There is the saying, “stick out like a sore thumb”. You may have some additions or adaptation on this idea, I vaguely remember one about dogs balls? The more I think about dogs balls however the less I can actually visualise them or see the relation given that they’re not that dissimilar to man’s balls. But basically the point I’m trying to set up here is that sometimes things stick out, they come from nowhere to reveal themselves as blatantly different or juxtaposed to their surroundings. This can be the case with buildings, sometimes good and sometimes bad. On this occasion nestled in the civility of Herne Bay, we have an example of the bad.
The greater area of Ponsonby is littered with gorgeous little and not so little villas, the suburb is somewhat characterised by the proliferation of this style of abode. I, for one, think for the most part they are cute and take pleasure in driving or walking through those streets to visit them. However, it was just today that I gently rolled past a “thing” (I can’t call it a home though I’m sure it keeps some people warm and dry) that for rather obvious reasons stood out like anything’s genitals where they shouldn’t be on display. It’s a repugnant and offensive facade and the way it hangs back off the street like it’s embarrassed of itself, like troublemakers are, is indicative of its insolence and retardation.
Can you see it lurking in behind this delightful little villa, looking shocked that you had noticed it and even took a photo. I mean if architecture could talk, what would its neighbours say? “Look at this prick, what, after 50 years he thinks he can just settle down here and ruin our neighbourhood? I’ll fucking show him”, “who the hell does he think he is just showing up like this?”. I mean what happened at the time when this “thing” was slapped together with gib and a glue gun? Were the humans paralysed to help the situation, was there a building gang that came through town, perhaps named “cheap housing inc”, and with the lack of The Magnificent Seven around there was no fighting back?
In this photo you can see it now, see it framed in solid and soul destroying contrast with its handsome neighbour. Look how it raises your eye up, to nothing, and how none of the attempts to unify it to its surroundings are in any way commendable. It’s a bit like a “wigga” when a douchebag white guy, and we all know who I’m talking about, starts mouthing off as if he’s jive talking African American, trying to solder his experience to that of an at times impoverished and brutalised community of people with an overly distinct and influential style, when the reality is he has nothing in common with them and has none of the natural inclinations of the people he tries to imitate. This “thing” is no different, it is the “wigga” of domestic architecture, I might just go round there and tag “Frank Lloyd Wrong bitch” right on the bit where they should, had they had any brains, put a window. In fact shelve that comment, if I had any gumption of personal strength I’d evacuate and burn!
Please look at it and now hate it. Hate it for all the badness and upset it has caused, for all of the reckless and careless ruination of a delightful street where cute villas should be left alone and not be manhandled by these pseudo-racial structures that through their imitation, warping and neglect criticise anything good that has ever happened and make me want to drop the bomb and go live in a cave without aluminum joinery, poorly placed exits and the arrogance to be so halfhearted that it makes me now feel sorry for this grotesque bastard. Honestly I can’t help it, it’s late, I’m emotional and this sad sad stack of $2 shop cards is like a discarded baby that grows up unfortunately without love or the strength to turn itself around and eventually poisons everything around it like a cancer in disguise.