Kiwis need to realise 100 per cent pure is 100 per cent propaganda

I just read this great editorial and wanted to share it. It's no surprise that the New Zealand government wants to advertise its natural and cultural heritage as big draws for tourist dollars, but doesn't want to spend money protecting those very things. That's just human nature: eating your cake and having it too; the tragedy of the commons, etc. 

What is interesting is that grey area when the advertisement becomes propaganda. The government has done all the research, they know the sad state of New Zealand rivers thanks to contamination from cattle ranching. They know the sad shape of native birds because the "wild" ones still have to live in little, protected "predator-free" zones. (We live near one of the largest sanctuaries, and you can still hike around the perimeter in half a day.) They know the sad shape of the Maori communities, the amount of overseas land ownership, and a host of other factors that will have an execrable impact on the very things they are highlighting in these adverts. 

I guess the grey line comes down to the audience: If you're talking to people  overseas who want to see some of that magic but have no vested interest in preserving it, then it's just good tourism. If you're talking to locals who need to do something to preserve it, then convincing them otherwise is worse than propaganda. It's sealing their own doom. 

I hope you'll take the time to read the article, as it's applicable 100 per cent to the rest of the world. It also reminded me of another campaign, "Pure Michigan," which John Kerfoot brilliantly parodied.

P. S. It looks like "the man" finally got to John Kerfoot, as all but 3 of his videos have been made private with no explanation. Those 3 videos -- on road construction, Midwest winters and the Q-line -- are still hilarious, but nothing compared to his takedown of Mackinac Island or the Renaissance Festival. 

R. I. P. John

I mentioned that just after my trip to California last year, my long-time neighbour and friend, John Lynch, had passed away.* I didn't mention why he was so special to me.

[Uh, I just realised I never finished that post! It's been sitting in the draft folder for a year and a half! Well anyway, pretend I mentioned it and someday I'll straighten it out.]

I met John in 1996, two years after my father had passed away. He was in his mid-50s, about 30 years older than me, and while I never really thought of him as a father figure, he probably thought of me as a son. He never had kids of his own. 

I was looking at buying the house next door, and thought it a good idea to meet the neighbours first. I did not expect the neighbour to tell me that he built the house! He even took me on a tour of the house, told me why he had sold it, and told me stories about miserable the previous owners were. However, what I'll always remember from that first meeting was him folding his 6-foot frame through a 2-foot window -- he was always remarkably lithe and flexible. 

We got on like a house on fire, which is coincidentally what happened to his original house, and why he ended up building the new one. He'd just finished building a wooden bathtub (which was popular in the 70s) and his niece gave him a candle, so he decided to burn it in a little cage from the ceiling. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what happened next, but when he discovered his bathroom was on fire, rather than a try to put it out, he ran to the backyard to destroy his marijuana plants before the fire department arrived! Needless to say, he lost everything. (He also later learned the plants were all males, and useless for smoking.) 

When the new house was built, two things happened: he quit his job in mental health services and became a full-time builder, and one weekend he was not it of town he lent the the keys to a gay friend who threw a party on the back deck. The neighbours, who were deeply religious, were so appalled by what they saw that they put their house up for sale! John decided he wanted to determine who his neighbours were, so he bought their house and rented it out. 

A few years later, John's family moved to Oregon. Being Irish, family was everything to him so he sold his main house, left the little house rented, and moved to Oregon. However, he couldn't find enough work and eventually ran out of money. He moved back to LA, kicked out his renter, and lived in the tiny 1000-square foot house next to the beautiful 2600-square foot house he'd built.

17 years later, I arrived. We put in a new fence, two skylights, a hot tub, restored the back deck (although my wildest parties involved carving pumpkins) and a koi pond--indoors. It was a wild ride. 

The door was always open for John, and he was part of the furniture, as they say. He also helped me make a couple of pieces of furniture; although I was never particularly deft at woodworking, he showed me the basics and gave me the tools. The most important advice he gave to me was this: "Never put your fingers anyplace you wouldn't put your d---." 20 years later, every time I touch a power tool, I think about those sage words. 

In 1998, I wanted to go on a cruise around the Canary Islands to see the Leonid meteor shower, and I jokingly asked John if he wanted to go with us. When he said yes, my the-girlfriend and I exchanged glances of horror! We'd never travelled with someone else before, but we couldn't rescind an invitation, could we? In the end, he went with us and we had an amazing time. My girlfriend got seasick and would go to sleep straight after dinner, but John and I stayed up to the early hours listening to a fantastic jazz band. (I particularly remember him requesting "Little Brown Jug" and me asking for "Paper Moon" and on subsequent nights they would play those as soon as we arrived.)

There were many memorable events from that trip: One day we decided to hire a car but all they had were manual, which I never learned how to drive, so John took over. Towards the end of the evening he was getting nervous about getting back (the ship disembarked at sunset) but I wanted to see the black sand beaches. He was driving but I had the map, so we returned to the ship via a circuitous and completely unnecessary route, but I got to see the beach and he never knew any better. 

Five years later,  my ex-girlfriend and I were toying with the idea of restoring her grandparents' house and turning it into a bed and breakfast, and John gave me the second most-important advice: "Do it while you're young." He was referring to his failure in Oregon, of course, but I knew he was right; it was a risky venture and nobody knew if it would be successful, and if we waited for retirement we would be stuck. Fortunately some serendipitous events at work meant we could afford to start when I was 35.  Two years later, the place opened for business (and was wildly successful) but my girlfriend and I ended up splitting and I was left with nothing at all.

I moved back to LA, but sold the house and moved to downtown, which was an adventure in its own right. John's eyesight had deteriorated and he wasn't driving very much, so he didn't visit me and I only saw him about every other month. Around the same time, another set of neighbours that he was close to moved (ironically) to Oregan and he was left alone in Lomita. 

A year later, I got my UK visa and headed off on another adventure, not sure where that would end. John was not "technologically sophisticated" -- he didn't have a computer or even a cell phone -- and I was terrible about keeping in touch, but I'd see him every time I visited LA. Unfortunately as his eyesight deteriorated, so did the rest of him. He no longer had his zeal for life, and once he officially retired it was only a matter of time. 

He actually lasted longer than I thought he might, no doubt buoyed by the stream of rescue dogs he always had. But I knew from friends that he wasn't taking care of himself, wasn't engaged with anything, and of course that's the real killer. 

When he died he was 78 or so -- still 30 years older than me -- and I still think of him often and fondly. My stepson and I are currently constructing a hut in the yard, and although I'd be ashamed to show it to John (there isn't a square angle on it!) I still know that without John I wouldn't have even attempted it. And my stepson is having a blast playing with power tools. Pretty soon I'll have to share with him John's greatest advice.

(As my girlfriend had to point out, that old man is me.)

A mystery wrapped in a nightmare

A week ago, we drove to Auckland to visit the kids at camp. Along the way we took the "Forgotten World" highway and stopped at the Waitomo caves, which were both spectacular. I've been in New Zealand over three years now and have explored so little of its natural beauty, it's a real shame.

On Friday I developed a small headache; I took some paracetamol but it didn't help. On Saturday it got a bit worse, and I was quite grumpy all day, but on Sunday - when we were visiting the kids - it became a debilitating, stabbing headache that made me grimace in pain every few seconds. 

After we left the kids, we went to the Auckland A&E, but the triage nurse there suggested we go around the corner to the "Urgent Care Service" as we would be seen a little quicker. In retrospect, this might have been a mistake, as the urgent care did not have the specialists or support to figure out the problem. However, I don't think this was the case; I'll explain why later. 

The GP checked my neural signs to make sure it wasn't an issue with my head and did some basic checks on my eye, but couldn't find any cause. She suggested I take codeine and see a specialist eye clinic in the morning. I'd never taken codeine and was worried about the side effects so I declined. I very much regretted this later, as the headache just kept getting worse. 

We found a motel and stayed the night, but I don't think I got much sleep. At 8am we were at the eye clinic, but the only thing they could find was viral conjunctivitis ('pink-eye') and although they said that clearly had nothing to do with the headache, they gave me codeine and told me to follow up in a week. This time I took the codeine, and while it didn't do much for my headache, it at least allowed me to sleep a little while my girlfriend drove ten hours straight from Auckland to Wellington. In retrospect, they should have referred me to the hospital, not given me a bullshit diagnosis that they knew did not explain the main symptoms, but again I don't think it would have made any difference and I was happier to be close to home. 

I spent the next 24 hours in bed, taking codeine and trying to sleep, but it wasn't getting any better so Monday night we went to Wellington A&E. They, too, were at a loss but they kept me overnight and started me on morphine, so the pain was much less but I was so nauseous I wasn't sure which was worse. On Tuesday they gave me another full eye test and a CT scan, and Wednesday they gave me an MRI. Neither revealed anything. 

However, on Wednesday I started developing a patch on my forehead with distinct lines on it, and by Thursday it was clear what was causing the problem: Shingles. This had been considered but rejected earlier for two good reasons:

1. Shingles normally occur in older people whose immune system is compromised. However, I've been on immunosuppressants for my eczema since March, so in reality I'd "pre-compromised" myself. 
2. The optic nerve encompasses more than just sight; it controls the area around the eye, the ear, the forehead and part of the nose.  When shingles are in the optic nerve, it usually compromises vision in that eye. Mine had been fine.

So that's why I don't think anyone would have made the diagnosis until the blisters developed on Thursday. With the mystery solved, they sent me home with a goody bag of anti-virals, morphine, anti-nausea drugs, and gabapentin, which focuses on nerve pain. So while I'll still be sick as a dog for the next week or so - with complete bedrest - I should make a full recovery. 

And hopefully we can get back to see the Rotarua hot springs soon!

P.S. In Judaism, there is a prayer for the first time something happens (or the first time it happens in a season).  It's called the "shehecheyanu" and basically translates to: "Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who has granted us life, sustained us and enabled us to reach this occasion."

I had a number of "shehecheyanu" moments, such as staying overnight in a hospital (as a patient), getting a line put in my arm (and later another in the opposite arm), getting a CT scan, getting an MRI, not eating for 5 days, not going to the bathroom for 6 days, not drinking tea for a week!!  I can't say they were all enjoyable, but it's remarkable that I got to this age without having any of those experiences before.

P.P.S. This whole week cost $99, and that was for the motel in Auckland.  Even the prescriptions were free. Thank goodness for socialised medicine!