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:

YOU SAY IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY, IT’S MY BIRTHDAY TOO, YEAH!

I turn 29 today. It’s my last birthday in my 20s. One year closer to responsible adulthood (hah!). This is the first birthday I have spent in another country. Interestingly, I have two new friends with the same DOB. First is my new flatmate, Sam. Like 90% of the English folks I have met on this trip, Sam hails from the Manchester area. I have met so many cool people from Manchester. They all talk like Daphne from Frasier. I really need to go there someday. Sam moved into the cabin a couple of weeks ago and keeps himself busy doing construction on one of several hotels going up in Queenstown. He turns 22 today. I remember my 22nd birthday, a huge letdown after the mayhem of my 21st. No one even bought me a drink. Buttheads.

My other birthday mate is Leon, one of my coworkers at Brazz. Leon is from Holland and is very, very tall. The Dutch are statistically the tallest nationality on Earth, and all the proof you need is to see Leon and his Beneluxian friends hanging out together. They are giants. My theory is that they have to be tall in order to survive the inevitable bursting of the dikes. I am very proud of that last sentence. Leon and I were both born in 1978. We did some figuring, and we’re pretty sure that I was born about two hours before him. Thus, I have God-given power over him despite both his occupational seniority and my own diminutive stature. New Zealand has become a more interesting place to live over the last few weeks. The major news of late was the elimination of the All Blacks from the Rugby World Cup by the hated French. This was a major blow to the national psyche, and the Kiwis were so pissed off and disappointed that reports of domestic abuse rose substantially in the days following their defeat. Sound a little crazy? Allow me to put this in perspective. Sports fans outside of North America are a different breed. Sure, in America we have loyalty to our teams and our cities and we get all wrapped up in it and it’s all well and good. We have our own sports and aside from an occasional game with a Canadian team, we don’t pay attention to any athletics outside our homeland. We kind of pretend to care about international events when the Olympics are on, but with no Godless Commies left as major threats the Olympics just aren’t as much fun as they used to be. We are perfectly content with our baseball, football, basketball and hockey. But for folks from pretty much every other nation on Earth however, sport is war. They all play football (don’t call it soccer) and quite a few play rugby, and some play cricket… for some reason. If you are a player for a national team, there is a chance that you’ll be going up against a team with players whom you may recently have met on an actual battlefield. Your grandma might have been thrown into the gas chamber by your opponent’s grandpa. Centuries of ethnic and national rivalries are played out. Lose, and you could face disgracing your nation, color and/or creed. Also, there is a chance that a team from a third world country could defeat the most powerful nations on the planet. So yeah, the Rugby World Cup is a big deal around here.

And just how enthusiastic are All Blacks fans? Here’s a snapshot. In New Zealand, there is no baseball, hockey, basketball or football as we know it in America. Imagine all the passion that Americans have for those sports, roll it into a single sport and a single team. Add to that the patriotic pride that we’d assign to an Olympic dream team. Then toss in the nationalistic fervor that other countries give their football (soccer) teams. Top it up by having what’s considered to be the best team in the world, one that is capable, favored, and expected to triumph over nations of greater political and economic standing. Factor in that fans are more than willing to wake up at 4 AM on a weekday to watch a game being played in Europe. There are only 4 million people in New Zealand, so players can’t just blend into the crowd. Everyone knows everything about every player. Lose, and players can’t just get traded out to Denver and live peacefully. They are more or less stuck where they are. So, if you’re an All Black, you don’t want to lose.

But lose they did. To France. I asked some French people if they care about rugby. Being French, they say they don’t (even though they are hosting the World Cup) which makes the defeat all the more painful for the Kiwis. Queenstown was dead silent in the hours after the game. The headlines the next day reminded me of the Challenger explosion (if not quite 9/11). It was a national tragedy and a hallowed symbol of Kiwi supremacy had been toppled. Reporters wondered how it would effect the economy, a legitimate concern in a small country where the players’ faces are plastered on every conceivable piece of merchandising and $50 million in tax dollars had gone into support for the team. Everyone (aside from visiting Australians) was bummed out for a few days. A couple of weeks on, they seem to have recovered and are trying to decide which country to support in Sunday’s final game – their old masters, the English, or their colonial brothers, the South Africans, a team with whom they hold a prickly relationship.

It’s all been fascinating to watch, and I have to work during the final at 8AM Sunday morning. We are already taking reservations. I can’t wait for it all to be over. Also, I am trying to convince my boss to play the World Series games when they come on in the following week (hopefully with a victorious Red Sox!), but it’s a tough sell to any non-American. I reminded him that there are tons of Americans in town and that baseball games are very long in comparison to rugby, which means more time for the purchasing of beer and ribs. We shall see.

In other local news, we had a series of earthquakes a few days ago. The first hit at about 1:30 AM. Measuring 6.7 on the Richter scale with an epicenter about off the coast of Milford Sound, it certainly shook up the cabin. It lasted several seconds and woke me up, but didn’t throw me into a panic. Nothing collapsed or fell, so there was no damage. There were aftershocks at 3:00 AM and again at 10:30 AM. The 10:30 AM one was interesting. I was at work. Glasses started rattling and everyone just stopped what they were doing and stood completely still. There was no major damage, but it probably would have been smart of me to move away from the gas-fueled fireplace and giant plate glass window. These are my first earthquakes, people. The whole stand-in-a-doorway-or-jump-under-a-table instinct hasn’t been drilled into me just yet, so cut me some slack for my poor reaction time. I wasn’t nearly as freaked out by the whole thing as I thought I would be. Compared to jumping out of a plane, it lacked a certain urgency.

Around the same time as the quakes, the New Zealand government moved in on a bunch of suspected “terrorist camps,” mostly in remote areas of the North Island. Several people were arrested and weapons seized. Those arrested included members of all sorts of groups, ranging from Maori sovereignty advocates to environmental activists to wannabe anarchists. Supposedly, these people were getting paramilitary training and stockpiling weapons (or parts of weapons, and reportedly, not many) for various purposes. This has stirred up lots of tension, particularly in Maori communities. Civil liberty advocates are crying afoul. Declarations of racism are being shouted. The reports are all rather vague, and not many details have been divulged. There are rumors that one particular Maori group (and there are many) was planning an IRA-style uprising on their very remote home territory. Most people say the whole thing has been blown out of proportion and the busts were politically motivated to influence an upcoming vote in parliament. I don’t know. Territorial law is a very hot issue in New Zealand, dating back to the Treaty of Waitangi, which struck the settlement deal between the British and certain (but not all) Maori tribes back in the 19th century. Parts of the treaty are still strongly disputed. While the Maori have fared much better than most colonized peoples, there are definitely social and economic inequalities with their White countrymen. It will be interesting to see how this situation plays out. And no, I don’t feel like I am in any danger. I’m more afraid of another earthquake than of some half-assed uprising in the rainforests of the North Island.

Back to the living situation. New flatmate Sam moved in two weeks ago to replace Theo, the weirdo from the Philippines. Theo got fired from his job at the local paper and took off to his family’s place in Christchurch. On his last night at home, he got completely wasted and threw up on the bathroom floor, losing his dentures in the process. He left the cabin toothless and hungover, but was nice enough to clean up the mess and leave a week’s rent. I can’t say that I’ll miss him much.

My friends back home are sending me constant reminders of my impending 10-year high school reunion. Sorry, guys, but I don’t think I’ll make it. My current plan is to save up for the next few months and then head over to Australia. I am in the process of extending my visa here, which required me to get a medical exam and chest x-ray. Roughly a week’s pay gone, but it will be worth it.

Go Sox!

SISTER SOULJAH

Sorry about all the griping. Things have improved vastly since my last entry. Back in July, I was very close to packing it up and leaving Queenstown without doing anymore of the local goofy adventure activities. Luckily, I got myself a new job and am back on the road to financial recovery and the occasional bungy jump (more on that later). Sure, my new gig is waiting tables, but it is full time and the place isn’t nearly as intense or pretentious as the last one. I now busy myself shilling ribs and beer at Brazz On The Green. We overlook a nice little park, so I understand the “on the Green” part, but I have no idea what “Brazz” means. Perhaps it is a clever play on “brass,” with Zs (or Zeds) replacing the Ss to juice things up a bit (everyone knows that Z and X are the coolest and edgiest letters of the alphabet). Not important. The people I work with are all very cool so far, and I haven’t once been publicly chewed out by my boss, so it’s a step up.A couple of weeks ago, I got a visit from my Big Bad Sister, Jessi. She was the first person I had seen from home since I left the real world ten months ago, and we had a blast. She bounced around New Zealand for a week before making her way down to Queenstown. Having Jessi around for a few days was the perfect excuse to blow a bunch of money on bizarre near death experiences. Our Sainted Mother made me promise to not take Jessi bungy jumping, so naturally that was our first stop. We caught a bus out to the historic Kawarau Bungy Centre (dating all the way back to 1988), which was the world’s first commercial bungy site. There is a museum there where you can learn all you ever wanted to know about the hallowed traditions of bungy jumping. A Kiwi named AJ Hackett was inspired by the strange rituals of the people of Vanuatu, who jump from towers with vines attached to there ankles to prove their manhood. Being a good Capitalist Honky, Hackett set up multiple bungy sites all over New Zealand and the rest of the world and is a millionaire now. I had already seen all that crap, so we headed strait for the bridge. They had a bunch of classic rock songs on rotation, all of them with words like “jump” and “fly” featured prominently. Jessi was the first to jump, and it was a little unnerving to hear Don MacLean singing “bye-bye, Miss American Pie” while my sister’s ankles were strapped to a cord dangling 142 feet over a river. No matter. She jumped like a champ and survived. So did I. That night, we went to see “Die Hard 4.0” (as it is titled outside the USA), which was goofy but fun.The following day, we went jetboating on the Shotover River, which was freakin’ awesome. Envision being in the fastest speedboat you can imagine going up and down rapids with jagged rocks on both sides of the river while your skipper does twists, turns and spins with spectacular mountain scenery around every corner non-stop for a half an hour and you start to get the picture. It rocked and I had a big goofy grin on my face the whole time. It was better than the best roller coaster I’ve ever been on. Kickass! That night, we took the Skyline Gondola to the top of Bob’s Peak and enjoyed a couple drinks as a snowstorm moved in. Pretty.On Wednesday, we woke up early to catch the bus to Milford Sound. I was a little wary of this since my original trip to Milford was, literally, a washout. Not this time. We had absolutely perfect weather with nary a cloud in the sky. On the same road where I last saw nothing but trees and the bottoms of waterfalls, I now saw the most awesome alpine scenery I have ever encountered. It was magnificent. Superlatives fall away in trying to describe Milford Sound on a clear day. Mitre Peak towers 5,583 feet over the ocean, with sheer rock walls from the snowcapped top to the watermark. All around us were green forests, waterfalls, and amazing rock faces. It is mind-blowing. Just go there, people. Thursday was hang gliding day. Jessi and I were picked up in town and taken halfway up the long, steep dirt road that leads to the Remarkables Ski Field. The hang glider dudes have a take off spot there with terrific views of Frankton, the Kawarau River, Lake Wakatipu and Coronet Peak. They put you in a goofy jumpsuit, harness you to the glider and tell you to run as fast as you can down the hill whilst holding on to the straps on their suits. It was fantastic and funny. Once second, you’re standing on the edge of a mountain, then you’re feeling the exhileration of flight, looking at the ant-like people and cars below, and trying to make idle chitchat with the dude piloting the glider (“so… how long you been in this line of work?”). The coolest part was when my glider dude made us do swooshing turns just above a bunch of trees. I think Jessi’s pilot did a few more of these than mine. Lucky. Landing was a bit less awe-inspiring as we touched down in a field of sheep shit. Poop not withstanding, it was about as cool a five minutes of my life as I can remember. I had to work that nite. No coffee was necessary. I had to work on friday, so Jessi went horseback riding in Glenorchy, which is a gorgeous little town up the lake that I haven’t made my way out to yet. Jessi said goodbye on Saturday morning and headed off to the first of four flights it would take her to get back to Boston. We had an awesome few days together and it was great to have someone from home visit. Now that I have most of these adrenaline junky activities out of my system (or, have they just entered my system…?) I can concentrate on working for the next few weeks. The weather is ever so slightly warming up, so living will be more comfortable. I am not sure what my next step will be, but I will be sure to let you all know. In the meantime, be sure to tune into the Rugby World Cup currently taking place in France, and support the All Blacks.

And no, I didn’t know that there was a Rugby World Cup, either. And Happy Birthday, Jess!!!

THE WINTER OF MY DISCONTENT

First off, I must preface the following entry with the declaration that I have been having an absolutely amazing time since I arrived in New Zealand last November. I have had more fun more consistently than I have had in many years. I am fully aware of how lucky I have been and continue to be. In a world full of poverty, war, disease, famine and oppression, I have had it incredibly good. Compared to your average blind Afghani orphan, mine is an incredibly privileged existence and I have absolutely no business complaining about anything. But this is my blog where I do what I want at no cost to anyone, so I’ll bitch ‘til the cows come home if I so choose.

Since I arrived in Queenstown nearly four months ago, I have encountered obstacle after fucking obstacle that has made life Goddamn frustrating. Not Darfur refugee frustrating, but frustrating. The Kiwi Dollar has gotten very strong, so my American money isn’t going as far as it was just a few months ago (not good when you’re living in the most expensive part of New Zealand). Queenstown is a tourist town with a steady influx of adventure seekers from around the world. From far and wide, people come for the skiing, snowboarding, bungee jumping, skydiving, legalized prostitution, jet boating, and hang gliding. A few blog entries back, I bemoaned the lack of bartending jobs, which forced me to pick grapes for the better part of a month in order to survive in some level of comfort. At every bar that I attempted to drop off my CV (that’s what the rest of the world calls a résumé), I was told that they weren’t hiring and that I should “come back in June.” Well, June came and went without me getting a single shift as a bartender. Soon I realized why. All those people who told me to come back in June should have added “and be a mildly attractive female, no experience necessary.” I was at a pool hall with some friends recently and asked the chick behind the bar for a Bacardi and soda. I got Bacardi Black and tonic water. I was tempted to see the manager and say, “I know she’s kind of cute, but she doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing and I need a job. Wanna hook a brother up?” Coulda, woulda, shoulda.

By the way, I have been lucky enough to try some Cuban rum. Holy shit, is that stuff good! Once Castro croaks, we really need to lift that embargo!

The only job I could get was waiting tables at a restaurant. I am pretty sure that my boss, an Australian, hired me solely because I am American. He told me “I love working with Americans because you guys understand service.” I wanted to correct him and say that we don’t understand service - we understand tips. New Zealand and Australia are non-tipping societies. There is no incentive for service industry people to put extra effort into their jobs, so your average waiter or bartender will give you pretty much the same standard of courtesy as a McDonald’s employee. Say what you will about America’s many flaws, but Goddamn it, we know how to run a restaurant. The host or hostess will seat you, the waiter or waitress will provide you with food, the bartender will fix your drink, and the busboy will clean up and reset your table when you are done, and you tip them accordingly. In New Zealand, the waiter or waitress will single-handedly host you, take your drink order, make your drink, take your food order, deal with the asshole chefs (why are chefs such dicks?), bring you your food, clean up after you, set the table for the next customer, and not expect a tip. Waiting tables in New Zealand sucks. Not only does it suck, but they are cutting back on my hours so I will have to get another job fast. GRRRRRRRRR!!!! I miss bartending!

A few weeks back, there was what New Zealanders call a massive winter storm. It was windy, the mountains were coated with snow, and about an inch or two accumulated on the ground in Queenstown. Chaos ensued. The local airport shut down for three days, something that hadn’t happened in decades. Snow tires are nonexistent around here, so drivers are required to put chains on their wheels when the white flakes start falling. This tore the roads to shit. Visitors to town had no idea about the chain requirements, so tons of them were pulled over and ticketed. They also couldn’t drive up to the mountains, so the ski fields shut down. This must be the only ski town in the world that shuts down when it snows. Since all the skiers were stuck in town, pretty much all they could do was hit the bars and get stupid. They did. There were record numbers of burglaries, vandalism, and public urinations. Yay, Queenstown!After the weather cleared up, Julia, my former flatmate from Paris, convinced me to try snowboarding. She assured me that since I know how to ski and liked surfing, that snowboarding would be no problem and that I would have lots of fun (I needed some). Never trust a French woman. I spent four hours falling, falling, and then falling some more. And I wasn’t falling on nice soft powder. It was rock fucking hard snow packed like concrete on the lamest bunny slopes imaginable. Back when I first learned to ski, I used to fall all the time. The difference was, back then, I was 11 and weighed about half as much as I do now. On several occasions I wondered if my pelvis had shattered. It hadn’t, but it still fucking hurt. Also, like Derek Zoolander, I am physically incapable of turning left. Think I’ll stick to skiing from now on.

I finally got out of Chateau Ugo. Thankfully, I never had to go to a hostel. Some wonderful new friends let me crash on their couch for 2½ weeks (!) while I searched for a new place. I almost wish I didn’t find my new place, because that couch was awesome. I had the whole living room and kitchen to myself, complete with fireplace, DVD player, broadband internet, X-Box 360 and a dishwasher. They even trusted me with their car! And rent free! I offered to buy them firewood and pay a share of the bills, but they refused. They were all fun to hang out with, too. I love them!

My new place is a cabin in a holiday park. I share it with a guy named Theo from the Philippines. He works days and I work nights, so I barely ever see him. I have a room with a full sized bed all to myself, thank God. There is no phone line, laundry, or internet, but we’ll survive. Miraculously, there is also no electric bill, so we can leave the heaters on day and night. You have no idea how much you’ll miss central heating until it’s gone.

Sadly, just before I moved in, I got a nasty sinus infection. I had no idea that my body could produce such vast amounts of day-glow green snot. Seriously, I could have bottled all the shit coming out of my nose and sold it as an industrial lubricant. It forced me to call in sick to work, something I haven’t done in years, just when I need hours the most. It also killed my three days off, each of which was spent at home with a stack of tissues, a Peter Jackson biography, and reruns of Tyra Banks’ talk show on the only channel with decent reception. A fine woman, that Tyra. I called the nice folks who let me crash at their house. It seems that half of them have caught my disease. That made me feel even worse. I am the fucking Outbreak Monkey.
So, my new mission is to find yet another new job since the restaurant is now only giving me two shifts a week. Those shifts will be five hours long at the most, and that just ain’t gonna cut it, even for survival money. Back in middle school, I enjoyed wood shop. The sconce and clock I put together still adorn the walls of my parents’ house. In high school, I eschewed wood shop for music and photography classes. Now I realize what an incredibly stupid decision that was. Had I advanced my carpentry skills, I could now be making $24 an hour in New Zealand. There is a shortage of skilled laborers in this country (tons of young Kiwi guys take off for Australia and elsewhere), and construction sites are crawling with well-paid foreigners whose only qualification is that they have some knowledge of woodworking. Why did I have to be all artistic and crap?!

So, dear readers, I hope you’re all enjoying yourselves. For those of you in the warmer parts of the Southern Hemisphere (Australia, Thailand, Argentina), enjoy the “winter.” For those of you in the God Ole Northern Hemisphere, enjoy the summertime and send me some warm vibes. In return, I promise to smuggle some Havana Club rum home for you. I’ll mix you the Mojito of your dreams. And go see “Knocked Up.” It’s funny.

THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY

PART I: THE GOOD

I needed to get out of town. There had been a series of annoying events in my life (more on that later) and a change of scenery was in order, so I hopped back on the Stray bus for a four-day loop around New Zealand’s southern coast. It was a relief.

First stop was Milford Sound. The ride to and from there was astounding. We drove alongside Lake Te Anau and were soon surrounded by mountains and rain forests. Eventually we encountered enormous walls of rock with countless little waterfalls cascading down into the valley. Awesome stuff.

Milford Sound was one of the four or five places I promised myself to see while in New Zealand. Above, you will see what Milford Sound looks like in good weather (I did not take this photo). Below, you will see what Milford Sound looks like in a deluge, which is what I encountered. Instead of giant mountains next to the sea, I saw thousands of raging waterfalls. The area has one of the wettest climates of the planet (roughly 20 feet of rain annually) and we felt every drop. I could only stay on our boat’s deck for a couple of minutes at a time for fear of destroying my camera. It was impressive, but the rain was a bummer. Gotta go back on a clear day.

That night we headed for the village of Tuatapere – the Sausage Capitol of New Zealand. We made a visit to a local farm where the owner demonstrated how to shear a sheep. I didn’t actually do it, but I got to hold a sheep down and then shove it down a slide into the “shorn bin.” It’s much more humane than it sounds.

Next morning we were off to Stewart Island. To get there, we took an hour-long cruise from the tip of the South Island. The weather was unusually warm (70s compared to 40s in Queenstown) and I contemplated taking a dip in the nice clean water. Too many sand flies, though. There is a tiny village on the island that reminded me of coastal Maine, but a bit more modern. I bet it is a nice place to stay for the summer. The island is actually quite large and undeveloped. I am sure that there are some nice long hikes to be had. Some of the other Stray people went fishing, so we had a nice big fish dinner. Yummy.

Early the next day we took the ferry back to Invercargill. I haven’t gotten seasick since I was 13, but I did that morning thanks to an empty stomach and the winds of the Roaring 40s. Once I got some food in my belly on dry land, I was fine. We spent the day driving through a beautiful area called the Catlins. I haven’t been to Ireland yet, but the Catlins resemble what Ireland looks like in my mind – impossibly green fields rolling gently towards a rocky coast. Very few people live in the Catlins, so there is little to spoil the beauty of the place. It was the perfect antidote to the majestic but imposing landscape back at Milford. We stopped at a beach and found a rather surly sea lion on the beach. She had a tag on one of her flippers and kept shooing us away with sand.

That night we arrived in the city of Dunedin (pronounced dunn-NEED-in). I had been sleeping on the bus and it was a bit of a surprise to wake up in a city. Many of the local people are of Scottish decent and there is a definite Scottish feel to the place (Dunedin is Gaelic for Edinburgh). There are lots of gothic buildings and gargoyles. Also in town is the Speight’s Brewery. Speight’s is one of New Zealand’s top selling beers, and we did a brewery tour. I didn’t pay much attention to the process, but we got to do a tasting at the end. Again, yummy. I liked Dunedin and wished that we had more time there, but we were off early the next morning. We made a couple of stops along the way. One was a beach north of Dunedin where there are weird boulders that resembled the alien pods from “Cocoon.” The dead stingray was sort of cool, too.

It was a beautiful but long drive back to Queenstown. We made one last stop in the town of Cromwell where there is a bridge over a great big lake. Our driver told us that Stray staff members all have to jump off the bridge during their training trips and that we should all do it. I was a bit hesitant, as the water was freezing and the bridge was about 30 feet up, but some Dutch kid and I did it anyway. Below you will see the precise moment when we hit the water. Several gallons of water went up my ass. It still hurts.

PART II: THE BAD

(No Photos Necessary)

Here on the other side of the world, it is winter. It is cold. Not Boston in January cold, but cold. As I write this, a flurry is dusting the trees outside with snow. The surrounding mountains are magnificent. Down in Queenstown, the annual Winter Festival is in full swing with parades, concerts and other events. The ski fields (down here they call them “fields,” not “slopes”) are open and everyone in town seems to be in a good mood… everyone, that is, except the residents of Chateau Ugo.

Chateau Ugo is the name I have given to the house I have been living in for the past two months. It is named for Ugo, the Brazilian guy whose name is on the lease. Every Wednesday, my fellow flatmates and I give Ugo our rent money and he delivers it to whomever it is that actually owns the house. At first, he seemed like a nice enough guy. He appeared to be a laidback dude with decent taste in music. The other residents of the house were cool, and the rent was ridiculously cheap considering the house’s location. I figured that I had lucked out and made a terrific find. How wrong I was. Simply put, Ugo is a douchebag.

The shit really started to hit the fan when the refrigerator broke down. The moment I noticed it, I alerted Ugo. Seeing as the fridge preserved the food of five people, including Ugo’s, you’d figure that he’d do the responsible pseudo-landlord thing and call the refrigerator repair shop the next morning. Nope. For two long weeks, we went without a fridge. All of us had to completely alter the way we shop for food, being careful not to purchase perishables. I pressed Ugo on this issue several times. You’d think that in the age of cellphones he could have made a simple call on his lunch brake and have the whole situation solved, but no. I was the one who actually called the repair place to make an appointment. That appointment was eventually cancelled when Ugo decided to rent a new fridge instead of fixing the old one. Since all of us had to throw away a bunch of food, you’d think he might compensate us monetarily. Nope. Not only did he not give us anything, he decided that it made sense to charge us an extra $5 per week for the privilege of having a working fridge. We bitched and moaned about this, but he wouldn’t budge. Dick.

During the same time period, we ran out of firewood (I know that I griped about this issue in my last post – deal with it!). Neither central heating nor proper insulation come standard in New Zealand, so a regular supply of firewood is necessary to keep the house warm. We had no wood for two weeks and could see our breath in the living room. You think Ugo made the call for the eventual wood delivery? Of course not. That was left to Ivan, our other Brazilian roommate who was smart enough to jet off to Fiji because he was sick of Ugo’s shit. And it was I, not Ugo, who stayed home to receive the wood delivery when it actually arrived. Oh yeah, I was there to receive the $5/a week fridge, too.

Once Ivan left, Ugo decided that he needed to have another one of his countrymen in the house. Enter Jose. Jose was a nice guy. Another Brazilian, he was about 6’2” and had a gut that could gestate triplets. Unfortunately, his grasp of the English language was even worse than Ugo’s. Seriously, he didn’t speak a word. Verbal communication was impossible. At least with Ivan, I could talk. Living with Jose was akin to living with a Samba-obsessed Teletubby. Jose left a couple of weeks ago and was replaced by Tiago… Jose’s brother. Seemingly every night, we get a steady stream of Brazilians coming over to party with Ugo and Tiago. Guitars, smoke, and the Portuguese language blast through the halls ‘til the wee hours.

All this has taken its toll on my fellow housemates and me. Max (from Argentina) is leaving for Tahiti on Thursday (lucky bastard) and can’t wait to go. Julia (from France) has had it the worst. She’s been here for six months. Before I arrived, she had arranged to share her room with a female friend of hers from back home. Two days before the girl was to arrive, Ugo moved Ivan into the room without saying a word to Julia about it. Who knows what happened to her friend? One day, Julia closed a door a bit too loudly for Ugo’s taste and he threatened to throw her out on the street. Had he actually done that, I would have called the cops immediately. As usual, he was all talk.

The last straw was yet another goddamn issue with the refrigerator. Ugo tried to convince Julia, Max and me that since he bought the original fridge himself (which is laying dormant on the porch) and that it broke down while we all were living here, that we each owed him $40 because all of us could have done something to bring about its demise. Bull…….shit. We all refused. Julia and I both gave him our two weeks notice and announced our intent to leave the house. Julia is perfectly content to live in her car (she did it all winter last year) and I would rather be in a hostel than put up with this crap anymore. Since we gave our notice, the house has gotten even more Carnival-esque. I met the dude who will replace Max as my roommate. Three guesses which country he’s from. With all due respect to the millions of decent Brazilians out there (what’s up, Gaya!), if I wanted to party like I’m in Rio each night, I would have skipped New Zealand and stayed in Framingham.

I’m sure that it will improve around here, but man, it’s taking a long damn time! It’s been more than two months since I arrived in Queenstown, and I just now am starting a steady job! Starting this week, I will be waiting/bartending at a restaurant in town. I still might have to get another side gig to keep the money flowing. I’m looking at other flats now, and they aren’t cheap. It will be a massive relief when I get one. Expensive or not, it will be worth it.

PART III: THE UGLY

Behold John Travolta in "Hairspray." L. Ron Hubbard almighty!

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN(STOWN)

It has been more than a month since I arrived in Queenstown. It has been occasionally fun and often frustrating. As I wrote in my last entry, I arrived at an awkward time to be job hunting. This is a ski town and the snow won’t arrive until June, so most places are not hiring seasonal employees just yet. It will be a big relief when they do! Until then, I shall continue to do the temp jobs that have kept me busy over the last few weeks.

My primary temp job has been picking grapes on local vineyards. Lots of you at home have asked me about this - Is it as beautiful as I imagine? Do you get to stomp the grapes? What kinds of grapes? Which wine label? Do you get any free wine? What are the working conditions? How do they treat you? Does this give you any insight into the plight of the world’s migrant workers? And so on…

Here’s the deal. Most of the vineyards I worked on were about an hour outside of Queenstown, so I usually woke up at about 5:30AM and walked into town where my fellow workers and I were picked up in vans and driven out to the vineyards. Once we arrived, we were given buckets and pruning shears and proceeded to walk down the enormous lines of vines snipping off the good grapes, and then dumping them into huge tractor bins. We got three breaks over the course of the day and then were driven back to Queenstown. Not much to it, really. Almost all of the pickers were other travelers and I had lots of interesting conversations with people from all over – the USA, England, Scotland, Chile, Brazil, Uruguay, France, Japan, Israel, Mexico, Italy, Argentina, Germany and other spots. It was nice to be working outdoors and usually the locations were usually quite pretty. We picked Pinot Gris, Pinot Noir, and Riesling. Riesling was the worst because they burst easily and made everything sticky. Oh, yeah. No grape stomping or free wine. Frosty mornings weren’t much fun either.

Most of the picking was for Gibbston Valley Wines and a couple of other winemakers. The owners were nice, for the most part. One of them was a guy from Providence who came to Queenstown to ski twenty years ago and never left. He had an interesting habit of wavering between his native Rhode Island accent and his adopted Kiwi one. On my last day we worked at a place closer to town where the owner was a bit of a dick. He and his daughter micromanaged everything to an insane degree. We were discouraged from talking too much, as it would slow us down and it was costing him a lot of money (minimum wage) to give us the privilege of picking his grapes. He even fired an English guy because his picking method was a bit too efficient when compared to his own. Turd.

As for gaining insight into the plight of migrant workers… well… every job I have had since college has only lasted a few months. Only one had health benefits. Work has taken me to the mountains of New Hampshire, abandoned insane asylums around Boston, the Mojave Desert, the sprawl of Los Angeles, the streets of New York City, and now vineyards in New Zealand. I haven’t had a room to myself for seven months. I’m short, tan, and can speak Spanish. Who are we kidding? I AM a migrant worker.
The harvest is done for the year, so I’ll continue doing temp jobs until places start staffing up. I spent last week working in a timeshare complex where I had to clean and then reseal the coating on stone tile floors. That sucked. I also had to replace about twenty beds and mattresses. That was an easy gig, but it made me realize how weak my arms have gotten over the last few months. Overall, I have lost some weight and my legs are strong from walking everywhere, but whatever upper body strength I had before (granted, there wasn’t much) has gone to crap from lack of exercise. Gotta start doing pushups or something.

My house is interesting. I am the only native English speaker. My roommate Max is from Argentina, but his family is from the blondest corner of Austria. I get to practice my Spanish with him, which is cool. Also in the house is Julia from Paris who is never home much and two Brazilian guys, Ugo and Ivan. Ugo is our landlord and is into music in a big way. Ivan has traveled all over the place and speaks English, Spanish, Italian, and probably a few other languages. He is a concierge at the nicest hotel in town and has lots of interesting stories about the super-rich guests that stay there. With the exception of illegal drugs, he will hook the guests up with whatever they request. This includes whores, as prostitution is actually legal in New Zealand. Every big town has at least one brothel, and there was a funny article I read recently about a formerly quiet, churchy mountain town that has now turned into a low-rent sex resort. And no, Mum, I haven’t partaken.

My house is also very cold. Apparently, Kiwis do not believe in central heating. Every house I have seen in Queenstown has a wood burning stove in the living room, space heaters for the bedrooms, and very little in the way of insulation. Problem – we just ran out of firewood and it will take a few days for a new delivery to come in. Also, I don’t have a space heater for my bedroom yet so I have to get bundled up in my sleeping bag. Having just enjoyed two summers back to back, the cold is kicking my ass and it’s gonna get colder.
As for Queenstown, it has its charms and its annoyances. For scenery, it is hard to beat. The mountain views are stunning, and will be even more gorgeous once the snow arrives. All the crazy adventure activities are at my fingertips, but I haven’t had the time or money to enjoy them yet. The cultural breakdown here is quite different from other spots I have been. The farther south you get in New Zealand, the whiter it gets (unless you count all the Brazilians). In the five weeks that I’ve been in Queenstown I have met tons of travelers and immigrants, but sadly not many locals. I miss the Maori influence that was much more dominant up north. Sometimes it feels like I could be in any ski town in the world and not necessarily New Zealand. There are way more Americans down here than I have met elsewhere in New Zealand, which is actually kind of nice. Sometimes it’s a relief to hear another voice like mine that doesn’t give a shit about soccer, rugby, or (most especially) cricket.
I’ve been hanging out with a lot of Brits lately, and I’ve made some interesting observations. These people have a deep, passionate love for the song “Mr. Brightside” by The Killers. There has not been a single night I have been out on the town where I haven’t heard it played at least seventeen times to the delight of Her Majesty’s spastic younger subjects. I am not a huge Killers fan. They have some good songs and the lead singer’s got a decent voice, but they’re a bit too Euro-synthy-prettyboy-dandyish for my personal taste. Like most people, I assumed they were British upon first hearing them, so I suppose it makes sense that the Brits love them. When I learned that they’re actually from Las Vegas, I was quite surprised. I’m not exactly sure what I expected a band from Las Vegas to sound like, but it wasn’t The Killers. Anyway, I think I could live a very happy life without hearing “Mr. Brightside” ever again.
The Brits (and really the entire Commonwealth) have a similar affection for the movie “American Pie.” I like “American Pie” just fine. It’s a funny movie. I even saw “American Pie 2” in the theater. I didn’t bother with “American Wedding.” I assumed that the world’s appetite for the naughty sexual hijinks of American teenagers had been satisfied. How wrong I was. At my local video store, I counted no less than five “American Pie” movies and they were all rented out. I asked my English buddy Xander why they love these movies so much. He’s a little younger than me, and he said that it was the first time he’d seen a funny movie about teenagers having sex. Granted, I have seen more movies than most sane people and was born in the 1970s, which makes me old, but have “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” and all the lame teen sex comedies that followed it faded so quickly from the zeitgeist? Don’t young people today know that Eugene Levy walking in on Jason Biggs having sex with a pie is just an echo of Phoebe Cates walking in on Judge Reinhold pleasuring himself? Or that Sean Penn used to be funny? It’s all very sad. Anyway, so passionate is the former British Empire’s craving for all things “American Pie” that any movie that has horny teenagers doing funny things (i.e. “Eurotrip”) gets billed as “in the spirit of ‘American Pie.’” Surely there are horny teenagers in England. If they love these movies so much, why isn’t there an “English Pie” franchise?

So, yeah. It will be a big relief when a steady job comes along, not only so that I can enjoy all the crazy stuff in Queenstown but also to let me see some of the other spots nearby. It’s less than a two-hour drive to Milford Sound, which is very high on my list of places to see, as are Glenorchy, Christchurch and Dunedin. Until then, I’ll just keep on keepin’ on and searching for firewood.

FINDING NEVERLAND

I know, I know. Almost a month with no updates. Shameful. I’ve been kinda busy.
The first of April was a busy day. I got up early to catch the 8:30 ferry from Wellington to the South Island. The weather was nice, and I got lots of pretty pictures of the harbor, Cook Strait, and the fantastic coves and forests on the way into Picton. The whole trip took about three hours. I picked up the Stray bus, and a quick stop at a winery we were off to Abel Tasman National Park.

Remember “Hook,” Steven Spielberg’s flawed attempt to update the Peter Pan story? One thing that always bothered me about that movie, even as a 13 year-old, was how artificial the Neverland scenes looked. The sunlight wasn’t natural and the sets… well… they looked like sets. The design team obviously put an enormous amount of work into creating them, but I was always conscious of the fact that the whole thing was built and filmed on a soundstage. It never came to life for me. In my imagination, Neverland was a lush, beautiful place with sparkling waters, green mountains, and little coves filled with sexy mermaids - not some art department wank-fest. In my imagination, Neverland looks like Abel Tasman National Park.
The park is named for the Dutch explorer Abel Tasman, who is credited with being the first European to spot New Zealand. The waters of the park are an amazing shade of translucent green. There are dozens of little islands and coves, all covered with lush greenery. Imagine the coast of Maine with its craggy rocks and rolling hills, but with swimmable water and you start to get the picture.

I did a four-hour hike with some of the people from the Stray bus – a young couple from England, a girl from Scotland, and a girl from Canada who was undoubtedly most hyperactive human being I have encountered in my 28 years. She was sweet, but she was so relentlessly perky that I wanted to suffocate her with my quick-dry towel. I managed to enjoy the hike anyway. We walked through the coastal forest and met up with a catamaran in a gorgeous little inlet. When we first stepped on the beach, I spotted a stingray in the water. After a quick lunch, we went sailing, which was terrific. The weather was perfect.
The next day, we headed down the spectacular west coast. Lush does not begin to describe it - lots of big mountains, forests and crazy rocks for the surf to crash upon. After an overnight stay in Barrytown (there was a pub and a place to make your own knife, but no town to speak of), we headed for the town of Franz Josef and its glacier. With the exception of flying over Scandinavia and Greenland on my way back from Russia ten years ago, I had never seen a glacier before. It was pretty damn cool (no pun intended). It looks like, well… it looks like a giant river of ice flowing down a gorge. You know, something you want to climb!
So, yeah. I climbed a glacier. After being fitted with special boots, crampons, and a supercool ice picks, myself and eight others were guided up the… um… the glacier (sorry to keep using the word “glacier” - it has no synonyms). It was surreal. Seriously, how often do people get the chance to climb a fucking glacier? The guide was constantly using his pickaxe to chop steps out of the ice for us newbies. We had to squeeze through narrow passages and sometime jump from one block of ice to another. Slipping in the wrong place could have sent us down into icy caverns where a dark, icy death was pretty much guaranteed. The higher we climbed, the narrower the crevasses became. We got stuck in one for the better part of two hours. The guide tried very hard to find a way out, but we eventually turned around and headed back down. Once we got back down to the bottom, the guide pointed out just how far up we had climbed - about ¾ of the way up. I asked him how high up he usually takes people. He said that he had taken our group up higher than any group had gone in more than a year. That felt pretty badass. I slept well that night.

Oh yeah. Peeing on a glacier is interesting. The blue ice makes your urine appear day-glow yellow. It’s like cartoon pee.
The next couple of days consisted of more spectacular driving down the west coast. It was beautiful, but with one major drawback – the fucking sandflies. Sandflies fucking suck, literally. They are horrible little gnat-like creatures that crave human blood. The second we hopped off the bus to have lunch on the beach, they swarmed us. It was impossible to enjoy the views, they were so relentless. Fuck you, sandflies!
I hopped off the bus for four days in Wanaka. Wanaka is a beautiful little town on the edge of a huge lake and surrounded by the Southern Alps. There were some great walking trails with some terrific views.I considered trying to find a job and flat there, but it was kind of dull and expensive, nice views notwithstanding. Instead, I opted to seek my fortunes in Queenstown.

Ah, Queenstown! Spectacularly insane Queenstown! Man, did I pick the wrong week to show up! Upon my arrival on the Tuesday after Easter, I was suddenly surrounded by hundreds of Americans. I had gotten used to being the only American in New Zealand. No more. Hundreds of American college students who were studying in Australia had hopped over to Queenstown for their Easter break. And they were not backpackers. They were rich kids who had come to party. Queenstown had turned into an Alpine Cancun. Fittingly, I went to a Mexican restaurant for dinner where I was instantly reminded of my first nights out on the town during my days at Cape Cod Sea Camps, the nights when a large group of loud and indecisive frat/sorority kids would take over a restaurant, change their orders twice, demand separate checks, and generally drive the wait staff insane with their stupid requests. Man, did they piss me off. In light of my country’s current standing in the world community, I try to do my best to be courteous, patient, and informed – you know, the things Americans aren’t supposed to be. It’s tough to do that when you’re surrounded by a bunch of spoiled douchebags doing their damndest to reinforce the stereotypes. GGGGGggggggrrrr! Frustrating! Anyway, the TriDeltas took off over the weekend, and my job hunt began in earnest. Thanks top its dazzling geography and location, Queenstown is the biggest tourist destination in New Zealand. The skyline is dominated by an aptly named mountain range called the Remarkables, the most jagged, gothic mountains I’ve ever seen. They are reflected in the waters of fifty mile-long Lake Wakatipu. The activities are endless: skydiving, bungy jumping, jet boating, canyon swings, horseback riding, helicopter tours, mountain biking, sailing on an America’s cup boat, and skiing in the winter. There are hotels, bars and restaurants all over the place. Getting a hospitality job should be no problem for an experienced guy like myself, right? WRONG! We are in the early months of New Zealand’s autumn (they don’t call it fall). The summer folks have left, and the winter crowd won’t show up for six weeks. Everywhere I went, people told me “Come back in June.” Given my current financial situation, that doesn’t really work. I will most likely have to pick grapes on a vineyard or do hotel housekeeping for a few weeks until the town picks up a bit. What illegal Mexicans are to America, backpackers are to New Zealand.

At least I found a nice flat. It is a ten-minute walk from town, and is actually cheaper than my former digs in Taupo. Cleaner, too. I share a room with a guy from Argentina. Also in the house are two Brazilian guys and a French girl. They all speak English, which is a plus. The house is very quiet, so far. Kind of boring, too. I’m sure that I will have lots of fun around here once things get busy. Until then, I’ll just continue my current routine of dropping off resumes, admiring the mountain views, and perusing the local bookstore’s magazine rack without actually buying anything, which is exactly what I used to do in LA between film jobs. You can take the boy out of Hollywood, but you can’t take Hollywood out of the boy.

Speaking of Hollywood, I saw “300” a few days ago. It was entertaining, but so grotesque that I had to laugh out loud on several occasions where I think the director had intended me to be thrilled or titillated. Remember that “South Park” episode where they had a running tally of each time the word “shit” was uttered? Someone needs to do that with “300” counting the times the characters say “Sparta” (or, more accurately, “SPAAAAAAAAARRTAAAAAA!!!!). The movie never pretends to be realistic, and that’s part of its charm. Still, I have a funny feeling that ill-informed kids everywhere will believe that ancient Sparta was populated with a bunch of superbuff (and curiously blonde) dudes in their underwear who did battle with hordes of 9-foot tall Persian trannies and their mutant minions. Seriously, what was with that hunchback seduction orgy? There was actually an actor credited as “Transexual (Arabian) #3.” Jaysus! I hope he/she usues the success of "300" to launch a fantastic career. Allah knows that the world is craving more stories about Arabian transexuals.