On to some pictures....
I got out of Russell the other day. This is me on the park grounds of the Treaty of Waitangi--don't make me go back, it says. It's an interpretive dance I've been working on. I call it "Cabin Fever," it'll pass in 8-10 months. My colleague, Brooke, borrowed another colleague's car and the two of us headed north to Kerikeri for some grocery shopping in a real grocery store. I saw people there that I didn't recognize from The Pub. Other humans inhabit this country! Amazing! Anyway, Kerikeri is nondescript, but it's grocery store did have an excellent wine selection. I spent $88, of which $50 went to three bottles of wine. If you're scoring at home, that's an alcohol ratio of %57. But, that's okay. I may be halfway to becoming an alcoholic, but I take a multivitamin. Basically, I'm perfecting the art of simultaneity: I'm lowering my chances of getting cancer and upping it for that liver transplant in 2023. Ah, picturesque Russell!
The view from the grounds of the Treaty of Waitangi across the bay to Russell. It really only takes a few miles of separation from my 'hood to get me excited. Even if there was a man-eating animal racing towards me in this shot, you still would've seen me with a smile on my face. Thankfully, all of the man-eating animals are in Australia. Seriously though, it's amazing what motorized transportation can do to improve one's mood.
The flagpole marks the exact site where British officials and dozens of Maori chiefs gathered in February 1840 to sign the Treaty of Waitangi, which officially made New Zealand a part of the British Empire and consigned them to talking really funny. The treaty grounds are located across the bay from Russell. It's 5 minutes by ferry and 3 by taxi, or if you drive it like we did, it's about 30 minutes by road and car ferry. Thank you Mr. Rand McNally. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treaty_of_Waitangi
The view out to sea from the treaty site. I wish I could photoshop out the gray sky, but then that wouldn't be giving you a realistic image of what New Zealand looks like. The locals say it's unusally wet and gray this year, but all I know is that I'm about a week away from buying serotonin on the Internet from China. I'm going to get Roger Clemens' trainer to inject some of it in my butt at the gym.
Who's that sexy fella' at the base of the flagpole that nobody can really see but that is there so you'll have to trust me? It's your 33rd favorite blogger! A few more days of this really awesome weather and the flagpole will have a new addition--165lbs of American meat strung up by the neck.
Let's file this one under "You Get the Point."
Adjacent to the flagpole is the treaty house that James Busby, the British Resident in New Zealand, lived in with his family during the 1830's. Busby played politician for several years with the local Maori chiefs in a largely successful attempt to assimilate the European settlers, traders, and whalers who were increasingly moving into the Bay of Islands prior to 1840. Busby wrote the Treaty and used his influence with the Maoris to gain their acceptance of the document--a treaty spurred in large part by the presence of the French nearby--so the story of Maori-European relations in New Zealand essentially begins with his name. Jimmy Busby...what a guy.
That's a fake Busby munchkin that you're looking at in the replica of the Treaty house bedroom. She scares me. Something about little lifeless girls in old buildings. I've seen that movie. It doesn't end well.
This is Busby's work room in his treaty house, which was built in 1833-4. They stuffed him and sat him in this pose for tourists to pay $12 to see. The nice part is, he really knows how to take a good photo. Very erudite and serious, almost as if he's birthing an entire nation. My complexion is the only thing whiter than his face or his drapes.
Let's file this one under "You Get the Point."
Adjacent to the flagpole is the treaty house that James Busby, the British Resident in New Zealand, lived in with his family during the 1830's. Busby played politician for several years with the local Maori chiefs in a largely successful attempt to assimilate the European settlers, traders, and whalers who were increasingly moving into the Bay of Islands prior to 1840. Busby wrote the Treaty and used his influence with the Maoris to gain their acceptance of the document--a treaty spurred in large part by the presence of the French nearby--so the story of Maori-European relations in New Zealand essentially begins with his name. Jimmy Busby...what a guy.That's a fake Busby munchkin that you're looking at in the replica of the Treaty house bedroom. She scares me. Something about little lifeless girls in old buildings. I've seen that movie. It doesn't end well.
This is Busby's work room in his treaty house, which was built in 1833-4. They stuffed him and sat him in this pose for tourists to pay $12 to see. The nice part is, he really knows how to take a good photo. Very erudite and serious, almost as if he's birthing an entire nation. My complexion is the only thing whiter than his face or his drapes. Some of the original lumber and brick walls, along with the foundation, are still intact, even after a major restoration in 1989. Here's a link that I bet you'd never come across in all your life. And probably still never will. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treaty_house
Local Maoris built this meeting house in 1940 to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the signing of the treaty. It sits next to Busby's treaty house. Excellent photography, don't you think? Don't blame the photographer; there was a very large Maori man (on the left) doing a ritualistic greeting of an American couple during all of this and I sort of didn't want him to think that he was like, you know, a special exhibit at the zoo. The consequence was a Hubble-like photograph of what looks like deep space. My nickname in high school was "Ansel Adams." It was either that or "what's his name again?" I've forgotten. Like a violent crime victim, I've blocked that whole experience out of my mind.
This is what digital photography has done. It's made amateurs look even more retarded than they already are. Here's a sign about other events in the period 1834-1839 that took place on the big lawn surrounding the flagpole. The Maoris signed a Declaration of Independence in 1835, a full five years before the Treaty of Waitangi was formalized, in response to a growing French presence and thus enlisted the help of the British Crown in protecting them and their land. Even the Maoris knew not to trust the French.
Local Maoris built this meeting house in 1940 to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the signing of the treaty. It sits next to Busby's treaty house. Excellent photography, don't you think? Don't blame the photographer; there was a very large Maori man (on the left) doing a ritualistic greeting of an American couple during all of this and I sort of didn't want him to think that he was like, you know, a special exhibit at the zoo. The consequence was a Hubble-like photograph of what looks like deep space. My nickname in high school was "Ansel Adams." It was either that or "what's his name again?" I've forgotten. Like a violent crime victim, I've blocked that whole experience out of my mind.
This is what digital photography has done. It's made amateurs look even more retarded than they already are. Here's a sign about other events in the period 1834-1839 that took place on the big lawn surrounding the flagpole. The Maoris signed a Declaration of Independence in 1835, a full five years before the Treaty of Waitangi was formalized, in response to a growing French presence and thus enlisted the help of the British Crown in protecting them and their land. Even the Maoris knew not to trust the French.
I bet the French do a better Christmas, though.
Wait, where's the delete button on this damn blog anyway...
Two historic flagpoles within sight of one another. The other one, here in Russell, is on top of one of those hills just to the left of the flagpole in this shot. If you look closely, I put a BC flag on that one to commemorate a 10-win season and yet another trip to The Proctor & Gamble Priapism Sports Bowl of Topeka.
Since I have nothing to add here, let me just say that...I have nothing to add here.
How in the hell do you erase photos you've already uploaded into the blog? This would seem simple. This is where you figure out that my degrees are in the liberal arts.
This must've been the exact view the Maoris had in 1840 of the incoming British party as they landed to walk to the field above to negotiate the treaty. I found a transcript of a conversation at that moment between Maori chiefs in the sand next to the sign:
Maori Chief #1: "Damn. White people."
Hobson was sent by the Queen to negotiate with the Maoris; Busby essentially authored the treaty document. The Maoris talked among themselves for a day. And the white guys won. Same story, different country.
Heyyy, sexy thang! I'm talking about the Maori War Canoe. Long doesn't describe this any more than it would The Great Wall of China. You can fit the entire nation of Nicaragua in this thing and still have room for Daniel Ortega's personal cocaine stash. I think the Navy SEALS could use this thing the next time they wanted to surreptitiously land on, oh, say, Greenland to establish our next missile defense site. I mean...every Navy SEAL.
This is Brooke. She deserves her own shot because she was driving. Now, in this case, "driving" is a euphemism for "CT hadn't been that naseous since having that ear operation at 4." Just like it's likely a statistical improbability that we're alone in this universe, it's also a statistical improbability that she should have a driver's license. Accelerating into sharp turns allowed me to understand a bit better the training that NASA gives its astronauts. I need some ginger ale just thinking about it. Let's move on...
The closest I'll ever get to being tall, dark, and handsome.
The front of the war canoe. I'm thinking this will be a hood ornament on my next car.
There he is. The man, the myth, the shipwrecked captain. It was Christmas party time at the local social club, and the theme was "Shipwreck." Along with a broken compass, a broken telescope, and some seaweed attached to his blazer, the ol' flatmate prepared for a night of alcohol intake unseen since the days of Caligula. Notice again how he gets into character. I mean, he even sewed that crest on the coat. You have a responsibility to the world to get cirrhosis if there is sewing involved in your costume.
It's breathtaking, his poise. Sure, he's had some grape juice by this point, and sure his ship is only beginning to run aground, but he still manages the seaweed-aided left-arm fold while staring at a naked fijian native through that telescope. And he's pimpin' that moustache! As any Englishman would tell you, "brilliant!"
Notice the empty wine glass on the table behind me. This has got to be the worst photo of any human on the planet in the last 6 months.
Say 'hello' to the newest member of Men at Work.
Two historic flagpoles within sight of one another. The other one, here in Russell, is on top of one of those hills just to the left of the flagpole in this shot. If you look closely, I put a BC flag on that one to commemorate a 10-win season and yet another trip to The Proctor & Gamble Priapism Sports Bowl of Topeka.
Since I have nothing to add here, let me just say that...I have nothing to add here.
How in the hell do you erase photos you've already uploaded into the blog? This would seem simple. This is where you figure out that my degrees are in the liberal arts. 
This must've been the exact view the Maoris had in 1840 of the incoming British party as they landed to walk to the field above to negotiate the treaty. I found a transcript of a conversation at that moment between Maori chiefs in the sand next to the sign:Maori Chief #1: "Damn. White people."
Maori Chief #2: "Fish and chips. Fish and chips. That's all those people eat."
Maori Chief #1: "If I have to talk about Manchester United one more time..."
Maori Chief #2: "Sambuca?"
Maori Chief #1: "Make it a double."
Hobson was sent by the Queen to negotiate with the Maoris; Busby essentially authored the treaty document. The Maoris talked among themselves for a day. And the white guys won. Same story, different country. 
Heyyy, sexy thang! I'm talking about the Maori War Canoe. Long doesn't describe this any more than it would The Great Wall of China. You can fit the entire nation of Nicaragua in this thing and still have room for Daniel Ortega's personal cocaine stash. I think the Navy SEALS could use this thing the next time they wanted to surreptitiously land on, oh, say, Greenland to establish our next missile defense site. I mean...every Navy SEAL.
This is Brooke. She deserves her own shot because she was driving. Now, in this case, "driving" is a euphemism for "CT hadn't been that naseous since having that ear operation at 4." Just like it's likely a statistical improbability that we're alone in this universe, it's also a statistical improbability that she should have a driver's license. Accelerating into sharp turns allowed me to understand a bit better the training that NASA gives its astronauts. I need some ginger ale just thinking about it. Let's move on...
The closest I'll ever get to being tall, dark, and handsome.
The front of the war canoe. I'm thinking this will be a hood ornament on my next car.
You could train for a marathon by running around this thing. Twice.
There he is. The man, the myth, the shipwrecked captain. It was Christmas party time at the local social club, and the theme was "Shipwreck." Along with a broken compass, a broken telescope, and some seaweed attached to his blazer, the ol' flatmate prepared for a night of alcohol intake unseen since the days of Caligula. Notice again how he gets into character. I mean, he even sewed that crest on the coat. You have a responsibility to the world to get cirrhosis if there is sewing involved in your costume. 
It's breathtaking, his poise. Sure, he's had some grape juice by this point, and sure his ship is only beginning to run aground, but he still manages the seaweed-aided left-arm fold while staring at a naked fijian native through that telescope. And he's pimpin' that moustache! As any Englishman would tell you, "brilliant!"
Notice the empty wine glass on the table behind me. This has got to be the worst photo of any human on the planet in the last 6 months.
Say 'hello' to the newest member of Men at Work. 
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