Censorship is fun and Borders makes me feel like aHillbilly

Monday was a pretty fantastic teaching day. I took my first sole-charge field trip. I ventured out with 20 senior Media Studies students into the Wellington Censor’s office for the Censorship day event. It was exceedingly fun and educational. Fun-ucational? (Not as good a neologism as edutainment). We had a talk/lesson from Bill Hastings (one of the best speakers I have heard in a long time) about current censorship law. The students were briefed pretty thoroughly on the Films Videos and Publications Classification Act 1993 and then watched ‘the notorious Betty Page’. After a quick lunch break, they had to discuss and rate the film. Happily, my students came across as highly intelligent and dominated a large amount of the discussion (they got Chocolate fish for insightful answers – chocolate is a strong motivator it seems). The film was pretty good but it made for a fascinating discussion as it dealt with some nasty content delicately (implied but never actually shown child abuse and rape) and also had a lot of nudity and posing in bondage gear etc. Betty was so naïve that she didn’t view her posing as sexual, let alone sexually deviant, so much as harmless fun. The hypocrisy of the era with regard to censorship was also interesting. There was a brilliant quote about how pornography might be almost as big a threat to the nation as communism. The movie also went into a great deal of the fear that was had in those days about the effect of pornography on young, impressionable minds. It led to a lot of interesting issues about porn. The different perspectives based on the makers versus the audience, and female and male perceptions of pornography as well. It was fascinating to see how many issues have to be weighed up in giving a film a rating. Too many to go into in a brief post but we came out of the event with a 90% agreement that it should be an R16 which was what the censors gave it. Apparently, in more rural areas, they tend to be more conservative and the average ratings were more like R18. Bill Hastings referred to the Wellington session as a ‘hotbed of urban liberalism’. The day finished a little earlier than expected and we had about 30 minutes before our train left. I unleashed the kids on Lambton Quay and told them to meet me back at the train station. This left them free to hit McDonalds and BK, and me free to check out Borders. I’ve been to Borders in Christchurch and Auckland, so I had pretty high expectations. I was happy to see that Borders was suitably huge and packed full of lovely books. I question some of their categorising (Jilly Cooper in the Literature section? Really?) but drooled over several books that previously I had only found in Arty Bees and similar. I had interestingly been a part of a conversation up here about when you live in Kapiti, every time to visit Wellington it seems to have changed (a new bar, shop, restaurant or a place you like has closed down) and it can give you small-town syndrome by making you feel out of touch. STS also happens when someone talks about a new club/bar/restaurant and you don’t know it or even the place next to it. Sample dialogue Hip Urbanite: Have you been to ‘Swanky trendy place’ yet? Kapiti Hick: No, is it good? Hip Urbanite: Oh, it’s OK. Not as cheap/cool/random adjective as ‘other trendy place you have not heard of’ but it is better than ‘mystery bar x’. It is right next to ‘yet another cool hip place that you probably won’t ever get to before it closes down’ on Cuba St/Courtney place etc. Kapiti Hick: Oh. Sounds nice. (Or similar inane response) We joked about how we should fill up a mini-van of Kapiti Hicks and drive down and just be really loud and hillbillyish. We came up with hillbilly names. Matt was Matty-Lee-Dean and I was Debbie-Sue. However, this was meant to be a joke. I didn’t actually think I was at the stage of being impressed by inside toilets and running water. Borders, however, made me feel like a hillbilly. How was I to know that the large desk with computers and a Borders staff member standing behind it wasn’t a counter but an information desk. What the…? Why does a book shop need an information desk? Anyway, Debbie-Sue wandered over with her purdy book to pay for it with her money which she done earned with hard sweat and such, and then they done told her that they ain’t no counter but an in-foe-may-shon desk. Well, shucks, she had to scamper off to their big counter at the front of the store like a bobbycat with its tail done stuck between it legs.

Youth of today - Too much Dr Phil or the work of the school counsellor?

As I was strolling through the grounds of school with my lunch in hand on route to the staff room this lunchtime when I overheard some frightening conversations from some young students. They appeared to be third or fourth form but I didn't recognise them. "You know your behaviour is getting self-destructive." "I know, but I feel like I need some closure. I guess I still have some unresolved issues." "Yeah, but it isn't fair to Devan to put your relationship baggage on him." "Yeah, I guess we just need to talk it through..." What the hell? Since when did 13 year olds start needing closure and having relationship baggage? I guess they find it hard to trust and be open after being burnt by relationships in primary school. Comfortingly, some 13 year old boys ran past making siren 'woo-woo' noises not long after. At least they aren't all scaringy mature.

In which I am cruelly forced by fate to do that which I would rather not…

Firstly, denists. While I’m sure it is possible be a perfectly nice person and pursue a career in dentistry, I have, I’m afraid, allowed my own substantial but not unreasonable fear of pain to cloud my judgement. For years I have considered that most denists must be crazed, sadistic psychopaths forced into the profession since the alledged* disbandment of the Spanish Inquisition. Whilst years of letter writing at High School for Amnesty International and such showed that there are still many torturers in the world today working industriously, I have assumed, however, that the salary and other benefits of becoming a denist are generally considered more appealing to the young up and coming sadists looking for a career in the pain industry. So my opinion of denists was possibly not the most enlightened of thinking. As a result no doubt of two factors of my youth. Firstly, repeatedly watching ‘Little Shop of Horrors’. Secondly, a particularly large and fearsome dental nurse at my primary school. This dental nurse believed in 3 things. One, the spike. A long, wiry hook used jab gums, fillings, cavities, or any thing else that could bleed or cause pain in your mouth. Two, the drill. She loved her drill. Maybe it was the sound it made, maybe the look of terror in the eyes of children but whatever it was that drill made her grin. I wondered then as I wonder now if I actually needed half the fillings I actually had as a child. I suspect it was her insatiable lust for the drilling, not any candy-caused cavities that led to some of those fillings! Three, her third belief? That any amount of pain and suffering inflicted on a small child would be instantly removed if she gave you a tampon** with a bit of string and gauze tied around it to look like a butterfly. Anyway, last week one of my teeth broke. I was contentedly chewing a piece of toast, not even a particularly thick or chewy piece of toast, when part of my back molar broke off. Having half a tooth missing is not comfortable or convenient, so I had to concede that a trip to the dentist was necessary. I hadn’t been in many years. Possibly not even in this millennium, but it had to be done. I was pretty nervous by the time I got to the dentist. I had had visions of root canals even though I wasn’t even that sure what a root canal was. However, I have to report that the experience was actually not that bad. I was given a large injection of anaesthetic in the gum and wow, it actually works! Even the drilling (well, ‘shaping’ as it was euphemistically called by the dentist) didn’t hurt. If this wasn’t bamboozling enough for my brain to comprehend, there were also a dazzling array of fancy gadgets. Tools and gadgets rather than implements. No wiry spikes or anything. The dentist too was a nice, amiable chap. He was friendly and made jokes. I left after 35 minutes substantially poorer but my tooth was filled up and I couldn’t feel anything in my left cheek for several hours. Hurrah! So as well as having my tooth fixed I learnt some valuable life lessons too. Denists are people too. Some of them are even nice. Drilling doesn’t hurt if you can’t feel half your mouth. Funky, plastic looking gadgets are less scary to have stuck in your mouth than metal spikes. Denists cost a lot more than dental nurses but they don’t give you tampon crafts. * I have my suspicions but alas to validate them with any evidence may lead to my capture and death. ** OK, they are not tampons but what is the term for those cotton tampon-like things denists shove in your cheeks?