'Tis the season...

Christmas is a week away. I learned of this when I checked the calendar recently. Russell has gotten in the festive spirit--one of the trees in town has a string of lights that appears to have been put up during Happy Hour. If the tree were a woman and the lights its makeup, it would look like Courteney Love (http://www.imnotobsessed.com/2007/07/31/courtney-love-in-bad-shape/) after a meth binge. Oh, the Pub has a Christmas tree, too. Which is fitting, I think, because everyone I know here says that Christmas Eve and Christmas day are all about getting plastered. I don't think that's the exact sentiment that "Joy to the World" was intended to convey, but we all should know by now that Christmas is less religious than commercial, and for the Pub, it means good business. I don't know about you, but when I think of the baby Jesus, I think of rum and coke. If the nativity were to take place today in Russell, the Holy Family would receive gifts of vodka, tequila, and cointreau. I'm pretty sure that's not a joke. Jesus would be in Russell AA before he was 15. Wait, is that blasphemous? That one was a joke. I know Jesus could hold his liquor.


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.

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.

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."

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.

It's green for a reason

I didn't see the sky for 9 days. Not once. Not even a brief glimpse. By the fourth or fifth day I was online, checking to see when relief might come, when we might be able to peek at an emerging blue sky. The town slowed down, the population's mood was noticeably dour. It's amazing what a little sun can do. Or lack thereof. It's probably no coincidence that the U.S. is behind Sweden, Germany, Denmark, and France in suicide rates per 100,000 people. It's certainly not attributable to lifestyle. In any case, I can't remember the last time I went 9 days with a thick, depressingly gray, overcast sky greeting me from the moment I woke in the morning to the time I went to bed. The clouds finally broke yesterday and my roommate and I celebrated with nearly 2 bottles of wine before I went to work for the dinner shift last night.


As the Kiwis are fond of saying, "sweet as..."

If you're ever in New Zealand, bring a raincoat.

The week it rained...

This is Jed, our new cook. He joined the Gables family from Queenstown. The sad part of this photo is the fact that it was taken in the middle of the restaurant during normal trading hours. What it isn't showing is two things: 1) it rained from Tuesday to Monday (Dec. 4-10), seven days straight, non-stop. And it's supposed to continue raining for the next few days. No one told me I'd be living the life of a Bangladeshi here in New Zealand. I haven't see the sun in so long that I've come down with Rickets. My bones are so soft right now I'm thinking of trying out as a contortionist for the Chinese Cirque du Soleil.


Basically, the town looks like a morgue. No life. No tourists. No joy in Mudville. You know it's bad when the English start to complain. I want to feel bad for all of the tourists who are visiting the Bay of Islands during this two week stretch of rain. But then I remembered that they're mostly European. So, I won't. 2) For some unknown reason, this year's run-up to the summer season just hasn't been as busy as last year's, and even the locals can't explain why (rain notwithstanding). Many of the Kiwis are probably saving up for Christmas, but that doesn't explain the relative dearth of activity from tourists. The cruise ships have begun to dock in the bay and send people into town, though. Which just means more people that I have to fake like.


My favorite conversation with patrons thus far has happened a handful of times in some variation of this form:


Patron: "What brings you to New Zealand?"

Me: "Why not? I had heard good things about the country. I lived in Europe last year and enjoyed my experience there and wanted to continue living abroad. Plus, Aragorn called and asked if I could help destroy Sauron."

Patron: "Oh, is this all school related?"

Me: "I'm 34."


I stare at them, straight-faced, to see how they try to dig themselvses out of an awkward silence. Good times. That's when I get more "ums" and "ers" than a public speaking class at a school for the deaf.

On an unrelated note, we just added another Swedish cook for our soon-to-be-unveiled breakfast menu, but I'm not showing him because he pissed me off the other day. He wore a t-shirt with a band on it and beneath the group was written "The Killers." Thinking he was a fan of the Las Vegas rock group, I asked him about it. He walked closer to me to reveal Saddam Hussein, Osama bin Laden, Hitler, and George W. Bush on the front. Needless to day, that put me in a bad mood. Warning: tangent up ahead.

First, I don't care if you like Bush--my travels to Europe and now here have introduced me to a seeming endless supply of Bush-haters, some of whom I call friends. The ratio is probably somewhere on the order of 50 to 1 in numbers of people who express a condescending distaste for the "cowboy from Texas" and those who support the Administration's War on Terror (read: Iraq). Most overseas American expats are themselves very Liberal, and thus further perpetuate the myth in their respective countries that even Americans can see their nation has ignoble intentions aimed at enlarging their "empire." I call these people "Hugo loco" and check to see if they have a Venezuelan stamp in their passport. One Canadian ESL teacher in Prague even made a statement that she wouldn't mind seeing Bush assassinated. Is it a stretch to see why Canada graces the top of my "Ungracious Freeloaders" country list? (So, we pay for their national defense so that Canadians can have socialized healthcare and then cross the border to have their lives saved by American medicine? Huh?) ESL is famously very Liberal, so it should come as no surprise that its rank and file love to be around one another to reinforce their groupthink.

Listen, we can agree to disagree, and unless someone really wants to debate the issues, I usually just change the subject so as to avoid the unpleasant revelation of people's superficial knowledge of U.S. foreign policy and how it was affected by 9/11. Undoubtedly, Iraq, from the reasons given for the invasion to its rebuilding, was screwed up and the president deserves blame for much of it. However, to not finish the job at this point would be tantamount to conceding defeat, which is important for one very good reason: bin Laden has said in previous interviews on numerous occasions that the one enduring lesson he gleaned in 1993 concerned America's spongy resolve as a result of America's retreat from Somalia after the bodies of the Rangers were dragged through the streets of Mogadishu during our brief involvement in Somalian politics. A repeat, albeit on a larger scale, would be crushing to the U.S.'s opportunity to change its image in the eyes of its enemies, which is almost as critical as the result in Iraq itself.

Bush himself hasn't helped America's image around the world, in so far as he has been unable to communicate the danger of Islam's "victim" mentality and what that means for the rest of the world. And, I think, he should have been working harder on an Israeli-Palestinian deal prior to his last year in office. It's also difficult to keep warning people of the instability caused by Islamic fundamentalism when America has, to a large extent, been successful in decimating the top management structure of al-Qa'ida and similarly fascist-minded groups. In a way, America is the public relations victim of its own success. People in Europe and the multitude of cliched rock groups and Hollywood "elite" who have expressed their abhorrence of Bush fail to understand this last point. Of course, one wonders how many books any of the Hollywood/rocker jetset have read about any of this.

I can understand people disagreeing with an American president, especially a European with a conservative Republican who hails from a state that leads the nation in sanctioned executions. However, this is where disagreement often crosses the line to propaganda (an irony in all of this is the discovery that the overwhelming majority of those who debate this with me more often than not are the most judgmental people I've encountered. Aren't the "lefties" always claiming to be "progressive" and "non-judgmental" in their approach to life? Another life lesson learned.)

To dishonor those who died at the hands of real mass murderers by making a moral equivalence between the likes of Hitler and Bush demonstrates a remarkable lack of knowledge about history. Aren't Europeans supposed to be sophisticated? Ha. The irony in a Swede wearing a t-shirt besmirching an American president and lumping him in with Hitler is apparently lost on the new cook. The Swedes aided Hitler in World War II by allowing him unimpeded access to Norway for the invasion there (to acquire ports for the German navy in their battle against England) and Finland (for their extreme northern front in their battle against the Soviets). Sweden was essentially a part of the Axis powers in WWII! They enabled the German conquering of Scandinavia! Read a book. As Kierkegaard said, "irony is a disciplinarian feared only by those who do not know it, but cherished by those who do."

And, as Oscar Wilde said, "quotation is a serviceable substitute for wit."

In any case, the inability to distinguish the turpitude of Hussein/Hitler/bin Laden with that of well-intentioned, but flawed, U.S. foreign policy is reprehensible to me. I have no patience for the intellectual laziness involved in making such a judgment. Expressing one's disagreement is fine, so long as it's reasoned and consistent in structure. Hyperbole is for the intellectually feeble.

One wonders if Clinton's face would have graced the shirt's front were it made after repeated bombings of Iraq from the No Fly Zone during our Used Car Salesman's administration. Or the bombing of Serbia (it wasn't the Swedish Air Force doing that in their backyard). Of course not. Our Commander-in-Chief was too busy dipping the pen in the company ink, defiling the office, and lying to a federal judge about the whole thing. Europeans welcomed the president's criminal behavior with such an urbane and cosmopolitan approach: "it's only sex. What's the big deal?" Congratulations! European history adds a new chapter titled, "Ignorance is Bliss: Criminal Relativism in New Europe."

Welcome to "When Hippies Have Control," starring Billary Clinton. Look for the sequel, "At All Cost: An American Flirtation with Socialism," starring Hillabillary Clinton in theaters sometime in January 2009.

One final thought. The rest of the world can harp and criticize and bitch and moan all they want. Like I've said, we're not going to agree and people who wear those sorts of t-shirts aren't needed anyway. They probably have one with Che Guevara's likeness on the front, too. A civil disagreement is fine by me.

Just so long as the next time you need the U.S., its economy, its Air Force, Army, Navy or Marines, its political weight, its money, its status, its principles, its negotiation, its doctors, its researchers, its lawyers, its ingenuity, its universities, its business, its credit, its treasury, its stock market, its freedom, its agriculture, its "pursuit of happiness," its involvement...you go right ahead and skip our number.

On second thought, maybe you can have the lawyers.

In any event, we wouldn't want the world to be consigned to the ignominy of hypocrisy, a trait Abraham Lincoln likened to the man who murdered both his parents then pleaded for mercy on the grounds that he was an orphan.

This is Brooke, who is helping me (taking drink orders) in the restaurant. When I say "help," I really mean, "taking half of my tips." She's Cornish. Which is another way of saying "a really good drinker." She looks as if she's preparing for a board meeting here. But, she's really preparing for a bored meeting, as this photo was taken right after the one of Jed. Her hobbies include beginning every sentence with "I," promising to begin a workout program between cigarette breaks and tequila shots, and talking so fast that I have a 1 in 8 chance of understanding any of our conversations.

The office. The inside of Zee Gables, New Zealand's oldest restaurant, as many are fond of saying. Did you know that Zee Gables' foundations are made of whalebone? That there may be a ghost in the building? That at various parts in its life, the building served as a boardinghouse, a bakery, and a brothel? That there was a secret hiding room underneath the staircase to hide sailors and pirates wishing to escape the joys of homoeroticism during 19th century transoceanic transportation?

My best friends in Russell. I don't think I'm kidding. Always sad to see them chosen, weighed, and grilled, my buddies and I spend a lot of quality time together as I give each table the opportunity to smell like fish and win the staring contest these guys are so good at. Reactions to my appearance at a table with this tray generally fall into one of two categories: 1) eyes beaming, tongue licking lips, a patron rises in his/her seat and hears "fresh fish" to mean "30 minute orgasm," or 2) eyes squint, face shrivels up, a patron shrinks away from the tray and declares, "nothing with heads."

At that point, I'm reminded of the sign outside the shop, which reads "Fish Speciality Restaurant." Did you think you were getting turkey on the menu? It's not like I'm dragging out Mary's little lamb or Little Bo Peep's buddies and re-creating Passover's bloody door trick to show you who we were going to grill up that evening.

From the left: Gurnard (2), Snapper (2), Flounder (2), and Tarakihi (2).


"Moral indignation is just jealousy with a halo."

H.G. Wells

Strings n' Things

Mine is a simple life. Without any emotional attachments and lacking a desire to be in Washington, D.C. for work, my greatest concerns in the Southern hemisphere revolve around 1) the amounts of beer, wine, and tuna fish in my flat, 2) the ability to conquer my genetic disposition for being late, 3) the ability to exercise, and 4) the weather. Fighting traffic, paying cable and telephone and electric bills, paying off and maintaining a car, running errands, and organizing one's life around televised sporting events and the activities of others are distant memories for me here in New Zealand, as they were when I was in Prague.

Before anyone thinks that sounds too good to be true, there are, quite naturally, trade-offs that have to be made in order to accommodate a more pedestrian lifestyle. For one, money. There hasn't been a lot of it over the past 3 years. I think the IRS thinks I'm dead. After all, you won't make much teaching English unless you go to Korea or the Middle East. Now, don't get me wrong: I love the DMZ. I've heard lovely things about the DMZ. But I have no interest in living in Korea. And that has little to do with the fact that my karaoke skills are gnu-like. I watched MASH, I know what it looks like--and I feel like my emotional reservoir for Korea ended the night "Goodbye" was spelled out in rocks for Hawkeye to see as he left on the helicopter. As for the Middle East? Though I hear the United Arab Emirates is lovely in the summertime, I'll have to pass, unless I can teach from an air-conditioned Armored Personnel Carrier. Which, as I understand it, are hard to fit inside language schools. Though I'm still expectant and hopeful that Hollywood will one day discover me and immortalize me on film, I'm as yet emotionally and spiritually unprepared to star in al-Qa'ida's next cinematic thriller, "Death to This Infidel, Allah Akbar."

Here in Australasia, to earn real money, you'll first need to establish networks to access the better jobs, which takes time and, of course, money.

Friendship. I have two good friends from Prague that I would fly halfway around the world to help on a moment's notice, and only one--our favorite French chef--thus far in the "Z." That's simply a byproduct of the nature of travelling--most people you come into contact with are transients themselves and/or already have a clique--usually friends from back home--with which they are travelling and feel most comfortable. Further, most are quite young, in their early 20's, and suffer from the same disease that afflicts the MTV generation: incessant, rampant, uncontrolled, unyielding, single-minded and resolute selfishness. Talking to them reminds me of many a date I've been on where I had to pay for the privilege of listening to the unending droning of yet another woman talk about herself. Lucky me.

Distance from family and friends. The longest time I went between seeing family and friends when I lived anywhere in the States was 6 months. It will likely be upwards of a year here in New Zealand.

In the end, one uses the quadratic equation and mixes in Einstein's Field Equations along with some deductive reasoning to decide if the trade-offs of a life abroad are worth the reward. For me, simple is better at 34 than it would have been at 22 or 24. Ironically, it's more substantive because it's character and the lessons it imparts are vastly more appreciated and understood. This desire for simplicity, moreover, owes part of its explanation to my character. I'm okay by myself. Unattached. I have to be: if I wasn't, I'd be Boy Interrupted by this point. It's not that I seek to have it that way all the time, but I purposely don't get involved in things simply for the sake of being involved in things. I've met so many people who define themselves through the eyes of another that I'm beginning to wonder if self-esteem is as underperforming these days as Jehovah's Witnesses in Baghdad.

Furthermore, I've always had, since I can remember, a "me vs. the world" chip on my shoulder, which undoubtedly was affected by the competitive drive that burned in me from the moment I could tie my own shoelaces. In all honesty, that chip is not a character trait that I dislike. Hell, even I remind myself of that old Whitesnake song. You know, the one song they had. With the hot chick on the car in the video. Here I Go Again. Right. Let's move on. (If you find my self-esteem after that analogy, please dial +64 021 025 96507. Thank you.)

The yearning for minimalism is also born out from the prerogatives of living abroad--one is in a much better emotional situation if you selectively forget every convenience from home and concentrate instead on the bigger picture. If scrutinized through a psychological prism, living abroad is entirely different than having a vacation overseas. The rose-colored glasses that you put on to frame your experience as you get on the plane for your 2 week holiday are long gone before the 2nd month of residence has elapsed in your new home country. But, that's okay, so long as your expectations don't outrun reality, you learn to accept, adapt, and settle in.

It might suprise some people to learn that the really smart people of this world--not the "genuises" who diagram football plays or who sold stock at the right time in today's casual vocabulary--themselves consciously look to chip away at the edifice of complexity in their search for truth. It's no coincidence that simplicity re-emerges historically as an intellectual guiding light especially among the brilliant. And who better to emulate--from an intellectual perspective, that is--than everyone's favorite frizzy-haired physicist, who used his imaginative aptitude to turn the fundamental concepts of space and time on their heads and once famously said, "everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler." As it turns out, this is actually good advice when living outside the boundaries of your comfort zone. Many others have suggested a similar theme. Leonardo da Vinci was one of the smartest human beings to walk this planet and was quoted as saying, "simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." Coincidental? The list of believers is nearly endless:

Oscar Wilde: "I adore simple pleasures. They are the last refuge of the complex."
Walt Whitman: "Simplicity is the glory of expression."

Tolstoy: "There is no greatness where there is no simplicity, goodness, and truth."

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: "In character, in manner, in style, in all things, the supreme excellence is simplicity."

Shakespeare: "Simply the thing that I am shall make me live."

Chopin: "Simplicity is the final achievement. After one has played a vast quantity of notes and more notes, it is simplicity that emerges as the crowning reward."

Plato: "Beauty of style and harmony and grace and good rhythm depend on simplicity."

I guess I've noticed one thing, other than gray hairs, as I move into my mid-30's. I am extremely conscious of taking delight in the small things that provide mini-moments of joy during the course of a day. That is largely attributable not only to being in an unfamiliar environment but, more importantly, to beginning to see with clarity who I am going to be for the rest of my life. That person is enchanted with and takes pleasure in simplicity. Let me explain.

I'll admit to being a bit confused. I turned 34 in New Zealand this past Friday, which is the day before I turned 34 on Friday in the United States. Somewhere on the 12 hour plane ride from Los Angeles to Auckland, I lost Tuesday, September 25th, or rather, I should more accurately say, I probably lived Tuesday, September 25th, but for a very short time. Or maybe like a time machine, once we flew through the International Date Line, which abuts New Zealand, we lost an entire day. I'm not sure where the truth lies, but like Fox Mulder, I know it's out there. Like the Bermuda Triangle with boats or a Black Hole with light, maybe the IDL catches entire days and swallows them whole. I'll have to google it.

Nevertheless, what I do know is that I left the United States on the 24th, watched Ocean's We Should Have Stopped After 11, Blades of Glory and the last installment of the Nobody Would Know Orlando Bloom Save For the Pirates of the Caribbean series, ate a meal or two, slept an hour or two, and landed in Auckland on the 26th of September (which was really the 25th in the States--which means I really left on the 25th in New Zealand. This conundrum will appear on an LSAT test someday).

Einstein had an equation for just this sort of occurrence in his efforts to prove the malleability of spacetime. That's a lie. But, we'll come back to the world's most famous physicist in a few moments (a quick sidenote of irrelevance: read any biography of Einstein and you'll come away feeling alternatively like, "poor Al, pulled in so many directions, by so many people, a victim of his own brilliance" and "THAT guy was the smartest man in 300 years??")

This is all a rather circuitous way of saying that you should seriously consider moving 18 hours away from home so that you can have two birthdays a year, yet age only one. Just don't move to a town of 800, and don't concelebrate your birthday with the Grand Finale of Movember, New Zealand's fundraising bonanza to help cure, as Zorro would say, "ball cancer." I have photographic proof of Movember's allure here in New Zealand. We'll get to that.

I was particularly nostalgic about this birthday, which may or not make sense when you consider that 34 is a rather anonymous number. Perhaps not coincidentally, I'm a rather anonymous human in the annals of Russell-ian history. I'm 34. I'm unmarried. I've been in love once. I think the nostalgia probably had more to do with the lack of an enertaining social outlet here in town than any particular sense of dread at the thought of ageing. Mind you, when I say 'fun,' I mean anything that doesn't involve a) walking to and from work and counting birds as my friends, b) trying to decipher the incoherent late-night philosophical ramblings of drunk Maoris, or c) having the highlight of my day revolve around a glass of red and a 30 minute conversation about the "slim pickings" of the opposite sex here in Russell with my drunk flatmate between the time he comes home from said drinking and the time he stumbles off to bed--only to rinse and repeat the following night. (Our nightly forays into the murkier truths of Russell has my flatmate thinking that I possess a snobbish desire for "superior pickings," as he would say, an obvious form of masochism here in Russell that will inevitably lead some to make conclusions about my sexuality if not rectified soon. Technically, he's right, I'm still riding the High Standard Bandwagon--the one he fell off many moons ago--at least until the town accessorizes with the summer influx that is expected in the next couple of weeks.)
This lack of diversionary excitement, coupled with my crack cocaine-like behavior in the restaurant (let's put it this way: I don't even recognize myself when I'm working; I'm a white Pookie. I'm so entirely different than I normally am that I'm beginning to think about moving to Hollywood to make a go of it), which depletes my Mojo by the end of the dinner shift, has me in my free time like an antisocial turtle ducking under my protective shell. The moral of the story: I'd basically be responsible for the death of Pitcairn Island had I been marooned there. No, wait, that's not it. Christmas can't get here soon enough. Yep, that's it.

This chapter of my life began when I quit a good job to satisfy an itch to live abroad. I'm now in my second tour of duty doing just that. Even Bonnie, the Taiwanese cook/dishwasher at the restaurant picked up on this theme last night when we were talking. I could have sworn she got an e-mail from my parents to hit certain talking points. In broken English, "You 34. You have plan? How long you do this? What you do when this over?" I'm not kidding, I thought I was talking to either the human who birthed me or one of those career counselors you see after you take that "So, what does the passionless and uncommitted want to do with the rest of your life?" test. It was my birthday for the love of all that is good in this world, and I'm getting dressed down by a Taiwanese girl whose most substantive contribution to my life to that point was letting me eat a couple extra french fries from her bowl of leftovers in the kitchen. And that's not even a metaphor. Happy Birthday to me!

I tried my best to answer her in simple English, but I was so flustered that she didn't understand why, even at 34, somebody would feel the need, no, the compulsion, to do this, that I reduced the explanation to its most basic constituent: I refuse to live a life with regret.

I can't fault Bonnie, though. To a certain extent, it's not even an explanation that my parents seem to express much sympathy for. As much as they're supportive of me and the adult choices I make, I'm not convinved that they're understanding matches their desire to see me happy. On the phone with them on my birthday, I had the following conversation with them:

Me: "I can't believe I'm 34. "

Mom: "I know, it's just flying by, isn't it?"

Me: "Did you know that I share a birthday with Churchill?"

Dad: "Was Churchill ever a waiter?"

Me: "Maybe in India."

Dad: "Before he was Commander of the Navy?"

As the not-so-astute can see, we don't deal with intimations and inference in the Carroll household. We go for the big ones: incredulity and guilt.

Relying on "gut instinct"--simplicity--to make lifestyle and career choices is probably not the advice you'd hear Dr. Phil give to his masochistic clients. Yet it's exactly what I would tell anyone who was contemplating doing something drastic, something unpredictable, something adventurous. Since I was a young boy, I've always been fascinated with geography (political and natural), demography and cosmology. From the time I can first remember, I've had in me a desire to experience new places, to meet new faces, and to determine for myself how to satisfy the natural curiousity that, for whatever reason, has led me to this chapter in my life. It probably sounds corny, but I hope that when I die (at 112...asleep...in my bed...next to Ms. Teen USA), I'm taken on a grand tour of the cosmos and introduced to the answers for its deepest, most tightly guarded secrets. I'm well aware of how bad that sounds, but nevertheless it's how I want it to be. I can't control that, naturally, but I can control the opportunity to experience a tour of a slightly smaller variety.

So, to answer the question that Bonnie (and others) have about this 34 year old, mid-career, postgraduate waiter in a small town halfway around the world: I don't know. If that's my greatest sin, then I'll take my chances. I refuse to live a life of regret. And, while being married, having children, being stuck in traffic on the same roads twice a day, and dealing with the complexities (and annoyances) of suburban life in America works wonders for the overwhelming majority of people who decide to follow that path, I would be decidedly unhappy doing that. At this point in my life. Now.

Make no mistake, I understand the emotional satisfaction of having a family of my own: I increasingly see more and more friends doing it and it doesn't take Newton to see that my current stage in life is usually reserved for those just celebrating their 24th birthday, as opposed to their 34th. But, I was born three weeks late; I'm a late-bloomer. Always have been and always will be. I doubt that will change.

There are trade-offs in every choice you make. I've decided that I'm willing to live with mine.

In a sense, such a simplistic explanation for living a different "life arc" than the norm satisfies the natural order of things. My Mom says that my parents feel blessed that I was "loaned" to them by God to be a part of their family. If you happen to subscribe to that theory, as many Catholics do, it's a wonderful way to express gratitude--the real object of affection in such sentiment is, quite appropriately and obviously, God. It also strikes me as refreshingly and elegantly simple. It strips away the complications and vagaries that encase the life we build for ourselves by replacing the innate desire to please ourselves with a more Copernican, if you will, desire to please God. It makes Him the center of the universe. It's very simple logic indeed.

If the faithful believe that the meaning of life is to serve and honor God, what better way to do that then to recognize the gifts He bestows in the form of love. And birthdays and their essential meanings are opportunities to do precisely that. At the risk of sounding too Vatican, reducing the byzantine labyrinth of life to its most unaffected fundamental ingredient serves as my excuse for being where I am right now, as opposed to 10 years ago or never. I don't apologize for feeling as if The Big Guy pulled me in this direction: after all, isn't that what we all strive to attune ourselves to--the whisperings of our personal God? I'll take it one step further: that reduction to simplistic reasoning may actually mirror the simplicity with which the entire universe--God's magnificent construct--is made. Which begs the question: who am I to fight the tide of cosmological and physical law?

I've got a bottle of De Bortoli (Australian) Merlot (for $10!) and I'm staring up at a night sky that's holding thousands of stars. Night skies in Russell may not mimick the desert skies of the southwestern U.S. or the even more people-starved, rural settings on the planet, but it's difficult not to be impressed with the breadth and stunning beauty of New Zealand's northland nighttime stellar bonanza. Short of living in the Outback, the Sahara, or Siberia, this is about the best one can do, in exchange for the comforts of civilization. You can see for yourself: here is a satellite rendering of Earth's lights at night: http://antwrp.gsfc.nasa.gov/apod/image/0011/earthlights2_dmsp_big.jpg) and one for Australia and New Zealand, http://www.darksky.org/images/satelite/australia.gif).

Stay with me for a moment as I peel off on a tangent that even Tolkien couldn't recover from. The last 100 years of progress on developing an understanding of the universe's physical laws have been, even to the millions of laymen who follow the subject without venturing into the higher mathematics involved, staggering. The last 25 years have been as equally compelling, for a variety of reasons and discoveries, not the least of which has been the development of a radical new way of looking at God's cosmic playground--our universe. String Theory is a delightfully simple and evocative way of thinking about the very fabric that composes spacetime and all of its matter and energy, from the galaxies in our telescopes right down to you and me.

Before you read any further, you should remember that I'm alone in a darkened room, drinking wine by myself. At night. Naked. Well, not naked, but I am drinking by myself, which means you can automatically discount 2/3 of anything I have to say. That's actually a law, you can look it up.

Nevertheless, String Theory is the latest mathematical incarnation that seeks for its nerdy proponents what many before could not achieve. No, not a social life. Rather, a remedy, no, the remedy, to bridge the chasm between the equations of general relativity (Al's invention--no, not Gore this time--detailing the math and geometry of space--or gravity) and quantum mechanics (the physical laws--guided by probabilistic math--of the subatomic). Essentially, the gap between the physical laws for predicting the behavior of large objects in our universe and those predicting the behavior of the very small. To make a long story short, those two sets of laws clash. Physicists have long worked around the inconvenience of having two separate ways of analyzing the universe and have been very successful in doing so, i.e. the mathematical incongruities haven't precluded the development of either set of laws in isolation.

However, it would be as big an understatement as saying "Lindsay likes cocaine" or "Katie Holmes was brainwashed by Maverick" or "Ted Kennedy likes to drink and drive" to suggest that it is every theoretical physicists' dream to conjure up a Unified Theory; one set of laws that describe all of the workings of our universe, from Einstein's theory of gravity (how mass and energy affect the geometry of space and how space affects the movement of matter and energy) to the smallest indivisible length of space (a Planck length, or 1.6 meters x 10 to the -35th power). I hope it's not Al Gore in the next year, because not only would it be the greatest scientific achievement of all time, but then he'd have to stand next to George W. again and share National Geographic's Most Awkward Handshake Of All Time Redux.(http://fe14.news.re3.yahoo.com/s/nm/20071126/pl_nm/bush_gore_dc;_ylt=Av3mFH69EJoGdBjD6zwbw_YXr7sF)
Yet, there's an indescribably compelling need for scientists to find the most basic components of the universe and consequently to believe that the universe functions according to an underlying set of laws that demonstrate no conflict between the laws of the large and the small whatesoever (to this end, a new particle accelerator is due to begin test runs early next year. I haven't been this excited since Michael Jackson broke out the "moonwalk" back in '83. The Large Hadron Collider near Geneva will be the world's largest particle accelerator and may be able to test some of the predictions made by String Theory by smashing protons at speeds up to 99.999999% the speed of light to help understand conditions a fraction of a second after the Big Bang. Oh, by the way, the laboratory near Geneva where the collider is being built is largely responsible for the creation of the Internet...sorry Al. http://www.hitmill.com/internet/web_history.html)

Like Einstein, contemporary physicists search for a simpler explanation for the universe's often times complex manifestations of general relativity and probabilistic quantum mechanics. To that extent, a theory that explains the entire workings of the universe, all the way back to time zero, to include gravity on quantum (very small) scales, would be a discovery greater than those of 1915, the year Einstein reshaped our understanding of the universe itself.

Basically, it would be the greatest scientific resume ever written. It would be akin to a 22 year old breaking a backboard after a dunk at the end of Game 7 to win the NBA Championship and then walking off the court and announcing his retirement. Or winning American Idol and then announcing on live T.V. that you've decided to enter porn because it carries more weight. Or fathering a baby with Aishwarya Rai (http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2004/12/29/60minutes/main663862.shtml) and then joining a monastery. It just can't be topped. While it might be fun to try (with the last one, especially), you know and the world knows that you've peaked like Edmund Hillary (a Kiwi, by the way) and it's all downhill from there. Just like Henry Thomas, who played Elliot in E.T. Game over. You can't top "E.T. phone home," and you can't top saying goodbye to the little guy while the spaceship waits in the woods.

I swear, I'm not drunk.

String theory posits that the fundamental particle constituents (protons, electrons, neutrons) of our universe as well as the known messenger particles of the four forces (electromagnetism, the weak nuclear force, the strong nuclear force, and gravity)--photons, bosons, and the theoretical graviton--are nothing more than, well, strings, whose different vibrational patterns evince the properties we associate with both the particles of the Standard model and the four laws enunciated above. For reasons I won't get into here, as you're already asleep, String Theory has the potential to bridge the two sets of laws. Here's the catch, though: the only way the math works in String Theory is if we live in an 11 dimensional universe. That's 7 extra spatial dimensions all around us that are too small for current technology to detect. Maybe too small to ever directly detect.

The point is that the world and the universe may be much grander and simpler than imagined. Grander because the world we experience--and the part of the universe we can see-- may indeed be a tiny fraction of what may really exist, if we can see only 3 of the 10 spatial dimensions purported to exist (on a much larger spatial scale, Leonard Susskind's "The Cosmic Landscape" is a good introduction on the ramifications of a multiverse--the idea that our universe is one of an infinite amount of universes. Just ignore, if you'd like, his robust atheism). Simpler because the whole thing could very well be constructed of incredibly small nonzero-sized strings. In essence, the universe may be a rich tapestry of almost thread-like material playing out a symphony of existence as its observers live oblivious to its majestic grandeur. That, to me, whether String Theory is true or not, is the beauty of quantum mechanics: that we live in, well, a facade of sorts. What we sensually experience (classical physical laws) is decidedly not how the universe has chosen to operate (by probability). In quantum physics, what you see is not what you get.

What does this have anything to do with anything? Well, probably nothing, because String Theory is mostly theoretical at this point and its mathematics are too complicated for even string theorists to deal with directly (so they use approximations). But...what if the universe is governed by laws that are, even to Britney and Paris, simple to visualize. As Hungarian born American nuclear physicist Edward Teller said, "the main purpose of science is simplicity and as we understand more things, everything is becoming simpler." Ask most people what gravity is and they wouldn't be able to describe it; they'd give artful demonstrations of its effects, rather than an understanding of its character. But, ask a Texas blonde about String Theory, and one day they might be able to give a close approximation of its simplicity (neglecting its extraordinarily complex mathematical underpinnings, of course).

The point? The universe does indeed operate in a way we are mostly oblivious to. But, it could also be strikingly simple, too. And wouldn't that be the most refined answer one could give to questions of your (reasoned) choices: simplicity is a universal principle, and I am just following its decree.

I've chosen at the moment to move away from the signposts that most judge their lives by: the complexities of career, love, and acquisitiveness. I've decided to put Chapter 3 where most people would put Chapter 4. I have made an arbiter named simplicity my best friend and most trusted advisor. Don't blame me: I have surrendered to the laws of the universe.

To my mind, we're nothing more than the backwash of a stellar explosion, at least in a physical sense. The gravitational accretion of stellar dust is our ecumenical history. We're not just a part of the universe, observers from a distance; we are the universe, a small, seemingly inconsequential part of the cosmos but nevertheless created from a progenitor of primordial soup and as intimately tied to its cycle of birth and death as any of its other, more violent, inhabitants.

Why shouldn't our reasoning, comprised of neurological processes enabled by universal evolution, complement our cosmological environment?

Henry David Thoreau said it, well, much more simply: "Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you've imagined. As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler; solitude will not be solitude, poverty will not be poverty, nor weakness weakness."

Had enough? Okay. On to a few pictures. Suffice it to say that life in Russell, over the course of the last 3 weeks, has settled into a routine. It, along with my sojourn into the unknown, is really of simple stock. My medulla oblongata is dominating at this juncture--I'm entirely autonomic at this point. I breathe. I live. I am. I'm also fairly certain that the cabin fever that right now is nothing more than an annoyance will inexorably evolve into a full-blown outbreak of Ebola before the end of the year. Welcome to picturesque Russell!




This is called "getting into character." Mere mortals could never understand the philosophical and emotionally intense process by which one transforms into the person he portrays. It's called method acting, people. And it involves multiple glasses of wine, a shoulder thrust, and some serious attitude. Amateurs need not apply.

The neat part about this is that if Mark removed the hat and cape and dropped the sword, he could double as a Benihana chef.

Speaking of Japan, our favorite French chef recently told me that Tokyo was just announced to have collected the most amount of Michelin stars--"the" restaurant rating for gourmet dining--of any city in the world. http://www.news.com.au/dailytelegraph/story/0,22049,22790128-5013605,00.html. Granted, with 30 million people, the world's largest city should represent a decent mathematical probability to achieve the label of "Food Capital of the World." Nevertheless, it just goes to show that the Japanese know their culinary stuff. I would congratulate them, you know, for being a peaceful ally with good baseball players and pretty girls, but they're too busy killing Willy and maiming Flipper in the name of "science." I get really upset with them, usually around lunchtime when I'm eating a tuna fish sandwich.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/7101829.stm
http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/world/la-fg-whaling24nov24,0,1247872.storyhttp://www.newscientist.com/article/dn7551.html

This is my flatmate. Move over Antonio Banderas, there's a new superhero in town. This has got to be the creepiest Zorro I've ever seen. I can't decide if he's trying out to be conductor of the London Symphony, or dreaming of his life as a gay porn star. What's going on with the left hand? A fist clenched in rage over the oppression of the good people of Mexican California, no doubt. Zorro even bought women's shoes for the end-of-Movember moustached costume contest on the 30th. With his three inch heels, our rapier-wielding populist graced the height of an overgrown gnome.

To be fair, I shouldn't give him grief for looking like an impending arrest for pedophilia. He went all out to raise money for my prostate. Any man that can help my prostate without digitally exploring my nether regions is okay with me.

That's Bonnie, the Taiwanese Guilt Trip in the middle, and Lenka, the Czech girl who should put on her resume under Skills, "giggling." We look happy to be starting another dinner shift, but I'm drunk, Bonnie is listening to a Taiwanese motivational speaker, and Lenka looks like she's being held hostage by a Gimp in a snuff film. Could that body language be any colder? Who took a dump in the punchbowl?

In reality, Bonnie isn't listening to a motivational speaker. Somebody said a three-syllable word in English, because that's usually the response you get from her under such circumstances. No worries, though. It didn't stop me from teaching her about East and West Coast rap in the kitchen today, though. Complete with diagrams and everything. All I got in response was a facial expression unseen since Richard Dreyfuss had a close encounter of the third kind. She may not know what "mustard" is, but she sure as hell knows who Tupac and Biggie were. Represent.

Lenka and Suzanna, the Czech chicks who work the back garden bar at Zee Gables. They hid the umbilical cord that attaches them, so you'll just have to trust me when I say it's always there. I pimp the blue shirt a bit better than these two, if I do say so myself. But what they lack in pizzaz, they make up for with breasts. And that, my friends, is the only thing that matters in customer service. Mammaries. The lesson? It's not what you know, it's how much cleavage you can show.

It's dinnertime at the back bar. I'd suggest a reservation.

"Simplicity is making the journey of this life with just baggage enough" --Charles Dudley Warner, American essayist and novelist, 1829-1900.

On dolphins and death

Get a feel for the weather. It's drizzling. It had been raining and windy for three straight days. The temperature hovers in the mid-50s. The sea is choppy. I am thinking about how not to vomit on my camera or the old lady next to me as we near the end of The Ultimate Bay Adventure (a perk for working in the restaurant--the tour company lets local restaurant staff go free so that they can talk it up to the tourists)--3 hours looking for and following dolphins, 3 hours on Urupukapuka Island, and finally 2 hours getting to and coming back from the Hole in the Rock. The boat arrives at its penultimate destination--the Hole in the Rock--and I focus my rain-splattered lens on blue boat seats. Actually, the boat is heaving back and forth, even as I try not to. This is not a picture of the Hole in the Rock. It's a picture of the nearby coastline--the white speck on the hill is the Cape Brett Lighthouse, lighting the entrance to the Bay of Islands (http://www.doc.govt.nz/templates/PlaceProfile.aspx?id=34370). You know how ice skaters are told to focus on one spot when they spin really fast in that move called "spinning really fast?" I'm doing the same thing. I'm focusing on the lighthouse and not the fact that I almost pushed a woman off the observation deck when I fell into her as the boat rocked on the sea side of the Hole.

This is sort of what I imagine the vestibule of Hell to look like.

Besides almost committing Involuntary Manslaughter, I'm looking for the ghost of William Wallace on those hills. As I've cited before, "every man dies, not every man really lives." I feel like I kind of accomplished both on this trip.





There we go. Hey, this is an award winner. The Hole in the Rock. It's 60 feet high. That's all I remember the captain saying. I was too busy wondering if my backpack was a flotation device. The swells on the other side of the boat had me thinking about my swimming skills. "Would the boat suck me down like Leo di Caprio said it would in Titanic?" The boat usually goes through the Hole, but the sea was too rough on this day. The boat sat here--rocking--for a good 15 minutes so that everybody could get superfluous pictures, just like I got (I took a lot more pictures, which will be published in the appendix of my forthcoming book, "How To Survive For One Year on Peanut Butter and Jelly and Tuna Fish.") Unseen here is the fact that the rock itself is a few hundred feet high and looms over you as your boat occasionally reverses to avoid breaking apart on the rock itself. However, the captain (I like to call him Phlegyas) did take us on a 5 minute circumnavigation of the rock, which entailed going out on the seaward side of the rock. Swells were probably around 8 feet. Beverages in the bar area of the boat fell to the floor during our little roller coaster ride to the brink of death. I had two thoughts at this point: how long can I tread water before turning blue and sinking and would the tour company bring families out on the anniversary of the tragedy to throw flowers in the watery grave site? I think the latter would be a nice touch.

It doesn't look that big. But it is. If you look long enough through the hole, you'll starve to death.

A cave entrance astride the hole. Or is it The Hole? Maybe the Hole? Anyway, here is the conversation those two guys had on the front of the boat. In case you don't know, I have supernatural auditory skills.

"Hey, check out that cave."

"Yeah, nice."

"Let's get my bald spot in that guy's picture up there."

"Ok."

"Maybe the reflection off my chrome dome will turn the left side of his picture into something Carol Anne ran away from in Poltergeist."

"I think I see the Jesus' face in the rock. Or is it Che?"

This photograph is akin to taking a picture of a window of the Hearst Castle and then saying, "you'll have to trust me. It's a really nice house."

"Scotland's daughters and sons are yours no more!"

Just humor me. It's late.

I half expected a sign to be hung above the opening: "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

Virgil's in the bathroom throwing up.

This would have been the award winner, had I had in my possession something with which to dry the lens. Seeing as how the drizzle was coming down nearly parallel to the ocean, I did the best I could. If I'm going to capture the moment for you, I'm going to need to be better prepared. I'll need sponsorship. Do it now before Hillary gets in office, raises taxes, and gives all your money to her Illegal Alien Healthcare Program with Full Prescription Coverage and Citizenship Plus Starter Money For Your New Life In My Pseudo Socialist Utopia.

This is a self-portrait that I will call "Swallowing My Own Vomit." After 5 hours on a boat that skimmed through seas enlivened with 3 full days of wind and rain, it's time to get me back to my rightful place on the Darwinian ladder--dry ground. I love dolphins--who doesn't, beside the Japanese who probably kill them for kicks while hunting whale--and I liked Urupukapuka Island, the rest stop halfway through my maritime adventure (that I kept repeating to myself as a source of amusement), but 10 more minutes of swell and I'm going to pollute Flipper's playground with a banana-tuna fish combination that even krill wouldn't touch.

As an ancillary, this photo serves as a stunning rebuke to all those conspiracy theorists who don't believe I'm actually in New Zealand. Look, there I am. You know how the U.S. Military puts out a photo of terrorist leaders that have been killed by U.S. forces? The sheet covering everything but the bruised and sometimes sewn up face? Well, a big reason for that is because the Arab culture is one of conspiracy theory--if the picture weren't displayed as proof of death, the Iraqi population would be inclined to believe in any superhuman mythology about the leader that al-Qa'ida (or its mouthpiece al-Jazeera) wanted to propagate. Instead, they get a picture that says, "here's your big, tough leader. Dead. Now what?" Well, here's my (living) version. "Here's your big, tough buddy. Alive. Swallowing my lunch for a second time. In the Southern Hemisphere."

Speaking of conspiracy theorists, the French chef is a believer in visitors from space. One of his first questions to me was not about anything related to me or what I might bring to his business, but rather was, "zo, what do you zink of Rozwell, huh?" I served a Mormon couple from Utah a couple of weeks ago and in the course of our conversation she let it be known that they think the U.S. Government was responsible for 9/11. "Welcome to Air Disconnect, I'm Captain Smith, we'll be flying over the Cuckoo's Nest today." "Reality, meet the Mormons. Mormons, say 'hello' to Reality." So much proselytizing, so little rational thought. I guess the word "reason" had no translation from the gold plates and never made it into the Book of Mormon. I suppose UBL's confession isn't worth much these days. He can't win for trying.

I wanted to signal my incredulity at their blind distaste for the truth by rubbing their lamb rump on my rump, but I was late for my X-Files Fanclub chat on the Al Gore Internet. I was this close to telling them that Oliver Stone had it wrong--it wasn't the U.S. Military-Industrial Complex and LBJ who killed JFK, it was also Jackie Kennedy, Vince Lombardi, and Canada, too.

Anybody who has worked for or with the U.S. Government (obviously no one in Hollywood) knows how truly preposterous the notion is of multiple agencies planning, carrying out, and covering up a presidential assassination and/or 9/11 and/or a fake moon landing. You can't get three persons from different agencies to agree on a lunch order, much less the biggest conspiracy the United States has ever known. Our biggest secret keepers are the biggest leakers in government! To a lesser extent, you still hear whispers about FDR's purported foreknowledge about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. This despite the overwhelming evidence and admitted participation of the truly guilty.

So, it begs the question: why are people so inclined to think the worst about their own government? Are some people just that jaded? That desperate to be different that they'd subscribe to the ridiculous just to validate themselves as "free-thinkers" or "pseudo-intellectual revolutionaries." Are they really "cutting-edge" or just willing to proudly herd themselves over the edge of Sanity cliff for the sake of not appearing to be the victim of groupthink?

In concrete terms, I think it's simply easier to channel the overall negative emotional reaction to certain traumatic events (Iraq and Vietnam, for example) into a blanket condemnation that ascribes to its target the worst vices one can think of. Ironically, I think that is a hallmark of a kind of hybrid intellectual-emotional adolescence which stubbornly refuses to acknowledge--in the case of 9/11, Vietnam, or JFK, for example--evil because it would mean that the person or administration or organization that responds soberly to evil is, at the very least, right in doing so. This despite a distaste for the protagonist that is so ingrained and well developed that nothing he/she/they do can alter that perception that everything he/she/they touch(es) inevitably turns to lead. Once you add in the sometimes subtle, sometimes not-so-subtle complexities of creating, executing, and analyzing foreign policy, there arises an even greater chasm between any of the different sides to an issue. Lastly, it's nearly impossible to falsify a conspiracy theory. Can I prove that Area 51 doesn't hold the remains of aliens from other worlds? Would anyone trust the government, even if given full access to the base? Of course not.

I also think that people want to believe in the boogeyman. People need to explain the unexplainable. It's human. I'm dying to know what Bill Murray said to Scarlett Johannsen at the end of "Lost in Translation." It's mysterious and imaginative. What kind of compromising pictures does Keanu Reeves have on Hollywood elite that allows him to make enormous sums of money acting? It's perplexing and curious. Why did the international basketball association steal the 1972 Olympic Gold Medal from the United States and give it to the Evil Empire (or is it The Evil Empire?) It's a miscarriage of justice.

These are all truly bad examples.

In conspiracy cases, however, wide-scale propagation is also dangerous, because the slippery slope continues getting greased up, all but ensuring that one day conspiracy theory will indeed substitute for history rather than serve as its curious understudy.

None of this, however, can substitute for the fact that neither my screwed up equilibrium issue nor my screwed up stomach are designed for rough seas. My new hero is James Cook.

I wonder, though, if he really was the most well-travelled man of the 18th Century. Maybe his charts are all a lie. Maybe the Pacific wasn't charted before Google came along. Maybe a reptilian alien species met the Nazis on their moon base and charted the planet instead.

Flipper! Okay, so the weather was pretty miserable--raining and cool. But not 5 minutes out of Russell we came across a pod of dolphins. These were about 30 or so of the 300-400 who make this part of the Bay of Islands home. We followed them for about an hour as they leisurely swam around the boat, occasionally showing off by jumping in the air. I feel like a 12 year old. But, seriously. Dolphins. Are. Cool.

A few days later a woman came into the restaurant and I inquired about her dolphin adventure. She frowned and said that they never did find any during their trip. But then her face lit up and she said, "but we did see orca!"

Cool.

So it's that time of year when whales can be seen in the local bays. I'm hopeful that somehow I'll be able to manage a sighting, but unless they come further into the bay--which they sometimes do, surprisingly enough--so that I can see them from the restaurant, it might just remain on my wish list until a later date (perhaps down on the South Island).

Anyway, no wonder that lady didn't see any dolphins. They skedaddle out of the bay before having a chance to be on the menu.

Sailors may think it's a mermaid, but I know better. It's my next tuna sandwich.

This one was Photography magazine's 2007 Silver Medal winner for Best Picture of Something Aquatic Right Beneath The Surface That I Can See But You Can't--South Pacific category.

You should see the Gold Medal Winner. A Tongan. Brilliant work involving Mussels in 8 feet of cloudy water.

From this angle, I was half-tempted to stick a fire extinguisher in their mouths and shoot it.

But then one of them looked at me and smiled.

Dolphins. Are. Cool.

Now you can certainly see dolphins in the U.S.--Florida, for example, has plenty of them. But I don't get out on boats often, and I don't get to see them in the wild as they swim with the boat often. And I don't get to New Zealand often.

So. There.

More crappy pics

Amen, brother.

So, think curling on grass while inebriated. That's generally what lawn bowling is all about. This is the lone piece of artwork in my flat. The State Department called and promised to renounce my citizenship if I ever wore that much white. Basically, with my sunless complexion, I'd be transparent and thus a security risk.

On an unrelated note, it's "Movember" here in New Zealand. Men grow moustaches this month and get upper-lip hair sponsorship, with proceeds going to support men's health issues. As my flatmate says, "ball cancer." He really means prostate cancer, but he's usually drunk, so we won't quibble. And he's English. Anyway, my flatmate, who has a clean-shaven head, has a full-on 70's Ron Jeremy porn 'stache going on, mid-Movember. Pretty impressive. I should get a picture. I gleefully asked his parents during a recent phone call what it's like to have a son who puts on his resume, "pizza boy." I heard only an awkward silence and what I imagine a stroke sounds like. Evidently, they're pretty old. I was shaving the other day and left my 'stache intact for a brief mo-ment. Needless to say, I looked like a mo-ron. Mo likely, a mo-clown. A pedophiliac clown. "Awful" is not a strong enough adjective to describe my face with lip hair. I would have had elementary school minimum-distance restraining orders put out against me as soon as I left the house. Hitler looked better than I did. I called it the "Chernobyl" before consigning it to the drain.




Whoops, the one day I didn't make my bed. Shucks. Notice, if you will, the post-Modernist touch that I've created in my abode. It says to the discerning eye, "I'm busy, I've got places to go and people to see. I'm somebody." To others, "I'm lazy." Also notice the portable radiator that I've borrowed from the common room. New Zealand housing is notoriuosly cold and damp as few houses older than 5 or 6 years have any insulation in them. Welcome to the First World! It's colder inside the house than it is outside. Combine this with the four television channels that Kiwis receive, and it's no wonder they're all outside bonding with nature. It's either that or chronic bronchitis.

Christ Church in Russell is the burial ground for the seven British seamen from the H.M.S. Hazard who were killed in Russell in 1845 fighting a local Maori chief during the early colonization/"we're just here to help you get settled" days. The maori leader had cut down the British flagstaff atop a nearby hill on three separate occasions in defiance of the European presence here in the Bay of Islands. On the fourth occasion, and after a sneak attack from the chief's followers on the small British garrison here, a battle ensued, and six men from the Hazard were killed. The captain of the boat drowned and he too is buried on church grounds. The British retreated to the boat anchored in the bay, and then proceeded to shell the small town from offshore as the victorious Maoris looted the stores.

I like the poem that is etched into the young sailors' tombstone.

"The warlike of the Isles,

The men of field and wave!

Are not the rocks their funeral piles,

The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! Track the deep,

Free, free, the white sails spread!

Wave may not foam nor wild wind sweep,

Where rest not England's dead."

In another unrelated note, a 19 year old German drowned in the bay a few days ago after he tried to swim from a local beach to one of the small islands a few hundred meters offshore. Police divers found him the next day in about 8 feet of water. The bay looks pretty. It is pretty. Turqouise is pretty. But it's also a recipe for disaster, especially as the water temperature hovers around 60 and the strong tides push further out to sea. The moral of the story? As with women, the prettier it is on the outside, the more dangerous they are beneath the surface. The bay, like a pretty girl, is fickle. It is only because they can get away with it: there will always be other men and other swimmers. I have an entire philosophy on this, but not enough room to type it.

Long story short: always, always ask the locals.

The backyard "Garden" bar at zee Gables. It had rained for three days straight and the sail which acts as a source of shade when the sun is out instead acted as a reminder of pressure and gravity as the weight of the water caused its collapse. The lesson here: when you have a sail in your backyard, think angles. Zee Gables will overcome.

Atop Flagstaff Hill in Russell. Awesome views around the entire peninsula. These pictures won't do it justice. Maybe it's the photographer. Next time you're in Russell, climb the hill. There's a one-in-three chance you'll be run over by a local on the way up, but the reward will be that much more poignant. If you survive the climb up, you'll actually get a preview of what your soul will see as it ascends skyward after getting hit on the way back down.

The vegetation is luscious.

Incorporate that word into everyday speech and be the Belle of the Ball.

Why spend $4,000 or $5,000 a night for the view at the Eagle's Nest when you can hold this picture in your bosom as you sleep on my couch? Or depending on how you look, in my bed.

What's the funny part of the Flagstaff Hill story? Well, after 3 weeks, I finally made it to the top. Mind you, I live at the bottom of the hill. And look what greets me at the top. "Area closed: Flagpole upgrade." That'll be the name of my band. Either that or "Nuns in Public," or "Penguin Waddle," or something happy like that. I've got a bunch of possibilities, actually. When I finally access my right brain and acquire some artistic talent, I'll be ready to go.

Not to be outdone, the sundial atop Flagstaff Hill waits joyously as visitors ascend the hill and visit this site thinking it's the flagstaff part of Flagstaff Hill. Yet, it's just a random sundial, whose feelings are probably hurt because everybody usually goes to the flagstaff and ignores the precious sunset information on his iron frame. I'm not saying I thought this was the flagstaff part of the hill, but I did stand there for 15 minutes wondering how that resembled a flagstaff, only to be clued in when I was going back down the hill and passed the "Flagpole Upgrade" sign. This is a reminder that I have a postgraduate education. Seriously. I have the loans to prove it. Anyway, the next time you're in Russell, the flagstaff should be upgraded (to what, I don't know) and you probably won't suffer a precipitous loss of self-esteem when you confuse a sundial with a flagpole.

Kiwi History du Jour

So, what's the big deal about a Russell street sign, you ask? This dead-end leads you to
the Eagle's Nest. No, not Hitler's getaway. The world-famous 5-star "Heaven on Earth" luxury retreat that will set the discerning traveller back about $4000 a night. At the Eagle's Nest, they'll leave the light on for you. Then charge you for it.
www.luxuryretreats.com/villa-page/ind/108740.asp

































You know you want one of these signs in your neighborhhod.







Above: The inside of Christ Church. What's so special about Christ Church? Patience, young Skywalker.



It's a cold winter's night. You're by yourself, drinking a bottle of wine by candlelight, wrapped in a blanket because you can't afford Iranian oil. You're doing the only thing that will keep you sane: you're memorizing Trivial Pursuit cards. Question: Name the town where you can explore the only remaining building of the first Catholic mission in Western Oceania. You quickly disqualify the answer you had for Eastern and Central Oceania and blurt out..."Russell, New Zealand!" You win nothing but the respect of the ghost of Pompallier.


Quick history note for the disinterested: it's the late 1830's and Marist priests from Lyon, France arrive in the Bay of Islands to spread the good word, beat the Protestants in rugby, and hit it off with young Maori boys. Okay, the last two aren't true, but the Marists did show up across the bay in Paihia, where they found the heathens...I mean, our Protestant brethren already busy trying to convert the indigenous tribes in the area. So, Father Pompallier moved across to Russell to open up a printery that would eventually print 40,000 books over the next few years containing the prayers of the Catholic Church. The fair-minded Protestants labeled Russell "Hell Site," and named their little slice of paradise 4kms away "Heaven Site." Who knew heaven and hell were so close? From this beginning Russell evolves to become affilliated with the 19th-century nickname "hellhole of the Pacific." The self-confessed "Chauvinistic Yankee," John Brown Williams, would later say about Russell, "of all the holes I've ever visited, this is certainly the vilest." The lawlessness of the Maori and foreign sailors created a "sink of infamy and disgrace." Russell...meet Philadelphia.


More importantly, after Pompallier's arrival in Russell, the Protestants write the heretofore disinterested Queen of England telling her that the French Catholics were here. Not much time later, British warships sail into the bay and the Treaty of Waitangi is signed, which still today serves as the basis for relations between the government and the Maori people.


In hindsight, Pompallier gets an "A" for effort and was probably a shoo-in through the Pearly Gates. He fought the good fight. He beat the Jehovah's Witnesses here. In a related bit, a recent study came out that names New Zealand women as the World Champion in number of lovers for a lifetime. The world average was 7. New Zealand women on average have 20. I thought I would share this.


Thankfully, Pompallier can rest easy--his target audience weighed on average 300 pounds.


Anyway, there's a nice little tour of how Pompallier and a few fellow priests individually handmade the prayer books for the Maori as well as the labor-intensive process by which they made leather in the tannery portion of the house. The next time you're in Russell, check it out.






And there's the reason New Zealand became a part of the British Commonwealth. The Pompallier House. I think I have some mustard named after this guy.

Right: The balcony inside tiny Christ Church. If

you look closely, you can see the ghosts of its long-dead parishioners praying to a Catholic God.

Alex Trebek: "This is the oldest church in New Zealand."

You: "Christ Church, Russell, New Zealand."

Alex Trebek: "You're a beast."