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The greatest depression ever

June 19, 2011

It’s only been in the last month or so that I started to recover from a severe and prolonged depression.

Next stop, Deliciousville. Things are looking up.

It was bad. A preoccupation with death, a constant flow of hateful self-talk, the lost ability to remember, to concentrate, to something else that slips my mind, continued unacknowledged and festering until the miserable condition became familiar, even comfortable.

It was really bad. It was as if one of Hieronymus Boschs demons was taking a six-month-long shit on my medieval tonsure and I liked it so much I massaged it into my scalp thinking it was ok because, hey, it’s organic. I lost interest in all those things that once animated me: reading, socializing and sexing.

Even writing blog-posts with my signature “Take my wife…please” sensibility (as humorous now as it was when it first circulated the Catskills 50 years ago), even those entered the endangered list, although they never went extinct. So my condition wasn’t just bad; it was schlocky.

Things got to such a low state that I fell into a habit more disgusting and pitiable than my obsessive eyebrow-hair plucking and chronically inadequate personal hygiene. I started to watch Star Trek, from the beginning of The Next Generation, to the end of Deep Space Nine.

Photo courtesy of the New Zealand Tourism Board.

Some people might ask, “Simon, what do you have to be depressed about? You live in New Zealand where shoes are optional, where people drive with their eyes closed, and where everyone is in bed by nine because what else are they going to do? Where it’s OK to be a grown adult and still talk in your outdoor voice throughout a live performance of Mary Stuart starring that lady from the second Lord of the Rings movie, true story. What could be so bad?”

Lieutenant Paris (right) reports to Captain Janeway and Commander Tuvok on his recent visit to Meat Plaza.

While it is true that I was feeling like shit before relocating, and that moving from Brooklyn to New Zealand temporarily elevated my mood to its jaunty “I-hate-the-world-and-everything-in-it” baseline, this reprieve did not last long.

So many factors played a part in the plunge I took in New Zealand that I cannot give them justice in one blog entry.

I will, however, mention here one factor contributing to my recent disposition, since it has weighed heavily on my mind: my colleagues at Fairfax Business Group. They are a mean-spirited, bullying lot that picks on me because I’m different, because I talk funny and come from America. They did terrible things to me. They made me watch them eat lunch, and they called me names like “Johnny Argyle” just because I happen to own one or two articles of clothing with that particular pattern.

Technically speaking, Johnny Argyle is a misnomer, since my entire argyle wardrobe consists in a zip-up jumper and a sock I found at the laundromat and took home with me, just in case I needed an extra sock.

I tried to complain about these malicious fiends to the Human Resources director. But I knew the company would have trouble seeing my side of things when I entered the director’s office and she said, “What can I do for you, Jimmy Argyle?”

I was mortified. “It’s not Jimmy,” I screamed. “It’s Johnny. Johnny Argyle.”

Then I screamed some more like I did when I was a little boy, which was exactly like a little girl. Then I ran to the restroom to have myself a good cry and there wasn’t a day that went by during my first six weeks at Fairfax that did not contain some element of wailing and/or gnashing of teeth, which will probably earn me a “needs improvement” on my next performance evaluation.

Of course, I have since reached a mutual sort of respect and understanding with my wonderful colleagues. They love Johnny Argyle. And Johnny Argyle loves them, and doesn’t even mind watching them eat their lunch any more. Mostly.

So, that’s just one example of the many things that have depressed the shit out of me.

But as I say, this subject is far too big to be wrapped up in one blog entry. Which is why I plan to return to this subject in the future, so that you might enjoy my recent, horrifying depression as much as I did.

Tags:Depression, Fairfax, Hieronymus Bosch, Janeway, Meat Plaza, Paris, Star Trek, Trichotillomania, Tuvok
Posted in Depression, Migration, Now Zealand, SnooZealand, The Pet Peeve Petting Zoo | 9 Comments »

Busy Town, Busybodies

November 30, 2010

My wife Jacquie lived in the States for eight years.

Every November, at least one American would ask, either from cultural myopia or absentmindedness, how people celebrated Thanksgiving back home.

The answer, of course, was obvious. People don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in New Zealand at all because (duh) Kiwis are deviant, godless ingrates. Which happened to be one of the strongest selling points for moving here.

I mean, Thanksgiving? Pshaw. Whenever someone says “all the trimmin’s” I want to give myself a lobotomy.

“That’s fine,” I bet you’re saying. “But who could tell the difference?”

Kiwis could. They may not be grateful, but they are very observant and they give a crap. Guaranteed, if you were stumbling aimlessly around Queen Street one afternoon after just having had your prefontal cortex severed, a Kiwi would say something. Not out loud, but they’d say it.

In my opinion, Kiwis care too much. For example, the day I landed my first full-time job, I was at a party for a friend Jacquie knew from her job. The party was in a crowded bar and most people there I’d never met before. Though I’d only just been hired that day, many of Jacquie’s coworkers seemed to know all about my employment situation.

One strange guy stepped up to me and shook my hand.

“Congratulations on your new job, mate,” he said. “Well done. Nobody thought you’d pull it off.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“You know: because of your disgusting, slothful habits.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, sure, you spent eight months finishing your little novel and you did the odd freelance job and we all know how busy you are updating your blog every six-to-eight weeks. But a full-time job, for someone like you? Shocking. Well, anyway. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I said. “And, so, I take it you work with Jacquie?”

“Who’s Jacquie?” the guy said. “I just came in for a pint.”

Then he went and sat by himself at the bar.

If that weren’t odd enough, the next day, I was in a cafe in Ponsonby I’d never been to before. There was a tip jar near the register. It’s rare to tip in New Zealand. Cafes and restaurants generally don’t expect it, let alone keep a tip jar near the register.

The barista served me my coffee and I left without dropping any change.

“There’s a fine howdy-do,” the barista told the cashier. “You’d think that now he was rolling in it, he’d at least drop a few cents.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” I said.

“Don’t bother with that yank, Kiki,” the cashier said. “He isn’t worth it. New Zealand gives him all these great opportunities; just gives and gives and gives, and he just takes and takes and takes.”

“You’re right,” Kiki said. Then Kiki turned to me, and with the most sarcastic curtsy I’ve ever seen, she said, “I shan’t detain you longer, your highness.”

“OK,” I said.

Later that afternoon, still puzzled by these strange encounters, I went to a gas station in Mt. Eden to fill up my car. I went inside to pay for the gas and a bag of Cheezels I grabbed on the way to the counter. The cashier stared at me for a minute.

“Normally,” he said, “I’d offer you two bags of Cheezels for the price of one. But, no. Not this time. Not for you. Not after what you did to Kiki. Now, get out.”

“I don’t want two-for-one bags of Cheezels,” I said.

“That doesn’t matter because you wouldn’t get two-for-one bags of Cheezels if you wanted it. I wouldn’t even sell you one Cheezel.”

Oh, it was terrible. Later, there was a story about it on the evening news.

If I learned anything from these insane strangers, it was this: maybe I should be grateful. So on Thanksgiving, I took a walk through Auckland to count up all the things for which I’m thankful:

A giant "For Lease Now" notice consisting of free-standing wood letters, in a vacant commercial space window on Normanby Road.

Ball point pens and disposable razors.

A familiar logo in an unfamiliar pose.

The old Colonial Ammunition Company shot tower. A furnace at the top heated lead that would be "rained" in its molten state down to a cooling tank at the bottom, forming tiny spheres along the way, perfect for shot.

A copy of Michelangelo's Moses in Myers Park.

Roots.

"Downtown" Auckland

A giant Santa's reindeer on Whitcoulls corner.

Tags:Bic, C.A.C., Cheezels, Colonial Ammunition Company, Normanby Road, Thanksgiving, Whitcoulls corner
Posted in Culture, Migration | 3 Comments »

Notice of Abandoned Property

October 13, 2010

This Thursday marks the first anniversary of my visit to the beautiful city of Linden, New Jersey.

You need to spend some time there if you’ve never been. It’s so much fun. Whether passing through at 80 mph on the New Jersey Turnpike or browsing the aisles of adult toys and pornography at Love Boutique, Linden offers something for the whole family.

Just thinking about Linden inspires the creative part of a person’s brain, provided the creative part of a person’s brain isn’t much bigger than the part of the brain that tells you when to urinate. To wit:

I do hope the mayor of Linden appreciates my sketch of the perfect Linden postcard. I don’t want to sound boastful, but I believe it reflects the feelings most people hold for Linden, NJ.

Linden was where I had to deliver the stuff we wanted to take with us to New Zealand. Jacquie and I had spent weeks prioritizing. We could only afford to ship our most-valued Earthly possessions: 36 boxes of Jacquie’s shoes.

We hired two guys with a panel truck to drive the shoes to our freight consolidator.

Jacquie's shoes began their journey to New Zealand here on Huron Street in Brooklyn, NY, roughly 26 miles northeast of Linden. The Ailanthus altissima was just a weed when we left. Now its offspring cover most of North America's blighted urban centers, especially Linden. (Photo by Matthew Everett, taken some time late summer, 2010)

Ha ha. See that traffic cone? I put that there in, like, December, 2006 when I thought I was getting a ten-speed bicycle for Christmas. Jacquie got me a curling iron instead. But my traffic cone remains and people still won't park in my bicycle space because of it. Suckers. (Photo by Matthew Everett) (Late Summer, 2010)

It was 9:30 a.m. when we arrived at their warehouse.

A man in a forklift saw me coming. He immediately shut down his machine and climbed out. “Break time,” he said.

“How long?” I said.

“Hour, two hours.”

“My guys are on the clock here.”

There was a man at a desk in the middle of the warehouse floor. He waved me over. He was short and wore a shiny Jheri curl wig. He said his name was Alan. He seemed really sympathetic.

“Where’s your stuff headed, buddy?” he said. “You got your booking number?”

“I sure do, Alan,” I said.

I handed Alan my documents. He inspected them, nodded, dropped them on his desk, sat down and opened a drawer out of which he took out a large salad. The salad was one of those pre-made things you buy at the supermarket and it was filled with the more pointless vegetables, like iceberg lettuce. “Break time,” Alan said.

He enjoyed his salad.

“What about my boxes?” I said.

“How do you like that, Alan?” said the forklift guy. “It’s your break, but it’s his boxes. Can you believe he’s making you work on your break?”

“No, I cannot believe it,” Alan said. “I myself have trouble believing this.”

Alan wore glasses and had shiny green skin and his Jheri curl wig did not move in concert with his terrible head. ”Fine,” he said. “Have your guys unload your truck. How many pallets will you need?”

“Do I need pallets?” I said.

“It’s for your own protection,” he said. “You want your things to get there in one piece, is all I’m saying.”

Did I mention that Linden is the world capital of spontaneous, small-time extortion?

“How much is a pallet?” I said.

“Let’s say I make it $25 each,” he said.

I find it hard to believe, but this abandoned property notice has been in that window since last November and indicates, much to my surprise, that we must have left some of Jacquie's shoes behind, for which reason I hope to return to Huron Street one day. (Again. Matt Everett.)

Nobody home for a year and we still get junk-mail and flyers. I guess nothing drums up business faster than leafletting an abandoned building. (Photo: M. Everett)

So I paid for three pallets and that was that.

And later I went to East Rutherford to pay for the freight and I had a very disappointing slice of pizza near the railroad station.

It's sad to think how many people in Brooklyn have never been to Linden, NJ, despite the fact that it's only 26 miles away. A crowd outside the old local bookstore, Word. (Yep.)

You can take the boy out of Greenpoint, but you can't take the heavy metals and volatile organic compounds out of the boy.

Tags:Greenpoint, Jheri curl, Linden NJ, Love Boutique
Posted in Migration, Non-Zealand | 6 Comments »

How to Get Through the Coming Winter

September 28, 2010

New Zealand’s winter is over. Those seven months really flew by, thanks to activities (and activity-related activities), which made the time go faster.

Northern hemisphereans should start thinking of fun things to do when their winter arrives. New Zealanders plan winter activities early in autumn, a habit northern peoples are wise to adopt.

To begin planning, take time over the next few weeks to answer these key questions:

What are my fun-time winter activities?
How many hours should I set aside for each fun-time winter activity?
Will I need to prioritize or will there be ample time and opportunity to do all my winter activities before spring begins?

If you have trouble answering these questions at first, don’t worry. Just imagine yourself doing all your favorite warm weather activities, except now you’re wearing a coat. Many examples may come to mind, so unfortunately, you probably will have to prioritize.

Here’s how. Write the numbers 1 through 5 down the left side of a blank piece of paper. Then quickly jot down a winter activity next to each number as the activities come to mind. Chances are you’ll end up with your top five favorite fun-time winter activities, from most favorite to least, because the more favored the activity the sooner you’ll have jotted it down.

A Top-Five Fun-Time Winter-Activities List may look something like this:

Sorting organic waste from recyclables and placing them in their proper containers.
Decoupage.
Visiting a theme park/attending a sports event/grabbing a coffee with friends.
Volunteering.
Signing up with an agency to be cast as an extra in a television show, movie or commercial.

Remember, there are no “right” or “wrong” answers. Most likely, your top five will be different from other people’s, so there’s no reason to worry about “getting it right” or “keeping up with the Joneses.” The important thing is to have fun in the order in which you wrote down your fun-time winter activities, crossing each out one-at-a-time as soon as you’ve accomplished it. If you do this, your winter will go by in a speedy and orderly fashion.

Don’t believe me? Read my testimonial.

Signing up with an Extra Agency or How I Got to Meet Lucy Lawless: a Testimonial

My agency landed me three TV commercial auditions. I’ll never forget the first one because it was for a bread company and I really love bread.

I wanted the lead role of baker. The script called for the baker to “savor” a freshly-baked loaf. I would’ve been perfect. People always say I look like I’m savoring something. I have that look. I wouldn’t've even had to act. The agency, however, preferred I go out for the supporting Letter Carrier role, and I prepared for my audition with gusto.

My research consisted of opening, reading and discarding my neighbors’ mail indefinitely. I was already starting to think like a mailman. I studied mailman culture, eating only what mailmen eat, drinking only what mailmen drink and firing my automatic weapon at unsuspecting colleagues only at such times as mailmen do such things.

I did not get the part despite my preparations. It went instead to a German actor who arrived for his audition already wearing a mailman’s uniform. Typical German.

I didn’t have luck with my other two auditions, either and I was about ready to give up my extra career when the agency called one last time. They had a role for me, this time as a “featured extra” in an episode of Spartacus: Blood and Sand.

I was cast as “Grain Merchant” and little did I know that my tiny part would grow to be a pivotal character upon which so many various plots turned, a role that was originally written for Russell Crowe––who happened to be busy that day––and that was slotted to be the title character of a spin-off series and feature-length movie (inspiring an inevitable porno version, The Groin Merchant, also written with Russell Crowe in mind.)

Little did the director know any of this either, so not everything went according to plan.

The day started ok. I arrived at the studio at 6:30 in the morning, quickly changed into costume and ate breakfast. As a featured extra, I was very good to the little people, the Non-Specificed Extras. I made tons of friends. I greeted younger extras with a comradely, “I’m wearing underwear older than you,” and I conveyed a certain bonhomie to the older female extras with shouts of, “Ready for your close-up, Gloria Swanson?” (Cougars. You gotta love ‘em.)

Then there was a snafu, and I ended up on set in the wrong location. I stood behind a table with two baskets filled with barley and blue peas. Behind me were a number of ewers on a plank dangling by two ropes from an upper room, the idea being that from my grains I brewed a mildly intoxicating beverage in an upper-room distillery I probably rented from a wealthier landlord. I was no longer a Grain Merchant but a Retail-Level Value Added Reseller of Grains and Grain-Products.

As things turned out, my “wrong” location was right where characters played by Lucy Lawless and Jaime Murray were supposed to turn a corner, so the director had no choice but to include me in at least some of the shots, a chance I wouldn’t have gotten had I been standing where I was supposed to stand.

Lucy Lawless and Jaime Murray spent a lot of time there, too, obviously. They were very nice and chatted with the extras but after a take, an assistant director told me to “try not to look so terrified” as they passed. Later, Lucy Lawless heard my accent and asked where I was from and what I was doing there and instead of saying “selling grain,” like Jacquie later suggested I should have said, I gave the boring truth and, feeling ashamed of my boring answer, I tried to recover by pretending I had an OCD issue with the grain.

It was pretty lame and Lucy Lawless quickly lost interest and later I enjoyed a delicious roast vegetable casserole for lunch.

Tags:Jaime Murray, Lucy Lawless, OCD, Russell Crowe, Spartacus
Posted in Culture, Migration, Now Zealand | 7 Comments »

The Parking Space Imbroglio

May 3, 2010

A film crew came to our street last Friday to shoot on location.

I don’t know if it was for a television series or a movie, but whatever it was, they had to go and make a big production out of it.

There were trucks and equipment and assistants with important-looking cappuccinos strewn all over the place.

Idly watching the cast and crew at work got me all choked up with tears of schadenfreude. These folks were were real friendly, too. One of the actors let me pet him.

But best of all was the craft services table. The food was to die for, at least judging by the slightly-used bagel I found on the sidewalk after everyone was gone. Just imagine. I ate––and later pooped––something that once belonged to someone tentatively associated with the entertainment industry in New Zealand! A good day was had by all.

Where the stars are borne, and the stuff of stars is born, on a regular basis.

But to tell the truth, Jacquie and I were relieved to see the crew pack up and go. We don’t take truck with theater people. The idea of those types lurking about the neighborhood after dark made us glad to live in a modern, paranoid society.

So imagine our disgust when we came home Sunday evening from one of our tedious hikes in the woods only to find all the parking spaces on our street taken up by traffic cones.

It was obvious the film crew intended to return Monday morning to do more of its dirt.

We didn’t know how to react at first.

But then I remembered that I come from the scariest democracy in the world.

And then I thought to myself: my great great great grandfather––Admiral Buck “The Nucular F**k” Eskow––did not die face-down in his down comforter just so that some punk foreigner could come and take away my God-given right to a parking space directly in front of my rented house in New Zealand.

So I got off my ass for once, got out of my car and marched right over to the cones whilst playing Yankee Doodle on my fife, because some principles are worth making an ass of yourself for.

“Please don’t go near the cones,” a voice said. “Thanks, mate.”

I turned around. That was when I first saw him: the Overnight Location Guard, the lowliest of the lowly assistants to the Second Assistant Location Manager. His job was to stay up all night drinking Mountain Dew to make sure nobody parked where the crew would be filming the next day.

Like the cicada, the Overnight Location Guard appears for a limited time and purpose. After gestating underground for 17 years, the fully mature Overnight Location Guard emerges for two weeks of courtship, mating, laying eggs and dying, all while telling people they can’t park in front of their own house. But that’s just how the circle of life works.

The circle of life. The clockwise or counterclockwise drainage of the circle of life is not determined so much by the coriolis effect as it is by whether or not you've been having a shitty time.

I moved one of the cones.

“Hey, I said you can’t park there,” Overnight Location Guard said.

“Look man,” I said. “I didn’t sit through Saving Private Ryan just so you can tell me what to do.”

This confrontation was shaping up to be a regular David-versus-Goliath story. Only the Goliath here was more like another David, because the Overnight Location Guard didn’t have any power of his own. Let’s face it, neither did I. So our standoff was really shaping up to be one of those classic David-versus-a-guy-evenly-matched-with-David-and-oh-what-a-coincidence-that-guy’s-name-is-David-Too stories that you hear so much about.

I decided to take a new tack. I learned a long time ago that when life gives you lemons, complain as much as possible in as loud and whiny a voice as you can muster.

“But where am I supposed to paaaark my caaaaaar?” I said. “You have all the parking spots on the streeeet blocked off already.”

Just then, I found a space two doors down from my house.

But I wasn’t going to let this major inconvenience pass without a fight. The universe may not be fair, and it may be cruel but damn it, the universe is not going to be unfair and cruel to me.

But what could I do that was more effective than whining? I had to take real action. This production needed to be destroyed once and for all…from the inside. And to do that, I had to go undercover and join the cast as an extra.

Last night's closing credits.

The next day I woke up early and made an appointment with a casting company.

The Waitakere Agency, or TWA, as it calls itself, specializes in casting extras.

But more importantly, TWA teaches combat training, which was exactly what I needed for whenever I finally infiltrated the Overnight Location Guard’s team and terminated his command, allowing anyone to park anywhere they wanted and thus ruining the entire production.

The agency’s headquarters are located about 6 klicks west of downtown Auckland. I plotted my route and prepared for the drive over. To demonstrate my eagerness to enter combat training, I decided to wear a headband like the one that actor Rambo wore in his movie Rambo and also to camouflage my face in case I needed to blend in if there were any ferns or ficus plants in the TWA office.

I could not find camo makeup in Jacquie’s cosmetics bag. However, I did come across a nice Intensive Lifting Eye Cream I used to offset the aging effect of my crow’s feet.

Next, I applied just enough Stila Convertible Color to subtly add height and definition to my cheek bones without being obvious about it.

Then I put on some Daring Rose Color Fever by Lancome to give my lips a classic 1940s movie star richness, for maximum kissability and texture.

Oh, also, I couldn’t find anything like Rambo’s bandana in Jacquie’s drawers but there was this beautiful turquoise pashmina that I just couldn’t resist throwing on as I ran out the door.

TWA headquarters: guaranteed to be the closest shave you've ever had from a disposable razor or your money back.

There were two people at the agency. To make a long story short, they loved me. Oh, they just ate me up. I mean, they told me that one day I could be as famous an extra as Malcolm Flannelwitz or even Zoe Smith-Mackerel. I was like, “Where do I sign?” But, as it turned out, I couldn’t work for them because I never got my Internal Revenue Department number and so my plan was ruined and by the time I got home, the crew was packing up, having finished shooting in our corner of the world. If only my papers had been in order, this never would have happened.

Tags:On Location in Auckland, Simon "Extra" Eskow
Posted in Culture, Migration, The Outdoorsman | 11 Comments »

An Actual Visit to Martha’s Backyard

March 19, 2010

A few weeks ago, Jacquie and I were swilling buckets full of the local vintage with our friend Rob, an American who moved to New Zealand when he was a teenager, and never looked back. Or if he did ever look back, it was only to make sure nobody was following him.

Anywho, Rob had just returned from a visit to the States where, as he told it, he ate a lot of the sort of food you just can’t find anywhere else on Earth. Or in New Zealand, for that matter. Rob said the only vegetables he ingested during his trip were onion rings.

Inevitably, the conversation got around to the subject of pickles.

“The only place to get a decent pickle in Auckland is from Martha’s Backyard,” Rob said.

“What a coincidence,” I said. “I wrote an authoritative piece about Martha’s Backyard for my insanely popular and internationally acclaimed blog.”

“Oh, so you’ve been to Martha’s Backyard?” Rob said.

“Never,” I said.

“So you espoused a strong opinion based on hearsay and not on the weight of empirical evidence?”

“Well, I’m mostly writing for an American audience.”

Rob convinced me that it was time to go on a fact-finding mission. I needed to see Martha’s Backyard for myself so I could figure out what I’d been talking about.

Martha's Backyard. Technically, there is no backyard. Unless you count Stonefields, a defunct quarry at the foot of Mt. Wellington, which is slowly being turned into a gruesome-looking subdivision.

Martha’s Backyard wasn’t like what I’d expected it to be. It was the only shop in a dusty strip mall beside a gigantic housing development that had been under construction for almost four years but seemed to have run out of credit before a tenth of it was built. Naturally, I was overcome with homesickness. Then, when Rob and I went inside the shop, I was overcome with regular sickness. For stretched before me, as far as the eye could see––about 60 feet to the back wall––was a row-and-a-half of good old American-made (mostly*) junk food.

Ameri-cornucopia.

Say "cheese product."

And all along I thought you couldn't get a decent pizza in New Zealand.

We looked around but to our disappointment we couldn’t find any pickles. Then we brought our stuff up to the cashier.

“Hello,” Rob said. He pointed to me. “This is an American.”

“Oh, sorry,” the cashier said. “No refunds.”

I paid for the things that I’d grabbed off the shelf at random, to tell the truth. I bought an eight-pack of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups*, a “family sized” bottle of French’s yellow mustard and some bunting to spruce up the apartment, all for about $17 (U.S.)

Then Rob and I drove up to the top of Mt. Wellington where we got a decent view of the $2 billion, 270-acre (less than half the size of Prospect Park in Brooklyn) housing development which some day 6,500 people may call home if the developers ever get around to finishing it.

Stonefields Urban Village. Never will you find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.

Then I went home and inspected my booty.

And seeing that my booty was good, I then looked at the stuff that I bought at Martha’s Backyard.

These colors don't run. Most likely because they're filled with emulsifiers. Most of the 1.3 kilograms of Americany Goodness you see here was actually made in America*.

Then I ate the peanut butter cups*, the Fritos and the Bugles.

Then I washed them down with some mustard.

Then I ate fried chicken made with the Progresso bread crumbs.

Then I…oh, whatever. You get the picture.

All in all I was glad Rob took me to that shop, but I probably won’t go back. Not unless they get a shipment of decent pickles.

Otherwise, I think I’ve about had it with American-y Goodness

*Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups: Hecho en Mexico.

Tags:Made in America, Martha's Backyard
Posted in Culture, Migration | 27 Comments »

Home is where the Sodium Acid Pyrophosphate is

February 25, 2010

Members of an online expatriate group recently heaped a midden of praise on Martha’s Backyard, a local importer of American crap. The store, according to its Website, features ”genuine US brands at reasonable prices AND AMERICAN FOOD ITEMS.” (Martha’s emphasis).

Judging by comments left on the expat group forum, Martha has tapped into quite a niche market. For instance:

(Martha’s) is a fantastic place. Prices are a little high but you have to remember, she’s shipping it over from the US. Can of Manwich sauce is $5, box of Cheerios is $8, bag of Goldfish is $6. She also has…great seasonal stuff…I got pumpkin cans and made some pumpkin pie!…I wouldn’t be surprised if she had Peeps for Easter! She has an email list so that you can get updates when new stuff arrives, and there’s also a special email list for when Twinkies come in (apparently they sell out in a day or so).

Something about this effusiveness bothers me. I understand that most of the items mentioned are technically considered food in that they can pass through the digestive system without causing too much permanent damage, at least in the short run. But I find it hard to imagine an adult working up an appetite for this shit, let alone shelling out extra dollars for it.

It’s not that I oppose to eating junk food completely. We’ve all been through bouts of desperation. I myself have had my moments with Cheerios from time to time, I ain’t ashamed to admit, but I swear I didn’t like it. And I’d be a liar if I said I never paid $6 for a bag of Goldfish out of a vending machine when I was working one of my night shifts at the New York Post. And though I’m not familiar with the product, I gather from context clues that “Manwich sauce” is not a euphemism for a residue that must be refrigerated at a fertility clinic soon after its client “pops his can.”

So while I’m generally familiar with the sophisticated refinement embodied by these quintessential American products, I still can’t understand why an adult would go out of his or her way to consume any of it. Surely there are quicker, easier ways to kill yourself. I mean, Twinkies a best-seller? Twinkies are the reason why I left America. I’ve applied for refugee status in New Zealand because of what Twinkies did to my family.

It seems too obvious to state, but homesickness and sentimentality are the essential motivating factors at work here. If it were simply a desire for something engineered to exploit our innate cravings for fat, salt and sugar, Martha’s would be out of business. There are already plenty of disgusting foods to choose from at the supermarket, including some American brands and other American products packaged for the New Zealand market.

The wrapping is the key to Martha’s success because what really matters to the homesick American is not the junk food, but the familiarity of the package it came in, the ”genuine US brands” where genuine is taken to mean “the same exact shit you grew obese up with.”

Posted in Migration, Uncategorized | 12 Comments »

The Liquor Aisle Fiasco

January 26, 2010

I was going to post something about how I went to purchase some wine the other day at the supermarket and the cashier asked if I was drunk, but I’m really not up to that right now. I feel so angry and shaken up about the incident that I’ve decided to post a few unrelated photographs instead.

You see, the whole thing was a misunderstanding. I wasn’t drunk. (Oh, yeah, the picture above was taken at the historic homestead of John Logan Campbell, a Scottish adventurer who outlived all his contemporaries with his flowing white locks and beard known finally as “The Father of Auckland,” according to the Auckland Parks Website, which does not make it clear if it was the man’s beard and white locks that were known as the “Father of Auckland,” or if it was the man himself, nor does it explain how his white locks and beard helped him outlive all his contemporaries, but therein lay his tremendous prestige and courage. Note the original Christmas tree, preserved in the condition it was in the day John Logan Campbell fell off his ladder while trying to place the Star of Bethlehem high above his head on top of it (the tree, that is, not his head)) At least I don’t remember being drunk.

What happened was this: early last Saturday afternoon, I had to do some shopping. I’d been writing all day, which I do not deny always makes me appear drunk to other people, as I usually imbibe in two or three glasses of whatever’s at hand while I’m working. But no more than that. I mean, let’s be reasonable, it wasn’t even 2 p.m. by the time I left the house to go to the supermarket in my more or less sober state.

I put a few of the day’s necessities in my cart, including a loaf of bread, a bottle of club soda, a roll of toilet paper and 12 bottles of chardonnay. (The above was the first piece of graffiti to appear on an Auckland wall since the time of John Logan Campbell, who died in 1912. His Worship the Mayor John Banks has promised to nip this graffiti epidemic in the bud. It’s curious to note that the above image is based on the last night in the life of John Logan Campbell, who died in a tragic accident while attempting to place the Star of Bethlehem on top of his Christmas tree after drinking one too many bottles from his wife’s back-woods still, uttering his famous last-words, “Merry F!#k?*g Xmas” as he fell to his doom. The graffitist here has paid especially loving attention to the accurate depiction of John Logan Cambell’s flowing white locks and beard, the Father of Auckland). My shopping complete, I pushed my heavily laden cart of daily necessities toward the cashiers.

The express line was very long and everyone was growing impatient.

Except for me. I’m always happy to stand anywhere for hours on end doing absolutely nothing. (A poster advertising a costume shop for people who like to dress up for Guy Fawkes Day, named for one of the mercenaries in a failed attempt to kill King James I and install a Catholic king in 1605. As the poster indicates, New Zealanders love to dress up as John Logan Campbell in the various stages of his multifaceted career. Campbell was, in turn, a roller skating disco clown, Superman, the fourth member of ZZ Top, a rabbi and a pre-teen girl in a cat costume.)

When it was finally my turn at the register, the cashier looked at me strangely. (Above: Agapanthus flowers on the pathway leading to our flat, planted by John Logan Campbell.)

“Have you been drinking?” the cashier said.

I was displeased by her question. Who was she to presume I’d been drinking? (I can’t believe people live in this building designed by John Logan Campbell in 1911).

“No, I haven’t been drinking,” I insisted.

I made sure she understood how peeved I was by her question. I rolled my eyes and clucked my tongue three times (The first time because I was angry and the second two times to emphasize my anger, sort of like the way I put three exclamation points at the end of a sentence to make sure everyone knows that I really really mean what I’m saying!!!) (Above: the Parnell Library, designed, constructed and financed by John Logan Campbell, who not only donated the entire volume of 16,000 books, but wrote every single one of them as well. In long hand!!!)

“OK, OK,” the cashier said. “I was just asking.”

(Or did she say, “I was just joking?” I don’t know. I was a little drunk.)

“You want me to recite the alphabet backwards now too?” I said. (The Shangri La flats).

“No, that really isn’t necessary,” the cashier said.

“No, it’s my pleasure,” I said. (Malibu Flats)

So I started to recite the alphabet backwards. “Z, Y, X, W, S, no wait…”

The person behind me said, “No, listen: it’s Z, Y, X, W, V, U, T, S, R, P…”

“No, no, that isn’t it,” somebody else said. “Does anyone have a piece of paper?”

Pretty soon, there were four or five of us gathered around the cash register trying to figure out how to recite the alphabet backwards. It took us about five minutes, but we got it down pat eventually, which just goes to show you there’s nothing you can’t do if your name is John Logan Campbell.

Posted in Culture, Migration | 13 Comments »

Driving While Incompetent

January 2, 2010

For Christmas this year, Jacquie and I got a dent in the rear bumper of our used car. Thanks New Zealand! It’s what we always wanted. We’re not sure who exactly gave us this gift because our particular Kris Kringle didn’t leave his contact information in the windshield. An understandable oversight, I’m sure, as it was his busy time of year and there were many more cars to destroy.

The good news is the bumper was easily repaired, as it is made of cardboard. A few more swatches of duct tape and you could hardly tell the difference.

The bad news is that the drivers in New Zealand are the worst in the world.

That isn’t just my opinion. Everybody here says so. The funny thing is none of them will admit to being a bad driver. I’ve been in a car with a driver who was tailgating the car in front of us while decrying that very same irritating habit.

In the interest of full disclosure, I got caught speeding by a hidden camera my first week in Auckland because I wasn’t paying attention to the signs (such as they are, but that’s another story.)

But unlike the Kiwis, I have a legitimate excuse for my bad driving. I got my New York State license back in September after having let it expire in 2003 due to lack of interest in driving. To prepare for the test, I took a bunch of refresher lessons. My instructor spent the entire time on his blackberry. He looked up at the road only if he saw a pedestrian that interested him. Once he saw two men going down the street on roller skates. “Homosexual,” he said. It was the first thing he’d said in ten minutes of driving. A couple blocks later at a stop sign, a woman in tight jeans crossed in front of us. “Oh, thank you God,” the instructor said. He made some kissing sounds and as we crossed the intersection, I could see from the corner of my eye that he was still watching the woman. “I love America,” he said.

So, at least in my case, there’s no such thing as a bad driver, just a bad driving instructor.

But seriously, New Zealand does have a high “road toll,” as the Kiwis refer to traffic fatalities. The official total number of traffic fatalities in 2009 stood at 384 on New Year’s Day, with three fatalities on December 31 alone. That seems like a small number, but its 19 more than the previous year, and proportionately speaking, the rate is high.

New York in 2008 had 1,160 traffic fatalities statewide, which for a population of 19 million means that there were 6.28 traffic fatalities per 100,000 population. In New Zealand that same year, the rate was 8.8 per 100,000 population (365 fatalities out of a population of 4.4 million).

So at least from a statistical standpoint, New Zealand is a more dangerous place to drive than New York.

Posted in Culture, Migration | 2 Comments »

A Touching Christmas Story

December 31, 2009

Last week I called my mother who lives 14,198 kilometers away (or .0473 light seconds) in the far-off wintry latitudes of the New York State Thruway. It was Christmas morning there, and the snow fell gently upon the quiet world outside.

Dear mum sat by the fireplace, quietly darning her work sock in the warm glow of the Yule log. The light on her face seemed to brighten when she heard the telephone ring. She had a premonition that her son would be on the line.

My sister was there with my brother in-law and their three children, and when my mother told them it was me, they all gathered around the hearth with fresh cups of hot cocoa in their hands.

“Oh, son,” my mother said. “It is fitting for you to call us on this, the most family-oriented-holiday-greeting-card-friendly holiday known to humanity. We have not heard from you these many months and there’s so much we desire to learn about your new country. It’s hard even to know where to begin. Tell us, what medium-budget science fiction television series does the Auckland skyline most evoke in your imagination?”

I couldn’t believe the question because that was exactly the thing that had been weighing on my mind, and the reason for my call. I just had to tell my mother, after being out of touch for so long, that ever since the first time I saw the Auckland cityscape, I’d been thinking, “Any respectable low- to medium-budget science fiction television series from Canada would be proud to use Auckland as the model for its establishing exterior shots of extraterrestrial locales.”

A tear rolled down my cheek that Christmas morning and I began to choke up so much, it was hard for me to get the words out that my mother so longed to hear.

“Auckland,” I whispered. “Auckland reminds me of Atlantis from the television series Stargate Atlantis.”

Soon that part of the conversation ended and it was my mother’s turn to tell me what was going on in her life, so I hung up as quickly as I could. But then I felt bad. It seemed after some reflection that Auckland didn’t really look that much like Atlantis from Stargate Atlantis. Then I thought, so what? With a little computer magic, Auckland could certainly be the grand capital city of some alien planet. Or at least a sprawling truck stop where a guy could grab a steak, down some amphetamines and enjoy the services of a prostitute, except in outer space.

I thought, hey, I’m unemployed. Why don’t I see what Auckland would look like after a little tender loving care from my computer, just like they’d do for a medium-budget science fiction television series for Canadians. After developing a graphic algorithm and plugging in the data, the computer rendered this:

Wait until the Canadians see that.

∞

Posted in Culture, Migration | 9 Comments »

Basement Life