Browntown, baby.

“Well, opinions are like assholes. Everybody has one.”

Gay marriage.

No other two words have ignited so much discourse in the last ten years or so (well…I’m sure that some others have…but this is my blog so fuck off).

It’s today’s cause célèbre, if we’re being entirely honest here. I mean, everyone has an opinion on gay marriage, whether it’s support for it or…the other one.

I’m pro-gay marriage myself.

Who could hate this?

I guess it’s because I believe that everyone is entitled to be afforded the same rights that are afforded to me (and that are afforded to serial rapists too…but I’m clutching at straws here).
I believe that my friends Tim and Matt should be able to get married, instead of have some token piece of paper that says that they’re like a married couple…but not at all.
I believe that, just because you were born a certain way, it doesn’t mean that you are a second-class citizen.

As you can probably guess, not a whole lot of people share this opinion. 

My friend Courteney became embroiled in a flame war when she innocently asked why a former Facebook friend of hers didn’t like gay marriage.

He replied with the incredibly mature, “I’m not telling.”

Then he responded on his own page with a post so vitriolic that Perez Hilton herself would do a double-take and, in this post, he made allegations that are just too disgusting to repeat…

You know what? Opinions are important. While I may disagree with some, I believe that you are entitled to one regardless of what it is.
The deal-breaker here is that you need to back up your opinion with something…anything…

Example: I encountered that rarest of breeds the other day; the John Lawrenson supporter.
I was trying to get a young woman I’d just met to stop going to The Lawrenson Group venues…when she informed me that she’s a close friend of his.

Didn’t stop me from launching into why I think that he’s a morally-reprehensible human being.

When she asked me if I could back this up…I couldn’t, without sounding hateful.

Later on that day, I apologised for sounding irrational and not having any basis for any of the accusations I was making about that ginger-chubtard. She simply smiled and said “Everyone’s entitled to their own opinion.”

Because, you know what? Everyone is.

But you have to back that shit up. You need to.

I believe that we cannot call ourselves a ‘modern society’ and marginalise a significant portion of our people because they were born a certain way.

That’s my belief, anyway.

It’s shared by lots of people that I know and love…and refuted by lots of people that I know and love also.

And, while I may privately think that they’re assholes for not agreeing with me…I don’t hate them at all. In fact, I respect them for being brave enough to share an opposing opinion with me.

But as soon as they bring hate into the mix…then they’d better watch the fuck out.

Because it’s one thing to have an opinion…it’s another thing entirely to be an absolute asshole about it for no reason.

If the person ever reads this, then this is for you.

Please note that I’m not going to name him.
I hope you READ into the fact that THE last thing I’d want to do is name-and-shame.
First thing’s FIRST, though; he has behaved absolutely reprehensibly (oh the LETTERS of hate he’d receive if the postal service worked…). But, OF all the people who have chimed in on this topic, I’m willing to extend the olive branch of tolerance. I mean…EVERY time someone is punished for having a different opinion than someone else, then the SENTENCE far outweighs the crime.

So, here goes…

My God.
Only someone as retarded as that would make that.
Really?
God, do you think you’re being mature?
And…on that
Note
Can you justify behaving like an absolute twat?
Are you hiding something? A
Reticent behaviour that you want to shave but are
Too afraid to? You are
Entitled to your own opinion. But you don’t need to be a 
Right dick about it.

That’s all.

A jumbled mess, mind…but honest. 

“Life’s a piece of shit when you look at it. Life’s a laugh and death’s a joke; it’s true.”

Here’s the second of Mr. West’s contributions.
I highly recommend it, if only to cease whining about a certain television show for an hour at least (myself included). 

Religion is a curious thing.

I don’t mean that in an ‘unexplainable’ way, but rather in that we already all know what it is, whether or not we admit that to ourselves, but we refuse to actually talk about it.

Oh, we certainly ARGUE about it. I’ve always found that religious discussions go down one of two paths – a scientific path, or a theological path. The first is pointless – that isn’t generally why people are religious. Surprisingly few people go ‘Oh. Evolution makes sense now. I don’t believe in God anymore.’ Not to mention that in order to actually explain something as complex as evolution, you have to a) be a biologist, and b) go into incredible depth to answer all their questions.

The second path is far more interesting. It’s where atheists take massive delight in pointing out what utter shit the Bible is. It’s the point where I mention that my family has never been religious, and that I realised at age 14 that some of my friends were insane. They believed a giant invisible man gave them a book. Yes, it has some nice things in it, but those few moments are immersed in the most boring, hateful stuff you’ll ever read anywhere. What’s more – the nice bits are nothing special. Things like ‘Don’t kill’, ‘Be Nice’ and ‘Stop Stealing Shit’ are not difficult concepts to grasp. If it requires a book to teach you those things (because for some reason your parents were sociopaths), then I worry deeply about humanity.

But I digress.

We are all cowards.

For some reason, there is a social law that we shouldn’t try to connect across this divide. Non-believers find themselves frustrated by the sheer pigheadness of the religious to accept facts (and a total freedom they seem to feel to outright lie), whereas religious people find the non-religious totally unwilling to experience being human. THAT, I think, is where the core of religion lays. It is a set of stories and rules that takes our deepest insecurities and codifies them. When you sit here, reading this, what is it you want the most from your immediate life? I can make a pretty accurate guess – you want to be seen. Not seen like being on stage, but to be really seen. The you that lives in your eyes. The you who wonders how others see you. Whether what you said offended them, or made them think you’re stupid, or perhaps callous. The you that is always surprised by yourself when you look in the mirror. All of us live in our eyes. But we constantly act like everyone else doesn’t. 

Religion fills this desire. God sees you. Sees you with your flaws and strengths, and loves you for all of it. He moved the world for you. He has a cosy bedroom in Heaven waiting for you.

That sentence was scarily convincing. The next section will be less pleasant.

Religion is, and always will be, complete bullshit. We know this. All of us – even the religious. But like a faithful husband or wife, we protect that which we’ve made a commitment to. We bury the evidence to the contrary. We refuse to see the flaws in our partner. Religion is a form of careful cowardice. It takes but a moment to work out why any particular person believes. Fear of death? Comfort? The promise of belonging? Being loved? 

God tells them (via proxy) that he loves them every day. Think how much you treasure compliments from friends, or the idle declarations of love from partners. God does it every day. Every Sunday is Date Night, where He and his Follower experience something wonderful.Why can’t we find the feeling of church elsewhere? I like to think that we do. We find it in music. In theatre. In films. But so often, that feeling is felt by you when you’re by yourself. That’s why we’re so happy when we’re in a group, surrounded by Art (be it music, or whatever) and maybe slightly drunk, because we can stop worrying about the hurt, and see each other. We need to make it a ritual. We need to show our commitment to each other.

So when I say we are all cowards, I mean ALL of us. The religious are cowards for putting the responsibility for their life and existence in a poorly thought-out simulcrum. But the non-religious are cowards because we try to smash our way into their protective bubble when we are socially barren. No one would need God if people saw them. Treasured them. Tried to understand them.

This is not hippie-talk. This is about making real connections with people that you already pretend to be connected to. Then, perhaps, a religious friend can put their faith in humanity – in you – instead of hiding under the bed from Life.

Don’t get me started on the role of Smartphones in this social poverty.

“A man who doesn’t spend time with his family cannot be a real man.”

(Warning: Things are going to get a little mushy. They may even get a little moist, even.)

My little brother Samuel turned 22 on Sunday.

My older sister Susannah turns 28 this Sunday.

I’m somewhere in the middle.

I have something of a confession to make…I’m pretty bad at staying in touch with my family. See, as soon as I’m no longer in their periphery, I disappear, only to turn up when I’m hungry and miss the taste of donuts deep-fried to perfection by my Mum.

I’m even worse with my cousins (especially the Auckland ones).

It usually takes the death of a family member for all of us to see each other. And that weekend of funeral “fun” usually ends with the token ‘let’s not wait until the next family member dies before we catch up’ statement…while we all, invariably, wait for the next family member to die so we can catch up (mind, this isn’t intentional…we aren’t just killing off family members so we can simply see each other).

The thing with my family (and probably a lot of other families too) is that we just…don’t have time.

And, when the times do come around, it’s always far too brief and fleeting to be useful.

But it’s a curious thing.

It’s kinda like watching The Sixth Sense and wondering what Haley Joel Osment looks like now (Caution: Not good at all).
One tends to cautiously arrive at these reunions, which happen years apart from each other, and wonder “Do I look better now than I did back then?”

I know I think about it.

Anyway, tangenting slightly off-topic…

You only get one family. And, pretty much, you’re stuck with them.

My Mum always used to say “Be friends with your family before you make your friends your family.” She would always try and make us bond so that, when times get tough, we have someone to count on unequivocally.

Because, as much as your friends will say they’ll be there for you (and I’m lucky as I have friends who actually are), your familyalways be there.

And I mean always.

They will catch you, they will shelter you, they will protect you from anything that endangers you.

My little brother is 22 now.

My older sister is 28 now.

I’m not sure what they’re going to do with their lives, but I’m sure of one thing: No matter what…they’ll be there for me. 
And, I’ll be there for them.

See…that’s what a family does.

They’re never there all of the time…but they’ll be there whenever you need them.

I just hope that the next time I see them all won’t be at another funeral.

Mum, Dad, Samuel, Susannah, Johnny, Petini, Tiare, Matangi, Matareka, Rangi and Tererua…yeah, you know how it is…

“A dance should be about more than titillation. Mine is personal, it says who I am. What the heck does yours say?”

This is the first guest-blog by a dear friend, Brendan West. Yeah…he’s pretty much the coolest.
This one is about town. Or something.
Just…just read it. 


 

Town, many people would say,
Is a place.
I disagree.
Town is a pursuit, an activity that is never, ever, complete. 
Fresh-eyed and horny, the first-year university swarm descends on it. Look at all the bars! How cool do WE look in our vaguely-formal-wear? Groups of friends, drunk with the feeling of belonging, stampede through the streets. Some, the weak or vulnerable, go down in a few drinks, forever remembered (and perhaps glorified) for being that vomit-flecked boy or girl, clinging to strangers or lurching out into the street. Sometimes they fall prey to the predatory older men – the only people with a real REASON for being there, however revolting.

The rest, though, move as a herd with no leader. They mill from bar to bar. Beers at the Outback, shots at Agenda, spirits at Bar101. Eventually they run out of energy or money, and the herd limps off to taxis and buses, the girls freezing in their inadequate dresses, the boys’ pathetic attempts at shirts crumpled and stained.

The next week, it happens again. The girls doll up in their finest, sometimes eschewing important things like underwear. Logic should tell them that men worth catching are not going to respond to that particular tactic, but they try, nevertheless. They carefully study each other, sometimes with sly glances, sometimes during their plastic exchanges of ‘You look AMAZING!’ They mean it. Only the delivery was an act.

The boys put on the SAME shirt, or perhaps a different one they got from a 2-for-1 deal at Hallensteins. They don’t know why they’re wearing these strange, stiff garments – all they know is that it is necessary to Attract The Women, and also to Get Into The Bar. A few rebel. But instead of adding their own little touches to the accepted look, they have a minor brain aneurism and don something Quirky. They know they’re not large and be-muscled. They know they’re not bright and on track to be a doctor. So they carve their own niche. A niche that will only later show its teeth.

Like two mighty tides, the assorted genders thunder back to the estuaries. But it’s now six months in, and something is Wrong…

That charming, smartly dressed and intelligent man never sidled up to her. Never offered her a drink. Instead, she’d preyed on the ‘lesser’ males’ generosity, accepting timid advances with no intention of reciprocation.

The insatiable beauty never sidled up to him. Never admitted she liked playing Xbox and arranged to meet at the V8s. Instead, he staggered home a few times with ‘lesser’ women, lasting only long enough to deliver slobbery love before passing out.

The Wheel turns and this scene plays over and over, until the myriad groups wandering Hamilton realise something, deep in their subconscious – they’re not finding what they’re looking for. So the bar-jumping becomes more frantic. An hour at one, and hour at another. Arguments in the cold about where to go next. Fuck it – they walk home.
Some never stop this pilgrimage. They leave lovely house-parties because the alcohol kicks in and they feel the Call. They tell themselves that it is about being with their friends, even though they already WERE with their friends, un-surrounded by the teeming masses.

The Wheel turns again, and the fresh-eyed and horny first-years are now either Embittered Singles, or Armoured Couples, safe in their bastion of ‘We Will Make It, No Matter The Cost!’ A group of them venture into town, seeking the fuzzy memories of undiscovered adventure. It seems hollow. They complain that the drinks are too expensive, the music shit, the people too slutty. So they wander the main drag, the couples long since departed to get enough sleep for Their Jobs. The remainder pass another group of similar age. Their eyes meet. In that moment, something is passed between them. A longing. A revelation that the thing they are looking for never existed. They break eye contact. It’s too painful.

And so they all go home, to pursue their lives, while the new herd of fresh young pilgrims go looking for Town.

“At first I did not know it was your diary. I thought it was a very sad handwritten book.”

I’m a pretty damn classy motherfrigger.

‘How so?’ I bet you five people who actually read this are asking.

Well, it’s 7ish in the morning, I’ve finished work and I’m listening to Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 7 in C Major.

What does this have to do with what I’m gong to wank on about? Well…not a whole lot, really. 

ANYWAY…I was going somewhere with this…

Nope. It’s gone now.

No, there it is!

So, my life is pretty awesome. And by “awesome” I definitely mean “not as awesome as I think it is”.

Here’s my deal; I’m horrifically clumsy (possibly due to my feet having been forced into shoes that are about ten sizes too small for the past twenty years…but mostly because I lack any sort of grace and poise), I’m very tall (surprise) and I’m also sort of socially-inept.

There are times where I’m utterly convinced that my shit doesn’t stink. And, while this is a little okay, this tends to lead me into situations where I am proven that, not only does it stink…but it sometimes stinks a lot worse than everyone else’s.

Case-in-point; one of the many glorious charms of doing the door stuff at a nightclub-bar-thing is that I get to deal with people at their worst. And by “at their worst”, I mean “ohmygodwhyisthatmanthrowinguponhimself”.

So I do what any self-respecting sober person would do…I boot them outside and let Nature (or the NZ Police) deal with it.

Now, as many of you know, this is a lot easier said than it is…done.

While I can be successful in gently nudging them out the door, sometimes one has to exert a little bit of force to get them to not be inside being all drunk and shit. And this is fine…except I have gangly, lady-arms. And, if the guy is a little thicker than me, then it becomes very embarrassing.

Very embarrassing indeed…

Like how it takes about 15 seconds (this translates to about a year in bar-time) to forcibly nudge a guy out of the door because he’s all of a sudden become some sort of sober-drunk superhuman and decided to push against me.

Or I’m really weak.

Anyway, after I’ve completed this task, I’m stuck with looking like the world’s most ineffective door-person. You know…the kind that you see and think that you couldn’t possibly take on…until you see him get laid the FUCK out.

And this usually sends me right back down to Earth.

(Or ‘Earf’ if you’re really really racist)

And this is where I realise that the report of my awesomeness is an exaggeration (MARK TWAIN REFERENCE UP IN THIS BITCH!).

So, do I still think I’m pretty much the best thing since shaven coconut?

You bet I do.

Because I think that I’m worth it.

Because I think that, in spite of my clumsiness and my size and my social-ineptitude, I am still pretty cool.

And I think that I’m pretty cool because of all of the above too.

Because there’s only one me.

One ‘me’ who seems to have a knack for unintentionally walking pieces of Agenda’s furniture into the Duty Manager (sorry Alex).

One ‘me’ who never realises how tall he is sees his reflection in a shop window while walking next to his lady friends.

One ‘me’ who always finds a way to make situations really…really…really awkward, even if there’s no potential for awkward-osity.

And the most important part is that I try to own it.

Because I’m pretty uncool, really.

Like the Shostakovich that I’m listening to?
It’s only because I was listening to “Ill Manors” by Plan B which samples it (I prefer The Prodigy remix, though).

Yeah. I’m totes awesome.