Pan Pipes My Arse
I remember as a green immigrant in Munich at the tail end of the '80s, being utterly captivated from time to time by the roving bands of Peruvian buskers with their exotic stringed instruments and batteries of pan pipes. They generally ran in packs of 9 to 15 persons with each specializing upon his own instrument. Oh my young mind fairly swam with images of the high Andes and the soaring Condor, a lump never far from my pink Scottish throat and my hackles more often than not teased to an erect state at the heartfelt sound of the traditional tunes they played.

Then over the years, as the world became a more familiar place to me and I ascertained that seeing them in other countries was no coincidence, there was a dawning realization that the fuckers were everywhere. Some were as good as the ones in Munich, some seemed a little lacklustre here and there but hey, we all gotta eat and I could live in a world with countless roving packs of tiny Incas in ponchos and immensely brimmed hats. But if there's one set of things I hate, folks, it's fucking laziness, musical mediocrity and greed. And this is what I'm starting to think: Peruvian buskers are a lot of bloody rubbish nowadays. And greedy.

They average two or three to a pack now, they've done away almost completely with the interesting ut hard-to-master stringed instruments, preferring to milk the living shit out of the pan flute and strum lazily along on shite electric guitars with tacky chorus pedal effects. All of that is bad enough but sweet baby Jesus, it's the backing tracks that've replaced the other ten members of the pack that bother me the most. I saw a set today that were taking half hour breaks, leaving the backing tape running and if they hadn't been sitting on their lazy little arses there drinking coffee, you wouldn't have known they weren't there. The backing tape has everything: drums, bass, panflute, guitar... I'm not sure the little bastards aren't just miming now, you know? Lazy, gotten, so they are. Oh! and gone, also, are the haunting traditional tunes. Lately they appear willing to reach no further than Gheorghe Zamfir's back catalogue and playing endless variations of the Simon And Garfunkel pan-heavy classic "El Condor Pasa".

And before I end this rant, what the fuck is with them dressing up like dime store Indians from a Henry Ford western allasudden? Gone are the poncho and humble fieldhand titfer and in their place are fringed buckskin suits, gaudy beads, costume-shop Sitting Bull head dresses and face make-up! These today had a girl doing the hoop dance! What does the culture of north American plains Indians have to do with pan pipery? I've had it. To quote Corrie hero, butcher Fred Eliott "They'll not get a peh....ah say they'll not get another penny outta meeeee..."

Impressed

I'd all but given up being impressed by film. However I finally got to see "There Will Be Blood" and boy-oh-boy am I full of the joys of the cinema again? Man, Daniel Day-Lewis - what needs saying? That he's the best living actor bar none? That he's pulled off a character portrait that nobody else alive could have done? Come to think of it, I can't think of any actor now dead that could pull off Plainview either. I was mesmerized by every eye-movement, every cheek twitch, every chew of his tobacco. EVERYTHING this character did, mattered desperately. His character, married to this fantastic story sets a new standard and I'm very much afraid it's back to being underwhelmed for discerning cinema-fans for the time being. All of the other Oscar-nominees this year that I saw were flawed in some way (mostly in editing - "No Country"... would be a pretty perfect picture but for an area of flatland the size of Utah in the middle of it) but I have nothing bad to say about "There Will Be Blood."

So, three cheers for Daniel Day-Lewis for being a real actor, worthy of as much adulation as we can heap on him and for showing up those we consider the top of the acting game these days for raw boys. And three cheers for having my cinema constipation shifted in a big way and remembering what it is to be enraptured in a red velour seat in a darkened room.

The Moose

About 1.5 human years single white-patched city boy with country heart seeks companion for friendship and maybe more? Me? Fast, light, friendly. A real man's man. You: compliant. Likes: beef, possum guts, smelly offal, cat food, legs, car rides, chewing/licking ears and the smelly part behind them, meeting other dogs, chasing acorns at Western Park. Dislikes: vacuum cleaners, lying on hard floors, big black dogs, sudden movements, anyone who walks past my house (for about fifteen seconds).

Recently...
I'm remiss. I'm one remiss mister. I've been taking to the life down under, enjoying having summer in wintertime. I've been being outdoors a lot. We've moved into a new home here, in Grey Lynn, central Auckland. It's an amazing area, within walking distance of a place called Ponsonby Road which appears to be a desirable area to be close to. Having been here since January, mind you, I've only made its acquaintance in the passing, really. The house is an old house but its had some love and affection over the years, a tradition I'm keeping up by giving it a paint. Exterior only. I'll post a picture when I've finished. It's a great place to stay but a slightly unconventional set-up inasmuchas Jane, the landlady, lives in the sleepout in the garden - a converted stable. She keeps a dog, a flat coated Fox Terrier called Bruce who's part of the deal, really, part of the goods and chattels. I'm glad that's the case. He's good company. There's also a cat called Daisy who's actually a Tom but by the time the true genital count occurred, the name had stuck. This is a picture of me lat week, at Piha Beach, with Bruce. I had just discovered he's a bit afraid of the surf. He became frantic when TSO went to take a little paddle at the lip of the ocean. Bruce was flipping out, literally, backflips, jumps, barks as though to say "what the fuck? Are you watching this? She's going right into the beast's gob, man. Do something!"