ON AND OFF THE ROADS WITH COLIN HOGG
Sometime last year (2024), I heard Colin Hogg on Radio NZ, as part of a music programme, on which he was interviewed, mainly about his choice of some of his favourite music clips. Introduced as ‘legendary music critic’, I was not particularly impressed by his choices ('Lonesome Town' by Ricky Nelson, 'Mama Keep Your Mouth Shut' by Bo Diddley, 'Mr Moon' by The Headless Chickens, 'Greenstone' by Emma Paki, 'Big Black Bus' by Hello Sailor, 'Flying' by The Beatles), even though I can understand his darker NZ themes, as Colin was brought up in Dunedin and Invercargill. But never mind. A better Beatles short clip would have been ‘Why don’t we do it in the road’.
Then, by chance, I was given Colin Hogg’s (2018) Sam Hunt – Off the Road, which is the most hilarious book I have read in a long time. Sam Hunt being a true legend in his own lifetime, is being interviewed by his friend Colin, consuming plenty of weed and alcohol, thus engaging in increasingly witty exchanges. Colin asks Sam about the story of him writing a letter to Winston Churchill, when Sam was about nine years old. As the story meanders along, Colin asks if Sam remembers what Winston Churchill said in his letter back to him. Sam says ‘No, I can’t remember now. I was thinking he was asking for my phone number’. Colin says ‘I believe these were his lonely years. He was reaching out to the Boy Scouts of the world’. Replies Sam ‘They wouldn’t have had me in the Boy Scouts, and I wouldn’t have fucking gone near them …’.
I couldn’t stop laughing for a long time. I recited the lines at a poetry meeting in Titirangi but hardly anyone laughed out loud, but a few of the poetic characters present confessed afterwards to having met Sam Hunt, and that they liked him and his poetry very much. Sam Hunt, as a performance poet had extensively toured NZ, and I had happened to see him on stage as a support act for Leonard Cohen for his Auckland concert. Sam says this was a highlight for him, while Leonard Cohen was definitely a highlight for me.
Colin had toured with Sam as his journalistic minder, and eventually published a book (1989) about him entitled Angel Gear, excerpts of which appear in the 2018 book. Not having read the former, it is nevertheless clear that some of the wild stories of drugs and rock’n’roll reduced Sam Hunt’s suitability to give performances in NZ schools – as he had done a lot before the publication of the book. Not that Sam Hunt minded a lot, as by then he had already become a legend, able to live a life of relative comfort derived from royalties and appearance fees. Not that he ever became rich, having now retired to a rented farmhouse on the Kaipara, where the interviews, or rather stoned conversations took place. Sam, born in 1946, was 72 when the book was published while Colin Hogg is four years younger. Both succumb a bit to the old geezer’s blues, Colin more so than Sam, even though he is the younger one. Sam is resigned to be ‘off the road’ while Colin stays resolutely on it (he drives all the way from Wellington to the Kaipara). The book is interspersed with Sam’s poems and the last chapter somewhat morbidly entitled ‘End of the Road’ features a great poem entitled Chord 1, a somewhat sad note to his grandkids who might want to know seventy years later what he carried up the stairs, notably a ‘bottle of wine, the colour of blood’.
Obviously we learn a lot about Sam’s life story although grandkids are not mentioned a lot. We also learn quite a bit about Colin’s life, his evolution from being a 17-year-old cadet at the Southland Times in Invercargill to becoming a minor journalist celebrity appearing in print and on TV. This whetted my appetite to learn even more, and Auckland Library provided me with two more of Colin Hogg’s books, namely (in order of reading them), Going South – A Road Trip Through Life (2015) and The High Road – a journey to the new frontier of cannabis (2017).
Going South has a sad beginning (and end, ultimately) in that his old (both born in 1950) journalism buddy Gordon McBride has been diagnosed with terminal cancer. They both started as cadet reporters at the Southland Times in Invercargill, Colin and Gordie being 17 years old. At the time of writing the book, that was some 46 years ago. They decide to do a weeklong road trip down memory lane, going south, with the apt subtitle ‘a road trip through life’. There is a good map on p.8 that tracks their progress. While Colin was born in Dunedin, Gordie comes from the backblocks of Invercargill.
I have never been in Invercargill but lived in Dunedin for a year or so, studying for my first year at Otago University while my wife worked at Cherry Farm as a psychiatric nurse. Many years later while our daughter was working as an editor at Natural History in Dunedin (no, she does not remember Allen Hall and his wife Silvia whom Colin and Gordie meet in Dunedin during their road trip - it must have been before her time), we took a roundtrip Dunedin – Queenstown, Arrowtown – Dunedin, so I have a rough idea about the southern lands, if not about Southland proper. As an avid consumer of journalism (and these days as a blogger) I also have a feel for what Colin and Gordie are all about as journalists and their style of writing. I can also empathise with Colin’s lifelong consumption of weed (cannabis), having, as a hippy in my younger years, consumed all sorts of drugs, and now in my old age I only occasionally take a puff. Gordie only smokes the occasional cigarette but is au-fait with Colin’s habit. Both are beer drinkers (and have the occasional wine as well) what with Colin leading the way by a mile. They drink like real Kiwi blokes in all the pubs known to mankind. This I cannot quite understand, for coming as a migrant to Aotearoa from Germany in my 20s, I brought with me the experience that pubs (in Bavaria) are generally populated by right-wing rednecks, and while this not necessarily true of New Zealand, the pub culture here does smack of hard-drinking blokes who are misogynist, racist and to the right politically. Colin and Gordie fit none of these characteristics, so, sure, there are/were some pubs like the Ponsonby Gluepot where beer and weed mixed quite well while listening to the latest band from Dunedin. Sure, the music scene in terms of progressive bands was often played out in beer swilling pubs where the clientele might throw things at the musicians – giving them a rough punk edge. Sam Hunt too performed in many a pub, having to play the beer card to connect with the patrons, lest they too failed to pay attention. So, what is their obsession to visit every pub on the road? Maybe this in the DNA of Southlanders? I have plenty of Kiwi friends who, like me, enjoy a beer or two (and a glass of wine) and maybe a joint in the privacy of our homes, but who wouldn’t normally be seen dead in a pub.
I don’t mean this as a criticism of the book, merely to point out that personally I cannot quite immerse myself in this scenario, however authentic it may be for Sam, Colin, Gordie and later Bruce in The High Road. I do, however, have a couple of point of real criticism: Colin on various occasions describes historical Māori warrior battles of the Southland region, amongst themselves, or with pakeha, as cannibalistic slaughters. For example, is there any historical evidence for the ‘legendary’ incident in the 1880s about a German (more about the Germans later) tourist who played the violin on a Southland beach described as follows?
The hapless German was seized, carried off, then slaughtered, cooked and eaten. Legend has it the feasters were so enthusiastic that they even ate the violin strings. (p.108)
Is this some sort of parody of the racist cartoon of the black Africans putting the fat white man in a big pot and boiling him and eating him? The ill-informed obsession of white Europeans with widespread non-European cannibalism is indeed a ‘legend’. While there is quite some scholarly literature on the subject, the consensus seems to be around the conclusion reached by Bowden (1984):
Māori cannibalism, like its Aztec counterpart, was practised exclusively on traditional enemies – i.e., on members of other tribes and hapu.
To eat the heart of a vanquished warrior would transfer the fighting prowess (mana) to the victor. A Melanesian rationale I know off is that the sailors of a canoe that washed ashore disposed of, and possibly eaten during times of famine, if they were weak and sick, but elevated to chiefs if they were in good physical shape – all to increase the gene pool of an island population. The point is that there is no point to make a mockery out of cannibalism, as Colin Hogg seems to do numerous times in his book when telling stories about local Māori in the Southland regions.
Maybe Colin is just repeating what many a Kiwi bloke understands to be bit of a joke when having a few beers with their Māori mates. To be the butt of a joke can be a bit grating if it is directed at one particular nationality alone, namely the Germans as in the example above (Colin’s other Māori cannibals eat their victims by the hundreds if not thousands). So, in Colin’s other book under review here, The High Road, there is an incident where another ‘hapless’ German is at the receiving end. There Colin and Bruce stop in a small town somewhere in Oregon and ask the German manning the tourist information booth where the ‘covered’ railway bridges are. Colin had noted in his research that there are such things and might be worth a visit. The elderly German has a heavy German accent, or so they say, and he does not understand the word ‘covered’ thinking they are inquiring about someone called ‘Covett Bridges’. Only eventually is the matter cleared up with the German saying ‘Ve haff something somewhere. Coffered bridges, eh? Ve don’t get many inquiries about those’. It’s a bit extreme to write ‘I briefly consider leaving Klaus battered to death …’. Nobody else in Colin’s books under review does get the funny-murderous accent treatment. I mean we could do the (Southland) Scottish accent or the Māori working class accent – did they come across any French ‘allo, ‘allo accents? With German being my first language, I can only say to Colin:
Ve haff ze veys to make you laff.
To Colin’s credit, he can be scathing when it comes to European colonialism of the English sort, especially when it comes to the rapacious appetite for land and minerals in Southland, erecting monstrous factories and mines of all sorts, turning the beautiful countryside into rubbish heaps of European industrialisation, like in Mataura where the meatworks and paper mill make it the ‘spooksville’ of the south.
As they travel from Queenstown in their rented Ford Falcon (a Kiwi icon of sorts, favoured by All Blacks), each village or town is referenced (size of population) and their main attractions (if any) are described. This can become a bit tedious, as it occasionally sounds like Lonely Planet data sheet. Once they get to Invercargill, the real story begins, and what a story it is. There are some real gems, like when Colin’s Latin teacher at high school introduces the class to Jefferson Airplane and the unforgettable White Rabbit, the Bolero inspired crescendo by Grace Slick. The song blows Colin’s mind – as they said in those days – and while he discovers the mind-blowing substances much later, his taste in music has become irreversibly fixed on (mainly) progressive rock’n’roll, leading him on the way to become a (popular) music critic for various newspapers and later TV stations. I wish I would have had such a Latin teacher. Still at high school Colin applies for a position at the Southland Times, and so does Gordie. Both, and to their surprise perhaps, get the jobs. Having been a reader of newspapers all my life (nowadays on-line), I am acutely aware of the ambiguities involved in the journalism trade, writing for the readers and the owners (and advertisers) of the paper, hence always having to read between the lines. I must confess that I never read (or remember reading) any of Colin’s stuff in the Auckland Star, NZ Herald or Woman’s Weekly – for the latter he apparently became a sort of agony aunt ‘column’ writer – so it is quite illuminating to read his ‘Lost Column’ in the book, although this columns was never published, for the probable reason that the press barons would not have the stomach for such a delectable story, involving his move to Wellington from Auckland. ‘Trading gold for capital’ as he cleverly puts it, relentlessly mocking Wellington’s weather:
Not that I had much to say about Wellington weather, except perhaps, Good bloody grief. (p.35)
Colin’s gift for mockery (not always appropriate), irony, sarcasm and cynicism as writerly tools makes him a standout writer, all packaged in a highly personalised working-class style that is easy to read and digest. One has to admire his tendency to bare his soul, not sparing himself, nor his friends and family. The outcome is often hilarious, even when the subject matter is somewhat tragic, such as Gordie’s cancer diagnosis. Treating life as a bit of a joke is one way to cope with its viscidities. It helps Colin to take the next step, the move to the next town on his journeys through life. While still in Invercargill, there was a surprising music scene variety early on, what with even the Rolling Stones making a concert appearance long before they became superstars. Colin didn’t miss a beat. His editors at the Southland Times seemed happy enough as he reached a youthful readership that the old fogies could not and would not entertain.
Colin and Gordie, as 17-year-olds rented various dumps in Invercargill where they party every weekend, consuming large quantities of alcohol (still no weed) which in those days was an acceptable lifestyle, since the older generation did exactly the same, but with more drinking and less sex (unable to stand up, as they say). Indeed, the book ends with an escapade, where Colin has returned to Invercargill by himself, only to meet up with someone from his party days, who has a ‘confession’ to make. The (now old) mate in question tells him that he once tricked Colin into getting more booze by letting him drive his Mini Cooper (Colin only had a Vespa), only to screw Colin’s then girlfriend while he was out. Says Colin:
You cad. It’s alright. I still forgive you. (p.272)
Should he have horse-whipped the ‘cad’ in the good old English aristocratic fashion? No, that’s Colin for you, joking that this former girlfriend (insinuating she was one of many) had always complained about ‘getting cold feet’ riding on his Vespa. A masterclass in double entendre.
While the road trip is dedicated to Gordie, we actually learn much more about Colin than Geordie. There are more inserts like the Lost Column, e.g. A Father’s Story which is a lengthy exposition of his father’s Scottish background and his eventual migration to New Zealand. There is also the re-publication of ‘a life under the influence’ originally written for the magazine Planet. It details Colin’s discovery of marijuana and hash. It’s a hilarious account with a dose of some negative side-effects, like trying to find the toilet without finding the light switch first. So, he peed into the host’s bathtub which unbeknownst to him was used as the food storage for the midnight munchies – he had found the light switch after the urgent relief. The story moves on to Colin’s expanded use of drugs, including growing his own dope but increasingly relying on the dealers. He got to be smoking eight to ten joints a day, which is quite an accomplishment. The growing paranoia about police helicopters swooping around Grey Lynn was also not lost on Colin. Having declared his criminal pastime, he jokes that it prevented him from becoming a politician, while on the other hand using his public persona to push for the sensible decriminalisation of drugs like marijuana. To his and many others’ disappointment, New Zealand has not moved that way apart from minor legalisation of medicinal cannabis. Of course, Colin’s next book The High Road investigates the amazing turnaround in some US states, legalising recreational marijuana.
In the meantime, a nice device used in all three books reviewed here, is the use of black and white photographs that nicely illustrate the topics under discussion, be it the landscape, Colin’s mugshots, food on the plate, Sam Hunt’s famous boots, odd sights along the roads, like a half a kilometre of dead wild pigs’ skins (with heads) strung up on a farm fence in the middle of nowhere.
One of the questions about book design, especially the lavishly designed Sam Hunt – Off the Road book, is how HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) can afford such a publication that is not bound to have huge sales? I presume that Colin has a longtime editor who is smitten with Colin’s writing genius, and will finance any book proposal that Colin brings along, racking up an amazing ten titles or more. Well, good on the editor, I say, because it is not often that fairly controversial voices reach the public ear. Good also on the various newspaper, magazine and TV producers/editors that let Colin rip. It is not that Colin is a celebrity that brings in the advertising dollars by the bucketload, nor is he a mega rock star that can give the fingers to the establishment. Serious political writers like Nicky Hager do get a bit of traction publication wise, but there are many out there who keep collecting rejection slips because they are not meeting the market which is as reactionary in New Zealand as in the rest of the Five Eyes.
So, onto the next road, The High Road (2017), an even more amazing enterprise as the publisher had to fork out the travelling expenses before the book was written. The journey from Auckland to San Francisco (by air), from San Francisco to Seattle (by rental car), from Seattle back to San Francisco (by train) and back to Auckland (by air), and a separate trip to Denver and back, for Colin and his driver Bruce must have cost a bundle. Again, good on HarperCollins Publishers financing the project even though the book might not hit the best-seller list – there might, however, be a larger number of cannabis enthusiasts in New Zealand than commonly assumed (the recreational marijuana referendum in 2023 was rejected 50.7% to 48.4%). Counting myself amongst the losers, the lost referendum was a huge blow because the shares we had invested in a NZ Cannabis company went belly-up – unlike the wild stories that have emerged from the cannabis-friendly states and countries, where billions are to be made on the flourishing free market. Colin makes mention of it in his book.
The book is dedicated to his mate Gordon McBride, of the Going South book, who died in 2016. While on the high road, Gordie is still alive, and Colin records some emails between him and Gordie. When Colin pitched his High Road to the publisher, he even contemplated to take Gordie with him. He sensibly declined. Instead, he commissions his old mate Bruce as his driver. Bruce is never identified by his surname in the book, but I understand it is Bruce Jarvis, a well-known photographer who has accompanied Colin also on previous jaunts. In any case, the book starts off with a little vignette from the end of the story, namely on the train back from Seattle to San Francisco. They had consumed some ‘incredible edibles’ bought in Seattle, so when they are seated in the dining car, the couple opposite asks them what they are up to. Colin is so ‘zonked’ that he tells them straight:
We’re marijuana tourists. (p.12)
Then, before the journey begins, there is a lengthy treatise on Colin’s experience with weed in New Zealand, including a weed eureka moment: at the legendary Bob Marley concert on Auckland, a big, patched gang member standing next to him suddenly turned on him, kissed him, ‘blasting my pale lungs full of powerful smoke’. He says, ‘he’s never been the same since’ and owns every Bob Marley record ever made. For the uninitiated, he provides a potted history of the many benefits of cannabis down to the sad and mad recent wars on drugs, cannabis included. Then he describes the current situation in New Zealand, interspersed with his personal experiences, and finally telling of his mission to tell New Zealand to get her act together, and follow the weed-friendly states, like Oregon, Washington State and Colorado. Publishing a road trip through these states, sampling all the weed on offer, might just do the trick. Here’s hoping.
Unfortunately, they first land in California where at the time only medicinal cannabis for residents only is legal. For quite a few days they do the San Fran tourist thing, including the now obligatory Haight Ashbury tour. The main thing they notice are the ‘street people’, the ‘hobos’ that populate every nook and cranny, at least around the hotel where they are staying. They find this quite unsettling, careful not to make any contact lest these crazed characters mug them. They come across this problem not only in San Francisco but in every other major city they visit. Maybe Colin could have engaged in some political analysis on this topic, given that otherwise he is scathing when confronted with Trump maniacs. The other trend started in SF is visiting every bar on every available corner, sampling craft beers by the bucket full. Having spent some time in SF in the 1970s myself, I never saw the insides of a bar, being content with smoking weed (which was then very illegal). Beer and weed did not seem to go together in those days, although I must confess that there were a few characters I knew who specialised in ‘shooting’ beer from cans, i.e. shaking the can, and then ‘shooting’ the contents down the throat, but this was never done in a bar. Colin also specialises in describing just about every meal they eat, breakfast and really bad coffee included. Given that Colin despises American cuisine mainly as slush served in large quantities, one wonders why the effort. As such the reader cannot wait for Colin and Bruce to get out of California to the promised land of Oregon where the weed is basically legal for recreational use.
It takes some 50 pages before they get there, the first little town in Oregon called Brookings (pop.6336). And there it is: West Coast Organics, with a sign outside saying Medical and Recreational Marijuana. Colin can hardly contain himself but still manages a very witty line ‘I am Alice and this is the rabbit hole’ before entering the ‘wonderful shop’. The choice is dazzling: buds in many jars, edibles, vapes, all labelled with THC and CBD levels. They splurge out on a disposable vape (150 hits), a gram each of two sorts of buds and a medicinal concoction called Pine Tar Kush for Bruce’s sore knee. All for only $70.- (plus a T-shirt and rolling papers). They drive on with their stash and stop at a beach that reminds Colin of Piha. Time to test the vape that has a 55% THC level. Powerful stuff. Neither of them feels any great effect: maybe all the NZ Green and Thai Buddha Sticks back home has made them ‘resistant’. So, strangely enough, they drive on to the next bigger town called Bandon (pop. 3066) where the German incident occurs (as mentioned before – which BTW is a phrase Colin uses a lot). We get a Wikipedia-type of potted history of Bandon, followed by various bars and disgusting meals. They have a few more puffs from their stash but still no extraordinary effects are mentioned. Eventually they go back to their miserable little motel and crash for the night. One would have expected a more stoned introduction to their first free weed stopover, as promised in the subtitle of the book ‘a journey through the new frontier of cannabis’, but never mind.
Next day, next stop is Portland. They check at a hotel where reception tells them that ‘we are famous for our beer, our weed and our strip clubs’. Colin writes that this was the ‘grooviest greeting ever’. I wouldn’t call it that. But never mind. Reception also takes the two of them as ‘a couple of old gay tourist types’. Colin finds it funny, as it is obviously absurd, being a staunch heterosexual. One wonders a bit if there are any subconscious skeletons in the closets, as all three books under review here are to do with bloke-to-bloke stories, a sort of New Zealand archetype of rugby mateship grabbing each other by the balls while spitting on any poofters that walk the streets. Not that Colin, Bruce, Gordie and Sam belong to this club, assuming they are liberals who have a few gay friends to prove the point. Colin, we hear several times, is happily married, and so are, or were, his three mates, and in this context I am only referring to this sometimes-unsettling NZ bloke-culture that is not only a cliché, namely men drink beer in the garage while the wives drink wine in the kitchen, and the twain never meet.
In Portland, in the meantime, they do the tourist thing, checking out the world’s biggest independent bookshop, having a few tokes on the vape on the way – which is a bit distressing because, as in SF, there are a lot of street people, including an army vet begging. Having perused The Giant Book of Erotica in the bookshop they walk the street to the next beer bar, and on to the next bar with a few tokes on the vape in between, so they are stoned, a bit drunk and quite hungry. The food is unexpectedly quite good. Later they go to another bar next to their freaky, gay hotel. In my estimation they drink far more beer (and gin) than they smoke weed. Next day is the drive to Seattle, with basically the same story line. A bit repetitious but still fun to read. In Seattle the main story line is visiting a marijuana shop to sample and buy interesting wares, including ‘incredible edibles’. Having returned their rental car, it’s now a train journey back to SF. Having now quite a stash, the interesting problem is to consume all of it before getting on a plane back to Auckland – they are not game enough to try a bit of smuggling. By the time they get back, Colin figures that by now the real marijuana thing is in Denver, Colorado, so he organises another 6-day trip just to do research there. His publisher is in agreement, good on him or her.
Dragging Bruce along, the main idea was to book a cannabis-themed holiday whereby the hotel in question also has bookings for events like a Cannabasics Sommelier Class. The hotel room is equipped with a vaping thingy (photo included p.217), so on arrival they rush to the nearest shop to get a few grams of the best Denver has to offer and rush back to try out the vaping machine. Then it’s down to the hotel bar and for a nightcap it’s another vape. Sweet dreams. When they attend the class the next day in some shady place in downtown Denver, they get a rundown on all the rules and regulations that Colorado has imposed on the weed business, but as the vapes and joints are passed around, interest turns to all the wares, like a ‘stoned pussy sensual enhancement oil’. In between picking up more weed for the cooking class, they frequent various bars and eateries, before returning to the sushi and joint rolling class. It’s all described in delectable detail. Next day at breakfast TV, there is something about Trump, but they pay little attention, explaining their political disinterest as ‘America has been run by jerks before and survived after all.’ I suppose that’s true enough, although personally I would prefer some detailed analysis, along the way Colin describes the pitfalls when trying to roll a perfect joint. To dismiss reactionary politicians and their fans as ‘arseholes’ is probably a good step in the right direction, but if no further thoughts are produced or no action is taken, it might sound a bit lame (despite the language used). The next organised event is the Budz and Sudz Grow and Dispensary Tour on the Cannabus. It goes all the way to Boulder and back, and the overall effect is one of all passengers being ‘all off their nuts’. Colin is having a bit of a bad trip on the bus but survives all right, describing it as another ‘once-in-a-lifetime experience’. Back in Denver and after a few beers at various bars, all is back to normal. There is a hilarious incident on the suburban train back to the hotel when Colin is desperate for a pee:
I explode out of the train, leap down the concrete stairs three at the time and scamper out onto the prairie, turn my back to the car park and pee for 15 minutes, looking up in wonder and relief at the stars. p.246
As an elderly person myself I appreciate that our bladders are not as leak-proof as they were when we were young and could hold back, so, I’ve had similar experiences of orgasmic relief.
The last couple of days in Denver are spent more on the bar and eating side of things which can be a bit boring. Even Colin’s mum makes an appearance with a story about some cheap, old bottles of wine she found in the garage – bought a long time ago by her late husband, Colin’s father – and which she gave to the carpet guy who was, strangely enough, laying a carpet in her garage. So, Colin remembers his dad’s poor taste in wine, and when asked about what he thought of it, and since ‘it smelt like Gasoline Alley and it tasted similar’, Colin gasped, asking ‘What is it?’ and his father saying, ‘Pinot Noir’ and Colin replying:
Pinot noir? I’m not even sure it’s made of grapes.
Now his mum giving some more bottles to the carpet guys and Colin shrieks:
Good God Mum, you’ll poison them.
That’s hilarious dialogue, although I am not sure what it has to do with being in the house bar of his hotel in Denver. Still, as I also buy bargain Otago Pinot Noir in the strange belief that this is good wine, I occasionally get a remark from my wife that it tastes like vinegar, so I get the joke alright. LOL.
Colin is prone to insert all sorts of stories in a non-linear sort of fashion, which tends to lighten the otherwise chronological discourse. There is even a bit more of the political stuff, quoting a cab driver as saying ‘Trump is a bad man’ adding a hint of optimism with ‘They’ll get him. They got Nixon’. When nothing much is happening at the house bar, Colin feels like shouting ‘So, who here likes Trump?’. Bruce warns him that he might get shot. Now with Trump having been re-elected, I wonder what Colin and the taxi driver have to say about it. Bloody tragic, I reckon.
It’s their last night in Denver. And so, before take-off home, there is a visit to the Museum of Contemporary Art with exhibitions by Basquiat and McGinley, the latter making an impact with explicit gay photography which Colin considers ‘immature’. They also have to consume any left overs, so they arrive in Auckland still pretty stoned.
As a coda, Colin delivers an impassioned statement for the legalisation of cannabis in NZ, even if it means that NZ, like Denver, turns into a weird havens for cannabis tourists. Colin’s optimism is dampened by meeting a judge at a dinner party who has heard about Colin publishing a ‘light-hearted book about cannabis’. The judge opines that this is socially irresponsible. The question for me at this juncture would be: “What kind of fucking reactionary dinner parties is Colin attending?”
In the end, Colin is resigned to being Colin on the road: ‘… if I’m not a wiser man, then I am certainly a man who rolls a better joint.’ Q.E.D. (ask Colin’s Latin teacher if you are not familiar with this acronym – since she is the one who sent Colin on the musical roads to everywhere and nowhere, maybe Latinate Cannabis sativaincluded).
Bowden, Ross (1984). "Maori Cannibalism: An Interpretation". Oceania. 55 (2): 81–99 – via Wiley.
https://www.rnz.co.nz/national/programmes/the-mixtape/audio/2018945710/the-mixtape-legendary-music-critic-colin-hogg
