Trendy But Casual

A Curator Speaks

The Guardian’s latest gambit for readers is called “Generation Y Takeover” (or “generation Y takeover” because lower-case is much more on-message). This means they’ve brought in various Gen-Y “digital trainees” to contribute pieces like “Why I’m taking my Spotify list public” and “Which 90s film character are you?” (subhead: “which 90s film character do you most relate to?”) and “The songs that soundtrack Generation Y.”

So far I’ve learned that soundtrack is a verb, that talking about who we “relate to” is acceptable in a once-respectable newspaper, and that one of the key questions of the day is: “Am I the only one who feels as though I have to make a definitive choice between: a) sharing my unfiltered listening habits with my Facebook friends and “followers” on Spotify, and b) forever pretending that only my carefully curated public listens exist?”

Someone at the Guardian should warn the digital trainee in question that articles beginning “Am I the only one who feels as though … ?” read like a parody in Private Eye.

Of course, I’m so Gen-X that I remember when we talked about “choosing” rather than “curating,” and writing rather than “documenting.” Remember those times? (Recently I read an article in which parents talked about letting their children “curate” the posters/objects for said children’s own bedrooms.)

If I were to curate/document a selection of “Am I the only one who feels as though …?” concerns in my life, these would include:

1. Am I the only one who feels as though the words of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” should be amended to: “It’s once, twice, thrice you are out at the old ball game?”

2. Am I the only one who feels as though the supporters of U.S. sports teams known for their red uniforms (e.g. St Louis Cardinals) should adopt the British fan-chant “Come on ye reds”?

3. Am I the only one who feels as though the last word to the Champions League theme song sounds like “huzzah” (rather than “champions”)?

4. Am I the only one who feels as though a selfie should be taken by the person in question, i.e. a self-portrait, and not just a cute picture of yourself taken by friend/professional photographer that you decide to post on Twitter?

I see that this particular cluster of concerns are mainly sports-related. Am I the only one who feels as though this … etc?

And now I must go and get on with my olden-days job, i.e. writing a book.

Olympic Spirit

I have just one week left of radiotherapy, after five weeks of being burned and zapped and prodded, and carrying around my green plastic shopping basket of clothes, and being asked to repeat my birth date and address, and being told to take a deep breath and relax into the table, every single day of the week. The only differences, day to day, occur when my treatment room, LA3, is running late, and they send me down to LA9, which is a bigger room and has a TV in its waiting area.

Every Tuesday, after my regular appointment, I have a meeting with a radiographer who asks me if I have any questions. I always say no, because everything is unfolding just as they predicted and described, in all its miserable banality. When something seems required other than nodding, I say that I feel tired all the time, and need to have naps every day. This, I’m told, is normal.

Of course, I do have questions. Why don’t any of the male patients have to wear the stripy gowns? Why are some patients in reception told they should “start drinking now”? Why do the radiographers always have such cold hands? Why is the TV outside LA9 always tuned to the Jeremy Kyle Show and not the Winter Olympics, like the one in reception? Why do people agree to go on the Jeremy Kyle Show, when they know he’ll make them look like fools? Are they lured by an all-expenses-paid trip to London? Would I go on the Jeremy Kyle Show if they offered me an all-expenses-paid trip to London – or Tokyo, say?

I don’t ask the radiographer any of these questions, though some days I’m tempted to ask the bus driver if it annoys him when someone dings the bell to request a stop, even though the bell has already been dinged.

At home, when I’m not groggy or trying to work on my book, TMiddy and I watch the Winter Olympics. Sometimes curling is on three channels at once, as though nothing else is happening that day. TM is disgruntled about the WO generally; they were better in the olden days, apparently, when Jean-Claude Killy was the star attraction. TM had a lab rat during his senior year of high school: he named it Jean-Claude Killy and created a Skinner box with a slope and a series of slalom gates.

TMiddy adopted a more positive attitude towards the Winter Olympics today when Finland knocked Russia out of the ice hockey. Overall, I’d say that I have more benign feelings towards the host nation, or maybe TM just lacks the Olympic spirit.

For example:

PM: How good to win in front of your home crowd!

TM: Even better to win in front of your Cold War enemy.

NZ Post Book Awards, with extra bunting

I'm back from New Zealand, and in a fug of Olympics sports - particularly my new favourites, Rhythmic Gymnastics and Sychronized Swimming - plus the usual endless to-do list. I've managed to write a blog post for the Frankfurt Book Fair on the awards ceremony itself. This is what my family looked like on the evening:

 

For those of you not intimate with the Morris and Hill families, this is: my brother-in-law, Stephen Hill; my brother, Stephen Morris; me; my father, Kiri Morris; and my sister, Lynn-Elisabeth Hill, standing at the front. The photo was taken at my sister's house before we headed off to the Auckland Museum for the awards.

That last picture is of me with the very glamorous Annie Beattie, wife of the Bookman.

A number of people in the UK and the US are telling me they've ordered copies of RANGATIRA from Amazon. But the book isn't published in either of these markets, and the only version being sold on Amazon is the large-print edition, so if someone you know outside NZ wants to buy the book, please encourage them to buy online from a NZ seller (like Time Out, Unity, the Women's Bookshop, etc).

RANGATIRA has been abridged and recorded by Radio New Zealand, and instalments will be broadcast every week day over two weeks, starting on Monday, August 13th. It's read by George Henare, my mother's all-time favourite actor from the Mercury Theatre days. I think you can listen online at the RNZ site after broadcast.

Meanwhile, in more important news, TMiddy finally gave in and allowed me to buy bunting. TMiddy's life is one long struggle against my desire to decorate; mine is a struggle to keep Christmas lights up as long as possible, and to sneak small/strange items onto our shelves:

During a well-timed trip to John Lewis, TMiddy finally gave in to my constant badgering. It's Union Jack bunting (of course! We live in Team GB-land). And now it's in our window, fading in the searing Scottish sun.

And now: handball? Diving? Celebrating New Zealand's 13 medals?

Edinburgh. Rugby. We win.

This Saturday, November 13, T. Middy and I went to Edinburgh on the train to see the All Blacks SMASH Scotland at Murrayfield. (TM: "I'll support Scotland in every sport except rugby." I, however, still cannot forgive Scottish soccer for anti-NZ comments made by the Scotland manager during the 1982 World Cup, so both soccer and rugby are on my non-support list. On will-support list: curling.)

There was slight sport-related chaos in Glasgow on Saturday, involving fluorescent-vested police in the subway, queuing systems at Queen Street station, and a ban on alcohol sales on trains between Glasgow and Edinburgh that afternoon. Rangers were playing too that day, so the subways were crowded. Most of the Rangers supporters were wearing poppies.

It was a cold, clear day in Edinburgh. Already Christmas, according to Coca-Cola.

We strolled George Street and had a late lunch at an Italian restaurant, which used butter pats to express its divided sporting loyalties.

Along with everyone French-speaking in Edinburgh, we caught a bus to Murrayfield and then walked the last leg.

We had brilliant seats in the West Stand, surrounded by Scottish fans - many in kilts, some in Viking horns, one in a blue-and-white bodysuit (sensibly warm) and some in a popular ginger wig/tartan cap get-up that TM has threatened to buy. When I sang the NZ national anthem, I couldn't hear another voice joining in, though I could see a scattering of other NZ supporters nearby. Including this NZ supporter, who claims he couldn't join in because he only knows the first two lines.

The pre-show was a fantastic pipe band, displayed here swirling onto the pitch in out-of-focus artiness, then the anthems, then the haka (also slightly out of focus, because I was over-excited), partly drowned out by the whistles and jeers of Scottish fans. They weren't quite so vocal as the match progressed. I wonder why? Could it be because Scotland only scored once (a penalty) while the All Blacks converted seven tries?

At half-time, T. MIddy asked me about the "half-time show." He's used to America. Cheerleaders, mascots, a band; maybe even Ashlee Simpson. At Murrayfield, we had something much better - a sing-song to a souped-up, blasted-out version of"The Bonnie Banks o' Loch Lomond."

More than 50,000 fans were there at Murrayfield. I've never attended such a big international sporting event. The only other All Blacks test we've seen live was against France in Wellington, where the capacity is more like 35,000. I'd like to say this was the biggest sporting event of any kind I've attended, but unfortunately I've sat through an endless LSU game at Tiger Stadium in Baton Rouge (capacity: 92,000) - the longest, hottest day of my life.

We got tickets for Murrayfield, by the way, at the urging of my father, who went there to see the All Blacks play Scotland in January, 1964. That game was a draw. Scotland has played New Zealand twenty-eight times over the past 105 years. The All Blacks have drawn twice (in 1964 and 1983) and won all the rest.

Highlights: watching the amazing Sonny Bill Williams. Catching up with my boyfriend Richie McCaw. Seeing Dan Carter in full-length. The last time I saw him, he was a life-size paper fold-out acquired, via a milk promotion, by my niece.

Some final rugby links, which many of you may have seen. The first is the All Blacks showing off in an ad for Sky and the second is a parody of that video by the Brumbies.

Kia kaha, Scotland. If you play England, I'll support you.

 

 

 

 

 

Re: cycling

Before Graham Beattie complains again about my intermittent blog posts, I’ll drag myself away from the Tour de France for a moment or two.

Tulum seems like a year ago, though I’ve managed to maintain a few holiday habits – afternoon naps, tearing through books, guacamole. Since we got back I’ve been working flat-out, pretty much, on DARK SOULS, which is my next YA novel for Scholastic. It’ll be finished by the end of this month, and published some time next year. It’s set in York, and is another supernatural mystery.

I’ve been doing other things as well, of course, like writing columns for NEXT magazine, zooming up to St Louis – if an eleven-hour drive each way can be considered zooming – for July 4^th weekend, and watching the World Cup. Then there were the overlapping delights of Wimbledon, and the Tour de France.

T. Middy is a cyclist, though his expensive bike drowned in the Post-K flood. [It was uninsured, like everything we lost, because renters can’t buy flood insurance.] When I first met him, he was doing things like the Century Bike Tour (a hundred-mile ride through NYC and New Jersey).  I didn’t go along to wave signs or cheer him on in any way, and I can’t remember why – a sale at Crate & Barrel that day, perhaps.

This morning, when TM was getting ready to go to work, we discussed the competition in this year’s Tour de France between Andy Schleck of Luxembourg and Alberto Contador of Spain. Contador has a fiancée whose name is Macarena. I didn’t realize it was an actual name. Schleck, who’s leading Contador by thirty seconds in the overall standings, will win the overall White Jersey (for best young rider) for the third year running.

TM: I could win the best young rider prize.

PM: Could you?

TM: No.

PM: You could if the Tour de France was only for riders over 55.

This comment was not appreciated. It launched TM on another reverie, this time about running. He talked at some length about his days in the New York Road Runners Club, and how he was one of the top five in his age group, and how his age group were faster than the next age group down, blah blah blah. I wasn’t really listening. I was thinking about how the weather report said it will feel like 100 degrees this afternoon. We walked out to the car, and he was still talking about the Road Runners and how much he enjoyed running with them in New York.

PM: Why did you stop?

TM: Because I met you.

This is quite untrue. I always get the blame for things TM has allegedly been forced to give up – sporting activities, peace & quiet, Manhattan, the music of Led Zeppelin, etc.

After I dropped TM off at work, I came home and watched the end of Stage 12. Thunderstorms and suffocating heat today. Drinks later on at the Hermes bar at Antoine’s, down in the Quarter. Right now I’m getting on the elliptical trainer, my only actual sport.

Changing Sides

I'm in LAX at the moment, waiting to get my flight to New Orleans: last night I crossed the Pacific for the fourth time this year (only five more to go!). Everyone in the Koru Club in Auckland Airport was watching one of the TVs, because the Olympic rowing finals were on. Too much tension and excitement, especially Mahe Drysdale's race; we were all shouting at the screen. And the photo-finish for the twins! It was New Zealand's best day ever at the Olympics, with five medals, including our first track & field gold since John Walker won the 1500 meters in Montreal. Plus the All Blacks beat the Springboks 19-0 in South Africa.

The best part of all is that my brother has to pay me five dollars, because he was insistent we wouldn't win a single gold medal and now we've won two. I rang him from the Koru Club, before I raced downstairs to board the plane, to remind him of the bet.

All this "we" talk must cease now I'm back in the land of my other citi.zenship. I must learn to love beach volleyball and basketball, the sports that are on the TV at the Red Carpet Club. I must learn not to check results on the Internet, but to watch everything unfold pretend-live during prime time on television.

According to the Guardian, New Zealand is now 14th in the medal table;The New York Times says 16th. This is because the NYT organizes the table according to total number of medals won, which puts the US in the lead, whereas the media in the UK, Australia and New Zealand rank by numbers of gold medals, which puts China first. (Australia ranks higher in the American chart, by the way, than the order-by-gold method.) I checked some other web sites: Die Zeit uses the gold ranking as well, as does Le Monde. 

It's been great being home for the first week of the Olympics, because sometimes the US coverage can feel relentlessly myopic. One year I sat through hours and hours of the opening ceremony waiting to see New Zealand walk in, only to have NBC cut away at the crucial moment to an interview with members of the so-called Dream Team. This year, T. Middy tells me, they cut away to a commercial. "And, as the Kiwis walk in, we'll take a break." Sorry, small country!

The one time I was moved to complain (characterizing the NBC sports nabobs as "jesters", as I recall) was in 96, I think, when the great Jamaican runner Merlene Ottey won silver in the 100 metres, and American runners won first and third. During the medal ceremony, the camera zoomed in on the two Americans alone, so you couldn't see Ottey at all. Classy!

T. Middy also tells me that the lead story on our local NBC news affiliate in New Orleans last night was ... Michael Phelps wins seventh gold. This was good news, I thought: it meant that nobody was getting shot in New Orleans for a change. But what a difference a day makes.

Dark Days

After a day of ignominious exits, and general depression in the M/M household about a certain World Cup, I distracted myself with Guy Somerset's brave words about shoddy book covers. I made similar comments at the end of a recent review (of Sarah Laing's very good short story collection, Coming Up Roses and was told off, during my last trip to New Zealand, by various maligned parties.

On a happier note: good on Fiji for doing so well and getting so far in the World Cup - making the quarter finals for the first time in twenty years. The Fijians managed to score more points in the match against the Springboks than either the All Blacks or the Wallabies managed in their respective quarter-final losses. I'm glad the Fijians got to do a lap of honour after the game.

Whether the Springboks or Argentina make it through to the final - and South Africa is a more likely bet, of course - I'll be supporting them. My loyalties remain in the Southern hemisphere. Perhaps this is why, three months after I applied for U.S. citizenship, the Department of Homeland Security still hasn't sent me any paperwork or cashed my check.