Coffee Flitters

32nd Birthday Activities

2009-10-05T07:25:00.004+13:00

I've decided to try updating Coffee Flitters more regularly, and with more mundane activities since they probably mean more to you than they do to me. What I mean is, I get a kick out of reading about your daily routine. Whether it be where you decided to go for brunch, to your new veggie garden, to the funny thing your wee one got up to. Such tiny moments that you may not think are worth noting mean the world to me, so I figured maybe the street went both ways: maybe those things that I don't take the time to note are things that might make you all giggle.

Anyway, it's my birthday, so I'm going to go for a bike ride around the sea wall with Ami. I'll post another update with some pictures if I get around to it.

Oregon Trail, Interlude ::Pics Thus Far

2009-06-16T17:26:00.003+12:00

This is turning into a bit of an epic, eh? Here's it's been nearly a month since we got back from Oregon, and I'm only getting to the first night! Ha! What a crazy thing, Love is.

So instead of more tales of 'whoa,' I thought I'd post some of the photos we took of the trip up to where I've posted. Which is to say, Day One.

Click here to view our photos (so far) on Picasa.

Oregon Trail, Pt. 3, Astoria and Beyond

2009-06-11T17:19:00.009+12:00

For those of you who grew up in the 80s, you can probably guess by the photo where this is going. From the moment Ami and I drove into Astoria, I was haunted by nostalgia: I had seen this place before--or at least parts of it--although I had never been to Oregon, let alone Astoria. It wasn't until we had driven our van a few kilometers out of town, at a look-out point, that it all fell into place.

Astoria was where The Goonies was filmed.

If I had known how to back-flip, I would have done one. The Goonies! Of course! And for the next hour my long term memory high-jacked my short term and took it for a joy ride down memory lane. I quoted scenes and replayed actions sequences like I had just viewed the 'ol flick. We dubbed them "The Goonies Rocks." Partly because we didn't (yet) know what they were called, and partly because it was just plain fun.

The rest of the trip was kinda boring after that.

No, I'm kidding. This little hallelujah was a mere blip on the radar compared to the rest.

That night we camped an a spit called Nehalem Bay, and it made me miss New Zealand. Here's why. When Americans go camping--and I'm generalizing here, but it's my blog, and I can bloody well do what I want--they tend to bring their homes with them. To the modern Yankee vagabond, the idea of pitching a tent is repulsive. And why would you want to when you can hitch up a mobile apartment to your Ford F350? I remember when I was younger and my family would go camping around the lakes in Kansas: these people were there then, too. While we were hauling arm loads of driftwood and kindling from the rocky beaches of Fall River Lake, there were a half-dozen "campers" lighting their gas grills and watching TV. It made us laugh then, but I think it took Ami by surprise. We couldn't walk 10 meters without her muttering, "Jesus Christ," or, "Holy God Almighty," or "Oh holy Jesus Fu"--well, you get the point. It was a religious experience.

Since the campground at Nehalem Bay catered to RVs and trailers, the ground was mostly paved. Yet a short walk around the toilets and we were standing amongst dunes pocketed with marram grass and white sand, peering around dramatic cliffs toward the Pacific. Equipped with 40oz of Pabst Blue Ribbon ($2 each from the corner store!), we whiled away the evening singing country songs and snapping photos. For a moment, I forgot I was ever anyplace else.

Oregon Trail, Pt. 2.5, The Lazy Post

2009-06-03T16:33:00.011+12:00

I just took a cold shower. And I mean just now, not in the context of the Oregon trip. I took a cold shower, cracked open a beer, and promptly chopped it like I was at a college kegger. It's been that kind of day. I'd love to tell you more about it, but I think I was talking about something else here. Where was I? Oh, yes: Astoria.

Soon after driving over the Astoria-Megler bridge, I was haunted by a lingering deja-vu. It wriggled into my senses and hung there like a sneeze that can't decide whether to come or go. Was there something about the double-story homes: their proximity to each other, how they peered through the hill top pines? Or was it the angle of the street to the sea? I just couldn't put my finger on it. It was as though some distant memory was projecting the town against a screen like a slide show or a reel of dusty celluloid.

I kept driving. Astoria was behind us in a matter of minutes, but the answer to the mystery still lay ahead.

Oregon Trail Pt.2, The Reality

2009-05-26T14:17:00.011+12:00

In the Oregon Trail video game, the first thing you do is load your wagon. From what I recall, you need to ensure you buy plenty of essentials from the general store before embarking; things like axles, ammunition, and salted pork. You also need to buy a wagon and horses, the modern equivalent of which is renting a vehicle, which I did. But from the moment I went to pick up our car, I knew our Oregon Trip was going to be very different from the Oregon Trail.

First of all, nobody died of dysentery (I credit our trusty first aid kit for this one. Not that I had to use it, mind you. The simple fact a first-aid kit is near is enough to keep dysentery at bay). Secondly, our car was not exactly what we reserved.

We had booked the cheapest economy on the menu. On the website it shows a little Toyota Echo, but in fine print it says "or equivalent." This gives the rental company quite a wide berth, in my opinion, for what is the equivalent of an Echo? A golf cart? I mean, think about it: the very name of the car suggests it isn't so much a vehicle as the distant reverberations of a car that was. Luckily, they didn't have the tiny economy car we booked, nor did they have an equivalent. In fact, they didn't have anything save for a 7-seater Dodge mini-van. It was a 2009 model, so the back seats folded right into the floor. No muss, no fuss.

I know some folks would have been miffed at the fact they booked a rice burner and got a guzzler instead. Not me. All I saw in that minivan was reprieve: the bigger the cargo space, the less I had to worry about packing "neatly." When I got the car home I was packed in record time, needing only to fold all the seats down, open the side door, and, in heaping armfuls, load the whole kit and caboodle.

It was actually smooth sailing from then on. We didn't have any driving problems at all. Well, except at the US/Canada border where I was harassed for having avocados in the car. "You can't smuggle food into America," the guard said sternly. He didn't seem to agree with my assertions that, since the avocados were clearly labeled 'grown in California' I was technically just returning them. Oh well. We were down two avocados; at least we got to keep the pears (I implore someone to please explain this to me).

After staying with friends in Seattle (Nick, Pete and little Harper), we were on the road to Oregon. Our plan was to take the back roads and ultimately camp on Oregon's northwestern coast. We picked a spot called Nehalem Bay, both for its proximity to the beach and its proximity to Portland. Getting to Nehalem took us out to the southwest corner or Washington state. There, we cross the world's longest truss bridge and end up in Astoria, Oregon.

But it was in Astoria that things got weird.

Oregon Trail, Pt. 1: The Legend

2009-05-21T14:51:00.005+12:00

From the time we arrived in Vancouver folks have been telling us about the various must-sees of the area. Many pointed us to Stanley Park, while others took us out to some of the surrounding islands. Yet there is one place every Canadian agreed we had to visit: Oregon.

For me, Oregon found a home in my psyche when I was ten-years-old by way of a black-and-white, 2D video game, "Oregon Trail." The game was a test of courage, a measure of one's boyhood, and a glorious waste of time. It was also one of 30 games in a rotation for the entire fifth grade to use during Computer Lab; that one hour each Tuesday and Thursday when our sticky, prepubescent fingers meddled with the bits and bytes of fortune. Or, as was most often the case, when our under developed hands cramped up from repeatedly keystroking "control + open-apple + escape" on large, plastic-covered Apple II keyboards.

The games rotated every lab. Most of them, though, could hardly be called "games": disks with one single program meant to teach a skill: math, spelling, math, addition, subtraction, math. That's what I remember, anyway. I was always being handed 8-inch floppies with names like "Numbers and Grids", or "The Path for Math, Vol. 8." It's a wonder my math skills are so poor.

So, 26 kids in my grade, and 30 floppy disks to get passed around. Our teacher, we soon realized, had a mind-bending rotation system that involved a blend of quantum mechanics, multiple alphabets, and alchemy. None of us were certain whose turn it was to play Oregon Trail, so the long walk from our classroom to the computer lab often involved hushed, although vigorous and somewhat questionable, bouts of bribery. This was between the boys, mostly; the girls didn't seem to care about Oregon Trail, and I truly believe it was this fact alone that was at the heart of the divorce between Michael McHart and Christy Berry some 15 years later.

One only knew it was his or her our turn on the Trail when Mrs. Shaw delivered the floppy disk. Enveloped carefully in a green protective sleeve, the edges worn from hundreds of unfoldings, the disk descended as if by its own accord onto the table. I'm not sure Mrs. Shaw even set it down: rather, it floated from her freckled fingers as if magnetically drawn to the disk drive.

Legend was, nobody had ever reached Oregon. Ever. Some said it was impossible. Others, that there was a glitch in the game, and the moment you reached the border, it would freeze up, and you would have to re-boot. But real reason nobody had finished Oregon Trail was simple: it was impossible to beat in one hour.

Until one Spring afternoon when I did.

You're a Paean, Design

2009-05-01T05:33:00.003+12:00

A few months ago, my good (dare I say "best") friend Phil sent me a website layout. Phil, you see, is good at just about everything he does. He's not necessarily what you'd call a "natural" (although he has plenty of talent), rather he simply can't stand the idea of being second best. When he decides to learn something (a sport, a game, a discipline), he doesn't rest until he's mastered it. While I tend to stop at "good enough", Phil continues. He hunts his pursuits: tracks their movements, understands their nuances; chases them until they're captured, killed, skinned. He wears his abilities like fur: they are necessary, and they are trophies.

So when I need anything--even when I don't know exactly what I need--I will ask Phil because I know his passion won't allow him to respond until he's exhausted all avenues. I've asked him for website mockups before, and he's always delivered layouts beyond my expectations. Yet this particular design was different: I hadn't requested it. Phil had tinkered away at a new design for my own personal portfolio, and I'm using this platform to say "thank you."

I've spend the past month building the code. During lunch hours, on weekends, and in between projects I've engineered his design. Electrifying the body, so to speak. So if you have a sec, check out the new look at lovezapp.com and tell me what you think. And don't be nice. Be honest to the point of being hurtful; it's the only way it'll learn.

Having Friends Means Having Them Around

2009-04-24T04:30:00.007+12:00

Spring is spranging in Vancouver, and Ami and I have been busy entertaining more guests. For those of you just tuning in, our apartment in Kitsilano has been a regular youth hostel--and we couldn't be happier. The most recent lodgers were a pair of Kiwi girls visiting from Scotland: Deb, an old friend of Ami, and Charlotte. Due to our work schedule, most of the time the girls made their own way, but we were there to provide maps, bus tickets, and vouchers for various local attractions. We really liked having them stay, and we can't wait until Deb returns in October.

We also have more friends coming to stay this weekend. Jimmy K and Nicole were the other Kiwi couple who came to Vancouver to live, only to transplant to the far north for a more authentic Canadian experience (far north being Yellowknife, where the winter temperature is regularly between -20 and -40). I'm looking forward to hanging out with them this weekend. Even the most benign activity can go off the rails when we're with those two (see Darts post below).

I promised to tell you all about our trip to Las Vegas, but I haven't got the photos up on my Picasa album yet. Notice I didnt' say Facebook. I deleted my Facebook account last month, so I'm using Picasa to share photos now--which is better because you don't need a Picasa account to see the photos I've posted. So yeah: Facebook is soooooo 2006; Twine and Twitter are the new black.

One More Go on the Old Mountain

2009-03-19T16:43:00.005+13:00

One of the best parts of living in Vancouver is the easy access to snowboarding. Considering Cypress Mountain is only thirty minutes away, and also considering we paid for season passes to this very mountain, I'm a little disappointed we only went snowboarding a few days. So when a Spring blizzard blew through BC, we made our best effort to have one more go before the park closed.

Snowboarding with Ami has always been a challenge. Her skill level far surpasses mine, and it's no wonder: she's been on either skis or a snowboard since she was seven. My Kansas childhood spent ice skating the frozen streets of East Wichita doesn't quite match her years on the snow. I've been chasing her since I strapped in to my first snowboard on Coronet Peak in 2004. Five years on, and I can follow her down the mountain just about anywhere.

Spring is a breath away. I promise to boost my efforts on blog updates from here on.

Check out a few choice shots of this season's snow activities.

Darts with Tama, Jimmy K, Nicole, and Ami

2009-02-18T15:24:00.003+13:00

We've recently hosted a few friends as they've wandered through our neck of the continent. After Christmas, Holly and Scot (Ami's sister and her husband) stayed with us for ten days. With them we tried to head up Cypress Mountain as much as possible, and even made a special trip to Whistler to get in even more snowboarding.

Next was an ex colleague of Ami's, Anna Marie, and her friend Amanda. The pair have spent the last year seeing as much of Canada as they can. Coinciding with their trip as our friend Tama from Wellington, and during his stay two other Wellington pals: Jimmy K and Nicole. It was with these last three that we went out on Valentine's Day for a night of darts and drinking. It troubled us many times during the evening why people would provide us with first alcohol, and then sharp projectiles.

The movie was inspired by Jimmy K, who also chose the song (Beastie Boys's "Sure Shot"). Enjoy.

Winter Wonderland

2008-12-31T08:33:00.003+13:00

Christmas 2008 was epic. And I mean epic in the true sense of the word, not like how snowboarders and ultimate frisbee players use it. The holiday kicked off on 14 December when my mother, father, and younger brother Peter flew in to Vancouver from Dunedin. Twenty-odd hours on a plane didn't seem to affect them because they were eager to partake in all the outings and sightseeing that I'd planned: shopping in Gastown and Chinatown, an evening at the botanical garden to see the light festival, strolls through Stanley park, a day at the aquarium, and snow shoeing on Cypress Mountain. In short, lots and lots of walking.

While they were only visiting for a week, I managed to capture a few highlights before we all flew to Kansas. Enjoy.

To Do, or Not to Do. That's Not Really a Question.

2008-12-05T16:36:00.005+13:00

I really should be working. Not that it's anywhere near office hours, nor am I even in the office, but I should still be working. There is so much on my proverbial plate that I'm running out of room for all the proverbs. Usually, I'd have a good excuse to procrastinate, and that good excuse is named Ami. "Oh, Ami's home. I can't work on this website anymore;" or "Whoops, accidentally met Ami at a bar, guess I'll have to put off the laundry;" or "Ami! Let's dance!"

However, I can't blame Ami because Ami is in New York. She flew out yesterday to surprise Holly and Scot who would have just arrived a few hours before her. They are on a long-overdue holiday and will be flying to Vancouver early next year to stay with us. The whole surprise operation was very Secret Squirrel. She told a few of her friends here in BC, but other than that it was hush-hush. It become increasingly difficult the closer she got to flying out, though. By the time she left for the airport I thought she was going to wet herself. Maybe she did for all I know. Hell, I did.

But back to my predicament--I should be working. Instead of blaming Ami, or the fact that we were entertaining guests (we just had a fantastic week with Ty and Dharlia), I'm just going to have to face the fact that I would rather be goofing around. Not that the work is boring, mind you. It's not. I got a paid gig writing for a web design blog and I'm gathering more clients through my new freelance business. There's a lot of good, solid work to be done. I just don't want to do it.

So while Ami is in New York, I'll be updating you on what's been happening these past few weeks. Aren't you lucky.

Not right now, though. I'd rather do something else.

Autumn Update

2008-11-12T16:13:00.007+13:00

Autumn is on its last leg in Vancouver. Everyone complains about the gray skies and dampness, but Ami and I have been enjoying it. Seriously. While others mumble and curse the frumpy weather, we smile at the fact the rain isn't coming in sideways. I'm in awe some days that our rain boots and umbrellas actually work. Unlike Wellington (or Limerick, or Wichita), you can go for a stroll in the rain and be confident that the only part of your body that will get wet is your feet (assuming you have an umbrella).

I've also been making large pots of soup for dinner--tonight was chunky potato, and it was so good I danced around the kitchen. We'll kick our boots off in the hallway, sit down for hot soup or chili, enjoy a bottle of wine or a few beers (or both), and get cozy in our little attic apartment.

Work is going well, too, although Ami's been pulling extra hours lately. She worked today (a holiday) and helped out at one of the stores on Sunday. She's tired when she gets home, but she'll be well compensated for it. Nood is giving her an extra day's holiday on 2 January, plus she'll be paid double for working on Sunday. Not bad. She also brought home a cool pot from Nood for all my soup-making needs.

I'm finishing up my work with Trader. I've been building the CSS/HTML layouts for their new real estate site. It was supposed to end three months ago, but they've kept me on until mid December. To be honest, I'll be happy when it's over. I've also been working on a new project with my friend Phil. He's works as a writer, but the boy has a very good eye for design. He's designed--and I've built--a new website for our freelance hub, Taft Media Design Group. Have a look. Tell me if anything sucks.

Winter may be long, wet, and cold, but with the number of friends and family members we'll be entertaining over the next few months, it'll be spring before we know it.

We look forward to seeing you all.

From Wichita to Denver

2008-10-27T15:10:00.007+13:00

I only had one cryptic email from Drew telling me how to get to his house. Normally, I would ask for clarification; something simple, like directions, maybe. But this is Drew, and clarity does not become him. "Take a bus downtown and get a beer at 'The Hornet.' I will find you."

This is Drew's way of asking me to stay with him for a couple of days.

Slipping into my role as 21st century Odysseus, I took this as my call to adventure. I found the bus, found the bar, and ordered a couple of pints. Here, I waited. There were a couple of free papers in a news box outside, so I grabbed a copy of "The Onion" and giggled through the articles with my glasses of Guinness.

One hour later and I hear sirens. In a large city, hearing sirens is unremarkable. But these sirens sounded like they were right outside the bar. I looked up to see an ambulance screech into the curb. Two men jump out and run inside the bar where I'm halfway through my third beer. It's all an act of observation until they rush over to me and grab me by the shoulders. "We got him! Go!"

This is how Drew picks me up.

I rode in the back of the ambulance (Drew's "office") for only 10 minutes, but it was long enough. When he dropped me off at his house off Lower Broadway I got to meet his girlfriend, Chrissy, and his friend, Dave. Both would be my accomplices in the revelry that would soon follow.

More to come . . .

Wichita and the Suepers

2008-10-22T02:58:00.005+13:00

I met Phil Sueper when I was ten years old. We started 3rd grade together and became immediate best friends. On July 15 2002, I boarded a flight to Ireland, telling Phil I'd see him "in about a year." Six years and seven countries later, I landed at Wichita Mid-Continent Airport. Phil was there to pick me up.

The trip from my new home in Vancouver to Wichita was one made primarily to see my best friend. We didn't plan anything--no trips, no nights out, and no "welcome back" parties. We sat around his house surfing the net, grabbing coffees, and telling stories of success and stupidity. It was like no time had passed.

I also got to experience Phil's gorgeous (and frighteningly intelligent) children. We played Wii sports, wee sports, hide-and-go-seek, and Trav's favorite game "where's Jamie's wallet?" This was way better than his other idea for a game: do passports float?

I'm flying to Denver in a few minutes, but I wanted to say thanks to Phil and his lovely family for letting me stay for the week. See you in about a year, buddy.

Thirty-One

2008-10-05T10:39:00.004+13:00

On the first of October 1977, I was putting my mother and father (but mostly my mother) through tremendous agony. Thirty-one years later and not much has changed.

To say my mother is timid would be like claiming Rambo is eloquent and precise. Her yearning for adventure and her nimble way around obstacles taught me a lot about value. Namely, that it's subjective. While I admire folks who can force their way to victory, obliterating confrontation, I tend to favor those who know when a fight just isn't worth it. So I would like to thank my mother for teaching me how to say "screw it."

My father, on the other hand, couldn't be more different if he were a piece of furniture (for which he's been mistaken on more than one occasion). His calm, calculated demeanonor not only saved me hours of math homework, but also saved himself hundreds of dollars of broken machinery. You see, dad's the kind of guy who reads the instructions. I, on the other hand, tended to force things into place and if they didn't go, I'd smash them with the nearest blunt object. For example, instead of letting me tear the air and oil filter from the old Chevy, he calmly showed me the correct way to use tools. So I would like to thank my father for teaching me how to "unscrew it."

Thanks mom and dad; if it weren't for all your screwing, I wouldn't be here.

Camping on Saltspring Island

2008-09-11T14:17:00.005+12:00

Our friends Anne and Ben invited us to go camping with them on Saltspring Island. They are, for lack of a better term, our besties in Vancouver. I first met Anne when she came to visit us in Wellington last year, and it was she who welcomed us to BC by giving us her spare room until we found an apartment. Anne and her partner Ben are also the proud owners of a 2008 human female named Chloe. So I suppose we went camping with Anne and Ben and Chloe.

But this is not a story about Anne and Ben and Chloe.

Ami was particularly excited to camp on the island because of the lack of bears. This was before she learned that bears often swam over to the boat docks. In fact, a man was mauled just yesterday. This would be the third time we narrowly missed being attacked by bears. And by "narrowly missed" I mean "we camped in an area where weeks later a bear was sighted." Close call, that one.

But this is not a story about bears.

The ferry to the islands left from Tsawassen port, southwest of Vancouver. It took just under an hour to cross the Straight of Georgia, weave through the narrows of Mayne Island and Parker Island, and come to rest at the dock between two spits of land where Long Harbor Road comes to a dramatic end. Once off the ferry, Ben drove to the camp site on the southern coast near Beaver Point.

The rest is normal camping fare.

We took turns cooking: Ami and I made green Thai curry; Anne and Ben whipped up some awesome burritos. In various areas around the campgrounds, there were communal fire pits. We joined one on the first night--when there were still dozens of holiday makers staying on the long weekend--and on the second we made our own.

In between bouts of eating (because when you're camping, that's how you measure time) we hiked the length of the small island. There was an historic farm near our campsite, plenty of secluded beaches, and more wildlife than I expected. Once, the forest cleared and we saw that we walked near a small, still lagoon. Grass the color of lion's fur grabbed at our knees. All around us there buzzed dozens of giant dragonflies. They would zoom, hover, and chase each other and seemed to take no notice of us. Indeed, as we walked back into the woods I glanced back to see them continue their confounding aerobatics just as they had done before we got there, and as they would keep doing long after we were gone.

There were coffee breaks, brief swims, constellation spotting (that one? That's Sessimadarian. And over there? I think that's Orion's nose.), and even a bottle of champagne. Anne and Ben will be returning to New Zealand soon. We're very happy to have shared this brief moment with them.

View more pictures of the trip here.

Blessings From the Great North American Hamburger

2008-08-26T04:15:00.006+12:00

Yesterday, we (Ami, Jess, Jimmy K, Nicole, and I) went out for hamburgers. It was as much for an evening meal as it was a reward. Reward for what, you ask? Well, for one thing Ami and I started a new budget this month, and while I could fill whole megabytes worth of blog space with details, I'll just tell you it's forced us to reduce many of our favorite luxuries to a minimum (vodka, shoes, records) while completely culling other luxuries (lettuce, blankets, electricity). Furthermore, Ami has enjoyed a successful month at work, and I've been training for a marathon. All in all, we deserved a reward; a reward that came in the form of 1/3 lb of organic beef, sauerkraut, onions, cheddar cheese, and bacon.

Glory--oh, meaty fist from heaven. Oh, blessed beef chunk, how cradled between the loving, toasted hands of sesame'd bun. What god or goddess do we thank for this juicy grilled glob? Vicious hunger: be vanquished by this mighty meat of valor!

And it was so.

Camping at Greendrop Lake

2008-08-08T03:46:00.002+12:00

Hike time: 3 hours from the road

Climb: 365 meters

Wildlife: Bears x 1 (heard, not seen), Hummingbirds x 2, Marmot x 1, Chipmunks x 50, Ducks x (aw, who cares about ducks)

Injuries: Ami got a splinter that, five days later, I'm still hearing about

Have a look at the photos.

Zombies Are Dead. Long Live Zombies!

2008-08-02T04:29:00.004+12:00

I love zombies. Well, I love zombie stories. Loving real zombies, even in a Platonic manner, would inevitably lead to heart break (and head break, and leg break, and intestine break). And while the books and graphic novels are arguably more entertaining than the movies (I still think the Dawn of the Dead remake and the 28 * Later movies are the best to date, regardless of the "zombies don't run" arguments), I will always grab a zombie flick when we go to the video store, much to Ami's annoyance. But even Ami has to agree that my zombie outfit for Halloween last year was top notch--complete with blood-squirting severed arm (red silly string can wrapped in a shredded dish glove).

So when I find people playing with the genre, it fills me with glee. Here are two videos I've found over the past couple of weeks. One is Zombies reading Haiku poetry whilst in the background carnage unfolds. The other is Zombie puppets singing Dust in the Wind. I'm still giggling.

Zombies reading Haiku

Zombie Puppets Sing Dust in the Wind

When God Doesn't Want You to Go Camping . . .

2008-08-01T03:53:00.003+12:00

. . . she destroys the roads.

This weekend, Ami and I were planning to go hiking and camping in Garibaldi lakes, about an hour north of Vancouver. We bought a new tent, new sleeping rolls, new bags; Ami bought new boots--we were set. The weather was going to be perfect: warm and sunny. It was a three-day weekend.

And then the mountain collapses. Typical.

The Sea-to-Sky Highway (aka hwy 99) is the fastest road north from Vancouver. There is another way, but it detours one hour east, and three hours north; thus turning a 1.5 hour drive into a 4 hour drive.

The miracle is that nobody was hurt. Nobody. On a road that just one day previous was backed up with 40,000 people going to an outdoor festival, 24 hours later there simply happened to be nobody around. When 16,000 cubic meters of rock crushed the road and piled up 10 meters, there was one bus carrying one passenger that was hit with one rock.

So today and tomorrow we'll be revising our plans and looking for a new place to break in our camping gear.

Fireworks, As in Everybody Loves

2008-07-27T05:43:00.002+12:00

I love fireworks. I understand this is like saying "I love oxygen" because the number of people who don't love fireworks could cram in Phil's old Suzuki. Still, I love them. I love the anticipation leading up to the event: the common awareness that something is about to happen. I love that we all know exactly what is going to happen, yet we still mark our spots on the lawn with giant blankets in order to see it better. And, of course, I love watching explosions.

Leopard v. Crocodile

2008-07-23T03:27:00.002+12:00

A few weeks back my good pal Phil posted a bit of a noodler. Specifically, who would win in a fight between a 70lb young puma and . . . you? The context of Phil's post was a historical series of conversations between he and our colleague and friend, Clint. Besides being Phil's office mate, Clint also happened to be to the only member of the Wichita clan to work with me in Ireland. Clint and I had many conversations similar to the one Phil writes about.

The most troubling aspect of such conversations was their hypothetical nature. He and I would sit in the Netg Ireland lunch room and argue for hours (no joke) while drinking awful, awful instant coffee: baboon vs eagle; alligator vs. shark; baboon vs shark; baboon vs drunk baboon. You see the pattern. Nothing was ever resolved, and we would walk back to our desks with a blood/caffeine level so high it should be illegal.

Yesterday, I stumbled upon a video that will shake things up even more than instant Irish. This video--a series of photographs, actually--depicts a leopard attacking a crocodile. Normally, the inverse happens: a young, Christian-minded leopard is strolling the edge of the watering hole and pondering how he can make a difference in the world when SNAP out of the murky depths jumps an evil croc, dragging the poor cat to his death.

Well, not this time.

This is the Law

2008-07-19T05:48:00.003+12:00

Every dog owner in Vancouver is required, by law, to provide their pets with regular enemas. This sign is proof.

Mt. Seymour

2008-07-17T07:57:00.004+12:00

It's been a week now since Ami and I hiked Mt. Seymour, but the stillness of its snowy trails still haunts me. What we thought was going to be a leisurely meander through the forest ended up a slippery slog around the mountain's cross-country ski trails. To say we were "unprepared" would be like saying The Incredible Hulk can be "a little feisty". To our credit, we managed to bring a couple extra layers--including polyprops. This, of course, is Ami's doing. If it were up to me, we would have found ourselves with snow up to our Speedos.

So with snow pack between knee- and waist-height, we tried to step lightly. Careful as we were, Ami and both misjudged the thickness of the ice and plunged a leg into a rushing stream of snow melt. While I was wearing hiking boots, Ami's feet were protected only by light running shoes. I pointed this out many times along the way, to which she retorted with a list of my many personal flaws, sprinkled with the most colorful expletives.

Yet all the cursing and falling-through-ice-into-rushing-streams was soon forgotten when we reached our goal: the semi-frozen Goldie Lake. (mind you, we didn't know it was semi-frozen until we arried). There, we stood between evergreen trunks hugged by deep spring snow, looked up and saw fantails darting through branches. The only sound was their song and the distant stream, which from where we stood sounded like light applause. Although we were only 30 minutes outside of Vancouver, civilization was the farthest thing from our minds.

Check out more photos of Mt. Seymour.

Harrison Hot Springs

2008-07-12T10:48:00.004+12:00

It was Ami's idea to rent a car and drive to Harrison Hot Springs. I wanted to go camping. However, Ami patiently pointed out that we had neither a tent nor camping accessories. "Therefore," she concluded, "it makes more sense to rent a car, take a day trip, and be back home in the evening." I quickly rebutted that doing things that make sense does not come naturally to me. End the end, she got her way. We would day-trip to Harrison on Saturday, then drive to Mt. Seymour on Sunday.

In New Zealand, if you say "hot springs" it elicits images of bubbling hot pools of sulfur-scented water surrounded by forests of giant ferns. Well, either that or Rotorua. Either way, it's much more romantic than Harrison Hot Springs--or hot spring, since there was only one, and it was enclosed in concrete. The surrounding resorts pumped its water into their luxury baths, making the actual spring little more than a warm-ish pond.

Yet that tiny little body of water retained a quality I can only describe as dignity. One hundred meters away from the closest hotel, "the source" was pretty well ignored. Ami and I walked out to it on our way further into the bush. The rain was coming, so we didn't spend too long in one place. With the spring's calm water steaming on as it had (and will) for centuries, we disappeared into the old-growth forest and became, as far as we were concerned, the only people on earth.

View more photos of Harrison.

Foolishness and Frivolity

2008-07-09T10:50:00.007+12:00

In what could be the most trying months of my brother's life, emails and tweets of late have been written in a somber tone. We are concerned; we are serious. Yet more than anything, we desperately need some dim-witted jackass to make us laugh. I'm taking it upon myself to provide that touch of foolishness and frivolity because being a dim-witted jackass comes surprisingly easy.

Since arriving in Vancouver in late March, Ami and I have spent most of our time strolling the city streets, enjoying live music, and buying semi-expensive footwear. In short, we've been a couple of Townies. Fridays are spent with new-found friends at new-found pubs (not to be confused with Newfoundland friends or pubs), and Saturdays' afternoons are whiled away at the beach trying to remember where we went the night before, and why someone named Barnabus is pxt-ing us photos of his chihuahua wearing pajamas. We decided we needed to 1.) change our phone number and 2.) get out of town for awhile.

For anything and everything travel-related, Ami does most of the planning. She may ask my input once or twice, but she handles 90% of it herself. This may be because whenever asked I usually holler from the other room, "hold on a minute. I just need to run this dungeon with my guild." So last weekend, Ami planned for us two day-trip excursions into the wilds of British Columbia: Harrison Hot Springs and Mt.Seymour Provincial Park.

To Be Continued . . .

O Canada Day

2008-07-05T03:43:00.006+12:00

Tuesday, 1 July, was Canada day.

And while Americans celebrate their violent independence with the three Bs (Beer, BBQ, and Blowing shit up), Canadians commemorate becoming an autonomous collective in that great Canadian tradition: the line up. Nothing intrigues Canadians more than waiting their turn. From the busiest bar, to the loneliest hot dog stand--Canada is a queuing nation. So, as visitors to this fine country, Ami and I partook in the many line-ups Vancouver had to offer.

In the morning, we walked down to Granville Island, a peninsular knob that pokes into an estuary known as False Creek (all of this is in the middle of the city, mind you. I don't want anyone getting the wrong idea when I mention "island." In fact, if you were there, you wouldn't know you were on an island. In fact, you'd probably remark, "Oh, what a nice series of shops and cafes. And,oh--a boat!"). This area was host to many a line-up on Canada Day. We started with the pancake breakfast.

Okay, we skipped the pancake breakfast because we couldn't get out of bed. But just assume there was a massive line-up.

As we strolled along the old brick roads, we ooh'd and aah'd at the various queues on offer. The most popular culminated in either pastries or face paint (if children where involved, these often became one in the same). However, we only partook in the coffee line-up and the lunch line-up, though both made us feel very much a part of the culture.

Later in the afternoon, we found an open patch of grass by the beach (after waiting our turn, of course), and basked in both the Vancouver sunshine and the rare occasion that there was Vancouver sunshine.

Ironically, celebrating Canada's patient bid for independence made me miss the good 'ol 4th of July. Not so much the fireworks and "Explosive Summer Sale Events of the Year" as the people. Strolling back to the apartment, I caught sight of dozens of BBQs and house parties: good people just having a beer and not thinking much about anything other than what to put on their hamburger. Canada Day--like Independence Day--is little more than a bank holiday unless you have a bunch of friends to help you celebrate it.

So here's wishing all my Yankee mates a happy 4th. Miss you all. Now go set something on fire like a good American!

For a few more pictures, view the Canada Day album

Itinerary for my good friend Nick who is going to Ireland.

2008-06-21T04:09:00.004+12:00

Day 1: You're landing in Belfast. I'll consider this a white day because I've never been to Belfast. People tell me it's lovely, but since I've never seen it, I am going to argue that it doesn't really exist. Let's just get you out of there as soon as possible.

Day 1.5: Phew. That was close. Let's head to the west coast. You'll definitely want to start with Donegal. The Irish pronounce it as though it were two words, "Dunny Gall," and it receives the highest annual rainfall on the island. Considering this is Ireland, that pretty much makes Donegal the ocean. You may want to poke around Donegal castle, sample fresh mussels at a restaurant near the quay, or stroll the cobblestone streets lined with shops offering the best wool in Ireland. When you're done being a sissy tourist, you will want to find a pub. Any pub will do because Donegal pubs are the most likely to suddenly become venues for traditional music. You will be enjoying a quiet pint of the black stuff, listening to the chatter and laughter, when suddenly there's music. Fiddles, banjos, and an assortment of Irish instruments: the things just appear from under tables, behind booths, from the nether regions of woolly trousers. You won't leave until the sun rises.

Day 2: But the sun WILL rise, and we're off South to Galway, but on the way you'll make a pit stop in Sligo. William Butler Yeats is buried near here. It probably won't mean much to you, but I always visited his grave before leaving Sligo. And since I'm making the itinerary, you're stopping here, too. Like it or lump it. Eventually, you'll get to Galway. I think it's about a three or four hour drive from Donegal even though it's only 100 kms away. You will understand when you drive it.

Day 2.5: Galway forever struck me as a tourist town, but it's still lovely. Don't stay too long. We've got a lot of driving to do. When you leave Galway, head south, and take N67, the coast road toward Ennis. Follow the signs to the Cliffs of Moher, in County Clare near Doolin.

Day 2.75: Well, there they are. Cliffs. Neat, huh? All right. Off you go to the pub! Doolin's pub has remarkable seafood chowder. And beer. But that goes without saying.

Day 3: Holy crap! Day three, already? Quick, get in the car! It's only an hour to Cork. Go, man, go!

Day 3.13: In all of Ireland, Cork was easily my favorite city. It is a bigger, more populous version of the little towns. Not grimy and gray like Dublin, but not so small that you can meet everyone at the supermarket. Plus, Cork has the best weather.

Day 3.5: If you have any time, drive south to Cobh (pronounced "cove") or farther south to Clonakilty. In fact, drive to Clonakilty for breakfast and get the black pudding. This little town is famous for it. Kinda the Tuatapere of Ireland, but with more places to get drunk.

Okay, I realize this isn't so much an itinerary as it is a list of places I like. You're pretty much guaranteed a good time no matter where you go, though. Have fun, buddy!

Something Silly for Friday

2008-06-14T08:30:00.005+12:00

I'm afraid of number 4. Which one gives you the heebee jeebees?

Concentration, or the Lack Thereof

2008-06-12T04:19:00.005+12:00

I have always been easily distracted. From an early age, I remember feeling like everything was more interesting than what I was already doing. For example, one December in my early childhood, I was microwaving cheese--cheese and bread, to be precise (I loved melted cheese sandwiches when I was a kid: how the spongy white bread turned to rubber, the processed cheese oozing with every bite). My attention shifted from what I was doing pretty much right after I pressed "start" on the microwave.

Older, and still distracted, I have the luxury of blaming coffee for my infinitesimal attention span. Sometimes, I go so far as to drink too much coffee so that I have the jitters to prove that I've had too much coffee. Then, when someone looks over my shoulder and sees that I have a dozen different program windows open on my computer, I can just point to my half-empty cup and say, "Yeah, that's my ninth."

The problem is, no matter how much or how little I consume, my focus remains the same. Three pots of coffee? ADHD. No coffee for a week? ADHD. Imagine, if you will, a consistent, steady ship cruising calm seas. Now imagine that ship captained by monkeys in electric underpants. That is my concentration.

Back to the melting cheese story. Do you know what pulled me away from watching Wonderbread and Velveeta fuse into an as-yet-undiscovered chemical compound? The corner. Yep. The corner. I walked into the den, squeezed behind a big blue chair in the corner, and peeked over the top for no other reason than to see what it was like from there.

I was about to go outside and put sand in my pockets when I heard my mother screaming from the kitchen. That's how I usually knew my lunch was done.

For the Betterment of the Blogosphere

2008-06-11T04:03:00.002+12:00

A few weeks ago, I got back in regular touch with Phil (if Phil and I were characters in The O.C. or Spongebob Squarepants, he and I would be referred to as BFFs. Actually, if he and I were in Spongebob Squarepants, we'd be referred to as Jillie-Jelly and Poodle Pants). Since then, he's embraced the internet-o-sphere with great fervor: starting a hilarious and insightful blog, twittering, as well as sharing his life via Facebook.

Also recently, my little brother, source of wonderment and woolly knits, decided to post his thoughts on the internet in the form of one of those new-fangled weblogs.

Two great thinkers, two funny writers, both adding another level of joy to the universe that is the world wide web.

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad

2008-06-07T03:57:00.011+12:00

Today is the 40th wedding anniversary of Karen and Darrell Love, heretofore affectionately referred to as "my mother and "dude". 40 years ago they wed and began the greatest, most rewarding task of their lives: creating me.

Before that they were simple folk. My mother worked in the mail room of the Wichita Eagle Beacon, sorting out the checks from the envelopes that obviously contained cash, which found their way to the nether regions of her capacious bra. Dude toiled 9 hours a day in the Tawanda Mannequin Works, shaving raised creases off the plastic thighs of all big-and-tall dummies. It was Kansas. Life was plain, but it was good.

Good, that is, until he came to town one muggy, August evening; the blight of Sedgwick County: Chancho de Salsa.

Chancho de Salsa ruled the Wichita underworld with an iron wrist. He would have ruled with an iron fist, but he was born without hands--a deformity he was very sensitive about. He worked his way up the crime ring by telling people he was a skilled street fighter, and that he defeated anyone who got in his way until one day he was jumped by a dozen men who successfully relieved him of his appendages. The truth is that fighting--at least "fist" fighting--would have been very painful for Chancho, as his wrists were overly sensitive. So sensitive that the slightest breeze tickling his stumps would cause his knees to buckle and tears to stream uncontrollably down his cheeks. If you knew this fact, it would explain the mittens. But since most men were too terrified to ask, those knitted adornments on the wrists of Chancho de Salsa remained one of The Windy City's unsolved mysteries.

Chancho also had an eye for one Miss Teen Wichita; the Maiden of McComas; the lovely, Karen Gail Smith.

Late that summer, Karen started receiving Mysterious packages at work (Mysterious Industries was the company de Salsa used as a front to disguise his criminal dealings. They were Sedgwick County's second largest supplier of ball bearings and hair pins, but they also distributed cheese doodles to Wichita's north side. An odd combination, hence the name "Mysterious" industries. They used to be called "Ball Hair Doodles Inc" until de Salsa took over). Knowing their origin, and because she had her eye on someone else, Karen refused to accept the boxes of ball bearings, hair clips, and cheese doodles that were sent to woo her. This angered de Salsa, and he shook his mittened wrist nubs at heaven, vowing to destroy the man who had won the heart of Miss Teen Wichita.

Luckily, Dude was oblivious to the spectacle going on around him. He would whistle his little tune as he scraped piles of thigh plastic day after day. It was menial labor, so Dude would busy his mind with subjects that interested him, like time travel and knots. One afternoon, he got so distracted by his thoughts that he'd shaved the whole left leg off one of the mannequins. To cover his mistake, he shaved the right leg down to match and told his manager they had been sent a short person's mannequin by mistake. Reginald Hharrr, the manager of the mannequin factory and Dude's boss, wasn't so displeased about the midget mannequin that Dude had created as he was concerned about the massive pile of shaved plastic on the shop floor. Since shaved plastic was a key ingredient in cheese doodles, there was only one option: sell the stuff to Mysterious Industries. Reginald instructed Dude to sweep the plastic into a bag and deliver it to Mysterious Industries, a task Dude happily--and somewhat ignorantly--accepted.

But Chancho de Salsa was waiting. He knew Dude's job. He knew Dude's tendency to daydream. He knew everything about Dude, and he knew Dude would be arriving soon with a bag full of mannequin thigh plastic. Chancho de Salsa winced as he slid the knitted mittens onto his wrists--even woolen fibers irritated his sensitive stumps.

Dude arrived in the late afternoon, fighting the gusty winds as he gripped the plastic-filled bag. At Mysterious Industries, most of the employees had already gone home for the evening, so it was de Salsa alone who waited. Watching Dude walk naively up to the front door, de Salsa grinned. His only wish being the ability to wring his hands in diabolical anticipation. When Dude reached for the door, de Salsa bounded out.

"Ah ha!" Chancho de Salsa shouted, leaping wrist-mittens-first at Dude, "I have you now, Dude! You will never have Miss Teen Wichita! She's mine!"

The attack came so suddenly and startled Dude so severely, that he jumped backwards with fright, launching the bag of plastic shavings into the air and knocking the mittens from de Salsa's arms. Dude shouted his most forceful cuss word, "Gosh dang it!"

What happened next was never fully known. The bag of mannequin thigh shavings hung in the summer air like only a bag of mannequin thigh shavings can: briefly, before being ripped open by a severe gust of wind. That same gust blew the millions of sharp, plastic pieces into the face of de Salsa, and more importantly, onto his un-mittened wrist lumps.

The shrieks, it was said, could be heard as far away as the Flint Hills. And the pain that caused the shrieks drove Chancho de Salsa mad.

Later, the mayor came to the mannequin factory to award Dude with the keys to the city for ridding the town of the evil Chancho de Salsa. Dude smiled humbly, looked at Miss Teen Wichita, and uttered these famous words:

"Well I'll be . . . for heaven's sake."

Happy anniversary, mom and dad: hero and heroine of my own world, daring little fiction that it is.

I Can Has a Couch?

2008-06-06T06:37:00.000+12:00

Three weeks ago, Ami and I ordered a couch. Wait, let's go back a little farther. Six weeks ago, Ami and I moved in to our new apartment on West 1st. Our voices echoed off the bare walls as we walked from one empty room to the next. We had a bed, but little else. Considering we had just moved to Vancouver, Canada from Wellington, New Zealand, the lack of furniture of any kind should be understandable. Luckily, a friend of a friend gave us a futon and some dishes, or else we would have been eating take out on the carpet for weeks. So began our hunt for a couch.

Back in Welly, we had two gorgeous love seats. Ami's memory is a bit clouded, though, because she says "Meh, I didn't like them that much." She's lying; she loved them. Dark brown leather, classic square shape, hand-made in Wellington--just lovely. Needless to say finding something comparable in Vancouver was going to take more than a trip to Ikea (a place that, I've decided, is a portal to hell).

We shopped around for three weeks before finding exactly what we were looking for: dark gray upholstery, again the classic square body, hand-made in Vancouver, and with a chaise. I've never been so excited about a couch. I liked it so much I dreamed that the Jamie of 7 years ago suddenly appeared and kicked me square in the nuts. The store owner, Kareem, told me they would deliver it in three weeks.

Three weeks later (yesterday) I'm waiting outside the venerable Croatian Villa for the delivery van. What do you know, but he's right on time? Bang-on 5:00. Ben, a waifish boy of 23 years, springs out of the back of the graffiti-embellished van. Together, we begin to move the couch. First the cushions, and finally the 7-foot long base.

We soon learn a little something about the architects responsible for my apartment building, the Croatian Villa--they were all right-handed. How do we know this? Because they must have drawn the building plans with their left hands. Observe:

The back door only opens half way, meaning we must first move the couch into the hall, then shut the door to move it back through the hallway to the stairs (elevator? no such luck). At the door to the stairs we hit our first impasse: at no angle with the couch fit through. How did we get it through the back door but not this door? Because the door to the stairs is narrower. We flip, shuffle, lean, squirm, shove, curse, drop, lift, rotate, and curse some more. Nothing. Let's try the front entrance, I tell Ben. It means walking up one extra flight of stairs, but we don't have much of a choice.

I meet him at the front door. We get through the hallway to the stairs, tilt it perpendicular to the floor, pull the bottom through the door--so far so good--and I, on the inside of the hall to the stairs, begin to flip my side up so that it will stand. Impasse number 2: it won't stand. How did it stand in one hallway but not the other? Because the ceilings are different heights. Brilliant.

The couch never made it. In the end, we had to send it back to its maker. But not after trying to pull it up through the balcony door, three storeys off the ground. . . well, we considered it, anyway.

So, couch-less, we will host Molly (little sis) and JF for the next four days. The futon that once took pride of place in the lounge will become their bed. I foresee much time spend outside the apartment--hoping the weather holds out.

Here Be Falcons

2008-06-02T16:51:00.007+12:00

I noticed something odd on the way to work the other day (Well, I notice something odd on my way to work EVERY day, but that's because I take public transport . . . in Canada. . . on the west coast--seriously, if I get to the office without seeing a.) lap dogs in knitted jumpers, b.) ice skates, or c.) blatant drug deals, then it's probably Saturday, in which case I'll probably see something odd as I travel back home). Walking down the steps as I exited the Sky Train station in Burnaby, a woman was standing on the platform with a hawk on her arm. It was trained, obviously, and she was wearing a high-vis vest and falconer's gloves, so it didn't seem to be an accident (although I don't really know how a woman could "accidentally" wear a giant bird of prey on her wrist). Naturally, this piqued my curiosity.

In my head, she was part of an elaborate scheme by city planners to rid Vancouver of pigeons. In my head, she was merely one of a number of falconers who would soon be patrolling areas all over the city. In my head, the sky would soon be full of hawks and eagles instead of pigeons--those disease-ridden, rats of the air. In my head she was French . . . I'll just leave that one alone. But since "what happens in my head" and "what is real" are rarely even remotely similar, I decided to strike up a conversation with Hawk Lady.

It turns out she was part of an elaborate scheme by the city planners to rid Vancouver [Sky Train stations] of pigeons. She was one of many falconers working in the city, and I would no doubt be seeing many, many more raptors "patrolling" the skies. All this rattled off speedily in a bouncy, French accent.

Well I'll be damned.

Imagination, meet Reality. You've never met, but it turns out you have a few things in common, after all.

Nightclubbing

2008-05-28T04:30:00.010+12:00

On Saturday, Ami and I went to see The Presets. Since this is not Duck & Cover, I won't go into a full music review. Just know it was a dance gig: loud, thumping, sweaty. Having been to our fair share of clubs, we scrambled up the stairs to the top floor where we could gaze down at the pandemonium that is the Plaza at full capacity. Also, from that vantage point we could also indulge ourselves in a game of fashion police, which is decidedly more fun in Vancouver than it was in Wellington because of Vancouverites' remarkable tendency to wear Lycra.

Normally, gigs of this ilk kick off at 10pm and go until 1 or 2 in the morning. But this one was different. With a start time of 7pm, this was going to be the earliest show I had been to since turning 18.

When we got to the Plaza on lower Granville, the sun was beaming. We both mumbled back and forth how we'd rather be at the beach than walking into a dark dance pavilion. The upside of the early gig was that it was still light when we spilled out at 10. I ducked out first, skipping out on the last song due to the fact that I couldn't really hear anymore anyway. Although daylight still pinged the windows of Yaletown's apartment towers, Vancouver's night life was going full tilt. I sat on the curb waiting for Ami and observed: bunny-eared hen parties moved in gaggles, security guards paired up with police and strolled along the sidewalks like nervous lovers, strippers climbed out of white limos and disappeared into windowless clubs.

I refused offers of LSD, ecstasy, sex, cocaine, gay sex, and a few joints before Ami and Jess came out of The Plaza--I had been sitting there for all of five minutes.

I would like to say it was downhill from there, that we fell into a spiral of debauchery. I'd like to say I can't remember what happened next. But I do. We went to an after party in a small warehouse on the outskirts of town. Well, we stood in line for an after party on the outskirts of town . . . okay, we walked up to the line. We quickly scurried away when we realized everyone was between the age of 14 and 16. Ami leans to me and whispers loudly, "This is creeeeeepy!"

Luckily, Jess knows Vancouver. "There's a DJ at the Audio Engineering school," she says as she waves for us to follow her to her car. The only problem is that there were six of us by this time, and we'd all arrived in different taxis. Jess's car is a VW Golf. It was a tight fit.

Because the police were out in force that night, the drive to the next party involved a lot of sudden turns down back alleys, a lot of ducking down to make it look like we weren't sitting on each other's laps, and quite a lot of swearing. When we finally arrived, I got out of the car with a noticeable limp; noticeable because I was limping on both legs. Ami had been on my lap in the front seat, so one leg lost circulations, and the other . . . well, just know that I had my keys in my back pocket.

The party appeared to be in a small theater that had all the seats removed. On screen, some art-school crap flashed epilepsy-inducing , and in front of that some very good DJs mixed some very un-danceable tracks. Ami and I stuck around for about an hour, but finally left from sheer boredom. We felt bad because a.) we wanted to hang out with Jess, and b.) we'd paid $15 to get in (more than tickets to The Presets cost), and c.) we weren't tired.

Outside, the night was warm. We meandered down 2nd Street for awhile before hailing a taxi. Once home I sipped Spanish wine and waited for the sun to rise.

Seattle, Take Two

2008-05-23T05:19:00.004+12:00

Last weekend was, by definition, a long one. So we celebrated that great Canadian holiday (Victoria Day) by driving to America. Our friends Pete and Nic live there with their less-than-one-year-old boy, Harper, and we hadn't seen them since Holly's wedding. We spent the weekend shopping, driving, playing with Harper, driving, and looking for a place to park. Don't get me wrong: we had fun, but the fun was had with friends, and not particularly with Seattle. For being a haven for all things hipster and cool, the city itself is a pain in the ass.

Remember, though, that I'm not from Seattle. I've spent a grand total of 20 days there, so I probably just don't know where to go. The fact remains, though, that to get anywhere, you need to drive: the market downtown, Alki Beach, Ballard, Capitol Hill--none are within walking distance of each other. We spent almost as much money on parking as we did on gas.

That being said, we had a great time. Dakin cooked amazing hamburgers for us on Sunday night, and we managed to find some wonderful little shops. On the drive home, we stopped for pizza just outside Bellingham. And after that Ami got her first Wal-Mart experience. I showed her that, indeed, they do sell firearms there. Yet after a small debate, we bought tennis racquets instead.

At the border (need I remind you how they make me feel), I was worried about all the shopping we'd done. You're supposed to declare anything over a certain amount ($50, I think), and we'd spent about $500. The rules are to hand over the receipts, and pay some taxes. However, viewing this as a ridiculous restriction, I decided to flout it, and ripped off all the price tags, threw away receipts, and stuffed as much as I could in my suitcase (amazing how small you can squish pillows).

The border guard asks me when we drive up, "did you do any shopping?" I answer with a straight face, "Yes. . . we bought tennis racquets at Wal Mart." She giggled and waved me through. You see? I didn't even have to lie.

So why do I get the feeling that one day it will all catch up with me and manifest as one gimonstrous, epic fail.

Check out the pictures from our trip.

Bike Streets and Sky Trains

2008-05-17T04:04:00.008+12:00

Photo: my bike, in all it's orange glory

The sun is out again, which is always cause for celebration in this part of the world, and considering the fact it's Friday, I decided to ride my bike to work. This in itself is not blog worthy--I've ridden my bike to work for many jobs, in many countries (except Ireland because that way lies madness). This difference is two-fold: bike streets and sky trains.

Cycle lanes on a road I've seen, but Vancouver is the first city where I've experienced streets marked as cycle streets (expect photo documentation soon). There are even maps available that show all the bike streets from a bird's eye view. Ami is using such a map as I type to navigate to her office on 7 millionth street. I, however, work in Burnaby, a suburb so far away it might as well be a different city. Biking all the way from our apartment to my office would be like biking from downtown Wichita to Andover, or from Te Papa to Titahi Bay for the Kiwi contingent. Fortunately, Vancouver has something available to neither Wichita nor Wellington: a sky train.

::pause for OOOs and AAAs::

I won't delve into the local commentary on the relative benefits vs. the flaws of the service (no matter where you go in the world, someone is going to whine about something) because the sky train suits me nicely. I ride half the distance, jump on the train with my bike, and am whisked away: flying above the suburbs like Aladdin on his carpet, were Aladdin's carpet a 2-ton electric train with a maple leaf stuck to the side.

My bike is an old, standard cruiser that sat in a little Korean man's garage for 30 years. I'm quite confident that I'm the second person to ride it in its life. With its "safety" orange paint job, I'm like a giant road cone hooning down the street, which is good because people tend to stop for orange. I'll by flying downhill, blowing through intersections while cars screech to a halt. Even if they're not even on the same street, they'll slow down if they see me out of the corner of their eye.

"Why are you stopping, honey?" She'll ask.

"I saw something." He'll reply.

"Saw what?"

"Dunno, but it was orange."

Of Visas and Border Control, pt. 2

2008-05-04T03:51:00.006+12:00

If you've been following me on Twitter at all (on the left side bar), you'll already know how this story ends. Despite my pessimism, everything went smoothly at the US/Canada border. Well, everything but my rental car, which over heated when I was in line to re-enter Canada. Not a good first impression.

Some of you have been asking why I needed to travel to the border at all. The answer lies in the nature of the NAFTA work visa. Without delving too deeply into immigration law (with which I've becoming very familiar over the past six years), citizens of NAFTA countries are provided a fast-track, short-term work visa to other NAFTA countries, assuming, of course, they meet certain criteria. The best part about this visa is you just bring your paperwork to any point of entry, and they process your visa right there. Presto. In contrast, my New Zealand working visa took six months; permanent residency (counting all three application attempts) took two years. So, the option to apply for, have processed, and receive permit AND be home in tome for tea was refreshing.

Still, I was nervous.

Those who know me well (I'm looking at you P. David Sueper) know my penchant for bending the rules. My plight for a Canadian work visa was no exception. Again, I don't want to bore you with details, so let's just say I didn't exactly meet the visa requirements. To work as a web designer, I needed a science or design degree. My degree is in English. In order to obtain the visa, I would need to show my college transcripts and a letter from my prospective employer. The letter would list the sort of work I would do, so the border guard would make sure I was qualified to do it. No amount of As in "20th Century American Women Poets" was going to convince Mr. Mountie that I could write HTML. The choice was made for me: I was going to have to lie.

Or was I?

Due to the public nature of this blog, I'm not going to explain exactly what transpired, but know this: I obtained my permit legally and without bending any rules whatsoever. . . Of course I did.

Of Visas and Border Control, pt. 1

2008-05-01T07:18:00.005+12:00

I knew it wasn't going to be easy, but the frustration of unemployment is beginning to creep up my pant leg. While there have been a few bites on short-term website updates, I lack a proper, 40-hour/week gig. So when a local recruitment firm offered to sponsor my work permit, I believed I was in the clear.

They sent me to interview with www.trader.ca to help them re-brand and develop a new website, and of course I sailed through the interview and was best buds with the IT manager before leaving. When can you start, he said. Just as soon as my university transcripts arrive, I reply.

You see, in order to get the NAFTA temporary work visa (which, once all is said and done, is a very handy option to an ordinary work visa--and I know a thing or two about visas), I need an offer of employment, and either a copy of my degree or a copy of my university transcripts. Yet it is the latter that I've had so much trouble obtaining. The first two times I requested them (!!), they just seemed to disappear. Poof. No record once they left Wichita. So now, take three, I've paid $30 to FedEx overnight the damn things to the recruitment firm directly. Imagine my frustration when I rang them this morning to grab the tracking number, only to have the lovely receptionist at Newman registrar tell me there is a problem.

Registrar: Oh, you forgot to supply me with a phone number.
Me: You didn't tell me that you needed me to supply you with a phone number.
Registrar: Well, FedEx won't deliver to Canada unless there's a number.
Me: So you haven't sent the transcripts yet?
Registrar: No.
Me: ::audible sigh::
Registrar: And you didn't even give us the name of the company we're sending it to!
Me: What?
Registrar: There's no company name on the address that you faxed us.
Me: "Aquent."
Registrar: Excuse me?
Me: A-Q-U-E-N-T. Aquent. That's the name of the company.
Registrar: Oh, THAT's the company! We thought it was the lady's job title.
Me: No, her title is "Account Manager," like it says on the fax.
Registrar: Well, you still should have given us a number.

It actually went on like that for a bit. You think you have everything in order, but you forgot to factor in that you're dealing with Kansas.

I've given this post a "part one" because part two (and maybe three) will involve interaction with border security, which has yet to happen. And you know how I feel about border crossings.

Snowboarding on Mt. Whistler

2008-04-25T14:53:00.002+12:00

Last year, Ami and I didn't go snowboarding at all. We had become a bit tired of driving four hours (Wellington to Ohakune), then paying accommodation and lift passes for what always turned out to be below-average snow. Furthermore, the weather up on Whakapapa/Turoa was changeable at best. While it might be sunny driving in to town, by the time we parked and got up the lift, the weather would have changed. Once, we spent an afternoon snowboarding in the rain after a storm moved in on what was earlier a perfect day.

Needless to say, we were eager for some good snow, and we heard Canada had it in spades. So we booked a night at a Whistler hotel for a weekend of snowboarding.

Yet the locals didn't share our enthusiasm. They told us it had all melted, there wasn't much left, and what was left was going fast. We decided to chance it and go anyway. Regardless of how bad it was, at least we were getting out of the city. Besides, we told ourselves, we were used to New Zealand snow (read: ice) so we weren't expecting much.

What we got was some of the best riding I've ever experienced.

Whistler village boasts access to two separate mountains: Blackcomb and Whistler. There are gondolas for both right from the middle of the village (I geeked out about this all day), so we could ride down from the top of Whistler (20 minutes--my legs still ache), grab a coffee, then go up a new mountain. Fun!

Now, I spent most of the time either on my ass or cartwheeling through the air, but it was still rad. Check out some of the photos on my Facebook page.

Ami Works in the Nood

2008-04-14T06:52:00.004+12:00

Each day for the past two weeks, Ami and I have been applying for jobs. Ami would send out her resume and samples of her design work to various places, and I would ask my World of Warcraft guild if they knew anybody who might hire a web developer. So each of us worked diligently in our own way. To my surprise, Ami's way bore fruit much faster than mine. Go figure.

A couple days ago, Ami's friends Ty and Dharlia came to stay in our little shoe box apartment (we haven't moved in to the Croatian Villa yet). They day they drove up in their Dodge Ram Get Away van, Ami had an interview with a company called Nood, a retail shop that's a little like Ikea meets Urban Outfitters. Oh, and it's a New Zealand company (Ami later told me that the guy who interviewed her looked exactly like our friend Brent from Invercargill. If you know Brent, this should make you smile). So the fun-filled day we had with Ty and Dharlia was also filled with mild anxiety because Ami really, really liked the company and was excited about the sort of design work she might be doing there. We were driving up 10th street when Ami's phone rang. It was Nood. She could have the job if she wanted it.

The sun was just coming out.

We celebrated with gooey cinnamon rolls and coffee. Go Ami!

Jamie and Ami Get an Apartment

2008-04-07T17:38:00.006+12:00

Ami and I have been searching for an apartment for a few days. Actually, we've been flat out flat hunting ever since we got here, with varying results. Apartment prices have ranged from $900/month to $2,000/month depending on amenities and location. Our favorite areas have been downtown and an area just outside downtown called Kitsilano. Sounds poncy, but it's kinda cool in its kitsch. Case in point: our apartment.

The name on the building, written in cursive at an upward angle and in shimmering gold, is "Croatian Villa." Inside the foyer you find exactly what you would expect from a building with the words "Croatian Villa" written in gold cursive on the front glass door. Imagine if David Lynch and Stephen King got really stoned and went to Vegas to buy furniture. That's kinda what the inside of the building looks like. Our apartment, however, is amazing.

We're on the third floor and are treated with spectacular mountain views, thanks to wrap-around windows and a sliding glass door that leads to a patio. Seriously--the photos don't do it justice. When we took the photo, it was overcast, so the houses across the street stand out. Yet when you're there, you barely notice them. And you'll be here, right? You're coming to visit, right? Right?

Anyway, here are some photos:

Who Can I Blame for My Vice?

2008-04-06T07:08:00.007+12:00

Traveling makes me nervous. Or at least traveling makes me nervous anywhere where border security is involved. For this, I blame the Jews. Well, one Jew: the guy who grilled me for two hours before letting me into Israel.

But that was years ago. Now, I'm leaving Seattle and heading back to Vancouver where I'll remain on visitor status, which I can extend indefinitely. But since I can't work in Canada, I have to search for web design contracts in Seattle. Needless to say, I'll be doing a lot of border crossing over the coming months. For you readers who haven't seen me in a while, or for those won't see me for even longer, when we do finally meet just look for the guy with the boy-ish good looks and a head of gray hair because this shit is killing me.

The worst part about my reaction to border-laden traveling is my tendency to go from health nut to heavy smoker in an instant. For this, I blame the French. Well, one French: the girl who begged me to visit her in Paris when I was living in Ireland, then told me to go away when I got there (I'm paraphrasing and condensing a bit, but that's the gist). This happened to coincide with the incident involving the Israeli customs official, as when aforementioned Frenchie gave me the boot I decided I'd buy a ticket to Israel to visit my brother. So there I am, dejected, unable to speak the language, and sitting in a tiny room in a large Parisian airport while gun-toting security guards rifle through my suitcase, causing me to miss my flight. When I was finally shunted through, exhausted (30 hours with no sleep) bags checked, metal detector satisfied, I found myself in a lounge surrounded by signs. Not mystical signs, but little red ones that said, to my dismay, “No Smoking.” Sleep deprived, tongue-tied, and clutching a box of Lucky Strikes, I roamed the dark halls looking for a hidden corner where I might indulge in my intermittent vice. What I found was a group of Hasidim Jews, black-clad and curly haired, chain smoking beneath a plastic sticker that grumbled, “Ne Fumez Pas.”

I ask quietly, “We can smoke here?”

One answers with a puff and a shrug, “They give us no choice.”

I've never wanted to hug a man so badly in my life. Instead I sat next to him, lit up, and watched the lights through the rain-pebbled windows.

But this isn't France. And this isn't Israel. This is Amtrak, and there is no smoking on Amtrak, yet the border looms. If you suddenly find me knocking on your door, cigarette in mouth and bags in hand, blame Canada.

13 Coins (Seattle, WA)

2008-04-04T08:24:00.003+13:00

Dakin's friend Des invited us over for karaoke, so we packed up a few bottles of wine and caught a Yellow Cab to the other side of Seattle. I'm not a huge karaoke fan, but I remembered playing SingStar in Invercargill a few years go, so I thought I'd go along—maybe I'd just drink some beer, smile politely as folks belted out Elton or Aerosmith. Honestly, I'm terrified of karaoke. But since I couldn't very well just sit at Dakin's apartment moping, I decided to go. When I got there I was surprised to find a massive karaoke machine in the basement. This was not Sing Star; this was the real thing.

A funny thing happens to one's inhibitions after a few wines. It's a well-documented phenomenon known as Complete Ass Syndrome, and we were all sufferers (which makes things like karaoke easier). Some of us were tone deaf, and others didn't know even know the tunes being sung (guilty), but Des was not disturbed: she brought everyone percussion instruments, and more wine was poured. After singing an inspired version of Bon Jovi's “Wanted: Dead or Alive,” I happened to look at my watch. 3:00am. And nobody showed any signs of slowing.

And this is when things got weird.

Head spinning with Spanish wine and Billy Joel, the four of us (Dakin, Heather, Chris, and I) decide it's a good idea to get some food before going home. Heather, our sober driver, was just as keen as the rest of us. A few local dives were mentioned, and then Chris shouted, “13 Coins!” Since I had a desperate need to fit in, and I had no idea what he meant, I, too, shouted “13 Coins!” Peer pressure took over from there, and before long we were pulling in to a darkened, half-empty parking lot.

13 Coins was being described to me using words like “Seattle icon” and “local treasure.” Phrases that so often hide latent meanings, like “death trap” or “sloppy dive” or, in this case, “hooker lounge.” I'd like to say that I walked in expecting Denny's. I'd like to say I was surprised when I passed through the massive glass doors, but I was fully prepped by my companions before we got out of the car.

The booths are studded leather and stretch to the ceiling, muffling our laughter and hollering. Even though the diner was at capacity (we had to wait 20mins to get a table—at 3:30am), we felt like we had a private booth in a quiet corner, which I suppose is the point, considering the clientèle. Women walked by wearing next to nothing, all sporting the prostitute's shoe of choice: patent heels, the higher the better. Some were escorting clients, others were mingling with the regulars.

We watched this parade while munching club sandwiches and sipping Seattle's finest ice water.

Home, Quote Unquote

2008-03-31T22:10:00.005+13:00

There is a magnolia tree behind this house that has yet to bloom. Inside, Dakin sleeps on the couch, and the dishwasher murmurs its whirring repititions. America snoozes, in parts, and I am for the first time in years witness to the slumber. I am remembering things I was unaware I'd forgotten.

This morning there was banging. The neighbors upstairs were rushing around to leave their apartment, but they were being about as subtle as polka. Granted, I was hungover. The previous night (and the night before, for that matter) were spent drinking pinot noir and PBR with Dakin and his Seattle friends (note: please ask me personally about the folks he introduced me to). Needless to say, the stomping did not do much for my crummy disposition.

Six years have passed since I was in America.

But some back story: I took the Amtrak from Vancouver to Seattle two days ago, and I'm just now recovering from reverse culture shock. It's taken three nights of booze and smokes and three nights of new news and a few new "hey yous." A few crazy bitches and too many scumbags. I've gone from jet lag to sleeping bag, from footpath to sidewalk; rubbish to trash can; trolly to shopping cart; fag to ciggy. When I passed through immigration to board the train, I told my Odyssey story to the clerk who replied unfazed: "Welcome home. Glad you have you back. First car on the left."

I was reintroduced to the States and it was like picking up an old, sick habit and finding you really enjoyed it. The moon is rising over the houses next to me. Two blocks away a couple is laughing, and I suddenly realize I've been missing America's turbulence:

We are junkies at the airport. Smoking. Drinking. Standing and weaving. We are on the verge of being detained, the knowledge of our incarceration barely registering: our audience will not tolerate weakness. We have no class. We are not the English, their dignity clinging like names to their disparate tongues. We are neither France nor Spain with histories as dynasties and families like feuds. We are not the sore of sequestered nations (call it what you like, there are among us the conquered) but rather the festering wound in mid regen. We are the major chord. We are the Lazy R but we are in Russia. We are the terror and the terrorist. We are fat. We are Jewish. We are Indians among Indians. We are racist and ignorant. We are brilliant and the definition of compassion. We are drunk on Sunday afternoons and we are in love with the idea that we might just live forever. We might beat this one after all. We are the furious and terrifying notion of perpetual energy. We are the chilling notion that when the wine wears off, we might just keep going. Breakfast, anyone?

I love us.

The tree behind this house will bloom, but not tonight. Tonight is for the toast. And tonight the toast is to recollection, may it remain.

Hello friends, it's good to see you again.

Some Things I Will Miss About Wellington

2008-03-28T19:41:00.007+13:00

New Zealand had been home since 2003. And while my first years were spent in the deep south town of Invercargill, Wellington has been the scene of my fondest southern hemisphere memories. From ducking into cozy Cuba St. clubs, to rubbing elbows with the suits on lower Lambton Quay near Parliament. So before I flew out on 26 March, I snapped a few pics of some things I will miss about Wellington.

Waiting for the train at Plimmerton Station

Only rarely did I get the chance to catch the train here (my regular spot was Porirua/Titahi Bay, being that it was where I actually lived). The beach is 20 meters away and the old surrounding architecture feels welcoming.

This part of this street

I had a contract with a government department that was on the other side of this street, and I for the whole year I pause here as I walked across. I really can't explain why, but it just struck me.

Paranoid pedestrians, and the reckless drivers who make them so

A pedestrian is hit by a car in Wellington more than once a week. About a year ago the city council pushed out a huge "don't be a bloody moron" advertising campaign that made pedestrians out to be little more than wandering cattle. At first I was a little upset, being a pedestrian myself and observing boy racers hooning around town. Yet after witnessing a few of these accidents first hand, though, I really can't say who's at fault.

Trisha's Pies

My good friend Nick introduced my to Trisha's Pies. I will forever be in his debt. (X-large winter vegetable pie pictured here)

Emerson's range of organic beers

Goes down lovely with a pie from Trisha's

The Chinese busker who plays the Morin Khur

He was without-a-doubt my favorite busker in Wellington. I always carried a few dollars in my pocket in the chance I might see him--and on my last day in town, luck had it that he was playing in the tunnel to the train station. Amazing how hey plays on the wall too, eh? Now THAT'S talent.

Seeing the word "New Zealand/Aotearoa" in signage

Kinda like that one part of that one street (mentioned above), I can't describe why I like seeing this, but I really do.

Agapanthas at Wellington Central Station

The trains may not have run on time, but they sure did look pretty sitting there.

Moving to Canada

2008-03-03T10:34:00.003+13:00

Remaining in one place for too long causes a sort of anxiety, a fidgitiness akin to drinking too much coffee. So six months ago, Ami and I decided we wanted to travel again, narrowing down our choices to Australia, Canada, and Bolivia. Considering Australia and New Zealand aren't that culturally different, and that Bolivia is a wee bit unstable at the moment, Canada stood out like a snowman at the beach. So Ami applied for and promptly received her work permit, being that she's a Kiwi. It's much more difficult for Americans to get work permits in Canada than it is for New Zealanders (actually, it's difficult for Americans to get work permits anywhere, let alone the Great White North), so it will be a challenge finding work for me once we get there. "There" being Vancouver, BC.

Let me just take a moment to mention how easy the preparation has been because of Ami. Her organizational skills are astounding. Within days of buying our tickets (which she arranged), she'd made a calendar with all the important days outlined: who was visiting, when we needed to cancel this service, when we needed or arrange storage, by when we needed tenants in our Titahi Bay home. . . all I had to do was pick up heavy objects and put them back down again at her command. Compared to the chaos that was leaving for Ireland, and then leaving again for New Zealand, leaving for Canada has been as easy as breathing.

But we haven't left yet. Ami and I fly out of Wellington at 6pm on 26 March, to arrive in Vancouver at 1pm on 26 March (I know--kinda messes with your head, dun it?). We just have a few more days of goodbyes, and then we're off.

For my friends and family in North America, I can't wait to see you.

Comment -- "Moderation is for monks"

2007-10-13T10:21:00.000+13:00

Absolutely goddamn right.

First, I'd like to thank everyone for the birthday wishes. I appreciate, too, the multitude of advice, philosophies, and general observations on getting older. But I think my favourite one came from my uncle Kent: "Take big bites; moderation is for monks." The sayings "live life to the fullest" and "enjoy each day like it's your last" are so common that they've lost their punch. The "moderation" maxim turned on its ear is alluring, not only in its message, but in the way it's worded: direct, creative, refreshing. And shunning moderation--I think--is a pretty good idea, especially if one is born with a bit of common sense. Putting your life unnecessarily at risk is taking a big bite, but it's also stupid. For example, driving blindfolded down the wrong way of a one-way street at speed is probably a big thrill, but it is also beyond the boundaries of what most people might consider an option for something to do on a Tuesday afternoon. And it is personal boundaries that determine what "moderation" is.

I'm reminded of a (I think) Velveeta commercial that aired back in the late 90s. Some cowboys are sitting around a camp fire, and the narrator says something to the effect of, "Some nights, after weeks of hard work, me and the boys like to go a little crazy . . . by putting two kinds of cheese on the cheeseburgers! Yeehaw!" This ad always made me giggle, but it illustrates that "big bites" for some are not so big for others. Skydiving, running with bulls at Pamploma--big bites, I'd say, on all counts. Truly pushing beyond moderation. But this doesn't mean you have to leap out of an airplane to experience a thrill.

Or does it? Actually, now I'm not so sure. What do you think? If moderation is a fence, and we all have one, do we need merely to peek over once in awhile? Or do we all need to achieve certain shared experiences (the skydive, the bulls, hallucinogenic drugs) before we can really claim to be taking a bite? To make it even more complicated, is our tendency to take risks genetically encoded? Did my family name survive because my ancestors said things like, "Titanic? Sounds nice, but you go ahead." or "No, actually, I don't think I can swim to France."

While we ponder, I'm going to drink another pot of coffee, go for a run, and then maybe learn to surf (it's something I've always wanted to do).

Thanks for the advice, Kent. Here's to indulgence.

PS: for those who want to further explore the myth of moderation, check out Barbara Holland's books The Joy of Drinking and Endangered Pleasures

Happy Birthday to Me

2007-10-05T15:55:00.000+13:00

I've had quite a few people berate (well, berate is a strong word. "Remind" is closer to the truth) me about my lack of posting in these past few months. My excuse is the same as any other blogger who suddenly falls silent for weeks: I've been busy. Yet since this is the end of this blogging adventure, I found I had to post one last time for the sake of closure, if nothing else.

30 is the new 20. This is what I've been telling people. I'm hoping that if I say it long enough, I'll begin to believe it. Rather than join the echoing chorus chanting "I really don't feel any different than I did five years ago," I'm going so far as to say 30 is rad--as long as you haven't given up, that is. This seems to be the obstacle folks can't hurdle. People are so afraid of the idea of 30 that they fall prey to one if its biggest fallacies: that when you turn 30 you can't keep up with the kids.

Bollocks.

You know how fashions tend to repeat themselves? That because you're defining the styles that your children will mimic. Cool, eh?

Right. Off to get pissed. Be well friends.

Jamie

11 July -- Jamie's sister is a smart cookie

2007-07-11T09:06:00.000+12:00

Recently, Jamie's mother, father, and younger brother flew to England. There they will see Jamie's sister, Molly, graduate from Cambridge University's Master's Program, an event Jamie truly wishes he could attend. Molly, somewhat unfairly, has not received the same attention at graduation ceremonies as her older siblings. For example, at her high school graduation Jamie was the only representative from the Love family (and was later shunned--though quite rightly--in favor of a friend's party). Unfortunately for Molly, this was one more than the number of Loves attending her college graduation.

So when it came to her completing graduate school, Molly's parents were not going to let anything stop them. Indeed, they are flying halfway (literally) around the world to witness this remarkable achievement (although Molly will forever contend that it took her graduating from one of the oldest and most prestigious universities on the planet to garner such attention). And while Karen, Darrell, and Peter are in the mix, her other brothers and sister will have to cheer from the sidelines. Libby will be busy hydrating in the Kansas summer, while Jamie huddles by the fire in a futile effort to stave off the chill of New Zealand's winter. John, true to form, has decided he will be in Jerusalem, where it's safe, instead of in England where the terrorists live. All, however, are very proud of Molly.

22 June -- Going for a Run

2007-06-22T21:19:00.000+12:00

Sunday, Jamie will run 21 kilometres for the sheer hell of it; for fun, as it were. Jamie's idea of fun is waking up at 6am to run into a head wind in the middle of winter. Oh, and he's pays money to do it. What the f*** is wrong with this boy?

Wish him luck.

22 May--A Good Night Out

2007-05-22T12:29:00.000+12:00

It became clear to Jamie very early in the morning that he should have had more to eat the night before--more than onion baji, anyway. For the uninitiated, onion baji is an Indian delicacy whereby one dips strips of onion in a batter spiced with cumin, curry, taragon, and chilis, and then chucks the pieces in the deep fryer. It should not, therefore, be eaten when a) one wishes to meet a girl, or b) when one plans on spending the rest of the evening drinking beer. Jamie was on course for the latter.

The night began--as many nights do--with an innocent drink after work. Jamie was celebrating a successful presentation on workplace sustainability (recycling, energy reduction, etc.), and decided he needed a drink. Just one, of course--just one.

Twenty minutes later he's downed two pitchers of pilsner and is walking around Mighty Mighty pretending to be a member of the wait staff. He, and two of his friends from work, Hannah and Liam, soon discovered that the world is a more fascinating place when you have a camera. Please take a moment to witness our night of self destruction.

17 May--A Good Pace

2007-05-17T08:52:00.000+12:00

It has been 9 days since Jamie last posted. In fact, the time between posts has become longer with each passing week. It appears Jamie did not pace himself very well at the start. He should have begun more relaxed, found his pace about 1/4 of the way through, then kicked out a fast finish--a little like what he's hoping to do for the Wellington Half Marathon.

While it won't be the first half marathon Jamie's run--it will, in fact, be his second--he hopes to better his time. Unfortunately, this means running. A lot. Continuously. And if he runs with the same consistency with which he blogs, the whole event might take awhile.

08 May--Meditation

2007-05-08T11:43:00.000+12:00

Yesterday evening, Jamie was invited to attend a meeting introducing people to meditation. While not one who regularly meditates--read: ever meditates--Jamie was still interested to participate in a discussion on the topic. As an academic, he had studied Psychology (along with other disciplines in the Arts) and Religion. He was also a Catholic until the age of 17, at which time he decided this whole religion thing just didn't really have a leg to stand on (Jamie spent much of his late teens and early 20s a very angry atheist, but has recently calmed down). So he regarded the evening as a chance to learn more about a subject he often dismissed.

However, as the evening unfolded, Jamie found himself listening to people talk on a subject matter he ended up being very familiar with. He has read books on Taoism and enjoys the idea that the only thing that exists is the current moment. He's read Lao Tzu (on whose teachings Taoism is founded), and smiles when the philosopher reminds t that everything has a use--even a pile of rubbish. Among other philosophies, theosophies, and thinkers, Jamie is familiar with the Gnostic Gospels, the Old and New Testaments, William James, Carl Jung, the Koran, and the Bhagavad Gita--all of which comment at least briefly on the idea of cognitive peace. And while he is not well-versed in some tomes (except perhaps the biblical ones, for which he blames his parents), he is all the while informed.

The speaker's name, to begin with, was Saronya (a name Jamie had to fight not to mispronounce as "Sayonara"), which is a Sanskrit word. Fair enough. Sanskrit is one of the many official languages of India, not to mention very, very old. It made sense that topics as ancient as meditation would have some affiliation with their linguistic counterparts. Yet some things didn't quite fit--there was misinformation afoot.

Saronya, who dressed only in white, explained that this particular discipline of meditation (Ishaya's Ascension) was focused on "quieting the mind's chatter and employing the attitudes of praise, gratitude, love, and compassion." No surprise there. However, when she mentioned that the founder "invented" this technique in 1988, Jamie's mind began to chatter. And when she further explained that the founder was compelled to invent this technique because, in an epiphany, it "was time for these attitudes to be in the world," Jamie's mind got a little louder. But when she said "the great thinker Alfred Maslow said we have a right to be 'whole' beings," Jamie's mind could not keep to itself.

"Um, yeah. Sorry to interrupt," Jamie said politely, "But Maslow also said that you can't get to the self-enlightenment stage without first fulfilling basic needs. His philosophy was based on a hierarchy of principles and actions, not mere thoughts."

To his surprised, Saronya gently side-stepped Jamie's comment, quickly turning back to the attitudes of ascension. But for Jamie, the rest of the talk fell apart. He could not help but draw correlations between her points and other religions and philosophies: how we need praise as children (Freud), using love and compassion to quell frustration (gnostics, Buddhism), and quieting the mind for mental clarity (Taoism, Buddhism). While putting them all together was neat, it was not worth the $500 she was asking for further sessions.

At the end of the discussion, Saronya turned to Jamie and asked, "So what do you think? Will you be joining us?"

Jamie replied, "No, I'm fine actually. I'm just fine."

2 May -- An Average Day

2007-05-02T14:53:00.000+12:00

Today is an average work day: Jamie has spent a total of 40 minutes on the train. He took 30 minutes to enjoy a cup of coffee at the French bakery across the road before walking into the office. He read the news--for 30 minutes. He has since spent a grand total of 1 hour doing actual work (writing code, Photoshopping and uploading images, amending PDFs, tracking changes). Between work, he has spent 3 hours in meetings. Between work and meetings, he has spent 45 minutes waiting for meetings to begin (he is waiting for one now). He ate lunch for 15 minutes (he used what was left of his lunch hour strolling Wellington's freshly dampened footpaths). He used the toilet for 8 minutes (aggregated, not all at once). He is 29. The average life span of a Western male is 75 years. If, for the next 46 years (taking into account weekends and a much-deserved 2-week holiday per year) Jamie worked an average day he would have: wasted 34,500 hours in meetings, worked on something interesting for 11,500 hours, twiddled his thumbs for 8,625 hours waiting for a meeting to start, ridden 7,666 hours on the train, and enjoyed only 2,875 precious hours eating soup. He would have spent 1,533 hours in the toilet.

However depressing these figures might seem, Jamie is not fazed. He is, instead, preparing the invoice.

24 April -- Awake and Aging

2007-04-24T11:04:00.000+12:00

The terms 'aging' and 'growing old' carry more negative connotations than positive ones. Used as adjectives in throw-away phrases such as "the aging infrastructure" and "that joke is getting old" reinforces the claim that the Western English lexicon treats these as unfavourable conditions. In fact, if one were to try to say anything uplifting while using these exemplars of existential exits, then one would have to tack on a modifier such as "gracefully", or construct a flattering simile ("like a fine wine," etc.)--especially when describing people. People don't like being thought of as useless or of limited use. It upsets them. Indeed, it no doubt expedites the very process they're trying to overcome (or to at least ignore). If nobody needs you, what's the point of sticking around (unless, of course, you're sticking around out of sheer stubbornness and the dark desire to piss off everybody else [which is fair enough, actually. Some of the oldest individuals in the worlds are fueled only by hatred and revenge. It demands some admiration.])?

How frustrating it must be for those who are aging and growing old to witness the very actions that put them in rest homes being reinforced by the obscenely young. Junior does a poopie doodie and the room explodes with applause like he's just back-flipped onto daddy's shoulders. But God forbid grandpa lets slide a little squirt; he'd be checked in to Larkspur before he could say 'Depends.' Junior draws a picture with brown crayons and drool, and mommy has it framed. Grandpa's handwriting gets squiggly, and he's medicated. There is something about coming full circle that seems to cause anxiety for those in the middle of the loop. Those at the beginning and end, however, are just happy to be here.

Surely there is something we can learn from the aging and old. There must be some wisdom we can glean from those for whom stories trump bills in order of importance. When you hands are un-still and your blue eyes fade; when dinner's at four and the skin on your head sleeps gently down your face; when your life and your memories meet each other before you and shake hands, it is time to sit down and give someone a little advice. For if you wait too long, you will find yourself in the arms of your mother--awake and learning; aging and growing old.

12 April

2007-04-12T16:26:00.000+12:00

Morning screamed into existence with a shrill southerly, but hours later was calm; its howling subsided and stillness all that remained. In the French bakery on The Terrace, a blonde barrista wipes a strand of hair from her face and opens a window facing the footpath. Two businessmen carrying umbrellas walk briskly past, but her eyes don't catch them. Instead, she looks upward and over the buildings across the street. The hills rise in the distance, atop which trees catch the last cold breezes as the wind changes direction. She puts her hands on her hips and closes her eyes. A shot of sunlight breaks through a hole in the clouds, sweeping a few windows before it is quashed. Summer has all but fully lost its grip now, and the decent into Autumn is met with little resistance. We are tired, and there is something alluring about spending the dark evenings together--how mugs clank in a quiet pub or the sound of rain when you're next to a slow-paced fire--that makes losing the light no bad, not so bad at all.

10 April--Don't mean to be political, but . . .

2007-04-10T16:11:00.000+12:00

Today, Jamie stumbled upon a very disturbing blog. It relays the story of Professor Walter F. Murphy, emeritus of Princeton University. Upon arriving at the airport on his way to attend an academic conference, he was detained and told he could not board. After a brief conversation with the check-in clerk, he learned he was denied because he had given a speech critical of George W. Bush and was subsequently added to a "terrorist watch list."

Professor Murphy is a hero of the Korean War.

George W. Bush dodged the draft.

6 April

2007-04-06T15:14:00.000+12:00

Jamie taste-tested two fair trade organic coffees, and wrote about them on his other blog, Duck and Cover. In his opinion, the test is scientifically sound, but you may want to check for yourself. Read it here.

2 April--Hidden Treasure

2007-04-02T14:20:00.000+12:00

While deleting old photos and videos from his phone, Jamie discovered this little easter egg taken by his brother, John, during his visit over Christmas.

30 March

2007-03-30T09:29:00.000+12:00

Clouds cling lightly to the heavens, and there is no wind in the capitol city. The train on the Paraparaumu line skates around Titahi Bay and into Wellington Central Station. It is Friday, and the harbour is calm in the morning sun.

It is true people come and go. We are born. We die. What happens in between, however, is not irrelevant. In fact, it is all we have. Does it really matter if you buy the car? Does it matter if you make the light? Do you really need to go to work today? Your friend leaves Tuesday, for instance, and you haven't seen your brother in ages. Didn't your girlfriend mention something about wanting to have lunch in town--you know, like you used to do? You didn't return your mother's phone call. You drank too much, and you suddenly realise what it means to act your age.

Some days there is just enough time to notice there is just enough time.

In a kowhai tree, two fat sparrows preen, and their feathers puff and jitter against fat, round bodies. One is larger than the other, and the smaller one stretches its tail to reveal clean, white under-feathers. A woman in the apartment across the alley opens her window to pour out the last of her tea. The drink doesn't fall straight, but immediately spreads: unhinging itself in descent, widening, as if to stretch out wings and carry on.

25 March

2007-03-25T21:37:00.000+12:00

Jamie spent a few days on Waiheke island attending a wedding for a friend of Ami's. The wedding itself, on a beach that was at the base of a very steep slope, was disorganised and particularly accident prone. However, one redeeming feature was the food.

Jamie had heard of a hangi, but had never seen, let alone experienced one. A hangi, as any Kiwi will tell you, is a Maori cooking tradition whereby rocks are taken from a bonfire and piled into a deep hole. The food is then placed upon the rocks, wrapped in blankets, and buried. Eight hours later, the food is cooked and piping hot.

Hangi food generally consists of different meats, potatos, kumara, and maybe a pumpkin or two. Hearty food. And wrapped in with the blankets that cover the food is also the odd leaf of cabbage used to add moisture (one of the guests remarked to Jamie that "there is always cabbage at a hangi." An observation of both the food and the relatively large number of very old women hovering around the food).

Not knowing what to expect, Jamie piled his plate high with venison, pork, beef, spuds--well, everything really. The meat was incredible. Moist and crumbling apart like cake. But when he tasted the potato, the sensation was, well, different. He imagined he might accidentally have chosen the accidental car tire chucked in with the food. The he took a bite of the pumkin. Another tire.

"How's your food?" Ami asked at one stage.

"Um, good." He answered, then added. "Does anyone else's meal taste like car?"

"Yeah," said one of the guests. "It's an acquired taste."

19 Mar

2007-03-19T14:20:00.000+12:00

Jamie has kept himself quite busy lately. Two of his projects that have just gone public are a trading website based loosely on newspaper want ads (view), and a collaborative blog about music and pop culture penned with the help of his long-time friend, Dakin (view).

14 March

2007-03-14T21:00:00.000+13:00

A blast of southern air blew across New Zealand, chilling the country from Bluff Hill to Cape Reinga. And while it isn't winter, per se, the shift in weather was a very convincing argument of what is, inevitably, to come. Some weeks ago, during the last dry days of Wellington's Indian summer, Jamie had the rare foresight to order a shipment of firewood. It arrived today. When Jamie, Ami, and Nick arrived home there, in a pile before the garage, was three cubic metres of wood, a mixture of dense macracarpa and softer pine. One perfect for catching from fuel as thin as newspaper; the other slow-burning, letting go so gradually embers glow still at 6am, when Jamie's alarm sounds.

It takes the three of them a mere 30 minutes to move the wood from the driveway and into the wood shed. With each armful, their heads fill with ideas for the first fire of the season. Jamie dreams of pumpkin soup and apple cider. Ami imagines the easy comfort of slipping on a woolly jumper and knitting a few lines in front of the blaze. Nick thinks of women. Nick usually thinks of women, which is why he and Jamie get along so well.

After dinner (Nick cooked quiche), the three of them sit around the new fire and talk about religion, time, quantum entanglement (briefly), New Zealand cinema, and ukuleles. They talked like they had not spoken for weeks; like they were newly alight; like it had been a year since the air had felt so clean.

12 March

2007-03-12T20:10:00.000+13:00

For the past three weeks, Jamie has played host to a friend of his, Nick. The situation is somewhat unfortunate, if a little amusing. In short, Nick was cheating on his girlfriend. She found out when she, Nick, and the fling were all in the same footrace together which concluded with both women screaming at Nick while he hid behind a bush. So Nick was kicked out of the house and is now spending quality time in Jamie's spare room.

Tonight, Nick, who's decided the best course of action is to leave the country--a decision with which Jamie wholly agrees--and so feels he must lighten his baggage. One example of this is unloading boxes of books onto Jamie's floor. Thus far, the evening has been spend poring over graphic novels, compendiums of fantasy illustrations, fix-it manuals, and the odd piece of vampire literature. All in all, a rich and rewarding evening--for Jamie, if not for Nick.

Though it all deteriorated when Nick's ex rang him and decided now was a good time to be angry--very, very angry. After about half an hour of shouting, crying, and more shouting, Nick returns to the lounge. Jamie is just finishing a book called Dream Makers: Six Fantasy Artists at Work, but decides to read a few pages over again in hopes Nick will not tell him how the call went. After three week of living with Nick, Jamie is sure he knows very well how the call went. Besides, he's not deaf--the goddamn neighbors could comment on how the call went. So Jamie pushes his face close to a large sketch of a scantily clad woman holding an impossibly huge sword and pretends to be very interested (which is not difficult if you knew the picture in question).

Yet there is no stopping Nick. He begins with a heavy sigh, then proceeds to recount, word for word, what was said. Realising Nick shows no sign of letting up, Jamie decides now is a very good time to write a blog entry.

10 March

2007-03-11T02:33:00.000+13:00

Sometimes it is futile waiting for technology. Jamie sits before Google Docs and Spreadsheets awaiting a blank screen. Beirut plays on the stereo, and he corrects his spelling as he tries to describe how it makes him want to sing.

There are revelations not worth recording.

At 3am, no matter where one sits, the air feels heavy. But still one may hear an echo of laughter from the other room, a slight giggle of encouragement, very similar to the day when you stepped out of the car to fix the windshield wipers in the middle of the night on the way back to Wichita. There was only darkness. Of course, you should have replaced them before you left home, but here you are, slouched on the shoulder of highway 70 piecing together fragments of your windshield. Vision is imperative. This stretch of Kansas you spent your youth on is suddenly trecherous and there is nothing more important than coming home. With a small penlight, you move about the freeway searching for rubber wings.

There is a girl. There is always a girl.

You find the sliver you were looking for, there in the tiniest light, the only light.

7 March

2007-03-08T20:53:00.000+13:00

The wind in Wellington is easing, and rain has been scarce since early February. Autumn is coming, and the entire city seems to hold its breath in apprehension.

Unlike the anticipation felt in Spring when the desire to lunge one's self fully forward is undeniable, Autumn suspends us. We know winter is coming, but we're not quite ready to see it yet. There is a mixture of dread and disappointment, like the feeling a boy gets after chasing a girl all Summer: He stands at the train station ready to board, and she waves goodbye. Will he kiss her, or will he forget her forever? The scene plays out forever: the boy chooses an infinite number of possibilities an infinite number of times, but by the same argument, he is infinitely on the platform with one sneaker in the door, suspended in the season of farewell.

1 Mar--Typhoid?

2007-03-01T20:53:00.000+13:00

As Jamie sits in the French bakery on the Terrace, he thinks about typhoid.

Typhoid?

He reads a headline in The Dominion Post about a typhoid outbreak in Porirua, where he lives.

Typhoid?

Jamie remembers inoculation against polio (mostly because they poked him in the bum) and the flu, but not against typhoid, that was something young children in Dickens books suffered from. He takes a sip of his coffee and lets his gaze drift out the window. How very literary it would be, he decides, to catch typhoid. He might dress in heavy blue robes during the day and move about at a slow shuffle. At night, he will moan and let the burning illness focus his mind on what he's never done, and then he'll moan some more.

Jamie suddenly remembers that one of the symptoms of typhoid is diarrhoea. Perhaps he will not catch typhoid, after all. No, indeed he won't. Instead, he invites readers to listen to a song by Sufjan Stevens (thank you, Dakin). Note--no video, just music.

28 Feb--Death by Caffeine

2007-02-28T11:40:00.000+13:00

According to this source, Jamie would have to drink 105 cups of coffee in a sitting before croaking.

21 Feb

2007-02-21T20:59:00.000+13:00

Jamie sits on the couch in his lounge and peers out the window. Just beyond his the boundary of his back yard there is a hill. Atop the hill is another residence which looks directly into Jamie's lounge. Often when he looks out the window, Jamie will see the occupants of the hill house looking back. Never in a spooky way, but simply as a someone momentarily lost in thought and gazing into space, or in most cases gazing into Jamie's living room. And there are, of course, the awkward moments when both Jamie and the woman on the hill decide to glance out their respective windows at the same time. For less than a second, they are two people looking at each other: completely natural. Yet there is something uncomfortable about it, something in the gut that forces both to quickly look just a little bit to the left as if to say, "Nope. Didn't see you there. I was actually concentrating on the aerial."

17 Feb--Aqua Teen Hunger Force

2007-02-19T22:04:00.000+13:00

Jamie and his brother, John, have loved the cartoon Aqua Teen Hunger Force since its inception 7 years ago. So when they learned that the creators were somehow implicated in a "terror" plot, they were both rolling with laughter. However, for a more serious analysis of the situation and how it relates to the East coast of America's Puritanical roots, read this article.

(image stolen from www.boingboing.net. If you're from BB, and you don't want it posted here, just let me know.)

16 Feb--Notes from a Travel Journal, pt. 5

2007-02-19T21:49:00.000+13:00

Breakfast on the beach again. Another scorcher of a morning. My toes are showing wear: blisters from jandals and Tevas are making it increasingly difficult to walk.

We had to be off the island at 2:00 to take Katrina to Nelson. Crossing at high tide was a test of strength and endurance. What appeared to be a gentle flow into an estuary was, in fact, a very fierce flow into an estuary. Katrina and Susanne loaded up the sea kayaks with emtpy LPG bottles, rubbish, laundry, and all of our gear. Katrina and I were to row to the other side with all the gear, then I had to row back to get Ami. Simple, no? It seemed easy enough on the way over, but kayaking back alone was downright frightening. I paddled until my shoulders burned, but for a moment it did nothing more than keep me in the same place--the outgoing tide sweeping through the small channel was very adamant that I be swept out to sea. I feel like I just made it. Kayaking back with Ami, I let her do all the work.

15 Feb--Notes from a Travel Journal, pt. 4

2007-02-19T21:43:00.000+13:00

Jesus Christ, it's hot this morning. We eat breakfast and drink coffee in the morning sun. Katrina and her sister, Susanne, talk between bursts of bickering and song.

Late morning, we scatter--each finding a place to read. I hang in the hammocks among the pine, while Ami sits in the beach grass reading about the history of the Middle East. We only join up again when it is time to eat and drink.

Clouds come, and with them a slight rain. I fall asleep listening as it settles into the trees. When I awake, it is time to eat again.

14 Feb--Notes from a Travel Journal, pt. 3

2007-02-16T23:09:00.000+13:00

Awoke to dawn chorus as I have every day on the trip. Fell back to sleep soon after its conclusion, re-awakening some hours later to pack up the tent.

Walked part of the Abel Tasman. It took 1.5 hours to walk to Appletree Bay where we swam and lay in the sun for another 1.5 hours. Hiking out, we picked up people’s trash.

Have seen the following wildlife so far:

Starfish—low tide in Marahau

Crabs—same, and on Abel Tasman

Eels—two of them as the tide came in, wetlands, Marahau

Pukeko—Marahau, little Kaiteriteri

Spent some more time on little Kaiteriteri before meeting up with Katrina.

To get to Katrina’s island, we had to load up kayaks with groceries and row to Jackett island off the coast of Motueka.

The evening played out like a melodrama, or some dark comedy that I wish I had the wherewithal to write. Maybe soon.

Relieved that we have no place to go for the next three days. Isolated on this giant sandbar, the North Island on the horizon, I have to focus very hard to believe there is a world other than than the sand under my legs and the sea everywhere else.

13 Feb--Notes from a Travel Journal, pt. 2

2007-02-13T20:29:00.000+13:00

Day 2

note: getting dark and more difficult to write.

drove out of Okiwi toward Nelson and met up with Auntie Katrina (Ami's "aunt." more of a friend of Ami's mother, really). we'll stay on her island tomorrow, but today we needed noting more than to lounge about on the beach. i've become an avid beach bum since leaving KS.

drove to Kaiteriteri and swam around the rocks. absolutely puffed afterward. Ami is a much better swimmer and generally more fit. must, must, must do more exercise!

drove on to Marahau and found a spot for the tent. tide was going out so we grabbed a couple of beers and walked out to the water. had to tip-toe as there were hundreds of starfish huddled in the small salty pools left by the outgoing tide. looking closer, tiny crabs, snails, and other creatures of which we don't know the names.

Ami just arrived and told me to come look at the stars.

A giant orange moon rises on the horizon, its reflection animated in the sea. in another part of the sky, comet mcnaught sails quietly out.

12 Feb--Notes from a travel journal, pt. 1

2007-02-12T21:37:00.000+13:00

Jamie and Ami spent a week moving between beaches in the northern South Island. What follows are notes from Jamie's journal.

Day 1

first of all, don't pack sleepy. after a mere 3 hour kip we tried to get up and pack at 5am. we managed to forget the following:

coffee plunger

cups

gas stove

spoons

bowls

deck chairs

A dinner of bread and hummus sitting on the beach, while nice, was bitter sweet knowing we'd be chewing coffee tomorrow morning and eating dry breakfast cereal.

Camped at Okiwi Bay in the Rai Valley. A bit of a boatie community with most, if not all, of the residents avid fishermen (much overfishing is had by all). The camp site is quaint, but rocky and not good for those with tents . . . which is us.

found a nice, private beach east along the road accessible at low tide. great for looking into shallow tide pools, tiny worlds shimmering away.

1 Feb--A Day at the Races, pt.2

2007-02-02T16:51:00.000+13:00

Horse racing boasts a long, sometimes dubious, never boring history. Across the globe, from the Kentucky Derby to the Melbourne Cup, there is one unifying element; one signature sight that has defined the track for generations: hats. The races would be little more than booze-laden gamblefests were it not for fancy hats. It's an undeniable fact, and one Jamie was all too aware of. Unfortunately, Jamie did not own a hat.

The panic set in early. Choosing the right suit was easy. He had a three-piece wool number he found at an op-shop (note to outsiders: "op-shop" is Kiwi for thrift store) a couple of years ago that set him back a mere $15. But it would all fall short if he was unable to tie it together.

Luckily, Wellington had a hatter. Not a hat shop or a clothing store with hats--a proper hatter complete with the little machine that stretches hats for the perfect fit. He had been inside for less than a minute when he saw it: on a high shelf, atop myriad versions of itself--his hat. It had to be.

"You after the 'pork pie,' mate?" called the hatter.

He even liked the name.

31 Jan--A Day at the Races, pt. 1

2007-02-01T15:42:00.000+13:00

What a crummy week, Jamie thinks. And it was only Wednesday. He raises his hand to the bridge of his nose and squeezes hard--a small pinch to distract him from pressures elsewhere.

"I need a distraction," he says outloud. His fellow Web designers peek over their monitors.

"I could sing a song," Liam offers, and proceeds to belt out a few bars of Maneater.

"No, I mean I need a REAL distraction, like what beer does for you." Jamie said, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth, an email from Ami arrived in his inbox.

Just received two tickets to the Wellington Classic. Free booze, free food--fancy a day at the races?

Jamie smiles. That's more like it.

29 Jan--Jamie and his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

2007-01-30T17:00:00.000+13:00

The day had been challenging enough without forgetting the house alarm code, Jamie thought. But there he was, standing perfectly still, hoping the breeze blowing in wouldn't trip the motion sensors. With his fingers hovering over the keypad (3425? 2543?), he quietly remembered how long his day had been, beginning with leaving his mobile on his bedside table.

Then Ami decided she would take the car to work. Jamie wanted to take the car to work. "No," Ami said, "You can take the train." Jamie stood on the platform and listened to the voice telling commuters that all the trains today would be delayed . . . indefinitely.

At work, a "very important project" landed on Jamie's desk. "We need these projects displayed as Gantt charts by 3pm. We heard you knew Photoshop." When middle managers and project managers say "Photoshop," they mean "miracle-working." They continued, "We saw someone do it once in PowerPoint, but we need to print this out and have it take up the whole wall." No matter how many times Jamie explained the concept of bitmaps and pixels and their relative inflexibility, they wouldn't budge.

Jamie had to work through lunch. By the end of the day, a knot the size of a lemon had formed beneath his shoulder blade (on a side note, he now truly empathised with Ami).

Then Jamie couldn't find the right book for Ami's dad's birthday. The extra time he took going to a third bookstore made him late for his train home. He boarded the 6:00 and waited for it to pull out. After it had moved 500 meters, it stopped, and reversed back to the station. "We're sorry," the announcement apologised, "but all trains are delayed . . . indefinitely." Without a mobile, Jamie was forced to hunt down a pay phone. He found one tucked behind the station's pub, near the rubbish bins, but soon discovered it wouldn't take his credit card. He rummaged through his pocked and found some change. Ami didn't answer. She was at a going away party for a friend. Sitting in a loud bar, she never heard it ring. He left a message, but lost his change for it.

And now it was 8:00. He was standing in his hallway staring at the alarm's keypad, his mind a complete blank. He imagined he might be able to sneak, spy-like, into his room to recover his phone and thus ring Ami for the code, but realised he'd never make it. No--he was lucky to have walked this far without tripping the sensors. 1325? 2531? He leaned his head against the wall and wished he was on a beach in Australia.

24 Jan--We Lost a Friend

2007-01-25T14:59:00.000+13:00

The Sand Castle

--for Chris

Fore and aft cannons: good idea. Defense

against the sea (then, you said, "the enemy")--

unpredictable, yes, but at least you see it coming.

With colour and a grin and a look like the look of a man

who's been there, you move earth as though you knew it.

Of course there is going to be a pool. A white spindle shell

too shy to mimic oceans, beer bottle forests. Planted

into your drawbridge one leaf of grass: not a thing

built for lifting, it's thin frame holds and with the tide remains

a buoyant, wholly remarkable life.

20 Jan--So unfair; so natural

2007-01-23T23:13:00.000+13:00

A day begins with the best intentions. Hour upon hour, however, it loses its grip and crumbles into night. As long as there is time there will never be enough.

19 Jan--Carrying on the zombie thread . . .

2007-01-19T11:43:00.000+13:00

If one is serious about the imminent threat of zombies (for those living in Kansas, I fear it may be too late. Seek shelter. Buy bullets. Steer clear of churches--they gather there.), one should begin by visiting this website.

18 Jan--Wellington Streets, pt 5

2007-01-18T10:00:00.000+13:00

. . . which is why Wellington employs the zombie death squad. Thanks, ZDS!

17 Jan--Wellington Streets, pt 4

2007-01-18T09:56:00.000+13:00

Few things are more unnerving than a zombie in undying pursuit. . .

16 Jan--Wellington Streets, pt 3

2007-01-16T20:25:00.000+13:00

Sometimes Jamie finds himself shopping for miso and fresh tofu at an Asian food store when he is suddenly struck with the urge to hit a few balls at the driving range. Lucky for him, Wellington has just the spot.

15 Jan--Wellington Streets, pt.2

2007-01-16T07:15:00.000+13:00

Some images go beyond graffiti and become a prelude either to something remarkable or to something very, very silly.

14 Jan--Wellington Streets, pt 1

2007-01-14T20:54:00.000+13:00

To begin with, few are signposted. This seems to be a non issue for locals, yet for visitors and new arrivals, navigating Wellington is frustrating at best. Jamie is reminded of this as he sips a pint of Mac's Golden on the balcony of a central pub. Various backpack-laden people walk up and down the same street two or three times--they look down at the map, up to where a signpost SHOULD be, then, confused, back to the map. They appear to bounce from corner to corner like rats in the proverbial maze. He watches as they ask for directions, twice (hearing "oh, that restaurant is on the corner of Courtenay Place and Taranaki" means little when neither street makes itself known.)

Just to add to the fun of watching confused tourists, some streets have different names depending on which way traffic is flowing. One street (two?) that runs next to the now-famous Embassy theatre (site of the world premier of Lord of the Rings) is named Kent Terrace for traffic flowing south, and Cambridge Terrace for traffic flowing north. Jamie wishes someone would explain this to him.

On many occasions, after failing to find his destination, Jamie would simply wander up and down the streets taking snapshots of graffiti, advertisements, and stencil art spray-painted to the odd cornerstone.

One of his favourites is by a local artist named Otis Chamberlain. Chamberlain's work can be seen as stencil, graffiti, and, lately, on a drink ad. In the coming days, Jamie will notice and photograph other gems tucked into the concrete corners of the city.

13 Jan--An Observation

2007-01-14T11:56:00.000+13:00

It soon occurs to Jamie that any inherent element of "cool" in a person is all but completely extinguished during the act of learning how to lasso.

12 Jan--The Book of Cool

2007-01-13T00:56:00.000+13:00

The Book of Cool is a combination book and DVD. Inside lies the mystery of being so chick-scoringly cool it is a wonder the price tag is a mere $54.95. Not that Jamie would pay to be cool, of course. No. Never.

He would, however, borrow the chance.

The Book of Cool demonstrates in colourful, documented steps how to perform acts of coolness in many disciplines including, but not limited to, skateboarding (ollies, heel flips), soccer (many juggling tricks), shuffling cards, spinning pens/pencils around one's fingers, mixing drinks, pool trick shots, Frisbee, roller blading, and juggling (Jamie knows from experience what a pull juggling can be at a party).

He sleepily flicks through the book; the DVD in its case, unopened. He indulges for a moment in the fantasy that if he should learn even one cool point, he would invite himself to as many parties as he possibly could. He stops flicking the book at the chapter on juggling and decides to begin here.

He looks at the page, and a photo of a man throwing chainsaws into the air looks back.

"Cool." Jamie observes, and he begins.

The first sentence of the chapter reads, "Mad Chad is a professional juggler . . . You are NOT Mad Chad."

Here Jamie stops. The blunt truthfulness of this sentence smacks him in the face. Who am I kidding, he thinks? I've never been cool--beginning now would be pouring lemon juice on the wound.

He flicks quickly through the book with the intention of closing it when he notices a different chapter.

"What's this?" Jamie says, noticing the heading of the chapter. It reads, Lassoing.

"Much better," He says out loud and races down to the garage to find the nylon rope. "There might just be cool in me yet."

11 Jan--Senior's Menu

2007-01-11T11:43:00.000+13:00

Darrell, Karen, and Peter (Jamie's father, mother, and brother respectively) are moving to Dunedin. Their initial efforts to find a house were fruitless, but their luck changed yesterday when they found a place in St. Clair that boasted views of both the city and the sea. It could hardly get any better.

The three of them decided to eat out in celebration, understandably. Choosing Cobb & Co. (New Zealand's version of The Black Eyed Pea or Chilis or Ruby Tuesday or Amarillo Grill or any theme-oriented, family-friendly, mass produced franchise restaurant) was more a result of Peter's insatiable desire for cheese-laden meat food than a desire to find a nice meal. While perusing the menu, the waitress approached the table and rattled off a few specials, most of which fell into the cheesy meat, or meaty pasta.

"And the fish of the day is blue cod," she chipper, youthful tone.

"Blue cod," Karen thought, biting her tongue, "how . . . special."

The waitress began to walk away, but suddenly spun on her heel as if she'd forgotten to tell them something, which she had. She reached over Darrell's shoulder and pointed to the menu in his hand. "Oh, and the senior's menu on page three. It's there for people 55 and over, so you might want to think about that."

Darrell was ropable. With each shade of red his face darkened, Karen laughed harder.

"What the hell did she say to me? Senior's menu?!" Darrell whispered loudly.

"Look," Karen offered, wiping the tears from her face, "most of the items come with a straw!"

They hooted and howled, forgetting for a moment the move, their quest for a house, even their surroundings. It was good to laugh again.

8 Jan -- Peter and the Sundial of Human Involvement

2007-01-08T21:00:00.000+13:00

Peter Love regards the world with what is best described as sincere honesty. He gives every situation the benefit of the doubt, whether it be a conversation or a television commercial (indeed, he will sometimes comment in all seriousness on our need to investigate the possibility of buying new carpet after witnessing with what ease red wine is lifted from a StainMaster brand rug on TV). Peter will strip away cynicism and clever marketing and regard a message in its own dumb nakedness. Sarcasm, far from being misunderstood, is simply ignored. This is illustrated no better than in the case of Peter and the Sundial of Human Involvement.

In the leafy centre of Wellington's Botanical Gardens there sits the Sundial in question. A sign invites passers by to stand in the middle, thrust one's arms into the air, and create a human sundial. Most participants who do so enjoy a laugh or a bit of self-deprecating humour. Peter, however, carefully read the instructions and stepped into the sun.

"It says you need to stand on today's date, Pete." John, Peter's brother, shouted as he read further. On the ground was a figure-eight in stone with various calendar dates. For the dial to work, the person needed to be on the correct day to take into account the tilt of the earth.

"Today's date isn't here." Peter replied, pointing to the evidence.

"Well, I guess you'll just have to get close." John replied.

"Hardly accurate." Peter shot back.

Never one to let an obstacle like the existence of a day stop him, Peter places his hands together and raised them over his head. His body was straight and motionless, for a moment you could almost see the shadow moving slyly across the number's face.

"What time is it?" Jamie asked. His question was met with silence as Peter interpreted his position.

"2:20." Peter said firmly.

Jamie looked at his watch.

"Nope. It's a quarter-to-three." He said.

"That's a shame." Peter replied, his arms flopping to his side. "It was such a good idea. This really could have caught on."

7 Jan--A quick reflection on the weekend

2007-01-07T22:00:00.000+13:00

Jamie's friend Scot got married to Holly (Ami, Jamie's partner, is Holly's sister) on Saturday, and Jamie was lucky enough to be invited to the wedding. Despite the pastor's waffling incoherently and completely misinterpreting the story of the Wedding at Caana (My take: Jesus didn't turn water into wine. Let's be serious for a moment--the bartender was holding back, telling everyone there was no more so they wouldn't get into his good stash. When he heard that some fella was going to pour water into his casks, he quickly brought them to the surface. Oh! A miracle! We DO have wine!), the wedding was a lovely one. More importantly, though, the reception was legendary. As soon as Jamie sees the photos, he'll be able to remember what happened. Until then, he'll have to live with the colourful events that zip briefly through his memory: Champagne on the beach, a meatball, potatoes roasted by babies, shouting his lungs out to Bon Jovi covers, why is there chalk in my mouth?, the congo line through Michelle's kitchen while the B-52's blared on a hijacked stereo . . . on second thought, Jamie may not need the pictures after all.

Congratulations Holly and Scot.

2007-01-03T22:07:00.000+13:00

Returning to work, Jamie finds his desk exactly as he left it: a music magazine lay flat next to a small shelf of Web Design books, site navigation maps are tucked underneath his phone, a wind-up alarm clock with Chairman Mao painted on the face sits silently near his monitor. Although it has been a mere ten days since he left, he walked in thinking something would be different, but nothing is. The calendar on the wall still displays December 2006. In the corner a tired, plastic Christmas tree leans against the wall, its pipe-cleaner branches clinging defiantly to the garland. All the while the air conditioning haunts the room with a low, steady whisper. Soon the place will yawn to life: more people will shuffle to their desks, and keyboards will chatter under the electronic burble of telephones. Talk will be of the holidays: how they were spent and how they will spend the next one. Whatever transpired during the previous days is for most little more than a residue--it sits unused, waiting to be washed away.

Jamie, on the other hand, is more comfortable loitering about the long halls of his memory. Reflection is half the fun of living, he's decided. Over the next few days he will try to bring to light moments heavy with meaning, moments of impact, and moments of hopeless frivolity. The reader, he hopes, will not be able to tell the difference.

24 Dec

2006-12-24T20:22:00.000+13:00

Christmas Eve in the Southern Hemisphere is, as you might expect, opposite that of the Northern Hemisphere--at lest weather-wise. Long days push blooms from various trees and shrubs, the summer solstice having just passed. Where in the Kansas evergreens are almost the only living plant to see, in New Zealand the landscape is alive with pohutukawa and calla lily. Barbecues float aloft scents of sausage and shrimp while the beach is crawling with great, lounging unwashed.

Funny, Jamie thinks, that so many of the Northern Hemisphere traditions are still held on to in the South Pacific. Take house lights for example. The multi-coloured, flashing spots bordering roof rims and window panes that, in Kansas anyway, are a warm sight in the long, cold nights, are out of place in a country where it's light until 10:00 and sees the sun rise at 5:00. Who besides late night revellers even lays eyes upon them? House lights are just one example of Christmas's place as a winter festival. On the darkest days of winter (for it falls very near the solstice), societies need a celebration to lift their spirits and bring each other physically and mentally closer together. A sort of half way point where a great deal of bother is made over heavy foods, spiced wine, and lots and lots of light. Christmas has surprisingly little to do with Christian tradition. Rather, it has a great deal vested in human bonding.

So why cling to roasts and layered casseroles in a region where it's 90 degrees Fahrenheit on a regular basis? For those in the North, imagine sitting down to baked ham, turkey, hot-cross buns, fruitcake, biscuits, chocolates, and heady red wine in the middle of July. Sorta makes you itch, doesn't it?

Slowly, however, it seems subsequent generations are shuffling off the coils of tradition and setting into motion an altered, more appropriate ceremony. Tradition is rooted in necessity; lose the necessity, and tradition is set afloat. How long it can keep its head above water is anybody's guess.

21 Dec--Sport

2006-12-22T08:53:00.000+13:00

One of the quirky beauties of living in a nation with the half the population of New York City is reading the sports page. Where national sports news in America is as predictable as reality TV, the sports section of the New Zealand Herald reads like the script of a David Lynch movie. The moment one believes one understands it, there suddenly appears on page 2 in-depth commentary on water polo. Yet unlike Twin Peaks, the diversion is refreshing, if not delightful. Jamie, never a fan of reading about sport, devours the spots page. He reads it as though he were an anthropologist poring over brittle texts depicting rituals of ancient civilizations--how familiar they are as a topic, but so foreign as a serious interest.

New Zealanders report on rugby and cricket with the same voracity as Americans report on gridiron and baseball. This us understandable as the former, although darkly understood in the States, are popular internationally. However, on the same page one may find articles on cross-country adventure/endurance racing, bicycling (both track racing and the Tour of Southland--New Zealand's answer to the Tour de France), netball, sailing, and numerous foot races (triathalons, mountain runs, etc). For Jamie, reading about sport has never been so enlightening.

20 Dec--On Revenge

2006-12-20T23:15:00.000+13:00

What is revenge? As an emotion it can overshadow everything: fear, rejection, love--all are eclipsed. Revenge sets the mind alight, and all else is consumed. But why do we feel it at all?

Did it once serve a purpose? Was it beneficial? Life abhors wasted energy, and if there is one thing revenge consumes, it's energy. Leading to what? Retaliation. A specific action. Besides abhorring energy, life also tends toward homeostasis, the evenness of things. Revenge is retaliation against dissenters among the group. Revenge drives the body to act, to retaliate against the dissension. Retaliation leads to less dissension, which leads to a calmer group--homeostasis of small societies.

It had a purpose, once. These days it's all but wasted effort. Personal revenge does little more than quench the raw emotion. The greater societal benefits are lost as the boundaries of the proverbial group expand, growing ever wider until revenge itself becomes the norm, and we retaliate only by staying calm.

So can revenge in contemporary societies still be realized? Well, access to the internet helps.

19 Dec--Take this, JF

2006-12-19T17:01:00.000+13:00

There comes a time in every man's life when he has to stop leaning against the wall when using the urinal, and just pee standing up straight. Many months ago Jamie did just this and was surprised, to put it mildly, to see his sister's name scrawled into the wood. How is it, Jamie thinks, that even when she's a trillion miles away, Libby still manages to win.

15 Dec--On Home

2006-12-15T11:17:00.000+13:00

Jamie once referred to home as "what we sacrifice." It made sense at the time--he spent 24 years growing up in Wichita, his family always near. Then one year everyone left. One sister went to Newton, one to Australia (then Canada); one brother moved to California, the other to New Zealand with his parents. Jamie flew to Ireland. And there, in a land of poets, of people so rooted to a place that generations of New Yorkers still call it the homeland, Jamie reflected on what it meant to go home.

There are the obvious cliches: a hung hat, the heart; a place you go where they can't turn you away. There are the traditionalists who, like the Irish or the pagans of ancient Rome, are tied to a region as large as a continent or as particular as one's own neighbourhood. Yet there are only two constants when referring to "home": 1. You know when you are there, and 2. You will, eventually, leave.

The first point is rather vague. It's like determining art from not art. One might describe home as a "sense of belonging," but elaborate--what is a sense of belonging? How does one know when one belongs? And then how does one quantify a sense of this? Furthermore, that sensation is different depending on to whom you're talking. A Congolese refugee may not have the same attitudes toward home as a young girl who suffered abuse there. In both of these cases the individuals were forced to sacrifice their homes--the former being physically removed, and the latter stripped of home's general warmth and comfort before she had a chance to experience it.

But we all leave home--everyone, everywhere--eventually. Whether by force or by choice, we will leave it. Home becomes a sacrifice we share, individually if not collectively. It could be likened to the womb: where we are protected; where we are important. Returning home, be it a physical structure or among a group, is in some way returning to a manifestation of maternal care: like when you were six years old and were scared of the dark, you ran to mother--your first home, your only home.

15 Dec

2006-12-15T06:41:00.000+13:00

It has been one week since Jamie's father came to visit. Jamie hopes he is doing well, and he wishes his little brother, Peter, a very happy birthday.