Ch. 61 The Ridiculous Back of My Head

6/26/18

When I was 20 years old I visited my roommate at his summer job as a rafting instructor on the Deschutes river in Oregon. He knew the little town of Maupin like the back of his hand, so much that most illegal access areas were open to a smiling river rat like him. So we went to the highest jumping point guarded by a national park service ranger who high fived our buddy and let us through.

I resolved not to look until I jumped. It was somewhere between 60 and 80 feet high and you can see from the look on my face, the drop was a surprise.

Afterwards, I was extremely proud of my accomplishment and sent the photos to my family. My Dad’s response stood out. Instead of astonishment or congratulations, he made fun of me for going bald.

Zooming in a couple hundred feet he clearly pointed out a bald spot beginning. He averages 10 emails a week so I wrote it off as too much computer time on his part, my hair was wet, whatever Dad.

Not long ago I was at a bachelor party watching Rafa Nadal win the French Open for the 14th time in his career. My friends chuckled “his hair looks like Mac’s” noting that it was thinning, not the lustrous locks he’d been branded with in the past. I laughed with them and made sure that mine wasn’t that bad…yet.

To go from outright denial at 20 to acceptance eight years later was not easy. In all honesty, the concept never occurred to me until my 28th birthday when a balding Bruno made fun of my own bald spot. He’s a tough love friend but good to have around because we were surfing three times a day in Indonesia at the time. Without his commentary I wouldn’t have sprayed sunscreen on my balding spot and it would have been a painful trip.

It was more than just adjusting my sunscreen routine, I had to come to grips with balding. Other young guys going bald always seemed to place too much importance on hairlines. But to me it was a clear inevitability based on their fathers, why were they surprised? Hadn’t they prepared for this their whole life? Until recently, I subscribed to the Grandfather on your Mother’s side myth. If he had his hair, so will you.

Myth busted. If you’re living by that ignorant tale, reorient to your dad’s shiny head and prepare yourself both mentally and emotionally. I purposefully picked desks in the corner at work for a month straight when I found out my stupid hair had quit in the top center. I didn’t want anybody discovering what I had when they walked by a sitting, balding, Mac.

If it weren’t for Bruno, I’m not sure when I would have found the spot – it’s impossible to see from my perspective. Being self aware is impossible without friends to keep you in check. The next time your buddy gives you a hard time, don’t brush it off, listen and dig in if you think there’s more truth than jokes in it. Be thankful that your friends are assholes and love to make jokes at your expense, otherwise you’d have no idea you’re balding. While ignorance is bliss, self awareness prevents sunburns.

Ch. 60 Plastic Bets

25/4/18

Australia is more than shrimps on the barbie. Even though it’s a relatively young country, the traditions I was able to experience were the tops mate. Case and point: Anzac Day.

ANZAC stands for Australia New Zealand Army Corps and it’s a single day that combines holidays like the 4th of July with Veterans Day and Memorial Day but add more drinking and gambling.

That last part is particularly important because it’s hands down the best part about Anzac Day. In the trenches, the ANZAC soldiers played a game called two-up. Essentially two (sometimes three) coins get tossed in the air and fall within a circle on the ground, you bet if it’s going be majority heads or majority tails up. 50/50 shot at winning big, why wouldn’t you bet?

Image of the original players courtesy of Pickle.

The Australian government allows gambling across the country in any establishment public or private on Anzac Day to honor some lively two-up. And mate, Aussies get more than just lively. They get downright giddy.

If you’ve ever skinny dipped, you may recall the gleeful smiles pasted across the faces of your fellow dippers. A collision of happiness and sin that looks like you’ve just gotten away with murder, and you’re stoked about it. Well that face is worn by everybody in a crowd of twoup, starting at 9am and going until dark.

To bet you can choose heads by taking your betting amount and touching your head with it, raising and lowering the cash for a challenger to see. The challenger takes tails and hands you their money, which you keep until the game has been played and your boxer (emcee) has called it. Winner takes the cash, rinse repeat. There’s a high roller style that happens at the center, but most go for 1:1 bets.

It was momentarily astounding that no fights* broke out and no money was stolen among strangers freely handing cash back and forth, but once you’re there you realize it’s like honor amongst thieves, they’re getting this no-rules day, why ruin a good time?

An American Ranga bets with the true blues. Circa 25 April, 2017

The one Anzac Day I was lucky enough to experience was rainy, but that didn’t matter. The rain really didn’t matter because Aussie dollars are plastic, virtually impossible to break or soak by hand or water.

It also didn’t matter because everyone was on the piss (‘Strayan for drunk).

I lost a fair bit of money that day, but some other person came up – that’s the beauty of the 50/50 chances on Anzac Day. Cheers mate.

*I didn’t see any fights but evidently it happens on occasion.

Ch. 59 Dynasty Dogs

3/21/3018

Papaya VII is absolutely the best yet. Papaya’s I-VI didn’t have the anti-slobber implant. I mean come on, every time you make her sit and stay for meals she practically ruined the Persian rug and the saliva was getting worse with each model. VII not only doesn’t slobber but she’s getting pretty good at distinguishing between family and foe.

I’ll admit that Papaya I, the original, never had this issue, but cloning has its downsides and Great Grandpa Hansen didn’t want to lose her. Back then it was experimental, but we were one of the first families to clone our dying dog, along with Barbra Streisand. We’re digital pioneers, it’s in our blood and clearly in Papaya’s.

Out of all seven, Papaya II had the most defects. Not only did she suffer from unusually acute amnesia for a dog, she had the worst farts by far. Great Grandpa described it as a rotten salmon that’d been left under the net of a fishing boat all summer, festering with the heat, weight, and salty effervescence of the net. We still don’t know where the fish essence comes from. That unique scent makes it harder to blame it on the dog when needed.

Versions III-V were a steady progression, each version improving on the previous until Papaya the First became obsolete. Who wants to be the first of their kind anyway? The seventh iteration is always the best. Remember iPhones? Ya, me neither, but I have it on good authority they hit their stride at seven.

Plus there are bonus features, like pillow mode for example. Twist her left ear thrice and no matter how riled up she is, Papaya will lay under your head in calm obedience and become the warmest undulating pillow you’ve ever experienced. Since that feature came in however, she’s learned to drop farts if it’s not her preferred mode.

Not to mention there hasn’t been a feline homicide by a dynasty dog since 2044. “Survival of the fittest” Grandpa would say. Admittedly it’s less a factor of the dogs losing their killer instinct and more due to the improvements in feline breeding. Ever since they injected pure jaguar back to the gene pool those little furballs are much harder to catch unawares.

The original Papaya in her element

The only real problem I have with dynasty dogs is the stare. It’s hard to find any shred of a soul in those eyes. They just can’t make meaningful eye contact like the originals, it’s like their looking through you, to their past founder’s lives, longing for the fleeting feeling of mortality, trapped in a never-ending cycle of toxic farts and drool.

Papaya V was such a happy version...

What am I saying? They love it, don’t you Papaya—OH GOD that’s rancid. There she goes again, better snag some more Trump Candles at the store, those things can cover up all manner of fishy business.

Ch. 58 The Life and Times of Karen

3/15/18

Before the light broke, Karen was up. Rumbling about in preparation for another long day. Sunrise to sunset, and often after dark, Karen never missed a day on the job. Not in 57 years.

She stretched and rolled side to side, front to back, hearing cracks and grinds as the motion wore her better parts down to the inevitable dust they’d become. She was never much for the creams or lotions, those only made it worse in Karen’s experience.

Hobbling out of her nook, Karen marveled at her walkway, it was smooth and worn down from decades of repetition. Maybe she’d fix it up one day, put new stones in. Maybe.

She arrived at work not a moment too soon. Her coworkers were already in position and the sun began to bleed over the horizon, shedding beautiful orange light over the steeples of rock above her post. She was completely bathed in its warmth by the time their first customers came through. Late for this time of year.

“Over there! Karennnnn!” the first hiker exclaimed.

The three others in tow hooted and whooped as they trundled and scraped their way towards Karen. They were fresh in the legs and didn’t come close to knocking her over, which was a blessed thing as 57 years was third best in Blank National Park.

“Oh cool, look, there’s the next Karen” said another hiker, as they all headed in the direction of Karen’s neighbor, Karen.

An excerpt from Karen: The Stone Trailhead documenting the life and times of a Cairn in Blank National Park, guiding hikers along trails of stone for miles on end without use of man-made signage.

There's Karen

Ch. 57 Blank National Park

3/8/18

I just went camping somewhere and it blew my mind. The best part was the lack of crowds so I’ve edited the location to preserve its identity.

We were camping and hiking in blank and I honestly have never seen such amazing blanks. Around every corner was a new blank. We ended each day severely low on dopamine due to the wonders that lay around each bend in the trail.

We camped at blank which is great this time of year because we literally didn’t run into anybody on the entire blank trail. The blank trail had a few more but man, talk about a cool hike through the blanks!

Every ranger we talked to had trouble reccommending one hike, “I mean you could do blank, or blank, or even blank because honestly man, they’re all my favorite. Every hike here in blank always blows my mind.”

One evening we climbed up on blank and watched the sunlight spill onto the blanks of blank and were fully transported from all our material lives back in the city. It was an escape of pure bliss.

Being back in civilization I am stunted by all the right angles and manmade materials, it really sucks the creativity of nature out of the everyday. All the same, the floor needs sweeping and the camping gear needs cleaning and the litter box is overflowing so I’d better get to it.

If you’re ever in the blank area and have a few days, I can’t recommend blank enough. That place is unreal.

This picture is a red herring, but feel free to try and exact the location if you're so inclined.

Ch. 56 Confessions of a Crap Surfer

1/24/18

I love being a shitty surfer.

Surfing has a great levelling effect. It balances expectation with effort. If you expect a great surf, you have to put in more effort to catch the right waves and be in position; without that effort, your expectations won’t be met.

Luckily for me, my expectations are low. If I can catch one solid ride and make a satisfying turn on it, I’m sweet for two weeks. It’s all gravy from there and I spend the remainder of those weeks replaying that turn in my head, slow motion glory, I have the top play in my very own Sportscenter.

The happy-go-lucky mindset is a great one, but that all changed when I went on my first dedicated Surf Safari. The Mentawais Islands in Indonesia.

In retrospect, I probably should have eased my way to Surf Mecca with some easier trips, stamped a couple other reef breaks on my surfari resume, but the opportunity presented itself and I had a looming departure on the horizon. I was scheduled to leave Australia at Christmas, so the bucket list became a priority.

Our first break in the Mentawais was a place called Hollow Trees, and it turned out to be the most dangerous place we’d surf the entire trip. It tapered off in size throughout the day and after a couple shaky rights and some coral bites I finally found my feet. After that the other spots we surfed were a dream. Perfect lefts breaking from the same spot.

Aside from the water temperature, exquisite marine life, and private boat access to the lineup, there was one major difference from surfing in Sydney. Everyone was basically pro. These were lifelong surfers who had talent and fitness to boot, and they were either returning Mentawai veterans or had been training for this trip for a long time. I was neither.

Like most sports, surrounding yourself with superior athletes is a great way to get better fast. So that’s what I did, struggling to keep up every day was like high altitude training. I’ll show you some pictures of yours truly and spare you pictures of my boatmates, I’d hate for you to get too much perspective on the skill gap.

After sliding on factory-made waves in Indonesia 3 times a day for 10 days straight, the return to Sydney was stark. It was like coming back to work after a festival weekend. You clock in despondently each day thinking “is this the life I signed up for?”

I had lost my any-wave-sunshine attitude and replaced it with an expectant Indo-high-horse perspective.

Eventually the treadmill that is life evened me out and I began appreciating sunny knee-high days once again. The month before I left Australia for good there were some really fun swells just outside my bedroom window and I spent every opportunity in the water. Any time I lowered my head, salt water would stream from my nose like a sea-fountain. If you know the feeling, good on you.

It’s been a month since I moved from the beachside life and I cannot stress enough, if you live in reach of an ocean, go for a surf, and if you are offered a spot on a surfari, take it, and invite me too.

Ch. 54 Japan is in the Details

2/23/17

For most people it’s the food. Think about those rare times you’ve shelled out some real monies for insanely good sushi. You can get that caliber at 7-11 in Japan and it only gets better from there. Tempura fit for gods and gyoza like you’ve never had it. Every restaurant offers “party platters” that deliver the amounts you’ve always dreamed of ordering but never had the opportunity. It’s enough to make the trip. But it wasn’t the food.

That's a party platter.

For others it’s the people. So nice they make Australians seem standoffish. Everyone in Japan has a smile with genuine happiness behind it – smiles like these are so pure that it makes you want to leave social media and never look back, for these are real smiles. Japanese also posses a remarkable quality that combines pride and an utter willingness to drop everything to assist foreigners in their quest for Tepanyaki, or Ramen, or gyoza (gyoza my god the gyoza). Though we experienced unbridled kindness from all walks of life, that wasn’t what did it for me.

That's 90 pieces of fresh Gyoza.

What got me to buy tickets was the powder – that should be enough for anybody living in a sunburnt country. It was so light and plentiful that there were days when you didn’t actually shred or rip, it was just float from the top of the mountain to the bottom, as if on the back of Totoro himself. I’m tempted to say it was the powder for me but alas, a constant barrage of giant flakes dumping and first tracks each morning still was not it.

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That's what the powder looked like on a mediocre day.

Some like to praise the culture and I get that. It’s old and deep and has achieved such a beautiful harmony with the modern world that you can’t help but soak it in. The amount of unique heritage in such a small geographic footprint relative to the world makes an insatiably intriguing environment. This gets closer to why Japan is now top on my list but it’s too broad.

That's the Imperial Palace in the heart of Tokyo.

It’s the details that have me frothing, drooling, literally pining to return. There is a relentless drive for perfection in Japanese innovation that gets to life’s nitty gritty problems and fixes them. It’s as if their first emperor said “we have the tools, let’s fix it, all of it, that’ll be our thing you guys.”

And fix it they did.

Let me tell you about their heated toilet seats. Japan has recognized the most intimate of problems and taken the initiative to solve it. After some very light and shaky internet research, I have Hiroshi Nishinaka to thank for elevating what is beyond a doubt, the most important part of every day.

This weighs the complexity of the Darth Vader robot toilet which at times introduces an overly mechanic element to what should be mostly organic and maintains the much needed balance of design and ultimate utility. I experienced these when sitting in China and couldn’t shake the feeling that capitalism had come to join me though I didn’t extend an invite. Fans and beeps followed by jets and even fake water noises put me on edge when I should have been centered. I can’t tell you how thrilled I was to be greeted by the silent work of a quaint electrical cord that made sure I had a comfortable landing to do my business every time. It was remarkable.

This is but one of infinite details Japanese innovation has solved for, and I spent every moment appreciating all my experiences because someone like Hiroshi had thought them out so thoroughly, there was no option but to smile with genuine happiness.

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