Wavering courage

"How am I..." I trailed off, frowning at the icy blue water below, trying to judge the distance. Thirty feet, maybe? The question was an academic one at that point; everyone else had easily made the jump, throwing themselves bodily into the lake like so many keys flung carelessly onto so many kitchen tables. Even the girls. The primal schoolyard instinct to not be outdone by the fairer sex had already secured its victory; it was now merely a formal matter of how and when.

I was alone on the ledge now; the others had moved on to a different jumping spot that was supposedly higher and more daunting. I could hear their laughter and French-accented woohooery in the near distance, and again as the voices echoed off of the other side of the valley. Looking off to the right, I could see the tiny figures of people enjoying themselves on a small beach. Suddenly I became paranoid that they were watching me hesitate at the ledge. I scanned them for saracastic waving or cheering, but they appeared not to notice me. To be on the safe side, I tried to lean casually against the rockface behind me. If they did happen to look over, all they would see was a disaffected man standing on a cliff--one who clearly had more pressing matters to attend to than jumping off of it. I was in my underwear.

Had I been a little more mentally agile, I would have observed to myself that this was a metaphorically loaded moment indeed: there were cliffs and leaps and wavering courage and unknown depths, all coming in the first weeks after quitting my job, selling my things, and travelling the world. Instead, though, I stared sadly at a distant plant.

After some time, the drone of taunting and whooping once again grew nearer, until, Little-Rascal-like, they were back amongst the ledges and shrubs that surrounded me, wet and shivering and passing fresh beers all around.

I turned to them and said, "I need courage. If you all count to three, though, I'll jump. Will you count for me?" A happy flurry nods and yeses.

They counted, and I lept--with a barely audible "Mon dieu!" at the apex.

Icebreaker

The topic of consumerism has furrowed many a brilliant brow over the years, and about it, much has been written; so I will keep things brief here and only go so far as to mention that, in addition to all of those thought-provoking and articulate criticisms, there is also the drawback that consumerism is not cheap.

What I mean to say is, you can't wade three feet into a new hobby or interest without discovering that, not only have millions of people gotten there first, but they've perfected the getting-there to an artform and are standing by, ready to sell you precisely what you need to get there too. They have anticipated every obstacle and provided a cleverly located strap or buckle to negotiate it; they have water-proofed everything; and they've made it with a material so advanced as to make NASA blush and change the subject.

Which makes the things so damn difficult to resist buying. Get into fishing, and suddenly you are immersed in the dynamic world of fishing roddery. Deer hunting? Try sitting in this lightweight camoflaged sphere that comes with a cupholder. Etc.

When it comes to tramping--otherwise known as walking--the purveyors of just-the-thing are there in force. A specific brand, Icebreaker, has particularly captured my imagination. There are two reasons for this. First, all of their clothing is made with merino wool, which--aside from being light and warm--has the left-eyebrow-arching property of being stink resistent, thereby opening broad new vistas in the area of laundering frequency. Second, their advertisements feature a bizarre yet strangely arresting combination of stunning models and muscular he-sheep:

I mean, I don't know what the hell I'm looking at here but I'm pretty sure it's a harbinger of things to come. And in any case it succeeds in instilling in me an unhinged Johnny-Got-His-Gun stream of consciousness that only just rises to the level of shameful nonsense: "An $80 undershirt! Yes! Are those children? Good God that woman's ass is perfect! Sheep head! Look at these socks."

Why just today I was in a store in Queenstown checking out the Icebreaker goods on offer, and getting more agitated by the minute. After excitedly asking the girl at the register for a pen and paper so that I could "diagram some things out", moving into the corner of the store, and thinking deeply for forty minutes, I decided I was a) in over my head and b) hungry for hamburgers. I returned the pen and took my leave.

But it was a narrow escape! If I am to avoid buying some kind of high-performance legging or technical sock, I will have to keep my wits about me.

I've already bought a shirt.

Google search term

This is the Google search term entered by a small gray kitten, alternately called "Rambo" and "Motherfucker", as she stood on my keyboard:

;lllllll76666664444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444498888888rffffffjg5-=======================================hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrjklllllllllllllllllllllllll,,00000000000000,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,n

It's the worst search term I've ever seen. Cats can't use the internet.

Grim curiosity

I've always had a grim curiosity for the outrageous things other cultures do to Mexican food. There is nothing more satisfying than, upon hearing about some abominable taco ingredient found in London, sadly shaking the head and murmuring "Jesus".

Passing by Sombreros Mexican Cantina on Beach Street last night, I decided to check out New Zealand's take on taqueria fare. Bracing myself for a miserable dining experience, I marched up the two flights of stairs that lead to the restaurant and was promptly seated.

The items listed on the menu seemed pretty standard--though there were adorably precise descriptions of each dish, like for example the "Burrito", described as several ingredients encased in a flour tortilla tube. This I charitably chalked up to the fact that the place is frequented by international tourists unfamiliar with Mexican cuisine--so, fair enough. I suppose we all had to have a burrito described to us at some point in our lives.

It was not until I got to the prices that things turned a little weird.

I'll just out and say it: the burrito cost $NZ26. That's $US21! And this wasn't some huge dinner plate with all sorts of sides and extras--it was just one burrito. My mind spun as I tried to imagine what kind of ingredients it contained, or what size it must have been, to justify such an outrageous price. Even taking into account the higher price of food in New Zealand, this was utterly insane.

I ended up going with the Two Tacos dinner, which at $NZ16/$US13 was no bargain but at least within the realm of reasonableness. Without looking at the drinks menu, I also ordered a Corona.

The waiter eagerly took my taco order but balked at my beer selection. "We do have Corona, but you can get that anywhere. Why not try one of these?" he asked, gesturing somewhat proudly to a section of the menu with Mexican beers. "Have you ever had a Pacifico?" Again: adorable.

Examining the beer prices, I was surprised to see them priced nearly all the same--even Tecate, which in San Francisco had been the hipster step-cousin of Pabst Blue Ribbon and reliably as cheap. Not so in Queenstown--here it would set me back $NZ8.50/$US7, along with the others.

Resisting the urge to lecture this young man about imported Mexican beers, I stuck with my Corona order.

Some time later, my food arrived. It was a plate consisting of two chicken tacos, with shredded lettuce on one side and on the other, rice. The tacos were drizzled with a salsa that seemed to consist mostly of tomato paste and most certainly wasn't fresh. The rice was also tomatoey, more like a Spanish rice concoction, and had peas and carrots mixed into it. Finally, the tacos had your standard chicken and cheese, and--though the quality of the meat was not all that great--this part they seemed to have gotten right.

The meal was terrible but, seeing as how this was principally a cultural fact finding mission, I marked it down in the ledger as a success, paid, and happily bounded down the stairs from which I came.

The spreadsheets of old men

Pull up a chair, dear reader, and warm your socks by the roaring fire. Relax and let my grandfatherly presence wash over you. The sonorous voice, the bifocals, the smiling eyes peering over them, the cardigan pockets audibly bursting with Werther's Originals--all these things put you at ease as I read to you from a gigantic tome called "How Awesome My Spreadsheet Is".

For this is no ordinary spreadsheet. It must effortlessly record purchases made with USD, NZD, and AUS currencies, yet also normalize all expenditures to a single currency. It must distinguish between card and cash payments and yet also record cash withdrawals and credits. Its numbers must dance and its formulas must provide the music! O!

But alas, the spreadsheets of old men are of little interest to the young. I see you've already drifted off, readying yourself, no doubt, for tomorrow's adventures. Perhaps that's as it should be.

I spend a few minutes reading the formula in D2, silently taking in its beauty. And it is not long before I, too, grow sleepy.

I set the tome aside. Then I drape a heavy blanket over you and tuck it under your chin. The story will have to wait for another night, I think to myself.