Where Are They Now?

I should give you more background: I don’t think we’ll survive this flight. And I know this might be asking a bit too much, and I know you’re extremely busy (I know that, really, I do) but I need you to read this: ALL OF THIS. Maybe even more than once.

I never really left the plane after that nightmare flight, that hellish approach. At first I was fine (although I now realise I was just in shock), but that experience has made me think more and more silly thoughts that I can’t seem to shake for whatever reason. Like, I’m starting to sort of worry a bit about the plane from Auckland to Singapore or the plane from Singapore to Heathrow, even though I’m almost certain crashes are pretty rare. Right? I don’t really follow the news (well, not “the news” in terms of politics/research), but I can’t remember that many stories about big plane crashes, and the few I’ve seen on social media could be counted on one hand (or maybe two).

It just won’t leave my mind: the way that mother next to us and that bodybuilder dude started freaking out after the first aborted attempt, the man practically screaming every word after the second attempt, and how everything rattled so violently. Threw me for a loop. I have no clue why I gravitated to that mother and her tween son (trying to help them, without any idea or plan for what that would look like) instead of towards my amazing, amazing partner when I started to also fear that we could, you know, die. 

So this is about more than just reading the new draft of my planned post, and I can’t thank you enough for the positive feedback. Seriously, it means a lot (especially from someone with an eagle eye like yourself who so masterfully moderates our bustling subreddit and who understands just how important this meeting of mine was). Although, I’m also worried you might be holding back when I NEED proper, totally honest criticism. 

Anyway, right now, I just need someone to hear me, who will really hear me.

I mean, I know plenty of people but I just don’t feel like I can talk to them about this. And I know you’re a decent guy.

Of course, if I fail to describe this historic moment and incredible story properly, capture just how miraculous it really was, capture myself, in all the sentences and paragraphs, leave it too long between when they occurred and whenever I get around to describing them: I’m letting it all fade, not letting any of it exist in the first place, not letting myself really exist. You know? But I’ve also found that in between fine-tuning my reflections, when there’s time (since we now only have five days left), I’ve also been writing some additional notes. I don’t wish for them to ever, ever be made public, but I’m also feeling a similar need to have someone else see them.

So, I need you to promise me this: if I don’t finalise the new draft before I fly out (which will very likely result in me being unable to publish it), I need you to ensure that my words reach as many subreddits and Facebook pages as possible.

Anyway, I’ve already gone on too long. Here it is, the updated version of my testimony, the most important Reddit post I have ever made:

Although I always felt this day would come, I couldn’t believe it actually just happened (my happy ending arrived early!)! It’s one thing to meet any celebrity, but it’s another thing to meet an ABSOLUTE GENIUS who has been such an important part of your life for such a massive amount of time (who, without knowing it, has helped you through so much stress and so many emotions), and it’s a whole other thing when this meeting completes a major life project.

Seriously, I still can’t believe it!

Anyway, I won’t say who it is just yet, because it really is worth reading the full story just to see how amazingly lucky I was/am as well as the details of our incredible conversation/interaction (though I’m sure that anyone familiar with my history can make a very educated guess)...

Do you think this is a better opening? Is it more engaging? Maybe I’m overthinking it but I also of course need it to guarantee that people will keep reading. 

My partner and I had flown all the way down to Middle Earth (New Zealand) from Tolkien Land (England) for, naturally, a tour of the filming locations and everything else Lord of the Rings related, and to also see the homeland of The Flight of the Conchords (what else?). Babe has to be one of the biggest Tolkien stans, though I also love that universe even as a relatively casual fan (I’ve only seen the theatrical and extended versions twice and read the books just once with Audible, and I 100%ed the first Shadow of Mordor game but haven’t played the sequel yet). She knew she’d be transitioning between jobs and I knew I was entitled to leave because I’ve been in IT so long at my company (and we’ve both been pretty frugal despite earning decent incomes), so we wound up having TWO WHOLE WEEKS to explore that fantastical place.

Don’t get me wrong, I did love the certainty Babe and I enjoyed during most of our trip, but I utterly hate this new certainty that has possessed me (like some sort of demon). We aren’t going to make it home. And I don’t see how anything can change that.

The plane didn’t seem like a plane. You know? It was like I was strapped to a mechanical bull. No safety anymore in one of those things.

Babe and I certainly are not religious people, but to say that we felt blessed by the Ainur themselves would be an understatement.

The first sign that this trip was destined to be a special one was how miraculously perfect the weather was for our entire visit (the massive rainfall and flooding had cleared before we arrived, so we didn’t have to make any changes to our carefully planned itinerary).

Babe and I got to trek across and perfectly witness all of Middle Earth’s hallowed sites: Hobbiton and the greater Shire, Isengard and its Gardens, Rivendell, Osgiliath Wood, the Paths of the Dead, the Ford of Bruinen, stunning parts of the Lothlorien woods, Gladden Fields, Dimrill Dale, Amon Hen, Nen Hithoel, Fangorn Forest, and the River Anduin (The Pillars of Kings are unfortunately not there in real life, though I feel reconstructing them on the actual river is an idea NZ Tourism should seriously consider). We saw so much (not to mention the magic factory of Weta Workshop) that Babe poetically observed how it was like we had looked through one of the palantírs.

And even any gloomy weather was perfect for the locations it appeared in, making it easier to imagine the epic events they had seen. Notably, Fangorn Forest and the area around Pelennor Fields (where you could practically hear orcish battle cries/death shrieks). Note: I say “the area around” since the filming location is sadly on private land and the owners didn’t seem to be offering a tour anymore.

These facts meant that even the odd hiccup couldn’t spoil our adventure. Like, when there was this pretty angry and heavily tattooed Māori man outside Hobbiton who I think was protesting health rights (as a loud and proud mega progressive, I OBVIOUSLY believe in and vocally and consistently support Indigenous rights and equality across my various accounts, and I also know that Taika Waititi, one of the most important/ingenious/original cinematic voices working today, and Jermaine Clement both have Māori heritage, but I sort of feel there’s a time and place for politics, and it’s kind of a dick move to interrupt holidayers who’ve spent a lot of money—money going to the government—to be at this site that is special to millions, if not billions, of people).

And we were even able to overlook the many surprisingly distant locals (even people in quaint little towns). It was pretty awkward how we (pretty bubbly and open people) kept trying to be friendly and humorous only to be met by gloomy faces time and time again (even those that smiled did so with what looked like a bit of hesitance/strain). And it was downright shocking how so many locals seemed unfamiliar with FOTC/LOTR (I don’t want to be judgemental, but how can people be that ignorant of culture, especially their own?).

And I don’t want to be judgemental here either, but I’ve tried a few times now to tell Babe my feelings, but she just raises an eyebrow and then gives me a little smile and says that I’m just sleep deprived. I know I didn’t really express myself or describe these feelings well, but she doesn’t seem to really understand at all (she was unfazed up there, and she’s still her same solid self). Anyway, I don’t want to press the point (to spare her, and, since she would tell them, everyone else the stress of me having some episode somewhere so far from home). And I definitely won’t hint at how I’ve been constantly wishing that we can just sail over to Sydney and stay there forever (Babe’s parents moved there a few years ago, and we visited them for a few nights on our way over because she hasn’t seen them in a while).

But the most profound sign that this journey would be more than just an amazing vacation was undoubtedly the one we received upon touching down in Wellington...

We had become aware of the nickname “Windy Wellington,” but nothing could have prepared us for the hair-raising descent into that picturesque city. The turbulence throughout the flight was otherworldly (it felt like we were all riding one of the Great Eagles), and the winds were so wild that our plane had to make not one, but TWO aborted landings and go-arounds.

According to the captain over the PA system, such events are actually quite common and pilots are well-trained for them, so maybe calling this a near-death experience is going a little bit far. But there was certainly a great fear shared between most of the passengers.

Look, I know this is something else that you didn’t sign up for, but do you have any suggestions for what might calm me down, even just slightly? 

I’ve tried everything, all of my favourite medicines, to cure my nerves: listening to some of the greatest music (Oasis, Sabrina Carpenter, the Spiderman: No Way Home score, the subtitle of which stokes my anxiety, and FOTC, of course), posting and responding to fun questions on my favourite subreddits (such as sorting the characters of my favourite shows along the D&D alignment grid or debating which young actors would be best for a hypothetical remake of said shows), revisiting some of the most beautiful and complex OFMD and FOTC and LOTR fanfiction I’ve encountered in my many years of reading, watching TV (although it doesn’t help the only content on local TV in the early morning is an antiques show featuring some old loser who is a specialist in silverware), or even rewatching clips from my favourite shows again on my phone (impossibly, even FOTC highlights fail to conjure a chuckle, even the cringey hilarity of Mel the stalker, who must be my favourite character, and even the hilarious comments amplifying the most golden quotes).

Everything has failed so far.

The fact we had made it back down to Earth in one piece took a lot of the sting out of the discovery we soon made (which greatly upset Babe and, by extension, me): the sculptures of Gollum and Gandalf riding one of the Eagles had been removed from Wellington airport (and they had only been on display in the departures terminal regardless), and according to a news article, replaced with a sculpture of a “Māori spirit bird”. Removing these icons for something that is pleasant but also known to few people just seems like an odd choice. Thankfully, we got to see the Smaug sculpture in the check-ins area (which, in my humble opinion, really gave Michelangelo a run for his money).

Whenever I can manage to get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, my dreams have been taking worse and worse turns (I’ve had trouble sleeping during the entire trip, but my insomnia is obviously different now and only getting worse).

 I don’t think I’ve had a nightmare since I was a kid (although, I also don’t really remember many of my dreams), but for the past two nights I’ve been sitting at the terminal of some airport, and, through the ginormous windows, all of these planes are making aborted landing after aborted landing, either smashing into the runway or running out of fuel and floating down and exploding in the distance, and as the last plane drops (not hurriedly, like a metal feather), I find that I’m seated on it, thinking aloud: no, no, this can’t be, someone do something, please, I wasn’t meant to be up here.

It’s a nightmare, and I know it’s a nightmare, but I don’t wake up from it.

But what really took the sting out of these letdowns, and what confirmed that something like fate had permitted us to survive, was walking out of this amazing gastropub called Charley Noble and bumping into (drum roll please) none other than...

Rhys Darby!

Yep, you heard me right: Rhys. Motherflippin’. Darby!

Can you believe it? Because I couldn’t! I had to do a double take (no, a triple take!) when I first saw that unmistakably magnificent mane and his magnetic aura while he waited for an Uber with a friend. The restaurant was so jam-packed that we hadn’t seen him dining, but destiny had decided that both our parties were to exit at almost the same time. We said to him that we thought he lived in LA, but he was apparently visiting home for a bit.

We leave in three nights. It’s nowhere near my longest post (not by a mile), as you would probably know, and I’m not a newbie to writing (but also not a pro) and I wouldn’t usually edit a post so carefully, but these last few paragraphs (my final words with the world) are taking surprisingly long to reach masterpiece status. If I somehow survive the flights and things aren’t too hectic for you, I’d really love to get a few tips from a pro like yourself in case I ever want to revisit my post (or write an expanded edition of it).

So I should say here (in case you aren’t familiar with my post history) that it has long been a life project to obtain the signatures of and a photo with all five members of the main cast of FOTC. I’ve been aware of the Conchords since my mid-teens (around the time the BBC radio series was first airing), so, without realising the magnitude of my achievement (yet to become a true fan of the show and their greater work), I was able to secure a signature and photo from that perfect pair at one of their smaller UK gigs (or “gugs”). And while ticking off Arj Barker and Kristen Schaal was easy enough (meeting the former after one of his stand-up shows, which are very, very funny, but not quite as funny as Rhys’, and meeting the latter with Babe at a recent Comic Con, who charged a very fair price for interactions).

But I’m a realistic person. I always knew that the final cast member of Rhys Darby (Murray Hewitt himself) would be much harder to meet due to his ever-increasing stardom. And although I’d accepted long ago that my life’s dream might go unfulfilled, I always kept a pen handy (because, as this historic meeting proved, you never know what’s going to happen in this world).

I suppose I do know some things for sure, though.

I keep thinking back to viral videos of severe turbulence, and when I went to Google to calm myself down, I was met with a bunch of articles/posts about these things called downbursts/microbursts that can cause extreme turbulence and even theoretically bring down bigger aircrafts. And apparently such events are becoming more and more common and unpredictable due to climate change? So I’ve also started thinking about everyone who isn’t buckled up being sent flying and getting like life-changing injuries.

The AI summary kept telling me that everything is going to be fine, even when I changed my search question, but I somehow found myself deep into Reddit threads about the 737 Max crashes, which I’d completely forgotten about (do you have any memory of that?). And people were saying stuff I’d never thought of, like how just because Boeing was slapped with massive fines doesn’t mean they won’t make similar failures down the line (and apparently they later skipped safety checks that threatened some Alaskan Airlines flight). So now I’m also worried about all of that stuff too.

And then I was halfway through YouTube videos about pilot murder-suicides (which I know are almost certainly as rare as rare can be, because being a pilot seems like a good job, and there’s plenty of darkness but also many more reasons for people to be happy in this world, like FOTC and Rhys Darby and LOTR).

Anyway, the conversation we enjoyed with Rhys was beyond incredible. It seemed to last for hours, even though it probably wasn’t much more than five minutes.

Admittedly, I didn’t say everything I wanted to and perhaps didn’t express myself as eloquently as I could have (like in this post). But I was caught off guard. For example, I completely forgot to mention how much Babe and I admire him for being so bravely punk and calling out the Trump regime in interviews. So, considering the circumstances, I felt that we handled ourselves pretty well (especially Babe, who kindly held back, knowing that I’m the bigger fan).

I started out by saying, so that he could get to know me, that he probably hears this a lot from people but I actually am a HUGE fan (a HUGER one than those other huge fans). And then, because I didn’t want to get ahead of myself, I asked if I could get his signature, but then I realised that I had my pen but nothing for him to sign other than the receipt that I stuffed into my pocket, so he leaned on my phone and signed that with a smile and, as he was doing so Babe asked, prefacing the question by saying she knew it’s almost certainly rubbish, whether Richard Osman’s House of Games (which we regularly watch and which Rhys memorably appeared on) and other panel shows are all scripted and staged (as one of her coworkers had claimed), and he chuckled a little and (as an expert witness) shot down this false claim. I added how we both loved him in the Jumanji movies, and how he was criminally robbed of an Emmy/Golden Globe for Our Flag Means Death (which even as a hetero AMAB guy, I can recognise as a groundbreaking LGBTQI+ masterpiece) and I also apologised on behalf of our city for how half of the audience was so rudely silent during his hilarious set on his recent UK tour and tell him how, as someone who watches a lot of stand-up, I think he is a genius of the form alongside Jimmy Carr and Hannah Gadsby and how thought-provoking his discussion around the Rise of AI was (I felt especially good in this moment, letting Darby know the people know what’s what and have his back). And his eyes widened and he seemed to blush a bit and then said “Thanks”. And lastly (because we were so caught up in our quality conversation) we asked Rhys if we could get a selfie and we all leaned in and smiled and I captured the glorious image I’ve treated you to below.

I mean, just look at it! They say a photo tells a thousand words, and I can’t think of an image that better proves the truth of that saying. And doesn’t Rhys just look so effortlessly charismatic/handsome, like always?

And as he was walking away with his friend, excusing himself because his Uber was parked around the corner, I shout out how neat it was to have what felt like our own little “band meeting”, even though there wasn’t any “role call”, and he seemed to smile as he hurried off (to another appointment or to get a good sleep for a new day filled with appointments, no doubt).

Another similarly amazing thing just happened: I think the universe just tried to tell me something else, but completely different to the lessons from our trip and meeting.

So, it’s 3am or something and I’m back at the desk, admiring Rhys’ autograph (placed there as a good luck charm). And I carefully get up, and walk towards the balcony, feeling floaty but also thoroughly weighted down (needing some fresh air).

I mostly succeed at minimising the squeaks of the sliding door and then step out on the cool tiles, remembering I am barefoot. Five stories up, I am able to hear, to feel something close to silence for a while. Most of the lights are out in the apartments/hotel rooms along the waterfront. I try to focus on the dark sea, on the moonlight and lights of Auckland harbour falling and twinkling across it. But it’s not long before I see and then hear a plane up in the sky and then, after another silence that is way too short, I hear a few of the homeless tweakers/schizophrenics ranting and arguing with themselves, with the air. We’ve seen a great deal of them around the CBD and have been pretty on edge, shocked at how this issue can be present in a paradise.

And then there is no more breeze, just serious wind. I lean into it. But then I hear something. Behind me. Paper being shuffled. And then I remember: RHYS’ AUTOGRAPH!

So I snap around and see the receipt falling onto the carpet, being scraped around and dragged to the balcony. I slam the door shut as though it was the fortress gate in Helm’s Deep. And now Babe’s awake, understandably grumpy, but I explain the situation, and she understands, even potentially gasping (or sighing, I’m not sure). She offers me one of her lovely smiles and eventually drifts back to sleep.

I sit down on the tiny sofa opposite the desk in my white boxers and white tee for some time, sort of thinking, looking at the autograph (which I am still yet to retrieve from the floor and deposit in a secure location, perhaps in the safe right under our passports).

And then, the realisation sinks in in a new way, becomes realer than before, the lesson from the universe: this autograph is just a receipt, a piece of paper. That selfie is just a photo. The experience itself isn’t enough (it won’t do enough on its own): I need to properly paint it. I need to redraft the latest draft (and that new and improved and far more considered draft is what you’re reading right now)  

Oh, before I wrap up, I must plug Babe’s YouTube channel (she’s going to be uploading a Vlog that documents some of our trip): LOTRGirlie1379. She’s been running it for quite a while but has been having trouble growing her viewership beyond 800 subs in a very crowded, competitive space (even as someone a tad biased, her content really is so entertaining and insightful).

Writing this the next night. I was scrolling through social media and making a few minor edits (still stressed). Babe was in the shower. And I received a text message (an appeal): a police alert about a 17-year-old male from the area that hasn’t been seen since yesterday. I suddenly felt so cold even though the aircon was working just fine. I eventually reasoned (my IT background coming in handy) that such alerts must be sent from cell towers to all the devices in the area, but it was still unsettling, and I can’t help but see it as another omen.

A new complication: I’m unsatisfied with the selfie. Well, not with Rhys or Babe, of course, but with my appearance. In what should be a glorious frame, I just look so pudgy and blobby (I’ve always been verging on the overweight threshold but never crossed it), and the wind had blown my surviving hair into an absolute mess while we were standing under a bright streetlight, so its thinning and receding nature is on full display (it used to be so very luscious, quite like Jermaine Clement’s). And I’m somehow so bloody pale despite having been sunburnt twice at that point on our trip.

I’m no Gollum, but next to a god like Rhys Darby, I just look so ridiculous, so utterly lacking.

And I know I have Babe, and she’s amazing and we’re really happy, but I’ve glanced at the fanfiction she reads and the fan accounts she follows on Insta and am well aware of how much she crushes on Rhys and Jermaine and Bret and Elijah Wood and especially Orlando Bloom and Viggo Mortensen. I know that sometimes, when she masturbates, she is thinking of them. I’ve heard her quietly whispering some of their names when she thinks I’m asleep or out of range, and sometimes I’ve walked in on her rubbing one out with her laptop open and don’t have to use much of my imagination to guess what (or who) is on display. It just hurts to know that I’m objectively not good looking (even when I think of the users I’ve seen in fan selfies, who are rarely super models, if I were to rank them, I’d certainly be in the bottom of the bottom tier).

In the bathroom mirror, I scanned my naked self (and all of its imperfections). I stepped under the shower water and found myself masturbating, first to nothing, then briefly to Babe, and finally to Liv Tyler (even though I’ve almost never thought of anyone except for Babe, or I’ve successfully blocked other people out from horny thoughts).

One more day to spare. Less than that (have you ever thought about how much of what we call “night”, is technically the morning?)

Anyway, to conclude my story: if there are two lessons I can take away from this amazing “unexpected journey” (sorry, I couldn’t help myself), not just in New Zealand, but the journey towards completing this project, number one would be that things often work out in surprising ways and your dreams can come true. And the second lesson would undoubtedly be: maybe there is value to keeping a pen and paper handy after all, even in our digital age...

Hi. Firstly, I appreciate the advice and links you sent. I tried meditating for a bit, but I couldn’t focus, no matter how much I tried, and I don’t know anyone here with access to Zoloft.

I also appreciate the even more detailed kind words about the second draft (that I now know are coming from a place of genuinely objective criticism rather than just politeness). 

Anyway, I know you said that you wouldn’t really change a word, but I have to be honest and want this to be known: I still don’t think my account is ready, finished. There’s something missing. 

I ran the near-final version of the draft through Grammarly (with the aim of spicing up my words and making them more elegant/engaging, such as “deploying” many synonyms, and “identifying” any errors/repetitions, which I embarrassingly realise were somewhat “multitudinous” in that “prior iteration”). But, even that “overhauled” version still isn’t “adequate” (although I can’t put my finger on any exact reason as to why).

And it’s just so incredibly odd: I don’t feel at all like how I thought I would feel after completing my life’s major project. I was overjoyed for a day or two, like I’d been to the moon and back, but that joy quickly slipped away. And little glimmers of happiness remain, but they’re nowhere near strong enough to defeat the anxiety (and if I was truly happy, I wouldn’t be anxious at all). Still, I know that this meeting and all of the events in this trip were significant and worthy of not just recording but being seen by as many people as possible.

But the boarding group before ours is being called. I can’t afford to let doubts rule over me for any longer. Biting my bottom lip as hard as I ever have, I just sent it out there into the world. If you don’t hear from me again, you can only guess what happened (either way, thanks so much).

Now we’re in Singapore. Back the way we came. Still alive (in the airport hotel). Though I’m so hungover from getting plastered up in the air, treating the flight attendant like a bartender. It wasn’t pretty (Babe, though ultimately understanding, was a little embarrassed because I looked like an alcoholic). 

Anyway, I know you reminded me in your last reply that your schedule’s getting even busier, and I can’t thank you enough for listening for so long, but I’m going to have ask to borrow a bit more of your time (it’s essential): I’ve been getting the worst headaches and I know it’s all because of the fact that the upvotes/likes on my posts have stalled. Cumulatively, they sit at over 1000 now (which would have filled me with joy in the past) but it’s nowhere near enough to ensure the preservation of my meeting and, my own self (even if I made it into a news article/story or two (or even ten) about the victims of the inevitable plane crash, it still wouldn’t be enough).   

I’d like to hope that those brief well wishes in your last message continue to work. And when I wasn’t passed out, the flight over was better than a dream (essentially no turbulence, and what turbulence there was rocked me to sleep like a baby) but I’m yet to return to my old, dreamy world. I’m beyond certainty at this point: this is fate.

I keep refreshing the tabs with the Reddit and Facebook posts on my phone. I was even refreshing them as we made our way through the checkpoints. Nothing has really changed. My words and image continue to underperform. And I’m still scared. I have zero appetite, but we ate some McDonald’s and went window shopping and I tried to not faint. 

Hoping that you will reply to my previous messages soon.

And before we know it we’re on another plane. I’ll probably be writing out a few more thoughts with the airplane Wi-Fi (as long as it keeps working). The alcohol doesn’t seem to be doing the trick. And there was briefly a strange noise coming from underneath us. A sort of strained whirring. Seriously. So I pressed the button above our heads but this indifferent air hostess just shrugged and said it seems normal (and then immediately walked away without even asking if I wanted another drink)

We have so many hours left (and these hours feel like centuries). Babe keeps trying to calm me down in between watching whatever she’s watching on her phone. But her words obviously aren’t doing anything. She thinks I’m working on fanfiction (she doesn’t know anything). Praying you’ll reply to my previous messages soon.

The noise has started up again. And I’ve hardly thought about my meeting with Rhys ever since sending that post (I can hardly think of anything really). And I can’t fall asleep and I can’t drown it out (these crummy overpriced noise cancelling headphones aren’t cancelling out nearly enough noise, even with them blasting music)

Yet again, Babe’s just said how exciting it is to be heading home. But we’re not there yet. Nowhere close