ICYMI - it’s your Saturday content recap! Cuz that was COOL, guys.
Column: Marvel’s Dark World, regarding Thor, SHIELD, and “good enough” filmmaking
Podcast: kind of the same thing, in audio form
Watched: The long version of The Hobbit! My new favourite thing!
All this and more can be found at tederick.com!
I took 4,000 photos on my iPhone in New Zealand in March. This enormous Flickr photoset represents about 10% of them. Everyone thank me for being so judicious with the editing. The story of New Zealand in picture form is all laid out here…
New Zealand at 15fps - Stealing a trick from Dave, here are all my photos from our trip to New Zealand in March, in about four and a half minutes.
The evacuation of New York proceeded apace. I was in the city for something like a total of 42 hours, give or take. Some of it - not a lot of it - was spent sleeping. The promised thunderstorms never arrived, at least not in New York proper, although at the moment I turned the keys of the cube truck to start the 11.2 hour drive to Tweed, ON, the windshield first became speckled by rain.
The biggest shock of the whole thing was Adam, who hasn’t looked that good since before he discovered Guns n’ Roses. He’s living in Brooklyn, working in Brooklyn, and already seems like he’s been there for ten years. Sometimes you just find a place, and were from there all along.
I flew Porter for the first time, and read A General Theory of Love in Billy Bishop while waiting for Toronto’s thunderstorm to pass - I guess prop planes don’t do well in those - and after landing in Newark took the train in to Penn Station and got hit with All The New York All At Once. Which was good; it got that whole thing out of the way, and left most of Saturday for things less obvious. Though I never did get up the Empire State Building, which really should have been first order of business now that I think about it.
Te Anau - a quiet, flat community in the middle of nowhere, whose purpose quite completely eludes me. It seems to be a way station for people headed elsewhere, but the elsewheres in question (Milford, Doubtful Sound, Keppler Track) are all a good distance further away. In the meantime here’s Te Anau, a town made up entirely of restaurants. Our demographic at the YHA hostel is downright odd - residents from ages 18 to 80. The six-bedroom dorm next to ours was occupied by a half dozen septuagenarian Kiwis and Aussies, like some outback reunion of the Royal Fusiliers.
Replacing Katie as the unwanted fourth member of our 3-man band is Lars (not his real name, because no one’s bothered to ask his real name), who is sharing our 6-bed dorm with us and is the living embodiment of a kind of consensus shared nightmare of every man, woman, and child who has ever stayed in any hostel, anywhere on the earth. Lars - who passed out on his bunk at 8 pm the night we arrived and proceeded to snore like a locomotive gone off the rails for the entirety of the next ten hours (or at least, whenever he wasn’t farting) refuses to make eye contact with anyone and should come with a medic alert bracelet forbidding him from sharing accommodations with any other humans. He doesn’t seem to do anything besides lay on his bed playing on his laptop, and snore. “I am Lars! I check into hostel and lie on bed! This is vacation for me!”
A little further down the road from Te Anau is Manapouri, which has a small beach - stumbled upon by accident. This beach was, from the moment I saw it, the most beautiful place I’ve ever been, whose description I shall not utter here. A bit further down the road than that was the rocky beach behind the Possum Lodge (!), which is - by our rough Google mapping - the furthest from home I’ve ever been, and likely to remain so, unless I eventually get in that trip to Australia I craved in my youth. Though if I ever do come this far and farther again, there are other things from home I’d bring with me.
I was at world’s end on 3/7.
If Te Anau has one thing to recommend it, it is the food truck down by the water called Mainly Seafood, manned by a kindly, bald Kiwi who has ruined me for fish and chips for the rest of my life. I have never, ever, EVER had a piece of fish like the blue cod this man sold me; it redefined the art form to such an extent that I will not order fish and chips from anyone else I ever encounter. Lightly battered, requiring neither salt nor sauce, and falling apart in juicy morsels with every single bite. The fish and chips of the gods.
I’ve been the furthest I’ve ever been. From here, I am - torturously slowly - following the cookie crumbs home.