Embarrassing?

 Embarrassing?

 First published in Column 8 on the 10 May 1995, and written by my number two daughter, Abby, as a fun ‘guest’ writer. Surprisingly, this got the approval of my editor.

 Over the past four years, Mike Crowl has been writing interesting and embarrassing anecdotes about us, his family. As one of the clan I feel it’s time to get our own back.

Mike Crowl was born in May five decades ago, and lived the first three years of his life in that small island to the west of New Zealand, Australia. He started learning to play the piano at the age of 8, and his main claim to fame in this area is playing for Kiri Te Kanawa. He’s always talking about it.

At the age of 22 he went to London where he married our Mum. He is now approaching the big half-century.

In his life so far he has done some amusing things. Since he’s paid us out, I should include a few of his embarrassing moments. Shall I mention the time he ran for one of those double-decker London buses? It took off as he was grabbing for the rail, and he found himself dragging along the road, tearing holes in the knees of his trousers.

He claims to be adept with his hammer and other handyman tools. But my mother recalls many a time listening to Dad banging in nails and suddenly hearing a yell of pain, after (I’ll put it charitably) a near-miss.

Or what about the time he asked his bank manager what he was doing in a rival bank? No wonder the bank manager gave him a funny look. He was in fact heading into his own office in his own bank. Dad had forgotten where he was.

There was also a time Dad was left alone on a stage in front of a crowd when the singer he was playing for forgot his words and walked off without a backward glance. Dad didn’t know whether to carry on playing, by himself, or pretend he wasn’t still there.

After speaking to one of the nuns who taught Dad to play, I learned that this brilliant piano player didn’t like practising. This nun said of Dad: ‘He was a nice boy. He didn’t like to practise but he used to bring me flowers – although he made sure he brought them without any of the other little boys seeing him.’

Although Mike Crowl’s family is picked on the most for material in his column, they’re not the only ones. His friends and acquaintances must also watch what they say, otherwise these poor unsuspecting souls may find their words printed in Column 8 the next week.

We kids have learned to try and keep our mouths shut, however, and lead vapid lives.

Sometimes I wonder why we are here. Why did my father have us? Is it just to provide ‘ingredients’ for his column? (I wonder also about the names of two of his daughters – why are they named after two of Dad’s ex-girlfriends?)

Furthermore we have to cope with English teachers using Dad’s column as part of a test or unit study.

And lastly, there is the difficulty we have with inquiries, such as: ‘So who was Mike talking about in his last column?’ or ‘Was that you your Dad said was taking too long in the shower?’ As well as all the people forever asking: ‘Is Mike Crowl YOUR Dad?’

When I was writing this letter, my Dad saw the notes I was taking off his earlier columns. Luckily my life-saver of a mother used one of her diversionary tactics and grabbed the piece of paper before he could get hold of it.

I’d like to thank my Mum and Grandma, my brothers and sisters for adding all their little bits to this. Also all those other people who supplied their special pieces of gossip. And my English teacher, who helped me to put it together properly.

PS: Happy 50^th birthday, Dad!

In my defence:
I only played publicly for Kiri te Kanawa, as far as I recall. It was a competent performance on my part, no more. 
I can still hammer a nail better than my wife, one of the few woodworking things I can do better than her. 
It's true that I didn't like practising piano much, but I played it a lot because I could sight-read very well from quite a young age, and so felt practising wasn't really a necessity (!)

Irritable

 Irritable

Published in Column 8 on 12th May 1993. Once again berating some of my children - at least in part. 

 

First issue of the RD, 1922

I wonder how many other people who read the Reader’s Digest are inspired by the suggestions in their How-To articles – but find carrying them out more like a Drama in Real Life.

I read one article about Dealing with Irritations. The reader is supposed to remember and use the several points listed to avoid becoming angry at petty irritations. But remembering the points in the middle of a hassle isn’t easy. (I know that wives/spouses/partners are there to remind you, but often their reminders only make the situation worse.)

Nevertheless, in case some people out there are more self-controlled than I am, I’ll go through some of the points.

The first suggestion is to keep a daily record of what irritates you. That’s fine, but don’t they think I have enough ideas for my column already? And anyway, wouldn’t I get irritated writing down the same things day after day?

However, here’s Saturday’s list – for what it’s worth. Irritations: my children, all other drivers and the bathroom basin.

It’s a peculiar thing that the children one begets are the people most able in the world to rub you up the wrong way. And worse - they bring in other people’s children to help them do it.

The fruit of one’s loins nettle us with their nagging, they carelessly collect boyfriends of all shapes and sizes, and infuriatingly, they eat the food and don’t clean up afterwards.

‘All other drivers.’ This may be a slight exaggeration. One driver particularly took Saturday’s provocation prize. I was about to turn left into a park at the supermarket when s/he tried to pass me on that side. The other drivers merely pestered me as usual by having no idea of the road rules, or of where they were going, or what I expected of them.

Thirdly, after months of deliberation, I’d spent the morning clearing the bathroom basin drain pipe of its accumulated hairy gunk – and prying broken bits of toothpaste tube out of the overflow. But when I tightened up the joint again the connection started to leak, one petulant drop at a time.

Huh! So much for listing the irritations. Just listing them makes me cantankerous and dyspeptic.

However, this peevish RD article next suggests taking the Pollyanna approach to irritations: When Pollyanna was sent crutches instead of a doll in the family’s missionary parcel, she was able to be glad. Why? Because at least she didn’t have to use the crutches.

Can I be glad about that exasperating driver? At least s/he didn’t hit me. (I can do $800 worth of vexating damage to the car on my own.) But how do I take the Pollyanna approach to the drainpipe leaking? Or to being swamped by kids?

I should be glad the joint didn’t crack with plastic old age when I tightened it up again, or screw itself on awry – permanently. And glad that the kids occasionally eat, sleep and block the doorways at other people’s houses.

The article next says you should Do Something. Don’t let irritation stop you in your tracks.

Well, I could order my kids to each write me a 500 word essay in triplicate tabling their complaints and listing 50 qualities their friends might have. And I could put a bucket under the leak and hope it won’t fill up before I next have the energy and inclination to do something about it.

Next on the list is to accept what you can’t control. This means accepting that the girls’ boyfriends will probably continue to fill up all available corners, which may at least stop the draughts. That other drivers will never be as perfect as me, and that when they make mistakes on the road I should just close my eyes and keep driving.

And thirdly that leaks are part of nature’s way of reinforcing the second law of thermodynamics, and I may as well live with it.

Finally the article tells me to keep my perspective – what will all this matter in eternity? I guess in eternity there’ll be plenty of room for stray boyfriends (or non-stray husbands as they may be by then). And there’ll be plenty of parking space, because there’ll be no cars – which suit the greenies fine.

As for leaking pipes, they’ll be of no importance whatsoever. Since there’s not time in eternity a bucket ought to be able to fill as much as it likes, and never overflow.

Cynicism

 Cynicism

Published in Column 8 on 13 May 1992, on my 47th birthday.  The column focuses on the loss of the America's Cup, something that came as a shock to the 'country' after thinking we could never lose it again. Crump and Scotty - one a real person, a popular writer, and the other an actor - bewailed the loss...or at least Scotty did. Unfortunately I can't find a link to it on the Net. Various politicians are mentioned here, along with well-known sportspeople. The programme, More Issues, a satirical series often included real people as guests, actors pretending to be real people, and occasionally some puppets. 

 

After my Clayton’s column of last week – the column that wasn’t a column – I’ve decided to tackle (round the neck if necessary) one of the lesser issues of which I spoke. 

I know I’m not alone in having a facet of my personality that I need to keep under strict supervision. However, cynicism (that facet) still creeps in the cat-door even after I’ve locked it. 

I was relaxing – but only for a moment, mind – in front of the television (actually, I was supposed to be washing the dishes but my neck wouldn’t stretch far enough round the corner) when I saw the Crump and Scotty ad in which the latter mourns New Zealand’s loss of the America’s Cup.

Cynicism bowelled up from the depths. I tried to thrust it down, without success. ‘This ad must have been made before we lost,’ said Cynicism. ‘And if that’s the case, there’s an alternate version, in which they celebrate the win.’ 

That version, of course, will now be locked away in the agency’s vaults. Participants may carry the guilty secret to their grave. The ad may only see the light of day if a thesis-lacking student discovers a need to investigate ‘Ads which never made it.’ 

Cynicism, however, gave me some idea of what it would contain. 

First, Scotty and Crump return to the pub, an admiral’s uniform replacing the sailor suit. Along with a champagne-swigging cast of thousands, who only manage to inhabit this building because the walls stretch, they perform a new and improved – and even more uplifting – rendition of Side by Side. 

This time the words centre on such Kiwi-magical concepts as a humbled world bowing at the feet of a NZL-20 T-shirt. 

The ad then uses cleverly spliced film of Mr Bolger handing over his job of Prime Minister to Michael Fay, as a result of the overwhelming gratitude of all true-blue New Zealanders. Schoolchildren’s happy faces are seen in montage as the crew distribute miniatures of the Yacht That Won. 

Jenny Shipley and Ruth Richardson appear to congratulate the crew (although it’s a moot point as to whether the ladies themselves are visible or their lookalikes from More Issues.) 

The ladies good and true hand out large amounts of money to all and sundry (sundry debtors?). Why?, you ask. The implication is that now the cup is ours the economy must bloom; no one will ever cry poor again. and the two First Ladies can stop taking all the flak for their supposedly callous decisions. 

In a variation on red-nose day, imitation bow-sprits appear on all vehicles. John Kirwan and Martin Crowe sing a ditty which implies that anyone who doesn’t put one in place will be considered a piker lacking national pride. 

The advertisers thought this idea could be taken up as a road-safety norm because it would encourage vehicles to travel a a safer distance from each other. In their enthusiasm they hadn’t considered problems with parking. 

During the two full minutes that this ad lasts, the entire history of the race is seen in potted form, and every mug shot of Denis Conner is in place. 

In fact, his rude words during the previous race are formed into a kind of rap with repeated shots of his snarling, and sudden head movements. Again the advertisers had high hopes for this aspect of the ad, thinking that Michael Jackson might use it as a basis for a major hit. 

Television NZ, being so grateful for all the advertising revenue they’ve received as a result of the cup ‘fever,’ would have shown the ad free. None of this is to be. Instead we must face, interminably, a post mortem 30 seconds’ worth of maudlin Scotty and Crumpled cold duck.

Disappointing movies

 Looking back through older posts I find that I use to review quite a few movies, mostly those that turned up on TV. Occasionally something I saw at the movies. 

I don't go to the movies that much anymore, especially since streaming arrived in full force. I don't feel quite so bad about watching a movie that turns out to be a bit of stinker if I haven't paid for it up front - and spent almost as much on getting an icecream. 

We have a small cinema here in Oamaru. It was recently sold and is now called The Riviera. Its seats are large, as though everyone was outsized, and it's advisable to take a cushion, since the seats' designers also assumed everyone had long upper legs. Apart from that it's comfortable enough. I think the only film I've enjoyed at this cinema was Mission Impossible: Dead Reckoning. Three hours of solid entertainment: suspenseful, funny, clever, full of wonderful stunts and with a great cast. 

On the other hand, we saw a film in which Michael Caine was the only saving grace: The Great Escaper. Based on real life story that was only eventful in the mildest way, and though the film tried to inject some additional interest in it, it had the feeling of everyone trying to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. Sadly it was Glenda Jackson's last movie; she has hardly any scenes with Caine, and has to carry chunks of the movie by herself when Caine's abroad. 

We saw Thor: Love and Thunder which in spite of director Taika Waititi once again at the helm was another noisy, cluttered piece full of CGI and a number of nonsensical scenes. Disappointing after the sheer enjoyment of Ragnarok.

Most recently we went to see Wicked, partly against my better judgement, hoping that when my daughter said she nearly fell asleep during it she meant that it was because she was tired rather than because it was boring. Unfortunately it was the latter. With the first act of the original stage show extended to something like three hours, it was stretched out beyond belief, and only served to show up the fragility of the musical's original book, which presumably worked well because it was shorter. 

The two stars were certainly excellent, but everything else was so overdone, and so geared towards DEI that after a while you began to count the white faces in the cast. Weirdly the Munchkins were pretty much full-sized adults, the talking animals seemed to make no sense except to introduce some political point and every dance sequence was full on and superb and EXCELLENT!!! But left you feeling disconnected. 

Elphaba's journey from unwilling witch to wicked witch seemed to be missing a gear or two. From the beginning she was drawn as a sympathetic character; by the end you wondered quite what had happened to her. 

Except that it wasn't the end. The second act is presumably in the pipeline somewhere, but I don't think this moviegoer will be drawn back the theatre for it. 

So much money spent on so much clutter. 

Incidental Music

 To my great surprise it's now around six months since I abandoned the book I was writing. It would have been number five in the Grimhilderness series. 

So what have I been doing with my time since then (apart from gardening, walking, housekeeping with my wife, cooking meals - between us - performing in three concerts in one week, two of them in different locations, and all the church-connected things we do. 

Being a creative person I found it hard not to be doing something creative, and then out of the blue the idea of writing some 'Incidental Music' related to The Counterfeit Queen - the book I published in 2023 - came into my head. 

The result was eight piano pieces written in the second half of last year. I'm still calling them 
'Incidental' although that usually refers to music that accompanies a theatre performance. In fact that was partly how the idea came about: I'd really enjoyed writing the music for Grimhilda! back in 2011/12; there was plenty of scope for variety, for thematic ideas, and there was the probability of getting the musical performed. In fact, the music for Grimhilda! was probably written faster, proportionately, than this Incidental music. 

With the Incidental Music to The Counterfeit Queen, however, there's no idea of the music accompanying a stage production. In fact the titles themselves show that the pieces have a certain randomness about them: 

Liam
Polly
Toby
Polly's Arrival in TEOTE
The Dwarf Council
Stevedore
Miss Chimble
Coronation March

Anyone who's read the book might note that while three of the main characters have  their own piece of music, the Queen doesn't, nor Onopulous, another important character. (Though the slightly pompous Dwarf Council might be said to include him.) Stevedore, the dog (who also appears in The Mumbersons and the Blood Secret) has only a few scenes in this book, and again provides a surprise at the end, and Miss Chimble, while an important enough character, doesn't really come into her own until halfway through the book. There are also some hints of the Dragon in three or four of the pieces. 

The music wasn't written in this order - the Coronation March was the first one off the ground. Polly's Arrival in TEOTE picked up on a theme from the March, as did Toby. Polly herself arrived late on the scene, and Miss Chimble was the last. The ear-worm-like theme for The Dwarf Council - another march - arrived in my head while I was hanging out the washing. And Stevedore just came out of nowhere, and worked. 

I'd like to perform the eight pieces later in the year, perhaps with appropriate extracts from the book read by someone. I'm thinking of combined them with The Fence piano duet, which also has a children's book connection. 

Meanwhile, I'm practicing the eight pieces regullarly (along with other pieces), partly in order to keep my fingers agile, and partly to enable myself to play some of the more difficult spots that I wrote. 

I'll keep you posted.