... This is the question about to be asked in a U.S. courtroom. I will never know for sure if Mr Jackson has done what is alleged, any more than I could be certain (as opposed to 'beyond reasonable doubt') that O.J. killed Nicole. What I am pretty certain of, is that Michael Jackson is a very, very, strange man.
One has to wonder how he can justify insisting his children are always disguised in public (often veiled, though Jackson and family do not seem to be muslims). They do not attend a school. Even the children of the late Princess Diana did that. Their lack of anonimity has its downside (i.e. the unhappiness expressed in the UK recently when Prince Harry attended a party wearing a swastika armband), but at least they got to meet other young people, albeit most of them fabulously rich, as they are. The children of Hollywood stars attend school, often with other stars' children. One such young person, I think it may have been Summer Phoenix, was asked how it felt having an unusual name. She replied that she had attended school with the likes of Moon Unit Zappa (daughter of musician Frank Zappa), so nothing seemed out of the ordinary for her.
My other concern as to Jackson is his belief that the children of other people should be welcomed into his bed. He does not seem to recognise that, while in many countries and cultures, children climb into bed with parents when scared or needing reassurance, and, in some cultures shared beds are the norm as space is at a premium, whether due to poverty or convention. What is not normative, is for a single man (and Jackson's marriages never seemed credible) to invite the children of strangers to share his bed. His argument in a televised interview, that doing so is loving, is eerily similar to arguments put forward by paedophiles, who are convinced that their behaviour is natural and normal.
None of this proves the allegations, however, the prosecution must be delighted to have such questionable behaviour proffered by Jackson himself.
The finals of the women's singles in the Australian Open take place today. Unfortunately I have not been able to watch any of the matches so far, but have followed the tournament daily in the newspaper. Serena Williams takes on compatriot Lindsay Davenport, having disposed of Maria Sharapova.
According to the match report, what was most notable about this match was the noise made by the players. This is an old chestnut that has been rearing its head for some time. At the risk of giving a clue to my age (old enough to never offer such information to potential suitors!), I can recall the first time such a 'problem' arose - Monica Seles was criticised at Wimbledon some years ago for 'grunting'.
Nowadays, Monica's exclamations whilst hitting pale in comparision to the noises made by today's players. The vocal outpouring ranges from expulsions of breath, to gasps, to cries that (expecially in the case of a player I watched recently, Fernando Gonzalez), sound almost orgasmic. That players should make some noise when swinging their racquets is hardly surprising. At the same tournament where I watched Gonzalez, Juan Carlos Ferrero took on a Czech qualifier, Jan Hernych, and I have never seen two players hit a tennis ball so hard in my life. One could forgive them, and any other players for any sounds made in such exertion. Many players seem to also use sound as a method of intimidation, gasping particularly loudly with the execution of a powerful shot. I can live with that.
Where this all starts to unravel, however, is when the players make noise in between the shots. Sharapova is happy to shout "C'mon!" after playing a point, often a winning point, as though she is not really talking to herself. This delightful exclaimation, becoming more and more frequent (Roger Federer has done the same), was introduced onto the court by Lleyton Hewitt. If there were any evidence to suggest that such behaviour is off-putting for opponents, it has come this week in the form of Juan Ignacio Chela, one of Hewitt's opponent's, who, was seen spitting during a change of ends, apparently at Hewitt, in response to his vociferous performance. Chela later said he was spitting, but "not at Lleyton" - magnanimously, Hewitt did not take umbrage.
Martina Navratilova has described the game of tennis as 'gladiatorial' - the opponents ready to fight to the death, the crowd baying for blood. Certainly the spectators enjoy cheering on their favourites. But should the players be allowed to cheer themselves on? I have no answer for this, but, as the latest reportsfrom the Open shows, there is more to the vocal expression of emotions by players than the byproduct of exertion, and this issue is not about to go away.
Mood: Positive
Listening to: classical music in the Internet cafe
From time to time in New Zealand, debate bubbles along over the issue of changing the national flag. The same arguments tend to come up again and again - the current flag reflects our British heritage (yes it does, but um, what about our Maori heritage), changing it is disrespectful to veterans who fought under it (best to ask them if that's true), it would be expensive for organisations such as Scouts and Girl Guides to replace (I find this argument lacking in gravitas). What the debate indicates to me, is how much the human race seeks expression of identity through symbols.
In the case of the current flag, the Union Jack annotes the British Empire (or more recently and correctly, England), while for some it connotes colonial ties rather than an historic relationship. The stars meanwhile annote the Southern Cross, visible from many places in the Southern Hemisphere. My argument against the stars in particular, is that for me they fail to connote New Zealand by themselves - it is their difference to the same symbol with 2 extra stars (that appear in the Australian flag), that differientiate ours from our trans-Tasman neighbours. To this end, I agree that we could reflect our identity more succesfully through our flag if the symbols used connoted New Zealand.
Suggestions range from use of the kiwi (a native bird unique to this country), the silver fern (also native to NZ, and already in use by our sportsmen and women), and the koru (a Maori symbol currently used by Air New Zealand planes). Interestingly, an argument against the use of the silver fern on a black background was that black is associated with death worldwide. Well, that may be true of some cultures, but in Japan for example, white is the colour of mourning, but the country's flag includes white. Colours can symbolise many things depending on context. A blue bead is often attached to the clothes of a newborn muslim boy, but Iraq's flag has only recently included the colour blue. The Japanese seem unconcerned that the colour of mourning is included in their flag.
I personally feel that the time has come for a referendum on the issue of change, followed by, if change is voted for, a chance for all New Zealanders to submit designs for a referendum on the actual choice of new flag.
I had not intended to give any more thought to doctors today, but a speech by one of the right-wing opposition parties' leaders in New Zealand (if opposition is indeed the correct word in a country that has a system of proportional representation) got me thinking again about doctors, of more kinds than one.
The leader of the National party, Dr Brash, has delivered his annual 'State of the Nation' speech with an age-old theme (for right-wing parties) of welfare reform. Typically, he has attacked what he believes to be a culture of entitlement to welfare benefits. I have no problem with that, however, the beliefs of Dr Brash and I diverge somewhat when it comes to the motivations and behaviour of those who seek support from Work and Income New Zealand, the administrators of welfare benefits.
Dr Brash, referring to people leaving relationships, apparently said, "If Work and Income NZ wanted them to look for a job, too many made a beeline for the doctor and used standover tactics to obtain a medical certificate, which gave them access to a sickness benefit". He seems to believe that doctors (the medical kind) can be bullied into issuing certificates for the purpose of obtaining benefits. This somewhat undermines the professionalism of doctors, the implication that they are biddible. Furthermore, Dr Brash offers no statistical evidence to support even a pattern of movement by beneficiaries fron seeking Unemployment benefit to going on Sickness benefit, let alone proof of their motivations or 'standover tactics'. Perhaps Dr brash should have sought some testimonial evidence from the medical profession at least, if of course, their actually is any.
I myself had to receive benefit at one point in my life. If any standover tactics were involved, they were those of my sister, who almost had to drag me kicking and screaming to the doctor, who decided it was appropriate for me to not work, and take time to recover from sickness (I had been trying to work through illness, and was getting sicker all the time).
I can't help but agree with Green MP Sue Bradford, who says, " It's really sad tht Dr Brash thinks he can build his party's vote by appealing to people who don't realise being sick or out of work, can happen to anyone".
Doctors are a strange breed. All those years of study, trying to cram in so much information about the human body and its frailities, I wonder when they get time to study interpersonal skills.
I had to visit a doctor today. I am lucky, as I have found a really good one. Dr M, not only listens to me (they all do that) but he reads between the lines, and asks important questions. Sometimes, what people don't say, is as revealing as what they do say. This is important, regardless of whether the problem the patient presents is physiological or pcychological in nature, as the body's ability to heal or recuperate is hugely affected by mood and demeanor.
The fact that Dr M is also (to put it into the words of a former colleague) 'a burning hunk of love' (i.e. good-looking) does add to his appeal, but I have always tended toward female doctors, initially thinking they may be more empathetic. I have changed that view. Now that nurses (almost always female) take care of gruesome stuff like Pap smears, I find myself happy to choose a doctor on the basis of the quality of care.
When I arrived today, the computers were down at Dr M's surgery, but that got sorted quite quickly. I was one of only two patients there when I arrived. When I left the waiting room was chock full to the gills, and I joked to Dr M that he was a very popular man. That's one thing that is so great about Dr M, I can arrive feeling dreadful, and by the time I leave, i am making jokes with him.
I wish there were more doctors like Dr M.
There were two articles about friendship today in the New Zealand Herald - one about having too many 'friends' not friends, the other about Angelina Jolie. The latter suggested that Angelina appears to have few female friends, and that this could be due to the effect she has on men. The writer's friend had told her (the writer) "Never trust a woman who has no female friends" which was interesting advice. Certainly the observation that Angelina is a chick who runs with the pack (i.e. the boys) struck a chord with me.
I had a friend who, though she lacked the humanity of Angelina Jolie, and had more grey matter in her implants than between her ears, was a man-magnet. If we went out together to a pub or club, I was more-or-less invisible to men when beside the stick-insect with big tits. It's possible a woman standing next to Angelina might feel the same way. But moreover, this former friend, was the kind who would sh*t on her female friends to keep or make a man happy. This type of chick is an a***hole's dream, a woman who can be easily manipulated, is happy to compete with women sexually, and who will always choose a shag over sisterhood. Nothing like a group who has power over another group (men over women) being able to disempower the enemy with a bit of in-fighting. I have no idea if Angelina Jolie is such a person, but my former friend (and you've probably guessed already, is no longer my friend after she sh*t on me) certainly was.
The other article posed the question 'Is it possible to have too many friends?' I certainly don't think this is a problem for me, having recently conducted an experiment. I decided not to call my 'friends', and see who bothered to call me. Of course I had to make a number of allowances. Firstly, there are inevitably some friends who rely on me to do the calling. This kind of history generally repeats itself. Secondly, there is the RELATIONSHIP. That means that your friend cannot talk/visit/be visited because "this is the only time (insert name) and I have any real time together" Oh, you don't live in the same house? "Yes, but we really need..." you get the picture. I hate Xmas here in NZ for this very reason. Thirdly, some people consider a text to have the same value as a call. To my mind it does not. There is no emotion, no relating and interacting.
So far few 'friends' have been in touch, despite knowing I have not been well. I suppose I simply expect others to do as I have done before - drop by with flowers, offer to do the shopping, take them on a picnic to cheer them up. Seems like it is time to make my best friend... me.
I am not sure I've got the hang of this not-working-but-not-being-on-holiday-either thing. Some days I love my own inertia, other days I feel somewhat lacking in purpose or direction. Not working can drain your self-esteem, like the sun leeching the colours out of a pretty piece of fabric.
Today is a beautiful day, a sparkler of a day, yet it took me about 5 hours to get out of the house! Despite my recent discovery of the joys of public transport, today I had to drive my car. There's no public transport in the world that gives you a feeling of escape like driving your car. Am slowly beginning to get over the feeling of being like an old showgirl's dress, that's had half its sequins fade or fall off.
Reading continues to dominate my free time, and disturbingly I seem to have turned to chick-lit, which I have generally avoided in the past. I did however, read one book from the perspective of a man, who is undergoing not only divorce, but therapy and soul-searching over how he has screwed up the relationships he has had in the past. My current read, is centred on a woman who finds herself single in Sydney. I am fast coming to the conclusion that I am using these books to live vicariously, as there has been no one special in my life since Clark.
It's funny how it is always girlfriends in relationships who insist one should "get out more" (code for 'find yourself a guy'), though these same girlfriends are the very people you have nursed through their tearful times of "why does he do that?" and "why won't he commit?". There are plenty of reminders lurking in the past from these same women that getting into, and staying in relationships isn't all beer and skittles. Me, I'll stick with my vicarious life until I am ready to come out and play (preferably in the sunshine).
In the meantime, it is rather fun to just have a fantasy man. A fantasy man is a guy you have actually met, but don't really know or date. With the fantasy man, all kinds of projections can be directed at them, because the less you know about someone, the more you can theorise. Naturally, fantasy man is always perfect. He gives you massages whenever you need them, perfectly reading your body language when the old muscles are tired, he completes well in Scrabble, but somehow you always win, and of course, the sex is AMAZING.
The only trouble with fantasy man is the possibility of at some stage getting to know him, and being disappointed. But this is unlikely to happen to me. It's has been so long since I've slept with any other creature in my bed apart from my cat, my lack of confidence succesfully permeates any interactions with anyone of the opposite sex, and there's no invitations to get to know any man, any time. Which seems to suit me very well right now! I might sound like a bit of a saddo, but I'm fine with this.
Sun outside beckons - this is no day to be sitting inside a darkened Internet cafe. Time to go to the beach, and fantasise.
Mood: Gentle
Listening to: Air conditioning
I love the library. It took years for this relationship to come to fruition, but we've arrived.
My mother used to take my sisters and I to the library on a weekly basis. My eldest sister was a science fiction nut, while my elder sister went through a drawn-out 'horsey' phase - Black Beauty, National Velvet, and the like. I meanwhile picked up the same cookbooks (for kids) or gardening books, week after week. The cookbook at least got some practical use. The garden books were pretty much chosen for the pictures. When I grew old enough to eschew these visits to the library, I didn't visit another one for years.
Two-and-a-half years in Sydney and I never became a library member, nor did I do so in any other country I lived, with the exception of my University's library in the UK. Even then, I was seldom seen there, unless I was printing an essay. Working full-time, and studying part-time gave me precious little time to browse and muse about topics for essays. It was more a matter of rushing in and taking what was available, or purchasing books - which I normally preferred and could afford. I remained, as had been the case in my childhood, a non-fiction reader.
Eventually, I changed, thanks to 1. London's public transport system, and 2. being poor as a churchmouse in Mexico City. The London Undergraound is locally referred to as 'the Tube', but I would like to rename it 'The Place where Eye Contact must be Avoided at All Costs'. However near or far away your fellow passengers, every single one will find somewhere else to look. Advertisements high on the walls are studied as if they provide hours of fascination, mobile phones are toyed with in their owners' laps, or... magazines and books are read. And so, dear reader, I became a reader. Books provided me with an excape from the dreariness of commuting by 'Tube' (tunnel, station, tunnel, station... are we nearly there yet?). It also ensured I played by the rules in regard to eye contact.
My next great hour of need when it came to reading stories took place in Mexico City. Teaching was poorly-paid when the costs of living in a city, and the routine over-charging due to one's appearance (i.e. 'gringa=American=let's rip them off), made it difficult to fill one's free time with anything that cost money e.g. movies or a theatre performance. At 35, finding friends of my age group who weren't overwhelmed by the duties and expectations of their families (especially in the case of women) was not easy. I had a stroke of luck, in regard to my leisure void, when I came upon a bookshop not far from home that had a small stack of books in english.
Dear reader, one by one, I bought almost all of them! This was a particulary good thing at Christmas time, when my 'friends' all spent time with their families. I was sick that year, and spent Xmas day in bed, in a chilly hotel (the temperature overnight was 0 degrees C) reading my weird and wonderful books. Two in particular stood out - The Spider in the Cup (can't remember author) and The Angelic Avengers by Pierre Andrezel.
Those books saved me, and fiction books today continue to give me pleasure. Not only am I a member of the library, but I actually frequent the fiction section! Still take out cookbooks, though.
Old habits do die hard.
Mood: a little uninspired
Listening to: noisy, irritating children in the library
Dear reader I must confess, I told you a lie. I have tried to use Auckland's buses one time in the past.
Having travelled around the world and used transport systems of many kinds in many countries (including a 'car chain ferry in England), I was surprised to find that Auckland's bus 'service' requires an almost academic level of research to negotiate.
My first experience saw me at a bus stop on the Ellerslie-Panmure Highway, expecting to be able to obtain pertinent information such as what buses would come by, approximately when, and where they would be going. How wrong was I! There was no indication of any of the above, though there was a number one could text to request information. Excellent, I thought! So I duly set about texting my question, what time is the next bus from stop number ... to Panmure. The reply I received was so comical, I am sorry I didn't keep it in my phone's memory.
It went something like this: "Thankyou for your enquiry. A reply cannot be sent as I am a computer. Please text again including the route number of the bus required". Well! I would have happily included the route number if I knew what it was.
To further cloud the issue, it seems there are several different companies operating in my area. That's fine, but what puzzled me recently was a difference in fares depending on the route, even though the operator, 'Stagecoach', was the same. This is not something I have encountered in any other country. I had walked to Glen Innes in the hope of finding a bus to Newmarket.
The first bus heading for my destination, however, was going 'the scenic route' and the driver suggested that I take the next one, which would not only be more direct, but cheaper. This was surprise number one. $2.60 instead of $3.60. My second surprise came later in the day when I decided to travel back via Tamaki Drive. It was a lovely sunny day and it seemed a nice idea to ride by the sea. This, however, cost $4.60.
At least it was the pleasant ride I had looked forward to, and, as an added bonus, a rather handsome young man came and sat opposite me when he got on at Mission Bay. I tried to summon up the courage to begin a conversation with him, having noticed he wore a Nike shirt and socks, which suggested to me that he may like running. My courage, sadly, failed me, and after some time, the handsome young man went and sat in the seat behind the driver. This gave the driver, whose name I later learned was Mustafa (from Turkey), an opportunity to practice his (rather good) English with the young man. It transpired that he (the Brazilian) had come to New Zealand from Brazil, (hence the good looks, I suppose) to study English.
So although the fares puzzle me, and the organisation of the system appears cryptic, at least one can enjoy the company of strangers (even if one ends up worshipping them from afar!).
By Dougie, actually. Lois just likes to take the credit for anything and everything.
What is it with us cats' human 'owners'? I was quite happy being cat number 3672 at the SPCA, though I did find the surroundings somewhat disagreeable. Cooped up in a cage with three other cats. Greedy little buggers, too. Always fighting over the food bowl and never inviting me to the party!
Furthermore, they conduct disturbing experiments on us cats there, I reckon. When I first arrived there, I was, so to speak, in possession of fully-functioning, ah... meat and two veg. The SPCA people took my veg away, in my sleep! I sure woke up with a scowl on my face.
Anyway, back to my name. My 'owner', Lois, is something of a sports fanatic, particularly when it comes to rugby. I certainly found this out pretty quickly as I settled into my new home, before I even found out who the (other) Doug Howlett is. There I was, relaxing on Lois' knee, after a hard day's eating, licking myself, and napping, while Lois sat glued to the television as little figures scurried around on a green screen. All of a sudden, she cried out at the top of her voice, "COME ON, TANA!" I leapt off her knee and ran out of the room!
I have gotten used to it now. All the " come on Carlos", "Dan you the man" and "Go Mils!" - and of course, "GO DOUGIE!". I must say the other Doug Howlett looks like an agreeable chap, though not as handsome as me. I can't wait til Lois figures out how to download a photo of me onto this site. Not that I'm vain or anything, it is just that, dear reader, (sorry, I've caught that off Lois), you will be able to compare the human Mr Howlett with my good self!
Ah well, must go and rest my weary paws. All this typing will give me RSI.
Bye for now,
Dougie
It pains any woman to feel that she is growing older, and I am no exception. My dear sister, to whom I have become somewhat closer since my separation from Clark, tells me that one's tolerance for noise of various kinds diminishes as one enters "one's middle years". I have certainly discovered recently an aversion for what I call, the enforced soundtracks of life.
A while ago, I took my weary body off to the (previously) delightful Palm Springs Hot Pool, Parakai. There I was, lying back in a pool, my thoughts drifting away like soft wisps of smoke from a fire, when,... music began playing from some speakers. In its own way, it was not disagreeable music, just a banal selection of ballads played on the piano, but rather loudly. I hung my jacket over one of the speakers to drown out the din.
It seems that the Hot Pools, loved by many for their faded charm and lack of radio or CD, had been taken over by new owners from Korea. The Korean lady at the entrance was, I later discovered, a charming young woman, though not a great speaker of English. What she does not seem to understand, is that not everyone needs a soundtrack to accompany their reveries. For those who dwell in a city, it is a joy to listen to nothing more than leaves being blown in a breeze, a wave breaking on the shore, or a bird calling out as it flys by.
Perhaps the lady concerned should invite mine and Dougie's neighbours to her Hot Pools. Two doors down, the residents are unable to get through a saturday or sunday without a CD, apparently on a loop. Indeed, it was the third outing of 'Brown Girl in the Ring' that inspired my starting to create a blog today, as I simply had to get out of the house! Thereafter followed something of a pantomime, as I struggled to use Auckland's bus service for the first time.
But that's another story.
PS: If you are wondering why this blog is listed in the directory under 'Sport', dear reader, it is simply because the full name of Dougie is Doug Howlett. Please don't tell the real Doug Howlett or I'll have to pay his agent every time I call my cat for dinner
