Its time to go
Well, its been an incredible season. I've been STUNNED everyday by my surroundings. I've driven every sort of strange vehicle in every sort of extreme condition. I've uploaded and downloaded Hercs and C-17's. I've fallen in love twice. I got laid once. I've adventured in my mind. It's been a damn good season . . .
. . . and I'm a happy boy, but . . .
. . . the beauracracy, the isolation, the beauracracy, the dorms, the beauracracy, the food, and the beauracracy have worn me thin. Its time to go. McMurdo is an outrageous place, it is a place of extremes: The Ross Ice Shelf, famous as the most pure H2O on planet Earth, hovers above McMurdo Bay, famous for it's toxic levels of mercury, petrol, and waste; innocent Penguins wabble their way in fascination towards Humans in Big Reds as those same humans melt their habitat and only chance at survival; 50 knot winds blister through the frigid Ross Island desert as a frenzied, humid, costume party rages in a quanza hut; Mount Erebus, the southermost volcano in the world, streams a constant puff of white smoke, while McMurdo, the southernmost town in the world, puffs a constant cloud of diesel exhaust, poignant from 20 kilometers away; skuas scrounge for Penguins chicks and moldy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; Wind Turbines are installed up the hill from the (hush hush) buried nuclear reactor; the vast silence of the Sea ice offset by the constant groan of diesel sucking machines; ten million gallons of petrol is guzzled by the USAP every year in search of the 'cure' for global warming, beaurocrats stress the importance of wearing my safety glasses as I drive a 40 thousand pound load of cargo up a dusty hill in a 35 year old vehicle with broken windows and shoddy brakes.
I suppose I sound cynical or bitter. Not the case, really. I have great fondness for McMurdo. Its awesome here. It's real humanity. It's been an incredible and fascinating and novel experiment in extremes and the clash of those extremes. It's living history. It's a microcosm of humanity, of who we are, of what we dream for, of our ugliness, of our hypocracy, of our shortsightedness, of our genius, of our creativity, of our sense of beauty, of our endurance and adaptability and adventurousness. There is absolutely nowhere like it on earth. I love it.
But I will never return again . . . Two seasons of McMurdo beaurocracy is enough.
This is a short video of my boss. His name is Billy T. He is a terrible dancer and an even worse manager. Among his skillset is stretching an hour of work into a full, lucrative workday and hitting on the office staff. He has never looked me in the eye (presumably becasue I do not have boobies) and has never indicated to me that he knows my name.
. . . and I'm a happy boy, but . . .
. . . the beauracracy, the isolation, the beauracracy, the dorms, the beauracracy, the food, and the beauracracy have worn me thin. Its time to go. McMurdo is an outrageous place, it is a place of extremes: The Ross Ice Shelf, famous as the most pure H2O on planet Earth, hovers above McMurdo Bay, famous for it's toxic levels of mercury, petrol, and waste; innocent Penguins wabble their way in fascination towards Humans in Big Reds as those same humans melt their habitat and only chance at survival; 50 knot winds blister through the frigid Ross Island desert as a frenzied, humid, costume party rages in a quanza hut; Mount Erebus, the southermost volcano in the world, streams a constant puff of white smoke, while McMurdo, the southernmost town in the world, puffs a constant cloud of diesel exhaust, poignant from 20 kilometers away; skuas scrounge for Penguins chicks and moldy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; Wind Turbines are installed up the hill from the (hush hush) buried nuclear reactor; the vast silence of the Sea ice offset by the constant groan of diesel sucking machines; ten million gallons of petrol is guzzled by the USAP every year in search of the 'cure' for global warming, beaurocrats stress the importance of wearing my safety glasses as I drive a 40 thousand pound load of cargo up a dusty hill in a 35 year old vehicle with broken windows and shoddy brakes.
I suppose I sound cynical or bitter. Not the case, really. I have great fondness for McMurdo. Its awesome here. It's real humanity. It's been an incredible and fascinating and novel experiment in extremes and the clash of those extremes. It's living history. It's a microcosm of humanity, of who we are, of what we dream for, of our ugliness, of our hypocracy, of our shortsightedness, of our genius, of our creativity, of our sense of beauty, of our endurance and adaptability and adventurousness. There is absolutely nowhere like it on earth. I love it.
But I will never return again . . . Two seasons of McMurdo beaurocracy is enough.
This is a short video of my boss. His name is Billy T. He is a terrible dancer and an even worse manager. Among his skillset is stretching an hour of work into a full, lucrative workday and hitting on the office staff. He has never looked me in the eye (presumably becasue I do not have boobies) and has never indicated to me that he knows my name.
posted by chubalicious at 8:10 PM
1 Comments:
Hey Evan,
I don't think your boss would look you in the "eyes" if you had boobies.
Good luck in NZ. Have an excellent time. I'll keep checking the blog . . .
J.
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