So two whales are in a bar. The first looks at his friend and says: Aroooooooooorooohraaarrooooo Blaaaarroooooooooooooooeeeeeeheeeeeeeeeeeeedaaaaaaaroooooo Arooooooooooooohrooooaaaa.


The second whale widens his eyes a bit, leans back, and says: Damn, you ARE drunk.....


Seemed appropriate for a piece on Kiwi lingo.


I will leave the Kiwi accent for others to describe, if necessary I refer you back to the Beachedas piece I posted a couple of weeks ago. The accent developed in mining camps full of Aussies, Brits of all stripes, and American whalers trading for gold. So, of course, they created a patois which sounds nothing like any of those groups. We aren't better looking than other groups, we certainly aren't smarter than other groups, we don't have more reasonable gods or better general hygiene than other ethnicities. But white people do have two great balancers in their favor; an inborn affinity for guns, and the cultural imperative to make any situation we find ourselves in as difficult as possible. Thus, one could postulate that the Kiwi accent emerged out of a need to not handicap our children with easy lives.


No friends, what I will impart tonight is a bit of Kiwi vocab. Find herein the minimum survival-level translations to help make your next trip more legible, and your next 'flight of the conchords' party more authentic.


'Z'. This is not a Zee. This is a Zed. Do not forget that. Kiwis do not come from En Zee, they hail from En Zed. Calling it Zee gets you the same scornful, pitying look you receive when you call San Fran "Frisco" while actually being anywhere within 200 miles of the city.


'NZ'. Major cultural symbol which is apparently legally required to be applied wherever 'ns' would be used in communications, politics, or marketing. Split Enz are a grand example, but others abound. Kind of the local Uncle Sam iconography.


'Godzone'. Not Utah. Kiwi for God's own country. Which, of course must be NZ. Thus far I am inclined to agree.


'pakeha' (pah keh hah). Non-maori, though usually applied to those of European extraction, including Aussies and North Americans. Not an insult, unless you earn it.


'....... As!' A way of emphasizing any adjective or adverb. Sweet As! Drunk As! Broke As! Flunked As! Lame As! Loud As! Annoying As! Pitiful As! (I think I might have been living over Castle Street a bit too long to retain the necessary objectivity on this entry).


'Ute'. Still not Utah. A species of vehicle which would make all the die-hard El Camino and Ranchero drivers melt with ecstasy. Why these are not being sold as we speak on the corners of East LA is beyond my ken. Here is a Ute (utility vehicle):

'Starter'. Adjective meaning ready to go or eager. "He's a starter".

'GoodasGold' One word, pronounced quickly. Means grand, in good shape, or generally OK. For the most part you don't see much use of the thumbs-up symbol here, most likely because of our proximity to a slew of cultures that take that symbol in a very different way.

'GutsferGarters'. A person or situation which has deteriorated menacingly far from GoodasGold.

'Took to the blanket'. A pakeha who has left white society to join the Maori, specifically one who took a Maori bride. Surprisingly little stigma to this, actually as a whole NZ society is quite mellow about inter-ethnic mixes. Historically this has been the case, as long as you were male. If you were a white woman who left to join a Native culture there was a whole different set of terms for you which I shall leave for you to discover.

'Esky'. Cooler. Also called 'chilly bin'. Esky is short for Eskimo. When I asked if they called the banks 'Jewies' or the gun shops 'Honkies' I was met with blank, polite stares.

'bach' and 'crib'. Vacation cabins, and apparently the local determinant of suffrage. No bach, no vote.

'smoko'. Work break. No longer much smoking going on but this tradition is guarded and savored to a degree that makes me wonder if the place was settled by the French.

'Dairy'. Corner shop. Apparently all ruled by a vicious looking beast called "Cookie Time". Come and I'll show you what I mean.

'Rattle yer dags'. Hurry up. Comes from the noise the lengths of dried feces stuck to sheep's butts make when their host runs. Really.

'Cheers!' Thanks! This is a bit disconcerting to a yank. The experience of being toasted by people several dozen times a day without so much as a muggette of Coors to return it with wears on you.

'wop-wops'. The boonies, the sticks, the hillbilly havens.

'Jafa'. Just another F...ing Aucklander. Further evidence that residents of major cities are always held in high regard by their neighbors.

'Jandals'. Flip-flops. When I called them thongs I thought I was going to get a beating. Different idea of a thong, I suppose.

'Poms'. British. Not an insult unless you earn it.

Enough time distracted from my studies. I shall return with tales of Radio One, the Catlins, and the interesting uses they put churches to hereabouts. Until then, keep your esky dry. Or they start to smell funny.

At the end of the day, it is always about the wine, no?

New Zealand is justly famous for its white wines, Sav Blanc, Reisling, Chardonnay, and the sweet Germans in particular. And indeed, they are damn good and worthy of your attention (apparently NZ wine only has 0.5 % of the US market). But I am a big red kinda guy. I like my wines dark enough to stain a Cardinal's cassock and big enough to chew on. My personal favorite, Zin, is not much grown down in these cold regions but the locals have discovered to their delight the they grow some of the world's best Pinot Noir, consistently taking global best-of-shows for the past several years. Only the past several, since most of these vines are only 25 years old.

So how to explore wines on a student budget without breaking my toddler-sized bank or losing my license while weaving to the next winery? Let the Uni do it for me, like every other damn thing in my life these days. The school put together a trip for 11 of us, costing roughly $80 USD each and including 9 winery stops over two days, all meals, and a hotel room in Queenstown. My kind of education. Here are some highlights.

Black Rock is the oldest commercial winery in the Central Otago region and pioneered many of the methods used here. Definitely funky, with a handmade feel and a mix of rugged rock slopes and beautiful vines just starting to change colors (the nets are to protect the grapes from birds). Black Rock makes great wine, they had the only whites I bought (a Reisling and a late-harvest Gwertz!) since nothing else I tried beat them, and very solid Pinot Noir. They also had the only Cab Sav I saw the whole trip, and likely the only one in production here, which was much better than passable. Not Rutherford, but a damn sight better than most. Black Rock was the only winery we visited that had not switched entirely to screw-top, as the prop. believes that wine for the cellar benefits from the cork. Most of his product is screw-top, but there is still a bit of bark being used. He was also the first to tell us what many wine-makers bemoaned, that 99% of wine in NZ is drunk within 24 hours of purchase.

Mt. Difficulty was our third stop for the day, and is perhaps the most famous of NZ's big red manufacturers. Beautiful spot and very nice tasting room, but extremely busy and unable to spend much time with us. I will need to return on a weekday and really spend some time with their product. We also stopped in at the Big Picture, which is a tres cool 'wine tourism experience' kinda place with an aroma room, a theatre, and a multi-winery flight after a great platter lunch. No pictures allowed, but worth your time if you swing through.

After the fifth wine tasting of the day we stumble into the justly renowned Queenstown for the night. There is lots written about this place already, so may I just leave you with my impression? Park City crossed with Atlantic City and dumped at the base camp for Everest.

We arrived in time to watch a mob of ducks eat a small child. Neat!

The next morning, a bit under the weather from all the wine, I sought a brief constitutional at the Kawarau bridge.

Then off to Gibbston Valley Wines. The best Pinot Noir of the trip, though it had some strong competition. The folks were very cool, and we finagled a tour of the only wine cave in the district. For the Pinot Junkie this is heaven. Just watch out for the Taiwanese film crews in the cheesery. They seem to have been there quite a while.

Peregrine wines, with a very cool facility, great staff, and damn good reds.

Their yard wasn't too shabby either.

A final stop at Carrick wines, another close competitor for best product and an incredible lunch. After which the exhausted crew passed out on the lawn outside the restaurant window for an hour and recovered. I have nothing but love for a high-end winery with a world class reputation that has a big box of toys in the middle of their dining room for kids to play with at their leisure. And who leave a bunch of bedraggled students on their lawn unmolested. Good show.

Dunedin is a town founded by Scottish Free Church in 1848, though whalers, and before them Maori, had been around much longer due to the fantastic harbor at the site. Come 1861 gold was discovered nearby, producing a gold rush which created the modern town. The rush only lasted ten years, but during this time such iconic buildings as the University of Otago (oldest in New Zealand) were built. Though the gold petered out another rush was to come with the frozen meat trade, and until about 1900 Dunedin was the largest city and primary economic center for the country.

While no longer dominant (no longer even in the top 4 communities, to be honest), the city survives, focusing itself around the University and tourism, as well as some agriculture. The period of relative prosperity has left its mark, however, and this town is very cool to just wander through. The relics of the past haven't always been preserved, such as the classic bank building downtown which now hosts a strip joint. Nonetheless enough is still here to make a western boy like me take note. Just watch out for the bottles.

Student housing is a bit rough, as previous posts have suggested, but the view ain't half bad.
And the dorms are downright stately:

Anything of note has a plaque attached, and most of the names are every bit as British as you'd expect. Sir Hardie Boys?


The religious foundations of the town and the battle between Presbyterian and Anglican is very evident in the center of town.

The Anglican cathedral:

The Free Church's (earlier) entry into the derby:
City buildings keep to the same style.

City hall:

The Courts:

The rail station:

More importantly, CADBURY!

No photo essay of town would be complete without my alma mater. The core of the university is still the original buildings, and plumbing, and heating system, and internet connectivity, it seems. Some things are simply classics.

So what can I say after a month? The drunk students are annoying and Castle Street is hazardous. The music is good, the climate suits my clothes, and the wine is top-notch (more on this later). Great place to stroll, great place to drink, not so good if you like insulated homes. The University is stimulating, and the cops are laid back. Very Scottish. But the best damn thing about this town is what lies just 15 minutes up the hill from me:

Right, back to work.

How to speak Kiwi, a primer:

The joys of living in a country where liability is under control, and not under the control of attorneys:

One year of full coverage insurance on my car: about 200 USD.

Accident insurance: Covered by the government using a minimal tariff. Care and compensation dealt with regardless of fault. No court time, no madness, no incentive to cheat.

OBGYNs: Plentiful. Doctors who like babies are not scared off by the incredible liability costs of this area of medicine, unlike the States.

Gun Club: No ear or eye protection required. Kinda dumb, but since the club isn't responsible they can treat their members like adults.

Trails through private land: Common and accessible except during lambing season. Since the landowner is not responsible for idiotic behavior (aside from their own) they can let trampers cross without concern. They sometimes even wave.

Instructions on a can of corn: Absent.

Warnings on a cup of coffee: Absent.

Safety labels on every damn electric appliance known to man: Absent.

Children playing in other folks' yards: Exuberantly present.

Awfully damned civilized.

Keep delaying getting new posts up...my apologies. Each time I return to college I go through the process of forcing my mind and habits back into the track necessary to finish, though the freedom that comes with a PhD program makes it insidiously more difficult. No deadlines, no teachers. Just a recognition of what you are supposed to be doing and where you are going.

Meanwhile I have an entire island of wonders unexplored right outside of my door. Arrgghhh.... Nothing I would like more than to just hit the road for a week but it ain't gonna happen, at least not yet. If I can just get ahead of my targets I can take some time off, and if I just had a pony and a hot fudge sundae everything would be great...

Town seems to be calming down a bit, though my neighbors do continue to play indoor cricket all day. The bowler winds up out in the street and pitches through the open front door, where the batsman tries to drive it through whatever opening he can find or create. Great soundtrack to my studies. In the evenings when I need a break I just go and sit on my balcony in the dark, with my intoxicant of choice, and watch the madness. Occasionally I take a picture:

Not that I am spending all my evenings in seclusion, mind you. Abbey College has the benefit of being full of nothing but grad students, most of whom are international. The range of interests is immense and there is almost always someone to join you on a journey. Last night we went and saw a punk band (Die!Die!Die!) at the campus club. Our group was a Brit, a Dutchman, a Canadian, a kiwi, and a couple of yanks. The show sucked, and the pit was weak, but it was nice just hanging out in that setting again and then returning to watch Curb your Enthusiasm at 2 AM with two French students and an Iranian gent. You know you are in grad school when after a punk show you go home and watch pseudo-intellectual sitcoms with the United Nations. Must say it is better than the requisite vomiting and Village Inn runs of my youth. Cleaner too.

Friday night caught a fantastic show at a club about 16kms north of here called the Chicks Hotel. I had heard that it was a local musician's favorite, so I went up. You know it will be good when it is situated literally next door to an active container port, it looks like you are driving into the port of Oakland. No pretensions. The club itself is just the ground floor of a European style cheap hotel, the pub/cafe area, maybe 1500 square feet. No chairs to speak of, just big section couches and ottomans/divans scattered about the place. After getting a drink and retiring to a corner I started to watch the attendees. Hippie guy in a serape', Check. Red-head in a top hat and Victorian skirt, Check. Guy in a bad 70's lounge suit, Check. Girl in a North Face/thrift store combo either depicting the pointlessness of brands or the economic impact of buying them, Check. Satirical professorial garb, mohawks with blazers, witty t-shirts and brogans, check.

It was then that I realized; Dear God, I have wandered into a hipster bar.

After the initial shock I began to enjoy the ambiance, and the mellow, intellectual vibe was perfect for a band I have never seen but very much hope to see again. Steve Abel and the Chrysalids seem a mix of early REM and mid-career Tom Waits. Double Bass, Accordion, two guitars, and a singer who moves like John Cleese at his best. Check it out:

Sweet, eh?

Right. back to the books. This week I will try to get some pics of town and post them, and I should start with the radio station as well. Many stories to tell, I am sure.

Much love

The Great Dunedin Toga Riot of 2009, and other sordid tales of youth.

One of the reasons I came to New Zealand is that I wanted to experience the old English system on campus. 100 year old residence halls with their own traditions. Strange behaviors based upon forgotten deeds. Benign tolerance of the most heinous acts on the part of administration. Well, we are half-way there.

Apparently New Zealand has recently implemented a "bums on seats" (in the vernacular) system of funding schools, which has produced the likely result of Universities seeking underclassmen they know full well will wash out. Preferably fairly quickly, since the government funds the schools for the year based upon initial enrollment. Coupled with an increased focus in high school upon college attendance and extremely low costs for the attendees (college students are even eligible for a special form of welfare payments) it seems nearly every 18 year old in the country has decided to give it a try. After all, you get paid to party.

That doesn't have much impact on me, aside from the drunken bellows at all hours outside my window. When the new demographic meets the hidebound traditions of the school, however, the result is far from graceful.

The toga tradition involves the freshmen parading through the center of town in togas, while being pelted by upperclassmen with water balloons, flour bombs, and eggs. Messy, but basically harmless. This year brought a slightly different approach, with outsiders (either upperclassmen, renegade froshes, or non-students) starting with frozen oranges, moving onto thrown bottles (putting several participants in the hospital) and finally ending up with buckets of vomit and feces. Let me repeat, someone intentionally shit in a bucket, and followed their drunken friends around with a bucket, just to gather the mess they threw.

Understandably the freshmen ran like hell and headed for the shops of the main downtown district for cover. Since they were still being pelted with this leprous mash the stores ended up covered. The 20 cops on site had no chance to cope with the thousands of drunken, stinking, bleeding, terrified 18 year olds. Windows were smashed, cars were damaged, tourists were outraged.

I laughed pretty damn hard, I must admit. Not that I did not feel for the victims, I most certainly did and moved to help as soon as the herd had passed. But for any white supremacist making monkey jokes about minorities, I now have an image. Middle class white kids, the salt of the earth type, madly throwing shit at each other while gibbering like chimps.

So now the recriminations and meetings are flying fast and hard. Outraged business owners are meeting with sheepish student reps and university grandees. Newspapers puff their chests out while demanding that something must be done. Yet, like Nome, the most obvious thing to do is not even considered. Booze just brings in too much cash to be touched. Several of the closest local liquor stores to the campus are actually owned by former policemen and local politicos. So a solution to drunken stupidity which still encourages the drunkenness will be sought (really, kids are actively encouraged to drink from 18 on. I have seen bank ads offering to finance parties for freshmen).

I think next year I will be on a balcony rather than the ground floor. My shoes still smell funny.

After 8 years of our recent short-bus president Americans might be forgiven for feeling as if the Christian Conservative thang was all our own. Unwavering support for Israel (since they have to build the Temple then die on the fields of Mediggo before Christ comes back, dontcha know), abstinence education in lieu of condoms to stop HIV spread, and the wholehearted opting out from the evolution thing now feels so red, white, and blue that to find it overseas is a bit of a shock.

Yet here it is.

Perhaps I should not be surprised. Everyone speaks to how Scottish the region around Dunedin is, yet they rarely mention that it was settled by the Free Church of Scotland in 1848. Since then it has stayed big in politics, spinning off such recent parties as Christian Heritage, the Christian Coalition (Falwell lives!), Destiny New Zealand/the Family Party, and the Christian Democrats, plus Maori Christian groups such as Ratana.

Christian politics really fired up here in the 70's in opposition to the legalization of homosexual behaviors and the loosening of abortion laws. By the 80's US groups like Falwell's were advising these groups in how to fight back politically, especially over the decriminalization of gay love. Feminism was also a well-loved bugaboo. Where was Rush when they needed him? Unfortunately the most well-known leader of the hardest-right bunch, Christian Heritage, was convicted of the repeated rape of an eight year old girl in 2005, thus somewhat dampening the movement's ardour. At least towards children.

So, what does this mean for those of us wandering in fresh from the Obamathon? New Zealand is still much more progressive politically than the States (socialized medicine!). Yet at the student orientation tent fair on campus the most prominent, by far, presence there were evangelicals decrying evolution, distributing bibles, and trying to rouse the flock. On Clubs and Societies day the single largest contingent were religious groups, mostly Christian. More than half the International Student events I have been invited to have been Christian-sponsored. Heck, I have even been in three churches in my few days here. Granted, they had been converted into two bars and an art-cinema, but they were churches. One even had an object of veneration, a 12-foot Jagermeister banner decorating the nave above the dance floor. All praise our anise lord and his porcelain heaven...

Left.

Driving on the left is a disturbing experience. Driving on the left while operating a manual transmission with one's left hand is daunting until you become used to it. Figuring out the assorted other traffic rules of a new place adds spice to the situation; no turns on red, different yielding rules, etc. All an interesting challenge.

What I didn't consider, however, is how much our 'on the right' culture (no political puns will be employed here, thanks kindly) impacts everything else we do. Because we drive on the right, when walking we naturally line up to the right. We look a certain way when crossing the road. We even tend to turn to the right when entering buildings. The pattern is obvious, but not until you have enough distance to provide context. While in the States it is so omnipresent that you stop noticing it.

Now I find myself creating irritated eddies in foot traffic by swinging to the right when everyone heads left. I violate building traffic flows by not instinctively going the way the designers and marketers intend. Heaven forefend, in this most English of southern nations I can't even seem to queue properly.

Undoubtedly the most dangerous is the crossing of roads. For a people as genuinely kind and reserved as most New Zealanders seem to be, they are absolute demons behind the wheel. Dunedin has no significant crosswalks around the university, and they would be ignored if they did. Drivers literally accelerate towards pedestrians. Couple this with my tendency to look the wrong direction when stepping into the street and you have the conditions driving my multiple recent life-affirming moments in the local roads.

I am told I will learn. I simply hope to survive.

Two days in and I am not feeling jet lagged (hell, there is only 2 hours time difference). The seasonal change isn’t all that strange, since the pouring rain is reminiscent of a bad, warm Nome winter. Even the accent is not all that disconcerting as I am in a building full of international students, basically none of whom pronounce English the same. The woman across the hall sounds just like Nico. She is Asian. Figure that one out for me, please.

Old, however, I do feel. Channeling my internal Yoda for you as evidence. I have returned to college when I am twice the age of the influx of first-years swarming the streets and the gated-and-patrolled environs of our little trans-cultural think tank. It is not that I am treated cruelly; for the most part I simply don’t exist. Young people do not see you after a certain point, you become either a teacher or a visitor and the brain of the undergrad has no room for you, nothing to fear from you unless you stand before them in class describing grading systems, so you are simply not acknowledged.

If you stop one and insert yourself into their world the response is confusion. The space formerly filled with nothing now has a jabbering geriatric demanding their attention. The surprise is genuine, but it is usually followed by the worst reaction of all: respect.

There is something about walking down a street covered in the detritus of a four day party with several thousand kids away from home for the first time, a street that most people would fear to tread upon, especially at night, and to be treated with tolerant kindness. To have young men breaking bottles in the street turn at your approach and sheepishly stop, perhaps even muttering apologies. It is not because of my size, these are Polynesians, rugby players, rugby-playing Polynesians even. It is not that I have the theme from Shaft preceding me down the road like a psychic typhoon (though, of course, I do). It is my grey hair and obvious achievement of that “certain age”. They are nice to me because you are nice to old people.

It could be worse. I could be injured, taunted, chased. Respect is far from the worst fate we can achieve. But when returning to campus for the first time in 11 years, it is definitely disconcerting.

Made it.

The flight was a bear. Just a note, the differential between LA and SFO from Dunedin is 15 air miles. Yes, brothers and sisters, I said 15 miles. So all the trouble involved in humping my junk to SFO United, then from the Domestic to the International terminal at LA (great design work, boys), was totally and utterly unnecessary. Plus it meant I had to go to LA. I ever mention how much I hate LA? No? Because it should be a given. All right-thinking people hate LA, and no one thinks more rightly than I.

That said, the actual flight to Auckland was okay. Lots of movies and other toys, nice kid to sit next to and mock the tourists in front of us with, and enough xanax and ambien to fell Magilla Gorilla meant that I actually slept a bit of the way. Air New Zealand is nice, the staff is cool and the food palatable, and the seats were livable. Perhaps that is due to my weight loss as well, either way, not too bad.

That’s good because by the time I left I was in bad shape. Two weeks of saying goodbye to friends all over the west brought me to an emotional state I rarely see. Not depression, per se, but definite burnout. Plus the Kenai guilt and sorrow continues to fester. Topping it all off is the unmistakable tang of self doubt which appears before every move of this kind. What seemed like such a great plan becomes a WTF moment as it materializes. School? New Zealand? Quit my job, leave my wife and dog and family, sell all my shit? As much as I would like to think of myself as someone free enough to jump on these opportunities to swim with the dolphins, the reality is that I am an average guy from a good solid upbringing with pretensions of alt-grandeur. In god’s name, what was I thinking? Why do I need so badly to talk with my wife about the decision to move away for years? Maybe Onstad could answer me.

To interject, just as my last move from Cali to Nome had a soundtrack by Guy Clark, this particular breakdown is brought to you courtesy of the one, incredibly great, album by Willis Alan Ramsey. Except track 2, Muskrat Love. Yes, THAT Muskrat Love. Having that thing on this disc is like talking to Jesus and noticing early on that he has something hanging from his nose. Still cool, just unsettling.

So enough of my self-generated emotional turmoil, I made it to New Zealand.

Auckland I have seen little of aside from, once again, humping my gear from one terminal to another. But Dunedin, ah Dunedin is sweet. Airport surrounded by fields of a green I haven’t seen since Ireland. Not even the Highlands were this verdant. The buildings are old, and everything from the buildings themselves to the plumbing fixtures and the complete lack of insulation or central heating puts one in mind of a 1963 Holiday Inn in Muncie, IN. You should see the fixtures in my room. I’m pretty sure I could pay for this month’s rent via Ebay using just the Phillips console AM/FM rig built into one of my nightstands.

I have spent two days walking Dunedin and as of yet it has a similar feel. Nothing, aside from businesses, that would be called Modern architecture stateside. Even the music…lots of 70’s Floyd and 80’s light new-wave. Some places in pretty evident disrepair. Yet downtown is vibrant, full of tourist draws and pubs, bounded by beautiful 19th century churches and public buildings. So the flats are colder inside than out, who the hell wants to be inside? If only this rain would break. This is a glorious place.

Except for the Orientation week celebrations.

My room is in a complex between Cumberland and Castle Streets, just north of the University. Castle and Leith Streets, to the east, are the Dunedin equivalents of Bourbon Street, sans the good music, good costumes, and beignets. So, sans everything but the alcohol and noise. For the next several weeks we have been warned to expect loud late nights, glass strewn streets, and burning couches. Do not adjust your dial, I said burning couches. Local tradition, which none can explain, and despite the pouring to drizzling skies for the last two days there have been several attempts to torch conservatory suites outside our gates.

Drunks are not funny. Burning furniture is, depending on the circumstances, somewhere between not to mildly funny. Rain, rain isn’t particularly funny, nor are Kiwis inherently. They are a reserved breed, with a weakness for bad TV. Hell, 18 year old drinking ages aren’t even notably funny. But 18 year old, rain-drenched drunks trying to light soggy couches in the middle of a New Zealand street somehow becomes Richard Pryor coke-fire funny. At least so far. Fortunately, I was not allowed to bring my guns.

So there is currently a very damp riot occurring outside my window with an admittedly charming accent. Several hundred drunk frosh-critters are promenading through what appears to be the debris of the First Furniture War, screaming jovial obscenities at one another between bouts of ruminant mimicry in the bushes. Trying to re-chew their cud, that is. As well as very ruminant-like breeding attempts. Moo, baby; moo.

So since I started this blog with the hope of relating my experiences of New Zealand, may I end with the parting words screeched under my window in a voice like Fran Drescher trying to sing Klaus Nomi: “Your car is ugly and your dick is tiny, you complete bastard!”

Quick note:

Finally got my comms up and running so I will start to publish my backlog, two a night, until we are caught up. Thanks for your patience!