Archimedes

This is my Love Bird Archimedes. The NPR named him after the grouchy owl in the Sword and the Stone, although his temperament is much brighter than the owl's.

He is young and not yet hand tamed but he is very social and likes to issue long series of squawks and whistles to express himself when something takes his fancy.

I will sometimes let him out to fly around in my room but unless he goes back in his cage for seeds I have to chase him and catch him in a large sweatshirt. He hates that sweatshirt and makes loud scolding noises whenever I bring it out.

He enjoys eating broccoli and will nip thoughtfully at apple slices. He has shown no interest in Kiwi fruit or bananas but if the NPR and I are having sandwiches he likes a little bread to be clipped to the side of his cage for a snack. 

How I Lost A Perfectly Good Shirt

I was headed home down the highway this evening and found myself puttering along behind a red sedan.

All of the sudden my attention was drawn to the rear view mirror where I saw a set of headlights rushing up behind me.

A gold car swerved into the right lane at the last minute and went by so fast and so close that its breeze blew my car sideways.

I slowed down even more and was glad to be behind the sedan driving at grandma speed.

They talk about boy racers a lot in this country and I imagined that was my first time seeing one up close.

Then I remembered there was a roundabout just up the road.

This traffic device requires a reduction in speed and a careful watch for oncoming motorists.

No one needed psychic powers to see what was coming next.

Sure enough, as I approached the roundabout I saw that a car had flipped over.

There were another set of tire tracks going through the grass and at the end of them, the same gold car that had torn past me was lying in a crumpled heap in a ditch.

I saw that several people had pulled off onto the grass and were standing around. I pulled my car over to the shoulder and got out as well.

I walked toward the remains of the gold car and looked inside to see if anyone was trapped. I saw a man lying in the ditch behind the car and thought he must be dead at first.

But he was moaning and moving and a skinny man was kneeling beside him and trying to sit him up.

A few people were standing on the edge of the ditch and some said not to move the man and others said he must be moved because the car was smoking and might catch fire.

I asked some random woman standing beside me to hold my keys while I jumped down into the ditch.

Since the man had already been moved it seemed like he should be pulled away from the car in case it did catch on fire.

The man crouching beside him looked at me and said, "I've got this sorted."

"I can see that but we need to get him away from the smoking car," I said.

It was obvious that the crouching man was involved with the accident as well. He smelled of alcohol but was doing his best to keep watch over his injured friend.

At that point the injured man was sitting up so I pulled his arm around my neck and told him to lean on me. His friend took his other side and we stood him up. I asked the people standing along the edge of the ditch to help me pull him out.

Hands reach down to assist us and we were soon walking slowly away from the wreck.

The man't knees had begun to buckle so I said, "Here lay down for a minute and let's see how you're doing." I put him on his side in the recovery position and did a visual sweep for injuries. He had a gash on his head put it was only oozing a little bit. I patted down his back like I had been taught in the army to see if he was bleeding anywhere else.

I found a black hoodie laying in the grass nearby so I put it under the man's head. He was trying to spit out some grass that was stuck to his mouth so I wiped it away for him.

He was moaning and asking where he was and what had happened. I told him there had been an accident and that he was going to be okay.

I started to stoke his face and arms softly and told him not to go to sleep.

"I'm not," he said.

He seemed fairly coherent and drew up one of his legs and flexed his toes.

His friend came over and took his hand and said, "That car clipped us mate."

This was an obvious lie but I wasn't about to upset an injured man by telling his drunk companion what I thought about his driving skills.

A man who had been speaking to the emergency operators on the phone said they should be on the scene in five minutes then he laid his hand on my shoulder and said, "good job."

When the paramedics finally arrived I helped them cut away the man't shirt and roll him onto the litter. There were a few minor abrasions on his back and nothing appeared to be broken.

While they loaded him into the ambulance another woman and I compared notes on how fast the gold car had been going. Apparently they had sped by her and her husband as well.

I found a police officer and gave him my contact details and a brief statement.

He maintained most of his composure when I said that the car had passed me "doing a guhbuhjullion miles per hour" and for my part, I managed not to go full redneck and make a NASCAR analogy.

When I got home I told the NPR what hat happened and then hopped into the shower to get the blood and dirt off myself.

My white t-shirt was splattered in blood and dirt. It is beyond saving but I don't mind.

The Pukeko Tragedy

A Pukeko

I work as a part-time nanny for a family with three children. They live on a large farm property where wild birds can usual be seen from the winding driveway.

Yesterday as I was driving the kids home, they spotted three Pukekos at the edge of the drive and pointed out that one was hurt. I decided to go after it to see what was wrong.

The two healthy Pukekos ran off in one direction while the other limped slowly away. I could follow him by the trembling of plants over his head.

I caught him to a chorus of protests from him and questions from the children. He wailed pitifully as I tucked him against my side for a better look at his leg. It was severely broken and the bone was protruding from the leg. There was some nasty swelling above the injury too.

I looked up to see the children's father watching from the house and I asked them to get me a towel or soft cloth to wrap the bird in.

I walked the rest of the way to the house to find that the dad had brought out a crate and the children a towel.

I had begun to stroke the bird's back and neck and speak to him in a calm voice. He settled down and just looked at me with his red eyes.

I promised the kids I would take him to a vet and after I loaded the crate in my car I tried calling the Willowbank wildlife park. I couldn't get through but I remembered there was a vet on the way to my house. Since we were in the country I thought they might deal with wild animals too.

The receptionist at the vet was very nice but she suggested what I was most afraid of; euthanasia.

I said if there was any way the leg could be set and bound I would want to try that first. She offered to get a vet to come and take a look.

A tall young woman came out next and we discussed the injury. I knew what she was going to say but she offered to take a look anyway.

Her assistant brought a towel and the vet reached in to pull out the bird who protested weakly.

"He's skin and bones," she said. "This injury isn't new."

It was clear that the animal was suffering and if it had been left in the wild it would have slowly starved to death. I knew the kindest thing for it would be putting it to sleep but I was still sad.

I stroked its neck one last time and said I was sorry.

The vet and her assistant were very kind and sympathetic. The vet assured me it would be painless and quick so I let them have the broken bird.

For the rest of the day I felt a lingering sadness although I tried to think about the bird not being in pain and suffering.

It didn't really help much.

Posey Up The Nosey

Last night the NPR was borrowed to babysit while my friend A worked late.

The plan was for me to follow her home so I could pick the NPR up.

When she arrived I caught the glimmer of a fancy earring worn by her friend R who was sitting in the passenger seat.

"Were you guys out having a good time without me?" I said, narrowing my eyes.

"No, we weren't. I promise," A said. "It was totally work except we did gossip a little."

I followed A to her house wondering what it was about the fancy sparkle earrings that made me feel like the only kid in grade school who didn't get a birthday invite.

When we stopped at A's house R got out of the car and assured me that good times were not being had without me.

I wanted to believe this but her earrings were so sparkly.

Definite party earrings.

I found a subdued NPR on A's sofa. Apparently the kids had just gone to bed and she was pooped.

On the way out A decided she would send me home with a collection of flowers fresh picked from her yard. ( Probably out of guilt for having a good time without me.)

Anyway, she was adamant that the dianthus had a wonderful smell and I was keen to have a sniff.

Unfortunately, she foisted a bunch of them up at my face and the exact moment that I decided to lean down to get a sniff and the result was the partial insertion of a bloom up my left nostril.

After snuffling a few times to clear out any pollen granules, I thanked her for the flowers and drove home with my wild bouquet.

I still think those earrings were highly suspicious. 

Sermon on the *Deck

A few nights ago I went to keep a friend company at her shop while she was working on flower arrangements for an upcoming wedding.

I had also been promised wine.

When I arrived we nipped into the vino immediately.

I think we went about 50/50 on the bottle which led to the usual results with me; a wild freestyle dance session followed by me prancing around with a wreath of baby's breath on my head singing, "Match maker, match maker, make me a match! Find me a find, catch me a catch!"

Thankfully, the store was closed and my audience was confined to my amused friend and the occasional passing car.

But this was only the beginning of my dramatic evening.

My friend's store has a small apartment unit attached to the back of it and a nice British lass who works for the Humane Society resides there.

On that very same evening she decided to have some friends around for a BBQ.

Somehow I ended up sitting among them on her back deck.

My friend joined us and brought out a magazine article featuring a woman she knew who owned a clothing store that specialized in women who were "size 0."

In the article the woman downplayed her business sense and admitted that her father was "very wealthy."

The sole male in the group also knew the woman. He and everyone else seemed to enjoy having an eye roll over the tone of the article.

Suddenly I recalled something my friend had told me the woman. "She had her ladybits cut!" I bellowed.

My friend bulged her eyes at me in a warning to stop right there but the demon drink made me feisty and defiant.

One of the other gals mentioned a documentary I had also watched about labioplasty and this led me to make "The Sermon on the Deck."

For the next few minutes I rained down verbal brimstone on the assembled party, alternating between shaking my fist above my head and making swirling gestures around my reproductive area.

I used words like, "vuh jay jay," "lady business" and "labia minora."

I said it was abhorrent that society could make a woman feel so horrible about herself that she would feel compelled to modify the very essence of her womanhood

I believe this wholeheartedly, I just don't think it's the sort of topic you should unleash on people you've just met and who have recently eaten some luridly suggestive beef cutlets.

The girl who had seen the documentary seemed to agree with me and we talked about how part of the film had been about women having "hoo ha" casts made and displayed in a collection to show the variation of size and shape in female anatomy.

We both felt that this was an important step in showing women that there is no "normal" look and empowering them to feel secure and proud of the way they were made.

Again though, if I hadn't been sauced I definitely wouldn't have taken that particular style to express my views on the subject.

A subject I introduced while being sauced.

I don't think anyone from the gathering will ever refer to that night as "dull."

*When Kiwis say this word, it is often pronounced "dick." This is a source of endless delight to me and the NPR.  

The Social Science Complex

I have just read through my second issue of New Scientist and I have come to the conclusion that my type of science will never be featured therein.

New Scientist devotes its pages to articles concerning those who regularly use test tubes and Geiger counters in their work. (You know, people who have legitimate cause to wear a lab coat-i.e. not me.)

The closest thing New Scientist had to a non-hard science article was an article on Alfred Russel Wallace, a self-taught biologist who came to the same conclusions as Darwin and shared credit with him over the theory of survival of the fittest. But even he had the respectable habit of pinning exotic bugs to display boards and he was recognized by the Linnean Society.

Will Social Science ever be taken seriously?

Is it too late for me to switch to Kea behaviors in social groups?

Sigh.

My "lab coat" is bound to be a rain-proof parka and in place of test tubes I have a digital recorder, pen and paper. 

Understanding the principles of physics is important. I too am intrigued by the weakness of the electromagnetic force found throughout the universe. 

I am also pleased by the research that suggest bilingualism keeps your brain flexible. 

But what about my interest of indigenous self governance? 

I suppose if I wanted to read about important breakthroughs in First Nations' struggle for autonomy I would have to search the pages of Psychology Today and even then, the article would probably be authored by someone with an M.D. and have a neuroscience slant (more lab coats and test tubes).

Is it possible to gain the respect of the scientific community when one has a weak grasp of the maths and no background in Organic Chemistry?

We shall see.

Roast Busters, Rape and the Demise of the Auckland Police Department's Credibility

Once there was a group of young sociopaths who thought it would be really cool to intoxicate young girls, rape them and then brag about it on Facebook.

While many a criminal has been caught after bragging about their crimes on Facebook or filming themselves confessing, these boys still have their freedom-despite the fact that police in Auckland knew of their Facebook page for two years and allowed them to continue using it.

Police claim it was for "operational and tactical reasons."

It would appear that their tactics involved letting the boys rape with impunity and then watching them brag about it afterwards.

When public pressure fell on the department to do something, Detective Inspector Bruce Scott said, "There's nothing more the police can do to take the case to court unless one of the girls lays an official complaint."

He added, "None of the girls have been brave enough [sic] to make formal statements to us so we can take it to a prosecution stage or even consider a prosecution stage."

Here are some more gems from the mouth of Detective Inspector Scott as per an article in the NZ Herald:

He insisted the group had been "vigorously investigated'' but that there was nothing more police could have done to bring a case to court.

"We continue to look for evidence that will assist us in determining whether there has been any criminal offending and then once we've got this evidence we can make a determination on what our next move is,'' he said.

"We continue to talk with girls involved in the group. The difficulty is that we don't want to re-victimise the girls, some of them don't wish to engage with us and we can't push them to talk to the police.''

Mr Scott told 3 News the fact that one of those involved in the Roast Busters' page was the son of a police officer had not influenced the inquiry or the decision not to prosecute."

That's right, one of those affiliated with the group is the son of a police officer. 

The NZ Herald reports that his name is Tristan Burrow and he is the son of Constable Craig Burrow. 

Another is the son of Anthony Ray Parker, a bit actor who was in the movie "The Matrix." There is a picture of him making a duck face in one of the Herald articles and he is quoted as saying the situation is a "family matter." 

Apparently, he doesn't understand that having sex with an incapacitated minor and then bragging about it in front of the entire internet makes it a matter for the girls' family, the authorities and anyone with a shred of decency who feels outraged that nothing has been done. 

The two shitbags participants who have become the face of "Roast Busters" are Parker's son, Joseph Parker and Beraiah Hales. 

Aside from being obvious misogynists the two seem to have some sort of homoerotic fixation on each other-although they both deny this.

Further scandal erupted when one of the victims came forward to speak with 3 News this week and told them she had filed a complaint with the police in 2011. 

She was 13-years old at the time and says she was made to re-enact what happened to her using dolls. 

The victim told the news that the police:

"Asked a lot of questions about what I was wearing, and I why I went out in a skirt...they said that I didn't have enough evidence to show, because I went out in clothes that were pretty much asking for it".

In an Op/Ed written for today's Herald, Toby Manhire says that four victims have actually filed charges in 2011 and 2012. Of the four, three were 13 years old. 

In New Zealand the age of consent is 16. 

When certain idiots in the media try to make arguments about whether or not the girls were sober enough to consent to sex they should be reminded that these children were legally unable to do so and that what happened to them was statutory rape.

The victim who spoke with 3 News said that in going to the police she was trying to prevent these boys from doing what they had done to her to someone else. 

Instead, what she found was an incompetent and draconian-minded police interviewer who thought her choice of clothing might have tempted those boys to lose control of themselves. 

And what a surprise that they concluded there wasn't enough evidence to pursue the matter.

Just to recap: a bunch of guys bragging about the sex they had with an underage girls and one of the underage girls reporting the same thing to the police wasn't enough to take the matter to court.

I guess in Auckland building a "strong case" for rape involves getting the whole act on camera, extracting a signed confession from the rapist, and getting two (preferably male) pillars of the community to vouch that the girl didn't do anything to bring the rape upon herself.

It wouldn't surprise me in the least to learn that the parent of the rapist who works as a policeman had a hand in trying to make this whole thing disappear.

Thankfully, an outraged public has made sure that's not going to happen.

* Update The following is a link to Jessica Hume's Change.org petition calling for government action against the Roast Busters:

http://www.change.org/petitions/prime-minister-john-key-bust-the-roast-busters-and-show-you-take-sexual-violence-seriously?share_id=ebLLcJOnhG&utm_campaign=signature_receipt&utm_medium=email&utm_source=share_petition

The Day The Whole World Got On My Nerves

What is it? Is it a change in the way the wind blows? Is it a planetary alignment? Is it Aunt Flo?

Why are some days filled with countless little nagging things that add up to make you want to lose your sh**?

I underestimated my bank balance and had to scramble to put money in account so next week’s rent will clear. I was trying to pay my phone and internet bill but I couldn’t access my account because I’ve burnt through my paltry broadband allowance and the page for Vodafone (a company that has comically bad service) wouldn’t load. 

Can I just say how irritating it is to pay 75$ a month for broadband that runs out around the 15^th and a simple phone line where calling cell phones from it costs about 50 cents a pop? I’ll bet you didn’t know that New Zealand was trapped in 1998. Well, now you do.

I had to make numerous trips to the bank. First they told me they would charge me $10 to send my payment through to Vodafone. Then I had to walk to the public library and sit on a child’s star shaped stool at tiny child’s table to get on a proper internet connection. Then Vodafone wouldn’t let me get into my account so I had to request a reset of my password which took several minutes to arrive in my email.

There was a big juicy fly buzzing around my head the whole time this was going on and it landed on my arm twice. The feel of it's tiny body resting on me made me so livid that I entertained fantasies of squashing it to a pulp for the next few seconds in order to calm down.

I had to march back to the bank to get my online user number (which is a confusing number that has nothing to do with your actual account) and then go back to the children’s table at the library to pay the Vodafone bill

As I was walking to the bank again, the wind picked up and blew up my dress, causing me to flash people on the sidewalk. It seemed like the sidewalks were just filled with elderly and aimless walkers who moseyed and sashayed and took their sweet time while walking in front of me. I finally made it to the ATM so I could do a cash transfer but the gale force winds kept buffeting me about and caused the flashing of more panty to the elderly sidewalk users.

This afternoon I had to pick up the kids I work with and they were fighting with each other and giving me orders and doing all the things kids normally do but the fact that I am cramping, bloated and hormonally compromised at the moment made me feel mean and testy. 

I had to take them to their rugby games where more errant zephyrs blew us observers around like slips of paper. Also the parking lot was filled with directionless drivers who kept reversing and turning erratically which made me irritable as I watched them.

I'm going to take a deep breath, have an Advil and call it a day. 

In Which The NPR Uses "The Danger Voice"

I suspect I can be mildly eccentric over some things. I can't think of what any of them are at the moment, but I'm pretty sure if you asked someone in my family they could provide you with a list.

Anyway, last night I was reading through a paper from the Journal of the Polynesian Society and making good use of my pink highlighter while the NPR sat beside me drawing pictures of emotionally tortured anime characters.

She wanted to listen to some music from Spotify while we worked and I said I didn't mind.

She got irritated when I wouldn't give her suggestions for songs to play, asked what kind of DJ I was anyway and declared that my room was "boring" and that she was going back to her own.

A few minutes later I heard her call out, "Mom, come here" in what I can only describe as "The Danger Voice."

The Danger Voice is a tone that someone takes when there is a potentially fatal situation requiring immediate attention. It informs the listener that "sh*t is about to get real."

I sprang from my bed and headed toward the NPR's room, fully expecting to see some unsavory character menacing her with some sort of weapon.

Instead I entered the room to find her pointing toward her nightstand lamp with a frightened expression.

"This had better not be what I think it is," I began, leaning toward the lamp for a closer inspection.

It was.

There on the edge of the lamp was a spider, roughly the size of a large snowflake.

It had already laid out one cross section of web. It hung there limply, suspended by its bum and seemingly dazzled by what I can only imagine was the equivalent of a human being staring into the sun at close proximity.

I swiped at the strand of web and it came away stuck to my finger on one end and the spider's hinder at the other.

The web strand swayed back toward the nightstand and the NPR and I watched as the offending party touched down on its surface and scurried away.

The NPR looked contemptuous.

How dare I abet the enemy.

I lost my cool then.

"How many times do I have to tell you about tiny spiders and their threat level?" I said.

I stormed off wondering where this silly phobia began and recalling all the other times she had called me into her room in California to deal with minuscule arachnids of no consequence .

I thought if I told her how most animals do not attack unless they are threatened she would simmer down but she still insists that the spiders have diabolical plans for her.

Today she informed me that the same spider (she was sure of this) had crawled over the edge of her laptop last night and looked at her. She recounted how she had bravely blown it off the laptop and onto the floor.

"And you lived to tell the tale," I said.

In my own room at the moment there is a cellar spider hanging out in one of the corners and minding its own beez.

There is also a Wocket in my pocket and a Jertain in my curtain and I could care less.

I think I'll look for an Arachnologist at my university and see if they can't come over and conduct a one-day seminar on house spiders and their habits. 

A Nerd on Holiday: Snapshots From Stewart and Ulva Islands

A Nerd on Ulva Island

A rare Saddleback or Tieke on Ulva Island

The Stewart Island Robin follows visitors in hopes that they will stir up some grubs for its dinner.

This house sits on a tiny plot of privately held land on Ulva island.

Ulva Island

Umbrella Moss, Ulva Island

Ulva Island Beach

Rimu Tree, Ulva Island

The old stone house by Harold's Bay, Stewart Island

Tui, Stewart Island

Dawn at Oban, Stewart Island

A view of Halfmoon Bay, Stewart Island

Old bus at the South Sea Hotel, Stewart Island

Why "Scandal" Sucks

Although it’s going on into its third season in the states, Shonda Rhimes’ television drama “Scandal” has just debuted in New Zealand.

Where to begin? I thought the characters were mostly repugnant and I wearied of listening to Kerry Washington’s Olivia Pope try to show people how tough she was. 

The fawning new girl brought in to blindly worship Pope was so tired it made me want to nap. 

When the man who interviews the newbie describes himself and his coworkers as “gladiators in suits,” I winced in embarrassment for his character.

Pope goes around making scandals disappear for wealthy clients. The first one we see her deal with is a decorated war hero (Medal of Honor, natch) who has discovered his dead girlfriend in her apartment and fled the scene after calling the police.

Pope protects her slimy clientele by utilizing a team of thoroughly unlikable individuals.

There’s the red headed lady who threatens to tell a man’s wife he’s seeing a stripper if he doesn’t let her paw around at a crime scene. He calls her a “bitch” and she cheerily acknowledges the title as a compliment. 

I rolled my eyes so hard I thought I would never see clearly again. She later discovers the war hero’s girlfriend was seeing another man and she pronounces that the woman is a “whore.”

Oh dear.

I thought maybe a program written by a woman would be less likely to "slut shame" women or at least dish out some of the same for men. I mean, surely they wouldn’t stoop so low as to suggest that a woman who had had more than ten sexual partners should be ashamed of that fact, right?

Oh dear, again.

It turns out the President of the United States (who looks a little like the character from “Ghost” who had his best friend murdered) is being accused of having an affair with a woman and he sets Pope on her in hopes of making the whole thing disappear.

Pope takes the new girl with her when she confronts the president’s accuser telling her she will leak the fact that she has had “22 sexual partners” to the media if the accuser doesn’t shut up and go quietly into that good night.

Eff that shit—and while I’m at it; eff Shonda Rhimes for being ass backward about women’s sexuality and the number of her sexual partners as well. 

I just double checked and we are not living in the 1950s anymore. This means that women of color like Rhimes can no longer be told to go to the back of the bus in Alabama and also that women can sleep with whomever and how many ever people they want (just as men do) without there being a goddamned double standard.

We later learn that Pope had an affair with the skeevy president too. So much for her supposedly legendary ability to “read people.”

Does president "pants dancer" get called anything nasty, you ask? No, he goes right on being the leader of the free world without so much as a spot on his reputation.

As for the other characters in this drama; there is a creepy guy who mumbles a lot and follows the new girl into the ladies’ bathroom and  a serial philanderer who is afraid to ask his girlfriend to marry him because he might, like cheat on her and stuff 'cause really he just can’t control himself.

It turns out the military hero didn’t kill his girlfriend. He was just out with his gay lover and he didn’t want anyone to know because a. he’s a soldier and b. he’s a conservative poster boy.

First of all, Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell is cold in its grave and second, I’d be more worried about clearing up that nasty case of hypocrisy.

I hated this show. I hated how Pope just bossed and bullied people and sang her own praises. I hated listening to the syntax and lingo the characters used because it makes Americans look like we’re all a bunch of ego drunk dickheads.

As an American living abroad, I feel like I have to either keep a low profile and pretend to be Canadian or explain how this show has a collection of tacky caricatures because, no matter how many times you try to remind people that it’s just a (poorly written, badly acted) show, they still think most of us are like this.

Thanks a lot, Shonda.

Band of the Week: Tame Impala

Probing Questions From Norway: "What Does the Fox Say?"

Not The U.S. I Remember

When I was growing up in America, I honestly believed we were the good guys in the world. 

I thought we were a shining example to the world with our system of democracy and freedoms. 

Since I lived in the Bible belt I also thought that God had blessed us, every one and was on our side no matter what. 

Because my parents voted for Republican, I thought that must be the party who did things the right way.

What an insufferable little asshole I must have been.

As I grew into adulthood, I realized how bigoted and sexist my religion was. It sought to make young people ashamed of their sexuality, judge anyone who was outside the faith and force women into a role where their sole purpose was to bear children and wait on their husbands.

This was a hetero-normative idea that presupposed a nobleness of male character and an infallibility of masculine judgment. 

Becoming a single mother at age 19 and having to deal with heavy discrimination in the workforce did a lot to convince me that I needed to get out of the South.

I eventual moved to California where life seemed a little better. 

From there I went to live in Mexico for a while and I became a witness to the consequences of my country's exploitation of Mexican migrants.

My country has passed through what I call, "A Series of Unfortunate Events." 

I naively thought they began with the Bush administration after 9-11 but after two years in grad school and a visit to Chile I learned to look further back than that. 

I now wonder if we have ever done anything truly decent in our entire history and I'm struggling to find an example that isn't white-washed or greatly exaggerated. 

In Santiago, I visited the houses of detention that Pinochet had used to torture and murder individuals who were seen as leftist threats. 

I saw the government building known as La Moneda where CIA-backed forces led by Pinochet had overthrown the Democratically elected Socialist president, Salvador Allende. 

America helped cause all this suffering and Henry Kissinger later got a Nobel Peace Prize.

WTF, indeed.

The Supreme Court has recently annulled sections of the Voting Rights Act. They have given the police wide-sweeping authority to strip search anyone detained for any reason and they have declared that corporations are people and that money is equal to free speech.

The "War on Terror" has allowed the country to sink to new lows by whittling away Americans Constitutionally-guaranteed civil rights. 

Who is a terrorist and what are the risks? 

That's for the government to decide in secretly convened, top-security proceedings, thank you very much. 

When the Geneva Convention became an inconvenience, a genius named Donald Rumsfeld invented the term "unlawful combatant" which allowed our great nation to detain "terrorist suspects" for an unlimited amount of time while denying them a trial or legal representation. 

Guantanamo Bay provided the perfect "neither here nor there" location for such a travesty and hundreds of prisoners who had been sold out by their enemies for a handsome sum in their home countries (where poverty was common) were locked up. 

In America, to this day, confessing to being a Muslim is all one needs to be regarded with suspicion and contempt. After all, those who don't accept Jesus as their savior, must be in the service of Satan. Everyone knows this.

In 2011, the U.S. government authorized a drone strike to take out a suspected terrorist in Yemen. This might have been unremarkable had the suspect not been a U.S. citizen who was guaranteed due process by the Constitution. 

President Bush II  Obama allowed the CIA to kill Anwar al-Awlaki because; war, terror, extraordinary circumstances, gas pains, headache, etc. 

Even though this should have sparked mass outrage, there were only minor rumblings.

This was where it became apparent to me how groggy-eyed and complacent the American electorate had become. 

"Just leave us alone!," they said, "A few of us went to the polls a few years ago and voted...what more do you want?!"

It's okay though, because everyone knows he was guilty and a terrorist so his rights don't matter.

The same is true for Osama Bin Laden which is why it was totally okay for us to send in a covert SEAL team to violate Pakistan's territorial sovereignty in order to assassinate him.

In case y'all hadn't noticed, we're sort of a "big deal" in the global scheme of things so we can do stuff like this.

But what happens when certain citizens become alarmed that the government has overstepped its bounds and lied to the public it claims to serve?

I'm glad you asked! 

Please see the case of Bradley Manning, Julian Assange (who is a total asshat, even though I support his cause) and Edward Snowden. 

It was kind of funny back when Sarah Palin accused anyone who didn't agree with her ignorant viewpoints as "not being a true patriot" or a "real American." 

It's less amusing when the U.S. government does it and then uses all of their incredible powers and international connections to gang up on their own citizens.

The following are excerpts from a New York Times article about Laura Poitras who has made several documentary films criticizing U.S. policies and who aided Snowden in leaking his intelligence about the NSA's domestic spying program:

-When she landed at J.F.K., she was met at the gate by two armed law-enforcement agents and taken to a room for questioning. It is a routine that has happened so many times since then — on more than 40 occasions — that she has lost precise count. Initially, she said, the authorities were interested in the paper she carried, copying her receipts and, once, her notebook. After she stopped carrying her notes, they focused on her electronics instead, telling her that if she didn’t answer their questions, they would confiscate her gear and get their answers that way. On one occasion, Poitras says, they did seize her computers and cellphones and kept them for weeks. She was also told that her refusal to answer questions was itself a suspicious act. Because the interrogations took place at international boarding crossings, where the government contends that ordinary constitutional rights do not apply, she was not permitted to have a lawyer present.

“I assume that there are National Security Letters on my e-mails,” she told me, referring to one of the secretive surveillance tools used by the Department of Justice. A National Security Letter requires its recipients — in most cases, Internet service providers and phone companies — to provide customer data without notifying the customers or any other parties. Poitras suspected (but could not confirm, because her phone company and I.S.P. would be prohibited from telling her) that the F.B.I. had issued National Security Letters for her electronic communications.

William Binney, a former top N.S.A. official who publicly accused the agency of illegal surveillance, was at home one morning in 2007 when F.B.I. agents burst in and aimed their weapons at his wife, his son and himself. Binney was, at the moment the agent entered his bathroom and pointed a gun at his head, naked in the shower. His computers, disks and personal records were confiscated and have not yet been returned. Binney has not been charged with any crime.

While being interrogated at Newark after a flight from Britain, she was told she could not take notes. On the advice of lawyers, Poitras always recorded the names of border agents and the questions they asked and the material they copied or seized. But at Newark, an agent threatened to handcuff her if she continued writing. She was told that she was being barred from writing anything down because she might use her pen as a weapon. - Peter Maass, New York Times

This article came out right before the partner of Glen Greenwald was detained at an airport in London under one of their anti terrorism statutes and questioned for nine hours. His electronic equipment was also confiscated although he was never charged with anything. 

Great Britain admitted to calling the White House before detaining Greenwald's partner although, the White House claimed that Britain acted on its own and was not doing the bidding of the U.S. 

Of course they weren't. 

Somebody is a liar, lair and should check their pants for fire. 

While many have been forthcoming in their condemnation of this abuse of power, others still take the line that this man is aiding and abetting a traitor to the U.S. government and deserves what he gets.

I'll just leave you with this poem by Martin Niemoller:

“First they came for the communists, and I did not speak out—
because I was not a communist;
Then they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—
because I was not a socialist;
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—
because I was not a trade unionist;
Then they came for me—
and there was no one left to speak out for me.”

Saturday Night (Very) Live

Last Saturday's DJ gig was an epic six hours long.

We had a shoving match in the street, boys dancing on the pool tables and some wee fella sprayed his drink (accidentally) on my mixer and laptop which left a sticky residue.

I have just gotten used to the bus groups which will come in for 30 minutes, dance like mad and then depart but on this night we had a 21st, a rugby club and some locals who decided to stay and get down with their bad selves.

The night got off to a tense start as there was a final game going on between the Chiefs (NZ rugby team) and the Brumbies (Australian rugby team).

We had an early bus group and I actually had to play music while "The Rugby" was going!

Somehow I got away with it although, once that first group of party bus people had moved on, one of the guys watching the game got really angry and yelled at the television. At one point I thought he might head butt it.

It is so weird to start out playing dance anthems and end up with people asking you to play "something by Shania Twain."

"Sweet Home Alabama" is also a local favorite (I cringe internally every time) and I have never seen Americans as emotionally worked up as the Kiwis over the chorus of "Born in the U.S.A." It's weird!

I subscribe to a DJ service that lets me pull up almost any song from a genre as long as there is an internet connection. However, once you lose the connection, the only way to get it back is to restart the program.

After two particularly irritating girls kept asking for songs I didn't have and rolling their eyes and saying, "Well, what do you have!?" I got the pub owner to turn on his system so I could reload mine.

They turn on you so quickly, these kids.

By hour four I was getting pretty put out with a few of them.

It's a fickle business.

One minute you're "the bist dj ivah!" and the next minute their eyes are rolling and you can hear them drunkenly exclaiming "Wot is this?!"

One young lady was particularly obnoxious.She had cleverly taken two small black washcloths and sewn them together to make a dress which she spilled out of at the top and was barely contained in at the bottom.

At one point I put on a song and she rolled her eyes and looked quite foolish because all her friends liked it and started jumping around.

Eventually she disappeared.

Then came the shoving match in the street which emptied the whole pub as a crowd formed around the shovers.

After they had been pulled apart and banished from the premises, people returned to the dance floor and the blood lust gradually dimmed from their eyes.

Now I need to talk about these young boys that come up to me when I'm playing.

They are equal parts irritating and endearing.

I spend part of the night tweaking their noses and the other part feeling like my mom told me to take my kid brothers to work with me.

They like to come up on the stage where I'm playing and ask, "So, how does this work?"

Because the music is so loud I have to lean in to hear what they are saying and they will usually take that opportunity to lay their cheek next to mine or drape an arm around me casually. One put his head on my shoulder and another insisted that I let him put on my headphones.

Three young partners in crime discovered the button to make the fog machine work and they took great pleasure in sneaking up to the table and pushing the button while I was busy.

I tried to hide the controller behind my mixer case but it wasn't long before they found it and proceeded to smoke out the dance floor.

I popped two of them on the hand several time and finally got the controller out of their reach.

"Aw, please! Can I just have a wee touch?" one of them said.

"No you may not have a wee touch," said the crotchety DJ who was beginning to feel she was too old for this sort of thing.

"Can I have a big touch then?" he said.

"No!" said the exhausted mother hen.

In retrospect, I don't think he was talking about the controller.

If this sort of thing continues I might just hunt down these kids parents and insist on babysitting money.

DJ Payday

God bless New Zealand.

Don't Forget to Thank Jesus...

This is one way to thank Jesus, another would be for U.S. lawmakers to pull their heads out of their collective bums and take a moment to familiarize themselves with the horrible conditions "guest workers" are exposed to.

Size Doesn't Matter

My wee mixer 

The Legend of DJ Red

As you know, I'm here in New Zealand to pursue a PhD, but as that wise philosopher Cindy Lauper once noted, "Girls just want to have fun."

When my working day is done (usually around 4-ish) I want to have fun by playing music that will make people dance.

I've missed Dj-ing at Indian Summer and the MIIS Social Hour in Monterey.

My one night out in Christchurch lead me to believe there was a musical niche for me here somewhere and I made plans to speak to one of the club owners at some point in the future.

Instead, I stopped in to a rather large Irish pub on the way home from Christchurch one night and casually mentioned to the owner that I was a DJ.

It quickly became apparent that he was interested in having me play at the pub.

I wish all job interviews could be that easy!

We met a few nights later and I brought in my laptop so I could show him the DJ program I used and the type of music I had on hand. He liked it and we agreed that I would start on Saturday.

"What's your DJ name?" he asked.

I had been thinking about this for a while and still didn't have a good answer.

"How about DJ Red?" I said finally.

I wear a lot of black and red when I go out and this was just an abbreviation of the "Little Red Riding Hood" nickname some of An's mates had given me.

"You could say I'm direct from the U.S.," I told him, "It makes me seem like a mysterious import."

He next asked me if I drank while I DJ-ed and if I had some colorful past I was running away from.

"Alas, no," I said. "I had to go through a pretty rigorous health and background check to get my student visa."

I told him of my honorable discharge from the military and my pursuit of a PhD at Lincoln.

He seemed slightly dismayed that the legend of DJ Red wouldn't contain any undertones of scandal or criminal misdeeds but he was still cheerful about my upcoming debut.

He asked if I had any requirements while I Dj-ed and I said I wanted all the free tap water I could drink.

"Seems fair," he said.

I left the pub feelings a little nervous and hoped I hadn't gotten into anything I couldn't handle.

I went to a music shop that sold Dj equipment and bought a teeny tiny little mixer made by Pioneer. It was so small that the guy selling it to me applied the word "wee" to it.

In New Zealand the term "wee" brands an object with an adorableness that strips away any chance the object might have had of being taken seriously.

I bought a "wee" tool kit from the local hardware store not long ago. It contains a wee tape measure, a wee hammer, and an assortment of wee nails. Due to its wee-ness I will never be able to take it to a construction sight without being laughed at. Luckily, I don't foresee getting any invitation to work at a construction site any time soon.

The wee Pioneer mixer wasn't my first choice- there was a Numark which I took a shine to but for some reason they had switched to another type of Dj software that I was unfamiliar with.

I didn't want to lose my membership and remix cache with Virtual DJ and since the Pioneer came with it, I bought it.

I decided not to hook up the mixer for my first gig because I knew I would need to familiarize myself with it at home first.

Saturday night wasn't bad but it was a bit of a learning experience as far as what sort of music to play for whom and when.

I spent most of the night shyly stooped over my laptop trying not to draw any attention to myself.

There is a phenomenon here where bus groups come through and disgorge a bunch of (often costumed) young people who drink and dance for about 30-minutes before moving on to the next venue. I had never seen anything like it but the groups do fill up the dance floor quite nicely.

I also learned the term "bogan" that night. It's what they call rednecks here (and would be an apt description of some of my cousins back home).

21st birthday celebrations are also a big deal which surprised me since the legal drinking age is 18. I was told this wasn't always the case and that it used to be 21 so the date is still special.

A group of friends will all go out to drink and dance and at some point they will stop the music and make speeches for the birthday girl or guy.

It was really sweet to watch people take a microphone and recall their fond memories from the celebrant's past. After that concluded, the birthday person drank a bunch of shots and then her entourage hit the dance floor with a vengeance.

I had a very interesting experience with one party-goer that evening but I think I'll keep that story to myself for now.

Last Saturday I returned to DJ with my new mixer and the carrying case.

I got a small thrill when I saw a poster the pub owner had made for "DJ Red, Direct from the U.S.A."

We had two bus groups, one 21st and one rugby team who stopped by that night.

I got several compliments on my musical choices as well as being told I was "gorgeous" by a ridiculously good looking Maori guy.

At some point, a drunk rugby player wandered over and said, "Can you turn up the music sweet-aht?" and I almost said, "Sure thing, sweet cheeks," but decided against provocation at the last minute.

I had a good night and stayed hydrated with lots of free water ( I know my worth dang it!)

I'm looking forward to growing the "Legend of DJ Red" in the coming weeks.