A week ago both Mark and I had our hearts broken, torn in two, ripped out and spat upon. We weren’t quite sure how to “break” the news to you. So, we decided to wait until Valentines Day, a day of hope, love, and understanding, to reveal the reason we feel betrayed. We got dumped and stood up by our date. Not just any date… but a long term committed boyfriend.
Yes, thats right! Nick “big heartbreaking chicken” Ostini is not joining us on this trip. He backed out at the last possible minute — Canceled his tickets — Left us and gave up on the hope of true love.
Just so you all know, this isn’t the first time Nick has gotten cold feet on the doorstep of a valentine… During a past V-Day, Nick and I had an elaborate plan to slip a secret admirer ninja turtle valentine, filled with semi erotic stalker observation writing, upon a certain professors desk during class. My job was to run interference so Nick could slip the gag valentine upon his desk. Masterfully, I had the professor so distracted, he was spun completely around. Nick could now freely do his part; walking up slowly, valentine in his outstretched hand… all he had to do was let it go… but he jerked back at the last possible moment and didn’t drop the card.
I should have used history as an indicator and it could have warned me that, Nick Ostini can’t be trusted on Valentines Day. But the worst part about his deceit, lack of commitment, and breaking our hearts is… he used the oldest line in the break-up book…
Hey, don’t worry Nick, we know its you and not us!
Some good news: I have a huge backlog of story’s and dreams to reveal. Plus, I know a few of you were expecting a different post — the one about why Mark and I had to flee the entire country of Malaysia — but it is coming next, promise. This next post will most likely cause my mother to go completely gray, and my Ninna (grandmother) to go bald. Don’t worry you two… were safe now.
A few last words to Nick… happy Valentines Day and we’ll miss you.
February 14th, 2008
(If your confused – SEE PREVIOUS POST)
Call me Ishmael. Some days ago, never mind how long precisely, having little or no money in my purse, and nothing to interest me, I thought I would hang out at a bungalow by the sea. I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my arm, and started for the isle of Ko-Tao. As if being delivered for this watery world by two vestal virgins, masquerading as mermaids with alternating fishy bits – girl bit on the top, fishy bit on the bottom, and visa versa – landed me in my own summer with my own spoils.
The old wooden shack welcomed me, wrapping its deteriorated fixtures about, like a moldy blanket. Across the dirt stream, between bungalows, sat two lads on a rickety porch, with beers in hand. The taller of the two had a face as smooth as my great aunt Gertrude’s gum line, and eyes cold as the salty antarctic breeze in October whiskers, but at the same time wild as a catholic schoolgirls grip. The other was short in stature, but not stocky, more like a bendable metal wire. His face was covered in fine threads, like sea urchins lit up by a red Singapore sunset, yet there was a sort of indefinite, half-attained, unimaginable sublimity about that fairly froze you to it, till you involuntarily took an oath to find out what this marvelous beard felt like.
Shamed for skipping the inaudible lip reading course in Nantucket, the lads would murmurer as a ship tossed on rough open waters, occasionally jotting down scribbles on a white square pad of parchment. If I be a pearl in the worlds oyster, and pearls have many mates and know no strangers; I went to greet the barnacles on the deck.
“The bastard took something form me that I will never have back,” said the short one.”Not my sleep, not just my food… something much greater. It toys with my mind like a yo-yo… The monstrous beast has bitten off and swallowed some of my pride, and for that we must capture it alive!”
“Thats quite the task you know?” questioned the taller. “These animals are quite hard to catch, and even harder to contain without escape.”
“I don’t know how we will do it, but we must! I want to stare in the eyes of my assaulter before I kill it.”
“But what would be the scientific purpose of killing it?”
“REVENGE!”
I found out later the two lads had sailed across many seas and countries to arrive here from their home port in California. The taller of the two’s name would be Mark, with a mind like a hair triggered musket. The other would be Abrad, with his thoughts twisted like a black sea in a midnight gale. Together they had devised a contraption Davey Jones would have envied: A mechanism comprised of twigs and sticks carefully carved down to a precise size, with a stark white bucket floating like a ghost in the warm night air, and bait borrowed from a very old happy quaker. It was a rat trap. Comprised and devised with a hell-bit intention, madly set for revenge.
(photos of the trap will be posted soon)
The first night the great leviathan rose up from the cracks, forcefully springing the trap, pushed the weightless canister to the side, and feasted upon his bounty. To correct the mistakes of the first night, the lads added mounds of weight to hold the foot long beast in its place. Dawn of the second morning Abrad awoke, gazed upon the endlessly empty collapsed bucket, and a twitch developed in his eye.
“He squeezed through the crack, Impossible! No more games! I was too gentle with my good manners. If you want something with a devils black soul, one must empty the cavern where a heart once resided. We will turn the bucket over, to squish and bloody the bastard!”
And so they did, flipping the bucket and pounding twenty-five nails into the hull of the rats coffin, and filled the bucket of doom with eight pounds of murky fresh water, not fitting for any human to drink. Abrad stared upon his twisted contraption and smiled with a smile so sinisterly, only a wicked demon could comprehend its meaning. The only thing louder than the approaching booms of a thunderstorm was the sound of Abrads maniacal laughter, tearing out every cry but his. Not a soul slept soundly in the complex that night, incuding myself, because thoughts of the anticipated bloodbath and screams roamed through our minds; everybody was awake but Abrad, who was fast asleep, calm as a sail in a dead wind.
Ugly and monstrous the beast was, and come soon to find out, wickedly wise to boot. The leviathan carefully, ate the surrounding trail of food and cleverly missed the bag of bait, attached to the mechanism, that would deliver its final death blow. The following morning, there was no blood and the only screams were those of Abrad’s, when he flicked the perfectly working contraption with a stick, sending the harpooned hammer crushing down. My friends, there is a wisdom that is woe; but there is also woe that is madness. Night after night the rat would somehow avoid the snare, tormenting Abrad’s twisted soul, dragging him deeper into the dark sea of insanity. As Abrad departed the bungalow, he looked back with hate and anger in his eyes, vowing to return with the tide, another day, and seize his revenge.
February 1st, 2008
The time is upon us… as well as killer mosquito’s. So, once again we are tugging on the magical melofloquine’s tale. This dream takes place after both Mark and I took two pills, at the same time, because we forgot to take the other pill earlier in the day. The label read, separate doses by at least four hours. WHOOPS!
To get the full effect of my dream I must tell you our sleeping arrangement. We are currently living in an A-frame bungalow on an island in the gulf of Thailand. It is a pile…with a view of broken children’s toys, mo-peds on blocks, and raskely stray dogs running about. We are literally two naked children short of a Quincy trailer park, basically a roof over our heads, its fantastic! Mark is sleeping in the large bed with a huge pink mosquito net with frilly flower pattern and I am sleeping above him on a wooden shelf residing above the liquor storage for the bar, directly under the corrugated sheet metal roof. During the day, bright sunshine pours through the multiple cracks and holes in the floorboard and roof; mosquitoes pour through at night.
The dream started with me looking at a scattering of mug shots and photographs in a police station or some sort of observation room with a brushed metal table. I was in this establishment because during the previous day, I was running from a killer or escaped mental patient with horrible looking face. He was chasing me along some dark alley trying to stab me with a very military looking knife. I escaped and the killer fled into darkness, which brings me to the police station to find the psycho. Looking through the hundreds of photographs scattered on the table, I stumbled upon a vertical series of 5 photos taken at a photo booth. The first photo in the series, was the typical cheesy picture of Mark and I smiling, arms around each other. The next photo was very much the same except, he was no longer smiling. Each successive photo after that, showed him distancing himself away from me, with different proportions of his face distorting… His face seemed to melt and mold into a horribly disfigured being. His face turned a pasty white, and his skin flaked off in chunks in the same manner of a week old croissant. The hazel eyes and thin pink lips of Mark were closed forever and sewn shut with large diameter black thread. His short black hair grew to nipple length turning a dead dirty gray… It was him, the man who tried to kill me… it was Mark! Heat rushed up my chest, through my neck and into my head. Chills shot up my spine and into my head, starting a brain battle of fire and ice. I then experienced that feeling, like somebody is watching you and felt a warm breath on the back of my neck. My body spun around wildly forcing me face to face with my psycho murderer… Mark.
I then woke up; breathing heavily, caged in my white cloud of a mosquito net, eyed the thrashing Mark down in the bed below me, thought about our malaria medicine’s side effects (schizophrenia), pictured his knife, and listened to the scratching sounds behind my head. What? Scratching sounds?
Rolling over, I grabbed my headlamp and startled something by my head… the high pitched screech was tremendous, shaking every nerve in my body. Quickly my headtorch shot on and directly in the beam was a shrieking, foot long, plump, filthy rat, a foot from my face. My body had never moved so fast. “OHH NO! SCREW THIS CRAP!!” I screamed and dove back-first onto Marks bed, kicking off the ledge as I fell.
Not wanting to get back on the shelf with that monster, I stayed in bed with the possible schizophrenic killer from my dream. Needless to say, I was curled up on the corner of the bed as far away from both of them as was humanly possible.
In the morning, I vowed to capture the rat, that disturbed my peaceful environment. In the next post, I’ll tell you about the week long obsession with the rat entitled… “Moby Dick”.
January 28th, 2008
It was recently been brought to my attention that I payed no homage for the wild adventures in Australia. Reasoning for this escapes me, but it could be the fact there were less posts for both Australia and New Zealand, most likely due to the high internet prices and the adventures away from society’s city-grip (bandit camping in the bush). In the words of Tom & Hannah Kaminskas this is the true tale of Australia.
Dear Brad,
Firstly, you and your shenanigans have been sadly missed since your departure. I quite enjoyed being a jobless alcoholic (the wife, Hannah, says I still am…) as it felt just like I was back in Quincy.
But… WHERE’S THE FARKIN’ STORIES!? How else will I convince all the Quincy guys and girls that Uncle Tom’s kinky granny-flat downunder is the place to be. You are their ambassador Brad. To think that of all our shenanigans downunder together, all the detail your readers get is that Tom and Hannah are good at “showing Australia’s beautiful landscape” – tucked in between a Thai prostitute story and Grampian cave paintings of “naked wild haired girls riding bareback on horses”. This won’t do at all.
What of giant tassie devil-eating cod fish, and having your way with rambunctious, wild, mountain mermaids (the fishy bits)?? Pies. How about crazy broads on BBQ bikes that snap men at the knees, swim in toxic algae lakes and then have menage a trois on the grass while you joust to the death with yours truly while billowing whiskey fumes atop a freaky tall-bike ?? Sausages. Did your death-defying rockclimbs from the ferny depths of the Shoalhaven o the tops of the dizzying sandstone escarpments of Nowra (teenage pregnancy capital of Australia) not stimulate your quill into penning creative words? Pies. And (quote) ‘the best campsite of my trip so far’ in the fisherman’s cliff-face cave, hundreds of feet above a crashing ocean, where monstrous Hammerhead sharks snapped at your heels as you dangled fearlessly from a climbing rope to taunt them… did this not warrant a mention?? Sausages. Snorkeling with 10ft stingrays (Steve Irwin ‘the crocodile hunter’ still holding on), Bottle shop guards and New Years bonfire beach parties, pies, drinking tinnies of VB while canoing on creepy alpine lakes, abbo fires, sausages, Rams Heads, incredible mountain biking adventures (and the occasional homo-erotic photo shoot), wrestling dinosaurs in the Jurassic canyons of the Blueys between rappels and dark ‘swims of death’, pies, pub freaks, bandit camps, sausages, flouro crawdads, getting drunk at my work hanging SALE signs on xmas eve, pies, Mrs K’s xmas feats, homebrew with the less cool sibling, and of course, chasing rain and dark amongst the eerie atmosphere of Sweet Dreams at Sublime Point (and you didn’t even need malaria pills – just a tightly puckered butt-hole and a trust in the climbing rope and my anchors). Come on Brad… where’s the love?
And the snakes brad, THE CRAZY POISONOUS FRICKIN’ SNAKES EVERYWHERE!!!! pies. sausage.
I’m sorry we didn’t find you and Aussie wife, like I found my wife in Quincy – we tried. (no, we didn’t really – immigration told me to keep you and that stinky beard out of our gene pool). But my mum says you are welcome anytime, and that you left your slippers under her bed. Dad.
Little Brad, we love you. We miss you. Come back (and bring Brett, Steve, Johnny and Carol and we shall eat pies and be be drunk for eternity! Oh, and Chris Marty… RRrrrrrrrOWWWW!!).
Until next time, thanks for the rant, safe travels, and you are always welcome here in paradise (or on our couch when we move back to Quincy to open a pie shop).
Uncle Tom and Aunt Hannah
So, thanks for that Abo-fire under my ass you two… although, I never did see a poisonous snake. This just in… to all our readers: MALARIA MONDAYS IS BACK, BABY!
January 22nd, 2008
The ding echoed off the pale white walls of the hidden staff elevator, reciprocating off the empty corridors like a mountain yodel. A single shadow exited, roamed the dimly lit halls and cast itself upon dull yellow doors. With every light rectangular frame, the dark shape would enlarge then shrink. Faster now, the growing and shrinking shadow like a fan accelerating ever faster. Singular outlines became unnoticeable as doors shifted into blurred mustard streaks. Transfixed upon the drumbeats of two aproaching blue rectangles, all movement halted. The shadow burst through the outside glass doors, transforming into a person amongst the nightlight. Carefully I climbed, reaching the tortilla chip slab of red. Stars of the city shown below as smooth heavy humid night air was devastated by the 30th floor jump from a clay Mexican styled shingled highrise hotel roof…
Wait a minute – what’s going on?
Question: Weren’t you guys just leaving a prostitute bar?
Answer: Well yes we were… in part one. To clarify, Part two is the following night.
Question: Why is Brad jumping off some hotel roof?
Answer: I am jumping off a roof because… well… I should probably begin at the start of the night.
We were drinking in a little beachside Vegas called Pa-tong. Mark was just getting challenged by a wild thai bartender, in a game of connect four, for a drink. How could Mark refuse a challenge? A guest in her battle field, carefully he thought about each placement of the pieces, studying and anticipating silently. As she swooped back and fourth in her over exaggerated emotions… mark sat quietly and occasionally stroked his chin. Even a bitter beer tastes better when free, and Marks win was delicious. A loud whine exploded from her frowning face as Mark placed his last piece. She stormed off unhapply to retrieve his victory beer, but returned with a smile. “Your next!” she laughed and pointed to me. Like General Picket’s last charge I raced into the game wildly shooting and whooping. The win and beer was her’s. But not just any beer, the best in the house, the price of both our first beers combined. “Come here you guys!” she yelled across the bar from a stump with hundreds of protruding nails, “New game! More fun!” The old Hit-A-Nail-With-A-Flat-Angled-Hammer game. During the final contest both Mark and I had found the technique to beat her…
We left and walked down towards the beach, through a gauntlet of massage parlors. For some reason (my beard) these vultures pounced upon my carcass and didn’t confront Mark. So, like Muhammad Ali I attempted dodged these massage girls punches. But one girl latched on around my waist, vowing never to let me go. Pressing her head into my chest she tried dragging me upstairs into her parlor. As slow and gentle as possible (It’s hard to run in flip-flops and didn’t know if she had some sort of massage pimp), I tried moving her away. Her vice grip was unweilding, and reasoning with her to let me go was useless. So, I told her that I have to meet my buddy for a beer and must go. Her response was… “I do thing with beer.” With only guesses what that could mean, I broke free and streaked over to the now laughing Mark who was just watching me from affar, through the entire ordeal.
Needing a beer after my attack, we wondered into this warehouse filled with a cakewalk of endless booths. Each bar booth looked exactly the same: simple black wooden bar with a large mirror behind, Christmas lights, and a pool table at the side, two girls at the helm (One to play pool with. One to serve you drinks.) We picked a quieter booth and asked how much it was to play pool. “Free if you play with me,” said the bartender. Mark and I looked at one another and knew… time for more games.
Mark and I lost each other at some point during the night, probably when the 30 story neon highrise caught my eye. Secretly entering and avoiding the reception area I boarded a service elevator in the housekeeping section taking it to the top floor. That should bring us up to speed…
My planned jump landed me safely to a dark balcony, with towels and swimsuits hanging on chairs. Looking through the glass sliding balcony door revealed two lumps in a dark large hotel room bed. Silently, I entered the room and looked at the two people sleeping. Thinking I must prove to Mark I was here, I found a bottle of sunscreen on the nightstand/table. Took it and breathed heavily a few times over the people (eww creepy) and left through the balcony. Next stop. Fourth floor… The hotel pool and spa for a night swim.
January 16th, 2008
One might think this post’s title, was describing Aussie Tom’s amazing photography…
(Thank you Tom & Hannah for putting up with my shanagains, for the welcome into your home, and for showing Australia’s beautiful landscape. Sorry Hannah for turning your Husband into a jobless alcoholic during my stay… Be sure to thank the wacky pakie [Farrah] for the beating I gave her bike. So, from the bottom of my heart – Thank you, I’ll miss you, and see you soon, in the States!)
…but no, I am referring to being back in the third world again, Thailand. A country of great food, prostitutes, oil massage, humid weather, squat toilets, prostitutes, beaches, ladyboys, foot-massage, prostitutes, body-massage, deep-tissue-massage, malaria Mondays, wait… did I mention prostitutes?
During our first exploration of town, we unknowingly wondered into a big dark bar-type building. Behind the bar counter were 100 girls lined up as drink orders. Mark went into the bathroom and I followed a group of 15 men… right into a VIP room. CRAP! (If your wondering how I knew it was a VIP room, the armed security personnel, dancing pole in the center of the table, and the numerous sleazeballs drooling, kinda gave it away.) They shut the door and I was trapped! Instead of acting calm and walking out… I panicked bolted for the exit, attracting more attention to myself. I practically ran into Mark’s arms with numerous security on my back. He handled it smoothly and took a seat at the bar while shooing off the security flies. He then, told me his adventure in the bathroom…
“The towel guy snuck up behind me and started massaging my back at the urinal. When finished, he massaged me over to the sink and two other dudes took my hands and washed them.”
I took another glance at the 100 women, who were obviously “night companions” and we decided to get the hell outta here and into more trouble.
To be continued…
January 13th, 2008
The final hitch dropped me at the doorstep of Grampians National Park, as a half full moon lit up the dense cloudy night sky. Keeping up with my solemn vow of not booking a single hostel in Australia and New Zealand, I searched for someplace to bevy for the night. The small mouse spun the wheel in my brain and the wicked nearby plateaued rock cliffs seamed like a sure bet. “No Camping” signs rolled out like tumbleweeds on the well traveled path. I tramped off the main course and shined my high beam down the cliff at the apex of a rock face, reveling my bed for the evening, a rock ledge 25 feet down. As the first few drops of rain fell, I knew that if I didn’t hurry, my climb down on wet rocks would be very sketchy. There was not enough time check it out without a backpack. So, I placed all my chips into the hands of fate and started the dangerous down climb with 35 pounds on my back. Reaching the ledge was quite an easy task, plus it had more than enough space and a cave that receded into the rock about 12 feet. As the rain crashed, I ducked into the cave and into my home for the next few days, I was now a CAVEMAN!
Before breakfast the next day, I instantly stripped down to my undies and started drawing pictures on the rock walls with dirt: Naked wild haired girls ridding bareback on horses grasping snakes in their hands, general outlines of my body, suns, moons, stars, rainclouds, and of course the occasional simple phallus. I ugg’ed when I accidentally dropped my eggs on the rock below and carved a spear in order to hunt wild animals. Before leaving the ledge to gather a map and hike the area; I set up a fall trap with a bit of a snickers bar, some rope, and a very large rock. Pleased at my work I ugg’ed with joy and set off into the wilderness.
Ten years of drought was broken by flooding and heavy rain for the next few days. Torrential thunder storms rolled in every night around 8 drenching my soundings. My perfect shelter of rock began to leak and became a damp swamp, saturating every article I owned. After 3 nights of wetness I decided to fade just like my cave paintings and join my good bud, Aussie Uncle Tom and his Californian raised wife Hannah, in Cambarra (500 miles away) for Christmas.
Saying goodbye to my caveman ways, I stood up strait and embarked into the modern world. Hitch hiking in heavy rain, it only took two days and three awesome rides for me to reach the doorstep of Tom and Hannah, where I had to once again act civilized… or as civilized as a Brad can be.
December 25th, 2007
Howdy ya’ll… Things are going to get interesting. As you can tell by the new graphics on the website; we are being joined by new traveler, Nick Ostini. My old college buddy is meeting us in Thailand to finish the journey. His wacky antics have lead to multiple bleedings, beatings and trouble. Known for his offbeat thinking and semi-debotury, he was the only one crazy enough to let me live in his alley during college in Chico. Upon procuring his tickets he sent out a mass e-mail to his cronies. Here is what it said :
My adventure will not be finished in Italy. I have tasted the sweetness of the world and it has aroused my curiosity as well as my nipples.
I have a good college friend, Brad, who is traveling with another friend of mine, Mark. They are currently making their way around the world. My plan is to meet up with them in Thailand in early February. With much appreciated loans from my parents, thanks again Dad, Mom, Toni, and Mark, this adventure is being made possible. I will be meeting them in Thailand and we will be going to India, Egypt, etc.
You can find more information on this trip at buybradabeer.com. My friend Brad has set up this site so that everyone back home can see where they are, hear stories, see pictures, etc. Coming soon on the site will be a section for me with a little Nick character where I will rant and rave about my adventures abroad. Also on this site is a PayPal area where you can buy Brad a beer. Starting now when you buy Brad a beer, it means you’re buying me a beer and basically helping me fund this trip. Any amount of money is greatly appreciated. I’m coming back into California on the 18th of December. That gives me about a month and a half until I leave again. I’ve decided that during that time I will do anything for money. Consider this like a pledge drive. For certain amounts of money I will perform sexual favors. Here’s the scale:
$50:Makeout
$50-$250:Makeout with groping
$250-$500: Anything goes above the waist
$500-$2,500: Anything goes (non-kinky)
$2,5000 and above: I don’t think you could handle it
If I need to travel in order to perform these favors, call me or send me an email and we can work out the details. (I’m really putting my degree to good use here. I’m sure my parents would be proud. Oh and to my parents, you may not request sexual favors. What do you think I am, a pervert?).
For those of you who aren’t interested in the first option, I’m not sure why you wouldn’t be, I will also be willing to do any sort of design work. If you need a logo or whatever, I’m your man. Or if your friend’s ex-roommates mother-in-law owns a Wedding Chapel/Gas Station and needs some work done, let me know. This may be shameless plugging and a desperate attempt at getting money but frankly I don’t care. I will beg, grovel, etc. in order to make this happen.
Your loyal servant,
Nick Ostini
So, if you would like a sexual favor or a graphic design solution you can contact him at nick@buybradabeer.com. We look forward to having another mate for the adventure. Oh yeah, by the way Mark and I are currently in Australia staying with an ex-exchange student from Ballarat, named Courtney Rowe. Her family have graciously let us into their home to stay for a few days before disembarking for backpacking throughout eastern Australia.
December 15th, 2007
Drunk Driver - A blue 4 door truck swerved radically to the side of the road, quickly after seeing our outstretched thumbs.
“Hope yal doesn’t mind, just popped a cold one,” said the heavily accented kiwi, as he opened the passenger door and tossed us cold beers.
“Uhh… no problem,” I responded while looking at the two crushed cans at his feet. ”Whats the limit in New Zealand anyway?”
“Well I’s a big guy… maybe bout five.”
After hearing of our world trip, he proceeded in telling us his Thailand hooker stories. Not just one story, but multiple…Yes, they all involved him. We arrived at our destination and we had just finished our second beer; he had finished his fourth. Upon exit I informed mark of the two emptys by his feet. He laughed and said, “There were three others in the back!”
Mauri Gang Member Truck Driver - This giant was about 6’6, 300 pounds, dark skinned and covered with tattoos. His large flat teacup sized nose could smell my fear. I was the size of his arm.
“I’s pick up loads of hitcher’s, most of ’em girls!” he said proudly and pointed to the bed attached to his cab. “None of them ’ave call’d out rape yet. Der was dis tiny Asian who cried once… dose be tears of joy dough mate, I’s am big gui yah know.”
Scared and bewildered I asked what his tattoos meant. Yep, they were gang symbols. He was an ex-soldier for some Mauri gang and very reluctant to tell me tales. Finally, after much qestioning, he coughed up some information. During a battle against a rival, both clans agreed no weapons. He brought a set of spiked iron claws and most likely killed a few men. Now I knew why there were so many spousal abuse signs throughout New Zealand.
December 11th, 2007
With no video games or steady workout routine, my thumb was becoming a dumb, lazy, overweight bum. Demanding more finger foods, the digit would constantly question and complain… Does this glove make me look fat? My thumb was filed from its last job because it opposed the idea of working in an office cuticle. Well it was about time to get off its lazy palm and get another job. So, I forced it to work and hitchhiked across New Zealand.
Starting from the top of the north island, it took three days of hitchin’ before we reached Wellington. Surprisingly, we were able to do a lot of sightseeing. We visited the thermically active middle of the island, filled with geysers and volcanoes, both coastlines, and even had the pleasure of urban camping in a cemetery (without Mark… YOU chicken!)
During dusk the small cemetery seemed quite large. There was a small grove of trees just large enough to hide me from the piercing eyes of any graveyard caretaker. After scratching through the bushes, I stumbled upon a stone alter in the clearing. I found no readable markings but it did have deep carved groves and large shiny metal bands that were holding the mossy old stone together. More examining reveled a pair of women’s underwear hanging up above the alter in a tree branch. As the darkness fell… thoughts of a scary cult-like virgin cemetery sacrifice raced through my head and I had to force myself to sleep.
Despite my thumb’s work ethic or the virgin sacrificial alter, we reached Wellington and are currently staying with ultra-cool (he told me to say that), Tom Van Herck. Oh yeah… Happy Turkey Day to those of you in America.
November 22nd, 2007
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