TROPIC THUNDER

It’s been a long time coming. Here goes:

Got a job at a resort near Port Douglas in northern Queensland. Lived in the jungle for 6 weeks and damn near lost my mind due to isolation and immobility. It was pretty, but living there was akin to living in Jurassic Park without any dinosaurs to make it entertaining. Made some friends. Had some laughs. Got outta there. Got a bus back to Cairns. Didn’t like it there, either. Flew to Darwin. Darwin is hot. Really hot, and I don’t mean Paris Hilton’s definition of hot. Darwin is closer to the Equator than it is to Sydney. Since my arrival in late August, we have been experiencing “The Build Up” which is the transition period between the dry and wet seasons. That means that every day it gets a little more oppressively hot and humid until the big rains come. Mother Nature’s got PMS, and we’re all feeling the wrath.

Territorians, as the locals are known up here in the Top End, have a name for the craziness that everyone feels this time of year. They say that someone has “gone troppo” if he or she displays strange and/or violent behavior. I’ve seen plenty of it first hand. It’s not just the heat. The history, geography and social structure of Darwin all contribute. The Northern Territory is sort of an Australian Texas. Unlike the rest of Australia, the NT is not technically a state, something of which Territorians are quite proud. There is very much a frontier element around these parts, and no wonder. The local ports and military facilities see hundreds of sailors, miners, soldiers and oil rig workers come and go every day. There’s a crucial shortage of ladies up here and bars are packed every night with sexually frustrated dudes knocking back pints, anxiously waiting for the wet t-shirt contests to begin. Flashings and fisticuffs are frequent. Darwin has beaches, but it’s not safe to swim this time of year thanks to deadly box jellyfish and the occasional crocodile. If there’s a public pool, I haven’t found it. Chilling out in Darwin is a challenge.

That said, I still kinda dig the place. Right next to my hostel is Crocosaurus Cove, which houses “the worlds largest collection of Australian reptiles.” They have all sortsa beasties in there, including an albino croc named Snowy, even though he’s really a pale shade of brown. A couple of weeks ago, I got to escape to Litchfield National Park, where there are some awesome croc-free rock pools and waterfalls (too bad it’s an hour and a half drive from here!). I managed to get a decent job at a bar and have made some good friends. As usual, most of them are Irish. Are there any young people left in Ireland? The Union Jack in the Australian flag should really be replaced with the Emerald Isle’s green, white & orange. Every Sunday night, some buddies of mine would play traditional Celtic music at a local pub, and all of Darwin’s Irish Diaspora would show up. Good times! Sucks that The Galway Boys are leaving for the East Coast this week. Gonna miss ya, lads!Oh yeah, I turned 30 a few days ago. I got the whole weekend off. It was, um… well it was fun. I think. Yeah. Pretty sure it was fun. Anyway, my current plan is to work 2 or 3 more weeks in Darwin, check out Kakadu National Park, and then find my way down the west coast to Perth where friends, gainful employment, and swimmable beaches await. I’ve heard that Darwin’s gender imbalance is reversed there, so that’s another selling point.

When I first decided to go traveling two years ago, I figured that I’d do one year in New Zealand and then come back to American reality. Obviously, that didn’t happen. Recently, I decided to ditch my open-ended ticket home (which expires November 4th) and use up the rest of my Australian visa, which is good through late April. Much thought and consideration went into that decision. The toughest thing about traveling has been missing big events back home, be they happy or sad. I’ve missed Christmases, anniversaries, engagements, weddings, births, and, worst of all, deaths. To all my family and friends back home, I want you all to know that I think about you every day and love you all so much! There will be much catching up to do when I get back. Take care of yourselves and be well!

Until then, vote Obama and enjoy the video below, which manages to be sexy, funny and inventive whilst making a statement about censorship. I promise it will brighten your day!

The BPA - Toe Jam Featuring David Byrne & Dizzee Rascal
Uploaded by TheBrightonPortAuthority

CELTIC PRIDE, REEFER MADNESS & INDEPENDENCE DAY

Enough with the cunts.

While I sorted out the replacement passport and credit cards, I settled into a semi-comfortable existence at Noah’s Backpackers on Bondi Beach near Sydney. It was a fun place with lots of cool people and just a couple minutes walk to the ocean. The place was bursting with travelers from all over, but mostly Ireland. I met more Irish than Aussies in Bondi and learned some valuable bits of Celtic slang:

“What’s the craic?” = “How’s it going?”
“Your man” = “Some guy” or “That guy”
“Moik, ya cunt!” = “Mike, my friend, it is good to see you!”

I guess I wasn’t done with the cunts. At least they were friendly cunts.Irish backpackers are in such great numbers around Bondi that many of the locals have taken a dislike to them. Never in my lifetime did I expect to encounter “No Irish Need Apply” hiring practices, but I did in Bondi. Here’s a brief transcript of my interview for a bartending gig:

BAR MANAGER: So, Michael, where are you from?

ME: From the US, outside of Boston.

BAR MANAGER: And you’re backpacking around Australia?

ME: Yes, but I’m going to need to work for a while to finance more travel. It will take me some time to save up enough cash, so I’m looking for something full time.

BAR MANAGER: Well, let me be frank. I’ve had bad experiences with backpackers. I won’t hire Irish anymore because they’re so unreliable.

ME: Ah, well my name is Moran and I’m Irish-American.

KIWI BAR MANAGER: Well, you’re more American than you are Irish.

I was a bit stunned by those last couple lines of his and didn’t really have time to process them, so the interview continued. He ended up offering me a trial shift, which I didn’t show up for. I may never have been to Ireland, but for that guy to say that I’m “more American than Irish” took brass ones. To take that job would have been spitting on the graves of my ancestors. Instead, I embarked on a series of “labouring” jobs. These included holding up paintings and sculptures at art auctions, mixing cement, digging holes, and shoveling various materials. I also helped an old Iranian guy build a porch (“Why, OF COURSE I have construction experience!”). The cash slowly added up, and I escaped north to Airlie Beach.

Airlie was a nice, if not overly friendly town where people book boat trips out to the Great Barrier Reef. I signed up for a 3-day trip on the Pacific Star, and it was great. We left the marina at night and motored out to the Whitsundays, which are a gorgeous group of islands between the mainland and the reef. On our first morning, we did a quick hike to stunning Whitehaven Beach. It was a bit cloudy, but the beach was nonetheless gorgeous. I have never felt sand so soft. My feet sunk 2 inches with each step. I also spotted a stingray just offshore. Pretty damn cool.The next day, we made it out to the outer reef. And yes, it is amazing. We hooked onto a mooring and stayed there all day. The water was dazzlingly clear and innumerable fish swam all around the boat. I did three dives that day, where I saw all kinds of fish and coral. The coolest dive was the night dive. We jumped in the water just after sunset and stayed down for about half an hour. All we had to light our way around were some flashlights and a light from the boat. So spooky and cool! We spotted a sea turtle sleeping on the bottom and huge fish would drift in and out of sight. It was like a submerged haunted house, but with friendly ghosts. Awesome stuff. On our final day, we headed back to port with some quick snorkeling stops. We’d spot turtles and manta rays just off the boat and some humpbacks breaching in the distance. Getting back on dry land was a bummer!

There aren’t too many work or accommodation options in Airlie, so I took an overnight bus to Cairns (rhymes with “cans”) to do some job hunting. It’s a relatively small city that mostly exists as a gateway to the reef and the tropical north. I’ll most likely get a gig here or do some fruit picking, if it comes down to it (I hope it doesn’t!).By the way, the 4th of July totally sucks in Australia. Granted, there aren’t too many Americans in this part of the country, but in a city overflowing with backpackers you’d think at least one of the numerous bars in town would have some kind of Independence Day celebration. Some of the bars in Airlie had Canada Day parties a few days ago. No such luck for the Yanks. The closest I could find to an American party was a bunch of drunk college kids from Maryland running around the streets with sparklers. They were nice enough, but 5 minutes was all I could tolerate with a bunch of hammered 18-year olds. Instead, I did my patriotic duty and got a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese McValue Meal®. A nice surprise came in the form of a Samuel Adams Boston Lager, which I found at a local bar. Those of you who know me know that I loves me some Sam. It had been nearly 2 years since I’ve tasted my favorite beer from home, and it went down nicely (but not cheaply - $8.90!!!!). God Bless America!Oh, yeah! Congrats to the Boston Celtics! Once again, my home team has won a championship and I am thousands of miles away and unable to watch! Not that I’ve ever been a big basketball fan, but it would have been nice to see. I have some very faint memories of their 1986 victory, mostly germinating from the giant Kevin McHale poster that adorned my childhood wall and charted my growth. That was kind of cruel, in retrospect. Why give a kid with insecurities about his height a life-sized poster of an NBA player complete with measuring marks along the side? There should have been a word bubble coming out of Kevin’s mouth reading “Little Michael, no matter how much milk you drink or how many jumping jacks you do, you will never be as tall as me. In fact, this poster will give you an exact figure as to how tall I am versus how short you are. Try gymnastics.” That would have better prepared me for the realities of life. Oh, well.

TOMATO/TOMAHTO

“Cunt” is a loaded word. In North American English, there is probably no more offensive word, with the possible exception of a few racist slurs. It is strictly feminine, and used only to degrade a woman in the worst possible verbal way. Having grown up in a feminist household, I was taught to never, ever use this word… even though I’ve heard my sisters use it to describe some of their female co-workers. If a man uses this word publicly in the USA, he runs the risk of a sexual harassment lawsuit and/or getting a slap.

In the rest of the English-speaking world, they throw “cunt” around much more freely (no pun intended). It can be feminine or masculine, an insult or a vulgar term of endearment, similar to the way we Americans use “bastard.”

i.e.: “He’s a funny old bastard/cunt.”

No matter the context, “cunt” still carries a bit of tastelessness. I don’t think anyone of any nationality would say it comfortably in front of their grandmother.

It has been 18 months since I left my homeland, and there are certain words and phrases I have added to my vocabulary due to cultural osmosis. I catch myself saying things like “no worries” and “sweet” in the surfer-influenced Pacific Rim manner. When you’re away from home for this long, it just happens. Somehow, though, I had avoided the casual use of the word “cunt.”

Until now…

To the person who stole my American Express card in Thailand and went on a shopping spree… you, sir or madam, are a cunt.

And to the person who stole my daypack from my former hostel in Sydney which contained my passport, work visa, Responsible Service of Alcohol certificate, sunglasses, notepad, and (worst of all) my beloved Nalgene water bottle… you, sir or madam, are also a cunt.

And to the money-grubbing slumlord proprietor of the aforementioned hostel who didn’t see the need to equip his/her rooms with lockers or electrical outlets, or security cameras in the kitchen from whence my bag was stolen despite posters that would indicate the contrary… you are a cunt, too.

That is all.

MISTY MOUNTAIN HOP, SIAMESE DREAM, & THE MERRY OLD LAND OF OZ

I’ve covered more mileage in the past month than in any previous month of my life. I’m in a new city in a new country where I’m searching for a job and a semi-permanent place to crash. Therefore, my editorial skills aren’t up to their usual standard. Here’s the shortest version of my latest journeys that I can muster without leaving out key details.

Brace yourselves.

We finished work on the movie. Well, to be more accurate, the 2nd Unit of the New Zealand crew of The Movie About A Famous Comic Book Character With Claws finished their work. Many hundreds of people will continue to work on the movie on sound stages in Sydney and special effects houses in Los Angeles for the next several months. It’s a big damn movie!

Once the wrap-up partying subsided, I began tying up loose ends in Queenstown. Naturally, that involved a bungy jump and a trek through the wilderness. The bungy jump was the world famous Nevis Highwire Bungy. The Nevis is a 472-foot jump with 8 full seconds of freefall into a rocky chasm. Remember that scene in “Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey” when they’re falling and screaming on their way to Hell, pause quietly for a moment, and then start screaming again as they continue to fall? The Nevis is just like that. You jump. You scream. You stop screaming. You realize that you’re still falling. And then you scream again before you bounce back up a few hundred feet. My hands were shaking for 10 minutes afterwards. It rocked, and thanks to my flatmate Matt, I got a 20% discount. Cheers, geeza!
The aforementioned wilderness trek was the Routeburn Track. The Routeburn is a 3-day, 24-mile hike through the mountains, gorges and rainforests of the South Island of New Zealand. The first day was great. Sunny skies, fresh air, stunning mountain views and amazing stars at night. The next two days were… not quite so enjoyable. It rained. A lot. And it was windy. Very, very windy. Everything got soaked. Several times, I had to walk through raging streams on steep slopes that could have sent me plummeting down the mountainside a-la “Romancing the Stone.” Didn’t happen, thankfully. The moment I finished the track, the sun came out, and I successfully hitchhiked back to Queenstown (a 3-hour trip). It amazes me still that the two German guys who gave me the lift didn’t kick me out of the car, ‘cause I smelled so horrible after three days in the mud. Danke, dudes! Muchas danke!

After some farewell drinks with friends, I began the very long trip to Bangkok. Many means of transportation were involved in this endeavor. First was the 8-hour bus ride to Christchurch (an interesting city that I wish I saw more of - rent “Heavenly Creatures” someday to see why). Then there was the 6AM flight to Melbourne, where we were meant to have a 4-hour layover. Due to technical issues, we had to take a different plane and spend 14 fucking hours in the Melbourne airport terminal. Jetstar, which is Australia’s answer to Southwest Airlines (you know – Ghetto Air), did their best to compensate us with “refreshment vouchers.” The terminal had no proper restaurant but did have plenty of beer on tap, so basically the whole plane got drunk. Once we were airborne, everyone applauded and then passed out. We landed in Bangkok at 4:30AM. I got a cab to Khao San Road, which is Bangkok’s Backpacker Central. All tolled, from the time I left my cabin in Queenstown to the moment I checked into the D&D Inn in Bangkok, I had been in transit for 52 hours.

Ah, Thailand! You giant nut job of a nation! Bangkok is insane. It is a sweaty, seething, sprawling metropolis that seems to stretch out forever. If you want peace and quiet, do not go to Bangkok. Everything, and I mean everything, is for sale. Everywhere you look are cars, tuk tuks, pushcarts, Buddhist monks, prostitutes, transsexuals (or “Ladyboys” in the local parlance), aged hippies, food and drink vendors, Siamese cats, lactating dogs, counterfeit merchandise, Indian guys relentlessly selling cheap designer suits… it goes on and on. And it’s hotter than the surface of the sun on the muggiest day of all time.

I did my share of cultural stuff. I toured Wat Pho and the Grand Palace, both of which reminded me of World Showcase at Epcot Center. The temples were so astoundingly colorful and opulent, they just… I’m sorry… they were just very Disney-esque. Wat Pho had a 200-foot long golden Buddha laying in a pose that bore a striking resemblance to a reclining Anne Bancroft in “The Graduate.”

“Mr. Buddha, you’re trying to seduce me… aren’t you?” Everything comes back to a movie for me. And I know “The Graduate” is not Disney. But if Walt Disney had directed “The Graduate,” the Robinson’s house would have looked like Wat Pho.

If there is a Buddhist Hell, I’m sure that I’m on my way there thanks to those last few passages.

Anyway, Bangkok was wearing me out, so I took an overnight bus and a ferry to Koh Tao. Koh Tao is a tiny island in the Gulf of Thailand where lots of people go to get cheap scuba diving certifications, myself included. Scuba diving is awesome! It really is like being an astronaut. We saw coral reefs, anemones, stingrays, giant clams, spiny sea urchins, and hundreds of schooling fish. It was fantastic, and I can’t wait to do it again.
My arrival in Koh Tao coincided with Songkran, the Thai New Year. Songkran is crazy. Everyone in the country spends three days dousing strangers with water. Dozens of children, teenagers, and responsible adults were lined up on the side of the dirt road near my dive school with buckets and super soakers. Whenever someone walked or drove by on a moped, they got soaked. As the day went on, it escalated and escalated. I hopped on the back of a truck with about 20 other people. It took more than an hour to get the 5 miles from our beach to Sai Ri, where most of the partying was going on. I have never seen anything like it. Hundreds and hundreds of strangers soaking one another and laughing their asses off. I wish I had pictures, but there was no way I was gonna risk getting my camera saturated. Good times.Scuba certification involved a lot of homework, so once I finished, I decided to move on to a new location for some unadulterated fun. I suppose that I could have headed up north and gotten more of an immersion into Thai culture, but hey, this wasn’t a National Geographic expedition. I was on vacation, so there. Off I went to the party island of Koh Phangan. Koh Phangan is just south of Koh Tao, and backpackers from around the world know it as a massive playground for tropical debauchery. It is home to the world famous Full Moon Parties that take place on Hat Rin Beach. Nearly every night is a party on Hat Rin Beach, but the Full Moon is really huge. Thousands of people rocked out ‘til the sun came up, and then they kept going. Everyone was a little nervous when it began. At the February party, an English guy went missing and was never found. And then in March, a 14-year old Thai kid stabbed a reveller to death. Nothing bad happened this time, thankfully. There was music everywhere, twirling fire sticks, bodies undulating, drinks flowing, 8-year old kids selling seashell necklaces at 3am, dudes pissing in the ocean as others swam in the darkness… it was massive, awesome and exhausting. Again, good times.

At this point, I have to give a shout out to all those European girls who feel completely free taking their tops off on the beach. On Koh Phangan, it was like I won the Boobie Lottery. They were everywhere! Technically, they shouldn’t be taking those things out in Thailand, since Thais don’t do public nudity. Thais go swimming fully clothed when its 100 degrees out, for Buddha’s sake. Didn’t stop those Swedish chicks, though. Cultural sensitivity only goes so far when European breasts are yearning to breathe free and soak up the sun. One funny phenomenon I noticed – some girls would sunbathe topless for hours as hundreds of gawking guys would stroll by, but when these girls decided to go for a swim, they’d walk down the shore covering their boobies with their hands until they got into the water, as if they think guys only look at knockers when they’re in motion. Hate to break it to ya, ladies, but as long as you’re showing them off (and even when you’re not), we’re gonna look at your boobs – bouncing or otherwise. Sorry I have no pictures, but I'm not that much of a perv.

I must also salute Thailand’s fantastic army of massage therapists. I got four massages in Thailand (and get those dirty thoughts right out of your minds, people - they were therapeutic, non-sexual, and totally legit!). Each cost the equivalent of about $10, and they worked wonders. I had a knot near my left shoulder blade that had been driving me insane for five years. It’s gone now. The lady who fixed it had me near tears on the table, but it was all worth it. Yay, Thailand!

So, after partying for a week in Koh Phangan, I had to head back to Bangkok to catch my flights to Australia. Once again, that involved a night bus and a redeye flight. My layover in Melbourne was only delayed by a half hour. And I was headed for Sydney…Crikey! I haven’t been in a big, world-class “western” city for quite a long time, and Sydney impresses easily. Well, the city center is nothing special, but anywhere near the harbor or beaches is pretty awesome. Of course, I had to make my way down to the Opera House as soon as I could. It’s pretty damn cool, but a little smaller than I had imagined. The Sydney Harbour Bridge, however, is friggin’ huge. It’s like the Sagamore Bridge on steroids. I took the train out to the famous Bondi Beach and did a nice walk along the cliffs as thunderstorms and rainbows were forming out over the Pacific. Gorgeous stuff.

When planning my flights to Sydney, I had totally forgotten that my arrival date, April 25th, is ANZAC Day, a major holiday for Australians and New Zealanders. It is sort of their version of Memorial Day, and takes place on the anniversary of the siege of Gallipoli in WWI (Rent the movie. It’s good.) during which thousands of Australian and Kiwi soldiers died. Australia has troops serving and dying in Iraq right now, so this was a big ANZAC Day for them. All over Sydney, there were memorial services taking place. I hung out for one at Martin Place. Hymns were sung, prayers were said, and then the priest reminded everyone “that ANZAC Day is also a day to party.” And party they did. Every guy in Sydney put on a uniform (no matter how far removed from an actual military garb that uniform might be) and hit the pubs. I saw lots of 17-year olds dudes in ill-fitting suits getting turned away by bouncers. It still throws me when I see teens drinking, legally, in public places. So sheltered, we Americans are.

Australia’s criminal history has ended up effecting my arrival in an amusing way. As is turns out, there is an infamous Melbourne crime family named – you guessed it – Moran. There is a bestselling book about the Moran family’s nefarious deeds, and as luck would have it, the book was turned into a miniseries that is currently airing on local television. Thusly, the name Moran is very much in the Australian zeitgeist at the moment. One of the key figures of Melbourne’s Morans is “crime mum” Judy Moran. I have an Aunt Judy. Unless she’s leading a double life organizing the criminal element on Nantucket that I haven’t heard about, she probably bears as much resemblance to her Aussie namesake as I do to any local gangsters of note. Every time I check into a hostel and provide my name, I get second looks. They always check my passport twice and look me up and down. Imagine that I was an Australian backpacker checking into an American hostel under the name Gotti, and you start to get the picture. I suppose that it doesn’t much help that I bear little resemblance to my passport photo anymore. But then again, how picky can a former penal colony really be about such matters?So yeah, Sydney’s nice. It’s Fashion Week here, so there are lots of skinny people running around in designer clothes, making my grubby backpacker attire look all the more shabby (or is it Shabby Chic?). Gotta do some shopping. After the horrendous toilets of Thailand, I wanted to kiss the pristine commodes of Australia. I thought better of it, though. As for exotic antipodean animals, my one sighting so far has been a flock (if that’s the right word) of enormous flying foxes that roost in the Royal Botanical Gardens. Name me another city where you can casually stroll through a lovely park and happen upon hundreds of salivating bats dangling googly-eyed from the trees. You don’t see that on The Common. Other strange encounters include fellow crewmembers from the movie. One of the visual effects guys almost hit me with his car, and I ran into some of the actors in a café in Bondi. Small world. Sadly, the Australian crew is already in place for the duration of the shoot, so I won’t be working on the movie anymore. It would be cool if they let me crash the wrap party, though. That party will rock, I’ll wager. In all likelihood, I’ll have to venture back into Hospitality World. At least the wages are better over here than in New Zealand. They damn well better be, ‘cause Sydney ain’t cheap! Unfortunately, I’m a bit late for the peak beach season here, so I’m gonna have to head up into Queensland to get some decent fun in the sun.

So there you have it, folks – my current life in a nutshell. Once I’ve gotten settled and have hung out with some more crazy Aussie critters, I’ll let you know. Until then, as another International Man of Mystery so eloquently put it, I’m spent.

LORD, I WAS BORN A RAMBLIN' MAN

This is long overdue. The past few months have been insane. You might remember an entry I put up in December in which I ruminated on the World Series, foods I miss, and my new job working on a movie about a famous clawed comic book character. I took that entry down because I didn’t want to risk violating my scary and litigious non-disclosure agreement. I don’t think I violated it, but I didn’t want to run the risk. More on that in a bit…

I hope everyone’s holidays were fun. My own were spent with other goofball travelers. Parties at local hostels. Beer. Barbecues. Funny accents. Fireworks. Same shit as last year. I started early on New Years Eve and ended up falling asleep around 1:30 AM. Not since the late 1980s have I quit so early on New Years. Pathetic.

Another troubling thought – Here in New Zealand where the drinking age is 18, spirits can legally be served to people born in 1990, the year I began puberty. Had I put my biological developments to prodigious use and sired a child, I could now have a drink with him/her to celebrate my liberation from child support payments. Woo hoo! No more Baby Daddy drama!


I missed the Super Bowl. I guess you can’t have the Red Sox and the Patriots win within such a short span of time. When the Pats won in 2002, I was 2 blocks away from the victory parade in Boston. It was absolutely freezing, but that didn’t stop more than a million fans from celebrating in the streets. That particular victory was the first bit of good news Boston had heard in months. It was just after 9/11. Israel was blowing up. The Church scandals were finally coming to light. Anthrax was in the mail. That Super Bowl lifted everyone out of the mire. For the first time in months, everyone was happy (Pats fans, anyway). It would have been even better if my lame-ass boss had actually let us go up to the parade like every other sane boss in The Hub. What a dork.


All of New Zealand was bummed out by the passing of Sir Edmund Hillary, co-conqueror of Mt. Everest. Up until the rise of Xena: Warrior Princess, Sir Ed was the world’s most renown Kiwi, and the national papers ran full page photos and articles commemorating his life and achievements. There is a movement to name a mountain after him, which seems appropriate. I wonder if there’s a Mt. Tenzing somewhere in Nepal. Maybe Mt. Everest should be renamed Mt. Hillary-Tenzing. Shouldn’t the mountain be named after the guys who first climbed it, rather than a former Surveyor-General of India? Compared to Hillary and Norgay, Everest was a punk-ass bitch. Why does he get that naming rights?


Bummer about Heath Ledger, too. He was one of the few young actors to emerge in the past few years with the potential to be a truly interesting and unpredictable leading man, rather than just another overly hyped pretty boy. When I heard he would be playing The Joker, I was fascinated. After such a brilliantly understated performance in “Brokeback Mountain,” I wondered what he would bring to one of the most over-the-top characters ever conceived. What the hell was he gonna do with it? How would he compare with Jack Nicholson? The fantastic trailer for “The Dark Knight” boded well. He looks wonderfully sinister, and I think it would have catapulted him to a new level of stardom. It always depresses me when talented people die too young. At least we’ll have that last glimpse of his talent. RIP, dude.


I managed to catch “Sweeney Todd.” As with any Tim Burton flick, it looks fantastic. Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter are terrific. But man, what a weird movie! It has nasty people living in a hellish environment committing horrific acts, but they’re constantly singing. I have nothing against musicals. “Moulin Rouge” still ranks as one of my favorite movies of the last decade. I thought “Chicago” was well made, even though it glorifies the kind of people I despise. “Rent” totally sucked. There has never been a musical like “Sweeney Todd.” There are no big production numbers, no dancing, and very little in the way of romance. It is a bloody tale of revenge. Really bloody. The first big throat slashing (and there are many) had me wincing. And they just keep on singing from one gory scene to another. The juxtaposition of form and content was baffling. I walked out a little depressed. I have a hunch that I’ll have to see it again to make my final verdict.

So, yeah. I’m working on a great big movie about a guy with claws. Most of the movie will be shot in Sydney, but there are several weeks of location work here in NZ. When I first started traveling 15 months ago, I never thought that I’d be doing film work. I figured that I’d tend bar or do whatever I needed to survive. Now I am halfway around the world working on a production bigger than any of the shows I worked on in my 3 years in Los Angeles. Isn’t it ironic (dontcha think?)?

At the moment, we are doing night shoots. 6 days a week, usually 14 hour shifts. It’s exhausting. My #1 task on set is to distribute and keep track of nearly 200 walkie-talkies and constantly supply fresh batteries. We’ve shot in magnificent valleys, forests, a mountaintop, and a very muddy lumberyard. We’re supposed to finish in mid-March, but you never know what could happen. If the writers’ strike is 100% resolved, revisions could be made. We shall see. I won’t get to see the Oscars this year, either. Kinda sucks, but I haven’t seen any of the Best Picture nominees anyway.

Until I finish the movie, I will have basically no social life. Once we wrap, I’ll need a week just to catch up on sleep. There are a few things I want to do in Queenstown before I leave, but I’ll be very eager to move on. I’m not sure what the first stop will be, but it will definitely look something like this: