A month since my last posting and the excuses fly.....
Actually, don't feel so bad about the delay this time. Things have been hectic. Went back to the States for two weeks, then returned here and moved out of Abbey and into the housesit. Had minor surgery and ended up at work more often than I liked. Learned what winter in Dunedin could really be as well.
The housesit and the winter go well together. I have mentioned before the quaint custom of not insulating homes in Dunedin. Well, I didn't see much trouble with this as winters were said to rarely get too cold for too long. Being a big, bad Alaskan I saw little to worry about. Of course, there is that once in fifty years type winter. Like this one, for instance. It has been bloody cold. Using an electric blanket for the first time in my life and have become deeply sympathetic to womens' lavatorial plight as that toilet seat is the ambient temperature, about 35F, every damn morning first thing. I squeak like a mouse underfoot. The exceptionally cold winter has made for some social weirdness which I will relate in a bit, but in general it has just meant for cold days at home.
Not that the house isn't nice. These houses aren't insulated because they were built in the early 1900's (or earlier) when you were just expected to get a hot water bottle and stop your bitching. High ceilings and huge windows add to the grace but do nothing for the temperature, especially since there are no double or triple glazed windows in evidence. The view, however, is glorious. These old houses were built on a city plan drawn up in Edinburgh before anyone settled Dunedin, and when the colonists arrived and looked at the towering hills on every side, did they adjust? Gods no, they were Scots and protestant at that. All is preordained, and there is no use questioning God's will. So they built the steepest streets in the world (literally, significantly steeper than San Francisco) with houses perched on the ridges. Many streets were finally judged simply insane and closed, so you will find Dunedin streets that simply end in a staircase at the bottom of which the road continues. Needless to say, this makes learning the town for newcomers a bit dicey, but God's will and all of that. Some of the hills are steep enough that straight staircases couldn't even be used, and instead you have to walk switchback stairs up the side of urban cliffs. My walk to school in the morning is a beautiful stroll down into town, the return in a literal 2 mile uphill slog.
The steep streets also mean that the town shuts down with a bit of frost on the roads. Even in a 4WD Toyota I have had trouble getting home.
So I have a beautiful home which I sit for a Professor on sabbatical, with two dogs and a cat to care for (and a koi pond, but as that has been frozen for the past week, something which apparently hasn't occurred before, so I'm not sure if I have anything left there to care about). The house is cold, deeply, deeply cold, waking up to 37F cold, but it is free and the critters are cool. Come spring and Karen's arrival things will be a bit less Jack Londonesque so I should quit my whining. At least I don't have to hear Castle Street anymore.
School progresses. Just met my main Advisor, Dr. Brookes. Head of Dept. and very personable but with a slightly daunting reputation. Time to get busy and show some progress. Never did develop sterling study skills, I feel like I have somehow lucked into the last four degrees. That may be because of the memory gaps though. So they do have some advantages. Speaking of gaps had two big ones cut out of my back due to suspicious looking moles. Big stitched spots right in the center of the back where you can't really reach and they itch like hell. Less so than melanoma would, however, so I simply grin and ponder the joys of aging. Time to start a betting pool on what organ system goes first. $20 on my liver, particularly if I stay in NZ.
On the plus side my (and Downtown's) stubborn insistence on dumping money into a the VW I have owned for 17 years now has paid off. Not that I will ever recoup my investment (though a few times when things have gotten too weird I have retreated into the depth of the van, where the security was priceless), but a group of No. Cal high school students asked to use it for their 60's themed prom. Having a 60's theme night in No. Cal seems a bit like having a Mexican-themed party in LA, but who am I to quibble. The kids had fun, and I was able to further reinforce my personal level of Liebowski-like Dudeness. Lazarus rocks:
So the States. Flew back for a few days in No. Cal and a week in Nome. The San Francisco leg happened to coincide with Pride, which is deeply cool. For those unfamiliar with the event, Gay Pride celebrations in SF are New Years, Halloween, Prom Night, and Sarah Palin look-a-like week rolled into one big heaving, vaguely sexualized mass of fun. A strange mix of the homey (young men showing their parents around the Castro) and the disturbing (ask me about Civic Center Spiderman sometime) with Cloris Leachman as grand marshall. Cloris is damned cool in my book, having been both Frau Blucher in Young Frankenstein and on Malcolm in the Middle. Leading Pride in her 80's makes her somewhat demigodish.
No pictures, there are great photo essays online if your interest is piqued. Highlights: Fineman leading me on a bicycle into the tail end of the 250 strong Dykes on Bikes parade, Leo's French Maid outfit, and the never-ending cycle of exploration and old friends which San Francisco holds. That town is like the world's greatest grandchild; you can play with it all day then get up and leave when it gets stinky. If you are in the area, go to Palo Alto and eat at Calafia across from Stanford. If the owner/head chef Charlie is there, tell him Ryan loves him too. You won't get anything for free, but the glowering smile should be reward enough.
Pride gave me an early present too. My part of the plane was packed with a tribe of Kiwi/Malaysian Queens going over for the party. Entertaining for the first few hours, and very cool guys, but a bit wearing after 6 hours. Justifiable homicide by hour 12. Luckily the stewardesess scared me more than the boys infuriated me, so I am still out of the pokey.
Returning form Nome I stopped in Sonoma County for a couple of days. Once again Mr. Lieurance threw a great meal in my honor. What can you say about a guy who will open his house and repeatedly invite you and your friends over to magnificent meals and hundreds of dollars worth of great red wine? Over the course of seven years now? Thanks seems a bit insufficient, yet I know he would not want my youngest son in trade. Perhaps my youngest brother? I'd offer my soul, but Karen has that boxed somewhere along with my libido. No worries, she feeds both regularly.
(Please excuse a brief interruption. I had intended to complete this post tonight and go to bed early but instead I find myself writing at 215 AM. About 5 hours ago I realized I did not want to stay home any longer, so off to downtown I went seeking adventure. Not finding my usual crew at the usual haunts I headed to the basement of a church which has been transformed into a performance space. Tonight was an acoustic singer-songwriter showcase. Unfortunately most of the performers were preachy-preachy type folk singers rather than the self-acknowledged slacker poets I favor. Slipping out after a bit I found a young guy named Manu from the History Dept. who took me to a great 70's Sabbath-style show by a band named Soulseller. A bit of whisky, a sleazy Ozzy homage, and I was feeling good.
The show finished, and I was off to home again, around 1215. Walking there, I passed an alleyway where some old-school punk, the first I had heard here, was seeping out. An informal performance space, just a room with no bar, beckoned. Dear Lord, I finally found a real mosh pit. I had searched here, attending concerts by local 'punk' bands like Die! Die! Die! but my soul had not been assuaged by the limp and lifeless mosh pits to be found. I have had more determined fights with celery. But here, here I had found that scaly underbelly with angry young middle class kids happy to lock horns with an old man like myself and stomp the terra. So we did. Manu and his band and family showed up as well, as well as some girls amazingly skilled with their elbows. Not accustomed to moshing with women I found myself concurrently trying to protect them and avoid their swung arms. I failed in the later, much to my nose's discontent.
Around 145 it seemed like time to leave. Fully sober from my exertions, I headed for my car several blocks away (I had planned to walk home earlier, but had moshed the ETOH out of me). Crossing York street, a beat-up old station wagon with two young guys in the front seat and two young ladies in the back did a U-turn around me, with the driver yelling some imprecation in my direction. I did not respond, but apparently he had yet more to prove to the young ladies in the car because he screeched to a halt and piled out of the front seat.
Unfortunately for the young guy I had not just left the acoustic show, in which mood I would have likely walked away. Instead I had a bad attitude from moshing for two hours, and a bloody shirt and face from my damaged nose. When he slurred some Kiwi insult and I turned and stalked back he caught a look at me, hair lank and sweaty, face bright red from exertion, shirt covered in blood from my nose, and grinning to beat the devil.
The 60 kilo friend climbing out of the passenger side got back in and locked the door. My would be assailant, who was admittedly much smaller than myself, took several large steps backward and muttered something before climbing back in the car. Once out of range he yelled a few more insults and screeched the tires. But I felt comfortable in the knowledge that he was not getting laid on my dime tonight. Little whippersnapper, teach you to pick on the aged. If I had a cane I'd wave it menacingly at you.
I will sleep well tonight. I like this town. Back to your regularly scheduled blog, already in progress.)
Flew to Anchorage for a pleasant day with Richard and a quick visit with Christian and Sara. All are well, though Richard's life is as complex as ever. Simplicity does not seem to appeal to that lad, but so be it. He looks well, and strikes me as happy. But that may have been the good Green Man beer I brought him to sample.
Nome, and home. Needed the week with Karen. I think the 2 month apart/one or two week together schedule is going to work out, but it does make the weeks together intense. Kenai soldiers on, getting pampered by Pat and gradually getting slower. 15 years. Never thought he'd see 12. As long as he is content, I'll let him be. I suppose the same applies to Dylon.
Spent a great night on the beach making music with the crew. Or should I say listening. My efforts at guitar have fallen by the wayside for the moment, but my passion for live music hasn't dampened. I just struggle with linguistics and music. All the more reason to study them, I suppose. Beautiful night, regardless, and damned good people.
Karen and I got out for a hike around Dorothy falls. Her back and knee show some improvement, and she is training up to be able to do longer tramps in NZ. Still day hikes, but it will be good. Having lived in Nome for a decade and not having seen Dorothy Falls, this trip checked one of those mental boxes we all carry around with us, things we always meant to do but never get around to. The Harrier attack was pretty cool too. The bird, not the jet.
Notice the sunblock. We actually got pretty crispy this trip, unusual for Nome. Great day....
I do love my wife.So home again. Three years in this town will be interesting.
posted by John Ryan McLane @ 8:06 PM
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