Daily Photo Project 2010 — Feb. 9

Red, red, wall. Front of apartment, Waghorne Street, Ahuriri, Napier, New Zealand.

Honey, do I look fat in this ice cream?

Left, Passionfruit and Hokey Pokey; right, Cookies’n'Cream and Goody Goody Gumdrops, “single” scoops, $1.60, Te Awa Store, Napier.

Mint Cookies’n'Cream, “single” scoop, $2, The Corner Store, Ahuriri.

Caramel Chunks, “single” scoop, $2, The Corner Store, Ahuriri.

This may be difficult for you to comprehend, but journalism is so much more than free lunches and signing autographs for adoring font bunnies.

We journalists don’t like to make a big deal out of it, but the truth is that hours of research go into every story. Or sometimes just minutes, depending on the speed of your Internet connection.

My own research has seen me spend an entire weekend stuffed into a car with cheerleaders. OK, I was driving them to a tournament, but the car was full. And they were cheerleaders. And I did write about them. And then had to go through the entire process again the next season when a whole new crop joined the squad. We’re talking long hours of intense scrutiny here, folks.

Then there was the time I spent 14 hours at the side of a hotdog vendor outside a supermarket. So I could write a story about the day in the life of a, well, hotdog vendor. This is what I learned: Yes, you can eat too many hotdogs. And, no, you do not want to know what goes into them.

It was this dedication to ferreting out the facts — and the obvious success of my Daily Photo Project — that had me contemplating doing a Daily New Zealand Ice Cream Taste Test. This would see me personally sample every flavour of ice cream produced in this nifty little country, and report back on their degree of yumminess.

Unfortunately — or fortunately, depending whether or not you are the part of my body in charge of producing insulin — a job offer to return to the Cook Islands meant this projet melted into a puddle of not-gonna-happen before I could even make a decent start. As it turned out, all I managed to sample are the flavours pictured on this page. They are a mere flick of the tongue compared to the mouthful of Scrumptious Delight I had planned to serve up each day.

I like ice cream. Unfortunately, like its sister — the dark, sultry siren known as Chocolate — ice cream makes my clothes shrink. But that is the price a true journalist like myself is willing to pay.

I also like things in my ice cream. Which is why Fudge Chunks and Chips is my first choice at Baskin Robbins. Which is why Cookies’n'Cream and Goody Goody Gumdrops send shivers down my back even as they freeze my brain.

Now this project will have to wait until I return from Rarotonga. Actually, it was while living in Raro that Viking Woman and I had our first taste of New Zealand ice cream. The little shop next to our house stocked Magnum bars and they quickly grew adept at whispering our names every time we passed the freezer.

We became hooked; we needed a daily fix. You know that scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark, the one where Indiana Jones reaches back for his fedora just as the stone wall is about to drop into place? That was us one night, pretty much sliding in under the roller door on our bellies as the shopgirl was trying to close the place. Junkies do those sorts of things . . . and then later refer to it as research.

What makes New Zealand ice cream so much better than anything else in the world? I don’t really know. Maybe there’s less pollution here. Maybe it’s the whole GE-free attitude. Maybe there is such a thing as a contented cow.

All I know is that I’m grateful for the texture and the taste and the extra layer of fat that will keep me warm come winter. In fact, since I’m pretty much finished packing, I’m going to head to the nearest paddock and bestow a great big thank-you hug on a cow. I’m going to choose a chunky one.

Daily Photo Project 2010 — Feb. 8

Ewe talkin' to me? Concrete sheep, Heretaunga Street, Hastings, New Zealand.

The hills are alive with the sound of me going “WTF?”

When people discover I was a syndicated film reviewer for 15 years, it prompts the inevitable question: “What’s your favourite all-time movie?”

That always stumps me because I really don’t have a definitive No. 1. But I can name several movies that have given me much viewing satisfaction, including the likes of The Wizard of Oz, A Christmas Carol, Jesus Christ Superstar, Deliverance, Jaws and Alien.

You’ll notice that The Sound of Music is not on that list. There’s a very good reason for that and it’s because I have spent the past 44 years avoiding it.

That’s quite the feat because SOM (as I like to call it) just happens to be my parents’ all-time No. 1 favourite movie.

In fact, I can quite easily picture the following scenario:

Mom and Dad encounter St. Peter at the Pearly Gates.

St. Peter: Welcome to Paradise.

Mom: Do you play The Sound of Music in Heaven?

St. Peter: Um, no.

Dad: That’s OK. We’ll just wait over here in Purgatory until you do.

Mom: Nuts to that. No probs, Pete my man, I brought my own copy.

St. Peter: Christ.

I was hoping a move to New Zealand would make it easier to avoid hearing Julie Andrews warble on about love and sashes and female deer.

If insulation and central heating and high-speed Internet have never reached this distant outpost of civilization, then surely the Von Trapp saga must also be unheard of.

Nice try.

Upon discovering that I remained an SOM virgin, a workmate was kind enough to loan us her copy. Well, not exactly “loan.” More like “bestow.” There is, apparently, no one quite as fanatical as a SOM-bie.

And so it came to pass that I lost my do-ra-me-fa-so-la-te-cherry.

Here are my thoughts on the experience:

* I knew the plot centred on events in Austria leading up to the Second World War. What I didn’t realize is that the movie actually runs longer than the war did.

Now I know what they mean by “timeless” classic.

Seriously, 168 minutes?

Director Robert Wise should have cut loose one of those annoying children (preferably the youngest girl, the one with a face like a slapped arse) and used that money instead to hire an editor. There are no deleted scenes in the DVD Extras. That’s because there aren’t any.

* There are approximately six songs in this movie. You hear each one of them approximately 30 times. I understand foreshadowing. I understand introducing a song under seemingly innocent conditions so, when it is used later, when the plot calls for both poignancy and tissues, the audience is already primed.

But if I had a dollar for every time I turned to my wife and said “Again?” I’d have enough to buy my own copy of this movie. And then burn it.

* According to imdb.com, Christopher Plummer hated every second of making this movie. I now know how he feels.

* I spent the entire running time trying to remember what TV series Angela Cartwright (Brigitta) starred in later (it was Lost in Space) and thinking she was part of the crew of the Nostromo in Alien (in fact, it was her older sister, Veronica). For most of the other child actors, SOM was the beginning and the end of their careers. So karma does work after all. Who knew?

* The movie just ends. With everybody gaily strolling through fields of that bloody edelweiss. Walking to Switzerland.

In reality, the Von Trapps drove to a train station and crossed into Italy via the railway before making their way to America. But that mundane mode of transportation isn’t particularly photogenic nor does it tie in with the ongoing theme of climbing every frickin’ mountain.

Proving yet again that real life is a not a musical. Which would explain why I can’t sing.

Despite the above grumblings, I did not exactly hate The Sound of Music. That would be like saying you hated raindrops on roses. Or whiskers on kittens.

And no one is that miserable. Right?

Daily Photo Project 2010 — Feb. 7

Art Deco streetlight, Russell Street, Hastings, New Zealand.

Daily Photo Project 2010 — Feb. 6

Civic pride. Detail, downtown artwork, Emerson Street, Napier, New Zealand.

Daily Photo Project 2010 — Feb. 5

Heavenly view. St. Patrick's Catholic Church, cnr Station and Munro Streets, Napier, New Zealand.

Daily Photo Project 2010 — Feb. 4

Daytime soap. Car wash, Hyderabad Road, Napier, New Zealand.

I’d sing to you about my missing colon, but I only know the chorus.

It will be September before I return to the True North Strong and Free but I’m already excited about seeing my family again. Having lived overseas for years, I’ve noticed long absences not only make my heart grow fonder, they also tend to sharpen my powers of observation.

For instance, the last time I was home it suddenly dawned on me that I’ve turned into my parents. Both of them. At the same time.

And by that I mean I finally took a good, hard look at Mom and Dad and realized how many of their funny little quirks and traits I inherited.

For instance: Father likes to mix two different brands of cereal in his breakfast bowl, and then top it off with fruit. I’ve been known to mix three different cereals and two varieties of fruit. And then bring the shovel in from the garage so I can lift the concoction to my mouth.

Mom enjoys reading the paper over breakfast. And by read, I mean read out loud to her tablemates, no matter how little they care about which fashion crime Lady Ga-Gag is committing today. I also like to read while I’m hoisting my cereal, except I’m perusing the Internet. And there’s usually talking involved as well. Something along the lines of this:

Viking Woman: Turn off that frickin’ computer, put the rest of your breakfast in a burlap sack and let’s go. We’re running late for work.

Me: But I only have 30 more NHL game summaries to read.

Viking Woman: How would you like to read divorce papers?

Me: Oh, look, I’m already halfway to the car. Love you!

I inherited my love of books from my mother. She’ll read absolutely anything, just as long as Danielle Steele wrote it. Which might explain why she’s yet to pick up my novel, even though it’s been in the house for five years. Although that could be because one of my sisters warned her that there were a few, um, naughty words in there and by not reading them, she is still able to praise me as The Bestest Son in the Whole Wide World.

Which is true, of course. The naughty words, not the bestest part.

The love of hockey that flows in my Dad’s veins also flows in mine. It was the flowing of blood, in fact — from a nasty skate cut to the forehead — that ended his stay at an NHL tryout camp, thus robbing him of a professional career. Any chance we had of growing up rich and famous was reduced to a frozen, crimson stain on the ice, waiting for the Zamboni’s dispassionate blades to sweep it all away.

Like my mother, I’ve been known to burst into song without any apparent provocation. Or logic. Something will trigger a memory and suddenly I’m summoning decades-old snippets — two lines here, a chorus there — the bellowing of which tends to send the cat scurrying out of the room and leaves Viking Woman shaking her  head. Again.

I know for a fact my siblings can also make a direct connection between their idiosyncracies and our parents. One common trait we all share is the lack of a digestive system. While most normal people have about a mile of colon coiled like sausage links tucked in their guts, my family is equipped with a water slide that starts at the back of our mouths and ends, well, you know.

I can practically hear the food going “Wheee!” as it makes its way from entrance to exit in the time it takes to swallow.

I saw a news report on a scientific expedition in Antarctica where they posted what they called a “danger flag” outside the latrine temt whenever it was occupied. My first thought: “That’s brilliant!” My second thought: “Where can I get one of those?”

So what did I pass on to my children?

They both like to read and write. They both love movies. For proof, see www.missteenussr.com and www.afilmaday.com. They both have a sense of humour. I know, because, apparently, there’s nothing funnier than seeing me fall down.

I have no idea about the condition of their bowels. But if they inherited the Water Slide, I hope they let me know. I might be able to get a bulk deal on those flags.

Daily Photo Project 2010 — Feb. 3

The original snail mail. Thackeray Street, Napier, New Zealand.