Dept of Mea Culpa

I know, I know I've let thousands, dozens, singular individuals down.
I haven't written a worthy update on my travels in some weeks, for shame. I have reasons:

-For about two weeks while I was living in Christchurch I was running on fumes, zero dollars, zero place to live. I didn't shower for a solid two weeks, surprisingly I didn't smell that terrible (I don't think), and it was the tshirts not the underwear that went first. Now I am living in a dope apartment downtown, in this really funky urban alley full of old brick buildings refurbished for the gentrification set, complete with backalley cafes, russian vodka bars and postmodern metal sculptures. Also the best shower pressure since my grandparents place in Nanaimo.

-Some of you on the world leader deathwatch maillist, mighta come accross the little gem that's been on page 15 of every newspaper in the world, that in addition to superbowl festivities the city of miami is preparing for a celebration at the football stadium (the name escapes me) for the imminent death of Castro. HAHAHAHAHAHA, a death celebration ha. But as you know I am backing sharon in this toss up and andrew duncan has the aforementioned cuban. so despite the hilarity of this I still crave the hizbollah chants that will rock through the arab world when, right under castro's nose, those israelis pull the plug. but it looks like I may lose.

-thirdly and this one really bummed me out to the tune of cheap champagne, beer other bad things I won't list because I've heard my mother occasionally peaks in on things here. I got rejected from that bastion of scholarship U of T, fuckers, they obviously don't know who I am. Anyway, I had sorta talked myself up into thinking I might get in, and this kinda blasted the ego, deflated more likely, similar to a used/unused condom if you catch my drift. So now I have a whole year of not doing what I want to be doing and that is a jarring mindfuck in the midst of our collective quarterlife crisis. I am so bummed, I might click a wee button that dr duncan filled me in on and take a minor in finance over the summer in montreal, see how bank of oli feels about that one, not great I imagine.

Anyway, I've been reading "the innocents abroad" on the advice of my uncle, and some really hilarious shit about travellors keeping journals and other stuff, really worth a read, laugh out loud funny, (Its by Mark Twain check it out) but in my downtrodden mindset I really wasnt feeling up to writing down everything that came into my head, some truly misanthropic venting and self loathing (ie hating the world) coupled with despair and the feeling of treading water in a swimming race really didn't need to be recorded in a place that is supposed to be filling in friends on the (mis)adventures in enzed.

Am I over it all? fuck no.
Sidenote: my sister sent me some cheering up emails. They worked then I had a David Cross moment, where I was like 'wait a minute, thats bullshit to make me feel better, it's not true. then I felt bummed again'

but enough: the weather's fine and the beer, tho watery, is cheap.

Dept of Long Windedness or Brevity is the Soul of Wit or Robert's Brain Clearing Some Sewage or How I Learnt to Stop Worrying and Start....


I have been developing a theory for some time, in part it has grown out of my genuine fascination with social encounters, conflicts or activities. These occurences take my notice mostly because they remind me of another. It can cut both ways: often a minute accidental snub at a dinner party and subsequent reaction recall to me the reaction of some world leader who decided to make war. Or, conversely the behavior of some important person reminds of the look I get when I change the music in the car.

Malcolm Gladwell occupies a strange place in my world, he is simultaneously the favourite writer of my mother and Bill Simmons (my favourite sports writer). That could be chaulked up to any number of explanations; but what makes it particularly interesting to me is that if Bill Simmons and my mother were in the same room as each other, they would find one another exceedingly dull. That makes Malcolm Galdwell truly transcendental.

For those of you who aren't familliar with Malcolm Gladwell he has written a couple books (The Tipping Point and Blink) and writes a regular feature in The New Yorker. (side story: I forged a New Yorker press pass at a Liberal leadership debate and impressed some uppity, though attractive, female Ignatieff staffers. I have now concluded that if his staff couldn't tell that New Yorker writers don't wear snowboard jackets, old jeans and carry mec backpacks; it is no wonder he lost).

Digressions aside, Gladwell has a knack for brilliant analogies. Bill Simmons also has the knack though, as Dr Duncan can attest, his usually fall in the vein of the sports equivelant of the K-fed, and Britney marriage (for my money it's T-O and the Eagles). [blah blah blah, the point Robert, the point]

Well I think that this type of analogy or even metaphor entirely is possible, is understood and flourishes because we as humans have a limited pool of emotions and reactions from which to choose from.

Biologists, especially the Jane Goodall types (ie not my favourite cross section of people because I both agree with them and dislike them at the same time) are always describing some animals existence and how closely it mirrors our own in terms of societal interaction. We have all heard it ascribed to dolphins, whales, baboons, blahs, blahs and blahs. This comparison is often to elevate animal X into our realm so we will not crush its habitat, a worthy goal usually. But I have come to believe that it is us that is in their collective territory.

While our scientific, language and problem solving capacities have evolved and soared into really unbelievable levels, our ability for social interaction (of any kind: large, small or medium) is firmly primordial and limited.

I am sure you have all heard of the Swamp City Daggers. It's a gang formed by some of my flatmates, whose only entrance requirement is to shotgun three (or more) 440ml cans of Tasman Bitter beer. Well it started with the four founding fathers, and really took off, there are now a lot of people sporting denim vests and patches around. Well the founding fathers enjoyed this esteem, but with the introduction of so many new members they felt they were losing control. So, a meeting was called and the founding fathers attempted using all kinds of very diplomatic and populist language to reassert their authority.

I personally, though a member of the gang, found it all a bit much. I had just spent a couple hours pleasantly alone at the beach with my thoughts and the warm water, and had returned home to have a few more beers. I wasn't too into some friends bickering about shit, and I thought it was weird. Then the Gladwell in my head kicked in. Holy shit I thought, this reminds me of the founder of a company selling off shares and enjoying the money. Then realizing at the AGM that he, she or they no longer have full control; and, in an effort to reassert lost control use all sorts of diplomatic and populist language to cajole shareholders into following them.

Personalities are a dime a dozen and the interaction is so recognizable, the reactions, the emotions, it's all the same all over the world as far as I'm concerned. We are primitive social beings and it is really fascinating watching people employ these same lower-order devices for both the most insignificant argument and the most sophisticated.


Full disclosure: Though I rarely partake, I was high when the Dagger AGM was going on, but I am not now.

Personal Update: I got the job with Greenpeace in Christchurch and I am moving down there tomorrow. New town, new adventures. Yesterday was the most beautiful day since I have been here. Chris and Luke had the day off and we went via free watertaxi to Adele Island in Abel Tasman National park. I wore two pieces of clothing, shorts and shoes, oh and sunnies. We climbed some mountains and enjoyed the near endless view on the cloudless day. We swam on some beaches in the warm tropical green water and bushwhacked our way through cutty grass (as bad as it sounds) to make our water taxi pickup on time. One of those fantastic days were the weather makes anything fun. We also had some wicked nachos for dinner.

It is retarded how slow it was to upload this image. But oh well.
This was taken on a solo hike I did in the Kahurangi National Park, west of where I am living now in Kaiteri. The hike I did was kind of a figure eight, spending two nights in the same place in the middle of the eight. For those of you with the proper mental image it doesn't make sense; but, I had a late start on the first day and only hiked half of the bottom loop of the eight. The next day I did the whole top loop, called the Tablelands circuit, it was magnificent, it was walking ridgelines above the tree line with unlimited views of the surrounding mountain ranges, lakes and rivers. The third day I hiked out, but the route took me up Gordons Pyramid (the photo to the left), through crazy terrain up and down smaller mountains and eventually, through a small detour, up Mt Arthur (roughly 5500 ft) and finally out the carpark. I wrote a treatise about solo wandering, perhaps unique to us cats who don't mind kicking it alone in the woods/city/beach/anywhere for a few hours/days/weeks, but then again maybe not. I am sure you would all love to read it, but it's too long to write out here.

From the archives:

"Still broke; no hope in sight"
-Dec 23rd


"As a last gasp measure, the white light of the day has split up and thrown herself, red, pink, orange, and blue, in one final offensive all over the sky as if to reclaim it. Rage, Rage against the dying of the light. Fuck I love this time of day."
-Dec 28th (at dusk)


"The ballad of Ian Roger. Two first names: born to lose. He used to bore holes in his tramping mug to lighten it (it's a wonder he didn't bore holes in his head haha). He's dead now. He was getting on. Well he was only... seventy-four?.. well, early to mid seventies anyway. But he had prostate cancer and heart trouble (won't we all). He's been buried three times, a piece in Scotland, a piece here with us, and there is some somewhere else too. Ashes you see."
-Dec 29th


Overheard on the way to Motueka:

Luke - I'm gonna buy a Bob Marley DVD.
Chris - Huh...Well I'm gonna buy a meat pie.
Luke (and Jim) - SICK.


Dept of Careful I Got A Beverage Here:

The Chrisrhodes (aka the Fenimore):

Fill a pint glass with ice.
Pour bourbon whiskey (the house recommends Jim Beam) over the ice.
'Fill to the ice' (TM).


Also, never drink gimlets with rich dudes in shady bars in LA; invariably, you will end up killing them in Mexico. But other than that particular instance gimlets will serve you about as well as anything.


Update

Also, where the fuck is the BC representation on this site. Do I have so few friends back there? Maybe I should start an insult campaign like Conan did a while back. Anyway fuck you all until you say something. Edub I am looking in your direction, you too Dpenns.