Off to the Reef

Beyond my nonsensical -- and one could probably even claim lazy -- stream of consciousness post yesterday, I know I've been a bit delinquent recently in posting things on the blog. Unfortunately, that's gonna get worse before it gets better because in another nine hours, John and I hop on an overnight train to Brisbane. We get into town early tomorrow (Saturday) morning, meet Adrian and Jo (for those that know them) for breakfast, then get in our van and head north towards the Great Barrier Reef.

There still isn't much of a set itinerary, but it will most likely include any or all of the following along the Reef: Noosa, Hervey Bay, Fraser Island, Airlie Beach, Whitsunday Islands, Port Douglas and Cairns. (Not that any of these town names will mean anything to anyone.)

I'll be sure to take plenty of pictures, and once I find some time to write a recap (at least of what I can remember), sometime in 2008, I'll post some stories here.

For all my gentile friends, I hope you have a Merry Christmas. And to all, a Happy New Year. 2008 will be 0.0498% better than 2007. Do the math. It's true.

Throwin' Stream of Consciousness Kleinballs

I've been really into the stream of consciousness writing these days. And since I don't have much else to write about, I just sat down and wrote about whatever poppped into my head. Besides typos, haven't edited any of this.

My house is still good. I think I like the people. I think. Most of them are good. The Turkish guy's a little strange. He laughs like a hyena. And he describes all food as "very nice", but it sounds more like "veiwy nice." Kinda like Bugs Bunny. Not that this is what makes me dislike him. And I guess I don't necessarily dislike him. He's just strange. Which, I said above. Let's leave it at that.

It probably doesn't need to be said, but Lynyrd Skynyrd spells their name very strangely.

I think I've seen about 30 cumulative minutes of the NFL this year. I have absolutely no idea what's going on. And I think I'm okay with this.

Everyone wants to know about how my work is going. And I really don't know what to say. I mean, after that first few weeks, I found that it was really quite similar to working anywhere else. Except I have to dial "0" before a number except "9". That's probably been the biggest barrier to my domination of the Sydney market and ultimate ascension to becoming the Spam King of Sydney.

I miss New York. I miss being within five minutes of dozens of restaurants and bars. I miss stores being open past 6 and banks open on Saturdays. But I love living by the beach. I love walking along the water. And the smells of the ocean.

If I had to rank the continents, I think it would go: Europe, North America, Asia, South America, Australia, Africa and Antarctica. That's 100% subjective and not based on any criteria. Although I'm not sure how Antarctica could ever been anything but last.

Christmas cards are interesting.

I'm already fearing the winter here. Yes, I know that's insane. For several reasons. But it's true.

If your initials aren't JVA...

...you lose.

That's because in six hours' time, John Van Amburg will land in Sydney and become the first person from the States to visit me in Australia.

John's here until January 4, and we have a great, great few weeks planned.

This upcoming week, John will be doing his own thing during the day while I'm off working. But come next Friday, we're taking an overnight train up north to Brisbane, renting a campervan (basically a very mini RV) and doing a one week road trip up the Queensland coast to the Great Barrier Reef.

We'll figure out the detailed itinerary next week, but the basic idea is to do about two or three hours of driving a day and spend the rest of the time bumming around on the beach or seeing sites. We fly back to Sydney on December 30 in time for New Year's Eve.

I'm pumped. I'm beyond pumped. It's a plan that came together -- from conception to booking reservations -- in about three days, and it's going to be sweet. I'll be sure to take plenty of pictures, and once I fully recover (sometime in 2008), I'll recap the adventure here.

Don't knock it 'til you've tried it

When I first came here, I had quite the bias against cricket. Okay, I had a big bias. But this weekend, I played my first real cricket match and that's all changed.

Being desperately low on players for his normal Saturday morning cricket match, Maz called on Friday and pleaded with me -- me, a guy who's never played proper cricket in his life -- to play. After some hesitation, I realized I couldn't pass this up. Yes, there was the distinct possibility that I would horrendously embarrass myself, but how could I possibly not at least try?

Flash forward ahead to the next morning. My team's batting, I'm waiting for my turn. And I'm nervous. Nervous because I really had no idea what I was doing. Nervous because I was afraid of getting out before scoring a single run (known as a Golden Duck). Nervous because the other guys on my team were getting out far too quickly. (Although I soon realized that this was actually a good thing, as my suckage might not stand out as much.) And yes, nervous because I wasn't wearing a cup.

Finally, my turn comes and I walk out onto the pitch. I dig in in front of the wicket and all of a sudden things are moving a million miles an hour. The umpire says something to me that I don't understand, I inexplicably nod/grunt in acknowledgment, the bowler starts approaching, the guy hitting at the other end (Sean) is furiously waving for me to move closer to the wicket, the bowler's about to unleash the ball, I'm shuffling around as per Sean's directions, and the ball's heading my way. Literally. It's heading right at me. And before I know it, the ball bounces on the ground, comes straight up and hits me on the side of the throat. Faaaaaannnnnnnntastic.

Things slow down a bit from there. I do a quick check of the vitals. Seems like everything's okay. From the boundary, Leif (Sean's brother) yells, "Welcome to Australia, mate!" Everyone laughs. I nervously laugh. But my God! The boys on the other team apologize, I shake it off and we get back at it.

Next ball looks good, so I take a hack. And woefully miss. Fortunately, the ball also misses the wicket, so I'm still alive. I think I may have missed the next ball as well. But lo and behold, on one of the next few balls, I make contact, the ball gets by some fielders, and I'm off and running! I score my first ever cricket run (thus eliminating the chance of getting an embarrassing Golden Duck) and get rousing applause from the boys on the boundary. Meanwhile, the adrenaline has me literally shaking. Good stuff.

And serendipitously, illogically, amazingly, I keep at it. Sean and I stay out there for maybe ten minutes and some of my hits even go for two runs. After each over (six balls), I manage to amuse Sean as I ask him very basic questions about rules that I had never even thought to inquire about until I was out there.

Then I really start to get comfortable and take some healthy hacks. Don't connect too cleanly on anything but I keep going. And I finally get out on my hardest-hit ball of the day that a guy on the other team somehow manages to catch on the line.

My total tally for the morning was nine runs, which is far from anything to brag about. A mediocre to decent score for these guys is probably at least in the 20s or 30s. But that day, the other boys were playing like crap, and I actually managed to score the second most runs of anyone on the team. Domination, baby.

We fielded after that, and that was easy. Catch the ball on the fly if you can. Otherwise, chase it down and throw it in. Somewhat boring, actually. The only thing that kept me going was the chatter among the team that snowballed into some funny lines.

So now, despite my initial skepticism, I'm all about the cricket. Australia is playing a one day match against New Zealand next Sunday at the Sydney Cricket Ground, and I'm there. And the next time the boys need an extra hand, you better believe I'm there as well. Just need to get that cup.

Internet Bubble 2.0

It starts off a little slow, but this is brilliant.

The weekend trips have commenced

I've been in Sydney for over two and a half months now, and until last weekend, I probably hadn't been more than 10 km out of the center of the city. In retrospect -- now that I've passed that threshold -- waiting so long was lunacy.

Took off work a little early on Friday and hopped on a train to Forster, a small town on the beach about five hours north of Sydney, to meet up with my friend Jez. (You may best know Jez, real name Jeremy, as the person accompanying me in what I believe is the only remaining photo of my brief -- and some say ill-fated -- blond phase.) The weather was looking good and Jez' parents have a sweet penthouse apartment up there, only three minutes from the beach, so all was ripe for a good weekend.

Saturday was a tour of a few beaches, including the secluded Treachery Beach and the accurately-named One Mile Beach. (Apparently there's also a Seven Mile Beach and Nine Mile Beach nearby. Why the beaches are named in miles when Australia is on the metric system, I don't know. No one could offer a satisfactory answer.)

At Treachery, Jez and I had a little shrimp barbecue, which was delicious. However, it led to quite a contentious debate. You see, most Americans are familiar with the phrase, "Let's throw another shrimp on the barbie!" We've all grown up to believe that's an Australian phrase, right? But there's a problem. Because Australians don't refer to shrimp as shrimp. Here, they're prawns, and only prawns. I've called them shrimp on a few occasions and have actually been flat-out scoffed at. So how did we ever come to believe this was an Australian phrase? Was this Paul Hogan's doing? Again, no one could offer a satisfactory answer.

As the day gave way to night, Jez and I headed up to some headlands overlooking the ocean with some alcoholic beverages. This is where we saw the sign to the left. We're pretty sure this was trying to communicate that you're on a cliff and could fall off. But really??!? Let's forget for a moment that the figure (which I can only assume is meant to be a person) is not in scale to the rest of the sign. Just look at him! What kind of head is that? And is that his penis??!? Since Jez strongly maintained that there was nothing wrong with this sign, I felt a strong sense of redemption when this kid walked up to the sign and said, "Why is the ninja jumping off the cliff?"

This drama aside, the headlands were good. I got my obligatory self-photo with open mouth and took a nice, classy, sepia-toned picture of Jez. Of course, his seedy mustache (courtesy of Movember) and pre-mixed rum and coke kind of ruined the effect. Maybe I'll airbrush that stuff out.

The rest of Saturday is a blur. Wolfed down some Indian food, couldn't find a single bar open at 10:30 (!!), so we went back to Jez' place to drink some more. And some time around 12, as we watched a movie about a gang of tap dancers from Newcastle (I swear, this is what the movie was about), I passed out.

And then, with Sunday mostly consumed with travel and a brief stop in the actual Newcastle (kept my eye out for tap dancers but didn't see any), it was back to the work and the real world. Which is fine, I guess.

All in all, an excellent weekend. And I'll remember it for years to come. But what I have planned for later on this month, it's turning into quite a beast. And I'll touch on that in a few weeks.

This is the story of one shitty landlord

As you may recall from my first post about my place, I was pretty concerned about my housemates and how I'd get along with them. And fortunately, it's turned out very well. Everyone is very cool, loves to have a good time, and is respectful of each other. For the most part, we even keep the house clean. All in all, not a bad group.

What I didn't account for, however, was my landlord. Because it's becoming increasingly clear that she couldn't give two shits about us. If something breaks, the mantra is, "We'll come over tomorrow." Which turns into next week. Which turns into two weeks.

Roughly six weeks into moving in, and here's where we stand on the state of the house:

• The cold water in the washing machine (which we only got a few weeks ago) doesn't work
• The mirror in my bathroom was (finally) installed two weeks ago... and there still isn't one in the other one
• The sink in my bathroom leaks onto the floor
• The light in the pool regularly breaks
• The table lamp in my room broke
• The desk promised to me still hasn't been delivered
• Our barbecue is broken
• Cable TV (which I hoped to have for the World Series) hasn't been installed... although that's a bit of a moot point because:
• The sound on the first TV broke
• The sound on the second TV comes and goes (and no replacement yet)

Our landlord has made up for part of those last points by bringing a VCR to the living room. Oh, wait a minute. That doesn't make up for anything at all. It's a frickin' VCR! No one sells or rents VHS anymore! And even if this was the height of the VCR era, somewhere in between the death of Beta and the introduction of DVD, what the hell would we do with a VCR when the TV doesn't work?!?!?

When I moved into my place, not sure of how the housemates would be, I was consoled by the fact that the lease was for three months at a minimum. And today, I'm still glad that it's a minimum of three months, not because of those housemates, but because of this landlord. Goad.

Australia has voted...

...and our new Australian Idol is Natalie Gauci! Watched a bit of Australian Idol since I got here, and it's been the source of much amusement. Pretty much a carbon copy of the American version, although instead of one smarmy host, they have two. And instead of three judges of varying temperaments, they have four.

Most of the pleasure I've derived from watching has stemmed from the multitude of people on the show who have pretty obvious American doppelgangers. Seriously, of the two hosts and four judges, I see legitimate (and often scary) American resemblances to five of them. First, there's James Mathison, one of the two hosts, who looks like a dorky version of Jimmy Fallon. (If it's possible to be even dorkier than Jimmy Fallon.) Then there's Andrew G, the other host, who bears an eerie resemblance to Seann William Scott, aka Stifler. G -- guess he's related to Kenny (HA HA HAAAAA!!) -- has been growing a moustache this month for Movember, which has only made him look more like Scott's white trash/tranquilizer gun character from Old School. Of the judges, there's Dicko, who might as well be the twin of another SNL alum, Daryl Hammond. Mark Holden and Kyle Sandilands are not only Mark Hamill and Kiefer Sutherland, respectively, but they even share the same initials! And Marcia Hines... well, I can't exactly place her. But there's something there. Anyone have any thoughts?

All in all, it's made for quite enjoyable entertainment.

Oh yeah, there was another vote here this weekend. Australia has a new Prime Minister! And may I say, what a novel concept to have an election on a Saturday! An election during a time when it's easier for people to exercise their right to vote? Mind-blowing! The only logical reason for why the US doesn't do this is that the government just doesn't want to open for a whole extra day.

Anyway, it's out with John Howard, the second-longest tenured and arguably most successful Prime Minister in Australian history, and in with Kevin Rudd, a man whose creepiness can't be fully appreciated until you've seen his big shiny face plastered on every billboard and sign with the same vanilla smirk for six weeks. (I defy you to stare at the picture on the left for more than ten seconds. Go on, give it a try. It's impossible to not let it freak you out.) All in all, it's a big win for the Labor party here, which leans towards the liberal side. (That, of course, shouldn't be confused with the John Howard's Liberal party, which leans towards the conservative side. I know. Go figure.) And with Australia in the midst of a long-running and unprecedented state of growth, it will be interesting to see how this all pans out.

The search continues

But no longer for the pumpkin puree. Fortunately, Katie (my American friend here) found some at USA Foods and has ordered enough for each of us to cook our own pies. Her pies will be edible. Mine? TBD. But at least it will contain puree! This is certainly a bonus, because from what I've learned over the last few days, that ingredient is somewhat essential to make pumpkin pie and will thusly increase the edibility factor at least two-fold. And in case I ever get a craving for some Folgers Classic that has been packaged in the US (because God forbid I purchase Folgers Classic that's packaged in Australia), now I know where to go.

Unfortunately, the ingredient that's now eluding me are pie shells. (Also fairly important to the creation of a pie, as I've learned.) You wouldn't think that would be too hard to track down, but I'm having more trouble than anticipated. You see, Aussies seem to like to use the same word for many different things. For example, if you were to talk about "football" or "footy" with an Aussie, that could mean one of five things (and I feel like I'm forgetting even more): Rugby Union, Rugby League, Australian Rules Football, American football or soccer. (Soccer used to be known as soccer here, but as of recently, they've inexplicably decided to start to call it football. You know, just to make things even more hopelessly confusing.)

Anyway, this is a longwinded way of saying that I've run into the same trouble with pies. Because beyond your basic pie with a fruit filling, "pie" is also used to refer to meat pies or pizza. And they don't seem to like to make shells for my most basic of pies. The confusion!

All this said, I'm still confident that I'll be able to track said pie shells down by Saturday. And if not, I guess I'll just avoid this dinner and not return any of Katie's phone calls. I'm sure she won't mind. Good times.

Have a great Thanksgiving everyone.

Throwin' some Salty Chocolate Kleinballs

Why is South Park not regarded as one of the greatest TV shows of the last decade? It's leaps and bounds better than anything else out there (animated or not), and that's 100% because of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. When you have two guys that (a) have incredibly demented senses of humor, (b) don't give a shit about who they insult and (c) can throw an episode together in two seconds so the shows are ridiculously timely, it's a perfect storm. Then how come it never gets the credit it deserves? I don't have an answer to this, and really, beyond the fact that I needed some way to segue between the title of this blog to the rest of this post, this has nothing to do with anything. But it's true.

The last week or two, I've been on the search for pumpkin puree. You see, an American friend of mine here is hosting a Thanksgiving dinner next week and I've offered to make pumpkin pie. Why would I offer to make pumpkin pie when (a) I've never made a pie -- let alone a pumpkin pie -- in my life, (b) don't have all of the necessary equipment and (c) have an oven that's been nicknamed Old Unfaithful? Honestly, I have no good answer for this. But I've made a commitment and now I'm screwed. Because I can't for the life of me find pumpkin puree in Sydney. No one has it. And I'm not about to puree a pumpkin. This can't end well.

For those who missed it, yesterday -- actually, it would still be today in the US -- was Steve Irwin Day. Let's never forget.

On top of all of the Steve Irwin tributes, yesterday -- err, today -- was also a big day for me because I received my first pay check in three months! What a novel and thrilling concept for money to be place into my account instead of helplessly watching my balance slowly waste away.

Lately, I've been struggling to come up with things to write about, so that only can mean one thing: ROAD TRIP!! That's right, starting this month (or maybe next), I've made a resolution to take at least one weekend trip a month. So that will give me a total of, uhhhh, one more thing to write about every month. Problem solved.

'Roos Gone Wild!

Australians think it's hilarious that many Americans believe that kangaroos are everywhere in Australia, just hopping around city streets all willy nilly. I can confirm that this just doesn't happen. Except for yesterday:



Oh yeah, I guess there was this one, too:

Coming around on the cricket

It was inevitable to some degree, I guess, and it's happening. Albeit very slowly.

On Saturday morning, I got my first real taste of playing cricket when some friends and I went to a net session, which is basically cricket's version of batting cages. However, instead of having a machine pitch to you, we bowled (aka, pitched) to each other. And it was fun. I sucked for the most part, yes, but I had a pretty good time. And now I have a nice sunburn and an incredibly sore back to show for it.

After the net session, we went back to some friends' place and watched the current cricket test match between Australia and Sri Lanka. This was one of those five-day matches that tests your patience as a human being. But alcohol, the solution to (and cause of) most of the world's problems, was quickly introduced and it turned into a grand ol' time. Yes, our attention quite often wavered from the cricket, but from what I've been gathering, that's part of the experience. In fact, a coworker described a quintessential Australian childhood experience to me as having your Dad parked in front of the TV for an entire weekend, lazily watching the cricket and going in and out of consciousness as he struggled to stay awake. For no one is actually expected to hang on every single ball of the match; that would just be lunacy. Instead, you just let the cricket exist in the background, drink yourself silly, and if something actually happens in the match (this might occur three or four times an hour), you glance over, comment about the play, and get back to your drinking.

Now that's something I can get used to. And I think I will.

Watching horses for the sake of watching horses

The Melbourne Cup was run on Tuesday, and in Australia, unless you live in the outback and your only companion is your pet dingo, everyone was all too aware of this. Since I arrived here in the middle of September, I’ve been seeing ads for Melbourne Cup Day brunches, Melbourne Cup Day bar specials, Melbourne Cup Day outfits and Melbourne Cup Day Steve Irwin bobble head dolls. That was eight weeks ago. And finally, mercifully, on Tuesday, it happened.

What happened, you ask? Well, there was a horserace. And it was huge. Everyone in Melbourne got the day off. In Sydney, from 1pm to 3:30pm, work came to a halt. We had a company lunch. There was free beer and champagne. For others, they simply took the day off. In the streets, men wore their Sunday best and women wore dresses and crazy hats. People poured into bars. They entered into Melbourne Cup sweeps, where you pay a flat fee and pick a horse out of a bag. If your horse wins, you win the pot. And all of it, it was exciting.

Why, exactly, was it exciting?

Ummmm, yeeeeaaaaahhhh... Three days later and I’m still not sure. Because the second I began asking questions, there were no answers. Who’s in the race? Very few people could name more than a horse or two. What’s the purse for the race? No one knew. Do you ever go to the races? No, not really. What kind of bets do you like to place? (Blank stare.) Then why in God’s name is this such a big deal? The most common answer? “Because it is.”

My suspicion is that a lot of this has to do with Australia's lineage with England, which is a whole different subject. Did you know that the Queen technically still rules Australia? That if she felt like it she could dissolve the government and take over? This really complicates the Anglo-Aussie dynamic and makes it a little confusing to the outsider. But for the purposes of my argument here, suffice it to say that things are often done here because they are (or were) done in England. Hence the "Because it is" response to my query about why the Melbourne Cup is such a big deal.

Anyway, the race was run and a horse won. And within two hours of the completion of the race, I had already forgotten what the name of that horse was. And I’m willing to bet that 80% of the Australian population doesn’t have a clue either. But it was fun, so there's that.

Throwin' Kleinballs: World Series, friendliness, electrocution and erectile dysfunction

I was asked for a World Series preview in a comment from a few posts ago, so here it is: Sox in four. HAR HAR HAR! But really, what a great run. Nothing will ever top 2004, and watching them clinch the World Series in a roomful of apathetic Aussies wasn't exactly as exciting as perhaps it could have been, but that didn't stop me from walking around for the rest of the day with a huge grin on my face. And not to gloat, but I went a perfect 7-for-7 in picking the winners of each of the series before the playoffs began.

It's a little thing, but I am constantly amazed that people thank bus drivers as they exit buses here. And it's not a mumbled "thank you" as they walk by the driver on the way out; it's a full on "Thank you!" as they exit from the back of the bus. So friendly!

As a counter to this friendliness, here's a quote from the paper the other day, in a section where people can text in random gripes: "To the girl in the pink socks who farted in my face going up Town Hall stairs – you don't smell as sweet as you look."

Around 1am last Thursday night, I walked up to a bar with a friend. Before we even said a word to the bouncer, he says, "Sorry boys, can't let you in tonight." When we inquired why, he says, "You've clearly had too much to drink." Now yes, we had had a few. But were we visibly intoxicated, falling all over ourselves and being obnoxious? Not even close. I asked, "So you can tell we're that drunk just by looking at us?" "Yes." Yeeeaaaahhhhh, not sure how to argue that one.

Was pregaming at a friend's place on Saturday night, and played this game. One of the most entertaining, frightening and tense things I've ever done. I highly recommend it.

There are some great ads here, and my favorite by far is the below ad for erectile dysfunction. Have a look, but imagine you're watching this without knowing what it's for. Because when I first saw this, I was bewildered right until the very end, when it made all too much sense.



For those keeping track in the US, we moved the clocks forward an hour last weekend. Once the US moves clocks back an hour this weekend, it'll complete a two-hour swing. So Sydney will be 16 hours ahead of the East Coast and 19 hours ahead of the West.

Two of my passions

Love of Robert Goulet and hatred of A-Rod. With Goulet’s passing and A-Rod’s filing for free agency occurring in the same week, these are two excellent links on both.

Goulet went down with his cords intact. RIP, Bob.

will ferrell extra robert goulet on conan

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Today was a good day

There's no better way to put it.

Woke up to a beautiful, sunny morning. Went for a run along the water. Watched the Red Sox win the World Series. Won money at the casino. And received notification that my work visa has been approved!

The trifecta has been accomplished. Job? Check. Place to live? Check. Work visa? Check!

Work begins tomorrow. And with that, my unemployment officially ends at 102 days.

Portuguese Chicken Wars!

Several posts ago, I alluded to a certain Portuguese Chicken War but didn't elaborate. Well, the time is now!

I wish this was just a cute name for some little phenomenon going on in Kensington, my old neighborhood, but it is exactly like it sounds. There are three Portuguese chicken restaurants within two blocks of each other, and they are literally at war with one another. And not war as in, "oh, we're really fierce competitors and have a lot of price wars", but more like war as in "we will burn down our competitors' restaurants." Because that has actually happened.

A week or so before I moved here, Shorty emailed me with a few tidbits about the apartment and neighborhood. The most interesting part of his email? It went a little something like this:

You'll see there are a lot of Portuguese chicken take away places in our area. They are like rival gangs so you have to choose one and stick to it. Now some people will try to lead you astray but may I highly recommend Ogalo. It was recently burnt down by another store (Portogali) so never go there. While they are restoring Ogalo you have permission to eat at Ole but the moment Ogalo reopens, you must flock back there.

Ha ha, I thought. Cute little Portuguese immigrants and their cute little wars. Nope.

A few days after I arrived, I went to Ole to have a gander and some food. As I walked in, the people working the counter gave me quite the friendly hello. Something along the lines of, "Hello, my friend! How are you today?" You know, just imagine your favorite Yemenite establishment and how they greet you when you walk in. Just like that. So I ordered the spicy Ole burger, which was quite succulent. Very good fries, er, chips, as well. Here's Ole:

After finishing my meal, I continued down the road. Not more than 30 meters further, I passed Portogali. And the men had seen me exit Ole. Not a big deal, right? Well, it didn't seem like it at the time. I just got a bit of a stare from the guys there, and didn't think much of it. Here's Portogali:


Only another 50 meters or so, I passed Ogalo and witnessed the devastation that had been brought upon it. Completely gutted and empty inside, it stood there, cold and alone.


Now, there are two schools of thought regarding how Ogalo was burned down:
1. Ogalo, with a kitchen and amenities inferior to those of Ole and Portogali, burned their own place down with the hopes of using the insurance money to rebuild a newer and better store.
2. In a fit of jealous rage over Ogalo's success, the owner of Portogali had his men burn Ogalo down.

Apparently the police are still looking into it, so no official ruling has been made yet. But this is your classic case of Portuguese guy said/other Portuguese guy said; the folks at Portogali swear that Ogalo burned its own store down, and the folks at Ogalo swear that Portogali burned their place down. We'll have to wait for the authorities to sort this one out.

Anyway, a few days later, I thought I'd try out Portogali. Sure, Shorty had specifically warned me against this, and sure, I had received a bit of a bad stare from the guys there, but come on. I mean, we're talking about Portuguese chicken! I wanted to give Portogali a fair shake in this, and besides, there's no way there's truth to any of this, right?

I quickly found out there was truth. The second I stepped foot into Portogali, the man behind the counter began to absolutely berate me. "You were in Ole the other day, I saw you! You leave right now or I make you leave!!" The kitchen staff came out, then some other dude from inside another door. So, yeah. I left.

As I scurried back to my apartment, I turned around to see three or four of the men standing outside Portogali just watching me.

But I was still hungry, and I needed nourishment. So after I regained my composure, I went back out to Ole. But much like the mother that turns her back on the baby that leaves the herd, I was damaged goods to Ole. "We saw you in that other place! You cannot go to them! You must leave now!!!!"

I apologized. I said I didn't understand the bad blood, that I just wanted food. But they would have none of it. I must leave, and I must leave now.

I'm still trying to piece the history together, but from what I've been able to determine, the tension between Ole and Ogalo is somewhat similar to that of Pat's and Geno's in Philadelphia. Ogalo, like Pat's, was the original. But some time after its foundation, some of the employees had a rift with the owners and split off to form Ole, just like Geno's. But while Pat's and Geno's can kind of coexist, Ogalo and Ole clearly cannot. And then when Portogali opened its doors for business right in between the two, the entire situation boiled over. I wish I were making this up, but girlfriends got involved, there have been rumblings of tampering with each other's food, there have apparently been several verbal and physical confrontations, and it all culminated in the fire at Ogalo. Again, no official cause has been announced yet, but it's looking like Portogali could be in trouble here.

I no longer live in that neighborhood, and when it comes to Portuguese chicken, that might just be for the best. I had been blacklisted from both of the establishments that are currently open, and I'm not sure what would have happened if I went to Ogalo when it finally reopens. They're feverishly working to rebuild it, and I know they've seen me in the area. Might just be best to steer clear of Portuguese chicken for a while.

The "I feel ten pounds lighter without my pathetic excuse for a beard" quick hits edition

Yes, due to my lack of need to look presentable for the last few weeks, I stopped shaving and grew what one might consider to be a beard. We -- the beard and I, that is -- had a love/hate thing going on, with the hate ultimately winning out. I'll look fondly back upon my beard of October 2007, but it was time for it to go.

I can't stress enough how pleasant it's been for the last week to not be living out of a suitcase. Since leaving New York, I haven't consistently lived in one place until now, and the simple ability to unpack my things and know that I won't need to pack them again for quite some time has been fantastic. Clothes in a drawer! It's so luxurious!

Went to a trivia night with some friends the other day, and we ended up winning $30. Instead of splitting the loot, we thought it would be best to press our earnings with some gambling. So we split the $30 equally and tried our luck at slot machines (aka pokies), keno and dog races. Roughly twelve seconds later, we were penniless. Ah, the joys of gambling.

Yes, it would be nice to change the title of these things from "quick hits" to something else because it's not a very original name, but perhaps more importantly, I've realized that these hits aren't really quick. In fact, given a blank page, I'm fairly incapable of not expounding on any topic. A term such as "ramblings" might be more appropriate, but that's already been claimed by someone who hasn't rambled since August 19, 2005.

We have two suggestions for a different name so far, and they both incorporate my last name. Fantastic. Anyway, "throwin' Kleinballs" intrigues me. For those who don't know what the Kleinball is (and that would be everyone who didn't live at 115 St Marks Place, Apt 11, circa 2005 to 2007), it's my age-old theory that there's another baseball pitch out there that's yet to be discovered. Some say it's impossible. I say -- nay, insist -- that it's out there. And with the emergence of Daisuke Matsuzaka's gyroball in the last two years, I'd like to claim some level of victory here.

Kleingaroo pellets might be a little more topical, but then again, the word "pellet" suggests a small dose, and as I've established above, I'm not capable of that. Maybe Kleingaroo turds? But then that's just too graphic.

I'll make a decision by next time. Maybe Throwin' Kleingaroo Turds?

Ummm, no.

The "It's really warm and sunny today, I'm gonna bang out some thoughts and get back outside" quick hits edition

Apologies for the lack of posts recently, been sans Internet for the last few days.

Moved into my new place on Saturday, I think it's going to work out just fine. Eight people in all, breaking down as follows: a Turkish guy, Kiwi girl, Irish couple, English couple, Danish guy and me. The furniture and electronics (including heretofore mentioned Internet) are still a work in progress, but it's all coming together nicely. And that includes, from at least what I can tell, zero hidden cameras.

Stayed up far past my bedtime on Saturday night/Sunday morning, making it to the sunrise. Not many buses run at that hour on the weekend, so I hopped on the first one that was going in my general direction. This particular bus stopped about 20 minutes from my place, and the rest of the way is on this coastal walk, perched maybe 100-200 feet above the ocean. As I walked home, with the sun rising above the water, a school (herd?) of whales swam by, shooting water into the air. Very cool.

Want to welcome the newest addition to planet Earth, Jesse Evan Jacobs, my cousin's son. (Is that cousin once removed? Or second cousin? I can never remember these things. Let's keep it simple and just call him my cousin.)

I thought it might be easier to watch the Red Sox in the playoffs with some distance between us. Yeeeaaaaaaahh, that's a negatory. Watched their Game 2 nail biter against the Indians in a local bar with some other Americans and nearly shat myself on numerous occasions. Meanwhile, as this great game marched on to extra innings, 98% of the bar was watching the most boring of Rugby League matches between Australia and New Zealand, which the Kangaroos won, 58-0. Regardless, I swore off of Red Sox games after that, at least for a few days.

And that day would be today... exactly two days and one game later. Watched this game from the comfort of the sports book at the casino here, Star City. And lo and behold, by the fourth inning, they switched the game to the main screen and added audio! My first audio of playoff baseball this year! Which was just in time to witness the Sox kill a potential big rally and refuse to get a hit from there on after. So no baseball for a few days for me. Maybe. (Also would like to add that despite my frustration at Kenny Lofton's home run, his celebration with Victor Martinez in the dugout was fantastic. I'd link to a YouTube clip here, but I can't find it.)

Anyone have any suggestions for a title for these "quick hits" blogs? Might try to do some more.

Still waiting for that work visa.

This is the story of seven strangers...

...picked to live together.

The Real World. What a fantastic, yet supremely absurd show. Over its many seasons, it went from an interesting look at the lives of seven strangers to an excuse for those strangers to get drunk to an excuse for them to get drunk and get into fights to an excuse for them to get drunk, get into fights, have orgies, go to jail and fling around racial epithets.

Ironically enough, I believe that the current season in the US is Real World: Sydney. And even more ironical is that I believe I'm about to subject myself to it. Because come Saturday, I will be moving into a sweet house with six (maybe seven) other strangers. Haven't met all of them yet, but from what I can understand, there will be a French dude, a Danish cook, an Irish couple and a Kiwi girl, among others.

This will end up being either the smartest or dumbest thing I have ever done, with absolutely zero middle ground. And right now, I'm leaning towards the latter. However, here are the arguments in favor of it (or at least what I keep on telling myself to make me feel better):

1. Just like the houses in The Real World, it is a sweet house. Four common areas, nice sized rooms and a pool! Here are some pictures:

2. It's in a great location. Right off of the water (with a view from the kitchen), and about a 15 minute walk in each direction to some great beaches.

3. The entire house comes furnished, so I don't have to worry about buying a bed, dresser, desk, couches, etc.

4. I'll be surrounded by many different cultures, which will be educational and shit.

5. And if all else fails (i.e., the Kiwi is a crack whore, the Dane enjoys his Scandinavian punk music at an obscenely high volume and the French couple are strict nudists), it's only a three-month commitment at the minimum. So it's not like I'm locked in for a year.

So yeah, this could be really, really bad, but then again, it's not actually going to turn into The Real World. I mean, there aren't any cameras mounted in the house. I think. Or at least from what I could see. And if nothing else, it'll make for some fantastic stories. Regardless of which way it goes. Stay tuned.

Invasion of the bogong moths

Last Thursday, as I walked to dinner with some friends, we noticed an abnormaly large number of moths collected around any light source. And I mean a lot. The entire sides of buildings were covered in moths. Crazy, we thought.

The next night, as some friends and I drank some beers on this headland overlooking the ocean, we noticed even more moths gathered around a light pole. There were enough that even when simply walking under the pole, they were flying in our faces. Strange, we thought.

And that's when they descended from every which direction. Moths in apartments. Moths getting into your food. Moths all up your face. Moths everywhere.

Turns out this happens once a year, when hoards of bogong moths (whatever those are) migrate. But because of some unusual winds this year, Sydney's seeing many, many, many more moths than normal. And how better to take advantage of this than to eat them! Ummm, or not.

Anyway, to the moths: it's been fun, really, but it's time for everybody out!

Who has two thumbs and doesn't have TB?

This guy!

(Uhhhhh, I guess it's important to note that I'm currently pointing both of my thumbs at me.)

But yes, I had a chest x-ray on Friday and despite rumors to the contrary, it came back tuberculosis free! So for those keeping score at home, that's one step further away from deportation and one step closer to a work visa.

I've had a pretty bad chest cold for the last few days, so leading up to the exam, I was positive that I had somehow contracted tuberculosis. Kind of like how, at some point in all of our lives, we convince ourselves that we have cancer. So when the woman at the health center studied my x-ray for what seemed like a full minute, while she had seemingly glanced at every other one for a few seconds, I was fully convinced that I was on the next plane home in my own little plastic bubble. But no! I'm safe for now.

Despite this cold, I forged through on Friday night, determined not to let a little illness ruin my time here. (Let's look past the fact that it's not like I'm here for a week or two; I probably could have taken the night off.) And much like the news team brawl in Anchorman, the night escalated quickly. A few beers soon turned into a few cocktails, which soon turned into shots.

Flash forward to 7:30 the next morning when I'm woken up by the guys in the apartment I'm staying at because they're getting ready to play some cricket. And my throat is on fire. I can hardly speak. Genius, Andy. Really genius. Anyway, the rest of the day was spent trying to make it through the rest of the day. Which was quite the struggle. Needless to say, I took it easy that night, stayed away from the alcohol and even passed out before England finished off Australia in the Rugby World Cup.

Still don't have a place to live, but I'm seeing some more places today and hoping to hear back from a few others soon. Let's hope it comes soon... living on a sofa in the living room of an apartment for four isn't really my bag.

The Pom-Pom Baseball Playoff Preview

Watching the Cubs-Diamondbacks playoff game earlier today, I noticed that the Diamondbacks had distributed white pom-poms to their fans. Naturally, this infuriated me. In fact, I was so enraged that I've decided to do a baseball playoffs preview despite the fact that we're three games into the playoffs.

Now granted, this was the first baseball game I've watched in at least three weeks, so most of my thoughts and musings are based on severe biases that have lived deep within me for years, a couple of articles I've read recently and just about every baseball-related podcast on the Internets. Without further ado, a team-by-team look at the playoffs:

Arizona Diamondbacks
There's really nothing more to add here. They gave their fans pom-poms. As in the things that cheerleaders wave. Then again, this is the same team whose local paper actually published a "Guide to Baseball" spread when they first made the playoffs in 2001. Somehow, this spread inspired them to a World Series. Will history repeat itself with the pom-poms? Ummmmm, no.

California Angels
If you're going to pass out anything for your fans to wave around over their heads, it should be a monkey. Uhhhh, and Chevrolets, goat cheese pizzas and bottled water. Anything else is un-American.

Cleveland Indians
I got nothing here. But here's to hoping they beat the Yanks on the backs of two starters, two relievers, Trot Nixon and nothing else.

Colorado Rockies
It's part smoke, part mirrors, but who cares? They're steamrolling right now, and based on the last three weeks, how can anyone not pick them to go deep into the playoffs? I say World Series.

Boston Red Sox
My very unbiased pick to win the World Series. And I know it's already been beaten into the ground, but J.D. Drew ended two innings in today's game (including hitting into a double play), leaving three runners on base.

Philadelphia Phillies
If the Sox don't win the World Series, I hope it's the Phillies. Because as everyone knows, they're my fourth favorite team. But really, let's let Philly win this. For the sanity of that city, and the stability of the entire Northeast. Think that's a stretch? Well, think of it like an SAT question. Philadelphia is to Iraq as the Northeast is to the Middle East; if that one area becomes destabilized, the entire region will be thrown into chaos. Santa Claus will be universally booed, people from DC to Boston will cheer when athletes suffer potentially life-threatening injuries and most importantly, we will continue to throw batteries at J.D. Drew. We've come to a tipping point, and it's about to spill over to the rest of the I-95 corridor. This is not a joke.

Chicago Cubs
If the Sox or the Phillies don't win the World Series, I hope it's the Cubs. Although I'm not sure what Lou was thinking when he removed Zambrano after six innings and only 85 pitches. Maybe there was a legit reason (as gracious as the local pub was to turn on the game, I wasn't about to press my luck and ask them to turn on the sound), but with the way he was pitching and his rubber arm, Big Z was good for at least another two innings. Oh, and Bartman really needs a hug.

New York Yankees
If the Sox, Phillies, Cubs, Angels, Rockies, Indians or Diamondbacks don't win the World Series, ummmmm... ummmmmm... I hope it's canceled. But here's my real dilemma: I want the Yankees to resign A-Rod. For three reasons. One, it makes it that much easier to hate him and the team. Two, despite being a very good player, A-Rod's teams have never won it all, which presumably precludes the Yankees from doing so as long as he's on the roster. And three, in the years after he left his previous two teams, those teams improved by a combined 43 games. Which means that A-Rod's potential departure will markedly help the 2008 Yankees. And I really don't want that. So although he's had only four hits with no RBIs in his last 41 at bats in the playoffs, here's to hoping he has a playoff performance just mediocre enough for the Yankees to resign him, but not good enough that people actually think he can perform in October. That's a reeeaaaal fine line. I'm thinking 6-for-19 with two HRs, five RBIs, one slightly-costly error, four strikeouts (one of which ends a rally), five walks, two SBs and two GIDPs in a hard-fought ALDS that the Yankees lose in five. But he has to hit that right on the head. Better or worse either way and I'm screwed.

Honestly, I have no idea what's going to happen in the playoffs. Minus the Diamondbacks and their pom-poms, I think any of these teams could win it all. As long as that team isn't the Yankees and there's no Red Sox-Yankees ALCS, I'll be happy. Because 2003 and 2004 left me more drained than Chuck Sheen at Heidi Fleiss' place. (Heyooooooo!!!) Although even if there is Sox-Yanks III, I don't have to deal with Yankees fans anymore. And that alone might be worth being here.

Holy crap, that was fast

When I came here, I figured I'd go some time without a job offer, let alone a job. A month? Probably a tad optimistic. Two months? Sounds about right. Three months? Wouldn't be surprised.

Try two weeks. No. Less than two weeks.

Still have to give the official acceptance, but barring an amazing interview with another agency tomorrow morning (with a very solid offer to boot), I will be a Junior Account Director on Tuesday.

Hot damn, I'm good!

My boring life

God, I wish I had something exciting to say about my life from the last few days, but it's actually been overwhelmingly and surprisingly mundane.

My last day of work was on July 20, and the 67 days since then have been fantastic. But now that I've actually started to look for work, I think the unemployment bug has finally caught up to me. And being in a new city and country doesn't seem to make it any better. I guess that the monotony of jumping through the same hoops for different headhunters every day can only be so fulfilling, regardless of where you are.

My one constant source of entertainment? The vicious Portuguese Chicken War being waged in my neighborhood. But it's late and I'm tired, so an explanation of that will have to wait for another time.

The defence against hating cricket

In response to my first post from Australia, some of you have told me to quit my bitching about cricket (and other Aussie sports), that I'm in their country and that I should heed the very motto of my own blog and just deal with it.

To those people, I argue that you don't understand what you're talking about. Why don't you get into your car on a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon, drive over to a field in your local Pakistani neighborhood, prop down a lawn chair and sit through hour upon hour of the most boring sport ever? Then, and only then, can you truly appreciate my misery.

I'm not saying that Australians (or the English or South Africans or Indians or, yes, Pakistanis) are somehow wrong or stupid for liking this sport. I'm just saying that I can't see how I personally could ever warm to it. But there are a lot of things out there that we as a culture can't understand. In China, they eat some ungodly animals. In Russia, a man once offered my family a spoonful of the lard he was eating out of a jar. In the Utah desert, Bear Grylls once ate two bird eggs: one that was raw (followed by the shell) and one that he cooked on a rock. (Or maybe he didn't eat those. But that's an entirely different topic, and if we went down that path, it would only infuriate me.) Or perhaps more aptly, Australians love vegemite.

In fact, I'm going to hang my hat on that last one. Liking cricket is akin to liking vegemite. It's not something you can learn to love; any appreciation for it simply comes from growing up with it. Now if any American out there can actually swallow a whole piece of toast with a nice layer of vegemite on it, then maybe I'll have to revisit this theory. But until that time comes, when yeast extract is at all palatable to an American, I'm okay with not liking cricket on the theory that I wasn't raised on it.

And this argument goes both ways, too. I can understand how Australians don't like baseball or football (gridiron, to them). They already have their own (bastardized) versions of both of these sports, so for them to appreciate our (perfect) versions is probably impossible.

There is one caveat to this argument, and that's the introduction of alcohol. For as we all know, alcohol makes everything better. I learned this firsthand the last time I was in Australia, in December 2004, when I went to my first professional cricket match. And while this game was going on in front of us, most of the crowd was intent on drinking their watered-down beers, collecting the plastic cups and building these:

That's right, BEER SNAKES! One section of the crowd would build their beer snake, hold it triumphantly over their heads and scream like the Scottish army in Braveheart after the They make take our lives, but they'll never take our freedom! speech. Then another section would follow suit with a slightly longer snake, so the previous section would respond with a snake, such as:

And this went on. For hours. And in between, the crowd heckled anyone who walked by in a suit, viciously booed anyone who didn't participate in the wave and joined in a very drunken rendition of Waltzing Matilda, as this man walked by:


So lest you think I'm giving up on cricket, rest assured that that's not happening. For once the season starts, I will be heading out to the Sydney Cricket Ground for some grog, a few more beer snakes and some Matilda.

Jobs, meat pies and The W Hotel

Had my first real job day today, with meetings at three recruitment agencies. And it's looking good for work! To be sure, the visa issue makes things more difficult, but everyone I spoke with was fairly optimistic that I'd be able to find employment relatively quickly.

In between the first and second interviews, I spent an hour looking for this meat pie stand outside of The W Hotel that Hannah raved about while I was in LA. In describing this place, Windward School's favorite photography teacher gave me every indication that The W Hotel was in the middle of the city, and even went as far as to say it was on George Street. But after an hour of aimless wandering, I gave up.

After some research back at my place, it turns out that The W Hotel in Sydney is in Woolloomooloo, which is nowhere even close to where Hannah described. (Also, on top of being one of the most ridiculous names ever, I believe Woolloomooloo holds the record for having the most O's in a city name. You know, in case that ever comes up in Trivial Pursuit.) The lesson, as always? When it comes to memory-related issues, never, ever, ever trust Hannah. Draw your own conclusions from this.

It's (finally) on like Kong!

After all the talking, after all the conjecture, after all the uncertainty, after everything... I'm here! Where's "here", you ask? Right at that little yellow thumbtack on left. That would be half a block away from a racetrack and about half an hour walk from the beach.



Thursday/Friday was interesting. Got through customs by about 9 and took this winner of a picture from outside the terminal:



For those who don't have superhuman eyesight, that says, "International Terminal Sydney." I think. Anyway, Maz and Nugget picked me up, then I struggled for a few hours before passing out around 1. (By the way, for those not in the know, these guys have some, ummmmmm, interesting nicknames. Right now, I'm living with Maz, Nugget and Yogi. And there's also Shorty, Jezza, Bitza and Anus. That's right -- ANUS!! This is actually someone's nickname. Unfortunately, I haven't seen the kid since I was first here in 2002, and I'm not sure if anyone still keeps in touch with him. I can only hope our paths cross sometime soon.)

Woke up at 5 on Saturday, ready to go. Faaaaantastic. Dozed for a few more hours and then headed out to an exciting club cricket match! Now, I've been to one other cricket match in my life, but it was a professional match and alcohol was very prominently involved. And after sitting through three thrilling (and very sober) hours of this club match, I'm absolutely shocked that I didn't require thrice as much alcohol last time. My God, what an excruciatingly boring sport. Here's a shot of the exhilarating scene that unfolded before my very eyes:


Saturday night was drinks. A lot of drinks. And more rugby than you could ever imagine. Currently, the Rugby World Cup is going on in France, so people are glued to the screen when Australia is playing, usually around midnight our time. (I think the US lost to Tonga a few days ago. TONGA! Yeeeeaaaaahhhh, not one of our strongest sports.) And then there's the finals for Rugby League (not to be confused with Rugby Union, which is an entirely different version of rugby altogether) that are currently going on. Oh, and on top of all this rugby, there's also the Twenty20 Cricket World Cup going on in South Africa right now. For the uninitiated, Twenty20 is a shorter version of the same boring cricket. So instead of being bored out of your mind for a one day test or the five day test (!!), these matches only bore you for three hours. Which seems manageable at first, but then once you start watching, you realize that three hours of the most boring sport ever is just as impossible to get through as eight hours.

Yesterday was recovery and a nice breakfast barbecue. Here's Jezza and Nugget cooking up some meat and eggs:




And this brings us to today, which is Day #1 of job search! So naturally, first order of business was to see if I could find any pubs playing the Sox-Yankees game. When I had no luck there, I bought a paper and went to the beach. So, uhhhhhh, I'll start looking tomorrow.

This is it

As far as titles for a post go, I guess this one's a little cliché, but, well, this is it. So if that's not witty or original enough for you, then heed the words of what I'm now pronouncing as this blog's official motto: deal with it.

So, ummmm, last night in America?

LAST NIGHT IN AMERICA!!

Such conflicting emotions right now. I'm really excited, but also nervous about this whole "visa" thing. Why do countries have all sorts of hang-ups about visas? I'm from America, dammit, just let me work!

As I arrive on a Friday night, I think my first few days there are going to be hazy and drunken. So who knows when the next post will be. I would just say that if I don't post anything by the following Friday, I might be dead, so, uhhhhhh, keep your eye on that one.

A precursor

Urban legend has it that toilets in the Northern Hemisphere and Southern Hemisphere flush in the opposite direction. Thus follows part one of my extremely scientific study to get to the bottom of this.

Why do Texans refuse to wear sunscreen?

I don't even have anything to add to this. It just bewilders me.

Fun with Bush!

As my departure date gets closer (seven days!), I'm starting to check the websites of local papers in Sydney to see what's going on over there. And what do you know, our president is in town right now! And he's doing all the things that have endeared him to us: inciting riots, wrecking all sorts of havoc on traffic and, uhhhhhh, inspiring web sites like this.

So go ahead and create your own Aussie Bush! My version is to the left. He's wearing an Australian flag as a cape, fishnet stockings and crazy glasses. And he's saying, "G'DAY!" Just like Australians! Ha ha ha!!

It's a beast outside

When I describe the weather in LA to other people, the term "dry heat" is generally discussed. Because as far as the various types of heat go, you can't trump the dry heat.

And yet, I'm finding this heat not so dry. It is beastly outside right now.

Anyway. On Saturday, despite a smorgasbord of connections across a variety of modes of transportation -- a boat, three buses and two planes -- I made it from Martha's Vineyard to LA in an expeditious 16 hours, without any problems. And now I'm here, dealing with this heat.

Beast.

Last day on Martha's

Wait, sorry. That was pathetic. This is for Sarah Ralph: LAST DAY ON MARTHA'S!

No, sorry. Still piss poor. One more time:

LAST DAY ON MARTHA'S!!!

Okay, much better. Let's proceed.

As I continue my detox from New York, I've spent most of the last three weeks at the Klein Family Compound on Martha's Vineyard. Which, needless to say, has been nice. Very nice. My days have basically been a hodgepodge of sleeping in, eating, seeing the family, dissecting the newspaper, eating, going to the beach, watching the sunsets and more eating. So much good food! Lobster, clams, scallops, swordfish... you could say that I'm on a bit of a seafood diet these days. When I see food, I eat it!!! Har har har. (Hmmm, works better when I'm telling it, not writing it. And even then, not so funny.)

But as time moves on, so must I. And today is my last day on the island. Fortunately, the three weeks here have done me well, as I'm leaving much more relaxed than when I arrived, with a crazy farmer's tan to boot. (For those I saw in Austin earlier in the month, the farmer's tan is actually even better now. Or worse, depending on your point of view. You may be wondering how that's possible, but believe me, it's real good. I can't wait to see how Australia accepts my White Trashiness.) Honestly, it's hard not to get relaxed here. Just take a look at this video below, which I filmed earlier today. This is what I've been looking at every day for the last three weeks. The horror.

So I leave on the 7:00 am boat tomorrow morning (fantastic) and slowly begin my trek west. And as you can see from this signpost that's outside of a store in town, I have a long way to go to get to Sydney. Ten thousand and ninety seven miles, to be exact.

On the way to Sydney, I stop in LA for about a week and a half. Should be good and should provide a little more relaxation and time to get my life in order. It should also be quite entertaining as the nerves start to build. I guess this is what happens when you move halfway around the world without any definitive plan. Gooooood times.

Welcome to Andy Blog 2.0

You can do anything at Andy Blog 2.0. The only limit is yourself. Yyyeeessss...

What's up party people! It's been well over a year, but in the words of Michael Jordan, I'm back. Dust off the keyboard, boot up that old Mac Classic, log on to World Wide Interweb and get yourself a glass of tang, because it's Andy's second go at a blog. Andy Blog 2.0. (Maybe Andy Blog 1.1? Or Andy Blog 1.0001? How exactly does that work? I'm just gonna make it easy and say it's Andy Blog 2.0.)

For those keeping track at home, Andy Blog 1.0 was Son of Yhency. It started off as my ruminations on life and all my wacky observations, but ultimately, it took on a life of its own as I tracked the every move of the Los Angeles Dodgers' Yhency Brazoban. I know, I know: boring. But no more! For as much as Yhency tempts me, I'm moving on, in every conceivable way. Emotionally, spiritually, physically, you name it.

The interim title for Andy Blog 2.0 is AK All Day. Why? Well, it rhymes, it contains my initials, I like it, it works, and some people have taken to jubilantly exclaiming it in my presence. Plus, this name doesn't limit which topics I can discuss, as Son of Yhency did. So we have an interim title. Unless something better strikes me (or you have any suggestions), I think it may quickly become the official title. Because hell, the URL for this blog is already http://akallday.blogspot.com/. If I changed the title, I'd have to change the URL as well, right? Right.

Anyway. To the purpose of this blog. As anyone visiting this undoubtedly already knows, I have left New York after living there for four years. And now, I will be moving to Sydney in a few weeks to find a place to sleep and a place to pay me. Preferably in this order. Although in quick succession. And for all of those who care enough to see what I'm up to or find out about all my crazy adventures, I figure that instead of sending emails every once in a while, it's easier for me to post updates and let you check at your own leisure.

I'll touch on the details of the move in future posts, but for now, I'd just like to say hello. The next few weeks, months and years should be interesting, so y'all come on back now, y'hear?