Merry Christmas From Mordor!

Okay, I am not actually in Mordor, but I can see it from here. Pictured above, at great distance and thick cloud cover, are the mountains of Tongariro National Park where many of the Mordor scenes from Lord of the Rings were filmed. The three big mountains (actually active volcanoes) are Mt. Tongariro, Mt. Ruapehu, and Mt. Ngauruhoe which played the part of Mt. Doom. There is a world-renowned hiking trail through the area, which I will attempt in a few weeks. Even though it is a good distance away, it is nice to see a little snow at Christmastime.

But let me back up a bit...

The Stray Travel people screwed up and abandoned me in Gisborne for one extra night. There are far worse places in the world to be stranded, so it wasn’t a big deal. They even paid for me to get an intercity bus to Rotorua the next day. Along the way, we stopped at Huka Falls, a waterfall on the crystal clear Waikato River. It was 15 minutes of pure whitewater viewing pleasure before we headed off to Taupo.


For the first few days, there wasn’t much to see due to crappy weather. When it cleared up, the views proved to be spectacular. Taupo sits on the northern edge of Lake Taupo, which is a volcanic crater that was formed about 26,000 years ago during a massive eruption that supposedly was 100 times more powerful than Krakatoa. There was another eruption in 181 AD that caused crazy sunsets all over the world. Mt. Ruapehu last erupted in 1996, so there is a chance I can see some liquid hot magma.

I spent my first night at the Urban Retreat Backpackers. They stuck me in a tiny, windowless room right next to the big common area/TV room/bar. That kind of sucked, so I moved to the Go Global Backpackers the next day, where some cool folks I met in Raglan were staying. It is a decent enough place with cheap beds and interesting residents from all over (as seen below).


The cold, wet weather did not deter me from doing my first bungy jump! A few of us went to Taupo Bungy on my second day. If you get there before 11 AM, you get a cheap jump (NZ$79) and I always try to be thrifty with my Near Death Experience Fund. The location was gorgeous (no pun intended). The jumping platform juts out over the Waikato River from a 150-foot cliff. The technicians (or whatever you call them) adjust the bungy cable to the appropriate tautness for your weight and give you the option of being dunked in the river. It was already raining, so I went for the wet option. It is ridiculous how casually you entrust your life to the guy strapping the cable to your ankles. He did so with all the exuberance and enthusiasm of a DMV employee. He and his assistant urged me to the edge of the platform and told me to lean forward. I complied, and screamed “OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTT!” as I plummeted to the river below. I dipped to just below my waist before being snapped back up in the air for three or four more bounces. As I dangled upside down with my soaked shirt covering half my face, a raft appeared beneath me. The girls onboard extended a pole for me to grab, so that I could be lowered onto the raft and be transported back to dry land.

It wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be. This was mostly due to the bored, surly attitude of the bungy technician team. They put me through the process so matter-of-factly that I didn’t have time to consider (or reconsider) my actions. I got to see a video of my jump, but I was too cheap to buy the DVD or pictures, so you’ll all just have to take my word that I actually did it.

Just around the corner from the bungy are some thermal hot springs that feed into the river. A few people from the hostel and I got some beers and hopped in the water, which was hotter than a bath. I think the cold rain actually made the experience more interesting, with steam rising up from the water. Primordial, dude!

So, I like Taupo and got myself a job. I am currently employed as a bartender at the Plateau restaurant. They hired me on the spot with almost no questions asked. Everyone in this town knows everyone, and they like to help each other out, which is cool. My hostel is having a big Christmas barbecue, so I won’t be too lonely. I figure that I will try to find a flat around here and will stay around for a month or two to save up some cash. It seems like a good place to be, and the views are gorgeous.

This will be my first Christmas away from home, which is a bit strange. It means so much to me to get all of your comments and kind words on this blog!

I wish all of you the happiest of holidays!

Hail to the Chief!

It has been a comparatively quiet couple of weeks since my last entry. I opted to spend some extra time (and money) to explore the East Cape of the North Island. This is not part of Stray’s main circuit, so we only had a small van. The passengers were only myself, a carsick German girl, and a very jolly French-speaking Swiss girl who sounded exactly like Ana Gasteyer’s impression of Celine Dion. Our driver, Dave, picked us up in Rotorua and took us Eastward. The coastline was amazing – lush forested mountains next to the ocean. There were few signs of civilization. We would pass a few houses from time to time, but no real towns. The majority of the local population is Maori, and there is very little work to be had.

One thing I have noticed in New Zealand is how well people maintain their properties, particularly in poorer areas. When you drive across rural (and not so rural) parts of America, you see house after ramshackle house with rusting cars and other assorted junk rotting away on the front lawn. Around here, the houses may be small and simple, but they are mostly clean and well kept. I don’t know if they have stricter environmental laws or just better junk removal, but it nice to see. They may be poor, but they take care of what they have.

Our first stop was the village of Hick’s Bay. Driver Dave informed me that our hosts for the next two nights would give us a traditional Maori welcome and that since I was the only guy on the bus, that I would be our group’s chief. Not only would I have to present our group’s boarding money as a gift, but I also had to speak on the group’s behalf, since women are not allowed to speak during the ceremony. I was not expecting this.


Upon our arrival at our hostel, we all had to sit on one side of the porch while Joe, the owner, greeted us in Maori and then English while all of the hostel’s other guests (all female) sat behind him in silence. He told us about the area’s history, a bit about Maori culture, and what was expected of us as guests. It was then my chiefly duty to present our boarding money and speak a bit about where I was from and why I was visiting the East Cape. I don’t recall much of what I said, but I must have done something right, because Joe later invited me into his house for tea. He asked me more about why I was in New Zealand and about America in general. He said I did not seem like “most Americans.” I’m pretty sure that was a compliment, but I didn’t press him on it. As it turns out, his daughter is now in New York studying - no bullshit - film editing! How crazy that a girl of Maori and Scottish decent from one of New Zealand’s most rural areas is now in NYC studying the same thing as a Boston boy visiting her home on the other side of the world! Anyway, it was a nice chat with Joe.

As we finished our tea, Joe informed me that as chief I was also responsible for coordinating dinner - which the women would prepare. All I really had to do was tell one girl to do the salad, another to do the pasta, and another to work the barbecue. To my great surprise, all of them did what I said while I enjoyed some wine with the other men joining us. I kept wondering how my mother and sisters (and indeed, most American women) would have reacted to this scenario. The dinner turned out great (mostly due to my coaching, I thought), and Joe insisted that the ladies have first dibs on the food since they had worked so hard. They also had to clean up afterwards while I built a campfire on the beach. To paraphrase Mel Brooks, it’s good to be the chief.


Hick’s Bay was very beautiful and quiet. There were lots of cool trees and rocks. It was a great place to do some reading and take some pictures, but it got kinda boring after 36 hours. The girls at the hostel weren’t much fun so I was eager to move along, my status as chief notwithstanding.


The next morning, we headed off to the East Cape lighthouse, the most Easterly lighthouse in the world. It sits atop a big hill next to the Pacific and looks out over the inventively named East Island. We had terrific weather, so the view from the top was great. We then headed south along the coastal road. The landscape bore an amazing resemblance to parts of California. I could have sworn we were diving through Santa Barbara, Napa, or Marin County - rolling golden hills, vineyards, and patches of redwood trees filling up the little valleys. The ocean was a beautiful emerald green.


Our next stop was Tatapouri Beach, just north of Gisborne. The hostel we stayed at doubles as a headquarters for a scuba diving outfit. One of the guys working there took a bunch of us walking out to of the reef just offshore where we got to watch him feed stingrays. They were huge! About 3 feet in diameter. They were swimming all around our feet, and the guy told us to stand still, lest we disturb them and meet a Crocodile Hunter-esque fate.

The next day, I hopped off the bus in Gisborne to check out the area. The city’s two claims to fame are its geographical location (the first city in the world to see the sun) and its place in history (Captain Cook’s first landfall in New Zealand). Nowadays, it is mostly known for its surfing and Chardonnay.

The first couple of days were unseasonably cold, wet and windy. After spending two restless rainy days in the hostel, I went for a walk on the beach with a girl from England, a guy from Germany, and another guy from Canada. To our surprise, a photographer from the local paper hopped of the dunes and asked to take our picture as we ran giddily down the beach. The next afternoon, we found our picture on the front page of the Gisborne Herald at the local corner store. The ladies at the store actually asked us to autograph the paper!

Yes, Mum. I will send a copy home.


The weather cleared up on Monday, so I spent the last couple of days surfing. I heard on the news that a little boy was attacked by a shark on the very beach where I learned to surf in Raglan. Maybe it wasn’t so bad leaving there after all (I still wanna go back, though!). There are a few cool people at my current hostel and the town is halfway decent, but I am getting antsy to move on. Stray can’t pick me up until Friday, so I will spend the next couple days living cheaply and (hopefully) surfing. The next big stop will be Taupo, which lies on the shores of the New Zealand’s biggest lake (really a gigantic volcanic crater). I have heard that it is beautiful there, with lots of goofy adventure activities and mountain views. In all likelihood, I’ll have to get a job around there and stick around for a while.

I have no clue where I will be or what I will be doing for Christmas or New Years. A lot of backpackers seem to be headed for the big cities (Auckland, Wellington, and Christchurch), but it is reportedly very difficult to find accommodation. I’m making all of this up as I go along anyway, so I’ll figure something out.

Surfin' Safari

I have done enough crazy shit in the last two weeks to fill five blog entries, but since this is MY blog where I make the rules, you’ll just have to read one big fat entry and deal with it.
After leaving the Bay of Islands, I had one day back in Auckland for shopping and tying up loose ends before I took off on Stray’s New Zealand circuit. Warmer clothes needed to be purchased and excess baggage stored at the International Exchange Programme’s office. I was then off to the town of Hahei on the Coromandel Peninsula. The ride was spectacular, with crazy mountains covered with green, gnarly trees. I kept waiting for Juan Valdez to emerge from the forest with his trusty donkey in tow bearing coffee beans.
Upon arriving in the village of Hahei, most of our group went kayaking to the stunning Cathedral Cove. It was the most perfect little beach I have ever seen – soft white sand, walls of volcanic rock, wild trees clinging to the cliffs, crystal clear water, surreal rock formations and islands out in the bay, and a huge cavern than leads from one beach to another. Absolutely gorgeous.That night we had a Thanksgiving barbecue. I was one of only two Americans in the group, so I took it upon myself to tell the group about the Pilgrims and Wampanoags. Everyone seemed genuinely interested. I am guessing that there were about 25 of us sitting at picnic tables eating beef and sausage instead of turkey. Ironically, it was probably the closest thing I have ever experienced to the actual Thanksgiving – halfway across the world with people from at least five different countries. That night, I snuck down to the beach and saw more stars than I have ever seen with the naked eye. The next day, we took off for the west coast surfing town of Raglan. The landscape was straight out of “The Goonies” – rocky cliffs, dark sand and a raging ocean. Supposedly, Raglan has the longest left hand break in the world, and was featured in “The Endless Summer.” We stayed at the Karioi Lodge, by far the coolest hostel I have been to. It is a tiny set of buildings up in the rain forest, a good 15-minute drive out of town with a view of the Tasman Sea. They have hiking trails up through the forest, a ropes course, a flying fox (more on that later), a supercool lounge area, a sauna, and the offices of the surfing school.

About surfing…

SURFING. IS. AWESOME!!!!
I FUCKING LOVE IT! I should have done it a long time ago. Actually, I did try it once on Cape Cod five years ago and failed miserably. No more. Thanks to the good people at the Raglan Surfing School, I am now a Surfer Dude. I stood up and rode many a wave all the way back to shore. When I think of all the lame weekends I spent sitting on my ass in Southern California when I could have been surfing! Grrrrrr! At least I know now. I spent three extra days surfing in Raglan and did not want to leave. I asked the hostel if they needed any help, but they were all staffed up. Damn it! I am sure I’ll make it back up there, eventually.

So… back to the flying fox. A flying fox (or zipper line) is basically a very long cable suspended from one tree to another at a steep angle. From this cable hangs a little seat that goofy people like myself can sit or stand on to ride very fast through the trees. It is a lot of fun. Pretty much everyone at the lodge did it a few times, especially at night when you couldn’t see where you were going. It was rumored that some people have been known to do this whilst butt naked. No one was actually doing it, though, so I volunteered to strip down and swing through the trees like the naked Tarzan I always new myself to be, hoping to inspire others to do the same. About 15 people watched me drag my bare ass up the hill and ride the thing to the bottom au natural. A nice girl from England even snapped a photo, but it didn’t come out very well. Everyone got a big kick out of my little stunt, but no one elected to do the same. I mean, c’mon people! I exposed myself in the name of group camaraderie, and no one followed! It was pitch black and you could barely see anything anyway! Pussies.

Since then, I have earned a reputation as The Naked Flying Fox Guy. I have bumped into several people since then who recognize me from the incident, even if I don’t remember them. Just this morning, there was a very cute Dutch girl making breakfast at my current hostel who recognized me. Sure enough, she was one of the spectators that night.
Since I couldn’t stay in Raglan any longer, I headed off to Rotorua. Here in Rotorua, there are lots of geothermal pools, bubbling mud, and geyser-type thingies. The air smells funny. There are tons of activities around here – white water rafting, luging, Maori cultural shows, and Zorbing. Zorbing is hilarious. A zorb is a large plastic ball with a hollow center than can fit up to three people. “Zorbonauts” take a short ride up a hill, climb into the zorb, and roll down a grassy slope. Basically, you pay $35 to be put through a washing machine’s spin cycle for about 45 seconds. It is one of the goofiest things I have ever done, and was totally worth the money. Here’s a picture of me post-zorbing with Swedish Marcus from my Stray group. Rafting was fun, too, but the trip was only an hour or so long. There was a 7-meter waterfall and lots of “Jurassic Park”-style greenery. Still, it was not as cool as the New River in West Virginia. One thing this trip has inspired me to do is to explore more of America when I return.

All in all, New Zealand has been awesome thus far. I only have two big complaints.

#1 – Virtually all coffee here is made from espresso. Granted, this makes it taste better than your typical American coffee, but you cannot just go into a café and order a regular cup ‘o Joe. Black coffee is called either a “Short Black” or a “Long Black,” depending on how much water they use. If you want milk or cream, you must order a “Flat White,” which is actually more like a latte or cappuccino. All I want is a regular coffee with cream and ½ a sugar, people! Is that so hard?
#2 – The faucets here totally suck, at least in the hostels. 90% of the sinks I have encountered have old-timey separate spigots for hot and cold water, forcing me to mix water in the basin to my desired temperature. This makes the rinsing of contact lenses a challenge, along with shaving and the washing of hands, face and feet. I know some of you are going to knock me for washing my feet in the sink. Trust me when I tell you that it must be done. When you spend 75% of your time in Teva sandals and no socks, your feet can get downright nasty, and I don’t want to alienate my fellow travelers with stinkiness. If it is only your feet that are dirty, taking a shower is just wasteful. Sink washing is clearly the best option. It just sucks that I have to plug up the sink, fill it with hot & cold water, add soap, contort myself so that I can stand on one foot while washing the other, switch those around, drain the sink, fill it with clear water, rinse, dry, and then drain the sink yet again to wash my hands and begin the process all over again.

Anyway, I must soon decide whether I should head south to Taupo (big mountains by a huge lake, bungee jumping, skydiving) & Tongariro National Park (crazy volcanic landscape where they filmed the Mordor scenes in “Lord of the Rings”), or pay an extra fee to explore the East Cape (gorgeous coastline featured in “Whale Rider” and more surfing!) for a few days. Such difficult decisions. Woe to me…

I keep forgetting that I will be here for an entire year and that there is really no need to rush. A great but tough thing is when you meet terrific people on your bus who are on a different timetable. They are your best friends for a day or two, and then they get bussed away, often never to be seen again. Sometimes you bump into them down the road, but by then you’ve made all new friends and lines get blurred. With all the language barriers, cultural differences, close living quarters, partying, rapid-fire friendships and romances, I am amazed how well everyone gets along. I haven’t seen a single serious argument or even the most minor of scuffles. Everyone just wants to have a good time (knock on wood).

Oh yeah… I gonna hafta get… ya know… a job… soon. I will definitely need to work for a while before I head off to the South Island. I have heard that things are more expensive down there, but are even more spectacular. We shall see…

Escape From Auckland

My money transfer came through, so I have hit the northern road. I have signed up with Stray Travel to take me around New Zealand. They are one of three or four touring companies that compete for the money of backpackers such as myself. Stray promoted themselves as being the travel company for people who want to have more of an adventurous, mind-broadening trip (translation: more hiking & rafting, less rich drunken European teenagers). Since I am here for a year, I signed up for their most generous package. It allows me to travel all over the country as many times as I want. I even get to hop off and hop on at any point, too. Pretty sweet. Their drivers all seem like cool people. There are still plenty of drunken Europeans, but they’re a little older and have less money than those whippersnappers on the Kiwi Experience busses.

As a bonus for buying their most expensive package, Stray has sent me on a sort of free trip to the Bay of Islands, where I have been since Thursday. It is pretty nice up here. I am staying at the Pipi Patch Lodge in the town of Paihia. Paihia is one of the first stops for Auckland escapees, so I have bumped into a lot of the same folks I saw in the city. There is a little road here with about five hostels on it, and the Pipi Patch is clearly the one where backpackers come to party. These people have amazing stamina. I mean, I love to knock a few back and jump around like the goofball that I am… but every night? I don’t know how their brain cells or wallets survive.

On Friday, my little group took a trip up to Cape Reinga at the northernmost tip of New Zealand. Along the way we stopped to see a Kauri forest. Kauris are great big trees that Europeans loved to cut down and turn into masts for their ships. I guess they were pretty big. Not Redwood or Sequoia big, though. The Good Old US of A still has the biggest damn trees in the world and no amount of Kiwi eco-progressive conservation effort is gonna change that!

We then drove on the flat sands of Ninety Mile Beach. It is really only sixty-four miles long, but whatever. Our supercool van drove up a river (!) where we encountered giant sand dunes. We climbed to the top and slid all the way down on boogie boards. I had never inhaled sand before. If you feel the need to climb to the top of a giant dune and slide down it, wait for a calm day.

Next was the road to the tip of Cape Reinga. It was cloudy, but still spectacular. From the lighthouse you can watch the Pacific Ocean colliding with the Tasman Sea. The water was a shade of blue I have never seen before. There were Portuguese Men-of-war all over the beach, and I almost stepped on several of them.

Surreal moment of the week: Saturday night at the Pipi Patch, they had a Love Boat theme party. Lots of people came dressed up as various characters from the show. I was tempted to mention that my first paid job in the movie business had me working with none other than Ship’s Surgeon Bernie Koppel, but I didn’t want to be too boastful. Now for the really weird part. To get the party started right, a bunch of guys, mostly gigantic Maori dudes, performed a Haka. A Haka is a Maori war chant and dance. They are loud, scary, and awesome and I was psyched to see my first one in person. It WAS awesome, but picture THIS being performed by guys dressed up like Isaac and Captain Stubing. Very weird.

Yesterday, a bunch of people from my Stray group went sailing on a great big yacht. I hadn’t been sailing for years, and it was great. We cruised around a bunch of islands and got to hop off on one of them. Lots of cool trees, jagged rocks and tidal pools. I was tempted to go swimming, but it is still a bit cold around here. There was a nice breeze, so we moved along at a good clip. Fun!

I am getting a bit sick of hearing criticisms about America. A few folks (mostly Europeans) feel the need to tell me how much they don’t like America’s policies and culture. Usually these are people who have never actually been to America and have little to no knowledge of how the government works. In light of the recent elections, I try to explain a bit about congress and what Democrats and Republicans (and others) stand for, but it does little good. To them, George W. Bush is America and vice versa.

I wish I could get it through to them that America is a huge, diverse and amazingly beautiful country, that we have more natural splendor than you could possibly digest in a lifetime, that despite the actions of certain politicians we still have hundreds of millions of intelligent and reasonable people, that we’ve exported technology, medicine, culture, music and freedom of speech all around the world and if people really didn’t want it, they wouldn’t buy it. Some people don’t want to hear that though, and no amount of politeness or rational explanation on my part will change their minds. I wish I had the balls to ask these cultural critics to name one country that has a perfect track record and no skeletons in its closet, but I don’t want to be rude. Kill ‘em with kindness, I say.

Most of the travelers who actually HAVE made it to the states have lots of good things to say. They love our cities, our landscapes, our people, our movies, and especially our music. I hope all those critics will eventually jump across the pond and see what they are missing. Until then, I’ll just try to hang out with the cool people from all nations who are here to see THIS amazing country and leave preconceived notions behind.


Oh yeah, here's me with a Kiwi bird. Happy, Comerford?

First Photos

Here are 10 pics of my first days in Auckland. The nature-y ones were taken on Rangitoto Island, a dormant volcano in Auckland Harbour. These photos do no justice to the view from the summit. It was amazing.

Here I am, quite sweaty, at the top of the volcano on Rangitoto Island. Behind me is Auckland.

Your typical hostel room.

Lame ass Queen Street. Note the Dunkin Donuts.

The Auckland Sky Tower. Yes, that is a person sliding down two wires.

Amazing view from Rangitoto Summit #1.

Amazing view from Rangitoto Summit #2.

Amazing view from Rangitoto Summit #3.

Volcano and lava rocks.

Cool rocks!

NZ1 - New Zealand's "Big Boat" challenger to the 1988 America's Cup. Friggin' huge!

The best-named restaurant in the world.

Roam If You Want To

Kia ora! Welcome to the first Moranadu entry from the Southern Hemisphere. I have been in New Zealand for six days now. It feels like much longer.

The flights weren’t nearly as bad as I had feared. I flew from Boston to Washington/Dulles to LAX to Auckland. Apparently, the whole of the United States and the most of the South Pacific decided to be cloudy just to make the views from my window as boring as possible. The only cool things I saw in the USA were LA at night (been there, seen that) and Catalina Island lit up by moonlight. I managed to sleep most of the way from LA to Auckland. Tylenol PM, how do I love thee? The sun came up just as we passed the International Date Line. The first land I spotted was a bunch of huge rocks, followed by rolling green hills and valleys filled with fog. Very pretty.

I made it through customs with little fuss, and it was on to Auckland. Ah, Auckland! Unremarkable Auckland! Actually, Queen Street! Unremarkable Queen Street! Queen Street is the main drag of Auckland that rolls quite steeply down a large hill to the harbor. It could be the main drag of any large western city. American businesses are everywhere – even Dunkin Donuts! How is it that New England’s great institution of fried, sugary pastries and addictive coffee found a market in the most isolated nation on Earth yet was nowhere to be found in Los Angeles? The Kiwi accents were the only indicators that I had left North America. Queen Street sucks.

I decided to caffeinate myself through my first day, thus making jet lag My Bitch. Soon I discovered that with an 18-hour time difference, jet lag is no one’s Bitch - least of all mine. Delirium set in around 11AM during my orientation at the International Exchange Program’s headquarters. They were giving us the rundown on New Zealand’s varied regions and job opportunities when speech became slurry and hands unsteady. I went through three copies of a bank account application before I spelled my name correctly. Still, I fought off sleep through the afternoon and collapsed at around 9PM.

Hostelling is a new experience for me. The one I am currently staying at is basically a 7-floor dormitory populated by transients ranging in age from 18 to 75 from all corners of the globe, but mostly Germany. My room has four beds, and people are constantly coming in and out. So far, I have shared the room with a couple of Americans, a Brit, a Canadian, a German, and a very smelly 40-something Australian bloke who I call Stinky Dundee. Great Christ, does that man smell bad! I have noticed that the older hostel dwellers have a more difficult time masking their Backpacker Stench than do the younger ones. There is a room down the hall from me where the BO is so bad that it actually creeps out from behind a closed door. Gross. There are lots of cute girls running around, but also a lot of not-so-cute girls with facial piercings and blond dreadlocks. The hostel has showers on every floor, ladies. Take heed.

On Tuesday, I took a free tour of the city courtesy of Stray Travel. It was led by a guy named Nate who is undoubtedly the greatest tour guide in the world. A half Welsh/half Maori, he showed us Auckland’s hot spots. There was hardly a sentence that didn’t include shit, fuck or an insult directed towards Australians (“The Convicts”). My favorite quote was his description of New Zealand’s winemaking industry: “A hundred years ago a bunch of dairy farmers got sick of milking cows and said ‘Fuck it, let’s make wine.’” He advised us to run over any possums we might encounter on the roads, as they are unwanted Australian pests that are destroying the local ecosystem. We saw some of the residential areas which could have been plucked right out of San Francisco or Los Angeles – small single story houses set about a foot apart from each other with little to no backyard. Then we saw the harbor, which is pretty amazing. I have never seen so many sailboats. Supposedly, dolphins and whales swim through the harbor all the time. I didn’t spot any.

Another stop was the Sky Tower, which is New Zealand’s answer to Toronto’s CN Tower and Seattle’s Space Needle, meaning that it is a very tall building whose height serves no practical purpose. This is New Zealand, however, and tall things must be jumped from. Three people from the tour took the elevator to the top and rode a vertical zip line down the entire length of the building. Take THAT, Toronto!

The bus then took us up to a gorgeous hill overlooking the harbor and surrounding areas. To our left was the Auckland skyline. To our right, distant hills and a giant bay filled with sails. Behind us, a sacred Maori meetinghouse. Before us, a dormant volcano. It was here that Nate made the sales pitch for his tour company, detailing all the amazing activities his company could provide us – swimming with dolphins, rafting on whitewater and in caves, thermal hot springs, skydiving, skiing, surfing, scuba diving, and many, many more things that I can scarcely describe for a relatively good price. SOLD!

After that, we headed over to the Auckland Harbour Bridge. The crew there harnessed us to a guardrail as we climbed up the catwalk under the bridge to the bungy jumping pod. I am guessing that we were 150 to 200 feet over the water, and a little Indonesian man won a free jump. His wife, in full Muslim headgear, photographed the whole thing. It was hilarious and awesome. Nate saw the big goofy smile on my face and surely knew that he would soon be enjoying a healthy commission from the deluxe travel pass I would be purchasing. He invited me and a few other prospective buyers out for a pint.

Which brings us to The Fat Camel. The Fat Camel is a hostel/bar near the waterfront where the Auckland backpacking crowd congregates. It is the closest thing I have ever seen in real life to the cantina in Star Wars. There people from America, Canada, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Holland, Ireland, England, Scotland, Germany (MANY from Germany), Australia, Fiji, Indonesia, Japan, Belgium, and of course New Zealand – both White & Maori. Several people asked me what I thought of Dubya. They all hate him, and were relieved when I told them that I didn’t vote for him either time. There was music, games of pool, cheap beer, cheaper food prepared by residents of the hostel, and maybe a dozen languages being spoken. People were negotiating road trips and house shares. Everyone was friendly and easy to talk to. It fucking rocked! Sadly, jet lag kicked in around 10PM, and I headed back to my lame ass hostel at the top of the hill… and Stinky Dundee.

The last few days have been less eventful. Bizarre rain and wind storms blow in and out with amazing speed and ferocity. There are still a couple of parks and museums I’d like to see in Auckland, but I really want to hit the road and I can’t do that until I clear up some legal details and get my stupid money transfer from home (Bank of America can bite my ass). I found a nice, cheap public pool and discovered how out of shape I am after ten feeble laps. Gotta get leaner & meaner. I have been unable to find a place to go online with my own computer. All the internet cafes have PCs and charge too much. No free wireless anywhere. Boo!

Elsewhere in the world the Democrats have taken control of Congress, Rummy resigned, Deval Patrick is Governor of Massachusetts, Saddam’s gonna hang, and Jack Palance is dead. Crazy. More to come.

Leaves are falling all around... time I was on my way

I have been a very bad blogger, but I have a good excuse. On November 4th, I will be setting sail… or boarding a plane… or actually two planes… well, not two planes simultaneously (that would be impossible)… but one plane and then another. The first plane will take me to San Francisco, and the second plane will take me to Auckland, New Zealand. The first flight will be six hours long, and the second flight will be thirteen. My ETA for Auckland is 5:15 AM local time on Monday, November 6th which will feel like 11:15 AM Sunday, November 5th to me, or sometime thereabouts ‘cause the daylight savings time switch will screw me up even more. The toilets will be running backwards, the moon will be upside down, and miles will be called kilometers. I will be leaving the glorious New England autumn behind for the Southern Hemisphere’s early summer.

Why am I subjecting myself to such confusion? I’ll tell you!

(Cue the Alan Menken-style “I Want…” song here)

I have always wanted to study and/or work abroad. My sister Jessi got to spend several months in Germany during her college years, and my sister Gretchen got to study ooids in the Bahamas. Back in my NCSA days, I was accepted to a semester at sea that would have taken me to ten different countries on four continents. I backed out at the last minute since none of my lame-ass film school credits were transferable and there was no way I was going to spend another year in Winston-Salem. Dayna went on the trip. She ate octopus, went on a Safari, and learned how best to use one’s Dong (ask her what that means). Jealousy will drive you mad.

I have been a geography geek even longer than I’ve been a movie geek (1990 Geography Bee Champion of Stapleton Elementary School – look it up!), and that country has more varied landscapes acre for acre than pretty much any other country on Earth. I have an open ended ticket and a yearlong work visa that allows me to take any kind of job I can get. Pretty much every Kiwi I have met has been mellow, funny and welcoming. The whole country seems to be designed with travelers in mind (hostels everywhere). Also, they are making some awesome movies there.

Now, I know some of you are going to make fun of me here. Yes, I saw each of the “Lord of the Rings” movies four times on the big screen (some thirty-eight hours of movie viewing). It is true that I own all three extended editions of the movies on DVD. And the original releases. And the books. And the soundtrack CDs. Yes, I was once mistaken for Sean Astin on a movie set (just to clarify, they asked if I was Rudy, not Sam). Some of you will accuse me of being a dork who wants to go live with the Hobbits. That is simply not the case. What I really want to do is go to the other side of the fucking world while I am still young and free enough to enjoy the experience to its fullest. Hobbits don’t go bungee jumping, jet boating, surfing, or scuba diving. They don’t hook up with sexy Norwegian babes in their hostel’s hot tub. I emphatically deny having any intention to go live with the Hobbits. Hobbits don’t exist. And if they did, I’d rather live the Elves anyway.

The last several weeks have been spent readying myself for the trip – renewing my passport, giving notice at work, getting letters of recommendation, etc. In spite of our love of travel and fresh air, we Morans are not to the wilderness born. We like roofs and beds. Hostel hopping will be a new experience for me. Since I have never lived out of a backpack before, I made a trip to the LL Bean store to get a bunch of travel crap. In my naïveté, I somehow let the creepy sales guy convince me that I needed to spend $39.50 on a headlamp. He assured me that a traditional flashlight would be entirely too cumbersome, and that I would be much better off having a blinding beam emanating from my forehead. If I am to succeed in a foreign land, I need to be less trusting of strangers.

I still have to get rid of my car and see “The Departed” before I go. More updates will come.

Burn, Hollywood, Burn

Much like the Red Sox, Hollywood is shitting the bed. Here’s the proof:

- Mel Gibson, Robin Williams, and the dude from that band Keane that I don’t listen to are all in rehab. Apparently, Mel doesn’t like Jews very much, either. Shocker.

- Haley Joel Osment has officially entered Act II in the Life of the Hollywood Child Star. Let’s all hope Act III is more Drew Barrymore than Danny Bonaduce.

- Tom Cruise has been dumped by Paramount Pictures and supposedly has a mutant baby somewhere. I don’t care.

- Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston might be engaged. I cannot fully express how much I don’t care about this. Why do people give a shit about this?

- Kate Hudson realized that even though we’ve never met - and I haven’t seen any of the crappy movies she’s made since “Almost Famous” - that she and I were meant to be together and dumped Chris Robinson. Unlike Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston, this is actually important. It really is best for everyone. Her movies and his music were way better before they met. Rumor has it that Kate and Owen Wilson were messing around. Purely transitional hijinks, I say. Two people that blond can’t mate. I think the universe would implode. Call whenever, Katie Darlin’. It’s our time.

- Speaking of blonds, retarded people everywhere are freaking out that Daniel Craig, the new James Bond, has blond hair. What they should be freaking out about is the fact that unlike every Bond movie since “Goldeneye,” “Casino Royale” looks like it might actually be good. Idiots.

- The new “Pirates of the Caribbean” movie is still making gargantuan amounts of money. I’m pretty sure that it also set a new record for the amount of tentacles featured in a movie. Seriously, I don’t think there’s a single shot in the whole flick without a tentacle in it. Jerry Bruckheimer used to pack his movies full of insanely good-looking people, cool cars, and Kenny Loggins songs. No more. Bruckheimer has entered his Tentacle Period.

- Every woman in America has seen, and loved, “The Devil Wears Prada.” Don’t care. Won’t see it.

- Steven Soderbergh says that “Ocean’s Thirteen” will be the final chapter in the Ocean’s Trilogy. God is crying.

- Bruno Kirby is dead. I am truly kind of bummed about this. He was a good actor.

- “Lady in the Water” tanked (ha ha ha) and there’s a whole book detailing how arrogant and delusional M. Night Shyamalan is.

- Worst of all, “Rocky Balboa” opens in December. Sylvester Stallone writes, directs, and stars in this fucking movie. In the trailer, we learn that a computer simulation estimates that, in his prime, Rocky could beat the current number one boxer. Guess what happens next! The voiceover calls this movie “The Greatest Underdog Story of Our Time.” No, Sly. It is not. The first Rocky movie came out THIRTY GODDAMN YEARS AGO!!! Gerald Ford was president! 8 Track tapes were the hot technology! Hip Hop didn’t exist! Nor did I! THAT IS NOT “OUR TIME!!!” I truly hope that Harrison Ford is watching the outcome of this movie closely. Why? Because for years now, we’ve heard that a new “Indiana Jones” movie might get made. And ya know what? I don’t want it to happen. I don’t want it to happen because I love the “Indiana Jones” movies. They are three of the best damn movies ever made, and I don’t want a big steaming pile of shit movie to ruin my affection for them (Ahem, paging executive producer and co-creator George Lucas!). Harrison Ford is sixty-four years old. Most of his movies lately have been crap, but I feel confident that he, unlike Sly, could make an awesome comeback movie without milking a quarter-century-old franchise. I want my Indy to be kickass and cool – not old, tired and grumpy. And I just want Rocky to be gone.

Hollywood is in the crapper. Here’s how to fix it:

- No sequels for at least 10 years.

- No TV adaptations.

- No more CGI animated comedies about funny animals.

- Six figure salary cap for all actors, directors and producers. You get rich off residuals.

- Sylvester Stallone, Tom Cruise, Kevin Costner, John Travolta, Vin Diesel, and Mel Gibson all need to be shipped off to a private island where they can’t annoy anyone anymore.

- Laws against paparazzi & celebrity magazines. They ruin everything.

- New movie stars. The sooner, the better.

- More tentacles.

- Put me in charge.

Shameless Self-Promotion

Hey, kids. I encourage all of you to peruse Troy's Bucket, a veritable treasure trove of pop culture musings for which I have written my first entry.

Blog on, my brothers. Blog on.

Insert Clever Editing-Related Title

It’s been a while…

When I haven’t been working, I’ve been visiting my niece & nephew. They’re cute, I don’t have to clean up their poop, and they’re conveniently located near the beach. I am way behind on my movie going and renting. Superman, X-Men, Pirates of the Caribbean, Cars, and Nacho Libre all remain unseen.

I did finally get around to renting City of God. It’s the story of kids growing up in street gangs near Rio de Janeiro, and is pretty amazingly shot and edited. A couple of years ago, I went to an editing seminar at the Egyptian Theater in Hollywood. All five of the editors nominated for an Oscar that year were there to show off a scene from their movies and discuss The Craft of Editing. It was a fascinating and entertaining program, which surprised me because I think discussing The Craft of Editing is pretty boring and aimless. Unless you have seen every frame of footage shot for a movie, you really have no idea how well a movie is cut, but anyway… City of God’s editor, Daniel Rezende was there, along with William Goldenberg for Seabiscuit, Lee Smith for Master and Commander, Jamie Selkirk for The Return of the King and His Editorial Majesty Walter Murch for Cold Mountain.

The place was packed. There were the usual nerdy discussions about Avid vs. Final Cut Pro and the digital revolution. Everyone knew that Jamie Selkirk was going to win the Oscar, so there wasn’t any debate about awards. I’d wager that half of those in attendance were film students who had just read “In the Blink of an Eye” by Walter Murch and wanted to see their new messiah in person. For those of you who don’t know, Mr. Murch cut picture and sound for a few great movies – most of which came out a couple of decades ago – and wrote the aforementioned book which every editing student at every film school is forced to read. Mr. Murch is a talented and articulate guy, and was smart enough to put his theories about editing down on paper to be devoured by movie geeks everywhere. It’s a good book, and is really the only book on the subject. Thusly, he is revered like a god in the post-production world. At the seminar, he was clearly relishing his professorial status, delighting in the spotlight. Then something interesting happened…

Enter Rezende.

Daniel Rezende looked about sixteen years old. He spoke softly with a thick Brazilian accent and was visibly intimidated by his surroundings and fellow nominees. He looked totally out of place. Then they showed the opening sequence of City of God. It was astounding. It is an amazingly constructed scene of gang members chasing a chicken through Rio’s slums. There are shots you’ve never seen before cut together with stunning energy and originality. It was the most exiting piece of action movie editing anyone in the room had seen in years. When the clip was over there was thunderous applause. Rezende was flooded with praise and questions. He did very well considering his limited English, but he was a bit stunned by the adulation. The film students had a new hero - one only a few years older than themselves. Walter Murch may have packed the house, but Daniel Rezende emerged as the star.

I had some sympathy for the other editors on stage. They had all done some terrific work. Jamie Selkirk showed the Shelob scene from Return of the King, was unpretentious and somewhat dismissive of all the film theory talk. You got the sense that he’d rather be off cutting King Kong than yapping it up in Hollywood. Lee Smith was funny and seemed like he’d be a good guy to work for. William Goldenberg gave off an I’m-just-happy-to-be-here vibe. It was like that scene in Amadeus where Mozart takes Salieri’s ho-hum march of welcome, plays around with it on the harpsichord and turns it into a vastly more entertaining piece. Rezende didn’t have Mozart’s arrogance or delight in his own talents, but you got the feeling that the older editors went home thinking “Who is this little punk and how did he get so good?”

Anyway, it was one of my more interesting days in L.A.

On a completely unrelated note, I encourage all of you to watch It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia on FX. Imagine an episode of Seinfeld as directed by Kevin Smith and you’ll get an idea of the show’s tone. It’s hilarious and you all should watch it. It's on right after Rescue Me, which you should also be watching.

That is all.

Eye of the Tiger

I have a nephew! My sister gave birth to the first male in my immediate family since the late 1970s. Not that I wouldn’t have been thrilled with the arrival of another beautiful, healthy niece… but c’mon! My dad and I have been outnumbered for more than a quarter century. At last, Devlin Moran Towers has arrived to balance out the Estrogen Extravaganza of the last three decades! We shall eat bacon double cheeseburgers! Leave the toilet seat up! Scratch ourselves with impunity! Gold Bond Medicated Powder will be proudly displayed next to the soap dish! ROOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAARRRRR!!! Belch! Fart!

All this reminds me how female-dominated my house was as a child. Not that my two awesome big sisters were Super Girly Girls. They weren’t. But there were plenty of things that typified 1980s American boyhood that just didn’t make their way into our house, and if they did, they weren’t welcomed with much enthusiasm. To this day, I have never seen a Rocky or Rambo movie in its entirety. They were forbidden in my house for being too violent. My room overflowed with Star Wars and Transformer action figures, but I don’t recall owning any G.I. Joe paraphernalia – too militaristic. It’s okay if robots blow each other up, but not people.

The same philosophy carried over into sports. Consider my experience with hockey. I know a lot of people reading this grew up in the South or California, where no one gives a crap about hockey. And what is hockey, really? Hockey is a game in which two teams of guys don heavy padding, strap on shoes with knives on the bottom, slide around on a surface as hard as cement, and use wooden sticks to knock a puck into a net. Slamming into your fellow players is mandatory. Fighting is not only acceptable, but encouraged. And it’s all done in the freezing cold. Ballsy.

In Massachusetts, hockey is a pretty big deal. My neighborhood was no exception. There was a pond in my backyard that froze over in the winter, and all the local kids went there to play. Of course, I wanted to be one of the cool kids, so I wanted to play, too. Problem: I was a small kid with bad eyesight who was taught that it wasn’t nice to slam into people. My best friend, Justin, didn’t have those difficulties. He was a little scrawny, but it didn’t matter. He had boundless energy and loved everything about hockey, especially the brutality. His house was the antithesis of mine. He had a brother and no sisters. His mom was a housewife and his dad was a firefighter and Vietnam vet. The three dominating odors of their house were sweat, smoke, and aerosol deodorant. It wasn’t long before I followed Justin to the local Pee Wee team.

Somewhere in my house, there are pictures of me on the way to my first practice. My mother, who grew up without any brothers who might have taught her better about the humiliations that boys go through, dressed me as she saw fit. In addition to the baffling pads and helmet, she made me put on three sweaters, two pairs of snow pants, a winter jacket, hand-knit mittens, and worst of all, double-bladed skates (hockey’s equivalent of the Short Bus). I might as well have worn a shirt emblazoned with the word “LOSER” writ in neon. The coaches must have thought my parents were either crazy or retarded.

My hockey career didn’t last. I could skate but couldn’t stop without crashing into the boards. I have a hunch that my parents were secretly happy about it. Mom probably thought that I would get horribly injured or grow up to be a toothless thug. Dad probably figured out that hockey is one of the most expensive sports one can participate in, and waited patiently for my interest to wane. It did.

I tried other sports - although Mom made it clear that boxing and football were barbaric and out of the question. I was too short for basketball and soccer was for Freedom Haters. My most vivid memory of Little League baseball was making a diving catch in left field on a 100° day when my ungloved hand landed in a pile of dog shit. I was pretty good at gymnastics. The rings, high bar, and vault were lots of fun. But who, for the love of all that is Holy, invented the pommel horse? Who sat down and designed a big log with wooden handles on top of it upon which a guy is supposed to support himself with his hands whilst swinging his legs around wildly, praying to God that he doesn’t slip and destroy his genitals? Anyway, I could never land a handspring, so I quit gymnastics, too.

I settled on swimming. My dad and his brothers were swimmers, so it was in the blood. And my mom was no doubt pleased that the worst injury I would suffer (short of drowning) would be a groin pull. Swim meets were fun, but practices were incredibly monotonous. My best event was breaststroke (huh-huh, huh-huh), and I probably would have been a captain if I didn’t quit my junior year out of sheer boredom. Doing shows, singing stupid songs, and obsessing about movies were much easier - and there were more chicks around.

Anyway, being a boy is tough. I hope my nephew has an easier time of it than I did. Over the last few decades, America has been so focused on redefining what girls should and should not be taught that boys have been left in the dark in a lot of ways. I hope that changes, and I hope that I can help my nephew out when he needs it. He already has two great parents, a fantastic big sister, and gets to grow up on Cape Cod, so he’s off to a good start. Someone has to teach him to belch the alphabet, however. I think I can do that.

Billion Dollar Babies

I have been neglecting my blog lately. Life has been full. Golf season is officially on at the club, and those dudes love to drink. Also, my sister is about to give birth to her second child. I wasn't around for the birth of her first, so this should be interesting. Hopefully, the new kid will be as cool as his or her older sister, pictured above with Alice Cooper when he made an appearance at my sister's radio station.

With the little time I have had for myself, I've seen a few movies. "The DaVinci Code" was pretty good, although I think it completely wasted Tom Hanks. Seriously, I don't think he's ever played a less interesting character. The best thing about the movie was Ian McKellen, who could read a phone book and make it sound intriguing. I only read the first hundred pages of the book, but I correctly guessed who Audrey Tautou's character really was about 1/3 of the way in. Still, it was entertaining in a hokey way. I think Opie missed a golden comedic opportunity when Tom & Audrey pulled up to the intercom at McKellen's chateau. Gandalf asks them three questions before he lets them pass. They really should have referenced the Bridge of Death scene from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" here:

MAGNETO: What is your name?

FORREST GUMP: Robert Langdon, Professor of Symbology at Harvard University.

MAGNETO: What is your quest?

FORREST GUMP: To seek the Holy Grail.

MAGNETO: What is the capital of Assyria?

FORREST GUMP: I don't know that!

(FORREST AND AMELIE ARE FLUNG INTO THE GORGE OF ETERNAL PERIL)

I also caught "Art School Confidential." It started out really well. I recognized many of the characters from my days at NCSA. If it had just been a quirky ensemble comedy, it could have been great. Sadly, it all goes to Hell. The movie turns nihilistic and hugely depressing, and I just wanted it to end.

The only other summer flick I'm really looking forward to is "Nacho Libre." If that turns out to be crap, well... that would just suck.

Thunder From Down Under

Last night I had a dream that Naomi Watts was my girlfriend. The dream was very PG-13, but it was very nice.

Oh, The Humanities!

I took a lot of crap courses during my senior year of high school. During the previous year, I did the hard-core academic stuff that would look good on my college applications (two math classes for fuck’s sake!). Knowing full well that my destiny lay in the world of filmmaking, a field in which academic achievement isn’t nearly as valued as is the ability to spin quality-sounding bullshit, I chose the appropriate courses to further my aspirations. Instead of Calculus, I took Problem Solving (a full semester of impractical brain teasers). In place of Honors Biology, I opted for Oceanography (guaranteed monthly field trips!) and Anatomy (when I actually showed up, we spent the entire time eviscerating fetal pigs and cheating on tests). But there was one class that truly stood ahead of the pack – a class that has stuck in my mind, shaped my life in innumerable ways, and has come back to haunt me. That class was Humanities with Miss Soave.

As defined by my computer’s dictionary, Humanities is the liberal arts as subjects of study, as opposed to the sciences. That’s a pretty broad definition. The class itself could have been called An Introduction to Beatnikery or Blue State Attitudes and Aesthetics 101. We studied Jazz, wrote “music-inspired” essays, analyzed Robert Mapplethorpe’s tamer photographs, watched clips from “The Breakfast Club,” and learned to Samba with our illegal Brazilian classmates. We also went on two field trips that I’m pretty sure put us on NSA watch lists for future communists and NEA contributors - one was to an exhibit of Herb Ritts’ Uber-gay portraits of naked dudes holding tires, and the other was an all-day visit to Harvard Square in all of its druggy, intellectual splendor.

Miss Soave was sexy in a nerdy/hippyish way - an attractive, female version of Mr. Van Driessen from “Beavis and Butthead.” I am guessing that she was only about 28 at the time. She made great pains to be the cool young teacher. On our first day, she let us know that we’d all have “a really rockin’ year” and that she didn’t want to hear any “dissing of anyone in this classroom.” Her grading system was awesome. I could have vomited on a piece of canvas, explained that it was a metaphor for fascist oppression, and gotten an A for it. Dayna somehow got a score of 120 on a paper she wrote contrasting the book and movie versions of John Grisham’s “A Time To Kill.” Seriously, 120 points! I didn’t know that grades like that even existed.

Near the end of the school year, Miss Soave had us write a letter to ourselves in ten years. In it, we were supposed to write our dreams and aspirations for where we would be in a decade. She assured us that she would mail them out to us at the appropriate time. I received mine in the mail a few days ago. She mailed these letters out a year early, perhaps so that her former students could take that extra year to accomplish any unrealized adolescent dreams. Here is the abridged version of my letter:

May 13, 1997

Dear Me (what are those things coming out of her nose?), (a cheeky “Spaceballs” reference)

In ten years I will hopefully be working on a movie set somewhere, filming what will become a huge worldwide box-office success. I will probably be engaged, if not married. I will NOT be married to Dayna Pell. Ms. McPherson will be watching me become successful and she will be eternally bitter. I will be a perfect physical specimen, and might have a Southern accent.

At this time, a #3 at McDonald’s costs $3.77. A gallon of gas is about $1.60. A movie ticket costs $7.25, but I get in for free.

Much Love,
Mike

So, how am I stacking up? I have worked on several movie sets. None of them have become huge worldwide box-office successes, as of yet. I would be as shocked as anyone if I become engaged or married in the next 12 months. For those of you who don’t know her, Dayna Pell has been my close friend and partner-in-snarkiness since the eighth grade. Many of our high school friends speculated that the two of us would eventually hook up. It will never happen. We are way more Jerry & Elaine than Harry & Sally. You can read her take on this blast-from-the-past letter by clicking here. Ms. McPherson was my evil drama club advisor who was making life miserable for all of my friends at the time. To this day, I would relish the opportunity to make her seethe with envy at my successes. I am far from a perfect physical specimen, but hey, I’ve made some progress since my college days. The Southern accent thing was a reference to the fact that I would soon be leaving my native New England for four years in North Carolina. The accent didn’t stick. For the sake of my aforementioned physique, I wish that I didn’t know how much a McDonald’s #3 cost. I weep for the gas prices of yesteryear. And I don’t get into movies for free anymore (although, I still use my NCSA Student ID to save a couple of bucks).

It is pretty obvious that I haven’t changed a whole lot since high school. Having observed human nature as a camp counselor, lifeguard and bartender, I don’t think that most people do. I was in Harvard Square a few weeks ago on a perfect sunny day. I perused foreign magazines at the world-famous newsstand, dodged Christian and Scientology missionaries, was never far from Smart People discussing Important Subjects, or Stoned People discussing Stoned Subjects. I couldn’t help but think about the day I spent there at the age of eighteen, and the class that brought me there. As goofy as that class was, I can remember it in greater detail than virtually any other class I took in four years of high school. It was a godsend during a particularly shitty year in my life. I actually got to discuss, write, and joke about things that I actually found interesting.

Goodnight, Miss Soave, wherever you are…

MUM #1: Empire of the Sun

Here’s the first in a series I am calling Mike’s Underappreciated Movies. MUM #1 is Steven Spielberg’s most underrated directorial effort, Empire of the Sun. I remember seeing it in the theater when I was about eight years old, and it became one of those movies that was always in my house even if none of my friends had ever seen it.

In a nutshell, it is the story of a spoiled English boy named Jim (played by a 12 year-old Christian Bale) living in China with his wealthy parents at the outbreak of World War II. When the Japanese invade Shanghai, Jim is separated from his family. He lives on the streets, befriends some shady Americans (John Malkovich and Joe Pantoliano), and ends up in a prison camp next to a Japanese airfield for the duration of the war.

If all that sounds pretty depressing, it is, but Spielberg goes through great pains to show these events as a kid would see them – horrific and sad, to be sure, but with a child’s sense of excitement, beauty and even humor. Empire of the Sun contains many of Spielberg’s recurring themes: the Lost Boy, the distant father, flight, and a World War II setting. You can see him warming up for later projects. The scenes on the streets of Shanghai and the prison camp are echoed in “Schindler’s List.” The terrifying invasion sequences (especially those in the car) and images of rivers choked with corpses would resurface in “War of the Worlds.” One could argue that this movie has several parallels to the Spielberg-produced “An American Tail”, which was released around the same time.

What sets this flick apart are the settings, style, and performances. If there’s another movie out there about rich Brits in China during World War II, I haven’t seen it. In fact, how often do we get World War II movies with an Asian view (even if it’s filtered through American and English eyes)? Sad to say, I have very little knowledge of what the Chinese went through during the war. Based on this movie, I would like to know more. Also, why haven’t we seen more Japanese films about the era? God knows they have some stories to tell and some fantastic filmmakers who are up to the challenge, but I digress. The film’s contrast between the lifestyles of the wealthy Europeans and the impoverished Chinese is very striking. One early shot nails this point home brilliantly: Jim’s family and friends are on their way to an opulent costume party just before the invasion. To get there, they must be driven through the crowded streets of Shanghai in their expensive cars. One of the rich women is made up to look like Marie Antoinette. She stares out of her car’s window in a daze at hundreds of desperate peasants. She feels safe in her fancy car, but is completely surrounded. The revolution is coming, along with the guillotine.

Another brilliant but strange sequence comes late in the film. The British and Americans have been uprooted from their prison camp and have migrated across the plains to an abandoned stadium. The stadium has been filled with chandeliers, grand pianos, and fine furnishings that were looted from the Westerners’ homes after the invasion. There is very little dialogue, and the way cinematographer Allen Daviau captures the surreal setting with gorgeous early-morning light is magical and creepy all at once.

In terms of spectacle, Spielberg does not disappoint. On that basis, this is probably the closest he has ever come to emulating his idol, David Lean. Since this movie was made in the mid-1980’s you can be sure that the thousands of people fleeing tanks and crossing vast wastelands are not digital extras. Many of those 1940s planes flying past the airfield in perfect synch with practical explosions are quite real. Whatever miniatures were used are impossible to spot.

If for nothing else, rent this movie to see Christian Bale. I can’t think of another performance by a child that covers such a breadth of emotional and physical demands. He starts off as an effete brat that you want to slap (thankfully, his Chinese nanny does that for us), loses his parents, nearly starves on the streets of a war-torn city, becomes a gutsy, peace-keeping busybody in a refugee camp, crawls through mud, has a nervous breakdown, is betrayed by a friend, and somehow emerges as a peculiar but likeable kid. Bale is in nearly every scene, is always convincing, and there is never a split second of Child Actor Cuteness. Put this flick next to “American Psycho” and “Batman Begins” and you will see that this guy has tremendous range, and should be around for a very long time.

The movie isn’t perfect. John Williams’ music is absolutely gorgeous, but a bit overbearing. I wish I knew more about Miranda Richardson’s character. The kamikaze pilots saluting Jim is a beautiful image but is kinda cheesy. These are minor quibbles. There’s a lot of great stuff in this flick, and you should definitely check it out.

Oh, yeah. Ben Stiller has a couple of lines in it, too.

Under the Table and Dreaming

Last night I had a strange dream. I hope that my loyal readers can interpret the symbols within said dream and tell me which psychiatric drug I will no doubt be prescribed. In the dream, my mother was giving me a lift home from some unknown place. We were both hungry, so we stopped at the McDonald's drivethru. At window #1, we placed our orders and paid the cashier. At window #2, a weary looking woman gave us our food and asked if we wanted ketchup. She looked familiar to both of us, and then we realized who she was - none other than Claire Huxtable herself, Phylicia Rashad. She had dyed her hair orange, and there were some lines under her eyes, but there was no mistaking it - this was Phylicia Rashad in the flesh, slinging out Quarter Pounders to the masses. My mom got all excited and told her how much she loved the Cosby Show. Phylicia thanked my mom and told her how tough things had gotten for her since her second show with Bill had been cancelled. She even pleaded with us to let her know if we knew of any acting gigs that might be coming up. My mom promised that she would. We all parted amicably, and I ate my fries.

What triggered this dream? Maybe it was because I caught the last ten minutes of a Cosby Show rerun yesterday afternoon. It was the one where Vanessa had snuck out with her boyfriend and Cliff used two apples to illustrate how close the two of them had gotten in the car. It wasn't a Claire-driven episode, so I don't know why it was Phylicia Rashad that got stuck in my subconscious. In real life, Ms. Rashad has gone on to a very successful career in theater. She even won a Tony a couple of years back. I'm guessing that the royalties from her 80s heyday are keeping her and her kids fat, happy and educated. Unless she was doing research for an upcoming role as a fast food worker with orange hair, there would be no sane reason for her to be working at McDonald's. Why did my twisted mind concoct such an image? What is it about middle-aged black women that has captured my imagination so much of late? Enlighten me, please, someone.

Are You Hungry?!

There are some things that I find oddly fascinating - things like maps, conservative Christian movie reviews, and those mini-roller coasters for marbles that you can buy at museum gift shops. They do not so much inspire affection or joy as do they stimulate regions of my brain that don’t normally get utilized. Once these things enter my line of sight, any and all neurons that attempt to distract me are soundly overpowered. One of the stimulants of this brainy arousal is a person – a very special person with true star quality that defies conventional standards of attractiveness. Of course, I am referring to the Honey Bunches of Oats Lady.

You know her. She’s everywhere (except Google Images). She is the middle-aged black woman wearing a shower cap and protective goggles whom Post Cereals has chosen to be the face, voice, and spirit of Honey Bunches of Oats in their national commercials. I doubt that many would call her beautiful. I must confess that I don’t find anything sexy about her. Indeed, there is something psychotic in her folksy cackle. But damn it all to Hell, when she pops out from behind a doorway excitedly screeching “Are You Hungry?????!!!!??” I cannot turn away. Yes, Honey Bunches of Oats Lady, I am hungry – hungry for knowledge!

Who is this woman? Why does she love Honey Bunches of Oats so much? What possesses her to promote said bunches to apparent strangers with such ferocity? Does she work at the Honey Bunches of Oats Factory? Is that why she wears that shower cap that seems like one small step up from Aunt Jemima’s old school doo rag? Are she and the Burger King lovers? Who is the actress who so fully embodies this character? Was there a large search put out seeking enthusiastic, heavyset, mildly deranged yet pleasant black ladies who don’t mind being portrayed in a somewhat subservient light? Is she Pepsi to the Pine Sol Lady’s Coke? Is it actually Halle Berry packing on the pounds and prosthetics to stretch herself as a performer?

Why do you haunt my dreams, Honey Bunches of Oats Lady? I mean, when you say that a spoonful of Honey Bunches of Oats is “like a mouthful o’ joy,” adding about four extras syllables to the word “joy,” I really believe you! No breakfast cereal has ever made me feel that way, but you make me suspect that this particular cereal might just do the trick. You, Honey Bunches of Oats Lady, could sell refrigerators to Eskimos. You are a superstar!

Royale With Cheese

Ah, Europe - the continent from which I got most of my genetic material! I’ve only been there once. At the age of 18, I went to Russia for a couple of weeks to sing a bunch of goofy songs with my classmates as part of a cultural exchange program. We sang in a bunch of schools and went on endless tours of magnificent palaces and cathedrals. We were also treated to the leftovers of the Soviet Bloc – gargantuan apartment complexes that were crumbling to the ground, shantytowns with thousands of people living in shacks the size of my bathroom, and food so old, terrible, and ridden with parasites that I prayed for death on my toilet. It was an amazing experience, but I returned home extremely thankful that I was American.

Europe puts out a lot of movies. A lot of them are awesome, and a lot of them are mind-bogglingly pretentious, bizarre, and annoying. Our Euro brethren seem more concerned with creating Art with a capital “A” than entertaining people, and I’m cool with that. Variety is the spice of life. Something I find interesting are the crowd-pleasers that are made by Europeans for Europeans. It’s in those movies where you begin to see the subtle differences between cultures, because everyone likes to laugh, but we laugh at different things.

For instance, there is a particular kind of British comedy that has flourished over the last decade. All the films within this genre contain variations on certain themes:

1) An economically depressed industrial village
2) Colorful villagers who need money fast
3) A quirky taboo being experimented with to bring prosperity back to the village
4) Pasty naked Brits who have no business being photographed in such a state

Classics of the genre include “The Full Monty,” “Calender Girls,” “Billy Elliot,” and “Waking Ned Devine.” Actually, Ned Devine is set in Ireland, but it was filmed in the UK by an English director so it still counts in my book. All of these movies were made on low budgets and were hugely profitable. Something about naked old people being silly drives the Brits into hysterics. I dunno. They’re kinda funny, but in an old people sort of way. There’s a new entry in this genre entitled “Kinky Boots,” which has more repressed English people raising their spirits, this time with slutty boots and a drag show or something. Your grandma will love it. I will not.

Not to be outdone, the Germans have come up with a crowd-pleasing sub-genre of their own: The Gay German Sports Comedy. I was not aware of this phenomenon until I perused the Apple movie trailer site and came across previews for two new movies. The first has possibly the funniest movie title I have ever seen: “Guys and Balls." Seriously, they named their movie “Guys and Balls!” It’s about a gay soccer team that defeats the odds and teaches us about humanity and all that crap. The American voice-over actor they chose to narrate the trailer had to have been laughing his ass off in the studio. The way he annunciates the title at the end is fucking hilarious. Gay German Sports Comedy #2 is called “Summer Storm” and seems to be about gay rowing teams that defeat the odds and teach us all about humanity and all that crap. Whatever. The Germans have a long way to go before they can teach me much about tolerance, but I guess that these movies are a step in the right direction for them as a people. Although, I am wondering, are there any Straight German Sports Comedies? Is that a contradiction in terms?

Anyway, I think it is fair to say that no American studios would have financed these movies. I also doubt that many Americans will go see them, myself included. When it comes to comedies, we’re currently more amused by the antics of Vince Vaughn, Owen Wilson, Ben Stiller, Will Ferrell, and Steve Carell… and I like it that way. They all make me chuckle on their good days. I’m not a complete philistine, though. Check out the trailer for “Art School Confidential.” I can’t wait to see this movie. I miss you, NCSA!

I WANT YOU!

Am I the only one who is really pissed off by the new wave of military recruitment ads? You know the ones I’m talking about – a young guy returns home in full uniform and he and Dear Old Dad have a man-cry moment about how much better he is at handshaking, a fatherless kid of about 18 decides that he can prove his manliness to his mom (WARNING: Oedipal overtones!) by joining the army so he can go to college, etc. Dear God, do these disturb me.

Liberal-leaning art school wuss that I am, I still think this country needs a strong military. I also think that in order to have a strong military you need people who want to be there, like any organization that aims for success. For a lot of people, the military can be a terrific opportunity to get ahead in life. Immediately after 9/11, even I considered it. I was unemployed at the time, unsure of what I wanted to do next, and felt like I was contributing nothing to society when society clearly needed all the help it could get. I have three uncles and a cousin who were in the Navy, so it is in the blood. But then I reminded myself of all the things that I would hate about life in the armed forces: the mind control, the humorlessness, the lack of free will, and the real possibility that I might play a role in killing people. I would have gone crazy. I also realized that there were plenty of other ways to improve the world we live in without enlisting. But hey, that’s just me. A lot of people love that disciplined environment, and I’m glad that they’re out there fighting for us and making something of themselves. Too bad a lot of them are fighting and dying in an unnecessary war that is now three years old, declared by a president who has never given a good reason for its being declared, and now doesn’t seem to care that there’s no end in sight, but I digress.

What angers me about these recruitment ads is how misleading they are. Instead of showing any kind of reality about military life, they show young kids how proud their parents might be if they join the army. No marching, saluting, guns, planes, ships, rockets, or national monuments. Certainly no explosions, screaming civilians, hospitals, or body bags. All we see are ambitious kids having heart-to-heart talks with Mom and/or Dad. I’m guessing that since enlistment rates are at such a low point, the military figured it needed to try a new marketing strategy to loop in kids that normally wouldn’t be interested, which apparently includes the kind of kids who fix radios, like snowboarding, have engineering ambitions, and are incapable of simultaneously shaking hands with Dad while looking him square in the eye. It all reeks of trickery to me, and I hope that those targeted kids see through this line of bullshit. I hope that they take some time and find out exactly what they are in for. If, after doing some investigation and hard thinking, they want to join up, more power to them. I respect that. I just really hope that no one joins up and dies because he saw a piece of melodramatic propaganda from a desperate and dishonest administration.