I have been informed that my last post was cryptic to the point of nonsense. I will elaborate, I work at the Shoreline restaurant in Kaiteriteri, just northwest of Motueka at the northern part of the South Island. It's on this amazing beach and should be rad to work at. Unfortunately they only pay 11 bucks an hour and no one in this country tips. I am considered 'frontline staff' which means I do everything from waiting to bussing to bartending. But, the way they run this restaurant makes no sense, there is no organization, no order. Organized chaos is a compliment, it more resembles chaos.
And then, everyone at the place breathes down your neck, and comments on everything you do, fucking grating as hell. The staff, who are all like 20 or younger don't seem to realize that the job sucks and eat it up like WalMart employees, I don't get it. Anyway, one can barely live on making 90 bucks a day, especially when all it does is bum you out. It also may be turning me into an alcoholic as the only way I can cope with these people is by drinking before, during and after work.
And two nights ago, I soaked myself in gin and told the story about that crazy guy from victoria piercing his own nipple only to wake up with a kilt pin through the fleshy part of my left nipple. Kilt pins for the non-Scots are about as sharp as a soup spoon.
I did apply for a job with Greenpeace in Christchurch down south, but they haven't gotten back to me, fucking hippies.

I have been venting about this for a few days to my flat mates and so for their benefit at least, I think I will quit. luckily I have been investing in the Redneck RSP and hopefully it will pay out soon.


On to more interesting things, I thought that no one was really checking this blog out, but apparently my French second cousin in London (who, a few weeks ago randomly ran into and recognized Andrew Duncan in some bar in London) has been checking it out, and I got an email from Kieran bitching out my Kerouac comparison, I guess all I had to do was get grandiose before my friends would try to shoot me down. And Davem and lizzy those two people who seem to be able to find the time to post. It's probably because they both have high paying jobs; there is some corollary there.

I hate my job. The money is shit. Usually it takes a month or two before I really dislike whatever work I am doing, but in this case it started about 4 days in. I really feel like I should quit, no point doing some bullshit when I am supposed to be having fun, unfortunately I need the cash, we will see how long I last. I am on break right now and will write about it further tomorrow on my day off.

Quote for the day:

"I am opposed to recognizing any province as a nation. I am opposed to recognizing the population of any province as a nation. I am opposed to recognizing some part of the population of any province as a nation. And I am hostile to any resolution that recognizes a part of the population of a province as a nation, in a way that slyly suggests they represent the whole, but does not have the guts to admit it."


Andrew Coyne, from his blog

I am sure in every person's travels there is a self-important urge to compare oneself to Jack Kerouac. Recent news from the homeland has thrust that comparison on myself.

I was listening to the CBC before I left and it was a program about Quebec, and the show was about a 24 hour reading they were going to be doing in Quebec City. They chose Kerouac, reading, I suppose, On the Road and The Dharma Bums and his poetry. The reasoning behind this selection enlightened me to something that I didn't know, Kerouac himself was French Canadian. Though born in the States his parents were French Canadian, himself fluent in French, and the organizers of this reading said his writing reflected his upbringing. I found that fascinating, but I found it more interesting when they talked of Kerouac returning to la belle province and not recognizing it as he had remembered. The reasons were entirely political, the Quiet Revolution had taken over and French Canadians like himself no longer existed. They were supplanted by the politically charged, self-centered (in the least derogatory sense) Quebecois, and the semantic difference is profound. I cannot say that the recent constitutional smatterings and the idea of the Quebec nation-within-a-nation is akin to the turbulent Quiet Revolution of the 50s and 60s. Nor can say that as a westerner I have lost connection to some birthright as Kerouac did; I do, however, all the way across the Pacific ocean feel like my country is doing some really dumb things. I can't really explain why, just read Andrew Coyne, Warren Kinsella, or listen to Stephane Dion and you will likely realize it too.

Also: Ignatieff is no longer the man, Dion or bust.

Well I think it is about time to show some photos of this place the maps call New Zealand:



Here is Chris relieving himself in Auckland. Well done friend, well done.

Here is the astrolabe in the middle of a downtown 'carpark' early in the morning. Drinking and driving is almost as bad as drinking and parking.

Here is the elusive hassel, also know el tiburon here, I forgot to mention we played some street dropball death match in Hamilton; it involved a cage and was reckless.

Chrees lets his moustache do zee talking.

At the wee tip of the North Island is 90 ile beach, you rip up and down the beach in your car, we thought the astrolabe needed a break and an oil change so she stayed on the pavement.

This is what we were drinking for a few days, then we switched to Ranfurly for economic reasons.

This is what happens when I use the timer on my camera. That's me on the right with Luc and Tara, two kayak colleagues of chris'. this was taken right before we hicked a track in the Nelson Lakes National Park.

Sorry they are so small, but it is taking awhile, I will try to find a faster way and get some bigger ones up.

After sucking back 4 or 5 pints at the bar simultaneously watching the barca-chelsea match and the gambling addicts playing the ponies we kicked it out of auckland settling for cold beers from our half working dashboard oven/fridge.
We arrived in Whangerei and parked in some parking lot down by the river next to the bridge to nowhere. I woke up hungover and jetlagged and dirty and found that we were in the central parking lot downtown surrounded by monday morning commuters eyeing us suspiciously. We then drove up to the bay of islands, doubtless bay and up to ninety mile beach, all very nice.
On the ay down we stopped in hamilton to see the elusive dan hassel, or the shark as he is known in these parts. With our oven/fridge looking like it might be just oven we opted to buy cold beer, Ranfurly, pronounced RAAN-furly like you are singing moon river. We also dipped into the gibsons finest ssaved up from the duty free at YVR. The good americans at the University of Waikato graciously cooked us thanksgiving beef strogonof and drank us under the table. go gophers ya.
Some german dude passed around vodka that tasted like toothpaste, i stuck to ranfurlies and whisky and ended up passing out before the others turned the discussion to anal sex. i have to learn to pace myself.
moving ever southward we stopped at some beach on the surf highway and cooked pasta with shitty sauce, tasted like ketchup. It was all good though because the volcano in the distance was giving off good vibes, or maybe it was the hotknifing off our inherited butane stove, known as the the stove. fucking kiwis are so creative.
the next day we arrived in wellington and after taking it in the bum on the ferry price went to the top of the city and pondered the fact that pcp is legal down here. we made up our mind to drink a box of wine the next day and ramble around wellington in search of the p. We ended up drinking two boxes of wine that artfully states that it has been clarifie dusing dairy and fish products, what the fuck, right? Our ferry left at 1.55 am that nigth and boarding it was one of the most excrutiating experiences of my life. drunk to the gills on cheap wine, and abandoned by my delinquint friend who drank himself to sleep ion the back of the car i was forced to negotiatie what the fuck some dude was asking for, paper? what fucking paper? i can barely fucking see. how the fuck am i suppposed to know what the fuck you want? finally the guy did us all a favour and grabbed the paper of my dash. Driving off the ferry a few hours later with my contacts falling off my eyes i somehow negotiated the fucked up directions and found some golf course parking lot to hole up in for the night, i was so plastered i slept in all my clothes.

The next morning was terrible, i had gone the wrong way, and we were in the middle of fucking nowhere. as well it seemed that no one would let us shower even thought we were willing to pay. finally we pulled into the most illused rv camp in the middle of rural new zealand. no one answered the office buzzer and no one was around. the bathrooms were unlocked so we showered and left, it was the first time either of us had stolen a shower before. I also dropped the hugest shit in their toilet, which i felt bad about.
then now. id post photos so dave shamash wouldnt have to read all this but i left my camera in the van, which is still nameless.

Welllll I made it safe and sound, it turns out that only do the planes they fly you down in feel like a rented bowling shoe, but upon landing they spray down your shit with a spray smells a lot like the bowling shoe disinfectant. go figure.
blogging it up at the gen store in Opua in the Bay of islands, the van is a monster, mate black finish with racing stripes, mr rhodes certainly came out swinging with this purchase.

ill post a photo, when i figure out how.