He hate me?

As I've referenced a few times in recent posts, Justin is currently visiting me here. And as I wrote in my last post, while I've been at work during the day this week, he's been off exploring. Innocent comment, right? No possible way to interpret malice, right? Well. Well. WELL. Sometime yesterday, Justin read that post. And despite all the graciousness and generosity that I've showered on him the last few days, that delusional man somehow misconstrued what I wrote to mean that I hated having him here.

WELL.

Well.

WELL.

You know what Justin? Get out of my damned country!

A farewell to 2008

It’s December 18... and yes, I'm bidding my farewell to 2008. For although there's still two weeks left in the year, this will almost certainly be my last chance to post here.

It was a good year. An active year. A year full of the new and unexpected. Consider:

• I settled into my job;
• I moved houses;
• I made several trips of varying lengths, both domestically and back to the US;
• I inexplicably found an appreciation for cricket;
• I pulled off what may be my proudest accomplishment ever with the Fumblers-B Newy Decathlon;
• I moved houses again;
• I found out that I'm going to lose my job and commenced what has so far been a fruitless search for a new one;
• I screwed up my ankle;
• I grew a moustache;
• And I put on Thanksgiving... in December.

Yes, it was a good year, albeit with varying degrees of tumult. And I'm proud of all I that accomplished. But there's more!! For there's a reason why I won’t be able to post on here for the next few weeks, and it's definitely not because I'm gonna be sitting on my ass.

As you may know, Justin has been here since last weekend. And so far, it's been good. As we might say, VAR good. Plenty of adventures, including Justin’s initiation into the strange, hostile world of Australian bouncers.* But while we've been going out each night this week, I've been working during the day. This is unfortunate. However, after tomorrow, that all changes. For my office will close its doors for two weeks, and I will be free!! What will I/we be up to?

*I'm in no mood to get into this at the moment. Maybe another day. Maybe not.

December 20 to 24 - Justin and I go to Byron Bay, about nine hours north of Sydney. There will be beaches. There will be festiveness. There will be hoolbool.

December 24 to 25 - Justin heads back off to the US, and I spend Christmas at MacMasters Beach with my friend/roommate Yogi and his family. You may recall that I also spent Australia Day Weekend at MacMasters.

December 26 - Yogi and I drive down to Wagga Wagga, home town of Shorty, one of our other roommates. Wagga Wagga also holds the distinction of being the largest inland city in Australia. You know, just in case they ask that in your next trivia night.

December 27 - We -- and I have zero idea who "we" will be -- all head down to Melbourne. I have no idea where I’ll be sleeping this night.

December 28 - A group of us will spend a looooonnnnnng day at the Melbourne Cricket Ground for Day 3 of the Boxing Day Test Match between Australia and South Africa. This will be a wild day. A REAL wild day. I have no idea where I'll be sleeping this night, either.

December 29 to January 1 - A large group of us will drive part of the Great Ocean Road (just done with the parents a few weeks earlier) to spend three loooooooonger days at The Falls Music & Arts Festival. We'll be camping out, watching a crap load of live music, taking horrible care of ourselves, getting no sleep, and on the last night, bringing in 2009.* Sounds fantastic, right?**

*It will HAVE to be better than how I brought in 2008, right?

**The funny part is, if you know me AT ALL, you'd know this is not my type of thing. Camping out at a three-day music festival?? Yeah, well, I don't know. But I'm psyched.

January 1 to ?? - We -- again, no clue who "we" will be -- head back to Sydney. I have zero idea how this will be accomplished, how long it will take or how many stops (if any) we'll make along the way. But sometime between the 1st and the 4th, I'll make my way back to Sydney.

Should be a fantastic few weeks, with plenty of nonstop action. So I'll take this opportunity to bid adieu to 2008, and I will see you in 2009! Have a great holiday season, everyone.

Thanksgiving in December

For Thanksgiving last year, my friend Katie, a fellow American, hosted myself and about a dozen others for a big feast. My contribution to the meal was my first-ever pumpkin pie, and as you might recall, tracking down the canned pumpkin puree turned out to be quite the adventure. Because God forbid I make my own pumpkin puree.

This year, I saw that pumpkin pie -- as they'd say in poker -- and then raised the stakes. Significantly. For a few weeks ago, I decided that I would host my own feast for a group of ten or so, and that I would make the lion's share of the dishes. What gave me the naive audacity that I could take on such a challenge, I'm not sure. For putting on the feast proved to be a beast. Consider the lead-up to the meal, which I hosted somewhat belatedly this past Sunday:

Sunday prior
After lengthy consultations with my mom (who was fortunately in the country at the time), I determined my menu: turkey, gravy, stuffing, green bean casserole, stuffed sweet potatoes, pumpkin pie and pecan pie. Note, this is only what I was making for a group that started off as ten and ultimately reduced to seven. Others would be bringing more dishes: cheese, crackers, appetizers, lemon meringue pie and ice cream.

Monday
Located what were possibly the last two cans of pumpkin puree in Sydney. It's one thing to find pumpkin puree in Sydney at some random time of the year. For a real challenge, try finding some cans the week after Thanksgiving, when expat Americans have horded them by the dozen. Fortunately, after searching far and wide for the puree last year, I established some connections and was able to secure and order two cans for myself.

Wednesday
Picked up said cans of pumpkin puree.

Friday
The big grocery shop. My shopping list? Compiled as an Excel spreadsheet that itemized and aggregated every ingredient from each of the dishes that I was making. (Yes, I am a nerd.) I think I can very safely say that I've never bought so much food on my own in one outing.

Saturday
Started the day with a cricket match and actually matched my all-time high score, with nine runs.* Then I rented a costume for my agency's Christmas party.** And then I came home to prep some dishes and bake the pies. This took the rest of the day.

*That high score, which I set in my first ever match and recapped in this post, coincidentally came against the same team and on the same exact weekend a year ago.

**The theme of this party? The Mad Hatters Tea Party. The costume? The Ace of Hearts. Will there be pictures? Maybe.

Sunday
Got up around 8, somewhat hung over from a house party the previous night, and was at it the rest of the day. First, the stuffing. Then, the green bean casserole. Then, the stuffed sweet potatoes. And then, as the potatoes were cooking, I had a bit of a panic attack when, speaking to my mom on the phone (who's now back in LA), she expressed pure bewilderment that I hadn't started the turkey yet. Andy, a turkey takes forever to cook! Needless to say, my confidence was shaken. Because when my mom speaks on the topic of cooking, you listen. So I rushed the potatoes, tossed the turkey in the oven and, well, two hours later, behold:

It turned out freaking perfect. At just about the time we planned to sit down.

The rest of the dishes? Freaking perfect! Here's a plate with turkey, stuffing and green bean casserole:

And here's a plate with the three pies (lemon meringue, pecan and pumpkin):

Freaking yum.

I couldn't move for the rest of the day, partly because I'm not sure I've ever eaten so much food in my life* and partly because that cooking sapped all my energy. Do I have a newfound appreciation for someone who can pull off a feast like that? Absolutely. Was it worth the effort? Yeah, I think so. Will I do it again next year? Let's not get ahead of ourselves. For now, it's leftovers for the next few weeks!

*Well, except for this.

Aussies and their "little" alter egos

Okay. I'm not sure what's going on with advertising agencies in Australia these days,* but they appear to be fascinated with giving alter egos to genatalia. If you remember this post from a little over a year ago, you'll recall the below bewildering and ridiculous ad about erectile dysfunction:


*The irony being, of course, that I work for an ad agency. So logically, you'd think that I would know what's going on here. Sadly, no.

Now, we have our response for the ladies, with the below ad. I first saw this in the cinema with my parents, waiting for Australia to start. Awkwaaaaaard...



And this last one is apropos to nothing (besides the fact that it's Aussie-made), but, well, as a red-blooded male, I believe it's my duty to share it with the rest of the world.

There is a god. Elle be thy name.


Holy. Schnikes.

Back to normalcy?

It's been an interesting and strange few weeks. My Mo (finally, mercifully) filled in. The parents came into town. The parents left town. I rejoined the parents in Melbourne. We did the Great Ocean Road from Monday to Wednesday. We came back to Sydney.* We went to see Australia.** We did a wine tasting trip on Saturday. And then on Sunday, the parents left.

*After taking the first three days of the week off, I worked, ironically, on Thursday and Friday. The opposite of all you people in the US.

**Australia in Australia! Har har har!

Two notable photos from the Great Ocean Road:

"We'll get him when he comes back in!"
"He's not coming back."

My Mo and the 12 Apostles.

Having the parents here went pretty much as I expected; a range of emotions throughout their visit. It was great, it was frustrating, it was embarrassing (mostly when my dad tried to pull off a ridiculous Aussie accent), it was a welcome escape from my routine, it was exhausting. And although I admittedly felt some relief to see them off on Sunday, I immediately felt guilt. Could we have done more? Should I have let some of the more trivial things get me frustrated? This is how a visit from my parents usually goes.

Anyway, I'm back! Maybe. Movember's over, so no more daily emails to distract me. And as the parents are gone, there will be no more long days with them. Instead, I can put my head down and work, continue to search for a new job and, theoretically, post more frequently on this thing. That is, although, until I host a belated Thanksgiving meal this Sunday, then my office Christmas party the following Thursday, and then that Saturday, Justin arrives for two weeks! So, ummmm, I'm not back? Let's just put more emphasis on that "maybe" qualifier and hope for the best.

Me, and the neglect of you

It's Friday? Really?

I have no idea where this week has gone. And I've just realized that I've absolutely been neglecting this here blog. My apologies. But you see, the thing is that my creative fervor these days has been directed towards my daily Movember email. Because the recipients of those emails are paying -- well, "donating" may be more of an apt term -- customers. You people? Freeloaders. All of you!

Anyway, I'm off to Melbourne tomorrow to meet up with the parents* -- have I mentioned on here that they've been in the country for the last week? -- then do the Great Ocean Road**, then head back to Sydney on Wednesday. So if you think I've been neglecting the blog this week, just wait until next week. Of course, if you want to receive each of my daily ramblings and a daily picture of my filthy Mo, simply click here and donate.

*For the loyal readers of this blog, you better believe that I'm bringing along my Wallpaper guide book for part deux in Melbourne. Will it serve me any better than it did the first time around? Will it provide for more awesome times? Doubtful. But will I cling to it like a safety blanket my entire time there? Absolutely.

**This is not only supposed to be an absolutely majestic stretch of road, but we will also pass by Bells Beach. Will I attempt to reenact the final scene of Point Break with some unsuspecting Aussie? I wouldn't put it past me.

Whoa. We're halfway there.

I don't know where the time's gone, but somehow, we're halfway through Movember. And in the first 15 days of the month, I've mustered out what I'm beginning to consider a legitimate Mo. So for all those who aren't on the daily email -- and honestly, I can't understand why anyone wouldn't be on it* -- here's a sneak peak of what I just sent out to all the lovely people on that distribution list:


Ain't she a beauty? And we still have half a month to go!

*Oh, wait. Of course I know why you might not be on the daily email: you haven't donated to the cause yet! But lest you think that you can't do that anymore simply because November 1 has come and gone, I'll assure you that you absolutely can, right through to the end of the month. And it's as simple as clicking here.

Brilliance is...

...Garfield minus Garfield.


(Tip of the cap to Reeegan for introducing me to this site.)

Is this really something we're going to have to deal with in another four years?

Find more videos like this on AdGabber

AK All Day Face: The SCG

The SCG (photo: Chino)

One year ago, I never thought I would utter these three words with such jubilation, but here we go: cricket is back! And with this return comes everything that comes with the return of baseball: the warmth, the long days, the barbecues, the green grass, the outdoor weekends, the sun, the festiveness. In other words, when cricket's here, everyone's happy.

Take a look at the above picture, taken about this time last year. I'm happy. Maybe it's because I'm at a cricket match, maybe it's because I'm absolutely wasted. And that's the beauty of cricket. You never know.

Behind me, Australia takes on India at the Sydney Cricket Ground. Currently, Australia is in India for a Test Series. And all throughout Australia, all throughout India, people are happy. They are most definitely happy.

The vitals
Title: The SCG
Subject: AK
Face: The eye contact
Location: Sydney NSW

Throwin' some Election Day Kleinballs

Today was, and is, a big day.

Today was a big day because in Australia, the Melbourne Cup was run! As I so eloquently explained in my post about the race last year, this is a national event. Everyone stops what they're doing, loses their mind for an hour or two, gets boozy, places bets on horses that they hadn't heard of half a day earlier, watches the race, and then life goes on. Anyway, some horse won, I didn't win any of my bets, and that was that.

Today is a big day because in the US, there's a bit of an election. I doubt I need to tell you this. And I also doubt I need to tell any of the brilliant readers of this blog to get the hell out and vote! Even if the vote won't make a damned difference, like my absentee ballot in New York State, which likely will never even be taken out of its envelope.

For some election-related chuckles, have a look below at the wording of the headline above the picture of Sarah Palin on the front cover of Saturday's Sydney Morning Herald. And for a few more giggles, have a read of the accompanying article, and pay particular attention to how they quote poor Glenda Hock starting in the sixth paragraph.


A belated, but huge congrats to the Phillies for winning the World Series! I ended up running out of work for the last inning or two to watch from a sports betting office, and when they sealed the deal, I found myself standing there with a huge grin on my face. I couldn't be happier for the people of Philly. And for the rest of the country, just be happy to know that the apocalypse has been avoided.

I've seen two movies of note on cable in the last few weeks: Forgetting Sarah Marshall and Sleuth. The former was hilarious. I hadn't so much of heard of the movie whenever it came out, but I was very pleasantly surprised. The latter? Let's just say that if you ever have the opportunity to watch it, just run. Turn around and run.

In other Aussie news, the country is currently hosting the Rugby League World Cup! Although to be honest, this shouldn't interest you or anyone outside of Australia. Because the history of past winners of this World Cup, with Australia unfairly demolishing the competition, reads like the history of Ivy League men's basketball champs from 1958 to 2007, when Penn and Princeton reigned supreme. In fact, this might be the most one-sided international tournament out there, and I think the case could be made that it would be even more one-sided than a theoretical international World Cup of American football. Good stuff!

Mo Money, Mo Mo!!

If I'm friends with you, if I'm acquaintances with you, if I've only met you once, hell, if I've so much as ever looked at you, I've probably already told you about Movember. But just in case you've never been in my presence, here's the pitch:

Because Aussies have some sort of socially-engrained sense of duty to abbreviate every word in the dictionary, a moustache here is called a Mo. A few years ago, some do-gooders ran with this name and claimed the second to last month of the year as Movember: 30 days for men to unite, grow a Mo, and in doing so, raise money for the Prostate Cancer Foundation and beyondblue, foundations that finance research and increase support networks for men who suffer from prostate cancer and depression.

A few weeks ago, it occurred to me that the month was approaching and I thought, Why the hell not, it's for a good cause! And with that fleeting and impetuous brainfart, I'm embarking on 30 long days of growing a Mo. In return for the countless stares and snickers that I'm surely bringing upon myself, all I ask of you is to make a donation to these foundations by simply clicking on the link below, or copying and pasting it into your web browser:
https://www.movember.com/au/donate/donate-details.php?action=sponsorlink&rego=1432361&country=au

As if you need any more reason to donate beyond the fact that your money will be going to very worthy causes, I'll give one to you: Throughout the month, I will send emails to everyone who has made a donation with daily pictures of my Mo as well as any of my thoughts, ramblings, anecdotes, etc. I might not be able to send an email every day, but it will be close to that, and for those days that I miss, the next email will contain pictures from the past day(s). Thus, you will get to see my Mo grow, from infancy all the way through to bushy greatness. How good is that??!? But remember, this is a two-way road. Only if you donate Mo Money by clicking on this link will I give you Mo Mo. So do it today!

Finally, through the magic of the World Wide Internets, I've been able to generate a likeness of myself at the end of these 30 days. Behold!


Ain't I pretty? And won't it be worth it to see this beautiful Mo grow, day by day, throughout the month? If you agree and would like to see Mo Mo -- and how could you not? -- then please click here or on the link above and donate Mo Money!

Happy Halloween!

The lesson, as always: stay away from Heineken, Tecate and some other beer whose label I can’t make out. Drink as much of anything else and you’ll be fine.

From the notebook: Eagles Fantatics and Hope

If you're any sort of a casual reader of this blog, you by now know of my man crush on Joe Posnanski.* Although I first became familiar with him as a sportswriter, he's gained the distinction of my favorite writer du jour partly because of his work outside the realm of sports. On his blog, for example, he has a running series of posts called "From the notebook", for which he posts previously written, non-sports-related pieces. They're quite possibly some of his best work, and his recent Lolo post is absolutely no exception. In fact, outside of his post on Tiger Woods -- as far as I'm concerned, that's his gold standard -- I think it might be the best thing I've read by him.

*Judging from this picture, I'd like to think it's pretty clear that I love him for his mind, and his mind only.

So please read the Lolo post. You will be enlightened. And then, in my own homage to Joe, and because this is easier than writing completely new material, but mostly because the city of Philadelphia is as few as nine rain-delayed outs away from capturing their first championship in any major sport since 1983,* have a look at my own "From the notebook" post below, which is a piece on Eagles fans -- and to some degree, Philly fans in general -- that I wrote for my Penn web page in my last year of college, waaaaayyyy back in January 2003.

*And for this comment, I have irrevocably jinxed them.

A forewarning: Please, please, please note that I picked up the below exactly as originally written and have not edited it in any way, shape or form. This is for the worst. I apologize in advance.

---------------------------------------------

Eagles Fanatics and Hope

For those of you who somehow made it through my previous ramblings on the coaches of the NFL, you'll probably note that I mentioned a few times in there that I thought the Eagles were going to take it all this year.

Two days after a seriously crushing defeat to the Bucs, I'm here to admit I could not have been more wrong. The Bucs showed up to a freezing Philly (believe me, I should know -- I worked outside in that cold for seven hours on Sunday) and made the Eagles their bitches. That gives them a two game winning streak in games under 40 degrees! Quite impressive, at least for them.

Of course, I'm not letting it go that easily. I'm not going to talk about the actual game here and how the Eagles lost the game more so than the Bucs won it. Instead, I want to talk about the fans here in Philly.

Before I start, my heartfelt sympathy goes out to every one of you. I've lived here for only 4 years and even to me, that was a crushing defeat. Considering my hometown of LA is NFL football-less, I've taken somewhat of a liking to the Birds and have suffered, to a lesser extent than most of you, the knife in the back that this town has endured time and time again for the last few decades. I can only imagine the gut wrenching pain that some of the Philly lifers are going through right now.

In case you've never been to Philly, the fans here are completely rabid about the Eagles. This entire past week, it was nothing but Eagles, Eagles, Eagles. You would walk around the street and people were chanting, "E-A-G-L-E-S EAGLES!!!" in passing cars. There were "Go Eagles!" signs EVERYWHERE. People had those little flags they attach to their cars. I also saw several interesting new paint jobs or additions to cars and vans.

Then, on Friday, it was if the city went absolutely crazy. I turned on the local news at 12, and I swear to you, the ENTIRE hour of news was devoted to Eagles-mania. (There may have been some story on a rape in like the 47th minute.) At the program's end, they officially began the 50-hour countdown to kickoff time. The coverage was practically round the clock. Probably the funniest moment was the coverage of the Bucs' plane landing at the airport. The entire segment was devoted to just the Bucs' plane. Not the Bucs walking off of it. Not the Bucs giving interviews. Just the plane. The correspondent had nothing to say. He was like, "We think this is the plane. They should be on it right now." And the entire shot on the screen was a plane several hundred yards away taxiing to its gate.

By Saturday, I think the local news just took over all programming on television. NBC, CBS, ABC, and Fox were all devoted to Eagles stories. That night, I attended a banquet and talked to a Philly lifer who admitted quite frankly that he hadn't been able to get the game out of his head all week. His wife, who had already gotten quite drunk and somewhat belligerent, began accosting every person that passed by and asking them where they were from. If the answer wasn't Philly, she'd go crazy on you. Considering LA doesn't have a football team, you'd think she wouldn't mind me so much. Nope. The fists came flying out. Of course, the poor sap from New York had some serious answering to do. (And rightfully so.) The guy that was born in friggin' Moscow seemed to get by okay though.

By game day on Sunday, the city came to a standstill. The local news at 8 am was already at the Vet, interviewing fans that were ALREADY tailgating. They were getting drunk… at eight in the morning!! In fact, the earliest fans had arrived at 4:30. Whose idea was it to show up for a game almost 12 hours before it began???? As I parked car after car at my valet job, I listened to a pregame radio show that had started at something like 7 am (game time was 3 pm) and was broadcasted from the Vet. By 10, it was pretty apparent from the noise in the radio show's background that everyone at the Vet parking lot was wasted. By 11, I watched as the Bucs began to leave their hotel (they were staying right near where I work) to a crowd of Eagles fans heckling them. There were also maybe 3 Bucs fans who were stupid enough to wear Bucs clothing. Back at the Vet, they were stabbing Chucky dolls (who look very similar to the Bucs' coach, Jon Gruden) with knives, pins, and then ripping their heads off. If only Ozzy was there to bite off the head of Gruden himself. By 2 or so, most of the crowd I could hear over the radio show had screamed themselves right into laryngitis.

Being from LA and all, this whole diehard fan thing is rather new to me. Remember, I'm from a town where baseball games are four innings long (we come in the 4th and leave in the 7th), public apathy drove out two football teams in a two year span, and basketball championships are pretty much taken as a given. Has there been even close to this much public or media hysteria during the Lakers' current championship run? Not even close. Us fans just get pumped up when we really have to, such as Game 7 of the 2000 Western Conference Finals or anytime we play the Queens. We expect victory. (Of course, I'm not complaining about LA. Victory is oh so sweet, especially when you can go to the beach for a little nightcap after watching a Lakers victory in January. Want more proof that LA -- and the rest of Cali -- rocks? Just read up on Jim Caple's recent ESPN.com column. Of course, all of this overwhelming evidence that Cali rules once again proves the old point that I'm an idiot for going to school on the east coast.)

That's pretty much the typical, lazy LA fan. What about Eagles (or more generally, Philly) fans? They really, really, really want it. But they sure as hell can't expect it. They just let their hopes fly up to a crescendo and then crash and burn.

So by the time the game started at 3, the city had officially stopped. The only people who were still outside were those who were working (like myself) or had no clue at all. For instance, when I asked a woman if she knew what the score was, she surprisingly responded with a knowledgeable, "7-0," which was correct at the time. But when I asked her how the Eagles had scored, looking for a response such as "Staley ran it in" or "McNabb hooked up with Thrash," she said, "The Eagles did a touchdown." Those were her exact words. They DID a touchdown.

I made it home by the second quarter to watch most of the game, and the outcome is all history. And now, Philly is mourning. The loss was difficult enough for me to take. I feel so bad for some of the people I know. One of the guys I work with said that a friend of his literally burst into tears, "as if his mother had just died." No lie. And, of course, there was some anger. I talked to one guy who said that Philly fans were some of the sorest losers he'd ever seen. From what I've seen, I think that's a little bit of an exception, but it certainly is true in some cases. A sports reporter for a radio station here absolutely ripped into the Eagles yesterday, calling much of the team, especially Reid and McNabb, some rather distasteful names. And you know he was practically on his knees praising those guys last week.

Even though Philly right now is acting as if Revelations is unfolding, I know there's one diehard Eagles fan out there who isn't surprised at all. About six weeks ago, when everyone was realizing that the Eagles could win even without McNabb, this guy I had met at work, who had lived in Philly his entire life, told me that he wasn't getting excited about the Eagles. He said he had learned his lesson with them. He really wanted to see them win, but he was not going to get his hopes up. He'd been disappointed too many times by them. I couldn't believe a Philadelphian would utter such words. But you know what? He was dead on. The Eagles choked, once again.

Although this guy probably isn't too disappointed today, you have to think that no one more than him deserves to see his team win. He's essentially lost hope, and that's too bad. (Cue the sappy music.) Unless you're a Clippers fan, a Bengals fan, or a Red Sox fan, there's always a glimmer of hope that your team can win. That's what makes sports so damned exciting. (I mean, look at the World Cup or the NCAA Final Four. You watch those tournaments, and even if you know nothing about the teams that are playing, you're still on the edge of your seat because you know how badly everyone wants it. And you also know there's enough parity so that either team could end up victorious. In many ways, that's what makes Major League Baseball so damned boring sometimes, because there's not nearly as much equality in that league. I'm looking at you, Steinbrenner.) All of this heartache and sorrow only means one thing: the Eagles will win the Super Bowl next year. Mark my words on this. The fans, as rowdy and crazy and obnoxious as they can sometimes be, deserve to see that happen. Their time has clearly come, and my man who has apparently lost all hope needs to get it back.

---------------------------------------------

So. That exercise was... interesting. Mentions of the Vet? (RIP, baby.) Implying that the Red Sox have no hope of ever winning?? Guaranteeing an Eagles Super Bowl victory in 2004???!? Yeah, maybe we won't do this again.

But the thesis of piece still stands, and for the sake of my man who has lost all hope, I hope the Phils can see this thing through, whether it be in Game 5, or back in Tampa.

PCW Redux or: The anatomy of an exercise in creative writing

One year and one day ago, I told a story. Which may have included some creative liberties. It's for the best, I thought at the time. For the premise was there. And to become something great, all it needed was some patchwork, for some holes to be filled in, for a little softening around the edges. You know, like -- ahem -- adding in a whole middle and end. So I did that. And the resulting story went over fantastically. Like gangbusters.

A few days into my visit to New York in August, it occurred to me that if the stars aligned, a potential situation could occur that would bring the walls of my little story crumbling down, thus exposing the few creative liberties* that I may have taken.

*When I say "few creative liberties", I really mean "ridiculously huge amount of stuff that isn't all that true".

I panicked. And began to plan for the worst. Should it arise, what could I do to get myself out of said situation? Awkwardly change the topic of conversation? Dive out of the closest window? Scream "FIRE!" in a crowded theater? No, none of those would do. In fact, I came to the depressing conclusion that there really was nothing that I could do to avoid it except hope and pray that it wouldn't be raised. So I hoped. And I prayed.

And then on that fateful Saturday night, at dinner with Dave, Erin, Robert, Maz and Laurie -- before the party that welcomed Robert and me back to New York for the weekend -- my prayers were smashed. And the walls? Oh yes, my friends -- the walls, they came crumbling down.

So let's just get it out of the way right now: the majority -- okay, the vast majority -- of what's in my infamous Portuguese Chicken Wars post is made up. Not so much a lie, per se... let's use that term "creative liberties" again. And then multiply it several times over.

It all started off so innocently. For the premise of the post, that Shorty had emailed me before coming to Sydney to tell me about Ogalo, the fire there, and to never go to Portogali? True. The rumors of some tomfoolery regarding the fire and Portogali's possible involvement? (Not the rumors themselves, perhaps, just that there were rumors.) True. Everything else? Wellllllll...

Fine. I decided to have a little fun. And got carried away. It started off as a vague idea, quickly snowballed into a stream of consciousness, and became something great. And none of you can deny that, this much I know. That story is great. You all said as much. In emails. In comments on that post. In phone conversations. And in many more emails that followed.

But yeah, the story mostly belongs in the fiction section. With a bit of an emphasis on "mostly", because there is some truth to it. So maybe it should go into the "Based on a true story" section? Yeah, that's about right. In fact, let's call the story this blog's The Perfect Storm. Literally and figuratively. (And if you don't get that reference, just look at the first paragraph in the upper right part of this page.)

Anyway, no more creative liberties, no more beating around the bush, no more half-truths. Just the full truth, as we do PCW (Portuguese Chicken Wars) Redux:


A perfect segue indeed! For not only have I been back to Ole, not only have I been back to Portogali, and not only have I been to Ogalo since it (finally) reopened, but... BUT... BUT...

Well. Before we get to this "BUT" -- and it's a doozy -- let's first quickly hit on these three establishments and give you the 100% honest truth on each of them. Because if I'm not an open book, what am I?*

*This is a very rhetorical question. Please don't answer it.

Ole: This is the default establishment for our apartment. It's the closest (by a good ten seconds!), and, well, I'm not sure there's any other good reason. (As if that's good enough of a reason on its own.) The sauce that they serve with the hot chips* -- errrr, fries -- is good? One of the girls who works there is semi-attractive?

*This would be prego sauce, and it's amazing. I'm not sure exactly what it's made of, but it's some concoction of at least mayo, vinegar and maybe a few spices. That description absolutely doesn't do it justice, and may even perhaps make it sound disgusting, but believe me, it's earth-shattering stuff. Maybe not quite as good as sweet chili sauce and sour cream, but it's a close second. Anyway, each of the Portuguese places has their own prego sauce, but I'd probably rate Ole's as the best.

Portogali: A bit of the black sheep for us, although this of course -- of course! -- has nothing to do with the claim in Shorty’s original email that they burned down Ogalo. More simply, it's probably because this was the third entrant into the market, with Ole and Ogalo having already established themselves. I hardly ever go there, and based on my own grandmother research, it's the least frequented of the three Portuguese establishments. If that says anything.

Ogalo: Shorty's old favorite, and after he talked it up for the six freaking months that it took them to rebuild, I was beyond excited to try it when it first reopened. But to be honest, my first experience let me down. Maybe the expectations were set too high? Perhaps. Although I think the most telling sign is that Shorty doesn't frequent it as much as he did pre-fire. Has Ogalo lost whatever mojo it had going for it pre-fire? Or is there just no difference among the three establishments, thus allowing us to default to Ole?

And that last point, my friends, that may be the thing. There's a certain perceived level of parity among the three establishments, because they really don't do anything to differentiate themselves. Consider: They all have near-identical menus. They all are laid out in a similar fashion. They all have friendly employees, who would never, ever even dream of berating you for going to one of the other two places. (I mean, honestly...) So how do we choose? In our case, I think it's simply a matter of proximity. Even if that proximity is a matter of ten seconds. But that's not a good reason, is it? I say no, that there has to be a better way. However, that’s very much a conversation for another day. And we'll address it sometime soon.

Okay, back to the "but".

BUT...

Upon arriving back in Sydney from the US at the end of August, I was greeted with this news: a fourth is coming. A fourth Portuguese chicken restaurant. Right down the street from the other three. I shit you not. Because not one, not two and not even three Portuguese chicken restaurants within two minutes of each other is enough. Oh no. Someone actually thought, "I'd love to open a Portuguese chicken restaurant. I know, let's put it right near three others!" A conversation to this effect actually happened. And then it was acted upon. It's mind-boggling, it's inconceivable, it's fascinating, it's bewildering, it's hilarious, it's... well, it's any and every adjective ever invented.

With that said, let's welcome the newest Portuguese chicken restaurant to my neighborhood: Angelo's!


Excuse me while my head explodes. And as I prepare for the next stage of the Portuguese Chicken Wars.

Woe is freaking me

The title of this post is the line I used in an email to some friends yesterday, and it's really quite apt in capturing the essence of my last 48 hours. Consider the following:

Monday, circa 3:00pm
I duck out of work for about an hour to watch the Sox, down 3-1 in Game 7 of the ALCS, tease me in the eighth and ninth innings and ultimately lose to the Rays.* Not to take anything away from the Rays, for they are a really good team, but that's a game that the Sox should have and could have won. And probably would have won a year ago.

*Somewhere, a higher power is saying: "Let me get this straight. You have two teams. They both made it deep into the playoffs. This is a good thing. Yet you’re bitching about the chance of them meeting up in the World Series??!? Fine, you’ll get nothing and you’ll like it." As I've said from the beginning, I brought this upon myself; I deserve whatever comes to me. Including this.

Monday, circa 3:20pm
Back in the office for maybe 20 minutes, my agency's managing director calls an impromptu meeting to give us the lovely news that my client is going to another agency. That would be the client that I'm 100% resourced on. Shortly, they will not be with the agency. A nonexistent client means a nonexistent job. More on this surely to follow.

Tuesday, circa the entire day
No one knows what's going on with our client leaving or how it's going to play out. All we know for sure is that jobs will be lost. Including mine, potentially. Nothing will happen in the immediate few days or weeks, but it will happen, perhaps even within the next month or two. So throughout the day, there's absolutely something in the air in the office. And circa the entire day, I'm just annoyed.

Tuesday, circa 6:30pm
My normal five minute wait for a bus turns into 20 minutes. Under normal circumstances, this is an annoyance. On this day, this is infuriating.

Tuesday, circa 7:40pm
Halfway through a run to blow off some steam, about as far as I can possibly get from my apartment, I step into a pothole and sprain my ankle. With no way to call anyone or money for a bus or taxi, I proceed to limp the two miles back home.

Now it's Wednesday. I woke up to an ankle that has ballooned, as if someone inserted a golf ball into it last night. I cannot walk, I cannot put any weight on it. So no work today. Instead it was off to the doctor, who's sending me out for an x-ray, because it could be broken. I'm on Forest Gump-style crutches, and it's pouring outside.

Yeah. Woe is freaking me.

Watching baseball on the Internet

It has never looked so good.


We started the season with this beautiful sight, and now we’re nearing the end with the above beautiful sight, which I had the pleasure of enjoying from the comfort of my desk in the middle of a work day. Watching on TV probably would have been a bit better, but if that's what it takes to get this outcome, I'll take it.

One down, two more to go.

I'm mailing it in!

Today, for the third time in my life, I voted for a president for the United States of America.

So far, I'm 0-for-2 in voting for the dude who has won. Here's to hoping that I up that average to 1-for-3 with this latest vote.*

*Of course, considering I'm casting this ballot in New York -- where Obama currently holds a 33% lead in polls -- I'm guessing it will never be counted. But hey, at least I can still feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

AK All Day Face: New York, New York

New York, New York (photo: Andoo!)

I had visions, yes I did. AK All Day Face in front of the Empire State Building! AK All Day Face overlooking Central Park! AK All Day Face at Shea Stadium! AK All Day Face saluting the Statue of Liberty!

Yeah, you get the point. I had visions. Of the AK All Day Face all across New York. Instead I submit to you this: AK All Day Face on the subway. And on a direct collision course with muchos alcohol and sausages at the Astoria Beer Garden, followed by my depositing of said alcohol and sausages on the subway platform at the 57th Street stop the next morning.

New York, New York, baby...

The vitals
Title: New York, New York
Subject: AK
Face: The maggotation
Location: New York, NY

Throwin' Kleinballs on the brink of disaster

The Dodgers completed a sweep of the Cubs on Saturday. The Red Sox finished off the pesky Angels on Monday. And I'm one step closer to disaster. I'm officially frightened. And thrilled. I hate myself. And yes, I wouldn't blame you for hating me too.

I'm not sure how much attention Erick Aybar's little dance in protest of his tag on Coco Crisp in Game 2 of the Sox-Angels series received in the US, but when I first saw it, I burst. As did the other Aussies in the room. Thankfully, someone out there was kind enough to a video on YouTube... in the only ridiculously crude fashion that MLB would allow to slip through their iron fist:


With the time difference, most night games are played the next morning my time. This worked out perfectly for me this past weekend, as I got the Sox-Angels on Saturday morning, Dodgers-Cubs on Sunday morning and then, thanks to a three-day weekend (Labour Day in October!), Sox-Angels on Monday morning. Of course, what was perfect for me -- three consecutive mornings/early afternoons of baseball -- probably wasn't so much for my roommates and visitors to my apartment. This came to a head with a marathon of a Game 3 between the Sox and Angels, during which at one point I was surrounded by nine Aussies. As the game went into extra innings and Jason Varitek and Mike Napoli seemingly trying to one-up each other with multiple visits to the mound every inning, I was just waiting for them to revolt, rip the remote from my hand and throw me off the balcony, cheering all the way.

Filling out my weekend with sports, the Rugby League grand final was on Sunday night, between the Melbourne Storm and Manly Sea Eagles. As you may recall, I witnessed the Storm absolutely embarrass the Cronulla Sharks, 28-0, in the semi finals. In the finals, Manly returned the favor and shut out the Storm, 40-0. That's some exciting rugby there!

I have absolutely no idea what this guy is talking about, but if (a) I lived in Jamaica (we can dream, right?) and (b) I didn't do it already, this would make me buy Guinness:


A subtle benefit of living here: being able to thank someone by saying "cheers" or calling a friend "mate" and not sounding like a complete jackass.

We sprung forward last weekend! So for those keeping track at home, until you guys fall back an hour on November 2, I'm now 15 hours ahead of the East and 18 ahead of the West. Those in the middle, you can figure it out on your own.

Or don't worry about the time difference and just come visit! Qantas is currently having a special to Australia, which you can view here. $881 roundtrip from LA, $1,081 roundtrip from New York. Granted the travel must be between October 20 and November 27, but those are honestly the best prices I've ever seen. Get on it!

The John Higgins baseball playoff preview

As I do all too often, I wrote most of this post a few days ago and then sat on it. If I were write it from scratch today, it would probably read a bit different. But that of course isn't going to happen, so please note that some of these thoughts are slightly dated and perhaps irrelevant. You'll deal with it.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Watching one of the first games of the Cubs-Diamondbacks NLDS match-up last year, I noticed with absolute bewilderment that the D-backs had given all of their fans white pom-poms to wave around like a bunch of idiots. At a baseball game. Naturally, this enraged me. In fact, it got me so worked up that I decided to write a team-by-team preview for the playoffs.

This year, the Tampa Bay (Devil) Rays have made the playoffs for the first time in their very non-illustrious history. This history has been so un-illustrious, in fact, that they'd been hemming and hawing for the last few weeks of the season on who would throw out the first pitch for Game 1 of their ALDS match-up against the White Sox. Finally last week, the Rays announced that John Higgins, their very first employee, would have these honors. This didn't enrage me. But I found it to be ridiculously random; Higgins will forever be the answer to a trivia question in the greater Tampa Bay area. And this intrigues me. In fact, it has intrigued me so much that, yes, it's worked me into enough of a tizzy that I'm going to bust out a team-by-team preview -- or probably more accurately, just a random group of my thoughts on each team -- for this year's playoffs.

So here we go, in some sort of particular order:

Chicago White Sox
Who cares. Really. The only reason I'd ever watch this team is on the chance that someone will hit a home run and I'll get to hear their TV announcer's home run call. Seriously. That alone is worth the price of admission. But as for their prospects in the playoffs? Who really cares? After taking a bit of a hiatus after their World Series victory in 1919, they won three years ago, so they've already cashed in their sympathy support. This year, they've limped in as their own manager berated every player on the team in some sort of a misguided attempt to motivate them. Is there even any kind of a compelling story on the team? With the possible exception of Alexei Ramirez? Who cares.

Milwaukee Brewers
Considering how little I really care about this team, I kinda like them. And you gots to love the CC Sabathia. Although you have to wonder about how he's going to pitch next year after throwing 241 innings last year and 253 innings AND COUNTING this year. He is a man, a man's man, a Steve McQueen's man, but after all those innings, I absolutely would not want my team to be signing him this off-season for however many years and at whatever ridiculous salary he's going to demand. Anyway. Like I said, I kinda like this team. But what other pitchers do they have? No one. So they shouldn't win. And they won't win.

Tampa Bay Rays
I really didn't think this team was going to hold onto the AL East lead throughout the year. Not in May, not in June, not in July, and especially not through the grind of August and September. Where's the experience, the proven grit, the knowledge to know how keep at it for 162 games? But somehow, they did it. And I'm convinced. They're absolutely, positively legitimate, with a solid core of players throughout the roster. No absolute game breakers -- and it's this absence that I think has most people befuddled at their success -- but just a solid core of players from top to bottom. Batting, fielding, starting pitching, bullpen. They could go deep.

Philadelphia Phillies
I'm not going to reread what I wrote about the Phillies in this preview last year, because I'm probably about to write the same thing again. And I'm going to keep on writing it every year until they do what's absolutely necessary: they need to win. They must win. Not for the team. For the city. Hell, with all the angst and anger that seeps out of that city and contaminates everything within a 300 mile radius, they need to win for the freaking nation. Does it need to be the Phillies? No. Could be the Sixers. Or the Eagles. And maybe -- just maybe -- even the Flyers. But someone's got to do it. Because if these teams keep on losing, one of these days, after another early exit from the playoffs, that city is just going to implode. If and when you start to see hints of this, and you live anywhere on the Eastern seaboard, run. Just run.

Los Angeles Angels
Hey, isn't it crazy that both teams from LA and Chicago are in these playoffs? And neither team from New York is? I love that. What I don't love are the Angels. Well, I do love them. But I don't. I love Mike Scioscia, I love Mickey Hatcher, I love how Art Moreno runs the team, I love that they're (kinda sorta not really) in the city that I grew up in. But the team as a collective? I don't love them. It's the basically the same team that we've seen since 2002. And it's become boring. They've worn off on me. Whatever.

Chicago Cubs
I'll be honest. I'd be very happy to see one of four teams in this year's playoffs win the World Series. That's right: four, or half the teams in there. We've already discussed the Phillies. We're about to get to two of the other teams. And then there are the Cubs. For they too need to win. And soon. Not necessarily for their city, but for their fans. Need I say anything about their history? Nah, I think I'll leave that for the five bajillion sportswriters out there. Instead, I'll just wish them well.

Los Angeles Dodgers & Boston Red Sox
This is where it gets fun and complicated and intense and shitty and thrilling and frightening. I'll be the first to admit it: very slowly during the 90s and into this decade,* I became a baseball bigamist. And I love and hate myself for it. The Dodgers were the team of my youth. Mike Scioscia. Steve Sax. Orel Hershiser. Jay Howell. Mickey Hatcher. Alfredo Griffen! Fernando Valenzuela. Kirk Gibson. Ron Perranoski!!! My first vivid baseball memory is when my Dad surprised me one October afternoon in 1988 by showing up early at my after school daycare with tickets to one of the NLCS games between the Dodgers and Mets. It was awesome. A few weeks later there was Kirk Gibson limping and seemingly flicking his wrists, Tommy Lasorda wildly flailing his arms, Vin Scully not believing what he just saw, and a World Series victory. That was it. Dodgers -- and absolute playoff futility since then -- for life.

*I absolutely love that we still don't have a name for this decade. It's strange, if you think about it. Names for all the others come so naturally and obviously, but in this decade, no matter what century it may fall in, we have no name for it. And as far as I can tell no one has made a concerted effort to come up with one and make it stick. So it's just some decade. But once we hit 2010, won't we need a name so that we can refer to it? Or are we just going to call it "last decade"? But then what about in 2020? "Two decades ago"? There has to be a name at some point. My favorite is "the naughties". But I'm thinking that's just a little too punny for most people's tastes.

But then, there were long summers on Martha's Vineyard. Red Sox Nation. Endless Red Sox paraphernalia, Red Sox coverage on the local news, Red Sox talk among the locals. And they grew on me. Not in any one moment or any one summer, but slowly, over the course of the 90s, they grew on me. Enter the summer of 2001. I lived in Boston. And that slow growth bloomed into full fandom; I was sucked in. Who's going to buy the Sox? Are they going to tear down Fenway and build a new one? And what the hell is wrong with Dan Duquette? Enter October 2003. I'm in a packed bar in New York, surrounded by Yankees fans. Grady doesn't pull Pedro. Aaron Boone pulls a Bucky Dent. Enter October 2004. Papi. World Series. Happiness.

I've set myself up for disaster. Because I pray that the Dodgers make the World Series. And I pray the Red Sox make the World Series. Yet I pray above all else that the Dodgers and Red Sox don't meet in the World Series. It's a curse, but it's 100% self-inflicted, I know this. So I go into these playoffs hoping for the best for both teams, as long as it really only pans out for one of them.

In this space last year, I didn't make predictions for the playoffs. Shortly after that post, however, I made some calls to a friend in an email, and actually correctly picked the winner of each of the seven series that are played. Seven for seven. This year? I'd love to make some picks here. But I can't. I just can't. It's gutless, I know. But please rest assured knowing that the closer the Dodgers and Red Sox get to the World Series, I'll be ripping my eyes out every step of the way.

Throwin' some Return of the Kleinballs

It's Return of the Kleinballs! Back from a 78-day hiatus! Who's excited?

Went to my first Rugby League match on Friday, a semi final between the Melbourne Storm and Cronulla Sharks. As reigning champions and owners of the best regular season record, the Storm are pretty darned good. However, they hadn't played up to their standard so far in the playoffs and were without one of their best players (he's been suspended from the remainder of the playoffs for committing a dangerous tackle in a previous game), so the match was shaping up to be a good one. I ended up sitting in a section full of Sharks fans, as one of the friends who I went with is a big fan. This made for a lively and fun atmosphere... until the Storm began to disassemble the Sharks. Demolish them. Pulverize them. Shellack them. Embarrass them. 28 to freaking 0. Not pretty. In fact, so not pretty that by the end, Sharks fans were getting into fights with each other. I've never heard so many f-bombs in all my life.

Saturday was a beautiful day, so a group of us decided to capitalize and headed off to the races, literally a three minute walk from my new apartment. It truly was a gorgeous day. With the obvious exception, of course, of me losing money. Again. I've been to the races many times in my life, and never have I left the track being up on the day. I've won a few wagers here and there, but to leave with more money than I started with? Never. Still, it was fun.

Went to a German restaurant that night with an American friend. Drunkenly demolished a schnitzel. That was good.

Saw Snakes on a Plane for the first time last week. We all know what we're getting with Snakes on a Plane, right? A stupid but fun movie, right? Well, yes and no. Because although the movie was in the vein of what I expected, it exceeded my expectations in every imaginable way. Maybe the best, campy movie I've ever seen. Seriously. I was enthralled, from beginning to end. So if you want mindless entertainment that you can laugh at and unabashadly enjoy, I implore you to go watch Snakes on a Plane. That famed Sammy Jackson line probably doesn't even crack the Top 20 of best moments, if that says anything.

Pumped for baseball playoffs starting tomorrow morning my time! Let the Internet scoreboard stalking commence! Think I'll try to do a bit of a write-up of thoughts and predictions later this week... I'm sure you can't wait!

The below video is just cool. It gets very interesting about 15 seconds in.



A happy new year to all my Jewish brothers and sisters! I celebrated by, uhhhh, yeah, well, ummmmm, there aren't many Jews in Sydney.

Pie night in Australia!

Last Thursday, my friend Brooke -- who will some day make the world's greatest mother -- hosted Pie Night, a semi-regular event that has become something of a tradition. This was my first taste of Pie Night, and it absolutely did not disappoint.

To reiterate a point that I may or may not have already discussed in this space,* there are two very distinct types of pies in Australia: savory pies and sweet pies. Savory pies are actual meals, as I discovered many, many, many times over at Harry's Carte de Wheels during my end of season cricket trip to Newcastle back in April. Generally, they're maybe four or five inches in diameter and have a meat filling with some type of sauce. Sweet pies are dessert pies, and pretty much in line with what Americans are used to.

*I guess if I haven't already discussed this in a prior post, then I'm not really reiterating it, huh? Would I just be iterating it?**

**Did I just make the horrific leap into Dad joke territory?

Pie night was all about the savory pies; this was the meal. And my lord, were those pies were amazing. Brooke made them the previous day with a Pie Wizard, which is the greatest thing ever invented. She made two types: creamy chicken and tomato mince. The creamy chicken featured chicken, capsicum (aka red peppers) and two of my favorite ingredients ever: sweet chili sauce and garlic. Ridiculously good, it was. Tasted almost like a curry, it did. And the tomato mince was no slouch either, although much more of an over-the-plate execution.

About the time we had all finished stuffing ourselves with the pies and some sides of fries and salad, we heard a blood-curdling scream come from the building next to us. Our first reaction as a group was to laugh; not sure why, but it came fairly naturally. Then someone said, "Hold on, that actually sounded kind of serious." And then the screaming actually continued, this time outside. We went out to see what was going on, and across the street, we made out a guy and girl in a bit of a struggle. They broke apart, and the guy headed off down the street.

Even now, several days later, we're not exactly sure what happened, but it seems like this guy broke into the girl's apartment and snatched her laptop. She actually went after him, and what we briefly saw in the darkness outside was her trying to get the laptop back off of him. Yet to add to our confusion, there was a car stopped in the middle of the road with a bike lying in front of it. But there was no rider. Very strange.

Anyway, we shook off this diversion, regrouped and went back inside for dessert. In the past, the group has followed up the savory pies with dessert pies, but I guess this was found to be overkill on the pies. So on this night, we had ice cream. Simple and straightforward, but a nice ending to a massive and eventful meal.

The camera, it hates me

They said they'd make photos and video available to me. And I was actually looking forward to that, to have some kind of keepsake of my run.

And yesterday, the email came: we have pictures available for you to view! So I excitedly clicked on the link. And that's when I fully appreciated the wording of their email. Not "we have pictures of you to view." Oh no: "We have pictures available for you to view." Because here's the one picture that they've offered to sell me:


Great. Fantastic. Am I down there, somewhere on the bridge? Maybe, but I doubt it; I think it's just a photo that they offer to everyone. Meanwhile, a friend from work has five photos available to purchase, all of which were actually, you know, of her. She didn't just have one option, in which she may have looked like crap. No -- she had five freaking options.

Then there came the video of the finish line. Any more of a keepsake, this hardly is. But click here to view the video. I'm about 15 seconds into it, in light blue shorts, on the left. Mindblowing video! Yep, definitely gonna be holding onto this to show to my grandkids!

41:54

In the words of the immortal Brian Collins, boom goes the dynamite!

I murdered that race. Murdered it. Forty-one minutes and fifty-four seconds. That's over eight minutes better than the rough goal I'd set for myself, over three minutes better than the stretch goal. Finished 726th out of 10,600 people, and 197th out of 1,131 men between 20 and 29.

Most amazingly of all, I did it with relative ease. Felt really good, from start to finish, and I think I could have done it even faster. But as probably generally happens with these races, I spent the first few kilometers weaving around and passing slower runners,* and it probably wasn't until the 2km mark that I was really able to get any pace going. And even then, I was pretty surprised to find myself passing people for pretty much the whole race, right through to the end.

*The race had a self-seeding system, meaning you're supposed to line up at the start based on how quickly you think you'll finish. So after I positioned myself near the front of the group that was aiming to finish between 45 minutes and one hour, it was a bit frustrating to see people who were WALKING, or kids who clearly were always going to burn out after a kilometer, starting ahead of me. Then again, for most of my pre-teen and early teen years, I ran each of the Fourth of July 5km races in Pacific Palisades, and I definitely used to be one of those kids. So I guess I understand.


But it was a fun race, a beautiful spring day,* and a great course: from North Sydney, up over the Harbour Bridge, by the Opera House, into the city, looping through the Botanical Gardens and finishing back at the Opera House.

*The day before this, Sydney absurdly had its hottest day of 2008. This includes January and February when it actually was, you know, summer.

They apparently take pictures and video of us on the course. Once I get those, and assuming I don't look like death, I'll post them on here sometime soon.

Where to go from here? Is there a next step? I really want to do the City 2 Surf run next August, assuming I'm not visiting the States again at the same time. And then for the Sydney Running Festival next year, maybe it's on to the half marathon (although I think that's a bit of a stretch) or possibly setting my eyes on doing the Bridge Run in under 40 minutes. That may be the real stretch.

Gonna run now

One random day in June of last year, I was overcome with the urge to run. I have no idea why, but I just felt like I needed to do it. So I ran. And in a development that I'm sure would be absolutely inconceivable to the Andy of two years ago, I kept running. Not so much a Forrest Gump-style of "kept running", but more of an every other day kind of "kept running."

Strangely enough, it felt good. Well, let's clarify that. For some people swear that they love to run. Love the feeling it gives them. Something about endorphins. Me? When I'm in the act, I absolutely despise it. It's awful, every single step of it. But I push myself, and I force myself to get through it. Because I know what awaits me at the end of the run is a sense of accomplishment and knowing that I've done something that's good for me. And it's that that makes me feel good, that keeps me at it every few times a week.

As I've run more, the thought of running an official race has intrigued me. Not so much to run it on any sort of a super competitive level, but more so just to do it, to be part of something bigger than just me out there in a park by myself, you know, running. And late last year, someone told me about Sydney's City2Surf, the world's biggest "fun run" (bit of a contradiction of terms, in my own estimation), which happens every August.

On the spot, I determined that that was going to be it. City2Surf! I was actually excited. For it's a beautiful course (as you might be able to guess from the name, it starts in the city and ends at the beach), and at 13km and with a hill dubbed "Heartbreak Hill" in the middle, it would push my limits a bit.

But then, calamity. Or not so much. More of just your run-of-the-mill conflict. For I realised after booking my trip to the US that I'd be out of town for the race. But as much as I wanted to run it, I wasn't about to reschedule the trip. So there that went.

But all was not lost. Because just over a month later, Sydney is having its annual Sydney Running Festival, a day with a few races and headlined by its marathon. The marathon, I'm not doing. The half marathon... no, not doing that. But the bridge run, a 9km course from North Sydney, across the Harbour Bridge and ending at the Opera House... that I'm doing. And should be able to do it relatively easily. I think.

So this Sunday, it's on. How fast will I be able to do it? I'm actually not so sure, because when running casually, I don't keep close tabs on how quickly I run. So it'll be interesting to see what time I can do the course in. At the moment, the loose goal is 50 minutes, which I think is pretty achievable. And 45 minutes would be great. Any faster? Probably not gonna happen. But we shall see!

Results to be posted here next week.

It's about freaking time

Summer hinted at its imminence this weekend, with a nice and warm Saturday. And then today, it burst forth with a vengeance, with temperatures getting into the upper 20s. (Believe me, that's warm.) We're not completely there yet, but we're close. Real close. I freaking love it.

One year and one hundred posts

This absolutely bewilders me, but this post marks the crossroads of two achievements, mostly unrelated to each other, yet both significant in their own right.

First. This is the one year anniversary of my (third) coming to Australia. For it was a Friday night, exactly one year ago, that I deplaned my, uhhhh, plane and set off on this adventure that I've documented on this blog.

Second. This is my 100th post on this blog. One freaking hundred.

Of these two achievements, the most surprising, without doubt, is the 100 posts. Yes, I've been slacking on updating this thing recently, but that can really be attributed to a rough patch at work and a mild case of writer's block. This will change. And I'll get back to something that resembles a routine, with a couple of posts a week.

But 100 posts?? Still displayed on the right, in the "What is AK All Day?" section that I should probably get around to updating one of these days, I say: "In two months, the easy money is that I won't have updated [this blog]." Believe me, at the time I wrote that, I had every reason to fully believe that statement. For despite how brilliant and witty and inspirational and beautiful my words may appear, let me assure you that they don't come easily. Oh no, my friends. Maintaining the quality of writing on this blog, to the level that you've all come to expect and respect, is work. And work is hard.

Now, back to the first point: being here for a year. Surprising, this is not. For unless I simply couldn't find work here, the plan was always to be here for at least this long. Notable, however, this absolutely is. For it's been a fantastic year, full of new people, new adventures and new places. And it's with this in mind that I'd like to take a look back at some of the posts that have led up to this one, as I review my One Year in Sydney:

Welcome to Andy Blog 2.0
Kicking off a new era in style, with an immediate reference to zombo.com. In case this hasn't already been made abundantly clear, at zombo.com, the only limit is yourself.

A precursor
Do toilets in the US and Australia really flush in opposite directions? This was my first foray into this mystery. And much to my glee, we've yet to get a conclusive result.

The defence against hating cricket
Includes the comment, "I can't see how I personally could ever warm to [cricket]." Twelve months later? I've been in a freaking cricket winter league and played a position that I really had no business even attempting.

This is the story of seven strangers...
My first official accommodation! And a nominee from myself to myself for one of my best-written entries on the blog.

Portuguese Chicken Wars
Yikes, this one has gotten me into a bit of trouble as of late. Without a doubt, this is -- or I guess because of some recent revelations, was -- the winner of the People's Choice Award for best blog entry. Friends constantly asked me about it, and if there had since been any developments. Random people who somehow found this post online sent me strange and somewhat creepy emails about it. And well, let's just say that with these latest revelations, things have changed. More on this in the next few days, I promise.

The weekend trips have commenced
My first foray outside of Sydney on this trip, and a weekend full of randomness, with debates about shrimp/prawns, naked ninjas jumping off of cliffs and a movie about a gang of tap dancers from Newcastle. As well as the first appearance of the AK All Day Face in a post!

Two pictures tell a thousand drunken words
Still depresses the hell out of me.

There are cane toads, there are kangaroos... and then there are cassowaries
One of the recaps from my trip up to the Great Barrier Reef, detailing the horrifying night drives, with especial consideration given to the terrifying cassowary.

Melbourne -- there's an angle in here somewhere
The epic recap from my weekend trip to Melbourne. A fantastically awesome weekend that also contained some pseudo awesomeness and some not-so-awesome stuff.

A new home. And the grueling agony of an impossible choice.
The move into my next house! Which was a monumental decision to make at the time. And in hindsight, it worked out in every conceivable way possible. I don't think it would be an understatement to say that the entire course of the universe was influenced by that decision.

Worst idea ever
I still have nightmares from which I lurch out of bed in a cold sweat.

Meeting and exceeding expectations, Vol. 1, Vol. 2 and Vol. 3
Every other weekend trip up to this point had offered a nice bonding experience with a friend, or perhaps the chance to experience some culture. This was just pure raunch. And I loved every minute of it.

A postcursor... of sorts
The follow-up to my study on which way the toilet flushes in Australia. The video here? Anything but conclusive.

The toilet flusheth again
No more finality here! Will there be in the next video I post? Yeeeeaaaahhhh, probably not.

Bringing it full circle
Changing accommodation again, this time into my current place! I'm thinking a video tour is due sometime soon.

Back in America
Most of the entries on this blog -- including this current one, unfortunately -- are written and posted far too quickly, without enough time devoted to the crafting of my words. Because if there's one thing I know that people are expecting out of this blog, it's Pulitzer-caliber writing. But "Back in America"? It's easily my favorite of the 100 that have appeared on the blog to date.

And we'll end it on that! One year, one hundred posts. Where will I be on September 14, 2009? No idea. Will I have made it to two hundred posts? Or maybe just a hundred and two posts? I have no idea. But for now, we know I have to cover at least a few topics: some Portuguese chicken, some more flushing of toilets, a few Kleinballs here and there and many, many, many more AK All Day Faces.

So there's that.

Flying the crap skies

Is it just me, or in my year away from the US, has air travel there somehow gone from awful to hell on Earth?

I've always thought I've been relatively lucky with air travel in the US. Never been stranded anywhere for too long, never lost my luggage for any long period of time and every time I've gone up in the air, my flight has landed safely. This day in age, that's pretty much all we can ask for, right?

Well. God. Flying in the US on my trip in August. Yeah... jeez.

Let me start by saying that the good folks who work on the ground at Continental aren't God; they can't control the weather. (Or is that Mother Nature's jurisdiction? Maybe Al Roker?) And second, they're people. Like you and me. So they have feelings. And are allowed to get frustrated. So let me direct this at the ass clowns at Continental who don't work on the ground: When a freaking hurricane is baring down on one of your major hubs, you take measures to prevent delays. You add more staff. And not only staff at the airport, but maybe a few more people at your call center. Because, you see, there's a freaking hurricane baring down on one of your hubs. And as I'm sure it's happened about every other time in the past, that's going to affect things. Negatively.

Anyway, it was Day #5 of my trip to the US, and I was heading from LA to New York. Nonstop. Meanwhile, in the middle of the country, Hurricane Edouard was baring down on Houston. Which -- just to make abundantly clear -- is neither LA or New York. Or anywhere close to either of those cities. Yet there I was at LAX, well over an hour before my flight, and it was chaos at the check-in counter for Continental. Because most of their flights go through Houston. In fact, as far as I could tell, all of their flights on this particular morning, outside of mine and a nonstop to Honolulu, were going through Houston. So hey, that's going to cause some problems, right?

Yeah. Let's skip over most of the other crap. People were cranky. The staff on the ground were not all that pleasant. Wrong information was disseminated. And as I finally got to the front of the line at 8am, half an hour before my flight was scheduled to leave, I was told it was too late. Which resulted in my releasing of a groan that reverberated throughout the airport. Good times.

So I called Continental* to book a new flight, get placed on hold, and wait. And wait. Aaaaannnnnnd wait. And finally get on the phone with a human. Who subsequently told me that because I booked my ticket with frequent flier miles from Delta, I'd have to call them. Even though Delta decided to pawn me off to their friends at Continental. So that was fun.

*This isn't exactly the most astute or groundbreaking of observations, but I've always been bewildered by the whole call-the-airline-from-the-airport thing. I don't really think this requires any further explanation. Yet it has somehow become a time honored tradition for anyone stranded at the airport.

Whatever. I finally got through to Delta. I booked a flight for four hours later. I checked in. And I waited. And started drinking at 10am. And made it to JFK, where we sat outside the gate on the tarmac for about thirty minutes. And then waited another 45 freaking minutes for any bags to come out. What shit.

In New York, I shared my horrific experience with people. And was quickly seconded by Robert and Regan, who shared their own stories of awful flight experiences that weekend. I'm not talking about a bad flight experience at some point in their life; we've all had those. I'm talking about bad experiences that weekend. And their woes had nothing to do with Edouard. No, no. For it seems as though when you now fly domestically in the US, something will go wrong.

These fears were of course confirmed on my return flight from New York to LA, when the fun actually started three days before the flight. Because of all of the fun with my menage a trois with Delta and Continental, I called the good folks at Continental to confirm my flight. And what do you know, there was confusion. Continental had my reservation from Delta, but not a ticket. Delta was like, "Yo dude, we sent the details to Continental, it's not our problem." Continental said, "Hells no! Those punks need to send us some ticket info!" And around and around we went.

Whatever. I solved that. And on the day of my flight, after a nine hour trip from Martha's Vineyard to Woods Hole to Bourne to Providence to New York* to Newark Airport -- that's right, just to get to the airport -- my flight boarded an hour late. And then we sat on the tarmac for at least another two hours, as the pilot told us that we were 4oth in line to take off! FORTIETH!!

*I had the honor of passing through Port Authority while in New York. And in the ten minutes I was there, I had a man wish death upon me, purely because I refused his offer of directions that I neither wanted or needed. That's the Port Authority I grew to know and love for my four years there...

We eventually took off, I labored my way through Made of Honor and finally landed in LA, to be greeted by Erika, Mike and an In N Out feast. Which just about made my whole trip from LA to New York and back worth it.