To Insanity And Beyond

An Eighty-Five Dollar Bowl of Raisin Bran

2012-01-24T14:20:00.000-08:00

I still have quite a bit to tell from New Zealand, and at some point I need to finish the "Josh in Five Songs" series. But people want to know about Puerto Rico, and what the people want, the people occasionally get. So much has happened since I moved to San Juan I could easily have about nine blog posts, but I'll do my best to condense down to one. Here goes...

It all seemed so simple. An overnight flight from Los Angeles to Ft. Lauderdale, an eight-hour wait, then a quick hop over to San Juan. Couldn't be easier...except it took an hour and a half to get the last five miles from the train station to LAX, and I missed my flight. The airline lady recommended I attempt to fly standby to Dallas, then again from Dallas to Ft. Lauderdale. She said if I could make it to Dallas my chances of making my connecting flight to San Juan were pretty good. So I went for it. Flying standby is kind of like hitchhiking, except you're gambling on people's incompetence instead of their goodness.

I made both my flights, and got a good seat on each. The biggest drawback was getting a pair of one-hour naps rather than the good solid half night's sleep I would have gotten had I made my original flight, but all things considered, I was happy with the way things played out. My last flight was delayed, but at around 6:30 p.m. my flight touched down in my new home: tropical San Juan, Puerto Rico.

Figuring out the bus system proved an adventure. First of all, no one at the airport seemed to know where to catch the bus. By the time I figured it out, the buses were only running incrementally since it was getting late. I finally caught one, though, and made an uneventful jaunt to my first stop: the Denny's in Isla Verde. From there, I would catch a different line the rest of the way.

While I waited, four police cars peeled up into the bus lane with their sirens blazing. I'm not sure what they were doing, but they clearly meant business. I wandered down to the far end of the bus stop in hopes of catching a glimpse of the bus with as much advance notice as possible. With the police cars camping in the lane, I didn't think there was any way the bus could pull in, so I simply hoped if the bus driver saw me frantically waving my arms he would stop anyway. A local sensed my plight and engaged in a lengthy exchange with a police officer holding a really big gun. After a few minutes, the cop looked at me and grunted. "He'll make sure you get your bus," explained the local. Sure enough, the T-5 bus turned a corner, and the policeman raised his semi-automatic rifle and bellowed into the night. I caught my bus.

Now, all I had to do was identify my stop and walk the final eight blocks to the Palace Hostel, where rest and relaxation awaited me. There I would meet up with Zack, who would be there with me for my first five full days while I rested up and got a feel for how to run the hostel. I just had to get there. Unfortunately, the bus driver didn't recognize my description. Eventually, a really helpful local named Pablo informed me, "We're getting off here." The two of us then wandered the streets in the dark, following the sounds of merriment until we found the hostel just before 10:00 p.m. I could finally relax...

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!

Turns out Zack had the flu pretty bad, so he changed his flight. He showed me around, then called a taxi to take him to the airport. In the words of a song from my first RPM release,

"You left and sailed away alone (yeah, alone!)
And now you've got me trapped up on this island with no way to get ho-ooooome."

Worst roommate ever.

I had twelve days to learn to run a hostel by the seat of my pants, with backup coming in the form of Laney and Jamison, a couple with lots of hosteling experience we had lined up to do some work in exchange for free lodging. But until then, it was just me.

I quickly realized staying in hostels qualifies me to run one about as much as eating a lot qualifies me to be a chef. Managing a hostel entails at least a dozen different job descriptions, including but not limited to: receptionist, accountant, concierge, bouncer, electrician, plumber, housekeeper, decorator, administrator, and entertainer. I'm good at maybe a fifth of these. Add in the late night check-ins, the early morning check-outs, and getting breakfast out every morning...well, if you do the math, it doesn't leave a whole lot of room for sleep. Here's a sampling of what I get to deal with:

*My first morning, a very polite German fellow emerged from his dorm and asked for new sheets. Apparently, an unidentified drunk guy had mistaken the German fellow's bed for the latrine during the night. The poor German fellow awoke to a figure standing over his bed and the sounds of flowing water.

*We only have one door into and out of the hostel: a gate with a single deadbolt. You have to use a key on both sides of it. I was taking out the trash on my fourth morning, only to discover that my key would turn but not open the door. I climbed down off the balcony to have a look at the other side. Apparently, someone broke a key off inside the lock on the other side, resulting in the rest of us effectively being locked inside. I should mention it was a holiday. (By the way, Puerto Ricans love their holidays. Six of my first eleven days here were holidays.) The landlord wasn't answering his phone. All the locksmiths were closed for the day---or for good. It wasn't until option 'Q' on the google map that we found someone who could let us out. In the meantime, I got to deal with guests thrilled at the prospect of being locked in.

*A girl came back to the hostel flustered at a traumatizing encounter with a local. Two days later, said local showed up at the door, adamant that he needed to see her. I wouldn't let him in. He left his phone number, and I promised to deliver it. An hour later, he was back with a different number. I was less cordial in dismissing him. A few hours later, he came back distraught that she hadn't called him yet. I told him to beat it and never come back. Fortunately he didn't. If he had, I was going to reacquaint myself with my friend who waved down the T-5 bus for me.

*Taxi drivers don't know where this place is. They often call trying to find it. They get mad that I don't speak Spanish. They get mad that I don't know all the landmarks in the city. They get mad at the network of one way streets in this neighborhood. Taxi drivers are angry people here.

It has been nothing short of a dogfight making this hostel functional on my own, between keeping it clean, making sense of the books, and making sure all the guests have what they need. There would be days I had so much to do I would literally forget to eat. Seriously, it would be 10:30 at night, and I would realize I hadn't eaten yet. And yet, through all the blood, sweat, tears, and sleep deprivation, guests keep telling me The Palace is a really awesome hostel. And they keep coming back for more.

The days dragged on. On Sunday, January 15, two days before Jamison and Laney would arrive, I started feeling sick. By the time Monday morning rolled around I didn't want to live. I woke up with chills, a high fever, nausea, a pounding headache, and absolutely no energy. Cleanliness and bookkeeping took a hit that day, as I spent as much time as possible in the horizontal position...at least, until I found out the shower was leaking water into one our private rooms. A beastly Aussie backpacker by the name of Morgan took pity on me and gave me a wedge of frozen watermelon, which was just enough to get me through the day. Then came Tuesday. The cavalry arrived.

I would just like to take this opportunity to say that Laney and Jamison are awesome. They've run hostels before, and all they needed was for me to turn them loose. I spent the next several days sleeping. My symptoms faded as time passed, but I remained in a near-constant state of exhaustion. An hour of cleaning or a walk to the grocery store would leave me wiped out, and I'd be forced to take a nap.

Everything changed Sunday. My fever broke during the night, and I woke up feeling more energized than I had in a week. I poured myself a bowl of raisin bran, then stood at the kitchen counter eating, talking with Jamison, and pondering what I was doing lying on the floor. At least, that's how I remember it. To hear Jamison tell the tale, there might have been a loss of consciousness, a collapse, a seizure, and some foaming at the mouth as well. In any case, by the time I realized where I was, Jamison was on the phone with 911. The ambulance came, and they took me away.

A parade of nurses took my blood pressure. By that I mean, at least eight different ladies took turns pumping up the thingy around my arm and looking at the numbers. At first I figured this is just what you do in Puerto Rico if your patient doesn't speak Spanish. But then they hooked a bunch of electrodes up to me and started doing a bunch of other tests as well. At last, an English-speaking doctor informed me they were transferring me to the county hospital to do a CT scan.

At county, more nurses took my blood pressure and hooked even more electrodes up to me. By the way, they don't shave you before they apply adhesives to your body in this place. They don't care if you're a hairy sasquatch of a man---they just slap it all on. They hooked me up to an IV, despite my assurances that I would drink whatever they put in front of me, ran some more tests, and did the CT scan. Good news: no head damage. Bad news: I have dengue fever. It's usually not fatal, but there isn't much you can do for treatment other than rest and hydration. So after thirteen hours, they released me to go back home with instructions to do exactly what I would have done had I never gone to the hospital. W00t! The whole thing cost a grand total of eighty-five bucks.

Two days later, I'm still feeling weak but better than I did when I first got sick. I'm pounding down fluids and letting Jamison and Laney do everything around the hostel.

As I conclude this post, I'm a little disappointed in it. There are so many stories that could have been really good if I'd been able to write about them as they occurred. Alas, the productive life takes its toll.

I conclude with the presentation of a Liam Lowe Rockstar Award. This one goes to Morgan, whose seemingly small gift of a piece of watermelon kept me kicking when all hope seemed lost. Sometimes, it's the small acts of kindness that make all the difference. Thanks, Morgan.

Christchurch

2012-01-06T07:09:00.000-08:00

December 4. Lonely Planet describes Christchurch (KRYST-cherch) as one of New Zealand's jewels, a vibrant beacon of Kiwi culture. But that was before the earthquakes. A pair of devastating tremors, within three months of each other, left the city shell shocked. The once-proud city center now lies in desolate ruin; the good-natured optimism so prevalent among New Zealanders is difficult to find here, as a pall of depression now blankets the city's inhabitants. The city's emblematic cathedral personifies the damage. Christchurch has been gutted to the core.

After swinging and missing on all my previous attempts at couch surfing on the south island, I finally got a hit in Christchurch...from a guy named Kyle who wasn't even there. His automated message referred me to Occupy Christchurch, saying they'd take care of me when I got there---all I needed to do was say, "Kyle sent me." Lacking any better ideas, I decided to go see firsthand what the Occupy movement is all about. After all, traveling is about gaining new experiences, and I've never engaged in a protest before.

I should admit my biases about Occupy---particularly Wall Street, since that's the only one I knew anything about previously---before continuing. Politically speaking, I'm a free market Libertarian with strong anarchist inclinations, which basically means I dislike government and really like capitalism. I think the Occupy protesters who actually want to accomplish something are only half right. While they have cause to be angry about government corruption and the under the table alliances between politicians and big businesses, their lack of economic understanding leads them to wrongly villainize capitalism. And that's the ones who actually care...I think most of them just want to show up and cause a ruckus, but aren't really after anything productive. Anyway, I came into Occupy Christchurch with an open mind, but that was my preconceived notion.

The occupiers set up shop in Hagley Park, a giant recreational area in the middle of everything. Apparently, city architects designed Hagley first, then planned the rest of the city around it. Hagley was always meant to be the heart and soul of Christchurch. Though it's within a few blocks of the earthquake's carnage, the park itself remained largely unaffected by the tectonic shifting. Thus, it offered an ideal environment for protesters who want people to notice them. And notice them I did---it's tough to miss three or four dozen tents set up in one of the busiest corners of town, with artwork decorating the sidewalks and banners flying everywhere.

No one had any idea who Kyle was, and I got handed off a few times before anyone showed me the designated couch surfing tent. I dropped my gear and made for the "lounge" where a couple battered couches, some folding chairs, and a giant beanbag formed our communal area. Thus began my 36-hour stay over days 50 and 51 of Occupy Christchurch.

It didn't take long for me to be unimpressed. The whole escapade struck me as disorganized and incoherent, and no one seemed to know what the point was. The words of the old song by Buffalo Springfield come to mind:

What a field day for the heat
A thousand people in the street
Singing songs and carrying signs
Mostly saying, "hooray for our side

Except, I don't really know what "our side" is...and no one else seemed to either. Also, this:

I was intrigued by the diversity of people comprising the movement. Almost everyone fell into one of five categories. First, you had the individuals with a clear cause and purpose who wanted to do their part to get the word out and fight important battles. Next, you had hippie, vegan, artistic types who seemed more excited about living simply in community than anything else. I'll lump in with them the spiritualists and conspiracy theorists who just wanted to throw ideas around. Third, You had people with a victim complex and no concept of economics---they just know they're against it. Fourth, you had people who just wanted somewhere to go and be angry. Finally, you had those who just wanted somewhere to go and do drugs. Everyone, however, sat down together for the evening meal, regardless of creed or motivation.

We had an official meeting (they happen twice a week) my second night there. Items on the agenda included preparation for 30 guests arriving from Occupy Wellington; whether or not to relocate some---or even all---of the tents; a call to personal reflection for each person as to why they were there; what to do with a donated t-shirt, whose designer clearly sympathized with a locked-out work force; a contingency plan for if/when the city booted them out of Hagley Park; and some other things I can't recall. Consensus came quickly at times---we voted unanimously to raffle off the shirt and donate the funds to the locked-out workers---but far more often, the conflict never reached resolution. Ideals clashed with pragmatism. Tempers flared, and disillusionment rose to the surface. During the meeting, I fully grasped what a fragile alliance this is.

I think I get the primary tension within the Occupy movement. Occupiers claim to represent 99% of the populace, with the 1% being those with all the money and power. The reality, though, is that 1% have the money and power, 1% are living in the park, and the other 98% are basically just trying to get on with their lives. The challenge to the occupiers is, how do you treat the 98%? Are they potential converts to be won over, or are they, as members of the status quo, to be lumped in with the enemy? Ultimately, occupiers are both ambassadors and fighters, and the two roles are in direct opposition to each other. How the movement navigates this tightrope will determine whether it succeeds or fails.

To be completely frank, I don't like its chances. I think it's too fractured to have a legitimate chance. I think the truly passionate members are saddled with too many delinquents who aren't actually contributing anything. But even if they can steeplechase those hurdles, I don't know what the point is. I have a really hard time imagining anything will be accomplished by camping in the city park. I suspect that, sooner or later, Occupy will fade into irrelevance. But I'll remember...

A dude about my age who everyone calls "Chef." Chef quit his job---as a chef---to join the movement. He prepares the nightly meal and dreams of starting a weekly culinary class. Through Occupy, Chef has found more purpose and meaning than ever before...

A guy challenged me to a game of chess. I beat him with only my king and a bishop still standing. He said it was the first time he'd been defeated. He also said his name is Batman, so take the whole shebang with a grain of salt...

An American girl known as TC---it stands for tall chick, because she's tall and a chick---who participated in Food Not Bombs back home. Upon realizing her plan for sustaining herself while in New Zealand was threatened by a pending food bill, she joined on with Occupy...

An older Maori guy named Shawn who is kind of hard to understand, but about as hospitable as they come. He made me a pre-dinner dinner my first night and showed me around the place. He takes pride in cleaning out the latrine every day and setting a positive example for the younger protesters...

An Irish girl whose name I never got who plays her guitar on the street for coin...

A young Aussie guy whose name eludes me, who does tricks with a bo staff and volunteers for security nearly every night...

A guy named Jake, whose perpetually smoldering anger is born out of disillusionment and unreturned love and passion. Before I left, Jake announced he was leaving Occupy Christchurch to start his own movement occupying the trees in the park. I don't know what he's searching for, but I hope he finds it...

A guy known as Pops, of mixed Kiwi and Bohemian descent, who continually challenged complainers and rabble rousers to come up with solutions...

A girl from Seattle named Shaina, who has been through more adversity than I can imagine, and yet retains such a bright spirit. She honored me with a rare explanation of her Samson and Delilah tattoo, and an even rarer account of her life's struggles. The goodbye hug she gave me was among the warmest I've ever received...

I believe the movement is somewhere between futile and ludicrous, but I'm really glad I stayed a day and two nights with them. These are real people with hopes and dreams, hurts and fears. They took me in, giving me food to eat and a place to lay my head. They let me be one of them. I will remember them.

* * *

Post journal edit: An hour before my plane took off to return to America, a third earthquake wracked Christchurch. I know that Shaina was gone by then, but other than her, I don't know if anyone I met was injured or worse. I don't know what has become of Occupy Christchurch. I hope they're all ok.

Tongariro to Christchurch

2012-01-02T09:55:00.000-08:00

December 3. There's not really enough material for a full-blown narrative, so you get the four day odyssey bullet point style. If you don't like it, you can always go read someone else's blog. I'll feel hurt and betrayed if you find fulfillment elsewhere, but I'll understand.

*The bus ride from Tongariro to Wellington essentially ate up an entire day. The trip proved largely uneventful until we pulled into some random town (Palmerston North? I can't remember) to take on more passengers. I looked out the window, and who should I see but my buddy Neil from New Plymouth---the first friend I made in New Zealand. I thought I had seen the last of him, but he just won't let me get away. He invited me to go hang out with him and some British girls, but I never got his text later...guess he decided he didn't want to share the Brits. If we never meet again, Neil will always be the only guy who ever cut my hair in a semi-inebriated state and still made me look like Billy Idol.

*I stayed up past 1:00 a.m. writing, so all the lights were off when I returned to my dorm room at the Downtown Backpackers hostel. I tried to keep the noise down as I took out my contacts in the dark and scaled the ladder to my bunk. Everything was going well until my bed yelped. Apparently it does this when I climb on top of a European dude who is sleeping there. Said European dude explained that he had another bed but liked mine better and wanted to try it. Hey, no worries buddy---sometimes I like to sleep in someone else's bed for a couple hours too.

*Early the next morning, I boarded a ferry which would take me to Picton on the south island. Sunny day? Check. Smoothe water? Check. Beautiful scenery? Done and done! The three hour ride across Cook's Straight provided a warm welcome to the south island.

*I hitchhiked from Picton down the east coast to Kaikoura (kye-KOO-ruh). My first lift came from a bitter old man. My second lift came from a bitter young man. Bitter Young Man claimed his farm produced 70% of New Zealand's garlic output. Based on the condition of his truck, I'm guessing Bitter Young Man doesn't actually produce over two thirds of the country's vampire repellent. My third and final ride came from a jolly fellow who wouldn't tell me his real name. However, he didn't mind telling me he grows and sells weed. He also didn't mind telling me his other extra curricular activities. Fifteen minutes in it dawned on me: I'm riding with a straight up criminal. This is why they tell people not to hitchhike. Anyway, we had a good time, and he took me all the way to Kaikura.

*My hostel in Kaikura had a hot tub, and some college students from England insisted I join them for a soothing soak and some strong drinks. Traveling is about gaining life experience. On this night, I learned how bad an idea it is to drink in the hot tub. Apparently, gin improves my German. Not that it matters, because German girls are all stone-cold Amazons. That's all I have to say about that night.

*I really should sleep more. I spent the next day on a coastal walk that takes you right up to the nesting ground for red-eyed seagulls and a couple of seal colonies. The birds didn't seem to want me around, but the seals proved far more hospitable, in a "make yourself at home" sort of way. We got along pretty well. There was one minor incident, where I stepped within a few feet of a ninja seal napping stealthily in a crevice in the rocks. I didn't see him until he bellowed at me and waddled threateningly in my direction. I could have taken him one on one, but but he had a lot of friends who were suddenly eyeing me with a bit more regard. I backed away. It didn't occur to me until later that this seal might have been greeting me in the traditional Maori manner.

*The coastal walk was neither long nor strenuous, but my knees acted like Armageddon was upon us. I told them to shut up. This was the point when they first threatened to file for divorce.

*I got only one affirmative response from my couch surfing requests in Christchurch---from a guy active in the Occupy movement. Lacking any better ideas, I decided to join the protest for a couple days. I hitchhiked down to Christchurch in style, catching a lift from a shepherd in a land rover. I learned a lot about sheep.

Tongariro Northern Circuit Day 3: Certainty of Death, Small Chance of Sucess...What Are We Waiting For?

2011-12-29T12:02:00.000-08:00

November 29.
They said it couldn't be done. They said it shouldn't be attempted. They said the very thought of it was sheer madness. They probably had a point.

I'm on the last leg of my journey. It's 15 km and an estimated 5 1/2 from Waihohonu hut to Whakapapa Village, where I have a reservation to camp and a bus ticket to Wellington the following day. There's a 9 km stretch from Whakapapa Village to the beginning of the Alpine Crossing which I hadn't done since I took the shuttle to the crossing with my friends. It's supposed to take 3 hours for this section, but 5 if it's wet (I figured it would be). From there it's another 6.4 km (2 1/2 hours) to the base of Mt. Doom, with a trip to the summit and back adding another 3 hours. Sojourning back to Whakapapa Village brings the butcher's bill to 46 km---plus a summit climb---and 19 1/2 hours. Not possible, they said.

What they don't realize is 1) I'm a fitness instructor, and 2) I'm a hobbit. I was born for this. If there was ever a quest tailor-made for me, this is it.

That night, Lady Galadriel came to me in a vision...or maybe it was Diana Finkel. She took me by the hand, raised me to my feet, and said, "This task was given to you, Hobo Baggins. If you do not find a way, no one will." I tried to give it to her since she's the greatest mountain runner in the world. She explained that she was just a vision and couldn't actually do anything---which made the whole helping me stand up incident a little weird in retrospect.

I got up at 4:50 a.m. and by 5:20 it was light enough to disembark, Bon Jovi's "It's My Life" jamming in my head. I broke fast on a super chocolate power bar, which is just like lembas bread except for being chocolate and not very filling. As an added bonus, my water bottle carried a hint of potato and leek flavor. I made good time, and 3 1/2 later, I stood at the fork. One would have me dining in Whakapapa Village within 15 minutes; the other, back into the heart of Mordor. I knew what I must do. I hid my backpack under a bridge, taking only the barest essentials in my day pack.

The next leg took me through the Dead Marshes portion of the journey. Wet, slippery, and not too scenic, it would have been no great loss to forgo this section of the Northern Circuit. This was also the place where my knee decided to remind me that exploded a few days previous. I ignored it. I imagined Tami and Brittany rolling out of bed and sitting down to a gourmet breakfast of eggs, bacon, and kiwi waffles and wondered what in the world I was doing in the middle of the swamp.

With my load dramatically lightened, I blazed through in less than two hours. I stopped for lunch just before 11:00 at the beginning of the Alpine Crossing, a full 3 hours ahead of schedule. And at 1:00 p.m., I stood at the base of Mt. Doom for the third day in a row.

The weather report proved true. Patches of blue sky peeked through the dreariness. Unfortunately, the jolly gray giant decided to establish squatter's rights halfway up the mountain's slope, setting up shop and showing no intention of migrating elsewhere. The wind seemed to be somewhere around the promised 30 km/hr. I've played frisbee in worse wind than that, and one of my rules of life is, if you can play frisbee in it, you can climb a mountain in it.

There's not really a trail. Basically, you just pick a spot and start plowing up the scree slope. This made my knee furious. It was a lot like Red Crater, except steeper and a whole lot higher. I aimed for stretches where chunks of actual mountain jutted forth from the scree; it's amazing how much difference it makes when the ground you step on doesn't give way underneath you.

Visibility more or less vanished when I reached the cloud. I resigned myself to the reality that I wouldn't get any kind of view from the top. But this wasn't about pictures---not with the fate of the world at stake.

I lost all track of time. My world shrank to the task of putting one foot in front of the other and not losing ground on the inevitable slide : zero-sum was a victory in itself. If I wasn't already regretting my decision to forgo purchasing tennis shoes and just hike in sandals, I officially reached that point when I encountered a snowfield. Bah! Warmth is a crutch; real men get frostbite. I crossed the snow field, scrambled up another 100 feet or so, and suddenly found myself staring into a volcanic crater. I made it. rest easy now, world. The biggest threat you have ever known has been cast into a raging inferno. The evil talisman is no more. I ate a peanut butter sandwich on top just to assert my dominance.

There are two ways to descend Mt. Doom: really slow, picking your footing one step at a time, or really fast, scree skiing at ever increasing speeds. I opted for the latter, much to the chagrin of my knee.

I reached the bottom at 3:45, and set a goal of reaching my campsite by 7:00. To do that, I was going to have to run for a spell...so I did. I was feeling pretty frisky---chocolate lembas for the win!---so I kept running for about 3 km.

It was pouring down rain by the time I returned to the Dead Marshes. I lost count of how many times I busted in the mud. By the time I recovered my backpack, I was freezing cold and soaked to the bone. And then, I crested the last ridge, and behold! There was Whakapapa Village below me. You my think I'm speaking hyperbolically, but I swear I've never in my life been so happy to see Whakapapa Village.

I rolled in a few minutes after 7:00, having hiked over 25 miles in nearly 14 hours. If you add everything up, I essentially traversed the Northern Circuit twice in three days. It wasn't how I expected it to go. It most certainly wasn't how I would have drawn it up. But it was an experience I'll remember for the rest of my life. I'll take it.

P.S. If you're still listening to "They're Taking the Hobbits to Isengard" I both commend and pity you.

Tongariro Northern Circuit Day 2: Sauron's Wrath Will Be Terrible, His Retribution Swift

2011-12-27T17:26:00.000-08:00

November 28.

I spent the night in Ketetahi hut, located about halfway between the end of the Alpine Crossing and where it reconnects with the Northern Circuit at the Emerald Lakes. Ketetahi was like a ghetto hostel, consisting of one room with the kitchen in the corner, tables in the middle, and beds along the wall. It was there I learned the error of my ways: there's no access to Mt. Doom further along the trail, so to climb it, I would have to double back the way I came. But since day two was supposed to be my shortest walk, I decided to go ahead and do it.

I checked the weather report before going to bed, and it called for morning showers. Instead, I woke to another radiant sky, so I figured the forecaster blew it. Off I went wearing shorts and a t-shirt. It wasn't long, however, before the clouds started rolling in. Then it started sleeting. I crawled into a hobbit hole to wait it out while enjoying second breakfast.

The sleet stopped, but the temperature stayed down and the wind picked up. Upon reaching Emerald Lakes, I dropped most of my gear and took just a day pack with the intent of summitting both Mt. Tongariro and Mt. Ngauruhoe, then returning for my stuff and continuing the circuit. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Things got ugly as soon as I started back up Red Crater. The loose sand on the steep slope proved a torturous climb, and the wind worsened the higher I went. I would later learn I was trekking through 110 km/hr gales.* The force of the wind was so fierce at the Red Crater pinnacle that I legitimately feared blowing over the edge. During a particularly drastic gust, I even went down on hands and knees just to keep myself anchored.

*[That's 70 mph for you non-metric types.]

I know what you're thinking: Josh is a smart guy, he turned around because it was too dangerous to continue. To that I say, who is this smart guy and why is he using my name? I pressed on. I did, however, bypass Mt. Tongariro. In the previous day's climate, I could have been to the top and back in about 45 minutes...but these conditions were suboptimal to say the least. I decided to head for Mt. Doom and catch Tongariro on the way back if the wind subsided.

Visibility was still good, but I could see heavy clouds rolling in. By the time I reached the base of Mt. Doom, a gigantic cloud had settled over the whole area. I couldn't see 30 feet in front of me. All things considered, it seemed like I good time to sit down for elevensies. Is this all you can conjure up, Sauron?

An hour and a half later I started doing the math. Even if the clouds cleared immediately and dramatically, I would be hard pressed to make Waihohonu (the alpine hut with my name in the reservation log) before nightfall. Besides that, the temperature kept plummeting; I was shivering despite having donned every layer I carried. I needed to get moving. I estimated that between the wind, cold, and near invisibility, my odds of living through an attempt on the mountain were less than 50%. I reluctantly threw in the towel. I may be crazy, but I need at least a coin flip's chance.

Scaling Red Crater yet again was nothing short of brutal, as this time I climbed straight into the teeth of the wind. I passed a group of hikers going the other way---I saw fewer than 30 people after the previous day's 600 plus---who had been turned back by a ranger because the ridge crossing was too dangerous.* But with my pack on the other side and no means to pay for a different hut, I needed to go over. I sat down behind a rock for a brief respite where I worked on a speech to convince the warden to let me get by. Turns out my fears were unfounded as the ranger, apparently assuming no one else was fool enough to still be out there, had bailed.** It was just me and the ridge.

*[Pros of the situation: I'm about to meet Faramir. Cons: This is Peter Jackson's Faramir rather than Tolkien's, so he won't let me go.]

**[What a pansy...definitely Peter Jackson's Faramir.]

I've had instances---fractions of seconds in occasional near-collisions on the highway---where I thought I was about to die. Nothing, however, compared to this full consciousness of my peril. One misstep, one extra gust of wind, and my mangled corpse would decorate the bottom of a volcanic crater. I seriously considered crawling on my belly for the 70 meters or so it would take to clear the ridge. I was about to do just that when the wind abruptly stopped, like someone sealed off a valve. I hesitated for a split second...then took off at a dead sprint, hoping to high heaven I could outpace Mother Nature.

I would just like to take this opportunity to say, "I'm faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaassssssst!!!!!"

I made it to the other end of the ridge...and just kept charging down at break-neck speed. I don't remember when the wind resumed its fury---just that every ligament in my lower body screamed at me all the way back to Emerald Lakes. I somehow made it in one piece.

The rest of the day's trek was fairly uneventful. My luggage remained unmolested, and I made good time to Waihohonu hut. Sadly, a cumulo-nimbic haze masked most of Mordor's rugged landscape. I rolled into Waihohonu colder and wetter than I prefer, but alive enough to keep me from complaining.

You probably think the adventure ends there, but trust me, the story gets more epic. A kind Alaskan named Lauren gave me some potato and leek soup to go with my cold rations, and when you're soggy and cold, very few things hit the spot like hot potato and leek soup. You know what another of those things is? Fire...and Waihohonu had a fireplace. Tami, a Floridian, declined an invitation to play mafia with a bunch of Scandinavians in favor of painstakingly coaxing the flames to life. Needing more pieces, she dispatched me, along with her good friend and traveling companion Brittany, to the woodshed for reinforcements. This is the part where I mention I chopped wood. What I mean by that is, I raised an axe over my head and straight murdered that log. I can now (with Brittany as my witness) add splitting firewood to my resume. How manly is that? RAWR! Between my kindling skills, Brittany's wood carrying skills, and Tami's fire stoking skills, we got the flames roaring.

But wait, there's more. I'm about to take this tale up a notch and elevate it to legendary status. I spent the evening in a wonderful conversation with Brittany. Seriously, that was the best theological conversation I've had in a really long time. Even though our spiritual journeys are sort of moving in opposite directions, we spent the entire dialogue on the same page. Such a rare treat, and a rewarding one at that. We exchanged email addresses and blog sites and promised to stay in touch.

I sent her a facebook friend request a few days later, only to discover we have two mutual friends. Weird, right? Well, it just so happens that a couple I bummed a ride and enjoyed a free soak in the hot springs with in Costa Rica are Tami's brother-in-law and sister. What are the odds of that? What are the chances I would meet friends and relatives of former Rockstar recipients halfway around the world? You just can't make this stuff up.

I checked the posted weather report for the next day. Morning showers, instances of clearing in the afternoon, 30 km/hr wind. Wild ideas start running through my mind...

This may be a flagrant violation of the spirit of the award, but I'm giving myself a Liam Lowe Rockstar Award. I deserve it for my survival skills against all the hate and malice of Mordor. And my foot speed. And my axe!

[Note: I originally wrote this a month ago (with a later edit after discovering the mutual acquaintance) but was kept from publishing it to the blog by internet limitations. Then I lost my travel journal for two weeks. Things have changed since then, with this blog's award system and and the sad realities leading to the changes. Because these posts aren't going up in the order in which they were written, the last paragraph may come across as a bit inappropriate. I decided to preserve the entry with a minor tweak and hope it doesn't seem crass.]

Tongariro Northern Circuit Day 1: One Does Not Simply Walk Into Mordor

2011-12-27T11:56:00.001-08:00

November 27. Only one destination left to hit before venturing to the south island: Tongariro (Tong-guh-REE-roh) National Park. The big draw of Tongariro for me was the Northern Circuit, a multi-day hike classified as one of New Zealand's nine Great Walks. Unlike the others, Tongariro features not lush vegetation, pristine lakes, and picturesque beaches, but a formidable volcanic wasteland. And looming ominously over the circuit stands Mt. Ngauruhoe (Nah-oo-ruh-HO-ee)* more famously known as Mt. Doom. Mordor beckoned.

*[I heard about six different pronunciations for this beloved mountain. The one I've provided is somewhere between the Maori pronunciation and that of lazy native English speakers.]

Part of the Northern Circuit overlaps with the Alpine Crossing, a challenging but rewarding 19 km day hike. "Lonely Planet" labels it the best single-day walk in New Zealand; "Let's Go" calls it one of the top ten in the world. My two favorite Germans,* Caro and Stef, were planning to take a weekend trip to do the Alpine Crossing with Julia (one of my New Plymouth roommates). I convinced them to do it this weekend. With Andrew still working on the car, Jaime was free to be kidnapped. The plan was to drive to the park entrance at Whakapapa** Village on Saturday, do a small hike after setting up camp, then knock out the Alpine Crossing on Sunday. We would then part ways, with the girls returning to New Plymouth and me taking two more days to complete the loop.

*[They have a car, which makes them handy for this sort of mission...quest...thing.]

**[No pronunciation guide here. Just remember what I told you about the 'wh' sound in Maori, and understand that they didn't know English when they gave the place its name. Whakapapa means "story", a fitting name for one of the most sacred regions of Maori lore.]

Sunday started earlier than usual. We dropped the car off at the end of the circuit and grabbed a shuttle to the beginning. The weather could not possibly have been better---warm without being hot, light wind, and not a cloud in the sky. The trail was crowded, as over 600 people took advantage of the favorable conditions. We made decent time as we moved along at an unhurried pace, scrambling up ridges and strolling through vast volcanic craters, with vapory wisps rising from steam vents all around us. The scenery was both breath-taking and awe-inspiring in its rugged desolation. Beauty takes many forms---even in Mordor.

With an estimated three hours travel time for a side trip up and down Mt. Ngauruhoe, we decided against making a long day even longer. I was under the impression that Mt. Doom could be accessed from the opposite side and would be more or less on my way as I continued along the circuit, so since day two was supposed to be shorter anyway, I had no problem bypassing the summit.

Left to right: Jaime, Caro, Stef, me, Julia.

The most treacherous---as well as highest---point was the upper rim of Red Crater. A steep ascent led to a narrow ridge with a sheer drop on either side. From there you could see down into three different volcanic craters, the top of Mt. Tongariro---which supposedly offers the best views of the land both in and outside the national park---and the Emerald Lakes below. The trail leads to the latter, down an even steeper slope of loose sand and gravel; quite the invitation for a sprained ankle.

After Emerald Lakes, the Alpine Crossing diverges from the Northern Circuit, but I wanted to finish with my friends. besides, I had left my full backpack in the car, so I had already committed anyway. We made it to the end without major incident, and thus our fellowship came to an end. Stefi got shot full of arrows, Caro was captured and taken to Isengard, Jaime went out to hunt some orcs, and Julia retired to a life of luxury in Lothlorien. I was left to journey into Mordor alone.

Because Some People Care

2011-12-15T21:57:00.000-08:00

I sat down to write the angriest diatribe I've ever pounded out, filled with the kind of obscenity and invective usually reserved for my prayers. Actually, this was going to be a prayer. I was going to yell and scream and curse and rail at the skies, daring God to throw lightning bolts at me. But when I opened my notepad and took up the pen, I realized I just don't have it in me. I'll be mad again later, but I'm not at this particular moment. Just sad. Really, really sad.

Liam Lowe is seven. He's got his mom's smile, the kind that lights up a room. The last time I saw him, we played a role-playing game, the gist of which was, I knocked on his door and talked in funny voices and said silly things until he was amused enough to let me inside. That big, beaming grin welcomed me every time.

Liam has leukemia. He's been battling it for a long time. His parents just checked him out of the hospital so he can spend his last few days at home. He's seven.

I'm sitting in a park as I write this. Twenty feet from me, four kids are monkeying around on an epic jungle gym. New Zealand has awesome playgrounds. They make a lot of children smile. I wish Liam could play on a New Zealand playground.

Earlier, I stood on a bridge, watching as a man walked along with his young son. The boy's attention was occupied by one of the million things that distract little boys, until his father pointed out the ducks. The lad's eyes grew as he broke into laughter, moving towards those crazy floating birds with outstretched arms. Liam's dad's name is Matt. Matt is my friend. During the darkest time of my life, lunch with Matt every Thursday helped me stay sane. Matt won't get to point out the ducks to Liam anymore. Liam won't get to marvel at the feeding frenzy that ensues when he lobs a crust of bread into the fray.

I passed a mom with two daughters. One of them, upon seeing a huge cluster of lily pads in the stream, exclaimed, "Look, Mum! Lily pads! Lily pads!" To this little girl, plants on the water's surface may as well have been the eighth wonder of the world. I never knew Liam to be so animated, but he approached the world with the same sort of curiosity and amazement. Liam's mom's name is Amy. Amy is my friend. Amy once gave Liam---a toddler at the time---some empty milk cartons and plastic coke bottles to keep himself entertained while we sat on the church stage and shared our mutual struggle with the church's outreach project. More than once, Amy would instinctively whirl around and snatch Liam away from the precipice, sparing him a headlong tumble off the stage---something he obviously didn't fear. Amy should be able to keep protecting Liam from the hazards of life, from speeding cars and knives to internet scams and mean girls...but mostly his own curiosity. But she can't protect him from bone marrow cancer.

I saw a family of four on the sidewalk. Mom and dad pushed the stroller bearing the baby girl while big brother ran ahead. He looked to be about seven. Liam's sister's name is Mary. I don't really know her because she was a baby last time I saw her. Mary should have a big brother to run ahead and absorb some of life's punches so she doesn't have to. But now she won't.

Liam heard that a lot of kids around the world don't have good water to drink, and he wanted to do something about it. So on the website set up so others could track his medical progress, a link was posted to take donations for digging fresh water wells. Because of Liam, two communities in Africa will have clean water for ten years. Liam is seven.

Nobody should have to die young. It's especially cruel when you're talking about a kid who finances well-digging in Africa. With his mixture of intelligence and compassion, what could he have become? How much healing could he have brought to humanity? We can only wonder. One thing I do know: When Liam's last smile goes out, the world will be a darker place.

I've got no exhortation to offer, no inspiring words about loving your friends and family while they're here. I don't have any metaphysical musings; this tragedy makes me feel even more theologically bankrupt. Back when this was going to be my public imprecatory prayer to and against God, the title was, "On the Off Chance You Care." But now it is what it is because...well, because this whole thing really sucks, but there are people who care. I'm one of them.

I want to be with my friends. Instead, I'm stuck on the other side of the world where I can't hug them or cry with them or do anything else that actually matters. All I can do is write a blog post. I can offer a gift that makes me tear up all over again...it just feels so pathetic and stupid compared to everything I can't give. But it's all I've got.

To Liam---smiling, inquisitive, caring, brave Liam---I present this blog's last ever Rockstar Award. Only like two dozen people in the history of history have ever landed one of these, so you're in pretty select company there, buddy. That's just how awesome you are. From now on, the highest honor "To Insanity and Beyond" bestows upon worthy individuals will be known as the Liam Lowe Rockstar Award. For as long as I'm trying to make sense of the world on the internet, Liam's memory will live on in my blog.

Go in peace, Liam. Enjoy these last few days with the people who love you so much. If there's a heaven, I want your smile to greet me when I go knocking on the gates.

A Thanksgiving Adventure...With Togas

2011-12-06T01:15:00.001-08:00

While in Whangarei, I invited Katherine* to join me and my American roommates for Thanksgiving dinner in New Plymouth. After I disappeared to Paihia, American dude Andrew and Canadian gal Jaime couch surfed with her and Rob, and Katherine invited them as well. Katherine already had a bus ticket to New Plymouth, so that opened up a seat for me. I met up with Andrew and Jaime in Auckland and we set off together.

*[Not only is she American, her last name is The U.S.]

Before I continue, here are some things you should know about these people.

Andrew:
*The man is an absolute wizard when it comes to old, beat up cars...like his white 1988 Toyota Corolla, named Great White.

*He is traveling with the giant tome known as "The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy."

*Andrew is perhaps the most chilled out guy I have ever met. If he thinks you're getting too stressed out, he'll give you rum.

*Speaking of rum, the guy makes a wicked rum sauce for pumpkin pie.

*He is learning the harmonica, because, "Sometimes you just need to whip something out of your pocket and play some music."

Jaime:

*She is adamant that Canadian Thanksgiving came before American Thanksgiving. Need proof? Just look at the calendar and behold Canadian Thanksgiving in October.

*Jaime possesses the magical ability to make your fork disappear, then reappear later once you are more thankful for it.

*She was a vegetarian for eleven years before relapsing...on a Wendys baconator.

*Jaime remembers the Alamo!

So we're driving along, and I tell them about this cool beach called White Cliffs about 50 km before new Plymouth. We decide to stop there. Yay! Happy days. We get back in the car for the last pull home. The clutch goes out. To set the stage, we're on a narrow dirt road leading directly into the ocean at a fairly steep grade. Things are looking grim. But Andrew has a plan.

We're only twenty feet or so from the main road, which slopes down in the direction we want to go. He's pretty sure we can gain enough momentum going down to force the car into gear. We just have to get there. With sheer brawn from Jaime and me and some timely abuse to the starter to give the wheels a little jolt, we heaved the Great White onto the main road. Sure enough, with gravity on our side doing what it does best, Andrew fired it up and we were in business...even hit third gear on the highway.

Katherine decided to make Thanksgiving into a toga party. Why have we only been friends for a week? Such a tragedy. She got a head start on her quest for inebriation by constantly tasting Andrew's rum sauce, then licking the bowl.

With the guest count expected somewhere between 20 and 30, we got permission to hold the festivities in Decantas, the restaurant where Cheryl (American roommate) works. I made a beastly macaroni and cheese dish that almost got completely devoured, and that's saying something considering that, true to tradition, we had about three times as much food as we needed. Jaime got her first American Thanksgiving dinner, along with several Kiwis, four Germans, an Indian, and a Malaysian. Katherine had casserole for the first time in her life---no lie. All in all, it was a most stellar holiday feast.

Katherine tried to get me drunk, but I ate way too much for that to be a realistic possibility.

The North Night Culture Show

2011-12-06T00:29:00.000-08:00

Paihia is the best place in New Zealand---and therefore the world---to take in a Maori cultural show. When choosing an itinerary, one of the questions to ask yourself is, "When and where will I ever have the opportunity to do this again?" The answer here was never and nowhere, so I ponied up a day's wages from the chicken factory for an interactive experience of a lifetime.

We all got picked up school bus-style from our various residences and taken to the treaty grounds. Our guide explained to us that we would be greeted in the traditional manner, as if we were visitors from another tribe. He explained what we would see and what protocol demanded from us in return. Since I'm awesome, our guide selected me as a chief to represent our tribe. When the time was right, my two fellow chieftains and I led our people to the foreign village...

* * *

They have seen us approaching, and now their finest warriors come forth to offer challenge. Shirtless, painted, and tattooed, brandishing weapons, their battle cries chill us to our marrow. They fan out slowly, screaming out threats and invectives in their native tongue. "Come at me and die! I will crush your bones! I will shatter your legs! I will eat your heart!"

I go first. The other chiefs hang back while I proceed another ten paces. There I stop. The taunts continue, and then a lone savage comes out to meet me. Our eyes lock. I must now hold his gaze until the end. He will take offense if I look away now, interpreting my gesture as a sign of contempt, that I don't consider him a threat; he will attack me to teach me the error in my judgement. At the same time, I must convey no fear, no weakness, for I must show him I am a worthy adversary.

He dances around me, bellowing, sticking his tongue out, rolling his eyes back in his head, swinging his staff within inches of my head, all the while searching for any sign of duplicity. I am face to face with open hostility. Satisfied at last, he places a fern leaf on the ground directly in front of me. I await his signal. He continues emitting a ceaseless barrage of verbal challenges until, at length, he slaps his thigh. I have been found worthy. Still looking him in the eye, I reach down and collect the fern. I passed the first test. My companions must now do the same. They advance to my location, where one waits with me while the other proceeds further, alone, to endure the same treatment.

Once all three of us hold ferns, the women emerge from the meeting house singing songs of greeting. We are enemies no longer. Removing our shoes at the entrance, we file inside for formal greetings. We approach the chief and his wife. The chief presses his forehead to mine---once, twice. "Kia ora," he says: "Be well." "Kia ora," I respond, and with that, our breaths have mingled. We have now shared in the essence of life. Now forehead to forehead, nose to nose, with the matriarch. "Kia ora." The ritual is now complete. We arrived as foreigners, as enemies; now we celebrate as friends.

* * *

I knew what to expect, both from what our guide had explained and what Daniel had told me earlier. I knew it was a show, and these were just actors. Nevertheless, staring down a painted up Maori dude showing off his skills with a bo staff while screaming God-knows-what* in some barbarian tongue, I was thoroughly convinced he wanted nothing more than to destroy me. Such was the quality of the performance.

*[After I held my fern and waited while the next chief took his turn, our guide whispered a few translations in my ear.]

The rest of the evening presented us with the history of new Zealand, covering the arrival of the Maori in their great canoes, their flowering civilization, the arrival of Europeans, the Treaty of Waitangi, the fallout from the treaty, and the challenges that exist to this day. The episodes centered around an old man telling stories to his granddaughter, explaining to her---us---the things we were seeing. The show featured everything from theatrical performance, to a display of weapons, to traditional Maori song and dance. Though I couldn't understand any of the words, I like the singing best. Hearing a song in another language allows the music to bypass the brain and go straight to the soul. It struck me how this tongue, so harsh and guttural when the warrior was sizing me up, could simultaneously create such beautiful, melodious songs.

Another tangential thought. These last few days have driven home to me just how subject history is to interpretation. To hear Rob from Whangarei tell it, the Brits wanted a treaty because they couldn't quash the Maori like they did the Aborigines in Australia. With their fortifications up in the mountains and heroic leaders like Hone Heke*, the Maori resilience forced the English into an, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em," mentality. According to Daniel, credit goes to wise Maori chiefs who realized that, despite their inherently warlike culture, this new enemy with muskets and cannons meant times needed to change. The Night North Culture Show cast the whole affair in an extremely positive---and politically correct---light: that all signers of the treaty were taking on responsibility to do their part to coexist in the land. I suspect the truth lies somewhere in the middle.

*[The first chief to sign the Treaty of Waitangi, Hone Heke became so disillusioned he tore down Governor FitzRoy's British flag. No sooner was the flag flying again, Hone Heke chopped it down a second time. He would successfully pull this stunt four times before open war broke out.]

When the show ended, we were given the chance to take pictures and interact with the cast. Overall, it was a phenomenal experience well worth a hard day of packaging drumsticks.

One more thing. A few years back, the man starring as the grandfather was involved in a horrible accident. They gave him 30 minutes to live. He survived, but with a nearly total loss of motor skills and short term memory. He regained movement, but the memory loss proved more difficult to overcome. The producer wanted him back anyway. Relying on a teleprompter during performances, Grandpa Maori determined to learn a new line every day until he re-memorized the script. It took a full year, but he no longer needs the teleprompter. The Rockstar Award was created for such people. Grandpa Maori, this Rockstar is for you.

Adventures in Paihia

2011-12-05T23:56:00.000-08:00

[I've decided to do a pronunciation guide for all the strange-sounding place names. Paihia is pronounced pie-HEE-uh. From the last two posts, Whangarei is pronounced FONG-guh-Ray...the 'wh' in Maori is pronounced like the 'ph' in English.]

The Germans came and took me away. I was sad to see it was just Nicole and Dennis---Hiro had already purchased a bus ticket, and Tim, Thomas, and Alice decided to rent a car on their own---but we had a hot-rockin' cheesy good time anyway. Step number three to saving money while traveling in an expensive land: mooch rides with people who have their own car. We spent a few hours hanging out on a beach before embarking on a two-ish hour drive to Paihia in the picturesque Bay of Islands. I sang American songs to them, they sang German songs to me, I sang German songs to them, then we all belted out "Take Me Home Country Road" together.

Paihia, population 1,800, wouldn't even be on the map were it not the birthplace of modern New Zealand. In the year 1840, Maori chiefs from all over the island gathered with representatives from Great Britain to sign the Treaty of Waitangi (why-TANG-ee). Controversy swirled shortly thereafter, as the respective versions in Maori and English were not identical. Of particular import, the Maori version had the chiefs retaining their power through the land share; the English version granted full sovereignty to the queen. Debate still rages 170 years later concerning the intentionality of the discrepancy. Regardless, the nation of New Zealand as we know it was hatched in Paihia. Hence, this otherwise insignificant town is a magnet for tourism.

Paihia's infrastructure reflects this reality. About half the buildings are lodges, hotels, or hostels. Most of those remaining are restaurants or tour offices. Dennis, Nicole, and I scored the last three beds in the Pickled Parrot, a hostel on the outskirts of town. Apparently it used to have a pet parrot, but he's expired and gone to meet his maker. Whether it was actually pickled remains a mystery.

While exploring a walking trail, I encountered Franscoise, a smoking hot Dutch girl, a Daniel, a local Kiwi enjoying his day off by showing people around. I stayed with them until we got back to town, where Franscoise ditched us in favor of the beach. Daniel asked if I wanted to see the treaty grounds. I said yes but I wasn't willing to pay the $25 entry fee. Not a problem. Daniel used his mad skills to get me in free, then swerved as my personal tour guide---this after doing the same for Franscoise earlier. Let me just take this time to say to say that Daniel knows more about Maori culture and early New Zealand history than Wikipedia. The guy is a straight up mithril mine of knowledge. He told stories, explained works of art, informed me about rituals, and convinced me to pose as a Maori warrior with him. Had I coughed up 25 bucks and taken the tour alone, I would have felt ripped off, but under Daniel's guidance, it was a fantastic way to spend a couple hours. Step four: do stuff for free instead of paying for it.

Daniel and I made epic plans for the next day contingent on his getting off work the next day. Sadly, his boss hates fun and joy and everything good in the world, so our epic sand dune sledding adventure never `materialized. But I did run into Alice, my long lost sommersaulting friend. We made plans to meet up later that evening. But first I had another engagement: the North Night Culture Show. More on that next post.

A pleasant surprise awaited me upon my return to the Pickled Parrot. Sitting outside, drinking wine with Dennis and Nicole, was my main man Hiro. You can't keep this guy down; he will find a way to find you. Hiro gave me permission to drink Dennis's booze...so I did. Getting permission is apparently a big deal to Hiro. At their hostel in Whangarei, Hiro asked Dennis if it was ok with him if he used one of the showers in the giant communal bathroom.

Alice texted me that she was ready to roll, so I picked her up and we went to the pub. She bought herself a drink, refused to dance with me, and went home early. Oh.

The next day, I bummed a ride to nearby Kerikeri (currie-currie) with Nicole and Dennis, who were on their way out. I had already booked another night at the Pickled Parrot, so I couldn't go far, but Kerikeri had some interesting stuff to check out. We briefly toured a fudge factory before heading over to a recreated Maori village. It was pretty cool, but anticlimatic after the dramatic culture show and without Daniel's ever-flowing cascade of brilliance. I hitchhiked back to Paihia, where I played Jenga and a drinking game with some Germans. The alcohol supply was limited, so it was tame. Probably a good thing considering how much beer Germans can handle.

Adventures in Whangarei: Part 2

2011-11-22T03:59:00.000-08:00

First thing in the morning after putting in my contacts, I packed my camera and flashlight. Josh 2, Whangarei 3.

Katherine invited me to climb Mt. Manaia with her, and I've never been one to turn down a good summit hike. Mt. Manaia is sacred in Maori lore---something about a bunch of people getting struck by lightning and turning to stone. It also provides a stunning view of the surrounding beaches and islands.

The sign at the bottom estimates a two-hour round trip. This sign obviously didn;t realize it was dealing with a fitness instructor and a Zumba queen. It took us a mere 35 minutes to reach the top, where we took our leisure enjoying the spectacle. Then El Nino decided to migrate to New Zealand and chuck* us off the mountiain, so we went down. Total time: one hour and five minutes. Score another one for Josh. Tie game!

*[That's metric for "throw".]

Rob was about to get off work when we got back to town, so we stopped by to see if he wanted to do the caves with us. He declined, citing a need to work late and a reluctance to get cold and wet. Then things took a dramatic turn for the worse when Katherine expressed a similar disinterest in being cold and wet, and suddenly I was on my own. Insert sad emoticon.

We went to a takeaway* restaurant for a fish and chips lunch. On the beverage menu was something neither of us had ever encountered: a fluffy. I offered to buy Katherine a fluffy if she would do the caves with me. Denied. I asked what she would be doing instead. Taking a shower. I informed her showers are wet. She's not budging. She was at least kind enough to drop me off.

*[New Zealand's answer to fast food.]

No more than 100 feet into the first cave, I encountered a group consisting of four Germans, a Frenchman, and a Japanese dude.* It turned out they were heading the same direction as me the next day, and just like that I had my ride to my next destination. Josh takes the lead!

*[I know what you're thinking, and no, he's not a kung fu warrior. However, his name is "Hiro", pronounced "hero". Japanese names for the win!

The caves were nothing short of spectacular. I've been in underground caverns before, but never without a guide, and all but one of my previous experiences were in well-developed caves...and none of them had glow worms. The unfettered nature of my exploration, the closer confines, and the raw majesty of the formations made me feel as though I had stumbled into some lost sanctuary where my very presence bordered on sacrilege.

At one point, a narrow chute leading down to deeper chamber beckoned. I couldn't resist. Scrambling around on hands and knees, I felt just like Gollum navigating his subterranean lair. I emerged in the deeper dungeon only to discover it was knee-deep in water. Let's just say it wasn't as warm as Katherine's shower. Good times.

After getting my fill of wading around in the frigid waters, I crawled back up the tunnel. Halfway up, I flet something explode in my knee. I was about to award Whangarei another point, but then I remembered I'm 30 now, and a ruptured knee is the natural order of things. I'm supposed to be falling apart. There would only be cause for concern if something didn't break down.

The cave's ceiling looked at me funny. Then it got lippy with me. I head butted a stalactite. Josh 637, Whangarei 3. Game. set. Match.

My new friends and I took some time to explore the nearby rock forest and climb a hill for no other reason than because we could. We exchanged stories and backgrounds, and I educated them on synonyms for excrement. Some things you should know about each of them:

Tim: The whitest German in the history of the world, and that's saying something.

Nicole: An amateur trampoline champion.

Thomas: This Frenchman can make catching one's foot on the top wire of an electric fence one is trying to jump and hitting the ground in a barrel roll look good.

Dennis: I've never met a German with such an affinity for Yankee Doodle.

Alice: Prone to summersaulting down steep slopes, completely undeterred by the cow pies. She also got really excited when i told her about couch surfing. The Force is strong in this one.

Hiro: His name is Hiro!

I went home and spent the evening exchanging funny youtube videos with Katherine and Rob. Also, Rob explained that a fluffy is like hot chocolate without the hot chocolate. Oh.

Intro To My Latest Roommates

2011-11-22T03:31:00.001-08:00

I need to emphasize that I'm only on the short end of the tally because you can;t possibly assign points to my temporary roommates, Rob and Katherine. Katherine is technically a fellow couch surfer, but she has been there long enough to be more of a co-host by now. Some things you should know about Rob and Katherine...

Rob:

*He goes by "Bob" on Couch Surfing out of consideration for people groups who can't pronounce the letter 'R' (he spent some time in Japan). Have you ever encountered such selfless altruism? I doubt it.

*The man is passionate about cruise control. Rob lives for every moment when the car hits 37 km/hr, the minimum velocity for his cruise control to kick in. He uses cruise control in town, feeling no remorse for the drivers stuck behind him because "they'll have to slow down for the next round-about anyway."

*Rob asked for some of my RPM music. No one has ever done this before. I made him a playlist of some of my favorites---don't tell Les Mills. He returned the favor by giving me a bunch of New Zealand music.

*Bubble baths. Think bubble baths are unmanly? I did...until Rob showed me a better way. You've heard it said that "cleanliness is next to godliness." But I tell you the truth---in a bubble bath, the two are indistinguishable. I now understand why Rob is such a bastion of beauty and serenity.

Katherine:

*Zumba queen. My first encounter with Katherine was when she stormed into the house, pronounced her just-completed Zumba "workout" thoroughly ineffective, and immediately left to go on a run. It took a mere three sessions for her to attain Zumba mastery. It is no longer a challenge. Zumba has nothing to offer her.

*She wears a wrist brace, just to contain her awesomeness.

*Katherine is a fishetarian. I don't want you to get the wrong idea here. Katherine doesn't actually think fish are vegetables, as many confused souls do. No, show this girl a tuna and a tomato, a prawn and a pumpkin, a salmon and a salad, and she'll accurately identify them every time with most of her eyes closed. In truth, she simply doesn;t believe fish are made out of meat. Don't knock it, she may be on to something here. Remember when everyone thought mushrooms were plants? But science marches on, and next thing you know we've got our hands full with the Fungi kingdom.

*Katherine cooks up the best sliced butter you've ever had.

*FLUFFY!

Adventures in Whangarei: Part 1

2011-11-22T02:57:00.000-08:00

Waitomo Caves. A fixture on the short list of things you absolutely must do in New Zealand. This vast underground cavern provides provides spectacular views of stalactites and crystal formations in chambers lined with glow worms. As if that's not enough, you can sign up for "black water rafting", a subterranean adrenaline rush combining river rapids with rappels down waterfalls. Seriously, you just can't come to New Zealand without hitting Waitoma Caves.

Yeah right, like I can afford that. Abbey Caves in Whangarei (pronounced "FAWN-guh-Ray) are free. I went there instead.

Thus began my five week odyssey to take in as much of New Zealand as possible before departing these shores. So how does a cash-strapped derelict survive while backpacking through a country as expensive as it is beautiful? The master plan starts with two simple steps: 1) Don't go to Waitoma, and 2) Sign up for Couch Surfing. Seriously, if you travel at all, do yourself a favor and get on couchsurfing.org right now. Basically, CS is a network connecting wandering vagabonds with people willing to house them. It's awesome! I found a dude* named Rob who was happy to take me in for all three of my nights in Whangarei.

*[When I say "dude" I mean ubermensch. Rob is one titanic beast of a man.]

The objective for day one was to explore the Abbey Caves, located several kilometers* outside of town. I was halfway there when I discovered I had left my flashlight at Rob's. This would have been catastrophic were I one of those weak and timid souls who goes through life without a Lonely Planet. I altered course, and just like that I was on my way to Parihaka scenic reserve. Upon my arrival, I discovered my camera was enjoying a holiday with my flashlight. Whangarei 2, Josh 0.

*[That's metric for "I wish I were a mile but I'm too little."]

I meandered along the trails until I came upon my intended prize: a "major" pa site. Pa is the term for fortified Maori* villages. A diagram illustrated and identified all the aspects of the pa. One problem...there was nothing there. I spent thirty minutes retracing the perimeter and re-examining the plaque. All I saw were trees, dirt, and more trees. It was then that I learned a valuable lesson: Don't go to pa sites in a nature reserve because they're far more interested in preserving the trees than the fort. Whangarei 3, Josh 0.

*[The Maori are the indigenous inhabitants of the island before England decided it needed to stick some more flags in the ground.]

Six kilometers north of town lie the Whangarei Falls, which Lonely Planet describes as the Paris Hilton of New Zealand waterfalls: The most photographed though not the best looking. I was already on the northern outskirts and it was only mid-afternoon, so I made the spur of the moment decision to see the falls for myself. They came as advertised: Nice enough to look at but not my ideal girl. Even if I'd had my camera, I wouldn't have taken a picture, just on principle. But the excursion was wrth my while, and I only got lost once on the way home, so I finally got on the board. 3-1 Whangarei.

Josh In Five Songs: Part Two

2011-11-09T01:50:00.001-08:00

[I've heard it said that music is the language of the soul. This is the second of a five part series on songs that these are not necessarily my five favorite songs; rather, they are the five songs that most adeptly sing the language of my soul. I'm presenting them as a progressive narrative of sorts, with each song describing a shift in my spiritual journey that remains a significant part of me today. I thought this would be better than simply trying to rank them in order from fifth-to-favorite.

(I started part one a few weeks ago, but I didn't like how it was moving, so I saved it to come back to later. It's up now, but my blog posts in the order in which they were started, not completed, so scroll down past "Play Ball" for part one.")

Click the title to hear the song.]

The Maker of Noses, by Rich Mullins

I believe there is a place,
Where people live in perfect peace.
Where there's food on every plate,
Where work is rewarded and rest is sweet.
Where the color of your skin,
Won't get you in or keep you out.
Where justice reigns and truth finally wins,
It's hard-fought war against fear and doubt.

And everyone I know wants to go there too,
But when I ask them how to do it they seem so confused.
Do I turn to the left? Do I turn to the right?
When I turn to the world they give me this advice.

They said, "Boy you just follow your heart,"
But my heart just led me into my chest.
They said, "Follow your nose," but the direction changed,
Every time I went and turned my head.
And they said, "Boy you just follow your dreams,"
But my dreams are only misty notions.
But the father of hearts and the maker of noses,
And the giver of dreams, he's the one I have chosen,
And I will follow him.

I believe there'll come a time,
Lord I pray it's not too far off.
There'll be no poverty or crime,
There'll be no greed, and we'll learn how to love.
And children will be safe in their homes,
And there'll be no violence out on the streets.
The old will not be left alone,
And the strong will learn how to care for the weak.

And everyone I know hopes it comes real soon,
But when I ask them how I'd find it they seem so confused.
Do I find it in the day, do I find it in the night?
When I finally ask the world they give me this advice.

They say, "Boy you just follow your heart,"
But my heart just led me into my chest.
They say, "Follow your nose," but the direction changed,
Every time I went and turned my head.
And they said, "Boy you just follow your dreams,"
But my dreams are only misty notions.
But the father of hearts and the maker of noses,
And the giver of dreams, he's the one I have chosen,

And ohhh, I hear the voice of a million dreams.
And I wake in the world that I'm partly made of,
And the world that is partly my own making.
And ohhh, I hear the song of a heart set free,
That will not be kept down, by the fury and sound,
Of a world that is wasting away but keeps saying

Saying, "Boy you just follow your heart,"
But my heart just led me into my chest.
They say, "Follow your nose," but the direction changed,
Every time I go and turn my head.
And they said, "Boy you just follow your dreams,"
But my dreams are only misty notions.
But the father of hearts and the maker of noses,
And the giver of dreams, he's the one I have chosen,
And I will follow him.
(Just follow your dreams.)
(You just follow your dreams.)

Of all the Christian songs I used to listen to, this is pretty much the only one that still does something for me. I first heard it on the radio in high school, and at the time it didn't make much of an impression. I think that's because, even though I was a committed Christian, I didn't actually get what Christianity is about until sometime in college. Even as the Mad World mentality (see part 1) set in, I found increasing hope in the teachings of Jesus.* Jesus cast a vision for humanity where the only law is love, and if we all tried to follow his lead, I think we'd end up with something like the picture Rich Mullins drew for us in "The Maker of Noses."

*[I have readers from all over the religious spectrum, but I hope even my favorite atheists can acknowledge that Jesus had some really profound things to say about authentic morality and human interaction.]

While in my mid-twenties, I stumbled upon a community of people trying to follow the radical calling of Jesus. It was here that I found myself able to believe there truly is a counter to the Mad World---not just a safe haven from it, but a phenomenon great enough to transform it into something beautiful. I was a full-blown heretic by the time I landed in this community, but ironically, it was during this period of my life that I was most authentically Christian. And though I went through a lot of personal pain, I look back on my time in that community as the best of my life.

Let me be clear about something: I don't have any idea what, "The father of hearts, and the maker of noses, and the giver of dreams, he's the one I have chosen and I will follow him," means. I don't have any clue how to follow God.

But that doesn't detract from the power of the song for me. There's a deep hunger in my soul for the place and time Rich Mullins sings about. I want everyone to have enough to eat. I want kids to be safe. I don't want anyone to be left all alone. I want us all---especially me---to learn how to love. The world I live in just feels so broken; I feel it in every fiber of my being. I know others feel it too, but no one seems to have any idea what to do about it. And so I search for the answer. My heart has proved wildly unreliable. My dreams are nothing but empty delusions. The search often seems the epitome of futility.

Yet my heart still aches, and I cannot stop dreaming. I fervently hope it will not be kept down by the fury and sound of a wasting-away world.

Rich Mullins was a hero of mine. By all accounts, he lived his life with a rare integrity and transparency, doing his best to share the love he believed in so strongly. He died in 1997. I hope he has found that place he spent his life trying to discover and bring to fruition.

Play Ball

2011-10-28T15:00:00.000-07:00

I have two unfinished posts saved in my archives that I need to get to, but I have to say this first.

Every important lesson in life can be learned from baseball. Yesterday gave me another one.

I've been a passionate fan of the Texas Rangers since I discovered the magic of baseball in the summer of 1993---I was 11 years old. Now I'm 30, and the Rangers have mostly repaid my fanaticism with something between mediocrity and sheer garbage. There have been some good seasons, but it has mostly been a mess. And yet I kept coming back for more, year after year, always believing that this time will be different, that this time the hopes of spring training won't wilt in the Texas summer. I was wrong. Every year. And every year, I came back for more.

Last season, the Rangers played in their first World Series ever, taking the American league by storm on their quest to win it all. Then they ran into a white hot San Francisco Giants pitching staff that chewed them up and spit them out in a series that seemed over before it even got off the ground. Defeated again. Deflated again.

I came back for more.

And here we are, back in the World Series---and what a series it has been. If I were an emotionally un-invested baseball fan, I would call this one of the greatest World Series of all time. As a diehard Rangers fan though, this has been agony. Every game has been close, except for the game that could have been close if the umpire hadn't royally blown a pivotal call. After five games, Texas led the St. Louis Cardinals three games to two.

I will never forget game 6. A back and forth score saw the Rangers up 7-5 going into the ninth inning. I was a nervous wreck the whole way (check my facebook posts if you don't believe me.) Three outs away from their first championship. The closer records the first two outs while putting a pair of runners on. Two strikes on the last batter. The next pitch is driven deep into the outfield. Right fielder Nelson Cruz takes a bad route, and a catchable ball falls in for a game tying triple. Extra innings.

The Rangers get a runner on. Up steps Josh Hamilton, the defending league MVP. He's playing through a groin injury that badly needs surgery, and the pain has obviously limited his potency. But he would not be held down. A titanic hack drove the ball over the fence, putting the Rangers up by two once again. And then I sports-cried. I've known so many moments of either exuberance or devastation in my journey as a fan, but this was my first sports-cry since eleven-year-old me did so back in the summer that started it all. Hollywood couldn't have scripted a better ending.

I don't have it in me to poetically describe what happened next. Cardinals tied it in the bottom of the tenth. Rangers failed to score in the eleventh. Cardinals led off their half of the inning with a home run. Game over. Just like that.

Shock. Dagger. Sledge hammer. More daggers. There was some screaming in there somewhere. Then...numb. A pall of despair settled over me, and I just stared blankly at my computer screen, trying to process what just happened. I spent at least two hours on lonestarball.com because they were the only people in the world who had any idea what I was feeling. I spent the rest of the day (because the game ended around 5:30 p.m. New Zealand time) oscillating between deep sadness and detached cynicism.

As Rangers' Manager Ron Washington says, "That's the way baseball go."

The first pitch of Game 7 will be thrown in a little over an hour. This one is for all the marbles. The winner hoists a trophy. The loser...loses. I went to bed last night thinking I couldn't possibly handle another one like that. I wondered, along with a number of other lonestarball posters, whether caring was worth it. Why do we get so emotionally invested in something that has so little actual value? It's a freaking game. Why do we care so much? Caring hurts so bad...but what for? How is this worth it?

This morning I woke up, much to the chagrin of my feelings the previous night. I taught an RPM class with the theme, "Going to a better place." And it was good. I'm ready to play ball.

Maybe the Rangers will win. Maybe they won't. Maybe they'll get slaughtered. Maybe it will be another nail biter that comes down to yet another crushing defeat. I don't know. No one knows. Baseball is wildly unpredictable, and that's part of what makes it such a wild ride. If my team wins, I'm going to go nuts. If they don't, I'm going to rage at the skies and get really depressed and swear off baseball forever. I'll spend days and days wallowing in lonestarball misery with other crushed souls.

And then I'll come back. One more time.

I am frustrated with my life. I've taken a lot of risks, made a lot of decisions. Some of them were based on good thought process, but none of them have worked out anywhere near my satisfaction. Every failure makes it harder to get back up. But that's what you do.

You dare to live life. You dare to demand more of it, to experience it more fully, with nothing other than hope of something glorious balancing out the agony and disappointment you reap time and time again. And when life's gauntlet smashes you in the face, you scream every obscenity you know as you fall crashing to the ground. You stay there as long as you need to. If you are fortunate enough to have the kind of community that gets where you are and will walk through the valley of the shadow of death with you, then don't take it for granted. Embrace that community and find healing. But don't stay there. Get up, and get going again. There's another game tomorrow. Even if the season is over, spring training is just around the corner. It's time to hope again.

That's the way baseball go.

Play ball.

Josh In Five Songs: Part 1

2011-10-24T03:32:00.000-07:00

I've heard it said that music is the language of the soul. I realized five or six years ago that the music I immersed myself in rarely expressed anything I was actually feeling, so I stopped listening to it. I didn't replace it with anything---just simply let that aspect of my life die out. I now believe this was detrimental to my soul. My roommates, all far more musically inclined than I, make fun of me because I don't have anything on my ipod other than RPM music. And yet, despite their ridicule, I am slowly rebuilding my inventory of music that means something to me. We've occasionally discussed the idea of each of us presenting five songs to the others: five songs that tell your story/sum you up/express what's going on in your soul. I was ready to go, but we never did it, and at this point I'm pretty sure we never will.* So all of you, my faithful blog followers, get it instead.

*[They also promised me a music intervention where they would both help me discover my taste and provide me with what they deemed quality music, but that never happened either. Woe is me.]

I should point out that these are not necessarily my five favorite songs; rather, they are the five songs that most adeptly sing the language of my soul. I'm presenting them as a progressive narrative of sorts, with each song describing a shift in my spiritual journey that remains a significant part of me today. I thought this would be better than simply trying to rank them in order from fifth-to-favorite (though the last one is truly my favorite song). With all that intro stuff out of the way, I give you part one of the first official series to appear on this blog. Click the link to hear the song.

Mad World, by Tears for Fears*

"All around me are familiar faces;
Worn out places, worn out faces;
Bright and early for their daily races;
Going nowhere, going nowhere;

Their tears are filling up their glasses;
No expressions, no expressions;
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow;
No tomorrow, no tomorrow;

And I find it kind of funny;
I find it kind of sad;
The dreams in which I'm dying;
Are the best I've ever had;
I find it hard to tell you;
I find it hard to take;
When people run in circles it's a very very;
Mad world. Mad world.

Children waiting for the day they feel good;
Happy birthday, happy birthday;
Made to feel the way that every child should;
Sit and listen, sit and listen;

Went to school and I was very nervous;
No one knew me, no one knew me;
Hello teacher what's my lesson;
Look right through me, look right through me;

And I find it kind of funny;
I find it kind of sad;
The dreams in which I'm dying;
Are the best I've ever had;
I find it hard to tell you;
I find it hard to take;
When people run in circles it's a very very;
Mad world. Mad world.
Enlarging your world. Mad world."

*[Redone and popularized in the movie, Donnie Darko.]

I first heard this song when some of my friends used it in a presentation for a graduate theology class. It's probably the most depressing song I know.

I live in a constant state of existential crisis. Sometimes it's mild, lurking beneath the surface, only pricking my thoughts on occasion; other times it's rampant, constantly filling my awareness in a way I can't possibly ignore. The great question: does any of this matter? My life, the decisions I make, the world I live in, the entire cosmos...does any of it mean anything? I look around and just see so much futility. I see people, both individuals and entire systems, stuck in a rut, a seemingly endless destructive cycle that they can't find a way out of. Nothing changes.*

*[The first chapter of the Bible's most disheartening book says it succinctly and poetically.]

Mad World voices this darkness like none other. Physically and emotionally exhausted people running in a rat race with no hope of a finish line. Depressed but hiding their pain, lacking any sort of authentic community. The only escape is in death, that great equalizer that renders everything meaningless. Given these dynamics, how could the world be anything but mad?

There has to be something more. There has to be something beyond the shallow futility offered by so many. We have to be able to "enlarge" this world---as the penultimate phrase of the song suggests---into something other than the forlorn masquerade parading before our eyes day in and day out. Otherwise, we're just stuck in a very very mad world. That's a thought I can't stand. I want there to be something bigger, something grander that can save humanity; sometimes, however, it's all I can do to muster the willpower to keep myself from being sucked into mad world's whirlpool. And that's why this song sings the language of my soul.

A spontaneous Rockstar award for Shelly Tipper, who gave me the ipod which now houses all my RPM music. And while I'm at it, one for Muffin as well, because he gave me a cord for said ipod.

Searching For a Story

2011-09-25T07:32:00.000-07:00

“You can’t help nobody if you don’t tell 'em the right story.”

* * *

[SPOILER ALERT] Several years ago, I read Life of Pi by Yann Martel. At the time, I thought it was good but not great---a solid seven out of ten---but it's one of those books that gets better over time the more it percolates. The novel is a first person narrative about Pi, an adolescent from India whose family owns a zoo. Early on in the story, the spiritually inquisitive Hindu lad examines Christianity and Islam. Much to the chagrin of the religious authorities in the respective sects, Pi decides he likes all three, and adopts the lot of them.

The story really gets underway when Pi's family decides to ship their zoo to Canada, which seems like a good idea until the ship goes down in a storm. Fortunately, Pi ends up in a lifeboat...along with a zebra, an orangutan, a hyena, and a Bengal tiger. Pi's fight for survival across the ocean takes him through many perils, including experiences that defy conventional wisdom, culminating on an island of meerkats and poison reeds that devour flesh.

Pi eventually reaches land and is taken to a hospital, where they naturally want to hear his story. He tells them...and they don't believe a word of it. "This can't be. That's not possible. Where's the evidence?" The skeptics don't want the fantasy; they want hard, cold facts. So Pi tells them another story---a substantially less interesting story---involving his mother and the ship's cook rather than animals, and no crazy islands either. Just hard, cold facts. The reader is left not knowing which account actually happened.

The whole point of the book is a challenge to agnostics. The hard, cold facts are not necessarily the truth; more importantly, the hard, cold facts are seldom the better story. I think what Martell is saying is, we can't really know the truth, so just pick something and go with it, because the worst thing you can do is get so caught up in the hard, cold facts in the quest for truth that you miss out on the better story.

* * *

If you know me well (or at least read my blog last October) you know how much I love baseball. It goes beyond my natural affinity for sports; there's just something magical about baseball. There's something about the crack of the bat, the pop of ball into leather mitts, the spray of dirt as a runner dives headlong into third base, the effortless glide of an outfielder making a catch in the alley...it just does something in my soul that nothing else can. Sometimes it's therapeutic, giving me the ultimate relaxation for three hours on a lazy afternoon. Other times, it's an adrenaline rush so intense I live and die with every pitch. Each game tells a story, which is a chapter within the story of the season, within the anthology of the franchise's entire history.

The internet and the rise of sabermetrics (in depth statistical analysis) meant I could spend hours every day digging into the numbers and revolutionizing my understanding of the game I love. I did. The numbers augmented the story, fleshing it out and giving it new dimensions.

As time went on, I was able to watch fewer and fewer games. Between working nights and not having cable, catching a game on TV became a rare treat. I still read all the articles, but without the magic of the actual games, it just wasn't the same. The story diminished, leaving me with nothing but the hard, cold facts.

And then came 2010, and with it, baseball redemption. The Rangers stormed through the season to qualify for the playoffs for the first time since I was in high school---and just the fourth time in 40 years of existence. I watched almost every single pitch of the post season tournament, and as the innings unfolded, I found myself being drawn into the narrative once more...

* * *

July 1, 2010: The Rangers, desperate for help at catcher, trade for Bengie Molina. The attraction is his reputation for working with pitchers. His drawbacks are that he is old, fat, the slowest runner in baseball, can't throw, has no quickness behind the plate, and can't hit the broad side of the Great Wall of China. The numbers say he is done as a player and has no business taking up a roster spot on a team trying to win. Hard, cold facts.

October 19, 2010: Game four of the League Championship Series. Rangers lead the series two games to one, but the Yankees are winning this game 3-2 in the sixth inning. Rangers batting with a man on second base and two outs. Yankees intentionally walk the next hitter to bring up Bengie Molina. The pitcher fires a fastball over the inside corner. Bengie Molina turns on it, launching it deep down the left field line for a three run homer. Rangers win the game, and go on to win the series. Bengie Molina's bomb stands as the most pivotal hit in Rangers' history. Story.

* * *

I often consider writing on the blog about how I fell from from really effective Christian minister to spiritually-bankrupt-whatever-I-am-now, but it's 1) too long, 2) too complicated, and 3) way too personal for such a public forum. So this one piece of the puzzle will have to suffice. Several years ago, I had an experience which gave me a new mantra for life: reality at all costs. No illusions. No fantasies. No delusions. Reality. Hard, cold facts. The more I analyzed, the less sense the Christian story made.

Let me be clear about something a lot of well-meaning people who would save my soul don't get: I was all in on the Kingdom of Heaven as preached by Jesus. I studied the scriptures and sought the religious experiences. My life was one leap of faith after another. I cashed in all my chips for the pearl of great price then shoved it across the table.

The cards came up empty.

When the only thing that makes sense stops making sense, things can get ugly. That brings me to here and now. I've lost my Story. And since my whole personal life story was wrapped up in the Christian Story, the loss of the former means my own story is mostly chaos, emptiness, and regret. Having a place in the metanarrative being woven by the creator of the universe drove me and gave me purpose. But I can't believe in that story anymore.

I'd like to. I really wish I could. At its core it's an incredible story. A loving artist paints a vast mosaic, then places a piece of himself in his most prized creation. But we humans weren't very good at being human, and so the artist joined the painting to show us a better way and get us back on track. While here, the artist shared in our pain, eventually joining us even in death. But the artist's love proved stronger than the grave, and death---with the inevitable meaninglessness it sows---was defeated. We have new life. We have redemption. We have meaning. That's a really, really good story.

* * *

I mentioned a couple posts ago that I was trying out theology books again. The first one was supposed to be about the evolution of religion, but it was really just 300 pages of the author saying, "Religion is dumb! Science is awesome! W00000000000!!!!!" The next was an attempt to calculate the mathematical probability of God.* The methodology was atrocious and the numbers he plugged into his equation were pretty arbitrary. It was almost a complete waste of too many hours of my life. And yet, he made one point that I can't help but think is right. He described science and theology as playing entirely different games. He compared it to figuring out a television set. You can explain it with TV shows, or you can explain it with cathode ray tubes. They both have validity, but they don't mix very well.

*[It's 67% in case you were wondering.]

* * *

I have a deeply rooted desire to know the truth. It's fundamental to who I am. I will not stop searching until the day I die. I refuse to believe a lie, which is all well and good except I don't know anything, which means I won't let myself believe anything. This not believing is crippling my soul.

If I could sit down with Yann Martell, I think he would tell me to go with Christianity, or some variant that works for me. I would tell him I can't do it. I think he would then tell me to quit trying to calculate the megahertz frequency, ignore the selenium sensors, and instead just hit the power button, kick back, and watch the Cosby Show. And I would have to admit he's probably right. I'm suffocating in hard, cold facts, all the while missing out on the much better story my life could be. If God can be found, I'm going to find him in story.

This means I have to open myself up to risking colossal failure. That's not going to be easy. I'm in my current funk in large part due to having epically failed so many other attempts at living a good story. I have scars from those experiences that won't ever heal. If my next attempt fails as well, there may not be any coming back from it. And yet, I can tell you right now I'm going to hate life if I don't take the plunge.

* * *

The opening quote comes from the movie Walk the Line, chronicling the life of influential musician Johnny Cash. At the beginning of the film, young Johnny extolls the talents of his golden boy brother, an aspiring preacher. “You can’t help nobody if you don’t tell 'em the right story,” states the budding pastor, explaining why he works so hard to learn all the Bible stories.

I can identify with this. I want to help people, but I don't know what story to tell them anymore. I hope my life's search will allow me to believe in story once again; who knows, maybe if I can believe in my own story, I can find a Story to believe in as well. And then I'll have something to tell. So here it is folks---my new life's goal. And all of you, my 26 loyal blog followers, heard it first. I want to live a story worth telling, and then tell it. If I succeed, it's good to know at least 26 people will probably read the book.

I want to close the way I opened---with a reference from Walk the Line. I hope the first three minutes speak for themselves.

FAQs About Working in a Chicken Factory and Rugby

2011-09-19T19:22:00.000-07:00

Here are answers to the questions I've heard the most in regards to chicken factories and rugby. If you have others, submit them in the comments, and I will do my best to bring clarity to the situation.

Q: A chicken factory?

A: Yes. We mass produce New Zealand's finest poultry, packaging and preparing it for shipment to a grocery store near you.*

*[Near is a relative term. The grocery store is near compared to Pluto, which isn't a planet anymore because Science decided it's not big enough to have grocery stores. I blame Charles Darwin.]

Q: What do you do there?

A: Let me walk you through the process of the chicken's journey through the Free Flow department, using names of actual people without their permission so as to not protect their identities. A pallet arrives bearing crates of raw chicken pieces. Cale dumps the crates into a funnel-shaped vat and pushes the chicken pieces through the funnel and onto a conveyor belt that rises at a 45 degree* angle. At the top, the chicken dumps out onto a table where Imee sorts through and throws out bad pieces, sending the rest onto the next conveyor belt. In addition to performing triage on the chicken bits, Imee also operates not one but TWO belts. She wants a belt stop, it stops; she wants it to go faster, it goes faster. It's an intense position, but someone has to hold it down.

*[That's metric degrees.]

So Imee sends the acceptable chicken down this second conveyor belt, where it goes through a machine that, as far as I can tell, doesn't actually do anything accept control the rate at which the chicken falls onto the next conveyor belt. On this third belt, Tamara and Albert separate the pieces so as to insure they don't freeze together.

With me so far? Good. The chicken then disappears into the lair of the Great Solenoid. It's really cold in there, usually set at 30 degrees* below zero. The chicken then spends the next hour getting really cold while it slowly winds its way upstairs , where a majority of the action in the Free Flow department takes place.

*[Still metric degrees.]

The Great Solenoid then regurgitates the now frozen chicken bits into yet another funnel, which deposits them on yet another conveyor belt. A magical mechanical arm directs the chicken to one of two chutes, each of which leads to a table, where Tevin, Skyler,* Hine, and Shrek await its arrival. That fearsome foursome then shovels the chicken onto scales until the correct weight is achieved, usually 2.5 kilograms**. The 2.5 kg portions are then dumped onto---you guessed it---another conveyor belt, which takes them through a big machine. The chicken emerges from the machine in bags.

*[True story about Skyler. He started the same day I did, and we went through the reception area, which closes before we got off. This place is absurdly secure with a ten foot high barbed wire fence around the premises. The only ways in are through the reception and through the employee entrance, which requires an electronic key. Well, Skyler and I both rode with a dude named Ryan. At the end of the day, Ryan and I exited just ahead of Skyler, getting let out by a nice employee who used her badge for us. We waited for like 10 minutes, but still no sign of Skyler. Then a security guard walked by and said something along the lines of, "Someone just jumped the fence." It was Skyler, who, blocked by the closed reception, assumed the only way out was over the fence...because surely there couldn't be another exit...definitely not the one they showed us to use.

**[That's metric for "kind of like pounds but heavier."]

Ready to go then? NO! The machine dumps the bags onto a conveyor belt (sensing a pattern here?) where they are promptly intercepted by Mama Suey, who weighs them. If they weigh too much or too little, they are chopped open, with the contents dumped back into the funnel to be re-shoveled by the fearsome foursome, who will hopefully get it right next time. If they pass, they go back on the belt. When the conveyor belt runs out of itself, the bags fall into the waiting arms of Shirley, who puts them in a box---a box that Poppy folded together. When the box is full, Shirley slides it over to Kevin. Kevin is the closer. He's the one who finishes the job: no backup, no safety net, no one to fix his mistake should he go awry. Kevin weighs the box, pushes a button to print a label, closes the box, slaps on the label, pushes one more button to seal the box with a strip of blue plastic stuff, then shoves it onto one last conveyor belt. The chicken has now departed Free Flow. Nothing stands between it and delivery.

Q: What's a solenoid?

A: Click the Wikipedia link, you n00b. If you're too lazy, it's basically a cork screw wrapped around a nail.

Q: You didn't mention yourself in the description. What's your position?

A: I am fully qualified at every position. I started out as one of the fearsome foursome, but showed entirely too much potential to be contained in one place. Within a few days, they were trying me out at box folding and various scale positions. It only took a week and a half before I was entrusted with the closer's mantle, an honor most people take at least two weeks to earn. Then they sent me downstairs, where I soon mastered every point on every conveyor belt.

Q: Wow, you are pretty amazing at this job!* Do they ever send you out on special missions?

*[In Japanese, that's ワウ、この仕事でかなりすばらしい。 The back translation through babel fish is "It is splendid rather with wow and this work!"]

A: I have on occasion been dispatched to other departments to save their bacon. Once I went to Whole Birds and spent half a day tying drumsticks to each other and to the tail bone. Another time, I put whole chickens in a bag and sealed the bag. I was also stationed in VA*, where I did what I assumed was the most mundane and pointless job ever: covering chicken thighs in powder, then dropping them in a bucket of scary goo (aka "marinade"). That was the extent of my job. Then they pulled me off that and assigned me the task of finding broken sticks in the chicken kebabs. It was then that I discovered a more mundane and pointless job than powdering thighs.

*[I have no idea what that stands for...it might even be V8 for all I know.]

Q: Do you make barefoot chickens, or must they be shod?

A: I make all my chickens the way God intended: barefoot and without shoes on their feet. To do otherwise would be inhumane and cruel. Dang it, we have moral standards here in New Zealand!

Q: Which do you like better, chicken or cookies?

A: Cookies, but I'm better at chicken.

Q: Is working at the chicken factory fun?

A: Diana Finkel once said, "It doesn't have to be fun to be fun."

Q: Wait, time out...what's Rugby?

A: Think football, except you can't throw the ball forward, the clock doesn't stop, and you actually do things with your feet.

Q: Is it popular in New Zealand?

A: Rugby is only slightly less popular than being alive here. This is the one area in which New Zealand dominates on the international stage, and the Kiwis milk it for all it's worth. Incidentally, New Zealand is hosting the Rugby World Cup right now, and everyone is pretty fired up about it.

Q: Do you fear the imminent advancement of technology will render you and your fellow conveyor belt workers obsolete? By that I mean, are you all going to lose your jobs to robots?

A: Alas, it's a reality we've all learned to live with. Remember Mama Suey intercepting the bags of chicken to weigh them? That was my favorite station. But a new scale on the conveyor belt eliminated the position in its entirety. The robots giveth, and the robots taketh away.

Q: Do you still have two thumbs?

A: Yes.

Q: I thought chickens were bred, not manufactured. What's going on, here?

A: Look, all I know is, I haven't seen a single live chicken. This seems strong evidence for manufacturing. Remember the robots...

Q: Have you been to a rugby game?

A: Yes, and it was awesome! We all went to the U.S. vs. Ireland game. Here's a picture of Team Cat Biscuit plus some friends:

From left to right: Julia, our buddy Neil (the closest thing I have to a drug dealer here) Colby, Cheryl, Natalie, Robin (a funny Kiwi dude who likes bugs) and me.

Q: Wait, you're American...why are you sporting the Irish flag?

A: Because my hair is Irish, you n00b! Besides, rugby is a big deal in Ireland, and there are some seriously passionate fans. When Ireland wins, they all go nuts. When the U.S. wins, the only people who care are the players moms. The sports fan in me wants to see the team with actual fans win.

Q: Good point. Does America really have a rugby team?

A: I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes.

Q: Moar pics!

A: Fine.

Kickoff

Lots of Irish people in our section.

Rawr!

Q: Can you get Mrs. Kivowitz's car?

A: No. My days as a valet are ended. It's all chicken now.

Q: Do you have to have a theology degree to work in the chicken factory?

A: No. You may find this hard to believe, but you actually don't need any higher* education to do this. However, I do feel more qualified to deal with dilemmas regarding the morality of mass producing chicken for the sole purpose of eating them, and why the chicken crossed the road.

*[Or lower education for that matter.]

Q: Ok big shot, which came first, the chicken or the egg?

A: Such questions of origin are best left to the likes of Moses and Darwin. All I know is, we've reached a stage of chicken production where eggs are no longer necessary.

Q: What was the atmosphere like at the rugby game?

A: The singing of the national anthems sums it up. For the Star Spangled Banner, fans of the United States sang along reverently. For the boys in green, however, raucous melodies in at least six different keys broke out as Irishmen in varying stages of inebriation raised their voices in nationalistic pride. To be fair, the American crowd made a better showing than I anticipated (as did the players on the field) but the drunken Irish were quite entertaining---and upset that the final score was merely a 22-10 victory rather than the slaughter most were predicting.

Q: Should I "like" this?

A: Yes.

Q: Um...is it safe to eat chicken?

A: Absolutely. Without a doubt. We wash our hands thoroughly after every break---they have cameras to make sure we do so. If a piece of chicken falls on the floor, we throw it in a bin to be discarded...unless we need more pieces later to make weight one more time. Look, do you want the bird to have died in vain?

Q: Is rugby better than football?

A: You better believe it.

Q: How many times per day do you have to stick your hand up a chicken's butt?

A: Zero. Well, except for that one time I had to bag the whole chickens, which brought the total to at least two hundred. But I don't like to talk about that day.

Q: That's bad...any other hazards?

A: Innumerable. I'd like to point out that I wear a hard hat.

Q: Seriously?

A: Yep. When the frozen chicken emerges from the Great Solenoid and goes down one of two chutes, it's moving pretty fast. Imagine someone shooting a pool ball out of a bazooka right into your cranium, but instead of a pool ball it's a frozen drum stick, and instead of a bazooka it's gravity. You need some serious armor to protect from that. I also wear two pairs of gloves. That seems a bit gratuitous until you get stabbed by a chicken wing. I'm telling you, this is no place for children.

Q: Did you smuggle any beer into the stadium?

A: Two bottles!

Q: Is there anything more pathetic than working at a chicken factory?

A: Yes, getting fired by a chicken factory...

RPM and Some Self Discovery

2011-08-09T04:17:00.000-07:00

I'm doing a really bad job of writing regularly. So here's my second post today in an attempt to make some amends.

Less than a year ago I was in the midst of a five-week odyssey that took me to the paradise of Costa Rica, the northeast US, Los Angeles, Vegas, the Grand Canyon and its surrounding desserts, the nation's capital, and the Appalachian mountains. I traveled without agenda, and whatever plans I did make were subject to change on a whim. I've seldom felt more alive. I've never felt so free. I've never been more...me.

Things went south in a hurry after that. I'm not going to get into the details, but a few things happened at once that really threw me off track, and it has been a downward spiral ever since. My hope was that moving to New Zealand would galvanize me out of my rut, but instead, things have just gotten worse. There are a lot of things going on, but what it essentially boils down to is this: I haven't felt like myself since I've been here. Life is losing its zest; it tastes bland. I'm losing my passion and thirst for adventure. I lack the willpower to make myself act to make things better. I often find myself pulling away from my friends and roommates. A sense of futility dogs me perpetually, and has for most of my adult life; since I've been here, the cloud has been suffocating. When I look in my soul's mirror, I see a husk of the person that I should be, that I long to be, that I was such a short time ago.

Ironically, it was RPM that threw me a lifeline. For those who don't know, RPM is a group stationary bike fitness class set to music. I kind of stumbled onto it a few years back, and it didn't take long for me to get hooked. I toyed off and on with the idea of getting certified to teach, until I finally decided to take the plunge shortly after New Year's.

I attended my initial training in late January (you can read that tale here if you haven't already) and came out of it full throttle. They give you three months to submit a video of yourself teaching an entire class; if the assessor thinks you're good enough, you get your certification. Within two weeks of my training, I was ready to tape, both in my own estimation and in that of my friend Rodney, who is a Master Trainer with Les Mills (the group that produces RPM and various other group fitness curriculum). All the instructors I team taught with said the same thing: you're ready.

And yet, something wasn't right. I quickly realized I wasn't having much fun with it. I started questioning whether or not if I belonged up there guiding people through their workout. Did I have the right personality and mindset for this? Did I even care about physical fitness? In essence, was I trying to make myself into something I'm not? These questions dogged me to the point where, the day before I was supposed to tape, I just shut down. I canceled the taping and stopped teaching; I didn't even go to class as a rider. During that time, I had no idea if I would ever pick it back up.

Eventually I started feeling the RPM itch again, and my friend Amy called to see if I could help her out by teaching half of her class the next day. I agreed, and just like that I was back in the saddle. But I was inconsistent. Some days I felt excited, and some days I couldn't wait for the class to end. I eventually submitted a video I wasn't very happy with the day before it was due.

I remember the turning point vividly. I had subbed an early Monday morning class for an instructor I didn't know, and it went horribly. I had no energy, the riders didn't seem to like me, and I left convinced that I had no future in RPM. Later that morning I got a call from Amy asking if I could sub her class that night. I tried to talk her into getting someone else, but eventually I reluctantly agreed. So there I was, once again back in the saddle because of Amy. During one of the more intense songs, I spontaneously sang out, "Feed the fire; break your vision; throw your fists up; come on with me!" along with the music. My class almost booed me off the stage! One of them made tomato throwing motions at me, and several others quickly followed his lead.

That was when it clicked for me. See, I'm a better frisbee player when the sideline---and the other players on the field...on both teams---are heckling me. Apparently, the same is true with RPM. For the first time, I really relaxed. I realized that, while I'm clearly not your prototypical fitness instructor, I could be myself and make it work. After that night, I started goofing around a lot more whenever I taught. I got a bunch of funny looks, but people enjoyed my classes and I enjoyed teaching. But even then, I wasn't sure how much of a future I would have in the world of riding a bike to nowhere. It was fun, but it wasn't doing much in my soul.

I passed my video and received my certification eight days before I left for New Zealand. Upon arriving in New Plymouth, I discovered, much to my dismay, that there are no official Les Mills gyms here.* My internet searches for gyms with any kind of indoor cycling came up empty. It was like a punch to the gut. One of the reasons I had worked so hard to get my certification was so I could teach in New Zealand, and that suddenly seemed out of reach. It was then that I realized just how badly I wanted it.

*[Les Mills is a former Olympic body builder from New Zealand who devised a number of group fitness programs, including RPM. Les Mills fitness is huge here in Kiwiland.]

Several weeks went by before I met a local guy named James who told me that the best gym in town was called Rampage, and he swore it had group cycling. So I checked it out. Turns out Rampage is an independent fitness center...and it uses the Les Mills program. Not only that, but one of their RPM instructors had just announced she was moving away, so they had an immediate void to fill. Two days after I talked to the director, this happened:

After my first three songs, my class looked like they were about to die. My fourth and final song frequently asks the question, "Can you read my mind?" so I said something along the lines of, "I can read your mind---you're thinking, send this guy back to America where he came from, cuz we don't want him!" Someone responded, "How did you know that's what we were all thinking?" Kiwi hecklers!

My time in New Zealand hasn't been anything like I envisioned, and most things haven't gone like I wanted them to. I can't change that. As much as I'd like to, I can't even flip a switch and change my mentality. But what I can do, and what I think I need to do, is rediscover myself. I need to rediscover the passion that used to fuel everything I did, a passion that is currently buried beneath layers of disillusionment, shattered hopes, emotional scars, and betrayals. It's not going to be pleasant. It needs to happen anyway.

RPM isn't the solution to all my problems. Not even close. But it was a lifeline when I really needed one. During this time when I feel like I'm losing every part of me that matters, RPM is a link to better days. It's something I care about and that I'm good at. Ironically, this thing I questioned so thoroughly whether or not it was "me" has become an anchor I can cling to as I try to rediscover myself.

Last night I decided to try something else as well. At this point, if I were to attempt to describe my religious views, most days it's some warped deist/agnostic hybrid with a fascination for the life and teachings of Jesus. But despite my heresy and frustration with the Christian religion, I find that, at my core, I'm still very much a theologian. So this afternoon I checked out two theology books from the library. I don't think I even care which way they steer me in relation to the faith of my youth; I just hope the process of re-immersing myself in the world of theological academia after several years off reignites something in me.

It has been a long time since I handed out a Rockstar award, so I'd like to give one to Amy Henderson, who had my back all the way through my RPM journey. If it weren't for her encouragement and assistance, I might be in an even worse state than I am now. So congratulations Amy on being the first ever repeat winner of the Rockstar.

Why New Zealand is Better Than Where You Live

2011-08-09T02:07:00.000-07:00

Before I left for these distant shores, I imagined New Zealand as a land where all the girls are pretty, motorists cheerfully offer rides to wandering derelicts, and everyone does RPM. Also, Hobbits. Actuality is somewhat different: The girls really aren't that attractive, not very many people even know what RPM is, and the culture has changed over the past decade so that picking up hitchhikers is now considered dangerous. And the Hobbits have all migrated to Indonesia* due to the exorbitant cost of living in their ancestral home. The reality check hit me hard and caused significant emotional trauma. Nevertheless, if you take New Zealand for what it is rather than what you always dreamed it would be, it has plenty to offer. So without further ado, here is a list of reasons why New Zealand is better than where you live.

*[There are rumors of a colony on Tasmania, but these remain unsubstantiated.]

1) Doorbells: Suppose you are so awesome that people frequently visit you. This is of course wonderful, and it probably makes you feel good about yourself...but there's a drawback. After the 18th consecutive day of hearing "ding-dong" to announce the arrival of your friends, you're ready to tear your own ears off. Seriously, doorbells make you want to join a monastic community where all the entrances have taken a vow of silence. But just imagine if someone pushes the fateful button, and your home is filled with a melodious sound rather like the ice cream truck playing Battle Hymn of the Republic. They push it again, and an entirely different tune permeates your living room. Just how many tunes do we have in our doorbell? I don't even know...you can't put a number on awesome.

2) Mordor pizza: The absence of Hobbits is somewhat mitigated by the fact that, when asked what you want on your pizza, you can say, "Mordor," and they'll make it for you. At a place called "Hell's Pizza" (ironically right next to "Divine Steakhouse") all the pizza flavors have names like brimstone and Purgatory. Adding the blasted lands of Middle Earth to the mix is brilliant; putting it on a pizza is sheer genius. They don't think to do that sort of thing where you live.

3) Floral diversity: Within about 200 yards, I have encountered palm trees, pine trees, and cacti. This fascinates me.

4) Rock throwing: We were strolling down the coastal walkway when we decided to break for some lemon muffins. While we munched, we observed a family bonding by playing a game together. The game consisted of the parents throwing rocks at the kids. Everyone seemed ok with this since the kids were wearing bike helmets. We really wanted to join in but felt it might be considered intrusive.

5) Traffic lights: Imagine you are wherever it is that you are. You're walking through the city when you encounter a red light. You stop walking. Then the light turns green, and you resume walking. How lame is that? In New Zealand, when the "walk" symbol turns green, it sounds like lasers. So now imagine this: One minute you're standing on the street corner waiting to get on with your life; the next, you're in outer space fighting for the freedom of the galaxy.* Yeah.

*[There's an obnoxious cat looking at me, which means I can't help but think of this.]

6) Astro turf in the streets: Yep. Here in New Zealand, there are random bits of astro turf in in the streets. I believe that speaks for itself.

7) This:
You've been wondering it. I wondered it. Most of the free world has pondered this vital question. At long last, the Auckland zoo has risen to the challenge to provide us with the answers we crave. Does your zoo do this? No. At your zoo, the plaque says something like, "Hippos like water and eat vegetables." But because I have tasted the fruits of new Zealand, I now know that hippos don't drink beer, but they do like playing with the keg.

Moar pics! Very well, if you insist.

Mt. Taranaki

Colby and I found a river

The coast

Water flowing into the ocean

For those of you who find my pictures lacking, you can also check out Colby and Cheryl's blog.

My First Month In Kiwiland

2011-06-29T18:59:00.000-07:00

About that goal of blogging at least once a week while in New Zealand...

I've been wanting to write a happy post since I've been here. Unfortunately, I haven't had too many happy thoughts since I've been here. It turns out if you're in a depressed funk and hate almost everything about your life, moving halfway around the world doesn't magically fix things. Imagine that. Instead, my problems have followed me across the largest ocean on planet earth, with the only significant change being that I'm now unemployed. So now you can add disappointment and impending bankruptcy to the list of things that are less than ideal in Josh's world. I'd like to think I'll hash through all the intense self-reflection on the blog, but I make no guarantees. In any case, I'm attempting that happy post now.

First, let me introduce you to the team. That's right, we're no mere household---we are team Cat Biscuit! It's like Captain Planet meets Voltron: with our powers combined, we are robotic lions wielding all the elemental energies of the universe...or something like that. Now, from left to right:

Julia: If you want to think of her as Fish Lady, that's your prerogative. You wouldn't be the first. Julia is the most over-qualified Target cashier you will ever meet. If she doesn't talk to you, it isn't because she doesn't like you---she just doesn't talk to strangers. She also might not like you. I was most excited about living with Julia because she's the best roommate I ever had. All the haters said that wasn't true because she never actually lived with me. Well now they're wrong. She may not be the best now, but Julia circa 2007 was the best, and since now we actually are roommates, it counts in a retroactive sort of way. Take that, haterz!

Cheryl: Pop quiz: what does Cheryl like more, a used popsicle stick that some five year old kid found in the gutter four months after a seven year old kid threw it there, or a well-seasoned, 12 ounce steak? If you guessed the steak, then you fail my blog. Let me tell you what will happen to you if you offer her the aforementioned rib-eye...or any other meat for that matter. First she will give you a glare cold enough to freeze Old Faithful. Then she will beat you into submission with your own steak. Then as you're lying there groaning, she'll tell you why something from your childhood has turned you into the lost cause you are today---and she can do that because she's a trained psychologist. Since I can no longer afford meat, we're going to have some really good vegetarian bonding time.

Colby: Colby's greatest life achievement is convincing Cheryl to marry him. Really, there isn't a close second. I mean, there was this one time when he and I made some epic breakfast burritos, so maybe that gets him a pretty high ranking in your book, but there's definitely not a close third. Still, I like to keep him around. It's not just that we like all the same books and video games and we're on the same frisbee team, though none of that hurts his cause. See, I say a lot of stupid stuff, and Colby is far more likely to appreciate it than either of the others.

Josh: I believe you know me. I'm a fitness instructor. I also make a great potato salad.

While I'm at it, I'll introduce you to the two future members of Team Cat Biscuit.

That's Natalie, also infamously known around here as Banana Girl. Somehow this picture has never been posted before now. Consider the situation remedied. (If you don't know about her, search the October archives that aren't about Cliff Lee.)

And then there's Zack. You don't really want a picture of him, do you? Last but not least, we have Don. You won't get a picture of Don unless he actually shows up...or if at least six people lobby for him in the comments.

We spent our first few days in Auckland, hanging out with Colby and Cheryl's longtime friend Paul, who is doing mission work here. Paul is awesome because he let us stay with him for free (I arrived late, so I got pawned off on the equally great Cody Marceau, who plays frisbee). Our adventures there were threefold:

1) We went to the Auckland zoo. I should point out that we picked the coldest, rainiest day in the history of weather for the excursion. The animals in New Zealand look like this:

It was nice enough as zoos go, and you could get closer to the animals than at any American zoo I've been to, but I realized that going to the zoo will never be the same after having driven through Kruger Park in South Africa. Plus it was really cold and wet.

2) Cody invited Colby and me to play frisbee with his friends. We had a good time, and after the game we got invited to play in the national indoor Ultimate Frisbee tournament in September. They didn't seem to realize that we're not very good.* There's also the minor detail that neither of us has ever played indoor ultimate. But these things are on a need to know basis. We'll be showing up ready to play in a couple months.

*[I'm not very good. Colby is, but he only plays like two points a game in official leagues and tournaments. Combined, we make a pretty formidable player...or a useless bench warmer.]

3) We climbed to the summit of Rangitoto, a volcano just off the coast of Auckland. The island is also a safe haven for endangered native species, so they're really serious about keeping predators out. While on the ferry, they announced over the loud speaker that we need to check our bags to make sure there were no rats or weasels inside...because, I probably wouldn't notice if there was a weasel in my backpack. The hike was pretty, and near the top we got to tunnel through some cool lava caves. The view from the top was phenomenal. It was cloudy and the pictures don't do it justice, but here's what I got:

This is Auckland

Julia and Colby emerging from a lava cave

All good things must come to an end, and that includes our stay in Auckland. So as the sun rose over the city, we hopped on a bus and headed for New Plymouth, the town we intend to make our home for the next several months.

Not a whole lot has happened yet in New Plymouth. We stayed in a hostel the first few nights, where we met Neil, an American on the same working holiday visa as the four of us, and Mike (actually Maninder, but he goes by Mike) a dude from India who is here for chef school. Through them we've also befriended Harm from Belgium, who is doing the working holiday scheme in every country that offers it, and Liisa from Finland, who just graduated high school and is going to be hopping through the country from one organic farm to the next (WWOOFing is the official term). Neil hooked me up with a job at Allied Work Force, a temp agency for manual labor. So technically I have a job even though I've called in every day for two weeks but they haven't had any work for me.*

[The guy at AWF asked if I'm strong. I told him I'm a fitness instructor. I'm confused as to why that didn't immediately move me to the front of the line.]

We scored huge on the house we found, a fully furnished home with more room than similarly priced houses. Here's a picture of my room:

The features, from left to right:

You can't see much of it, but there's a desk for me to do all my critical office work, like writing blogs and managing my fantasy baseball team. The drawers are organized categorically.
Beneath the desk, where you might expect my feet to go, you will see the Humidistat. It's like a dehumidifier, except it's German, which makes it awesome.
My jammin' sound system! A record player/tape deck, with a giant speaker on each side. The only thing that could possibly make this better is a microphone plugin...oh wait, it has that too!
You may think that every bedroom in New Zealand comes with a treasure chest, but you would be mistaken about that. Mine is the only one.
Not seen on camera, but real nonetheless: a bed. That's right, for the first time in who knows how long, I have an actual bed on which to lay my weary self down. It has a frame, a mattress, and these flat pieces of cloth called blankets. Truly, I'm sleeping like a king.

Speaking of sleeping, it's 2:00 a.m. here. There's more I intended to write, but it will have to wait for next time. So coming soon: more pictures, a list or reasons why New Zealand is more awesome than where you live, and whatever else is on my mind. Alternatively, you could get depressed rambling. We shall see what mood I'm in when next I blog.

Because I'm a Fitness Instructor Now

2011-06-03T01:52:00.000-07:00

Shortly after I graduated from college, my good friend Garrett Pruessner informed me that alumnus was way too dignified a term to describe the likes of me. He had a valid point. The word alumnus conjures up images of a distinguished character ready to make respectable contributions to society. That certainly didn't describe me at the time Garrett made his pronouncement any more than it does now; nevertheless, I had a diploma to prove my status.

When I tell people I'm a fitness instructor now, I get the same incredulity I received from Garrett all those years ago. And once again, their skepticism is warranted. I mean, have you seen my arms? They're like empty paper towel rolls. And what kind of fitness instructor eats sopapilla cheesecake for breakfast---twice? But once again, I've got a piece of paper upholding my claims, no matter what the circumstantial evidence might suggest. Thus, when visa applications and immigration forms requested my occupation, I proudly entered "fitness instructor"* into the text boxes. Oh yeah, for those of you who don't know, I'm moving to New Zealand.

*[Note: I could have put "valet" but I'm sure they would have informed me they don't need foreigners parking their own cars for them when they've already got robots rendering my former method of employment obsolete.]

I usually begin my traveling adventures with an excessive dose of sleep deprivation. This time, however, I had a plan to start this trip off with a new twist. My flight left at 6:20 a.m. Wednesday, June 1. Considering that I'm a night owl and can almost never fall asleep before 1:00 in the morning...well, it's problematic. So my plan was to go to RPM class first thing Tuesday morning, power through the day, go to RPM again that night, and come home so exhausted I couldn't help but fall asleep no later than 10:00. This would give me 5-6 good hours of sleep, a veritable goldmine compared to the norm. So I didn't sleep much Monday night, which was expected. But then of course I kept thinking of things I needed to take care of on Tuesday, then suddenly I looked up and realized it was after midnight and I hadn't even started packing. So, no sleep that night, and a total of three hours from the two previous nights. That's bad even by my standards. But was I concerned? No, I could take it...I'm a fitness instructor now!

I scored exceedingly well on my airplane seating rankings this trip: an aisle seat on all three flights, including one with no seat mates and one with a cute girl next to me. The flight from Dallas to Los Angeles provided me with a row all to myself, which allowed me to sprawl out and sleep comfortably most of the way. Did I need the sleep? No...but it probably didn't hurt either. Then I dug in for the 15 hour layover in LA followed by the 15 hour flight to Sydney, Australia, where I would hit my final connection to Auckland, New Zealand.

Before I continue with the saga, allow me comment on the smallness of the world. In the DFW airport, I chatted with an older lady who was a chaperone for a high school band trip to New York. It turns out she's good friends with someone I knew in Abilene: the owner of Jordan Taylor and Co., an upscale furniture store where I worked for a time.* Later, while waiting to board my plane in LAX, I met an elderly couple who have been to Port Moresby, the capital of Papua New Guinea, the obscure third world country where I grew up. Go figure.

*[Incidentally, our mutual acquaintance personally directed my manager to lay me off so she could create money in the budget to hire her kids, who turned out to be useless employees. This caused me to take another job that changed my life in a pretty fundamental way. On a completely unrelated note, if you play Abileneopoly (and I can't figure out why you would want to) the equivalent of Boardwalk is none other than Jordan Taylor and Co. I think this says more about Abilene than Jordan Taylor.]

The worst part about being stuck in an airport for 15 hours is having to pay for overpriced airport food. I tried to power through the day, but I eventually broke down and bought a combo platter from a Chinese restaurant. Unsatisfied, I spent everything I had left to buy as many cheap hamburgers from McDonalds as I could. I'm not saying it was a good idea, I'm saying it's what I did. Finally, around 10:15 Wednesday night, I at last stepped onto the aircraft that would take me to my new home.

Thursday was dumb. It got off to lame start, so I skipped it. And I can do that sort of thing, because I'm a fitness instructor now.*

*[Some might argue that the truncation of Thursday had more to do with the International Date Line than my line of work...]

After a brief layover in Sydney, I embarked on the final leg of my journey. It was here that I found myself seated next to the aforementioned cute girl. Considering that I am quite the ladies' man, you are naturally assuming that I immediately engaged her in a stimulating conversation that only ended when the landing gear connected with the runway on New Zealand soil. You are wrong. You see, you are not considering the possibility that I might absent-mindedly put my toothbrush in the checked luggage. As a matter of fact, I did, which meant I had gone two full days without brushing my teeth---three if you count Thursday. I don't think the cute girl wanted to talk to me in that state; rather, I don't think she wanted me to talk to her. But that didn't stop me from being chivalrous. She was asleep when they were handing out fruit popsicles, and in an act of pure altruism, I told the flight attendant I would take one for her.*

*[She might have still been asleep when I finished mine. I might have not wanted hers to melt and go to waste. I also might have been really hungry after two (or three) days of airport/airplane food.]

I had been led to believe that the Auckland airport is patrolled by vigilant Beagles trained to sniff out food, poison, narcotics, and excessive dirt. Imagine my surprise when I encountered actual people wearing security badges and using technological devices like x-rays and scanners. Not nearly as intimidating. The immigration officer didn't even ask to see my work visa: she just stamped my passport and waved me on through within 30 seconds. I can only assume it's because she looked at the form I filled out on the plane and saw I'm a fitness instructor.

And then this happened:

Winter League: Week 8

2011-03-05T17:35:00.001-08:00

I am an extraordinarily bad frisbee player. Fortunately, My team is awesome, so we're now 16-0. We're off next week, then one more week or regulation play, and then the final tournament. Sufferin' Huck Attack will win it all!

Winter League: Week 6

2011-02-22T18:55:00.000-08:00

Played two more good teams, both of whom were missing some key players, and steamrolled both of them. Disappointing...I wanted some good games.

Sufferin' Huck Attack improves to 12-0.

Winter League: Week 5

2011-02-15T21:41:00.000-08:00

Sufferin' Huck Attack remains undefeated, improving to 10-0 after Saturday's contests. Both the teams we played, "I Tawt I Taw a Flick Attack" and "Speedius Flick Discus" entered the day with really good records. They both had a bunch of really solid players who knew what they were doing, and they didn't turn the disc over very often, so we had to play some really hard defense to make things happen. But we came through! Other than an abysmal stretch at the beginning of game 2, which saw us fall down 4-1 early, I think we played our best frisbee of the season. Mad props to Sarah and Sommer, our only two ladies who were present and physically functional. Their reward? Two games of playing savage.*

* [For the uninitiated, playing "savage" refers to playing without subs. Since the ratio in coed divisions is 5 guys to 2 gals, Sommer and Sarah had to play every point.]

But there are more important things than winning and losing. Leadership, for example. I established several weeks ago that Zack is the worst captain ever. Eventually, a tyrannical dictator will push the people too far. In the name of the masses, I staged a coup and overthrew Zack. I am now the team captain, and I will lead this team to great things.

Phat Bass*

2011-02-02T17:59:00.000-08:00

*[That's pronounced "base", as in, "All your base are belong to me."]

So I haven't been updating the progress of Sufferin' Huck Attack, my winter league ultimate frisbee team because, quite honestly, there hasn't been much to say. It's been a lot of fun, and I really like my teammates, but how many times can I blog about winning decisively? This week we improved to 8-0, but I wasn't there for it.

Answer me this: If you're planning on moving to New Zealand for an extended stay and getting a job so as to more fully integrate into the culture, would you put "valet" on your application for a work visa? Because if you did, there's a pretty good chance they would counter with, "Well, we don't really need Americans to come in and park cars for us, but thanks anyway." So what would you do? I find myself faced with a remarkably similar dilemma. My solution? Get certified in an exercise program that's really popular there.

I've been attending RPM, a stationary bike class at my gym, for a while now. Unlike other bike classes, RPM is pre-choreographed curriculum put together by super trainers in---you guessed it---New Zealand. Each release has seven songs with specific emphases, with the whole package designed to leave you completely worn out by the end. I had been thinking about getting certified to teach, waffling back and forth for months, when I finally decided to take the plunge.

The first step is to attend an instructor training session, which is why I found myself driving down to San Antonio for the weekend. The session comprises two full days of alternating between classroom/lecture stuff, and time on the bike practicing what we learned. Led by our fearless trainer, the legendary Terry Keller---she's pretty much the epitome of awesome---I joined 18 other individuals attempting to gain the privilege of leading others in the quest to not ride anywhere.

I know what you're thinking (yes, I'm in your head, and you should be terrified). You need special training for that? I could do that: "Hey you, ride faster!" "Don't fall off!" "Look, no hands!" Well, I'm not real quick to catch on sometimes, so I need the professional help.

We had a diverse collection of people, including triathletes; hardcore outdoor bikers; those with more athletic training background who want to add something else to their portfolio; those who have recently committed to a lifestyle change; those who have been doing RPM and think it would be fun to teach; and a wandering derelict who has nothing better to do with his life than learn to ride to music. I'll let you figure out which category I fit into. I'll give you a hint---it's towards the end...pretty far.

We started off by riding to the newest release, which we'll eventually have to tape ourselves teaching in its entirety as the last step towards certification, in order to get a feel for it. We then learned about properly setting up the bike, correct position on the bike, key elements of coaching, fitness magic, and things of that sort. After we finished a particular session, we got on the bikes to do drills. Day one didn't seem as physically demanding as I had been led to believe, but Terry kept referring to a mysterious "Race of Truth".

Sure enough, with about an hour and a half left in the class, Terry had us squeeze all our bikes together in one line directly in front of the giant mirror that was the entire front wall of the room. She told us, "Now I'm gonna see if you're good enough shape to do this." She then unleashed upon us the RPM session from Hell, Hades, Purgatory, and all other nasty places your nightmares can conjure up.

In an RPM class, you'll have a few tracks that focus on low-resistance speed work, with sprints typically ranging from 30-45 seconds, and almost never exceeding a minute. The next song will have a different focus so you work a different part of your system. Well, in our first song, Terry had us in full sprint for about three minutes at a time. Then we'd get a brief break, and then right back to work. It was the same in the next song. And then the next one. And then it got harder. I think she must be a strict Darwinist, because in this workout, if you aren't fit, you die. This is by far the most physically demanding thing I've done since my cross country days. Mad props to Phylisia and Dustin, the two unfortunate souls sardined in next to me. They helped keep me going, and Dustin even sang "I believe the World is Burning to the Ground" with me, which was an unconscionable waste of perfectly good oxygen. But hey, it was fun.

Throughout the day, as we labored together to grasp the concepts being taught along with the necessary physical exertion, our group of strangers really came together. For example, Dustin is a really good guy, but at first I found him a little annoying because I thought he talked too much. But after riding out the apocalypse next to him, I'd run through a brick wall for that guy. (And then he brought bananas for everyone the next day, which made him even more awesome...best fellow RPM trainee ever!) There's just something deeply profound about enduring struggles together and the ensuing bonds that form. The camaraderie that develops is unlike anything else. Having had a few days to reflect on the experience, this aspect was by far the highlight of the weekend.

We were each assigned one song at the beginning. Our homework was to learn how to teach that song and present it the next day. I was assigned song number 7, which is always a simulation of a mountain climb. I was initially excited because that low speed, high resistance style fits my strength as a rider. But once I dug into it, my assessment was altered dramatically. See, I use the term "song" liberally; songs have words in them. Forty-five seconds into the music, it says, "Bass." Then it goes another minute without saying anything. Most of the lyrics are either "Bass" or "Phat Bass". There's even a filibuster in there: "Listen to this phat bass that will send the blood coursing through your veins." Whoa, easy there big guy. The final tally is 44 words in seven minutes.

I'm not very smart at music.* I know what you're thinking, and you're right, I didn't need to add "at music", but there's no need to get mean here. And I'm even less smart about music than most things. I quickly discovered how difficult it was going to be to learn all the cues for transitions in a song with almost no words or variety in rhythm. Maybe the more musically inclined have an easier time with it. So I stayed up til almost 1:00 a.m. memorizing 22 changes in resistance, 21 changes in position, 11 changes in speed, and what to say and when to say it as far as coaching and motivating.

*Before the weekend I owned two CDs. Now I have three.

I got up at 5:30 the next morning so I could be at the gym early enough to run through it on the bike before the 7:00 start time. We got in groups of 6 (mine had 7 because we're more awesome) and formed a circle with our bikes. This was our first of two presentations. Terry put on the music and we all went in order, each presenting our song. About halfway through the sixth song, I realized I didn't remember any of my choreography. And then it was my turn. Since my sleep-deprived brain wasn't yet alert enough to panic, I just jumped in...and drilled every single one of my transitions. I really struggled with injecting directions ("keep your back straight, hips back in the saddle, you should feel this in your quads...") as much of it seemed forced. I got a bit sloppy with my own form, but I did pretty well with yelling out things to make everyone keep going. It was far from perfect, but I felt pretty good about it for a first time, and my group gave me some really positive feedback.

I know what you're thinking, but Arnold Schwarzenegger doesn't have anything to do with what I'm talking about, and I don't care to guess what he would look like in a green tuxedo jacket and a kilt. I'm going to get out of your head now.

The second ride didn't go as well. By mid afternoon, I was awake enough to feel the pressure. I responded by zoning in so much that I over-thought everything. My form and positioning were sound this time, and I didn't feel like I was fighting myself as much on the dialogue (partly because I deliberately didn't say as much). I was a few seconds off on two transitions, and unlike the morning ride, I didn't make any eye contact with my group members (that's bad). I was so zoned in I literally didn't notice when Terry put a camera in my face for a point blank picture. But where I really blew it was on the rhythm: I was so focused on everything else, I didn't notice I was riding off beat for a majority of the song. That's a really big no-no.

My performance earned me what's called a "pass withheld", which means I passed the training and am therefore cleared to start team teaching with other instructors, but I need eight sessions rather than four before I can tape myself. Also, I can only teach three songs per class. Finally, I have to undergo another assessment within 30 days to confirm I've cleaned up the things I did wrong. Bleh.

Before I launch into my melancholy musings, let me say that I'm happy with where things stand. I've been cleared to start teaching, and I've already gotten a ton of invitations from my friends who are instructors to ride with them. I'm very excited about becoming the best instructor I can be, and I think I'll be a good one as long as I stick with it.

But at the time I received the grade, I was really disappointed...and extremely angry at myself. A cumulative seven hours of working on a seven minute song, and I still couldn't get it right. I've been doing RPM for years. I'm in good cardio shape. I've been focusing really hard on riding on the beat for the last two months, and in everything we did over the weekend, I was money when it came to the beat...except during the assessment. Ultimately, I set myself up to succeed, and then I choked. And that made me mad.

This was about more than just a two day training session and a grade. I really needed a win here. See, I often feel like I suck at life. There are a lot of reasons why I shouldn't suck at life. I graduated both high school and college with highest honors. People seem to like me. I adapt well to change and can handle lots of stress. I catch on quickly with jobs. I'm independent and self-reliant. I'm good at seeing other perspectives. I should be good at life...

And yet, I seem to keep hitting one dead end after another. I got sick of institutionalized religion and became a heretic, to the point that church and I came to the mutual realization that we would both be better off going our separate ways. So much for that ministry degree. It took me a few years to find something else to dive into, and when I did...well, being a valet was fun for a while. I proved I could handle being in management and advance quickly, but now that career seems to have come to an unpleasant end. I've failed epically at my few attempts at romance. My savings account is depleted. So here I am, almost 30, single, essentially jobless with no career aspirations (unless you count the mad scheme to open a hippo farm by the Grand Canyon) just counting down the days until I move to New Zealand in hopes that something there will kick-start my life.

Like I said before, I needed a win. I think that's ultimately why I decided to go ahead and make a run at RPM certification. I knew it would be a hard process, and that getting through it would be good for me. This isn't about being a fitness instructor. Heck, I'm not a fitness freak---you should see how I eat! I expect I'll do this for a year or two or five, and then, like with most things in my life, I'll get bored or disillusioned or realize it isn't worth the effort and walk away. But what this is really about for me is accomplishing something difficult. And I did...or at least, I accomplished the initial goal, which opens the door for more challenges down the road.

I've spent large chunks of the last two days working on more songs. I'm iced in right now, so I haven't been able to actually work on them on the bike, but things are coming along well. I'm about to teach for the first time. I've got something to be excited about for the immediate future, and I've got a phat bass sending the blood coursing through my veins.

It has been a long time since I awarded a Rockstar, but I'd like hand one out now. For those new to the blog, Rockstar awards are for people who exhibit character and/or deeds way beyond what you might typically expect from your fellow human beings. This time, I give one to Stephanie, my old RPM friend who facebook chatted with me for over an hour Sunday night, helping me gain a better perspective on the outcome of my training session. Thanks, Steph.

Winter League: Week 2

2011-01-17T21:38:00.000-08:00

I was going to write a deep and contemplative (and probably melancholy) post tonight, but then Jeff came home and cooked up the best steak I've ever had. Now I'm happy. Being happy reminded me that I didn't do a write-up on our latest Winter League action. So I will now remedy the situation while I bask in the reality that an unemployed derelict can eat a $140 slab of meat.

It turns out games are to 15, as opposed to the 13 we played to last year...and last week. Who knew? Not us, obviously. Gotta love unofficiated sports.

The schedule had us facing off against a pair of teams who figure to be among the strongest in the league. To complicate things further, we were missing some of our key players. Among the cast of absentees:

*Brian, who was out snowboarding. For the record, Brian was on my team last year and he blew out his knee while skiing. Good to see he learned his lesson.

*Lindsey, his girlfriend, who obviously cares neither about his health nor the well-being of the team.

*Carl, whose beard alone possesses more frisbee skills than a normal player's entire face. I know what you're wondering, and yes, Carl did injure himself falling off a ladder.

*Hugh, the professional roller hockey player, who woke up that morning with severe back spasms. We expect him to roid up and be good to go by next week.

*Jason, our super quick high school kid who decided to play soccer that day. Poor choice.

*Doom, whose name isn't actually Doom, whose frisbee prowess is only exceeded by his ability to run his mouth. We're not sure why he wasn't there.

*Scott, who promised the team he would bring beer. He obviously did not.

*Scott's mom, who is on the email list even though she isn't actually on the squad.

Our first game was against "Huck Season!" which isn't a very good name. Look, I know huck rhymes with duck, and Elmer Fudd occasionally hunts Daffy Duck, but is that really the best they could come up with? Apparently not. What they lacked in creativity, however, they made up for in team speed, jumping out to an early 2-0 lead. But then we turned on our awesome and cruised to a 15-8 victory. It was surprisingly easy.

Next we played "Markin' Martians." Now there's is a stellar name.* The Markin' Martians had a bunch of wily veterans, many of who play together outside of Winter League. We came out guns blazing, and before we knew it we were up 14-5. I came out on the field to close it out with the last point. The other team scored. Then they scored again. and again. So now it's 14-8.

*[For the uninitiated, the mark is the defender who guards the thrower and makes it difficult for him or her to throw. In its verb form, it refers to the act of guarding the thrower.]

Let me take this opportunity to re-introduce two characters who are no strangers to this blog: Colby and Burman. I've been playing frisbee with both of them for years, and believe me when I say, no one loves sitting on the sidelines watching the game more than those guys. So it's 14-8, and the opposition has scored three straight with me on the field. Colby and Burman get up and sprint to the line. Why? I know what you're thinking, and yes, they only did so in order to get me off the field. I would like to point out that those pesky Markin' Martians scored another point, then Colby and Burman sat down, and then we finally closed out a 15-9 victory.

So that's that. We're now 4-0, and next week we play the only other undefeated team. Bring 'em on!

Winter League Begins: Week 1

2011-01-08T20:10:00.000-08:00

Opening Day was delayed by over a month. We got kicked off the fields we've been using for the entire existence of the league, getting banished to the boondocks known as Oak Point, TX, population 3,467. All the forces of nature in the cosmos conspired against us.* But nothing---nothing---could keep us down forever. Ladies and gentlemen, Winter League frisbee has arrived.

*[That last one might have been a bit of an exaggeration.]

I got drafted in the fourth round by none other than my roommate, Zack. Considering there are 14 teams in the recreational league, if you do the math, you would understandably come to the conclusion that I am among the 50 or so best players in the draft. That would be an erroneous assumption. Zack clearly doesn't know what he's doing...worst captain ever. As such, I have taken upon myself the role of team scribe. Not only do I speak on behalf of the captain (because he doesn't have anything worth paying attention to) but I will also be chronicling the saga that is this season. Thus, I begin:

This year's theme is Looney Toons, and our team name is Sufferin' Huck Attack.* For the uninitiated, a huck is a long throw, and yes, our offensive attack centered on the huck has great potential to suffer.

*[Someone smarter than our captain (whose identity will remain confidential for security purposes) proposed "Wile wE smoke Peyote." Sadly this name was not submitted, and the creative genius that flows as the lifeblood of this world was once again crushed beneath the tyrannical boot heel of orthodoxy.]

Our first game was against Acme Hammered Co., whose captain is notorious for drafting a really bad team full of players more interested in inebriation than, you know, playing ultimate frisbee. Hence the moniker. Also, their jerseys are pink. We got off to an inauspicious start by turning the disc over on the second throw of the season, right in front of the opponent's end zone. They scored. We answered with a score of our own. What followed was a comedy of errors filled with some of the most appallingly bad throws you can imagine, resulting in a point that lasted about 15 minutes. We finally pushed one in to make it 2-1...and then went on a roll that ended with a 13-3 thrashing. Strong start.

Our second game was against Swill the Wabbit. For the uninitiated, swill is a generic turn for a lousy throw (as in, a vast majority of what we unleashed during the third point of game one). We were up 7-0 at halftime, and went on to steamroll them 13-2.

There's not a whole lot to say other than this: my team is crazy awesome this year. I think our best seven on the line will be better than anyone else's, although there are a couple teams that might give us a run for our money. What's really going to set us apart, though, is our depth. We have three guys who are probably among the best dozen players in the league, as well as probably the best girl. We've got several high school kids who are really fast and know what they're doing on the field. We've got a couple wily veterans who will be great on windy days. We've got a few guys who have never played organized frisbee before who already have a pretty strong skill set. We even have a professional roller hockey player. I suspect we're the only team that can send out a really strong team, do an entire line change, and still have a really strong team on the field.

I'm excited about this season. Being on a really good team is fun anyway, but since we should have a pretty comfortable margin for error most days, I'll be able to log a lot more playing time at positions I'm not real strong at, and also be able to execute---or at least attempt---more crazy plays. For example, I nearly ended the second game today with a half field hammer. For the uninitiated, a hammer is a throw that you tomahawk over your head nearly straight up and down, and ideally it turns upside down before hitting the intended receiver. It's not a real high percentage throw, but that doesn't make it any less awesome. Well, my intended receiver dropped it in the end zone, but that's ok because we were up 12-2. Besides, that just tells me I need to keep throwing him more hammers.

One more thing before I close: after my glowing report on my new team, you may be thinking, "Wow, Zack must have done a really good job on draft day; he's pretty good at this." You would be wrong. He remains the worst captain ever.

Granddad

2010-12-22T23:19:00.000-08:00

My Granddad wanted to be a dairy farmer, and I'm sure he would have been good at it had the cards fallen differently. But as luck would have it (or wouldn't have it, in this case) a drought overshadowed his first three years in business. The drought meant he couldn't grow hay, so he had to buy it, which killed the profits. Didn't help matters that the new calves were disproportionately male. Never one to give up easily, Granddad eventually had to throw in the towel.

He got a job working as a janitor at some entity that had something to do with mining. Said mining-related entity was associated with a metallurgy school, at which employees could take classes at an extremely discounted rate. Granddad enrolled in a chemistry class...and did extremely well. This raised a few eyebrows: "Hey, the janitor aced chemistry---we may have something here." On the condition that he take another chemistry class, they gave him a job as a lab assistant.

Granddad would go on to finish his education and become the lead inventor at Haynes International, a world class producer of alloys for aerospace technology. By the time Granddad retired he had over thirty patents to his name, highlighted by the material used on the outer layer of the space shuttle.* He thrice made a magazine publication's list of top 100 inventions of the year.

*[Haynes International helped make the Mercury Capsule possible. After the mission, Haynes requested the key parts again so they could study them further. Granddad, though not involved in that project, thought his kids would think they were cool...so my dad actually got to take some of the historic pieces to school to show his classmates.]

Growing up in another country, and then moving to Texas (as opposed to Indiana) kept me from spending a lot of time with my Granddad. And even when we were together, it seemed we clashed as often as we jelled. I was an overly sensitive as a kid, and he's a tough love kind of guy. Furthermore, we both like doing things our own way. Whenever we worked on a project together, he was of course in charge, so he always got his way. This caused some lingering resentment on my part.

But even though I didn't always know how to get along with him, I've always had a respect for Granddad that borders on awe. The best way I can illustrate the phenomenon is through the game of spades. I became a bit of a spades fanatic in high school, and I always gave Granddad credit for teaching me everything I know. I'd throw out his sayings like, "Come high or stay home," at every opportunity. And if people questioned my logic/sanity, I'd just tell them my Granddad invented spades, as if that would settle the dispute.

The reality is, Granddad didn't teach me to play spades---my parents did. I didn't even play that many games with Granddad. But I distinctly remember one particular game. I was ten years old, watching over Granddad's shoulder from the peanut gallery as he picked up his cards. I saw the queen of spades and a few other face cards. I figured he'd bid two. Instead, Granddad slapped the table with a lack-of-hesitation nil bid. My mind was boggled. Granddad had just crossed a line, violating a taboo like I'd never see anyone do. Everything I had been taught said you don't do that sort of thing. But Granddad did.

He didn't make his bid. I don't even remember if he went set on the queen of spades or another card, but he and his partner went down 130 points. Granddad showed no remorse whatsoever.

He unlocked something in my little mind that day. With that one bid, Granddad embodied another of his favorite sayings, "No guts, no glory!" He taught me to look at a hand and see beyond the obstacles and envision the possibilities, and to go ahead and go for it no matter what the odds might say. And if you don't make your bid, well, so what?

Granddad epitomizes so much of what I admire and aspire to. He worked hard, turned a brutal streak of luck into an opportunity, caught a break, and ran with it. He thought outside the box and wasn't afraid to fail. And the guy never met a stranger. In any group he found himself in, there was a really good chance he would be the most well-liked person in the room...even if he walked in not knowing any of them.

Granddad beat cancer several years back, but the treatment really took its toll on both his body and his mind. As I type this, he probably has fewer than two weeks to live. I have a whole host of regrets---more than I can possibly keep track of---but one of my biggest is that I didn't get to know my Granddad more. Besides that spades game, here are some other fragments that stick out in my mind:

*Granddad took me outside to play catch. I didn't really want to---I wanted to play computer games---but there we were. We hadn't been out there long when the ball glanced off my glove and hit me. I ran inside crying, and we never resumed our game. A couple years later I developed a love for the game of baseball. Granddad gave me two of his gloves and my very first bat. Despite that, we never did play catch again.

*Granddad took my siblings and me to Lake Mississinewa for a day. I only remember two things: 1) It was really muddy, and 2) I had a fun time with my Granddad.

*Granddad's candy jar was always loaded.

*Granddad and I were down in the basement working on a minor project (that I wasn't remotely interested in). He thought it would be funny to play a joke on everyone else. We came up with a couple lines each, filled with insults and invectives. Then we yelled those lines as loud as we could. Then we grinned at each other and got back to work. I don't think anyone heard us, because no one came down or said anything about it later, but we were pleased with ourselves.

*I had just graduated high school. Granddad and I unloaded a piece of furniture from the back of a truck and carried it inside. He had to stop and rest a couple times---my first realization that his health was failing, that he wasn't immortal like he'd always been in my mind. During one such intermission, he confessed to me that one of his biggest disappointments in life was not having gotten to know me better. Being a stupid teenager, I just kind of stared at him awkwardly.

*I went to the doctor with Granddad. Was it for post-chemo treatment? I don't remember. I didn't know I was going with him until he told me it was time to go. When we got there, I sat in the waiting room reading my book while he went in for treatment. What I didn't find out until later was that he had asked my parents if I could accompany him so we could have some time together. We were supposed to talk while he was receiving treatment. But I didn't know this. I didn't even know I was allowed to go in there with him. Bad communication, and yet another opportunity lost.

I'm slow to bond and quick to detach. It's one of my most unfortunate character flaws, and it has been for as long as I've been mature enough to reflect on such things. I often feel pangs of regret when a friend moves away. I finding myself once again castigating myself over a missed opportunity for something deeper, had I only made more of an effort to let them in. On that note, I'm really not close to my extended family at all. I have like 40 cousins (don't even know the exact number) and I don't have a meaningful relationship with any of them.* I've missed out on so much because, in my interpersonal relationships, I almost always bid two rather than going for a nil. And with the impending loss of my Granddad, I feel that regret more than ever.

*[Case in point: my parents and siblings are hanging out in LA for Christmas, and my cousin Ginger just spent a few days with us. I hadn't seen her in nine years. I found out she's extremely intelligent, likes word games, and has an infectious smile. But we never talked about anything that actually matters. And now I probably won't see her again for a long time. This makes me sad.]

I've spent a significant portion of the last two summers camping outside a small town in Colorado. I've had the pleasure of getting to know Terry, a 70-year-old mountain man who has lived there most of his life. We've gone hiking together. We've discussed politics, philosophy, and theology. He showed me all the best places to find wild mushrooms---and which ones will give me weird hallucinations. I realized last summer how rewarding it is to have a 70-year-old friend. It's a shame Terry never had any kids, because he would have made a fine granddad.

Spending time with Terry brought home all I've missed out on with my own Granddad. It goes beyond just all the things we might have done together; I think Granddad could have been my close friend. I often feel misunderstood, which is probably a big part of why it's so hard for me to open up. But I think Granddad would have understood me. I think he would really get me. Our individuality has manifested in different ways, but I think at the core we're kindred spirits. I think the man who gave me my red hair (he had ten kids, not a single one of whom was a carrot top; I was the first grand kid to come through in the clutch) could have given me so much more. Maybe I could have given him something too.

I don't know if I still believe in heaven, but if there is one, one of the first things I want to do when I get there is grab a glove, go find my Granddad, and see if he wants to play catch. We'll have some catching up to do.

Why I Shouldn't Write Emotionally Charged Blog Posts at 2:00 A.M.

2010-12-14T08:08:00.001-08:00

Last night I dreamed that Cliff and Kristen Lee were my roommates. After agreeing to the deal with the Phillies, he informed Kristen that they were never married...still just dating. And since he didn't want to be seen with her in Philadelphia, he was terminating the relationship. Kristen then realized I was the better man and acted accordingly. Cliff Lee was very angry at both of us. He tried to play it off as contempt, but we knew it just stung his ego that she could recover so quickly.

It seemed there really was justice in the world...

Then my alarm went off.

It's a cold, cruel, Cliff Lee-less world out there.

Life as a Rangers Fan

2010-12-13T23:32:00.000-08:00

Forget everything I said in the last post. It was dumb.

Being a Rangers means one thing and one thing only: shattered hopes. Here I was thinking there was a very real possibility that Cliff Lee would follow his heart and take less money to sign with the Rangers rather than take his place among the mercenary cast in New York. Then tonight I find out that a) the Rangers actually had the highest offer on the table, and b) Cliff Lee left up to sixty-one million dollars on the table to sign in Philadelphia---home to the worst fans in all of professional sports. They traded him away last year for crying out loud!

This is like when you're in love with a girl and she says she really likes being with you, but then she goes back to her ex-boyfriend who treats her like crap. You tell yourself it doesn't matter, you're better off without her, she wasn't worth the effort. But it's not true. The truth is, you got your guts ripped out. You dared to believe you had something special going on, but it was all an illusion. And now there's a gaping void where your soul should be, and no matter how you put yourself back together over time, it's never going to be quite right.

Musings About Money and Happiness

2010-12-09T20:16:00.000-08:00

I think this is the first time I've ever spontaneously sat down to write a blog post. Most of my writing is inspired by my travels, and the rest consists of ideas that bounce around in my head--- sometimes for months---before I finally succumb to the need to express myself. But tonight is a night for restless pondering. Earlier today, the Rangers bigwigs visited Cliff Lee to make their last sales pitch in hopes of convincing him to re-sign with Texas rather than pack his bags and head for the big apple.

Here's what we know: The New York Yankees have more money than Ben Bernanke can print. While no actual dollar amounts have been confirmed, it is almost certain the Yankees have offered Cliff Lee the biggest contract. We also know that the Yanks have terminally obnoxious fans who have no qualms with booing their own superstars. During the playoffs in Yankee stadium, the fans poured beer and spat on the Rangers players' wives, including Mrs. Lee.

Here's what else we know: Cliff Lee really enjoyed playing in Texas. In his three months stay, he bonded with his teammates and said this was the most fun he had ever had playing baseball. His family likes Dallas, and it's close to their home in Arkansas. And if he signs the contract the Rangers are offering him, he and his family will be financially set for generations. (That is, unless Ben Bernanke has his way, but that's a post for another day.)

Cliff Lee's contract situation presents a microcosm of a struggle humans are so often faced with: money vs. happiness. Of course it's not completely black white either. The lefty and his family might thrive in New York; conversely, pitching for Texas won't force them to apply for food stamps.

The cold-blooded capitalist with an affinity for Ayn Rand in me says he should absolutely take the Yankees' money, which will likely be about $25 to $30 million more than what anyone else offers. He is an elite talent who has earned every dime he will collect in free agency. The finger-pointing, moralistic Rangers fan in me says he should absolutely turn down said $30 million, as it won't buy him the happiness he has found where he's at now. Besides, the Yankees are evil.

This whole situation makes me ponder, how often do we actually do the things we want? How often do we let materialistic comfort keep us from pursuing goals and dreams that will give our lives more meaning? Now let me be honest here: I've got a plank to remove from my own eye. See, I hate my job. I've hated it for almost a year. It's gotten to the point where I don't even take any satisfaction in doing something I'm really good at. And yet I stay. Why? Well, it's complex, but for the most part I stick around because the money is good.

I think we spend a vast majority of our time doing things we don't really care about and that don't have a whole lot of significance in the grand scheme of things, instead opting in favor of that which gives us what we want materially. And at the end of the day we feel empty.

Maybe I'm not actually speaking for anyone else here. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm just trying to make my own dilemma at least quasi-universal so I don't feel like as big a loser.

And maybe, deep down, the real reason I want Cliff Lee to re-sign with the Rangers is because I want to believe that in this case, taking less money is the "right" thing to do, and I want to believe Cliff Lee will do the right thing...because I want inspiration to do the same.

And That Just Happened

2010-10-22T23:51:00.000-07:00

The Texas Rangers have won the pennant. I'm still in shock. Rather than get all raucous like I did last week, I'm in a subdued state of euphoria. There was some screaming in the ninth inning, and a flurry of ecstatic high fives upon the game's completion...and I might have clasped hands with the stranger at the table next to me and gazed into his eyes as we serenaded each other with "We are the Champions." But it only lasted a few minutes. After that, I just sat down and quietly basked in a dream seventeen years in the making.

Starting pitcher Colby Lewis didn't have his best stuff early, and the Yankees hit some balls really hard. Fortunately, Elvis and his friends came to play. And then, despite a horrible performance by the home plate umpire, Lewis found his groove, lasting eight innings and allowing just one run. The offense did its thing, and the Rangers lead 6-1 going into the ninth.

I'll never forget what happened that inning. The Rangers brought in Neftali Feliz, their flame-throwing rookie closer who complements his nuclear fastball with a curve ball that's inconsistent but devastating when he's got it working. His assignment: retire the heart of the Yankees lineup and send the Rangers to their first World Series ever.

Feliz came out guns blazing, throwing high nineties heat, striking out his first batter on six straight fastballs. The next hitter saw nothing but fastballs and grounded out to first, leaving Alex Rodriguez as the last hope for the New York Yankees. He's really good...and for the Rangers faithful, he's the most hated player in the game. Basically, he left the Rangers on really bad terms, levying numerous disparaging remarks against his teammates, the organization, and the fans. Never have I desired so badly for a human being to fail.

Three more fastballs, all between 97 and 99 miles per hour. The count is one ball and two strikes. And I think to myself, "He's seen nothing but fastballs. Throw him a curve ball and there's no way he'll adjust." What next came out of Feliz's hand can only be described as majestic; Rodriguez could only stare stupidly as the pitch bent back towards the plate, shaving the outside corner, knee high. Strike three. Ball game.

So much I could say, and I can barely come up with anything. The Rangers are headed to the World Series.

There's a lot to like about this team. They play a really fun brand of baseball, and there are so many great stories about the obstacles individual players had to overcome to get to this point. The best story belongs to Josh Hamilton, who lost four years to a Heroine addiction. After hitting rock bottom, he not only got his life back together, he became the best player in the game. Due to his past, Hamilton doesn't do alcohol in any way, shape or form.

It's a tradition in baseball, when you secure a spot in the postseason, and any time you advance to the next round, to celebrate by spraying all your teammates with massive amounts of champagne and beer. When the Rangers clinched their division, Hamilton sat out the festivities. His teammates requested a change; tonight, the Rangers hosed their MVP down with ginger ale. More than anything, this is why I love this team.

I wish I weren't working tomorrow morning.

Do yourself a favor and listen to this.

Greatness Incarnate

2010-10-19T09:13:00.000-07:00

Why is he smiling? Well, I suspect you would be too if you were that much better at life than everybody else. Sadly, you are not Cliff Lee. Neither am I. As such, we lack an epic level of sheer awesomeness that only Cliff Lee can attain. It's a handicap we're all going to have to live with, and the sooner we're willing to deal with it and move on, the better off we'll be.

There is a silver lining, of course: Cliff Lee pitches for the Rangers. Almost as important, Cliff Lee pitched against the New York Yankees, and much like you and me, the Yankees are also not Cliff Lee. This is how events played out:

The first eight batters submitted to the inevitable. Then the Yankees left fielder had the audacity to attempt to reach base on a weakly hit ground ball to first base. Cliff Lee was not amused.

By the middle innings, the umpire was obviously feeling sorry for all the Yankee fans who paid good money to watch utter futility, so he shrunk Cliff Lee's strike zone. The Yankees got their first base runner in the fourth inning...on a walk that featured five strikes. To show he couldn't be bothered, Cliff Lee allowed a runner to reach second base with nobody out in the sixth, then proceeded to mow down the opposition in order, thereby lowering the Yankees' already dismal batting average with runners in scoring position for the series.

Yes, this is exactly what it looks like: the Yankees and the umpire are bowing before Cliff Lee, who does not even deem them worthy of his gaze. By the time Cliff Lee had finished toying with his prey, this is what Yankee Stadium looked like:

Yeah, in case you can't see it, that score is 8-0 Rangers. Cliff Lee's final line against the most formidable offense in the game: 8 innings, 2 hits, 1 walk, 13 strikeouts.

At this point, it seems pertinent to analyze exactly how he does it. Master scout that I am, I have discovered the secret of Cliff Lee's success. Please examine exhibit A:

Allow me to direct your attention to the far right hand side of the picture. WHAT IN THE WORLD IS GOING ON WITH HIS ELBOW? I have no explanation for what we're seeing. It's weird. It's freaky. No elbow should look like that and still function...if you are speaking of mere mortals, which obviously isn't the case here. Cliff Lee turns his wenis into a blade of doom that has a crippling effect on those who dare stand before him in the batter's box. And now exhibit B:

Ignore for a moment the Yankee who had the misfortune to match up against Cliff Lee and check out the latter's face. Note the crazed look in his eye. That isn't merely the look of a competitor; those eyes belong to a rabid hunter who will pursue you relentlessly until he kills you to death with his own teeth. But that's not all; see that goofy grin spanning the width of his entire head? That's the look of a sadist. So imagine you are a batter tasked with trying to get on base against this Terminator. You see the eyes and know he will end your life, and he will do so at his own pace and whim, and he will enjoy every second of it. No one can hold their ground against such abject terror.

In all seriousness, I've never seen anyone pitch like this. I've watched hall of fame pitchers in their prime ply their trade, and no one has performed at as high a level as that to which Cliff Lee has ascended this postseason. And the crazy thing is, he doesn't do it with any one dominant pitch: the guy is a surgeon out there, mixing pitches, changing speeds, and absolutely painting the corners of the strike zone. You can't take pitches because they will be strikes; you can't swing because he won't give you anything to hit.

Cliff Lee is a free agent at the conclusion of the season, and he's going to earn himself an enormous pile of cash. There is a lot of talk that he will sign with the Yankees, because they have substantially more income than everyone else and almost always sign the premier free agents every offseason. The Rangers are prepared to open the vault to keep him, but it's hard to imagine the Yankees letting someone outbid them if they decide they really want him, and considering how bad he made them look last night, their covetousness has to be off the charts.

There's a lot of moaning among baseball fans about the Yankees' inherent financial advantage. As a free market capitalist, I have to live with it ideologically even if I too hate the way it plays out in the real world. And unlike many sports fans, I don't fault a guy for taking the biggest offer out there---if someone were to offer me 10% more to do the same job, I would probably change employers too.

But if the Yankees do in fact offer Cliff Lee more money, and he were to call me on the phone and tell me I have two minutes to persuade him to instead re-up with Texas, I have a sales pitch ready. I wouldn't try to convince him that there's no functional difference between $150 million and $170 million. I wouldn't tell him how state income tax and cost of living make the offers even. I wouldn't bring up that he's from Arkansas, and Dallas is much closer to home than New York. I wouldn't even talk about how much more fun the Rangers are obviously having than their pinstriped counterparts.

Instead, I would say, "Cliff Lee (or Mr. Lee, or Mr. Cliff Lee, or Baseball Buddha, or whatever he wanted me to call him) if you go to New York, you will be the number two starter behind an inferior pitcher. If you pitch one bad game, the fans will boo you. If you lose a playoff game, especially if it costs them a series, the fans will despise you for the life of the contract. If you don't believe me, ask Alex Rodriguez, who has done nothing but put up monster numbers for them while they pine for the days of .220* hitting Scott Brosius, who was a "true Yankee." That will never be the case here. In Texas, you are already a deity. The citizens of Dallas are ready to tear down the statue of Nolan Ryan at the Ballpark and build one in your image if you so much as suggest it. What you've done for us this season has forever cemented your place in the hearts of a revitalized Rangers fan base; you could sign a seven year deal and never win another game, and we would still love you. So just imagine what it will be like when you turn this team into a dynasty. Right now, baseball in Arlington is exactly what baseball was intended to be. Come and be a part of it for the rest of your career."

*[That's a really bad batting average. I wouldn't tell Cliff Lee that, because he already knows...I'm just telling you. Actually, now that I think about it, most batters would love to hit .220 against Cliff Lee.]

I don't know what the offseason will hold. But until then...

It's Time

2010-10-12T21:57:00.000-07:00

I went to Addison Point, the former sight of Monday Night Manburgers with Brian Shane Blake, to watch the most important game in Texas Rangers history. What follows is the unedited transcript of the notes I took during the game.

Top of the first inning: Elvis Andrus single-handedly gives the Rangers the lead. He leads of the game with a single, then promptly steals second base. He then breaks for third, and as the batter grounds out to the first baseman, Elvis never stops running and comes all the way around to score. Unbelievably gutsy. It is time to admit that I am gay for Elvis. 1-0 Texas.

Bottom 1st: The Rays' lead-off hitter accidentally got a base hit. Just to show he wasn't mad, Cliff Lee allowed the next three batters to hit into outs rather than whiffing them. Nice defense from Mitch Moreland. 1-0 Texas.

Top 2nd: Ump calls Nelson Cruz out on ball four...F-bombs fly from inebriated fans around me. I have come to the right place. 1-0 Texas

Bot 2nd: No more Mr. Nice Cliff Lee. Interviewer: "How do you beat Cliff Lee?" Rays hitting coach: "You pitch good." 1-0 Texas.

Top 3rd: David Price has his A game. The Rangers are taking good at bats, but he's got his curve ball working to go with his 98 mile per hour fastball. This is going to be a low scoring game. 1-0 Texas. But Bengie Molina has stolen a base. I now truly believe everything is possible.

Bot 3rd: Sigh. If you can't actually hit him, try a series of swinging bunts and broken bat bloopers. Tie game. Keep doing your thing, Cliff Lee...you did nothing wrong this inning. Game tied at 1.

Top 4th: Cruuuuz! Don't admire your hit, you idiot---run the bases! That should have been a triple. Worst base runner ever!

AND TOTALLY REDEEM YOURSELF!!!! Cruz steals third, the catcher throws it into left field, and the Rangers retake the lead. Did I mention Cruz is a genius? If he triples, we may not score that run. Sheer brilliance. Cruz wasn't admiring what he assumed was a homer---he was strategizing, plotting his next move. 2-1 Texas.

Bot 4th: Cliff Lee is angry. He struck out the first two batters. Then he broke the third guy's bat, just to prove a point. The he struck him out too. 2-1 Texas.

Top 5th: Bottom of the order made Price throw some pitches. His pitch count is now around 90. He almost certainly won't make it past the 6th. The Rangers' offense is doing its job. 2-1 Texas.

Bot 5th: It's official: Cliff Lee hates opposing batters and everything they stand for. 2-1 Texas.

Top 6th: Unbelievable! Old Man Guerrero scores from second on a ground ball that was nearly an inning ending double play. A nearly unheard of play has now happened twice in one game. I love this team! I love baseball!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 3-1 Texas.

Bot 6th: I love Cliff Lee! 3-1 Texas.

Top 7th: Price is out of the game. Unfortunately, the Rays' bullpen is really good. 3-1 Texas.

Bot 7th: Dear Chuck Greenberg, Thank you for buying the Texas Rangers. I already think you're a fantastic owner. Now please, please, please, re-sign Cliff Lee. Do not even negotiate. Sign him for whatever he asks for...then immediately give him a raise. I am willing to give up my firstborn if that helps get it done. If he wants more, I will father as many illegitimate children as it takes. Sincerely, Josh. 3-1 Texas.

Top 8th: LOUD NOISES! I hate inning ending double plays. 3-1 Texas.

Bot 8th: Cliff Lee at 100 pitches and back out for the 8th.

And Cliff Lee has just joined the pantheon. Three outs to go. 3-1 Texas.

Top 9th: I can't do this alone; I'm joining a table of strangers.

Cruz base hit!

KINSLER HOMERZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!!!!!

Moreland doubles!

5-1 Texas.

Bot 9th: Dear God, I know you don't give a popcorn fart about baseball, but please let the Rangers get three outs without giving up four runs.

Cliff Lee is on for the 9th. I believe my prayer is answered.

Strikeout!

Ground out to third...great positioning by Young; that's usually a base hit.

Pop up to shortstop...Elvis backing up...calling for it...BALL GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm screaming myself hoarse, showing inordinate amounts of man love to dudes I've never met and will never meet again. "We are the Champions" is blaring on the jukebox, and I'm singing along at the top of my lungs. Free Jack Daniels shots for everyone...I take two. I don't know what an alcohol-induced buzz feels like, so I don't know whether what I'm going through now is that or a sheer baseball high combined with about a gallon of sweet tea. No, I have no expectation of falling asleep before 4:00 in the morning.

I can count on one hand the number of times in my life I have cussed. I think strong words should be reserved for rare occasions when you really need to express something strongly. An "F-the-Yan-kees!" chant broke out.* I hesitated initially, then came to the conclusion that if there was ever a time to use profanity, this was it. I unabashedly joined in. My next obscenity will come around the year 2012...or the next round of playoffs.

* [The uninitiated are probably wondering why we would choose such a time to curse the Yankees. In the Rangers' only three prior post season appearances, they were summarily dispatched in the first round...each time by the Yankees. There's some serious bad blood there. But this year we advance. And who is our next opponent? You guessed it. So bring on the league championship series...and fornicate the Yankees!]

I could not have asked for a better game. The Rangers played their brand of baseball and came out on top. All season long, they have lived and died by aggressive base running, sometimes using it to eke out a game they had no business winning, sometimes running into some really stupid and costly outs on the bases. Tonight they ran the bases like I've never seen a team do in 17 years of watching baseball, and they made it work. Amazing. The game was close enough through eight innings to be a perpetual nail-biter, and Kinsler's jack in the ninth is probably all that prevented me from a heart attack in the bottom half of the ninth. Oh, and CLIFF LEE!!!!!!

Seventeen years of baseball Purgatory are over. This is the best day of my life. Ok, this is probably not true, objectively speaking, but I am in no way objective right now, and it has nothing to do with Jack Daniels.

The waitress comped my tea. I told her this was the best day of my life and asked if I could give her a hug. She obliged me.

I'm home now. My roommates are pretty sure I have an alcohol-induced buzz. My stomach burns. No more Jack.

Tonight I indulged in most of the deadly sins: drinking, cursing, fraternizing with opposite sex, and loud music---the only ones I missed are illegal drugs and dancing. I'm spent (though still not remotely tired). See you all in the league championship series. Thanks for stopping by.

It All Comes Down to This

2010-10-12T09:09:00.000-07:00

I've been a Texas Rangers fan for 17 years. In the summer of 1993, my family moved to Dallas about three weeks ahead of all our stuff. Not knowing anyone and having nothing to do, I tuned in to the local telecast one evening at my mom's suggestion. I was hooked instantly. There's just something magical about the sound of a bat on the ball, a big sweeping curve ball, a diving catch, the hit-and-run play---either you get it or you don't. I got it.

Over the years, the Rangers have given me many fond memories. But to be completely honest, it has been a brutal ride. For those of you who don't follow baseball, the Rangers have historically been an abysmal franchise. They have been to the playoffs four times in 50 years, and they're the only modern team to never win a post season series. There have been a few near misses, but usually they're just so bad you know they don't have a chance before summer even arrives. But things are different this year. The unofficial slogan coming into spring training was "It's time!" And indeed it was, as the Rangers claimed the west division crown for the first time since 1999.

On Friday night, I logged onto the interwebs for the first time in a week to see the Rangers had jumped out to an improbable 2-0 series lead against the number one seeded Tampa Bay Rays. Just one more win and we advance to the league championship series. I got home Saturday in the sixth inning of a 1-1 gridlock. I screamed in ecstasy as Ian Kinsler drilled a homer to give them a 2-1 lead. And then, with five outs to go, the Rangers' rock solid crew of relief pitchers simultaneously imploded, leaving me stunned and deflated.

I didn't watch the game Sunday, which was probably a good thing, because it was dismal. And just like that, the series is tied 2-2. One game to decide it all. The winner advances; the loser goes home.

Tonight, I place all my trust in Cliff Lee, the man acquired in July for a mother lode of talented minor leaguers. The best pitcher in team history takes the ball with everything on the line. This game---right here, right now---is why we traded for him. Everyone the Rangers traded away could go on to have a hall of fame career, but if Cliff Lee wins tonight, then it will go down as the best trade they ever made.

Cliff Lee isn't going to screw around. He'll take the mound and absolutely pound the strike zone, firing his best stuff over the plate and daring the Rays' hitters to do something with it...and they will fail.

I'm going to a sports bar to watch the game tonight, something I've never done. Quite simply, I want to be surrounded by loud, obnoxious fans with no inhibitions. I want to be with there with others who will be screaming obscenities at the umpire when he doesn't call strike three. I want to high five total strangers when Josh Hamilton jacks a 430 foot home run to give the Rangers the lead. I want sputter unintelligible sounds of dumbfounded awe when Elvis fields a ground ball that no human being should be able to reach and guns down the runner at first. And when Cliff Lee closes out the ninth inning by striking out his twelfth batter to seal a shutout victory, I want to yell and scream and holler and jump on the tables and show inappropriate amounts of man love to the aforementioned strangers, while the players in red on the big screen do the same with each other.

In Cliff Lee we trust.

It's time.

Feelin' Blue for 30+ Days: Charlotte, NC

2010-10-10T08:39:00.000-07:00

Friday night October 8: Deep in the ghetto of Montgomery, Alabama, is a place called Earl's. At Earl's, you can get some of the planet's best soul food. Meat, greens, taters, and even a drink, all for six bucks. It's really hard to find a better way to spend your hard-earned dollars.

I used to think Earl's was the only good thing to come out of Alabama. It appears I was one short in my estimation.

Feelin' Blue for 30+ Days: Further Adventures of Banana Girl and Pot Slider

2010-10-10T08:24:00.000-07:00

Thursday, October 7: Yup, Banana Girl has bestowed upon me the name Pot Slider...for obvious reasons.

*Blue Ridge is beautiful. We're probably a week or two away from peak season for the leaves changing color, but what we have now is still easy on the eyeballs. Mountains covered in trees, some of them covered in resplendent red or yellow, make me happy.

*Banana Girl likes to read books with titles like, What is the What? Um...what?

*We stopped in an open grassy area to throw a frisbee around. Banana Girl shows promising skills in this area.

*The thought occasionally occurs to me to use Banana Girl's real name. But this seems to be working, so I'm just gonna go with it.

*We hiked a moderately short trail that leads you by a river and a waterfall, then, depending on how vast a domain you wish to traverse, to a series of viewpoints that allow you to see everywhere you've already been. It was nice.

*Never teach a girl a game if she's immediately going to start beating you.

*Banana Girl has many needs. I often benefit from these needs. Examples include (but are not limited to) muffins, ice cream, fudge, choco tacos, cinnamon rolls, banana hot dogs...you get the idea.* Basically, she feels a need, indulges, and gives me half. This is a workable scenario; it's pretty much a symbiotic relationship. Banana Girl is really good at being hungry. I like this particular trait.

*[She also introduced me to nutella, which has effectively changed my life for the better.]

*The Blue Ridge Parkway is awesome, but it just can't contain us. We have left it behind in favor of the Smokey Mountains. Today we got up at the crack of dawn (or perhaps the crack of 11:00) and embarked on an eight-mile hike described by our guide literature as "strenuous." We passed a lot of people. No one passed us. Clearly we are the dominant hikers here in the Smokies.

*Don't drive through Gatlinburg. Just don't.

Feelin' Blue for 30+ Days: Otter Creek, VA

2010-10-10T07:51:00.000-07:00

Monday evening, October 4: Laurie's shampoo makes me smell good. In fact, on my personal ranking of shower accessories bummed off of random people I've stayed with, Laurie's shampoo is second only to Mama Savage's body wash.

*We started our road trip off right by strapping Montezuma the monkey to the front of Banana Girl's white Chrysler Seabring.

*There is a highway in Washington, D.C. which we do not name. It is two identical numbers; should you add a third like the same, it would be appropriately marked for Beelzebub. Imagine anything you might want to know while driving on any given highway, and then consider the means by which that information is typically conveyed: exit signs, mile markers, things of that nature. Now suppose you were trying to get somewhere on a highway that offered you nothing of the sort. You would be on the highway which we do not name. We will speak no more of this.

*The best way to get to the Blue Ridge Parkway from the north is to traverse Shenandoah State Park down Skyline Drive. Skyline is pretty much the same as Blue Ridge except you have to pay. After driving and admiring the beautiful Appalachian scenery a while, we stopped to stretch our legs on the popular Little Stony Man hike. Upon reaching what we (correctly) assumed to be the final lookout point, we found a skinny little trail sneaking out the rear. We decided to follow it...until we eventually surmised that we had stumbled onto the Appalachian Trail. Possessing no particular desire to stretch our legs all the way to Georgia, we turned back. Incidentally, we (intentionally) took another side trail all the way up to Stony Man, much higher up than its Little iteration.

*We found a pretty spot with frolicking deer to set up camp for the night. I cooked dinner while Banana Girl chopped wood. For those of you wondering at our respective roles, you've obviously never seen Banana Girl wield an axe.

*This morning, a giant cloud came down from space and landed on our campsite. All its brothers accompanied it to besiege the entire Blue Ridge Parkway. Visibility was minimal, so we took the opportunity to explore the country's oldest tourist cave, which has seen such distinguished characters as James Madison and Stonewall Jackson. In fact, during the Civil War, they had squads of both Union and Confederate soldiers visiting on the same day. They also used to have an annual ball down there, where a dollar would pay the entry for a gentleman and two ladies---don't ask. You could get married too, an option which persists to this day.

*More driving, more hiking. Once again, I cooked dinner while Banana Girl tended the fire. I have bestowed upon her the title of Empress of the Flames. (Before I left on my Jet Blue expedition, a few of my closest friends cautioned me against dubbing her the Hippo Queen. I have thus far refrained.) Incidentally, she is also now Lake Otter's daddy.

Feelin' Blue for 30+ Days: Washington D.C.

2010-10-02T21:07:00.000-07:00

*So Banana Girl picked me up at the airport. We then spent two hours driving around downtown D.C. because no one in the city bothered marking the roads. And whenever we stopped to ask directions, we could tell the people attempting to help didn't really know where to go either. The kicker was when we drove into a tunnel and came out the other side driving the other way. I must emphasize, this is only possible in the event of a breakdown in the space-time continuum. Remember what I said about the world not being ready for us?

*We went to this museum. I'm not entirely sure what sort of museum it was. At first it was mostly civil war injury stuff, with various skulls and things with bullet holes and shrapnel sticking out. Then there was a bunch of art work. Then the evolution of the microscope---we're talking three entire walls with row upon row of microscopes, all of which looked pretty much identical. Then there were diagrams of cardiovascular, digestive, and urinary systems. The kicker was the giant, stomach sized and shaped hairball. Yeah, some girl ate her own hair for six years, and the result was donated to the museum.

*Banana Girl and I are undefeated at spades. We even did the gratuitous 490 point nil to win the game.

*We're staying at the home of Jeff and Laurie Proctor, two of Banana Girl's friends from college. They've been showing us the high life, taking us out to a cupcake house and getting this life changing ice cream at the outside Farmers Market. This is the best dessert I've had since the cruise ship.

*Tomorrow we abandon our illustrious hosts and head down the Blue Ridge Parkway. Stay posted.

Feelin' Blue for 30+ Days: On to D.C.

2010-09-30T14:26:00.000-07:00

Tonight I have a red-eye flight from LA to Washington D.C. Incidentally, my pass doesn't allow me to fly on Friday, but it does accept 11:59 on Thursday. Clearly, I have once again established my dominance over Jet Blue.

Upon arriving in our nation's illustrious capital, I will be greeted by none other than the one and only Banana Girl. That's right. Let my personal experience bear witness that if you send a girl you've never met a baker's dozen bananas via priority mail, there's a good chance she'll invite you on a road trip down the Blue Ridge Parkway. And if a girl you've never met invites you on a road trip through Blue Ridge, you would be an idiot to not acquiesce. And I am clearly not an idiot. Hence, Barefoot Boy will soon be joining forces with Banana Girl.

I'm not convinced the world is ready for this...

Feelin' Blue for 30+ Days: Los Angeles, CA

2010-09-28T20:53:00.000-07:00

Hey, why hasn't Josh written anything on his blog lately? Did he fall into a live volcano? Was he involved in a plane crash? Did he run off to join a colony of white-faced monkeys?

Actually, I got bored of writing for a few days. Then I got the runs. Then I left my camera in Costa Rica, which made me sad and angry. Then I aged a year. Then I got the runs again, followed immediately by every single flu symptom imaginable. I'm down about 15 pounds and still dropping. The way things are going, you might want to keep checking the blog to see if I post my last will and testament...you never know, you might be in it.

I was in Montezuma last time I wrote. I spent a few days there just chilling and hanging out with my new friends. There was Rebecca, a British gal who taught me how to make Spanish omelets, and also screamed at the river guide that he smelled bad.* Then there were Jared and Sophie, a newlywed couple on their honeymoon. Actually, this is their first stop of fourteen on an around the world tour that will see them gone for three months...none of which is planned out. You can see why I hit it off with them. Anyway, they invited me to come visit them in San Diego some day, an offer I fully intend to accept.

*[Considering he didn't speak a word of English, the insult was probably lost on him. He may have picked up on the gist of it though, just based on the tone.]

I spent my last couple days in Costa Rica around Alujela, which is actually closer to the airport than San Jose. Most eventful thing I did in that area was to check out Poas volcano. Poas hasn't had any kind of activity in over 15 years, but its crater is still a steaming cauldron reminiscent of a giant witch's brew. It was so fascinating to stand that close---literally on the brink---to something containing such alarming levels of raw destructive power...and also beauty. Poas has a second crater you can hike out to, this one completely dormant and filled with a crystal blue lake. Two such drastically different faces of the same volcano, one of violent agitation, the other of serenity.

I also met this 70 year old dude named Richard. Richard is a retired American banker who moved to Costa Rica over 20 years ago. As we sat in a bakery shop waiting out the rain, he regaled me with his opinions on pretty much everything: politics, telephone monopolies, weather, health care, criminal justice, local cuisine, non-violent opposition, and lawsuits. At some point, he told me that a lot of people my age work on his ranch, and he tried to sell me on moving to Costa Rica. I told him I'd heard it's pretty tough to get a work visa. He confirmed it. I asked how you get around that. "Marry a local girl." I laughed. "No, I'm serious, that's what I did. Gave her $800. Half up front, and the other half after two years; you do it that way so she'll come find you when the two years are up."

Well, it's something to think about.

After leaving Costa Rica behind, I met up with Zack in Los Angeles, where we hung out with my brother, Matthew, for an evening. From there it was on to Vegas where we met up with Jeff: for the first time, the three roommates who planned a trip together were actually in the same place. It really is coincidence that I ended up in Vegas on my birthday. In fact, the craziest thing I did was eat at a casino buffet (which, incidentally, aren't as cheap as I had imagined.)

Zack and I rented a car with the intention of driving down to hike the Grand Canyon. I was really excited; I've wanted to hike the Canyon for pretty much half my life. The plan was drive out and hike down on day one, spend day two playing around the bottom, and hike back up on day three. But due to road construction, it took us a lot longer than we planned to get there, and by the time we did I was already feeling pretty sick. We decided to do a little rim hiking and get up early the next day. If I felt good, we'd hike to the bottom and still have most of the day to play. If not, we'd go road tripping through the Utah desert.

We went to Utah. If you're into road trips at all, this is a really worthwhile experience. The red rocks contrast the green in the shrubs and the yellow in the wildflowers, with all of this set against a blazing blue sky. I thought often of Donald Miller's book entitled Through Painted Deserts; I can't think of a more apt description. We ended up at Arches National Park, and since President Obama declared National Park Day (which was Saturday) would see free national park entries everywhere*, we didn't even need to pay admission. Arches is basically this huge collection of really interesting rock formations that you can explore and climb on. Among other things, I saw the world's largest natural arch. Yay me! It was a fun day, but I still owe the Grand Canyon a whupping.

*[I guess all America's problems are solved. I mean, surely the president wouldn't invest time on something like this if there were actual crises to deal with.]

I'm back in LA now hanging out with the bro for a few more days and trying to get better. To be honest, I'm really getting frustrated. I never get sick, and when I do, it goes away fast. This is the longest I've been sick since I was a kid in New Guinea. Man, this never would have happened to me if I'd stayed 28.

Feelin' Blue for 30+ Days: Montezuma, Costa Rica

2010-09-18T20:36:00.000-07:00

Thursday evening, September 16: Reason number 283 why Costa Rica is awesome: you can ride the same ferry as the cows. Let me explain.

You may recall Kalib, who helped me find the ticket booth in San Jose. He and his girlfriend, Anna, are college students taking a semester in Costa Rica to enhance their Spanish skills. We saw each other frequently while in Quepos, eventually decided to travel together to Montezuma, an extremely remote coastal town populated mostly by hippie, vegan, yoga types. The roads are really bad and it´s hard to find a bus that will get you there; you pretty much need four wheel drive to get anywhere in rainy season. Buses do not fit that description. But Montezuma is at the southern tip of a penninsula, so you can also get there by boat. The most direct route is by a speedboat that takes you straight there from the Americanized beach town, Jaco.

We got to Jaco a little after noon. We asked around, and no one even seemed to know the Jaco to Montezuma boat trip even exists. They all said the same thing: "Go to Puntarenas." Finally, we found a group of Peruvian surfer dudes who, with the help of a knowledgable prostitute, pointed us in the right direction. A cab driver took us where we needed to go, but the only guy there said he couldn't take us until the next day. We were also pretty sure he was trying to rip us off. When he left to get the paperwork, our cabbie confirmed the bogus nature of the quoted price, and recommended we indeed go another 70 km to Puntarenas. We took his advice. Sure enough, it cost us $2.40 rather than $40. A couple catches though: first, it was a ferry rather than a speed boat, so it took much longer. Second, it didn't take us straight to Montezuma, so we had an extra two hours in a yellow school bus as we bumped along the rugged road to our final destination, finally arriving well after dark. Oh, and there were cows on the ferry.

Mom, you might want to stop reading at this point.

Around 8:30 this morning, as I was lounging in a hammock at my seaside hotel, the world suddenly convulsed. A few minutes later, the hotel proprietor told me I should pack my bags quickly because they were evacuating the building. Apparently the tremors had registered 5.5 on th Richter scale just a few kilometers away. Such convulsions are rare here, and an earthquake of that magnitude could potentially trigger a tsunami. A similar incident two years ago emptied the entire town as its residents sought higher ground. The hotel proprietor recommended I stay close while he followed the news for reports on telltale rising water levels.

By noon I was hungry, so I wandered into town for lunch. Everyone seemd pretty relaxed, so I decided to spend the afternoonstrolling the beeches alone and thinking deep thoughts. By now the sun has set and the water level seems identical to last night. In my expert opinion, all is safe around beautiful Nicoya Bay.

Feedin' Blue for 30+ Days: Quepos, Costa Rica

2010-09-18T20:04:00.000-07:00

Tuesday evening, September 14: I checked my itinerary Monday morning, and it still showed a Wednesday afternoon out of Costa Rica, despite the fact I had been refunded for the international taxes. This is a problem, because if you miss a flight on the all-you-can-jet pass, they slap you with a $100 fine, and you can´t fly with them again until you pay it. So I went to the airport with Belle in hopes of working it out with a customer service representative. We said our good byes at the security entrance, agreeing that we should travel again in the future.

I eventually got my itinerary straightened out after every Jet Blue employee in the city gave me the run-around. Eventually, a manager with a plane to catch in 20 minutes just overrode protocal and fixed the problem, probably just to be rid of me.

To call the bus system in San Jose a circus would be an understatement of epic proportions. Despite being the main hub for bus transportation throughout the country, San Jose has no central bus terminal. Different companies going to different cities are scattered all over downtown. Oh, and the schedule is fluid. And I don´t speak Spanish. After about six dozen utterings of, "Hable Englais?" and "Autobus Quepos?" I eventually found what I was looking for. Even then, I would have been in trouble were it not for a fellow backpacker named Kalib who showed me where the ticket window was. (A booth in the back corner of a nearby shopping center, which is of course where anyone would look.)

But at long last, I found myself on the bus to Quepos, gateway to the popular Manuel Antonio Park.

I got up early this morning to head out there, hooking up with some Germans from my hostel along the way. You have to hike about a mile from the park entrance to the beach. They'll try to sell you an overpriced tour, but that´s dumb for two reasons. 1) All the really interesting stuff is on the beach, and 2) If you really want to see stuff along the trail, you can just stop and look wherever someone else's tour guide has set up a viewing scope. In this manner, you'll save thirty bucks while still not missing out on anything. But just so you know, if you see a side trail with a sign indicating a waterfall, that doesn't necessarily mean there's a waterfall down said trail.

The beach was beautiful and the water was pleasant, but what really makes Manuel Antonio unique is the wildlife. White-faced monkeys caper all along the beach, and if you're not careful they will shamelessly steal your lunch. I didn't even bring any food and they still tried to make off with my day pack. There are also giant lizards that apparently can get up to six feet long---the biggest I saw were a couple 30-inchers fighting over a female. There was also a raccoon that ran undauntedwithin a foot of where I was standing.

If you can't have a good time on the beach surrounded by coons, giant lizards, and monkeys, then there's something seriously wrong with you.

I ended up hanging out with the Germans---Julia and Lukas by name---all day. They offered me a couch to sleep on if I ever come through Frankfurt. Will do.

Feedin' Blue for 30+ Days: San Jose, Costa Rica

2010-09-18T19:31:00.000-07:00

Sunday evening, September 12: The currency in Costa Rica is colones. Do not mix this up and instead say cajones. Learn from my FAIL.

At Marco´s recommendation* Belle and I got up early to hike through Monteverde Nature Reserve. A series of trails wind through the wispy cloud forest, and though animal sightings are rare, the flora is at times breathtaking. The air is so damp and the moss so thick, it´s not uncommon to see four or five different kinds of plants randomly sprouting out from the same live tree. The enveloping mist gives the reserve an otherworldly feel, as if you´re perpetually on the verge of passing through a portal into a magical realm.

*(As he described in detail what we could expect to see, he told us to be sure to go slow and take in everything...including the moisture clinging to the spider webs. Truly, the man loves him some nature.)

We picked up an Austrian girl named Christa who was too stingy to pony up for the guided tour with the rest of her party---definitely our kind of girl. The three of us decided to immediately make for the highest point while the sky was clear.* Under flawless conditions, you can actually see all the way out to the Pacific ocean (Monteverde is in central Costa Rica). Well, in the 45 minutes it took to get there, the clouds rolled in and almost completely obscured the view. We elected to walk some more trails---starting along the continental divide---and come back if the sun ever made a reappearance. Sure enough, a few hours later, the sky was looking promising, and by the time we hit the viewing point again, conditions were about as good as we could reasonably hope for.

*(It's rainy season in Costa Rica. The rule of thumb is, the earlier you get somewhere, the better the clarity.)

With an early afternoon bus to catch, we made out way back to the park entrance. The three of us agreed the forest itself is prettier when immersed in clouds, so we pretty much got the best of both worlds: mist and fog throughout the morning, followed by a clearing at the end for a nice view.

I decided last night to stay in Costa Rica longer. Even with an international phone card, I was unable to get through to Jet Blue to change my itinerary. Fortunately, my roommate Zack was home and online, so I emailed him the necessary info and he called on my behalf. To show my appreciation, I will probably go at least a week or two without giving Zack the worst roommate ever speech. In any case, I now get an extra week in this paradise at the expense of Aruba, Seattle, and Portland. I actually wanted to keep the west coast cities, but there were no available flights between Wednesday and next Tuesday. Apparently there are a whole lot of all-you-can-jet derelicts in Costa Rica right now.

The ride to San Jose was uneventful. We checked into a hostel, took a swim in the pool, and grabbed a bite to eat. This hostel actually has a bar with a dance floor, and Belle, who is really into dancing---decided to address my utter lack of dance skills. She taught me some salsa, west coast swing, and blues. I actually took to blues pretty well...I may not be a lost cause after all.

Feelin´ Blue for 30+ Days: Monteverde/Santa Elena, Costa Rica

2010-09-18T19:00:00.000-07:00

Saturday evening, September 11: I have a ticket to a Sarah Jaffe concert in Dallas tonight. See Cheryl, I didn´t forget. But Cheryl doesn´t read my blog, so this opening is gratuitous.

Belle´s group of strange people did a zipline canopy tour this morning before on to their final destination in the afternoon. This was to be the end of our time together...except she won a free canyoneering trip for that same time block. And since the canopy tour was one of the major reasons she came to Costa Rica in the first place, she wasn´t leaving without doing it. So she ditched them for good having never actually done anything with the people she intended to accompany for the duration of her vacation.

Since canyoneering and ziplines are beyond my price range, I spent the day doing free stuff. I climbed Cerro Amigos, the tallest mountain in the area. This may sound cool, but Cerro Amigos is really lame. The trail isn´t so much a trail as a slick dirt road all the way to the top. And when you get there, the first thing you see is a radio station and its accompanying towers. Talk about ambiance. Not only that, the sky was so cloudy I couldn´t see anything from the top. Such is life when you visit a cloud forest.

Speaking of cloud forests, I learned all about them today. Marco, the extremely helpful hostel worker, explained to me the rarity of a cloud forest. Apparently, a unique combination of elevation, humidity, and limited temperature variance are required to sustain this fragile atmosphere. If temperatures rise even a little, the delicate balance falters and the cloud forest becomes a rain forest. It can take decades to return to its original state---assuming the change isn´t permanent.

After showing Cerro Amigos who its daddy is, I walked around Monteverde/Santa Elena, seeing as much of this nature-loving community as possible. Marco drew me a map of a good place to go bird watching, informing me that the surrounding trees are a favorite haunt of the quetzal. Strong rec...I saw three in about half an hour.

My travel companion and I are bonding. Belle looks and lives ten years younger than passport would have you believe. She´s good natured, optimistic, energetic, susceptible to spontaneity, and always ready to laugh. Furthermore, she talks a lot, which is good because it means I don´t have to. We make a great team: between my Lonely Planet and her Spanish/English dictionary, we´re pretty much unstoppable. It has been a blast having her along, and now I get her for two more days.

Marco, please step forward. For being the most knowledgable and genuinely helpful hostel worker ever, as well as possessing a passion for preserving and appreciating the beauty in this world, you have been found Rockstar worthy. Great is your reward.

Feelin´Blue for 30+ Days: Santa Elena/Monteverde, Costa Rica

2010-09-18T18:33:00.000-07:00

Friday evening, September 10: Rather than stay with her people at their expensive hotel last night, Belle opted to join me at Gringo Pete´s, the most dirt cheap hostel I´ve ever seen. We hiked out to the waterfall this morning, getting a lift from a pair of Moroccon friendly dudes for the last (and steepest) mile.

Let me just say that Catarata La Fortuna is stunning. Over two hundred feet of water cascade down through the jungle, forming a crystal blue pool at the bottom. The water is pretty choppy, but for those who aren´t into the whole drowning thing, the river presents a series of ideal swimming holes just beyond the base of the falls. The water is cold, but really refreshing after the hike up there.

My next stop was Monteverde/Santa Elene, two mountain villages that have run together to essentially form one town. It´s really isolated---by design. When word got out that Monteverde is an ideal venue for spotting the rare and resplendant quetzal bird, the flow of ecotourists began. The government responded by initiating pavement of the roads to this cloud forest paradise. Concerned about the massive influx of commercial development that would come with the tourist industry, the docals vehemently fought the construction project. They won. You can still get there by car, but the drive is pretty rough. A popular alternative is the jeep-boat-jeep route connecting Monteverde with La Fortuna: you take a four wheel drive vehicle to Lake Arenal, boat across to the other side, then another jeep into town. It´s really pretty, and it saves you two or three hours of bumpy maneuvering up the roads.

I didn´t realize Belle´s group was going to Monteverde, but once I did, I invited her to do the jeep-boat-jeep with me. It didn´t take much to convince her to ditch them yet again, and off we went; Gringo Pete gave us a good deal. As advertised, the trip was leisurely, the scenery was fantastic, and we got there well before Belle´s people. Rather than wait for them, she joined them at Pension Santa Elena the $6 local hostel with Lonely Planet´s highest recommendation.

Feelin' Blue for 30+ Days: La Fortuna, Costa Rica

2010-09-12T12:07:00.000-07:00

Thursday evening, September 9: Seeing new places is fun, and experiencing things I can't do at home is enthralling. But the more I travel, the more I realize that what I love most is interacting with other people. This strikes me as a bit odd, as I'm an introvert who embraces the whole rugged individualist lifestyle. And yet, when I think back on all the trips I've done over the last couple years, it isn't the activities that stand out---it's the people. Felix, the off-the-books German maintenance guy at Cape Town Backpackers who leaves the country every three months to evade visa restrictions; Louise, the British girl in Johannesburg who wants to save the world, and Ciara, the Irish girl who thinks I'm worth $100,000; Dominique, who charged the waves with me on a beach in Nassau; the kid from the Madrid hostel who was backpacking through Europe with a live hamster; Kebab Man in Granada; Terry, the old mountain man from Ouray who took me mushrooming...I could go on indefinitely.

I'm going to a lot of places before this month runs out, and it's going to be awesome. But what really excites me is the people whose lives will intersect with mine, whether for several days mere minutes, and the resulting memories that will stay with me when I'm too old and decrepit to do any of this anymore.

Belle came to Costa Rica intending to meet up with a random group of strangers with whom she would spend the rest of her time in the country, but she beat them by a day, which is how she was able to join Connie and me. The three of us went on a tour free to those who stayed in the observatory lodge. Our guide was a local guy named Alberto, who has a dry but hysterical sense of humor. He started off by informing us he's the best guide in Costa Rica "because I lose people." I guess the rationale is that the places he shows are so impressive people want to stay. He would often make a wisecrack and, particularly if no one laughed, follow it up immediately with, "Costa Rica joke." For example, after informing us in his deadpan manner of speaking about the quantity and variety of snakes in the area, most of which are well camoflaged, he uttered the following sage advice: "In Costa Rica, never touch a tree...Costa Rica joke."

His crowning moment came after he spotted some monkeys frolicking in the trees above us. After setting up his tripod he fixed his viewing scope on a stationary primate. Finally satisfied the settings were perfect, he stood back to let us take turns at zoomed in observation. As the first tourist bent to take in the sight, let out a chuckle (also deadpan) and proclaimed, "White balls." Yup, Alberto definitely focused the scope directly on the monkey's genatalia...which were white as paper.

It didn't take much effort to talk Belle hiking with me up Cerro Chato, a dormant volcano right next to Arenal. There's a pretty lagoon filling the volcanic crater, and you can hike down the other side to Catarata del Rio La Fortuna, supposedly the most impressive waterfall in Costa Rica. From there, you can get a cab or hike another five kilometers to the town of La Fortuna. That was our plan, and from there we would go our seperate ways, me to my hostel and belle to her group of strangers.

Cerro Chato was a really tough hike; apparently, Costa Rica doesn't believe in switchbacks. It was so steep in some places that all we could do was pull ourselves up three or four feet. Belle kept apologizing for for slowing us down, but in reality she dominated, and we summitted in less than two hours---it's supposed to take four. But by the time we reached the top, a storm was rolling in fast, and with the previous night's electrical storm fresh in our minds, we decided to return to the lodge, grab a cab into town, and attempt the falls the next morning. Lucky for us, we met Nick and Amanda on the trail, and they had a rental car. The couple graciously offered to drive us to La Fortuna, as they wanted to make a beer run anyway. As we were driving down, they told us about a free hot spring and asked if we felt like taking a dip.* Absolutely.

*[About 50 yards away, a fancy lodge was charging 60 bucks for their hot springs, the pipes running directly into the water we were playing in.]

For allowing us to hitch hike, providing a soothing and theraputic conclusion to our day, and being all-around stellar individuals, I present Nick and Amanda with the first ever Rockstars ever awarded in Costa Rica.

Feelin' Blue for 30+ Days: Volcan Arenal, Costa Rica

2010-09-12T11:32:00.000-07:00

Thursday morning, September 9: For those of you who don't know, I bought a thirty day flying pass from Jet Blue, good from Sept. 7 through Oct. 6. Basically, it's an all you can eat buffet, but with airplanes rather than pizza. And so I packed my bag and set off on a five week excursion that won't have me returning home until the pass expires.

I think I've done more planning for this trip than I have for everything else in my life combined. I spent hours plotting a workable itinerary, only to scrap it almost completely and start over. But I finally got it. I to catch a connected all the dots---or airports in this case---working around every obstacle Jet Blue threw down in front of me.

There seems to be one constant in all my travels: sleep deprivation right off the bat. This was no exception. Since Jet Blue doesn't fly out of Dallas, I had to drive down to Austin Monday nightto catch a 7:00 flight Tuesday morning. With no place to leave my car in Austin, I was forced to press upon my good friends Nate and Mary in San Antonio. Long story short, I got an hour of sleep on their couch, and another hour in the airport. I know what you're wondering, and yes, I did unroll my sleeping bag and crash on the airport floor. I then flew up to Boston, where I overnighted (five more hours of sleep) before boarding a plane for my actual destination: San Jose, Costa Rica.

Reading my Lonely Planet quickly convinced me that one month would be insufficient to do everything I want in Costa Rica. After much deliberation (most coming in the Boston airport) I settled on a six day plan of action that would let me do and see a majority of the things I most desired to experience.

So I'm sitting on the plane talking to the bald derelict next to me when an eavesdropping woman hears we have a mutual destination: Volcan Arenal, an active volcano that spits out smoke and lava for all the world to see. I had planned to go on Sunday, but Connie had reserved a private car that was picking her up at the airport and taking her straight to the Arenal Observatory Lodge. She invited me to join her, and just like that, my carefully planned itinerary was junked. We managed to pick up one more vagabond---a Philipino gal from Sacremento named Amabelle---while waiting in the immigration line.

Our plan was to watch the volcano for a few hours after dark, go to bed a little early, get up at 2:30 to see if it was doing anything, go back to bed if it wasn't, and get up at 5:00 to see the sun rise over the mountain. Well, it stormed heavily that evening, thoroughly covering the summit in clouds. But while we didn't observe any volcanic activity, Belle and I did get to spend two hours watching a phenomenal lightning display illuminate Arenal, all from the comfort of the jacuzzi. Rousing ourselves from slumber at 2:30 yielded nothing, although I did hear some rumbling. And the sunrise wasn't real spectacular either, but right after the sun crested the ridgeline, I looked up to see steam emmanating from the volcano's maw. Victory at last!

I'm sleep deprived. Next trip, I think I'm going to try the whole well rested thing and see how it goes.