The Funniest Name for a Lake?

Lake Pukaki is not the biggest lake in New Zealand, nor is it the oldest, nor is it the coldest. It does not have the most fauna; it’s neither the bluest nor the most breathtaking.

But it was my first exposure to an authentic New Zealand crowd-pleaser, which is why I’ll always remember it well.

Lake Pukaki was, like the hundreds of other massive lakes scattered across the country, carved by glaciers and mastodons, meaning that the water filling its shores was fresh, freezing, and the remnants of a river of ice. The air of the quasi-alpine setting didn’t bring blizzards and ice sheets to mind, but the range of snow-capped ridges, peering from beyond the lake, reminded us that the countryside still experienced chills.

As we approached the lake, we found that the hairy mastodons had been replaced by a copper collie, erected in 1968 in memory of those who helped graze the wild countryside. The dog, peering out along the shore -- which was dotted by purple lupins, fighting the rocky ground -- stood between the lake and its curator, the Church of the Good Shepherd. Born in 1935, the Church was little more than a stone-masoned shed, but its clear glass looked out over the lake, making a serene setting for weddings and spying on tourists.

As the elderly waddled, slowly, back into the bus, our bus driver began telling us the legend of our next stop: Aoraki. The largest, eldest son of the Creator, Aoraki was filled with jealousy at his father's love of Mother Earth and joined his three brothers in an excursion to our world. Apparently, motorized transport did not exist in pre-human times, as the four brothers' canoe was soon overturned in the choppy waters. The wind whipped away the warmth, and, unable to move, the brothers have were frozen in stone. (Kind of like what will happen to Portland if this damn storm doesn't soon pass.)

As crazy as my cynical self thought this story -- silly pre-science peoples! -- I quickly understood its influence when I caught a distant glimpse of Aoraki peeking through the distant clouds. More commonly referred to as Mt. Cook, this behemoth towered at 12,000 feet, higher than anything in New Zealand (besides my Kiwi roommate, who enjoyed the ganga, and how!) The top member of the Southern Alps, Aoraki had quite the history under its rather impressive belt. During the 1940s-earl 1950s, the peak was a tried and true staging ground for Sir Edmund Hillary's eventual assault on Mt. Everest. Hillary, whose impressive height should have been enough to tower over his fellow humans, grew up not far from Aoraki, and credited the mountain's hard, harsh conditions with leathering his skin and weathering his soul enough to become (presumably) the first human to conquer Everest, way back in 1953.

Aoraki towers over Lake Tekapo, a mammoth lake that stretches dozens of kilometers in length. (That's Aoraki, tiny, next to my head.)



I'm not sure if there's a Crayola factory nearby, but the lake look like it was constructed of billions of melted-down Robin's-Egg Blue crayons. Never have I seen a lake this vibrant, this thick with color, as Tekapo. The color drowned out the reflections of the Alps in a way that would have made Peter Jackson proud. After a couple snapshots of the lake -- we were never close enough to actually swim in the crayon-y gunk -- we were on our way to get a closer glimpse of the mountain named for what Mr. T would exclaim during his right with Sylvester Stallone never mind, terrible joke.

Next stop: Encountering Aoraki, eating cherries, and arriving in Queenstown

[End of post disclaimer: I finally put our cubic tonnes of snow to use today and went sledding four nearly four hours with some neighbors. Apparently, my Dad's not the only one whose age has caught his body off-guard (although I'm still yet to be hungover from a few after-dinner drinks like him), and I feel like I've been trampled by a herd of overweight rhinoceroses. Thus I'm about as useless as clothes while you get tased, so I hope this post didn't disappoint! Now, back to stomping on some Terrible Towels.]

Baby, It's Cold Outside

Really, really cold. Like, 20 degrees cold. Like, 30 degrees below what it should be. The reason many people enjoy the Portland weather is for a temperance that would make the Prohibitionists proud (and consequently angry, seeing as pride is a Deadly Sin). Never have I seen a storm this prolonged, and if you've lived in the city under 30 years, neither have you.

But I guess I should have seen this coming. After all, it was only 10 days ago that, walking to Tracy's car, the marshmallow-sized flakes flew around us, nearly big enough to be audible as they hit the ground. Not in New York -- in Houston. I have friends from Rice who have never seen snow, who believe its existence is like global warming -- factually-based, but something that, without visual evidence, is only discussed.

Well, they've seen it now. But I'm glad they aren't joining me for the holidays in Portland, because they may not have been able to compute this much frost, flowing sideways across my cars and covering everything in a blanket of Alaskan white. I'm barely able to fathom this much snow myself. Portland's had a couple memorable snowstorms in recent years -- in 2004, a week of school was axed, while in 2006, slip-sliding down the hills on garbage bags and lunch trays was the mode of transport over a two-day stretch.

But this time, it's different. Not just because I'm listening to Katy Perry, not simply because the Blazers are dealing with destiny, not simply because it's a Saturday afternoon and I don't have a Stanich burger calling my stomach home. This time, I'm annoyed.



Yup, you read that right. I'm peeved at this white stuff. It's cramping my style, it's impinging on my plans, and it's keeping me from going out and exploring the Portland I had every intention of picking apart. After reading the Portland Mercury blog for the last four months, I was looking forward to all the Powell's readings and the concerts at the Aladdin Theater. All the nooks and crannies of the under-21 Portland were ready to be parsed.

But then this damn storm hit, and I'm stuck inside, blogging my complaints and illegally downloading borrowing Starcraft from friends I've never met. So much for my plans of exploring the city I've only superficially met. I know the Starbucks on 23rd, I know the Hollywood District, but, to paraphrase Donald Rumsfeld, there are places I know I don't know. (I never understood the criticism for his statement - it's pretty simple, if you think about it.)

In the meantime, I'll be watching my Dad stack our life-saving logs -- albeit in a damper-less fireplace -- and my Mom sing the first line "Tiny Bubbles" over, and over, and over, and over, and over....someone needs to introduce her to music that's come out since 1967. My brother, currently, is sledding Dead Man's Hill with a purple headband and a gang of college hooligans. The pets, of course, are fat and content, lolling by the fire and waiting (surprisingly) patiently on meals. As for me, I have every intention of finally consuming a Taco Bell meal, six months in the making.


And I'll be doing by best impression of Robert Falcon Scott, the great Antarctic explorer whom New Zealanders absolutely revere. Upon my return to the house, I have every intention of striking this pose, followed by heating some popcorn, watching some movies, and dominating my family in Scrabble.

Heck, that doesn't sound too bad. Maybe this snow isn't quite so annoying as I thought. Let's just hope my Taco Bell isn't cold by the time I get back.

Mmm, brrr-itos.

Jeez, I Hope This Doesn't Offend

Please, don’t take offense, Phil. And Elisha, it’s nothing personal.

But guys, it’s time to grow up.

Maybe I’ve been subscribing too much to the Judd Apatow School of Crude, Base, and Immoral Thoughts, but there’s no reason for last week’s uproar surrounding the golfer and the girlfriend.

For those who may not have seen the recent news, Phil Mickelson, he of southpaw putts and a penchant for heartbreaking losses, was addressed by someone else’s caddie in rather odious terms. The word seems to have, ahem, pricked at the thin skin of Mickelson, a golfer known more for his pudgy, pouty dregs than his powerful, prolonged drives. But the real crime, it appears, was not that Mickelson’s tender feelings were trod upon; rather, it’s the fact that the name-calling came from the caddie of the GOAT, Tiger Woods.

In similar straits as the droopy Mickelson is Elisha Cuthbert, best known as “The Girl Next Door,” who seems to have made a few enemies along her way to stardom. Cuthbert may have broken onto the scene as Jack Bauer’s daughter that girl from “Are You Afraid of the Dark?”, but she’s since broken the heart of the wrong hockey player. With his spirit charred by Cuthbert’s burn, former boyfriend Sean Avery, late of the Dallas Stars, resorted to throwing Cuthbert back into her “Next Door” role by calling her an alliterative synonym for “unkempt after-firsts”. (Sorry, there aren’t many synonyms for “seconds.”)

According to the fervor meeting each “offensive” disturbance, you’d think that Avery and Williams had been pulling Bernard Madoff’s strings or were at least responsible for the (hilarious) shoe-throwing fiasco of Bush’s victory lap.

But in fact, these two professionals did something far more unseemly, far more insidious than actual ruining bank accounts or expressing their disgust at the pointless loss of thousands of lives. They called other people names.

That’s right. These two men, decidedly successful at the highest levels -- granted, Williams is simply an intelligent pack mule, but can you name any other caddies on the circuit? -- brought out their second-grade weapons of derisiveness and bombarded their enemies with (shudder) names.

Now, you’d think that these two would have earned certain leeway when it comes to expressing their opinions. After all, Williams has prodded Woods to become God’s gift to golfers, eclipsing record upon record and earning the most words of accolade since JFK. And while Avery may not have earned the hardware that lines Woods’ yacht, he has, arguably, accomplished something far more noteworthy: piqued my (and many others’) interest in the NHL. As much as Gary Bettman turns me off with his elfish looks and corporate folly, it’s the crazed warriors like Avery that keep me returning to the once-moribund NHL.

However, it seems like Bettman, with his penchant for rash decisions, has once again decided that must steer away from the best interests of his sport. Claiming that Avery had stepped the invisible line of offensiveness, Bettman promptly suspended the left winger from the league. As much as I hate to say it, I can begrudgingly see where Bettman is coming from on this one. Avery’s comments were not a flash in the pan, rarer-than-a-Dick-Cheney-supporter occurrence. In recent years, the Canadian has not necessarily been the perfect little angel of the sport: From calling Mighty Ducks announcer Brian Hayward a gritty pretty bad player and announcer to calling his the NHLPA’s management a pack of liars, Avery’s past has been more checkered than a Guy Ritchie movie. But for Avery to be suspended in a matter of personal relations, at a time when the only thing controversial about the NHL is whether to leave the Wrigley Field ivy up in next year’s outdoor game, is simply stupid. The guy had a slip of the tongue, perhaps, but for him to lose both pay and prestige is misguided and sets an ugly precedent.

Like Avery, Williams’ days in the sunshine have netted a share of hoopla. The Kiwi has often clashed with fans attempting to snapshot the Woods, at one point snatching a spectators’ camera and depositing it, $7,000-lens-down, into a nearby lake. As the Rahm Emanuel to Woods’s Barack Obama, Williams hasn’t hesitated to crack a few heads along the links. Fortunately for the sake of good humor, Woods understood his caddie’s sentiment and smirkingly noted that Williams would, of course, be back behind the bag.

The latest rounds of controversy may have forced a couple people to check out Urban Dictionary, but let me assure you, there are worst things out there. There are worse names, there are worse intentions, and there are worse ways to run afoul of fans, teammates, and sponsors. The Dallas Stars’ management appears to have skin as thin as the NHL’s margin of error, and Avery has been axed for the remainder of the season, unleashing a purported barbarity in the sport of barbarians. Meanwhile, by forgoing punishment, the generally stiff-upper-lipped gentry of golf actually let the content dictate their standards, rather than the other way around. They -- and the game of golf -- are better for it.

No one threw sticks, no one heaved stones, and no one trudged home with broken bones.

And Phil, Elisha, I hope I don’t offend you when I tell you to grow up, and grow a pair.

They Say You Never Forget Your First

And it's true, you don't. Kiss. Car. Bionicle Lego set. All of them memorable, keepsakes, safe from the hurricane of emotion and turmoil that the rest of life turns over.

So it's safe to say that even without the otherworldly performance of Brandon Roy, tonight's Blazers game, my first of The Resurgence, would find its place in the lockbox of the heart.

But then Roy had to go and roar, deafeningly, like he did. Then Travis Outlaw had to snipe with stepback swishes. Then Greg Oden had to bash Shaq, ptu away soul-shaking dunks, and swipe two huge offensive rebounds in the waning moments. Then the Blazers had to go and play like they did, in the first game I could watch all year.

See, Australia's NBA contract is about as existent as the Bush Administration's limits on terror, meaning that the only Down Under shots I saw of the Blazers were the chopped-up dregs of the internet. Without download speed belonging to the dial-up dinosaurs of the '90s ("Crack Bing Zzzzzzzzp Doom, Doom, Enchhhhhhhhxxxxxxxxx: The Soundtrack of the Decade"), I went without seeing Oden suited up, without watching Rudy Fernandez float like a Spanish butterfly, without catching Roy continue his development to transcendentalism.

But tonight, braving both snow and the extra 30 pounds wrought by my Mom's desserts, I found myself finally ready to see the fruits of the team's labors. Kyle's 52-inch TV held the goods, and with Marv Albert calling the shots, I was ready to return to Blazermania.

Welcoming the Phoenix Suns, a team they hadn't beaten since 2006 (11 straight games, enough to qualify as "bothersome"), the Blazers did not take long to recall my feelings of fandom. Sure, absence makes the heart grow fonder, but 5,000 miles of distance could not hold a candle to seeing the team finally coalesce on the court. The most welcome sight, as you may have guessed, was a clean-shaven Oden - finally looking on this side of 40 - in his Blazers threads. And in the first few minutes, Oden looked the part that he will undoubtedly become. Matching against Shaq in the red-and-black paint -- in their previous meetings, Oden had only notched a paltry five points -- the rookie looked like Zeus warring with Kronos; I'd never seen the generational split more pointed than tonight. Shaq had clearly invested in the Butterbean diet, looking more like his gravitational pull would click into effect than ever before. The two opened the contest as if on a one-on-one mission, trading pound-and-dunks before finally realizing the others on the floor were teammates, not just fans dressed like the battling monsters. Oden, I dare say, showed up Shaq with a monster block on Amare Stoudamire, but foul trouble limited the 20-year-old to the bench for much of the game. The battle for the Rose Garden's heart, it appeared, would be fought on another battleground.


Gettysburg. Metropolis. The Rose Garden's backcourt. All places where heroes have been born. All places that Brandon Roy would thrive. But (as far as I know) in only the latter could Roy show that he is truly a star.

As the Blazers and the Suns traded baskets, it was soon apparent that the game would be a shootout. The halftime score was 66-59, and while fans looked toward chalupas, Roy was warming up for a run that would put Usain Bolt to shame.

Phoenix kept up the pressure, using Amare's gifts and Matt Barnes' threes to keep the game just out of reach for Portland. Soon, a double-digit lead arose, and as time wound down in the third, it looked like head coach Nate McMillan's plans for a win were heading out the door.

But the Roy did what he does best, which, frankly, is exactly what I, and the thousands of Blazers fans watching, expected. He turned the compassion dial down, keyed his Terminator ignition and kicked his game into overdrive. You could almost see his pupils turn an blazing red.

Roy, top of the key, Barnes five feet back, dribble through the legs, back up front, quick jump shot from the arc, swish.

Roy, fast break, going lefty, backboard-then-net, And One.

Roy, crowded with a pair of defenders and a Steve Blake handoff, leaping right to drain the three.

Roy, one-two-stepping, see ya, Shaq.

Roy, with the game tied 119-119 and 1:01 left, put up a game-breaker that everyone knew would fall. And so it did. A pair of Roy free throws later -- with a 19-21 night from the charity stripe, you knew those were going in too -- the Suns' fate was sealed.


124-119, Blazers. 17-10 on the year, 9-2 at the Rose Garden.

After the dust settled, the chalupas were consumed, and Craig Sager's jacket was hung, Roy was credited with 52 points. (FIFTY-TWO POINTS!) A career high, and second only to Damon Stoudamire's 54 points in 2005 in Blazers history. (Side note: The Stoudamire allusion doesn't count as foreshadowing. But maybe this note does. But can foreshadowing be self-aware? And doesn't it have to avoid being self-evident? Oh, the questions the English language poses.) The game ball, snug on his hip as time expired, was one Roy would be keeping with him for a long, long time.

Kinda like my memories of this game, I guess.

Listen to this!!!

Ever since I saw her serenading on Elf, I've always had something of a schoolboy crush on Zooey Deschanel. Maybe it's her half-dollar eyes, maybe it's her sweeter-than-thou attitude, or maybe it's just the fact that the girl can sing. Think Dusty Springfield meets Ellen Page. And after checking out NPR's Top 25 Songs of 2008, now I learn she's in a band: She and Him, comprising herself and Portland's own M. Ward. Try as I might, I can't pull myself away from She and Him's "Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?", which I now humbly present as listening fodder. Of course, you could always try out her doppelganger Katy Perry, if you're more of a cherry chapstick kind of girl.

Turning Blue in the Face, Part 1

The closest I ever came to suffocating was in high school, when some friends felt the need to exploit my ticklish tendencies. That episode ended with a blue face and my knuckles meeting someone else’s nose.

However, when I was suffocating in New Zealand, I felt no desire to punch the country in the face. Instead, I reveled in my breathlessness, which occurred over, over, and over again.

“New Zealand: Redundantly Breathtaking” has a nice ring, doesn’t it?

I flew into Christchurch, a terribly-named hub on the South Island, after the friendliest plane ride I’d ever met. (I suppose it helped that I watched The Dark Knight for about 90 percent of the ride.) The sister city of Seattle was nothing more than a quick stopover, a nap-break standing between me and my catered, cushioned voyage.

As I woke on that first day, I was at ease. My finals, somewhere between effortless and rigorous, were behind me, as was a kitchen full of fly-infested dishes and the constant bickering over whose turn it was to take out the recycling (certainly not mine, I can assure you). I was facing a new country, not altogether foreign — NZ nearly became part of the Australian Federation of 1901, and, like its big sibling, shared currency that looked more Monopoly than monetary. Lord of the Rings rang through my head, riding alongside excerpts from Flight of the Conchords, that too-awkward-for-words duo that sings about business socks and how she’s the prettiest girls in the…room.

As the trip was at my own expense, I started a pattern by skipping breakfast, so I don’t know if the shivers as I waited were from the dewy chill or the stomach pains.


After what seemed liked weeks, the bus air-braked up. With two stories and a seven-car girth, the bus looked more like an apartment complex than a mode of transportation, but it got the job done. The passengers I joined were…not like me. Whether Japanese, geriatric, or oftentimes both, I felt more unique than my Americana would have alone produced. Near the front of the bus, I don’t think any of the Greatest Generationers saw my looks of unease as the first thoughts of inaction crossed my mind.

A tour of adventure, this would not be. Comfort would be the game, and our ride commenced.

A quick fact about New Zealand: With 4 million people in tow on more land than the British Isles, the population density of the country is minuscule. Fortunately, the country isn’t entirely vacuumized — the empty areas are brimming with the country’s main export (and also it’s main inside joke), sheep. 38 million of them. Look at that ratio. Now imagine what the sheep-herders, lonely from the bare expanses between civilization, get about doing in the middle of the star-speckled nights. Baaaaad (pun intended) news.

So, when I tell you that I saw more sheep than I know how to describe, you’ll hold your cries of lethargy. These sheep were everywhere, like pieces of lint on New Zealand’s sweater (which would, of course, be sewn out of lint), spilling out at every opportune moment. Just when you thought you’d escaped the hordes, you’d turn to find more. There are so many sheep that one rancher has resorted to helicoptering his flock into herds; there are so many sheep that New Zealand’s most famous person is actually Shrek, a Merino sheep who lost 60 lbs. of wool after seven years of dormancy. M. Night Shyamalan’s The Happening could have made a killing by replacing deadly tree toxins (ooooh!) with murderous sheep. Oh wait, that may have already been done:



With the sheep dotting the land as far as my eyes could stretch, I lulled in between consciousness and sleep. The bus driver informed us that Icebreakers was one of the country’s most well-known exports, and we should watch for billboards pointing toward their headquarters. I drowsily imagined hobbits smacking some Icebreakers gum during Fellowship of the Rings, wondering how much the cross-promotion cost and whether or not Peter Jackson held a controlling stake in the company, or if he ever blew bubbles and found it sticking in his beard.

The next thing I knew, we were pulling up to a tourist cafe, and any dreams I’d had of a pig-tailed Peter Jackson popped. As I entered the store, I saw that Icebreakers didn’t have anything to do with gum — instead, it was the name of the leading wool company of this tiny nation. I picked up a mini-magazine sporting their goods but found it nearly impossible to get beyond the cover. There stood a nude man with a tanned, muscular human body — think me with a darker ethnicity — with a well-placed leg and, strikingly, a giant ram’s head in place of a normal top. Clinging to his arm was a pale waif of a woman as they leapt over a glass-like pond. Nowhere could you find any hint of the company’s goods; rather, all I could see was some avant-garde attempt at an Other whisking away an attractive female. I felt my base instincts rising. “No! These ram-men can’t steal our females! They must be stopped at all cost! I must support those shear these terrible creatures! I must buy Icebreakers!”

So on second thought, it looks like the cover worked, and the magazine is currently sitting up in my room. (Fortunately, my adamancy at pinching pennies meant I didn’t cause any sheep to go without their winter coats.)

Next installment: The first of New Zealand’s natural beauties.

Listen to this!!!

I’ve never been the biggest fan of NPR — no offense Garrison, but the second you cast Lindsay Lohan in the film adaptation of “This American Life,” I looked elsewhere for entertainment. However, NPR may have redeemed itself, although Garrison’s still in my doghouse. Courtesy of their audience’s input, NPR has released the top 25 songs of 2008. Although they whiffed with Fleet Foxes’ “White Winter Hymnal,” I finally had an excuse to listen to Vampire Weekend, a poppy rock band from New Yawk. And now I can’t stop. (Too bad Pringles has the whole “Once you pop, you can’t stop” slogan under wraps.)

Here’s “A-Punk.” Try not to dance. I dare you.

There Were No Hobbits, But Wizards Were Rampant

Stop.

Stop whatever you're doing. Stop lounging, stop eating, stop reading this infantile blog. Stop that confused look you have on your face, wondering just why I would ask you to stop digesting these words.

Stop it all, and go to New Zealand. Go to Expedia, find the cheapest tickets, and buy them, right now. Not tomorrow, not next week, not next year - now.

I'm a patient guy; I'll wait. I'll catch you in a couple days, and then I'll tell you about my voyage.

Something to whet your appetite? How about the Milford Sound, aka the most redundantly breathtaking sight in the world:



In the meantime, there are far too many videos to mull over, videos that should have been shared over the last few weeks, but have fallen through the cracks of either New Zealanding or resuming the adventures of Rice:

The Greatest Trailer Known To Man



The Greatest Trailer Known to Trekkies



[Side note: At Sunday's President's Study Break, I munched on a gyro as Chuck Throckmorton, the hirsute leader of Rice's Marching Owl Band, paced the stage eagerly attempting to dole out moon pies to informed students. As he began a question about molecular-bonding, I turned to my pals, and made an altogether whiny comment about how English majors are maligned at Rice trivia nights. But when Throckmorton threw the word "Ferengi" into the question, I instinctively yelled out "Quark!", not really knowing if I was right but more than willing to make my return known to the Grand Hall crowd. A half-second later, a fellow Star Trek fan yelled out the same thing, but my cry reached Throckmorton first. I immediately felt like Brad Lidge during Game 5, pumping my arms and turning my face into a strong visage of well-earned jubilee. Yeah, I won. As Throckmorton brought over a four-foot inflatable blue alien, I made sure to let everyone know who the champ was: Pointing to my alien's nether-region, I yelled "Suck on that!" to whoever would listen. Anyway, that's a weird story, so back to the videos!]

I like Mike Huckabee, I really do, but...

The Daily Show With Jon StewartM - Th 11p / 10c

Mike Huckabee Pt. 2

Barack Obama Interview
John McCain Interview

Sarah Palin Video
Funny Election Video

How did I ever survive without this?

Dispatch

Captain's (B)log, 120308: I've just returned from the land of verdant greens, aqua skies, shimmering waterfalls, and glacial carvings. The locals refer to it as New Zealand, but in all my years of traversing this varied and diverse earth, no land holds my esteem higher. Thus, I've dubbed this land, "Heaven."

Unfortunately, before I delve into the intricacies of Heaven - and the natives, their kindness, their thrift, their settings, and their unimaginable fortune - it looks as if the semester has officially wound down. No more class-based tedium (not full of Marx, but full of marks, both on essays and exams), no more charred, albeit delicious, cooking, and no more revolting Australian television. No, now is the time to pack.

My suitcases are beckoning, but fear not - this is not the last dispatch from the land Down Under. I'm not sure when the next notification will come. It may be tomorrow, it may be next week, or it may be Christmas morning (but probably not). But this blog is not yet over, for I still have a few adventures - and nifty pictures - my fingertips are ready to convey.

And now, for some blackened, crusty, delectable dinner.