Music Monday: The Kinks...Are the Village Green Preservation Society

The Kinks...Are the Village Green Preservation Society (1968)

Whenever I listen to one of The Kinks many classic albums, I wonder why they never were as popular are such other British Invasion groups such as The Who, The Beatles, or The Rolling Stones. Ray Davies was not only a catchy song-writer, but an innovative one as well. The Kinks basically pioneered the power chord riff. Sadly, in the US, they are just known as the band that did "Lola" and "You Really Got Me".

Village Green is arguably their finest album. By this point, the hard-rocking sound of the early 60's had been ditched for a folkier, more British sound. Almost like "Waterloo Sunset" for a whole album. The chords are perky and fun. The songs are catchy and endlessly singable. I defy one to listen to "People Take Pictures of Each Other" and not clap along. Oddly enough, this album had no charting hits, thus resulting in one of their poorest selling albums of the 60's. Thankfully, this has grown on the music loving public to become their most popular album, outside of greatest hits collections (which is sad, cause The Kinks recorded only a handful of weak songs in the 60's). This is essential for anyone!

Music Monday: Three Friends by Gentle Giant

Gentle Giant - Three Friends

Prog Rock seems to be divided into two main categories, the "pop" prog of bands like Genesis, Pink Floyd, and Jethro Tull (well, if you can really call this pop) and the true prog that just made complex music, no matter what the audiences think. The most notable of these are King Crimson and Gentle Giant.

Mixing classical music and rock is one of the main hallmarks of progressive rock, but whereas bands like Yes incorporated more romantic or baroque styles into their music, Gentle Giant reached even further, throwing in touches of Medieval and Madrigal harmonies, creating a large, complex polyphonic sound that I can't help but love.

They've had a few great albums in the 70's and Three Friends, their third album, stands as one of their best. It is not quite as complex as the prior Acquiring the Taste or their next, Octopus (both are fantastic by the way), but is still more busy than most bands outputs. The playing is top notch, especially Kerry Minnear's keyboards. This album rocks hard with fantastic solos as the softer parts are beautiful. The piano chords of "School Days" are haunting beautiful and their tone was copied by Radiohead. (that's my theory anyway) If you don't like prog, you won't like this album. If you do however, this is worth owning.

Music Monday: Eldorado, a Symphony by Electric Light Orchestra

Eldorado, a Symphony by Electric Light Orchestra

Now, up until this point, I don't think I've featured any guilty pleasures (well, Omnio is pretty ridiculous). I hope that snobbier music lovers will toss away all their closed-minded stereotypes about ELO. Ignore all those big heads that quickly label them 70's pop crap. Jeff Lynne is one of rock's most dismissed songwriters of the 1970's. Now, it is hard to look past many of the unfortunate stylistic choices he made that seem so dated: excessive vocoders, dense spacey keyboards, and far too much falsetto. For every "Don't bring me down Bruce" though, there is a song like "Can't Get it out of my Head", that is just simply some of the catchiest songwriting since the Beatles.

This album suffers far less of the things that label ELO as "silly", making it a good place to start and for some a good place to stop listening to ELO. Like most classic bands, it with their fourth album that ELO finally found their stride. This was fortunately before Jeff Lynne figured out that he could sell more records if he sang like a girl. They did a flawless job of blending a rock band with an orchestra. Whereas other classics of this style such as Days of Future Passed supplemented their rock songs with short orchestral sections, Eldorado sound like one giant band that happens to have about 30 members. The skillfully dense arrangements are done so well, the more stripped-down songs (if a full rock band with a horn section can be considered stripped-down) such as "Illusions in G Major" just sound weak. That said, this album is strong from start to finish. Easily one of the best albums of the early 70's.

Music Monday: The Low End Theory by A Tribe Called Quest

A Tribe Called Quest - The Low End Theory

This album is proof that hip hop should be considered just as musically artistic as any other style. After their dense, sample laden first album, People's Instinctive Travels and the Paths of Rhythm, A Tribe Called Quest stripped down their sound to the bare essentials of hip hop: bass, drums, and poetry. Despite its barren, simplistic sound, it is a melodic, catchy album. Standard jazz samples are mixed with 70's funk and hard rock, all used sparingly to add slight melodic touches that give power to the few hooks of the album. From the opening upright bass line of "Excursions" through to the end, there is not a weak or boring track on the album.

Tribe's primary MC's, Q-tip and Phife dog drop some of their best and catchiest lyrics addressing such issues as date rape, the music industry, street crime, and the artifice of African American style in the early 90's. Q-tip proves that he is the master of riding the beats, choosing to use clever turns of phrase that fit with the groove of the music over speed and verbal dexterity. For those that enjoy such styles, this album also features one of the earliest appearances by a young Busta Rhymes on the hit, "Scenario".

The album seamlessly mixes hip hop and jazz, even enlisting jazz great, Ron Carter, to bass on "Verses from the Abstract". It shows that rap is not a string of profanity over dry boring beats. This is the type of album that can convert hip hop haters to lovers. This may be the greatest hip hop album ever recorded, which is quite a feat considering it is only the second best album a Tribe Called Quest made in their ten year career.

Music Monday: The B-52's

Ah, what joy this album brings. It is hard to praise the artistic merits of this because there is very little. It is an incredibly artistic album for sure. It is just too weird to be anything else. Mixing cheery 60's organ, played poorly, with surf guitar, played poorly, simple drums, with an effeminate man, nasally talking or yelling over the music and two women singing eerie spacey harmonies that just don't quite sound right is some sort of statement...or not. Whatever this is, a work of genius or just the work of a bunch of stoned artists, it is undeniably fun. How could a person not love a song like "Rock Lobster"?

The album should fall apart, but somehow it works and has stood the test of time to be hailed one of the highlights of the New Wave movement. From the avant-garde pop of the opening, "Planet Claire" straight through "Hot Lava" there is not a low point in the first have of the album. Sadly, the second side falls apart as the last few songs lack the infectious catchiness and kitchiness of the first half. A camp masterpiece and definitely worth a spot in any person's cd collection.

All Men are Mortal; Even the Invincible Grisham White

I received the call this morning that was impending for years. After listening to my father's voice mail, telling me there was bad news, I knew from the tone of his voice that somebody had passed away. I wasn't surprised when I found out it was Grandpa White

He was 98 years old, so I can't say as I was shocked by the news. Of course, I am definitely sad about all this. The hardest thing to accept is that I didn't get a chance to see him since I've been back from Australia. I had a couple of chances to make a visit work, but I was always too busy, first trying to find a job, then being stuck in my schedule, trying to make up for all the money I spent over the last year. Since I was for sure coming for Thanksgiving, I wasn't too worried, he'd held on far longer than anyone had expected, so I had no fear that he wouldn't make it another few weeks, long enough that I'd get to spend one more Thanksgiving with him. Sadly, the world does not selfishly go according to ones plans. I'll get over it though; again, I really didn't expect him to live as long as he did.

Grandpa White was the only grandpa I really ever knew. My mom's father died tragically in his forties before I was even born. Though Mamoes has been with her husband for most of my life, he was younger than my dad, so seeing Carlos as my grandpa and not a good friend was a bit difficult.

Grandpa was not really a typical grandpa. I never saw him as a young or even a middle-aged man; he was the ripe age of 72 when I was born. That said, I never saw him as an old man either for many years. Always working long hours on the farm into his late 80's, Grandpa seemed invincible; he existed as living proof that a man's age has no bearing on a person's life. He was an active, hard-working man for nearly his entire long life. I saw this first hand, waking up at 5AM with him to help feed the cattle and learn about life on a farm.

It wasn't until I was an adult that he actually started aging. These last few years have been hard, seeing him as a tiny old man with a slipping memory. Not to say he ever stopped being Grisham White. A couple years ago when he broke his hip and was to never walk again. I came to visit, expecting to see him stuck in a chair, blanket draped over his legs like FDR. Instead, he bounced out of his recliner, no wheel chair, no crutches, no walker, and gave me a big hug. He was an amazing man and to think that he was in end actually mortal is as astounding as his durability. He's been around for nearly 100 years; his stubborness mixed with modern medicine made me believe that he could live for 100 more. Alas, Grandpa was but a man.

I will greatly miss him. For years, I saw my friend's much younger grandparents pass away while Grisham still stacked 60lb haybails in the shed. Few get to know their grandparents as adults. Few get to have their grandparents live into their late 90's and not have their last memories be of them in a hospital bed connected to tubes. The last time I saw grandpa was like any other time I left Missouri, him waving goodbye from the driveway as we hit the road. And this is how he'll always be for me, that loving man who never let age change his actions. The man who sat at his big desk, doing the book every day to Paul Harvey, finishing just in time to hear "the rest of the story". The man who let me curl in his lap on Saturday nights with a big bowl of popcorn. The man who always had to be a part of the conversation, even when he couldn't even hear what was being said.

Grisham White will definately be missed by many. He has long been a pillar of his church of the community. His seat at the Macon High Football games will sit vacant, without the signature big smile and seed hat. As a White in Macon, it was impossible for me to write a check without the clerk telling me to say hi to Grisham for them. I won't be alone in mourning which is comforting in a way. His death will leave a void in world for sure: I can't be the only one who saw him as being invincible.

With love Grandpa, you'll be missed forever.

Music Monday: Here, My Dear by Marvin Gaye

Here, My Dear By Marvin Gaye

Marvin Gaye's 1978 masterpiece went greatly unappreciated and forgotten for nearly twenty years after its release. After debuting at a lukewarm 26 on the Top 40 Albums charts (his last two albums were #2 and #1 hits, both with top 40 singles), Motown just stopped promoting it and left it out of print until 1994. Thankfully, the world saw their error and this album has finally gotten the recognition it deserves.

It is not surprising that nobody knew what to do with such an album. To follow up two of the sexiest make-out albums of all time with a painful, reflective double album about the disintegration of a marriage was a bold move. Marvin Gaye is supposed to sing about making love, not losing love. It didn't help that his sound was generally the same, only a bit sadder. At times listening to this album, one finds themselves shaking their hips until they notice Marvin is singing lines like, "Pains of love, miles of tears enough to last me for a lifetime."

The album was born from a divorce with his wife Anna, sister of the boss, head of Motown records. As a part of the settlement, Marvin had to give pretty much all profits from his next album to his ex. Originally, he planned to hastily record a terrible album that would not sell, keeping Anna from making any money from him. After a while, the idea of making an album for Anna consumed his mind, so he ended up laying down all of their marriage problems throughout albums fifteen tracks. What resulted is arguably the greatest breakup album all time. A soul masterpiece that's as funky as it is sad. It still didn't sell well and Anna didn't make much money from it.

The primary theme tying the album together is the superb, "When Did you Stop loving me, when did I stop loving you" which is a classic of the genre. Many of the albums best tracks such as, "Here, My Dear" and "Anna's Song" are drenched in the layered harmonies of Marvin's doo-wop past when his marriage began. As the album continues and time goes on, he jumps to the present disco sounds, jumping back and forth, finally finding peace in the marriage of the past and present with the hybrid doo-wop disco of "Falling in Love Again", leaving the possibility that there could be an end to his pain for the future. He ends the album with a outro of the main theme, showing that despite the potential of the future, he will always have the pain there, creeping back to remind him of the past. Soul concept albums are hard to come by, especially ones that work as well as this. It is a difficult, dense, and painful album. It is also arguably the best work Marvin Gaye has ever done.

Music Monday: Sketches of Spain By Miles Davis

Miles Davis, one of the greatest artists of the 20th Century (if not the greatest artist of the 20th Century) was always on the cutting edge. Between 1950 and 1975, Miles Davis defined the directions of jazz and yes, even rock music. Unlike many, he didn't just bust out a great album every couple years or so, he recorded multiple masterpieces every year of his career. 1959 was one of those years. He dropped two of the greatest jazz recordings in history, Kind of Blue, the definitive jazz ensemble album and Sketches of Spain, a work that seamlessly combines classical and jazz music. Miles had been recording with collaborator, Gil Evans off and on for ten years at the time of Sketches of Spain. Every time these two geniuses unite, something magical and innovative happens. Their first work, The Birth of Cool, was simply put, the birth of cool. Sketches of Spain fuses the tight compositions of classical with the looseness of jazz in a way that had never been done before and has never been done again.

It opens with Joaquín Rodrigo's "Concierto de Aranjuez (Adagio)" a soothing yet intensely gorgeous work which shows off the great power of their jazz orchestra and Gil Evan's arranging. Evans had the great challenge of getting an orchestra to play a classical piece with a jazz feel and he succeeded well. Even without Miles Davis's haunting signature tone, the arrangements alone would leave this as a great work. The true star of record is still Miles Davis. Sketches of Spain features some of the most beautiful playing of his career. From the crying lament for a lost lover on "Saeta" to the charging flamenco of "Solea" Miles shows just how diverse and versitile he can be. This is an essential album for both jazz and classical lovers. Very few artist have ever produced a piece of this quality and it is truly scary think that Sketches of Spain may be only the second best album he recorded that year.

Music Mondays: Omnio by In The Woods...

I've decided that I need assignments to keep blogging on a regular basis. So, I am introducing music mondays. I'd like to improve my journalism skills a bit, so this is an exercise in objective reviewing of music. Every Monday, I will review a CD that I particularly like as a chance to practice this type of writing and let you the readers see into my expansive musical tastes. Also, as a companion, I will be doing Film Fridays and maybe a book day as well. So, I will start with a random bit of obscurity from my collection to kick off Music Monday (yes, I know that today is in fact Tuesday...shut up.)

In the Woods... - Omnio
Omnio, the second album by Norway's enigmatic In the Woods... stands as one of the greatest metal albums of all time. Released in 1997, predating both Lacuna Coil and Evenescence, it was one of first albums to mix gothic metal and the lush female operatic vocals that became so popular around 2000. The album is a bit of an anomaly, In the Woods... started as a black metal band and Omnio in some ways can be considered a black metal album. No, there is no screaming or distant symphonic guitars of the genre, but it still has a black metal edge.

This also is may be one of the most pretentious albums of all time. Mixing together the beautiful, atmospheric prog rock of Pink Floyd with the crunching guitars of black metal, this is the epitome of epic. The 15 minute first track "299.796 Km/s" opens with a lovely string quartet section, eventually adding harmonizing guitars, sweet harmonizing male and female vocals. Drifting in and out of textured prog and pounding metal, it is a dizzying listen that sets the tone for this five song album. It is not for everyone; metal fans may be offput by the non-metalness of it all and prog fans may find the Black Metal edge a bit too harsh, and everyone will find it to be stupidly artsy. That said, it cannot be denied that this is a gorgeous gothic masterpiece that can be at least respected by all. A must for fans of Evenescene, Lacuna Coil, Pink Floyd, or Emperor. Take the time to hunt down this hard to find gem in the metal section of your local record store.

Perfect Day

One thing that I love about perfect days is the forms such a thing can take. This varies from person to person and within each person, there are variations based on times and mood. Today, I had my personal favorite variety of a perfect day: the productive day.

I awoke at 10AM (hey, I worked until two in the morning last night!). The air of my bedroom was chilly, but not frigid. After turning off my alarm clock, I reached six inches to the left and grabbed my book. I sat in bed and read a chapter, enjoying the warmth of my three quilt cocoon. I couldn't justify sitting in bed too long, I had a list of things to do!

I followed a set of push ups with a cup of ultra strong coffee and a banana. I didn't dilly dally too long though; my laundry beckoned! Starting some washing was not my only required task for the day. There was a big bowl of chopped apples and pears, floating in a pool of lemon water, just waiting to be turned into chutney. With Dvorak's Fourth symphony, I made up a chutney recipe based on what I though chutney was supposed to taste like. Basically, I mixed my fruit with cider vinegar and brown sugar, then added not-so-random vegetables and seasonings. It smelled good at least.

With the chutney simmering, the steam did two amazing things to my house. It raised the temperature of house by twenty degrees (who says one can't live comfortably with a broken furnace) and it made the whole house smell like India...or rather Indian cooking, not fecal matter. I did a long workout then followed it with an hour of yoga and some meditation.

I then continued the meditation by cleaning the bathroom, emptying the litter box, and vacuuming the house. By this point, the random fruit and veggies had become chutney-like. I switched to Dvorak's First Symphony and start canning. This did not take long.

Now, I am sitting back, doing yet another meditative act, writing, listening to Frank Zappa with pfft of each jar sealing in the background. Life is good, especially when things get done.

At Home in the Dome

Yesterday, the Twins finished playing one of the greatest games of baseball I've ever seen, to finish an unlikely run for the playoffs again. They forced at least one more game in their lemon of a stadium, the HHH Metrodome, after already extending their by one. No matter how much we hate that place, it, much like theTtwins just refuses to die.

It is hard not to get nostalgic about the old clunker. As a child, I loved visiting the dome and its vast domeness. It may be ugly, but it is an awe inspiring place. It may cause neck cramps from turning sideways in right field, but you can't help but love it. This is a popular blog topic, looking back at fond memories, but that is really all we can do. We can't just look at the dome and say "wow, what a charming place!" like Cubs fans can about Wrigley or Red Sox fans can about Fenway. All we can do it look at the great things we've seen in the dome.

One cannot deny that some of the best baseball ever played happened in the dome. Look at all the classic Dome moments in the 1991 World Series (aka Greatest World Series Ever): seeing the short and stalky Kirby Puckett jump 15 ft in the air the steal a home run, only to step up to bat later and hit one of the greatest walk off home runs of all time. Then the next day, seeing Jack Morris do the unthinkable, pitch a ten inning complete game shut out in Game Seven, I repeat, Game Seven of the world series. I need not mention last night's game, an instant baseball classic, the type of nailbiter that only seems to happen at the dome.

It isn't just the obvious big moments. Who doesn't love it when an opponent loses a ball in the ceiling or misplays a ball as the Murphy's Law of Astroturf changes the bounce. The noise. Who doesn't love the sheer noise of the place when packed to the rafters...or er teflon during playoff games. I'll never forget Game 3 of the 2002 Divisional Series, when the the deafening roar flustered Barry Zito so much, he threw the halfway between home and first base. That only made us louder.

The last eight years have been especially fun, we've had some great teams that seem to do unlikely, amazing things every season, this one being no exception. Since moving to Minneapolis, I've never been further than a half an hour bus ride from the dome. I took well advantage of that, randomly hitting up baseball games on my way home from work or on a boring Sunday afternoon. It seems as if the dome conjures up exciting baseball, to make up for all of its many shortcomings. Such wacky baseball could only come from a wacky stadium like the dome. I'm looking forward to outdoor Twins baseball , but it is hard to separate the team from the dome. The Twins have always seemed at home there.

My First Date

On Friday, I had my first ever first date. It was a bit different than my expectations though. The woman of interest was Cailin, one of my oldest friends. A little over five years ago, we'd been on the verge of dating, one could even say we platonically dated. In the end, we chose to see other people and I began my relationship with Manda. I've been basically in relationships since, but this romantic tension never completely went away and our friendship suffered. After my return from Australia, we found ourselves both single again and our feelings for each other resurfaced. Unlike the past however, we were both older, more mature and able to talk about it in a healthy rational way. After much discussion, we decided to giving dating a shot.

It excited me to begin a dating relationship with a date, the only problem was finding a way to have a successful first date with a person I've been friends with for seven years, a person I've shared dinner with countless times. I figured I'd go all out. I made a r eservation for a trendy, four star French fusion place downtown. On the day of planning, I received an email from my friend Osmo Vanska (our "friendship" is based on my love for his conducting and interpretation of great symphonic works) offering discount tickets to see the beautiful Tchaikovsky's First Piano Concerto performed by the fantastic Minnesota Orchestra. My date was set!

The dinner went very well. The food was fantastic and restaurant had a great atmosphere. Due to a concert and a Twins game, finding parking was problem and road construction forced us to walk six blocks to get to the restaurant only two blocks away. At certain points in our dinner, I'd look across the table and think to myself, "dang, my date sure looks good tonight," only to realize that I was thinking this about one of my best friends.

We joined Manda and her beau Dana for the show. It was admittedly awkward to double date with an ex-girlfriend on a first date, but the music erased all this. They opened with Sigfried Idyll by Wagner, an uncharacteristic vocal-less piece that was surprisingly subdued for Wagner. It lacked much of the bombastic epicocity of his typical work, but still had the swirling, water-like quality I've always loved about Wagner. Next was the 1st Piano Concerto, which, although not the best I've heard (this honor goes to Van Cliburn's definitive 1958 recording) was still fantastic. Music director Osmo Vanska has a knack for pushing through the themes we already know and love and making us focus of the ones that often get lost in the mix. The soloist Stephen Hough was incredibly virtuosic, not missing a note of the often dizzying crescendos. He lack a certain type of feeling I crave in such an emotional piece, but he handled the work well. The performance was recorded for an upcoming complete Tchaikovsky Piano and Orchestra box set the Minnesota Orchestra plans to release sometime. For fans of Tchaikovsky, hunt this down upon release. Recently, the Minnesota Orchestra released a fantastic new recording of Beethoven's Symphony Cycle that is also worth owning. Their 9th is the best I've ever heard of such an overdone symphony. I feel so honored to have an internationally renounced music director and symphony orchestra only miles from my house. They did an encore of the second movement of Tchaikovsky's Second Piano concerto, a work I've not heard but was well played. The night ended with The Miraculous Mandarin by Bela Bartok. I'm not a huge fan of Bartok or work from this period in general. It did not completely hold my attention, but there were some sections with Stravinsky-like rhythms that I really enjoyed. Overall, the concert was fantastic.

I have to say that this was a great night overall and I was happy to share it with such great company. No, it wasn't my first date ever, but it was the first time I dated somebody that I wasn't already my girlfriend. The night did a fantastic job at setting the tone for an exciting new relationship. Yay dating.

My first foray into dating

This title may sound a bit odd considering I've been in two serious relationships that involved marriage discussions, but it is meant to be taken very literally. My first foray into "dating". Relationships these days are very different then they once were. They start off much less-organically these days (or much more-organically, depending on your interpretation of the the word organic). This will be nothing new to people of my generation, but may seem a bit wrong to those who are older. Here is the course of modern romance:

You meet a girl at a party, through a friend. or at a bar. After chatting for a bit, if there seems to be a connection or mutual attraction, you swap phone numbers with a vow to "do something sometime". In precisely three days, (anything less shows desperation, anything more shows an insincerity of the invitation), you send a text, asking them to come over to "watch a movie". This invitation has nothing to do with movies. The movie itself is irrelevant, but it needs to be something cool that you've seen already. The person comes over, a bottle of wine gets opened, and the movie is put in the player. If the moment seems right and the wine is consumed at a certain rate, kissing begins with the movie in the background. Depending on the quality of the kissing and the level of promiscuity, this make-out session leads to a relocation to a more private place. The movie will remain playing on the TV so if a roommate comes home, they know that there is some make-out action going on upstairs.

When you enter the bedroom, you've officially gone on the modern equivelent of "a first date". Many things can happen behind the closed doors; what happens is a function of the following equation S=(.5A+B)/P. S of course stands for sex. Sex can be defined in many ways. More on this later. A is the variable for attraction, which is measured on a scale of one to ten; this is actually the least important variable of this particular equation. It is easily overridden by the two other variables. It cannot however be ignored completely and a high enough A may result in sex. B is the booze factor. Count one for each drink consumed by each person. If a second bottle of wine is consumed, some sort of sexual interaction becomes highly likely. If B is ever above 20, sex will be attempted but will ultimately fail. You divide the product of these by the Prudishness variable (P). Prudishness is measured on a 0 to 10 scale as well. If the relative prudishness is 0, both partners are total sluts and the equation become undefined, meaning intercourse is guaranteed. A relative prudishness of 10 rarely happens; these people just go on dates. Now, after the math is done, here is generally the outcome.

If S is:

1-2 = Merely making out
2-5 = Making out without shirts
5-6 = Some sort of wandering hands
7-8 = Oral Sex
9 and over = Intercourse

These are of course approximate measures.

No matter what level of S, there is going to be some sort of talking afterwards. This is when one determins if there is compatibility for relationships. If things were fun, there is a near guarantee of a repeat, only the pretense of "watching a movie" is dropped. Based on the quality of the post-coital or really any sort of endorphin-infused conversation, the two people determine if they want to start going out. The endorphins lower the censorship of speech, so people are often very frank and will talk about spiritual/philosophical things. You are officially boyfriend/girlfriend after doing this about 3-5 times. Once you reach this point, the old definition of a first date happens.

I personally think this is a silly system that is the opposite of how things should be done. That said, I've never been on a first date with anybody that wasn't already my girlfriend. Now that I'm single again, I really would like to take a more old-fashioned approach to relationships.

So, I met a girl a few weeks ago. After a few marathon conversations at the bar, I decided that I would ask her out on a proper date, before there was any kind of kissing. I invited her to a dinner and a movie and she said yes. Great right?! No, come the day of the date, I got a text message saying she was too tired to want to do anything and we'd take a rain check (she's yet to contact me). I'm not stupid; this means that she is not interested in dating. Given the level of flirtation pre and post invitation, she seems to be stuck in the model of our generation. Since I asked her on a date before making-out or having sex, this is sign that I'm moving way too fast; this is a sign that I consider her to be my girlfriend already. What is wrong with our generation?

Our flirtation with the ficticious Tracy Fields

As some may already know, as of October 1st, our roommate Dawn will be moving on to other places, leaving us with a spare bedroom. Although the place is affordable with only three residents, they did it for the entire time I was in Australia, it becomes much more affordable with four. Finding a roommate in this current age is often difficult; fliers with dangling phone numbers are often untorn, people who are pleasant either live alone or are never allowed to leave by their roommates. In the modern age, one has to turn to the dark, unprotected venue for getting things from other people. In the modern age, one has to turn to the craigslist.

Oh, if only the craiglist was not a cesspool of scammers and murderers, whores and owners of worthless things with good PR. The craigslist does have wholesome, well-natured people, such as myself, but these are buried amongst all the crap, pretending to good.

Well, we luckily found such a good person: Tracy Fields. A kind-hearted altruistic soul who does humanitarian work with orphans. Tracy Fields, the young nurse who had just returned to her home in Mackay, Queensland in Australia only to find life in the real world not stimulating enough, so wanted to head the US to mix things up. Tracy Fields, the 5'7" occasional tennis player who doesn't drink or smoke, but is not bothered by those who do. She sounded like a perfect roommate. She sounded like the type of person with whom I could get along and share stories of my travels.

I found it odd that Tracy Fields's phone number had a land line prefix (03) but had 9 digits and was written in the phone number format we used in the United States. Landlines only have 8 digits such as (03) 45644394. I attempted to call and had no luck connecting. I found it odd again that she referred to the number as being a cell phone. Why did she say "cell phone" and not "mobile"? Well, I did refer to our "living room" as a "lounge" and our "downtown" as the "CBD" just to be nice and show off my knowledge of the lingo, she may have been doing the same. Why would she have a cell phone with an (03) prefix, not an (04) prefix like everyone else in the country? Finally, if she was from Queensland, shouldn't she have a (07) prefix and not a Victoria prefix. These things should have been warning signs, but they merely came off as odd.

She said she was from Mackay, a town where I have numerous friends and spent a total of three weeks. As a part of the package of photos of the house/pets/roommates, I inserted a photo of myself in Mackay, just for fun. She made no mention of the photo, did not ask to see if we knew mutual people, or make any comment at all about the fact I've spent so much time in her hometown. This was the first one that actually registered as suspicious.

The other tip off was her robotic use of the same email subject, "I am Interested!!". Yes, we know you are interested, you've made that clear in the prior two email's subjects as well as in the texts of the email. No "Re: I am Interested!!". No, "Contact Info". No, "Thanks". Just "I am Inerested!!" After pointing this out, Manda rationalized it for a second, then suggested we search for her on "the google"

Well, "the google" was not so rationalizing. "The google" said she was a craiglist scam. The website had her name as well as verbatim sentences from her emails. I politely told Tracy, that I "will be unable to live with you since you seem to be a fictitious person for the purpose of tenant fraud." I kindly thanked Tracy for wasting my time and made the offer to seek assistance from the law if further contact was made.

This was the scam: Apparently, there are very many people out there, from all over the world who are 5'7" don't drink or smoke, but are not bothered by people who do, and work with underprivileged orphan children. These mobs of people all would like to move to various cities around the United States and all have rich uncles that are more than willing to provide rent until they can break into the field of nursing. The clan of unrelated uncles all have the tendency of sending checks for more than the asked amounts. For some reason, they all have the ability to only notice the overpayment after sending the check (rich uncles are impulsive with their check writing). The niece, who we will hypothetically call Tracy Fields, asks people to send a check back for the difference. Of course, the rich uncle turns out to be not so rich and original check bounces. A clever scam, not too ambitious in its scope, but worth enough to spend the time on it.

The good news is that they only know my Name, email, phone, and address, all public info. I'll keep watch for any suspicious activity, but I think we dodged the bullet. Now, I have to reach back into the craigslist cesspool and find another potential roommate.

Salads

Two days ago, I was suddenly craving a salad, only a salad. I promptly headed to the kitchen, grabbed some spinach, chopped up some fresh pears from my tree in the back, threw in some raisins, fresh tomatoes, cashews, carrots, and homemade balsamic vinaigrette. I ate the salad merrily and it satisfied me. This was an automatic action and sat back, bellyful of plants and realized some startling things.

First, I craved a salad. It's not that I've ever disliked salads, they've just merely held role as an occasional supplement for something more meat-intensive. When living in the dorms, I used to eat two big spinach salads a day, nothing too fancy. Merely a giant glob of cottage cheese on top of the bed of leafy goodness. But to crave a salad for dinner, as the star of the show, that's a bit weird.

Next, I realized how rare it would be that I would even have all the ingredients for a bountiful salad on hand. Produce has always been one of those things I just don't buy. I'm typically home for dinner for only about three nights a week, so our produce just goes bad. Nobody in my house snacks on veggies. Lately, the produce has been getting eaten, I've merely thrown away a bunch of cilantro since I've been home.

Finally, and most amazingly, I was content with the salad. It wasn't a lead up to a piece of chicken or a sandwich. It tasted good, it filled me up and it was healthy. I pondered these ideas and wondered if this is one of the first symptoms of adulthood. Liking vegetables...how novel.

Polka and the Paradoxies of Perfection

It's September 14th and this is the best time of the year in Minnesota. After the oppressive humidity of the summer, but before the cold sets in, the air becomes just the right level of wet, just the right level of heat. It becomes as we Minnesotans describe as perfect. It is the time of year when a person can't stay inside. It is the time of year when a person can't resist the outburst, "Damn, it's a nice day!" at least three times a day.

I am sitting outside in my pocket of South Minneapolis, painting a cabinet door, drinking an IPA (the conditions are just right for this particular variety of beer), and listening to the never ending planes that fly overhead. Everyone is outside, enjoying their own form of serenity in their 20x20ft backyards. To my left, the hippies are picking the last of their harvest, passing the joints and the time behind their wall of ivy. To my right, the Mexican migrants are listening to polka and working on their trucks, drinking Modelo and chatting away in a conversation I can't understand. Occasionally, one will look up at the sky during a non-awkward conversational lapse and exclaim what can only be translated as "Damn, it's a good day!"

When lots of people are crammed into a small space, it can be seemingly hard to appreciate the peacefulness of this time of year. You can't sit alone and enjoy the stillness of September 14th in Minneapolis. We all have to enjoy it together. The polka is enhancing my evening as the smell of my jerk burgers, popping and sizzling on the grill is enhancing theirs. The city provides a different kind of serenity, the serenity of life, the serenity of people. Not having many nice days in Minnesota makes the ones we have that much better. Not having much space makes the 20x20 ft patch of grass seem like an endless pasture. All one can do it just lean back in their chair, stare at the planes flying overhead and yell over the roars and the polka with a mouth full of the sweetest corn in the world and exclaim, "Damn, it's a good day!"

Job Hunt

I knew that finding a job would be hard in our current financial climate. Many of my friends are either unemployed or trapped in jobs they hate because nothing better materializes. I decided that my best bet was to divorce myself from the idea of finding the job. I plan to go to Asia in about a year, so finding a career path job was not a priority. I just wanted something to pay the bills that I could potentially enjoy. In fact, I really wanted to do something that I've never done or planned to never do. So I got a generic resume together and hit the craigslist.

I tossed around being a baggage handler...which wouldn't be too bad, because I wouldn't need to spend extra time working out and I could fly places for free. I applied to be a psychiatric associate at a mental hospital, a file clerk for the Star Tribune, a reviewer of 1970's rock albums at $5 a piece, tried to pick up a commission for a film script, and applied to be a booking agent for local rock bands. I applied for about 20 or so jobs in all. Of course, it was only the food service related work that got back to me and only one materialized into an interview.

'Twas the Chatterbox pub, a local hangout in my neighborhood that is quite popular and "hip". The interview went well, especially since the district manager was the protegee of my old district manager at Cosi. We swapped Dave stories for a while and it went pretty well. I was hired a few days later. So, looks I shall be a server now, which is much more awesome than it sounds. The restaurant is really fun, encourages us to act crazy and wacky (which do the opposite is a real challenge for me), plus, I may be making more money than I was as a manager. Crazy. I'm glad it only took me a month to find a job.

Canning Day

There is an event every year that signals the end of summer for those who've lived in small towns or on farms. It always begins around eight in the morning, when you are woken up by the sound ominous rattling and bubbling noises. Running downstairs to investigate, you get assaulted by oppressive, Vietnam humidity and the overwhelming smell of tomatoes. This day is special day for all of us known as canning day.

The previous weeks are a constant build up to this day. Mom and Dad begin thrusting tomatoes onto everyone they can find. At the same time, all of our gardening friends are throwing tomatoes at us as well, so this method rarely depletes the quantity of tomatoes in the house. I'm sure that after a few days, a single tomato may change hands about seven times, most of the time however, that very same tomato will end up back in its household of origin. "Aaron, eat some tomato slices!" I don't like raw tomatoes, but such an excuse rarely works.

"Do you know how much work goes into growing tomatoes?"

For a vegetable that is so "difficult" to grow, you'd think there would be a deficit of them. Somehow though, every cousin, aunt, friend, sibling, neighbor, coworker or random vagrant on the street seems to have bushels to give away.

So we eat tomatoes. Tomato salads, spaghetti, fresh salsa, tomato quiche, tomato cake, tomato bread...everything has tomatoes in it. Just when the giant basket of tomatoes or in our case, sink full of tomatoes is just about gone, the next wave ripens. At some point, when your BSAL (Blood Salicylic Acid Level) reaches the near deadly level of .2, when the body rejects the intake of a single squishy bite, canning day is upon us.

Canning day is a bad misnomer, there are always too many tomatoes to can in a single day. So we spend two or five days, typically over labor day weekend, boiling, peeling, chopping, seasoning, canning, sealing. The counter fills with salsas, stewed tomatoes, chopped tomatoes, marinara, pickled tomatoes, tomato chutney. We trip over lids, broken glass and slide upon pools of boiling water. When work begins the next day, all gardeners have blistered, burned fingertips.

Then the next round of tomato trading begins. Jars swap hands fifty times. Everyone has their special canned good everyone loves; everyone has their canned goods that are terrible. And everyone knows somebody who can't can anything well. This person is always the most prolific, giving canner in town.

After all the jar trading, the canned goods get packed up, brought to basement and set next to the last twenty years of canned tomatoes, where they will never be seen again until the next load is stored in a year. Nobody wants to eat tomatoes until the next year.

Cleaning the House

This may surprise those who have known me as a child, but I'm a very clean, organized person. In fact, this may be a surprise to anyone who has known me before age 21. Something odd happened when I moved into my first apartment: I couldn't handle messes in my home. Now, never have I lived with roommates that share my passion for a clean house. Not to say my roommates have all been slobs, but they've definitely lived below my standards. I do what I can to encourage them to keep the place clean and I actually enjoy cleaning; it relaxes me. No matter what I do, I always will have to lower my standards of cleanliness when living with others, except for when I living with the Eyles family; they're crazier about cleanliness than I am.

I feared for the worst upon returning home. Based on past experiences and candid warnings by friends, I knew to expect a heart attack upon walking in the house; I prepared by taking lots of asprin. Manda knew this and thankfully spearheaded a massive cleaning push in the house before I returned home (she banned roommates from doing social activities so they could clean). They put hours into whipping the house into shape....the result, I had mild heart palpitations, but after sitting down and breathing into a paper bag, I narrowly avoided death at a young age. If what I came home to was the result of hours of cleaning, I won't even attempt to conjure any images of its state prior to this massive cleaning effort. So, simply put, the house was in no way up to my comfortable living standards. I do, however, appreciate everything they did.

I put aside the idea of finding a job for a week and dove into cleaning. My party was Friday and I wanted it to be presentable by then. The living room was not functional as a room at all, stuff, completely random stuff, had taken over every possible surface of the room. Every chair had a pile upon it, every table covered, the floor....I couldn't find it. The furniture didn't really have an arrangement, they were just in the space. As much as I wanted to tackle the living room first and sit down, I knew this would be a fatal mistake: one of the first rules of a massive cleaning project, clean the relaxation room last or else you'll find yourself watching some sort of movie.

Since I love to cook, I tackled the kitchen first. I didn't think it would be too bad, it looked the same as how I left it. At most, I calculated three hours. I made the finishing touches three days later. The kitchen was carefully orchestrated to look clean, but there was a great overflow of dishes and pantry items. Closer inspection revealed that the cupboards were not organized in any way. Every shelf was covered with things and much of the bowls, utensils, etc. had no home. Somehow, bath towels were living in various corners of the kitchen. After I was finished, everything fit and there were even shelves to spare! Behold the power of organization!

Next was the entry way, I first cleared the towels off the floor and started washing them. On my way downstairs, I noticed each individual stair had at least two towels on it. I grabbed these on my way and was just about to throw the towels into the washer, but found it was already filled with towels. I went to transfer the towels into the dryer, but this was also filled with towel. The floor of the basement was covered in towels as well. I took the towels out of the dryer folded them, then went upstairs to the towel shelf to find it packed full, even double rowed. I went to the towel overflow shelf (yes, we have enough towels to necessitate such a shelf) and found that full as well. So I took about 17 consecutive showers, used a different towel each time and delicately replaced them onto the basement floor, being sure to scatter them in a way that did not allow them make contact with each other. The sheer quantity of towels suggested that they are reproducing somehow, I just needed to experiment to find out if it was sexually or asexually. I started to do a mental inventory of how many towels might be in the house, but stop counting somewhere around 1,712.

I grabbed the duster from the utility corner, removed it from the packaging and started dusting all window sills and other areas. The house contains two dogs and three cats, so one can imagine what I found. At some point, I was able to clear a single chair in the living room and sat down for a cup of tea. I set the duster to the side of me; this was the last I ever saw it, even after cleaning the house, it is still missing. I believe the towels have evolved aerobic energy production. Once they develop the ability to move (and I can't prove they haven't) they will officially fit into the taxonomy of animals. (Note to self: write a letter to the international board of biological classification, look for my name in future textbooks)

Along the way, I swept the floors, forming massive piles of pet hair. At some point, I scooped up one of the piles and found it to be around 10lb! After the pile protested going into the garbage using a series of hisses and scratches, I realized that I had in fact swept up my cat Finnegan and not a pile of fur.

After my primary cleaning and organization of shelf, drawers and whatnot. All that was left was rearranging the furniture, which really didn't take too long. Overall, it only took me five days of eight hour cleaning shifts to get the house into an acceptable state for me to inhabit. Next step, systematized chore charts.

LA airport: Culture Shock in List Form

When returning to America after a year in a different country, I expected a certain level of culture shock. At age 17, I went to Germany for a month; going to Germany was easy, but upon my return, stopping at the Mall of America, I started freaking out because, for some odd reason, I could understand everything being said around me. My first stop after this last year was a very common first stop for cross-Pacific flights, LAX. The first thing to freak me out was riding on the right side of the road, this was a quick adjustment for me. After arriving at the terminal, I opportunistically grabbed my notebook and jotted down a list of the things that shocked about Americans before they became normal again. Here they are:

African Americans

This was an aspect of America I was definitely missing; it is not even African Americans in general, but being in a generally diverse country. Now, Australia has a fair few Sudanese and Asian immigrants and a few aboriginals scattered across the land the Whites don't want, but for the most part, everyone you see in Australia is of European descent. How boring!

I felt at home when I was waiting in line and heard a loud, boisterous, authoritative voice yell, "Everybody, please take off your shoes! Just have 'em off before you get the belt, so we can make this quick!" I missed people yelling so much. Everything is so polite sometimes in Australia. This isn't really about African Americans either, this is just how Americans are....This little section has a bad heading. I think I just wanted an excuse to put Flava Flav on my blog.

Fat Americans

I always resisted latching on to this stereotype. In Australia, I defended Americans all I could when someone called us a fat culture, especially since Australia is the second fattest country in the world. Upon returning however, it is true. As a general cultural trend, we are bigger than other countries. Not that everyone is obese, but the average person you see is 10-20lb heavier than the people I met abroad. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, our portions are huge and our food is very fat concentrated.

Wasteful Americans

Holy crap! I knew we were a wasteful society, I just didn't realize how much more we waste than other countries. Australia is ranked as the fourth most wasteful country and we are second, but don't let our ranks fool you, we suck EVERYTHING. I first noticed the water wastage. The toilets at LAX have a couple of gallons of water in the bowl. Even more water was used to push this down! In that first flush at least two unnecessary gallons of water were wasted. After living on the driest continent in the world, where water is the most precious resource, this was ridiculous. Most countries use a two button flush system, a number one (often one gallon) or a number two (about two gallons), I believe this to be the etymology of the common slang. The bowls standing water is also very low. I also observed for the first time in a year, the water spinning clockwise. People keep asking me if it was weird seeing the toilet spin counter-clockwise in the Southern Hemisphere. Honesty, there was never enough standing water to ever witness such a thing.

All of our things are packaged in plastic, then packaged again in cardboard. The packaging is always significantly bigger than the product... I could rant on this type of stuff for hours; it is the one thing that bothers me more than anything in the world save genocide, baby eating, reality TV and other similar things, so I'll just stop here.

Important Americans

We are the most important people in the whole world. This is a completely true statement. How can I tell? Well, everyone is always busy and in a hurry. Even when buying a newspaper in the newsstand across from the gate, two hours early for our flights, we are still in a hurry. We also always have to talk loudly on our cellphones at all times so we are sure that everyone knows how important the particular call is. Also our face-to-face conversations are just as important. Everyone needs to hear every word of the conversation. Honestly, everything we say is too important to keep within a five foot radius. God, it feels good to be American.

First American Meal

Well, after being in Australia for a year, there have been many great foods that I've either had to live without or accept in more inferior forms. The list of things that I was craving from the states was huge...the question remained, which of these long lost food items would comprise my first, symbolic meal back in the United States? What would be that thing that I'll always remember as the first food I decided to eat after a year away?

The choice was simple; I'd been thinking about it and craving it for days before my flight. I wanted nothing fancy. I didn't even want something good. I wanted Taco Bell.

Australia doesn't have taco bell, they have every other fast food restaurant, but there is no love for the border, maybe because they don't have borders. So, I wanted something slathered in the mysteriously named Baja Sauce. I wanted to eat an item such as a Crunch Wrap Supreme, with a name so silly, it has to be delicious. I wanted to squirt one small packet of Hot, one of Fire, and one of Mild in my mouth at the same time and swish it like mouthwash as I read the not-so witty comments on the packets. I wanted to taste grade F meat, so low quality, the Veterinary Association of America won't allow it in dog food, then wash it down with Mountain Dew's Baja Blast, a soft drink so unremarkable, it's only available at a classy joint like Taco Bell. And I wanted to do it for exactly $4.32...a goal easily accomplished. Thank you Taco Bell.

Next stop: White Castle

First American Purchase

The first thing I purchased, using the two dollars and twenty-seven cents that lived in my suitcase for nearly a year, was a simple cup of drip coffee from a random airport cafe. Drip coffee didn't exist in Australia or New Zealand. Every single cup of coffee I'd ingested for the past year was either espresso, instant, or french press. The later is quite good, but it is still not a good ol cup of coffee.

The coffee was strong, full of lovely flavor of the roasted beans. It wasn't diluted by excessive milk or an inferior method of production. It was simply a coffee. And it was incredible.

Coming Home

Coming home for the last few months has existed a mere concept. I knew I was coming home, but I never really accepted it as something that was actually going to happen. I didn't know what to expect. The year away had changed me a lot. I was never really a prototypical American and spending so much time in different culture I loved had made me even less so. So many aspects that are so central to this country have begun to annoy me. My primary concerns on my return were:

1) I'm finally not depressed for the first time in three or four years.

Since graduating, I've been a bit depressed. Not in any crippling way. I was still able to be active, do my job, maintain a positive social life, but really I just sat around watching movies and reading books all the time. Except for my weekly/bi-weekly karaoke, I didn't go out much, instead, I just cooked a big dinner and invited people over. Yeah, it doesn't sound like depression, but this is a less-functional me. So, why is not being depressed a worry? Well, because most of my friends have not seen me when I'm happy. Happy me is annoying and egotistical. Happy me is a little manic and has a short attention span. I'm sure I won't lose any friends, but a few may be a little taken aback by how active I can be when I'm happy.

2) Consumerism/materialism really bothers me

America loves owning things. Our government measures standard of life and healthiness of the culture using a metric called the Consumer Spending Index. Why is this an important measurement of life quality? I've met lots of people who own barely anything, make very little money, grow their own food to survive, and are happier than others I know who live a big house, with a big TV, granite countertops, and eat a diet of mostly bottled fruit pulp. America is so obsessed with image and that image is a direct result of how much stuff you own. I use to own lots of stuff, then I started getting rid of most of it (although four moves in three years will force that sort of thing). Now, after living six months out of a backpack, I'm not dependent on many things at all.

3) I'll find myself even more disconnected from my culture

I know have a hybrid Australian/American attitude on life. I'm still a driven person and want to do the best I can do in whatever I do, I'm just not going to obsess about status anymore. I'll take whatever path life takes and as long as I can live and eat and know I'm doing my best at whatever I'm doing, I'll be happy. To many Americans, this translates into saying I'm content being a slacker. This isn't true at all. I've just realized life is more important that salary and status. When I need more money to live, I'll work a job that pays more, but as long as have a job (which in itself is a big positive in the current economy) I'll be ok. Now, that leads us to the next and final worry.

4) Will it be easy to find a job?

Everyone has told me that finding a job is tough right now. A part of me wants to do non-food service work. Since I'll only be home for less than a year, I want to try a job that really isn't too important to my career, but is still enjoyable and different. I've been considering becoming a baggage handler. I know somebody who does that and he's perfectly content with the job and he has lumberjack arms. That's a definite perk to the job. At the same time, I doubt I can be picky when finding a job. A few friends hate their jobs, but have to stick with it, because they can't find another. We'll just have to see.

North Island Adventures

After the previous three weeks of touring the South Island with no rest, I figured that I'd take it a bit easier on the North Island. Since my primary purpose for venturing to the North Island was to visit the Suttons, it wasn't too hard to do.

The North Island is drastically different from the South. First off, it is populated. In the South, most towns are very tiny and separated by long stretches of sheep paddock. The North is more like the US, a small town will pop up every ten miles or so. After the relative seclusion of the south, I was a bit overwhelmed when I came to the bustling metropolis of Wellington, population 250,000. My first night out, I watch about 20 minutes of an All Blacks game before I freaked out and went back to my quiet hostel. It didn't take too long to get used to people again. Wellington was a bizarre city, it had interesting, slightly weird architecture and just felt weird. I wasn't surprised that such a town created Peter Jackson.

I didn't stay longer than a day in Wellington before heading north to Tongariro National Park. On the very top of my list of things to do in New Zealand was the Tongariro Alpine Crossing, aka the Great Day Hike in the World! I went to a couple of the shuttle companies (it's a one directional hike) to book a ride from the end of the trail. None would agree to pick me up. Apparently, hiking on top of mountains is extremely dangerous in the middle of the winter and they don't allow people up there without guides.

"Can I rent crampons and an iceaxe and still get a shuttle?"

"No."

"Can I rent crampons and an iceaxe and do have of it?"

"Have you used them before?"

I hesitated to carefully word the impending lie. I never even had the chance to use it.

"No, we won't rent you stuff unless you have experience with the equipment."

A bit later, I was chatting with another woman who worked there about potentially doing part of the hike and turning back without alpine equipment. The woman then gave me a look that I'd recognized from my adventures in Tasmania.

"Don't take this mountain lightly, people die often up there."

I went anyway. After about an hour of hiking, the trail started heading up the mountain. It degraded to alternating calf-deep snow and sheets of ice. When I left it was sunny, but as I went into the mountains a bit, dark clouds started rolling in. I made the wise decision of turning back. I continued hiking other trails in the area. Within an hour of leaving the Alpine Crossing, the rain had set in with thick fog. It was impossible to see even a few feet in front of me.

The next day, I headed to Taurangi, trout fishing capital of New Zealand. Situated on the Tongariro River, the town only allows flyfishing. Of course I had to take lots of photos of this town for my father. I walked along the river, watching numerous people fish for trout poetically on a beautifully sunny day.

I continued down the line to Taupo, on New Zealand's largest lake, Lake Taupo. It was clear day, so I scoped out the tallest thing I could find, which was Mt. Tauhara, and again acted upon my manly urge to climb something. I was rewarded with stunning views of the area. The other main attraction of the area is Huka Falls, which despite being merely kinda cool, is the most visited natural feature of the country. It did have eerily clear, light blue water.

The next day, I headed Te Aroha to visit Ben and his family, which was the primary reason for me stopping in New Zealand. I ended up spending four of my 29 days with them (which is quite silly if it was the inspiration for my visit. Sadly, two days before I arrived, Gay's father passed away, so I was visiting them during a rough personal time for the family. They were very pleased for my visit; I proved a bit of a distraction from the funeral obligations. I separated myself from the personal family business by sightseeing around the area, including climbing Mt. Te Aroha on the clearest day imaginable. I could even see Mt. Taranaki in the distance, over 200 miles away!

I really enjoyed spending time with Ben and his family. This visit should hopefully reconnect us as we've been not doing well with communication for the last couple of years. Ben and I have always been great friends, so I was glad to see him again. He showed me a great time and took me to the spectacular Bridal Veil falls.

I skipped Auckland except for a quick trip to One Tree Hill (which does not even have a tree, just a giant obelisk), home of the best views in town. New Zealand is not about cities, it is about nature. To have dedicated anymore time to the only metropolis in the country would have gone counter to the theme of my extraordinary trip.

Searching for middle Earth

New Zealand is one of the most splendid countries in the world. It's natural beauty is a huge draw for travelers wishing to immerse themselves in the great outdoors. Since 2002, however, New Zealand has found a new draw. It's scenery has become the backdrop for one of the most popular film series of all time: The Lord of the Rings.

It's hard not to get Middle Earth fever when traveling around New Zealand. A simple drive to the next town and suddenly, you're approaching the Misty Mountains. I am a fan of the films, not a fanatic. I enjoyed them, found them to be entertaining. I may have even read the books about one or five times, but still, I'm a mere passing fan. I found it great to recognize the features and general look of Middle Earth in the surroundings, but everybody under the age of thirty, seems obsessed with it! Literally, every night of my first seven nights in the hostels, somebody would pop in a DVD. Every single time somebody popped in a DVD, on every single one of the first seven nights I spent in a hostel, it was The Fellowship of the Ring. Never once when somebody popped in a dvd on those first seven nights in the hostel was it the The Two Towers or the Return of the King. So everytime somebody popped in a DVD on every single night for the first seven nights I stayed in the hostels, I had to watch the very beginning of the story, wanting to move on, but being stuck, stuck in a particular place in a story, forced to repeat the beginning of this epic story, every single time somebody popped in a dvd, every single night, I, for the first seven nights, stayed in a hostel. As you can imagine, I found this to be quite annoying.

I began to play games with the various youths, those I did not do this every single time somebody popped in the Fellowship of the Ring DVD, but I did most nights. I would simply suggest that a certain thing, maybe a mountain or paddock is not too far from where we were.

Some young adult's eyes would alight like the fire writing across the face of the ring and they would say something like, "So that insignificant physical feature from scene 23 of the Fellowship of the Ring, that I would have never thought about except you, some complete stranger suggested that it is in fact the insignificant physical feature from scene 23, is near here?" Yeah, that sounds about right.

"I can't really remember, I was just driving on random roads....North?"

They didn't like that much.

I was expressing my general annoyance with a random kiwi on a hiking trail, "I mean look at this place! It's such an amazing country, with so much to see, you'd think these tourists would find something more productive to seek out that some bush Vigo Morgenstern pissed on in 2001."

"Bro, that whole movie was filmed in Wellington, right on Mt. Victoria. Peter Jackson just threw a bunch of mountains in here and there to make it looked varied."

This may have rocked my world a little bit. If this bit of information is true, then that speaks wonders for the films editing crew. I needed to know. I tried to hide the excitement building inside of me as well; I would be taking a ferry, the Picton, not Brandybuck, to Wellington the very next day.

As I walked amongst the forests of Wellington's Mt. Victoria, I couldn't help but feel the Middle Earth fever. The random bad-toothed kiwi proved correct, this was where so much was filmed. Everyone knows it, tourist walk everywhere in the park, snapping photos of trees, rocks, and anything else that they might be able to spot in the Fellowship of the Ring later that night at the hostel. I was walking with my Lonely Planet, seeing if they had any mention of some specific sights from (they didn't), when a man approached me, "Hey bro, looking for Lord of the Rings stuff?"

I scoffed, "No, I just want to go through a lovely stroll through this beautiful park. Where is the lookout?"

He was heading in that direction so we walked together. We passed numerous people hiding under tree roots from the dark riders. I was able to needle a few sights out of him without giving the impression that I was a Lord of the Rings tourist. He separated from me and I walked by three more youths hiding from the Nazgul under a different set of tree roots. I found my own set that I swear was the correct roots. The entrance to the Halls of the Dead is the only confirmed landmark I spotted and I would have never been able to tell if it was not marked. It looked nothing like the film.

For all the Lord of the Rings sights, there is very few exploitation of such resources. Two tours, one ran by Peter Jackson's company. There is no brochure/map of all the sights near Wellington (I know, because I didn't check). It gives me a bit of respect for the kiwis. If it was America, there be costumed photo-ops near every rock and bush in the country.

After breaking down and realizing that I do in fact have some interest in seeing stuff from Lord of the Rings, I decided to make my own pilgrimage to Mt. Doom, though it is much more pleasant trip by Hyundai than by foot. Mt. Doom or Ngauruhoe as people once called it ages ago before the films, lies in the heart of Tonagariro National Park, setting for Mordor. The landscape looked a lot like Mordor, but it seemed like a much cheerier place without all the orcs and the creepy tower with the glowing eye. Mt. Doom just looked like a volcano.

The Kiwi from the South Island proved to be correct. Much of the look was studio trickery. Scenes from near Queenstown will be instantly followed with scenes from the Northern part of the South Island, two completely different landscapes. He cut it all together. Finding Middle Earth in New Zealand is either tricky or easy, depending on how you think about it. Everywhere a person goes in the country, the feel of the movie will follow. Middle Earth is New Zealand...just modified.

Marlborough

The Marlborough region lies on the Northeastern corner of the South Island. This area is most famous for producing the world's finest Sauvignon Blancs and I have found this to quite true. I didn't even like the damned grape until I tried the New Zealand variety.

Kairkoura on the southern end of the region is a popular tourist destination. Whales are often seen right off the coast (I didn't see one). It is also home to the rare hector dolphins and lots of fur seals. For those with the money to spend, there are many wildlife tours offered in the area.

It was one of the most beautiful place I've seen on my trip. The snow capped mountains rise right out of the ocean, which is an amazing sight. I took a lovely three hour walk around the area, soaking in the views, the lovely weather, and seeing lot of seals. They may be one of the cutest creatures on this earth, but man do they stink! I was very glad I came here; it wasn't on my original itinerary, but it turned out be one of the highlights.

I headed next to Blenheim, the Sauv Blanc capital. I was only able to hit two vineyards before closing time; they shut early in the winter. I was thankfully able to taste three or four wines that I really couldn't afford to purchase. The Pinot Noir and Reisling in the area are also quite amazing. Blenheim was a boring town overall though. It was mostly a town for backpackers to live and work on the vineyards and yuppies who love to add fictional overtones to grape juice.

My South Island experience ended in Picton (which the Kiwis pronounced as "Pectin"). I arrived a few hours before the departure of the ferry, so I took an incredibly scenic stroll to one of the points in the sounds. This area is rarely mentioned as a great place to visit, but I found it to be beautiful.

I boarded the "Pectin" ferry, which I was sad to find was not filled with jam. The ferry ride itself was its own destination. It was huge boat with cafes, two cinemas, a food court, a bar with live music, and lots of lounge areas to relax, read and enjoy the views.

Christchurch Again...Face to Face with Swine Flu

I called Sophie again to work out another night in Christchurch so I could see the Bank's Peninsula before heading North. Sophie didn't mind. She was out for a while, but was Ok if I just came in a prepared a big pot of chili (I know I don't mind it when quasi-stranger cook me chili). After cooking for 30 minutes, Sophie came home.

"Oh...um Aaron. I just found out, Tomo (her flatmate) has swine flu."

"Like swine flu, swine flu, the AK47-12A flu or whatever it is?"

"Yeah."

The last time I was there two weeks ago, Tomo was just on the starting end of being sick, time of highest contagiousness. Little did I know that I was sharing a house with the dreaded swine flu.

The chances of me getting sick were very low, but I opted to stay at a hostel that night. Considering I was homeless and on holiday, I didn't want to catch any form of influenza, be it avian, swine, or anything else. In fact, swine flu seems like a media creation. The death rates seem about the same as normal influenza, just when a somebody dies from the pig flu, it is an international event. I finished my chili, enjoyed a dinner with Sophie then headed back to the hostel.

The next day, I awoke exhausted. I had just spent two weeks travelling like mad, hiking at least two hours everyday, and driving even more. Halfway to the Banks Peninsula, I cracked, turned around and drove straight to Kaikoura, two hours north of Christchurch. I arrived at two, only stopping at a couple of local vineyards. I spent the rest of the day reading and watching movies.