I made the mistake of taking a summer philosophy class at the local community college to fill out some of my elective credits.
This was a mistake for two reasons, which are not mutually exclusive.
One, I found philosophy surprisingly boring.
Two, my professor was a fucking crackpot.
Our second week of class, after spending the entire first week lecturing rhetorically about whether or not ”physical life is real, is the chair real, is what we see real, how many more dimensions are there that we are not aware of, blah, blah, fucking, blah”, he was asked by one of the students, his stance on drug use to ‘enlighten the mind’.
He replied back without hesitation or inflection in his voice, “I think everyone should take LSD at least once a year. It clears the mind.”
Now don’t get me wrong, I am just as much in favor of the recreational use of hard drugs as the next guy. But as I took a look around the room and saw just how impressionable my peers actual were and just how much of this guys bullshit they were actually believing, I became slightly concerned. I envisioned several of these 18-year-old kids explaining to the arresting officer, “It’s for school, I swear.” While sitting in the back of a cop car, wondering if the hand cuffs that are cutting off the circulation to their hands are actually “real” (Turn on, tune in, and, um, drop out?).
It was about this time that I started questioning the validity of our “professors” teaching credentials. I know he had written a book. He had succeeded at mentioning that part of his resume 17 times during the enthralling first week of class (I kept a tally). He even offered us a $5 discount off the hard copy version.
The fucking cheap bastard!
To top it off, the book wasn’t even something he wrote. It was simply a collection of philosophers that he felt were relevant, placed into a single book by him (and a co-”author”!).
I use to make mixed CD’s of my favorite rap artists as a kid but I don’t claim to be a music producer. Can you imagine if I managed to throw this blog into paper back and then used it as evidence that I should be lecturing impressionable, young, naive college students about global culture. Undoubtedly I would be telling them to come to my class piss-drunk, to get their head right for my lesson.
I personally prefer the philosophers of my generation. I can not only relate to them on a more personal level, but I feel they are more direct and eliminate most of the bullshit (unlike this blog post).
Take Xzibit for example, “I can drink a whole Hennessy fifth, some call it a problem but I call it a gift.”
That is a great observation of the duality of man. On one hand, drinking an entire fifth of Hennessy is considered a problem. While that very same attribute can be seen as a blessing. Is it a problem? Is it a gift? Maybe a gift that is a problem? Or better yet, a problem that is a gift? Certainly one for the ages.
Or one of my favorite and more widely applicable quotes:
“Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the face.” – Mike Tyson
We had a plan for The Great New Zealand Road Trip (South Island). A complex and in-depth plan that detailed the entire first five days of our two week journey. We spent an entire half hour putting this elaborate and complex plan together!
Then we got punched in the face.
We drove from Queenstown to Te Anau at a leisurely pace, without a care in the world, chalked full of excitement for our days to come. The plan was to stay the night in Te Anau and head to Milford Sound the following morning. Spending an entire day enjoying the wonderful scenery that Milford has to offer from the decks of an overpriced tour boat.
We had become familiar with New Zealand’s weather patterns from our time in the North Island. But we never thought (didn’t properly research) that the road to Milford Sound might be closed if the weather was too extreme.
Even worse, closed with no fucking clue when it would reopen.
The most we could get out of any of the locals when we asked if the road would open soon was, “Maybe” with a shrug and a half-smile. That same fucking smile and sense of uncertainty you would get from your high-school pot dealer when asking when the drought would be over. So you could buy some more of his shitty and overpriced weed.
Convinced we would be missing out on a South Island highlight, we had no choice but to burn a day, sit inside our hostel, and watch as the torrential rains pounded the already flooded streets outside.
The weather report comes out twice a day for the roads in New Zealand (South Island). Once at 4:30pm and once at 7:30am. We waited until the seven-thirty report but didn’t receive confidence-building news. The roads were closed, it was currently raining, it was planned to continue raining, and no one wanted to give a firm answer on when they thought the roads would reopen.
Our time in the South Island was already fairly limited and after taking advice from pretty much everyone (to include the local North Island hobo) on where we should be spending our time in the South Island, we were left feeling like Shanic Johnson during her supermarket sweepstake run. Crashing our cart into the wall, trying to grab as much shit as we possible can. But realizing as we slammed our way through the aisles, there just wasn’t going to be enough time to grab some ribs AND make it to the beer section. So we did what we thought would be a close second and snagged as many hot dogs as we possibly could. That is, we cut bait and headed up the west coast. We were hoping to somehow squeeze Milford Sound in at the end of the trip.
Unfortunately our contingency plan was about as well thought out as our initial strategy. The road back to Queenstown was also closed due to flooding. We had to make an hour and half detour to circumnavigate the additional flooding. We managed to get as far as Lake Wanaka, until we were met with flooding again (this is summer right?). The lack of planning (in general and in regards to weather) left us scrambling for a place to stay, along with half of the South Island tourists. All of the hostels and hotels were full with people who didn’t leave and or people trying to hustle their way up the coast to avoid further saturation. Thankfully, after five different attempts, we scored a cabin at one of the camp sites for only $40 more than we budgeted for a nights accommodation (that’s drinking money man!).
With nothing to keep us entertained during our stay but a couple of bottles of wine, Dancing On Ice Finale 2011 (featuring Vanilla Ice), and a Thanksgiving episode of Ellen. . . we were more than ready for an immediate departure and sunnier skies.
The drive up the west coast of New Zealand (South Island) is nothing short of amazing. The rugged mountains sharply find their way into the stunning blue water that can only be described as the kind of beauty that literally takes your breath away. The kind of beauty that could at least land a part-time modeling gig. The impressively turquoise water seems more out-of-place than an intelligent comment coming out of the mouth of Lindsay Lohan. The color rivals that of the waters of Thailand, but the temperature (if tested), would ensure that your manhood served as dimples for your belly button (regardless what the locals say and do). It grabs your attention every time you come around a corner and it is brought into sight. Interrupting conversations, slowing the speed of travel, and requiring one or both of us to state how “fucking awesome” it is.
After several days of driving and stopping at virtually every scenic lookout available, we finally reached the north part of the South Island. Our time in the South Island thus far was pretty much spent confined to the inside of the car and or inside our hostel watching the rain pour down. We couldn’t help but feel like Charlie Brown when we watched the evening news. It seemed like the rain was literally following us around. Leaving sunny skies and warm weather both behind us and where we planned on going. At least we were achieving a scenery change with the different hostels, but we were starting to have a growing hatred for the car.
Thankfully the following day was supposed to be partly cloudy with off and on light rain. That was encouraging enough for us to make a dash to Abel Tasman National Park. Even if there was going to be just a moment of sunlight, we had to get outside and do something, anything!
As luck would have it, we arrived to the park just a pinch too late. Most of the tours had left only 15 minutes prior to our arrival. We had two options left: A boat trip up the length of the park and a two-hour break to walk and explore. Or we could be dropped off half way up the coast and walk back four hours. Those of you who know me, understand that I am inherently lazy and though I tried my best to smile at Sally and explain that I was game for either option. We ultimately ended up doing to the longer boat ride, shorter walk (score!).
The boat company turned out to be more geared toward taking people to various parts of the park to drop them off. A taxi service if you will, hence the name Aqua Taxi. I am not sure why they sell a “Tour Package”, but they do, and we bought it. The tickets really entitled us to speed up the coast as quick as possible and drop off/ pick up other passengers. But as luck would have it, the weather took a turn for the worse (surprise surprise) and the waters became a too rough to continue the trip up the coast. The boat company was able to turn a perceived rip-off into an extremely enjoyable afternoon through the single actions of our skipper. The local Maori (ex-kayak guide) Eric provided more cultural experience about the local culture, plant life, and history then we collectively experienced during the duration of our trip in New Zealand thus far. He also catered the rest of the afternoon to our interests. By taking us (and another couple) to Seal Island and a little cove for a quick swim in the water (Sally and I stayed on the boat).