Here’s how it works:

Quite what Westpac hoped to achieve with this campaign is hard to distinguish. Perhaps it was getting into line with John Key’s typically flaky views on climate change, saying, “Hey, John, we’re average too! We understand the importance and severity of the issue but we’d like show everyone that setting a good example looks a little too Green / Labour. You know, a little too nanny state. People don’t need leadership in times like this, they need to know that personal responsibility is what matters.”

So then, why do we have Fred the eternal bumbler showing us his shambolic life over three excruciatingly unfunny scenarios?

In the first (Westpac Sustainability Ad - Setup) he pretty much blanks his young son as he comes in the door from work.The rest of the ad is dominated by his sweetness and light son as he sweetly suggests how Fred might be able to rectify his sins against the environment. Why is it we are so uncomfortable with strong male familial role models? Why do corporations succumb to the lowest common denominator ignorant male to make a point? It cannot be a coincidence that Fred bears uncanny resemblance to dunderheaded, but substantially funnier, Fred Flinstone. In fact, Westpac have run the same man=stupid play in two of their other cringe-worthy ads.

Wouldn’t there be greater comedy opportunity if Fred had to explain to his son the problems with unsustainable living? Oh wait, that kinda happens in the second of the series (Westpac Sustainability Ad - Carbon Footprint) - I say kinda because Fred still tries to outgun the guy in the muscle car at the start of the ad, and then as he passes him ‘throws up the goat’ like the classy guy he is.

In one respect it’s good to see Westpac being faithful to the integrity of Fred’s character. Even after his son explains the evils of garbage the third ad (Westpac Sustainability Ad - Cleanup) sees Fred try and place a Popsicle wrapper in the bin only to be defied by a gust of wind (damn you pesky nature!) - Fred turns to walk away but is confronted by a group of boys. That’s right Fred, society will force you to conform to its totally unreasonable civic expectations. Sorry pal. Fred then persists in trying to escape from binning the wrapper until a wall of people physically block him from leaving the beach. The John Key vs. Copenhagen allegory is irresistible here. Just replace the angry mob with the electorate and the ocean with the COP15 conference.

The final ad in the series (Westpac Sustainability Ad - Money Matters) shows the chaos that ensues in Fred’s house after the gas and power get cut off because his wife didn’t pay the bills on time (doesn’t Fred work in a bank?) surely he could have setup a couple of APs in a jiffy rather than lazily delegate the tasks to his wife who is surprisingly dizzy, god knows how their son became so socially responsible, time to blame the schools again I suppose…I’m not really sure how money management fits into the sustainable theme but hey, when did relevance stop a good campaign?

I have to wonder what Westpac were thinking, even facetiously using an imbecile character to front any campaign given the $10M issue last year.

It also seems that around the same time as the awful sustainability ads Westpac dropped a couple bombs across the ditch with a bizarrely titled campaign called Factor 50 - at least if we’d got the Factor 50 jobby then I could just be bemused instead of having my feathers ruffled.

Regardless of Death’s corporeal nature it’s prudent to choose something that you’re good at. Nay, not so much good, but a master. Give Death a master class in something. Pottery. Italian cooking. Poker. Go for gold. Don’t make it bush league. Don’t buy into amateur hour.

Some suggestions from friends who have more than a couple of brain cells:

Hurdles: Maybe death has bones, maybe he doesn’t, but let’s see him jump 1 metre fences.

Swimming: Again, something that Death can’t help; his mufuckin robe. That shit is gonna draaaaaaag in the water. Phelps could’ve had the biggest bong of his life he gonna waste Death in the water.

Monopoly: My personal favourite, just cos I’m that greeedy. Bring it death, let’s see your avarice.

Knuckle Bones: Death ain’t got enough flesh for this. This could be logical positivism to the Nth extreme. But Death won’t mind.

WoW: Death Knight fun?

Weight lifting: This really depends on Death’s physical prowess.

Twister: Death lost in Twister and Battle Ships in ‘Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey’: work with the precedents people.

Why start now? What’s the point in having a resolution? Why not start tomorrow? I have to confess an unwavering belief in the power of the clean slate. Also, I’m a born procrastinator, so, any day after tomorrow is always a good one. Oh, and in addition I’m a creature of habit. I have a habit of setting up habits. I like the idea of habits. They seem wholesome. The idea is wholly more attractive than the actual commitment of a habit.

Friends of mine have derided my insistence on taking a New Year’s resolution. They say, “If you want to do something, then just do it.” I say, “Read the above paragraph.” Surely, using the end of a year as an excuse to start something is better than not starting something at all. Surely action is superior to inaction, whatever the motivation.

Bring your Kant and your warmest hat. See you tomorrow.

Just started reading Wellington poet Geoff Cochrane’s second collection of poems, Into India . What I love most about Cochrane’s work is the utter lack of superfluousness. If he doesn’t need it, he doesn’t use it. Such precise language allows him to step into the darkness and float rather than sink under some self-absorbed malaise. As Bernadette Hall notes in her review Into India touches on, “Love and love lost. The sombre turnings of memory. Our awful, human capacity to do harm. Yet this is not a depressing book, nor one weighted with self-pity.”

Here’s one of my early favourites from the collection:

Fountain

The clear water spills.
Dragonflies and sparrows
look, look for silver.

Though there can never be
reason for optimism,
here in the soil near the pool
is a butt left by another smoker,
white-tipped, a woman’s.

(Page 18, Into India, Geoff Cochrane, 1999, Victoria University Press)

May 1st: Huzzah! Copycats now has a search function! Now it just needs a comprehensive search function…

Last night I performed my poetry live for the first time (at the MCB with some of my classmates from the Hagley Writers’ Institute). It was over before it began really. I had the mic out and I gushed everywhere. Thoroughly unimpressive. It was over so quickly I didn’t even have time to let my self-pitying angst truly seep in. Oh well. There’s always next time.

Facebook statuses frequently feature this term, personally I hate it and think it should be left in the earlier part of this decade last millennium with “stoked”, but that’s just me.

The differentiation in spelling does raise an interesting point on meaning though. I’d always imagined it as “Gutted” - the feeling when your insides have been ripped out by a stray marlin on a fushing trup. And frankly I shuddered when I saw people using “guttered” - bastardising the already bastard-like, that’s not very fair is it?

But perhaps the term could be revived under a revised definition / pronunciation. Really get stuck into the r’s in “guttered” - almost stick tiered in there, like a multi-tiered wedding cake. I think this would go some way in developing the potential to use guttered. It has hobo / wino connotations which are more favourable with a white-liberal crowd no?

I mean, gutted has been flogged to the point of unbearable impotence. Guttered on the other hand, could mean sidelined, neglected, rejected, abused, left in a gutter…need I go on?

Later at the contemporary art gallery: Brice: “Oh, dude I forgot to pick up that Bill Hammond I saw on the floor on Friday.”
Breece: “Oh dude, gut-tiered.”

Or perhaps the term just needs to be guttered.

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On my way into the office a couple of days ago I happened upon an increasingly common sight. Folks in pajamas in the city. It’s a look that says many many things. “I’m above fashion” “I’m lazier than thou” “I’m like, so laid back”. And keep in mind we were well into the afternoon.

I remember reading something on The Sartorialist concerning the validity of ever wearing tracksuit bottoms, though unfortunately I can’t pinpoint the exact post.

On one level I can really appreciate the incongruity of it and there is something silky-slinky about the body hugging nature of all cotton pjs. Up to now I’ve seen slippers getting a good work over on the gum-covered pavements of Christchurch’s central city but this is something else.

My experience this afternoon was of two girls, looking slovenly come skanky with pj bottoms and skate shoes. The fact that there were two of them reaked of some pathetic power in numbers jobby. With no camera on hand I was forced to go with this slighty more refined look in Japan. Snoopy pjs and heels. This look is girl-next-door-sleepover-minx sexy. And I totally condone it. Back in the 03 there is some work to be done. I’ll endeavour to capture it next time. Until then, enjoy the upper echelons of pajama-chic.