazing burger, and B U R somewhere in between. Got it? Great. Moving on...

McDonald’s (260 Queen St, Auckland City. $2.00)

Pure nostalgia! The McDonald’s Cheeseburger must be a founding nutritional document of any child not raised by hippies. I certainly remember many a friend’s 7th birthday party and a sympathetic McDonald’s treat after I ran right into a wasp’s nest when I was a youngster. But since taking up meat again after an eight-year absence I haven’t been too impressed with McDonalds. Despite changing to a make-it-as-you-order system (not to mention the options of bacon and avocado) their burgers remained soggy and flat. The fries tended to overshadow the burger most visits.
Why I think the Cheeseburger excels where other McDonald’s burgers often fall flat is simple ambition. The Cheeseburger knows what it is, knows what it is capable of, and does it well. Nothing more.
The bun was light, sweet and fluffy. The ketchup and mustard well proportioned, the pickle an acidic surprise and that finely cut onion topped the whole thing off.
While almost too sweet to be considered a savory food; this Cheeseburger was everything I remembered it to be. Nothing more, but thankfully nothing less.

B U R

Wendy’s Old-Fashioned Hamburgers (290 Queen St, Auckland City. $2.20)

The Wendy’s Cheeseburger was definitely not the freshest, but certainly the hottest. It made it’s way from the ‘kitchen’, to the tray, to my table, and to my mouth so quickly that it verged on burning my tongue.
The bun was sweet, but not too sweet. A little doughy though.
The beef patty tasted beefy enough to avoid complete flavorlessness, without the chemical sting of that ‘flame-grilled’ approach.
What I love most about Wendy’s Burgers is the mustard: tangy and pungent without over-powering the other flavors.
And the onion! I love Wendy’s onions. Thin, crisp, and crunchy. And in rings! Basically I would order this burger again for the onions and mustard alone.
What gets me though is all this trademarked square-patty business. Sure, in theory it works great; the corners spill over the side and you get both a better looking burger and more beef. More beef! And who doesn’t want that? But what you end up getting is a scrawny patty that doesn’t quite cover the bun and the inevitably disappointing last bit of dry, sugared bread. A bad finish to a merely decent burger.

B U

Burger Wisconsin (453 Mt. Eden Rd, Mt. Eden. $8.40)

This burger was definitively the best of the lot:
The beef (AngusPure no less) was well seasoned and perfectly proportioned.
The cheese was generous enough to retain a strong cheddar flavor without being too thick as to not melt sufficiently.
The bun a light sourdough that was light enough to avoid doughy-ness while still remaining a stable platform for the sauces and beef.
The lettuce was fresh, crisp and ample.
The burger struck a great balance between the components and was generous in its flavors and proportions without falling apart on itself in an excess of sauces and toppings.
A complete meal in itself.
So good, I have nothing more to say about it.

B U R G E

***

The Benefits of Looking Up (The Secret Observation Deck on Wakefield St)

2007-11-04T21:05:00.000+13:00

BY SALLY CONOR

Cities are prismatic. They change with the light and reflect new qualities from every angle. Auckland is a city of hidden surfaces - at times it can seem dull and grainy, with its character leached and corroded by commerce, sprawl and the blight of apartment buildings like limescale on the surface of some bright blade. But at other times, and with the right guide, it is radiant and crystalline. Those of us who love Auckland know its freckles and foibles: we know its crannies and sparkling moments; we seek out the sides of the prism that reflect the best light. And we know that there will always be new discoveries to make us fall in love with it all over again.

I have a friend whose great talent is for seeking out these ways to see the ordinary through entirely new eyes – when you spend time with her, you find life takes on new urgency and lustre, possibilities open up before you where you thought there were only blank walls. One day recently, she took me on a serpentine walk through town, promising to reveal a great new secret of Auckland. Like Alice’s white rabbit, she led me through a doorway and a tunnel of sorts (in this case, an upward journey through a lift-shaft to the seventeenth floor) and out onto a deserted rooftop Wonderland of mouldering turf, weird box gardens of aloes, and an unexpectedly bright panorama of our city. She had brought me to an observation deck, poorly disguised a pseudo-garden of the lowest possible maintenance, with seating and places to walk, sheltered areas for viewing and… that is all. No one else was there, and it felt dreamlike, nonsensical… a place straight out of Lewis Carroll in fact, verging on pointlessness in its under-use, if it weren’t for the quite extraordinary perspective of Auckland that it offered.

From the skytower, Auckland becomes a flat mosaic crawling with puny movement. From this angle, Auckland retains its dimensions but presents a weathered, weary face of lumpen rooftops, back alleys, silence and assorted architectural triumph and shame. The encroachment of the new is all too depressingly obvious from the seventeenth floor, with cranes infesting the skyline like wiry harbingers of the beige mediocrity soon to follow. Gems like St Matthew’s cathedral and the Smith & Caughey building defiantly jostle for light among the encroaching apartments and badly thought-out office spaces (does anyone else think that new skyscraper going up on lower Queen St looks exactly like a cheese grater?) and their beauty is all the more poignant for it. Anyone who loves Auckland can surely feel their heart breaking for our city’s slow, aesthetic death.

Anyway, the point is that despite the dawning horror of being able to see clearly what is happening to the architectural character of central Auckland, viewing the whole patchwork from up here is exhilarating and newly inspiring. The glow of light and life from the ocean and Gulf islands shines greenly over the entire panorama. Advertising is remarkably absent this high up – no billboards are visible, no tagging or postering has ascended, even music and the constant burble of imperatives to buy buy buy are lost in the altitude. The only iconography that survives the climb are the neon beacons atop our tallest towers: ANZ, ASB, VERO… and the City Mission cross (God is fighting a daily battle for skyline dominance with the fallen angels of finance). Also pleasing is the surprising amount of green clustered between the building blocks of civilisation… Albert Park and the Domain provide the velvety, shadowed places that are such cool refuges from the reflected glare of thousands of CBD windows. This green frequently inhabits the non-spaces – the redundant bits of air between buildings that contain defiant patches of weeds, hardy trees reaching for life, or the small victory of grass in the cracks of our paved-over land.

Perhaps what one sees most clearly from up here is the unused concrete expanse of all the nearby rooftops – one can’t help but wonder, what if all those roofs contained gardens like this one, but with real grass and leafy trees, flowers and ferns, moist earth and teeming life? What if Auckland had a whole secret world seventeen floors up? What if we blanketed our coarse but necessary commercial lives with a tapestry of nature between us and our atmosphere, or perhaps more crucially, protected our atmosphere from us? What would it do for our carbon emissions? For our quality of life? It’s just a nice thought.

* * *

The other extraordinary thing about my friend who brought me to this place is that her fiancé is a ninja. I’m not even kidding. He has a black belt in ninjitsu. Not only is this fun fact testament to her unique quality, it also informed the way she presented this garden to me. She passed on a story he told her about how people hardly ever bother to look upwards in their everyday lives. Apparently ninjas are taught to be ultra-aware in three dimensions, and to frequently use the spaces above them to hide from their enemies who are unlikely to look beyond what is right in front of them. Those of us without ninja powers are so often guilty of viewing our world with a lazily shallow gaze, and it is so simple to just glance upwards every now and again, to see things differently, discover our habitat anew and appreciate the entirety of what surrounds us. I like to think of my visit to this rooftop garden as an extreme expression of that idea: I looked up, all the way up to the seventeenth floor, and what I found there was an entirely new way of seeing my world, of seeing Auckland.

***

The Search For Fabric of Newmarket. Or Any Jeans.

2007-11-04T20:52:00.000+13:00

BY TAHI MOORE

Sure, it's been a long time since the cut of jeans have decided to become bored. Jeans themselves might begin to cease to be clothes at all. Everyone will carry on wearing them, but there is something inherently evil in the whole situation. It's not even primarily to do with the way they get made. It's got a lot more to with pockets.

I've been asking people what the best jeans are. And the consensus is Levi's. But try to find a plain pair. I saw someone wearing some the other day. I really don't know where he got them from.

I went on a journey, searching for the fabled Fabric branch in Newmarket. It's like searching for a good pair of Levis, except I still believe the Levis are out there. Every shop had a wall mounted shelving unit full of jeans with the back pockets facing up and they all had back pocket art work. Along with the intricate detailing, patinas, shine, studs, coloured thread, selvidge, the pockets make jeans the most elaborate item of clothing you can own. Sure you can get a ten dollar t shirt with a white silkscreen floral pattern and a roughly sewn on logo, but it's just as easy to get Bonds and American Apparel.

In the whole of Newmarket the only pair of jeans that might pass for actual jeans were the last Chloés in the women's section of Workshop. There might have been more, but I doubt it.

So what do you do? Trousers? I think so.

Anyway, since it was raining, and since I had on a Swandry, I went into said shop and the Classic reissues are on sale until they run out. They're cut a bit large, but the one that fit snug just looked like a shirt.

And tip? Tried on some super-crafted jeans and the pockets were really BIG, and I don't have an arse. I actually need braces. But it looked like I was really fat, which just adds to the evil jeans pockets theory.

***

High Noon

2007-11-04T20:38:00.000+13:00

BY AMBER EASBY

I may enjoy a late breakfast or early lunch during the week, but ‘brunch’ is reserved for the weekend. Last Sunday, I read a review of the Richmond Rd Café. While the term ‘hot spot’ left a bad taste in my mouth, I knew exactly what I wanted to eat when I woke up this morning: Lemon Ricotta Pancakes served with blueberry compote, lavender syrup and mascarpone.

We arrived at the café just before noon. A waitress greeted us outside and said there was a ten-minute wait. Another couple arrived. They smelled like weed and subsequently, were distressed by the delay. I consoled them with the estimated table time. I offered the same information to a middle age woman, as she arrived with her young daughter. “There is always a wait.” The woman pushed through to the inside waiting area – apparently, reserved for the regular.

Had this been a weekday, I might have considered a boozy breakfast of Spiced Banana and Rum Porridge with cream and coconut ($10.50). Henry was similarly tempted by the Asparagus Omelette ($14.50). I stayed true to my original craving and ordered the pancakes ($13.50). I declined the option of bacon, reluctant to spend the extra $4 and knowing I could steal from Henry, who splurged on the Mixed Grill ($19.50).

The Richmond Rd Café looks expensive - a lot of leather and glass. Badly laser-copied menus are the only chink in its armour. The overused café colour scheme of coffee and cream is also favoured here. The vibe was a little adult- contemporary for my liking but the crowd seemed to dig it. The ratepayers of Grey Lynn looked comfortable here. Our stoners, now seated and waiting for their order, happily passed the time playing with their Blackberry Smartphones.

We were ecstatic when our meals arrived. Henry’s Mixed Grill was a great twist on a traditional fry-up – poached eggs, bacon, kumara rosti, portabella mushrooms, black pudding, slow roasted vine tomatoes and five-grain toast. The bacon was cooked to crispy perfection. I regretted not ordering my own. Traumatised by my very English grandparents’ love of offal, I was hesitant to try the black pudding. I was surprised by its spice and overall deliciousness. Henry cleaned the plate.

My pancakes arrived steaming, the mascarpone just starting to melt. Initially, I thought there was too much compote but every mouthful was put to good use. The lemon cut though the ricotta nicely and the consistency reminded me of American-style flapjacks. My only criticism is that I could not taste the lavender. I appreciate there is a fine line before lavender turns to potpourri in your mouth but unfortunately, the syrup could not be distinguished once it had melted into the blueberries. That said, I would order these pancakes for brunch tomorrow.

***