Aussie Aussie Aussie (Day)!

Back in the States, MLK Day was last Monday. So while (most of) you back there had work or school off, I worked. Just like on Thanksgiving. And what public holidays have I had here to offset these losses? Nilch. Squat. Which is why I'm pumped for my first Australian public holiday, and it's a big one: Australia Day.

Imagine if there was an America Day in the US. That would be huh-yuge. Huh-YUUUGE. Well, that's Australia Day in Australia. So to commemorate the day, some friends and I are heading up to one of their parents' houses on MacMasters Beach, whipping up the barbie, cracking open some beverages, chilling on the beach and letting hijinx abound as nature runs its course.

The question now for me is, can I out-Australian the Australians? That's the goal. And I think I have just the attire to do it. Stay tuned for the recap...

What's more ridiculous?

In the last two weeks, Australia has been swept up in controversy. I'm sure the off-the-pitch cricket madness has absolutely gripped the news cycle in the US and that you simply can't get enough of it, but no, it's not that. Perhaps it's Lleyton Hewitt playing until 4:45 in the morning in the Aussie Open??!? No, not that. Maybe some political scandal? Nope, all's been eerily quiet on the political front since the election.

Instead, a kid threw a party. And it got a little out of control.

That's it. Seriously, that's it. And this story has absolutely taken off here. Newspapers and magazines are putting it on their front page/cover, TV shows are devoting segments to it and this kid has become a star. All to his absolute delight. Which really isn't helping things.

I'd elaborate and could go on for hours, but even then, the video in the article here and the video here say more than I ever could. In particular, in the second video, I want you to take note of this kid's obsession with his glasses as well as to his all-time great response to the question, "What would you say to other kids who are thinking of throwing a party like yours?"

Ever since this story "broke", I've been at a loss for how to digest this. I mean, Australia -- a country of a little over 21 million people -- doesn't exactly produce too much "newsworthy" news. The newspapers are tiny and the national network news often does stories on the most random of events in the most random of places. Seriously, it sometimes comes across as your local community news. And in my four months here, I guess I've accepted that. But this (and then this!)... I mean, this takes things to a whole new level. And I honestly can't decide what's more ridiculous: this kid or the fact that this is actually considered to be a newsworthy story.

Monkeys and company policy... and a little Survivor

Because I currently don't have the time to actually write anything original on this blog, I'm just going to take the easy way out (there's no shortcut home!) and link to this brilliant post from AdScam. (In his intro, don't worry about what a BDA is... it really doesn't matter for the purpose of the rest of the post. But if you really want to know, you can read his definition in the header at the very top of the blog.)

If there's any silver lining to me taking the easy way out (there's no shortcut home!), it's that at least it's not some more stream of consciousness crap.

One of those weeks

My apologies for the lack of posts the last few days, but this has really been one of those weeks. A different crisis lurking around every corner. Late nights. Early mornings. Pissed off clients. Fear of any ringing phone. You name it.

So needless to say, I've neglected this blog thing. Which is quite the shame because (a) I feel like my recap of my trip to the Great Barrier Reef is going to drag on longer than Bill Simmons' list of the 72 Best Sports Movies Of The Past 33 Years and (b) I actually have quite a few great things to share with you.

So as a teaser, I'll leave you with the story that has dominated the news in Australia for the last week: little Corey Delaney and his party. Please read the linked article and we'll reconvene next week for a discussion session.

To the left, to the left (but on the right, on the right)

This is Part Three of my thematic recap of my trip to Queensland and the Great Barrier Reef.

Prior to this trip, I'd (legally) driven on the left side of the road once in my life -- in New Zealand -- and about twenty minutes into that escapade, I think my fellow passengers were quite close to just pushing me out the door and taking their chances from there. And I can't blame them. It was bad.

Enter this trip. Danger Doom is booked and I immediately realize that not only will I have to drive, but I'll be doing the lion's share of it. Because compared to John, I'm obviously a lot more experienced with the roads here. For example, I can say with absolute certainty that I've mastered the art of crossing the road here. Look right, then left and then -- if you're really going to follow your Mom's advice to a tee -- look right again. John had not yet mastered this skill. So the onus to drive, at least in the beginning, fell on me. And if I can cross the street with no problems, then driving on the left should be a walk in the park, right? Right???

So there we are pulling out of the Wicked Campers parking lot, and the mantra is, "Stay to the left, stay to the left, stay to the left." Which I did quite admirably.

First stop is the petrol station around the corner, and we make it there without any incident. But now, how the hell to fill up the tank? There's no place for a credit card, so I ask inside and find out that we fill up first and then pay! Really? You're going to trust me to do that? I mean, I know that we did that in the US in, what, Nineteen Dickity-Two, but we can still do that here? Fantastic!

Naturally, we fill up, have a Zoolander-inspired gas fight and peel out of the station without paying, all the while screaming, "America, fuck yeah!!"

Back on the road, we have verbal directions to the highway north: "Follow signs for the airport and you can't miss it." Easy enough, right? Nope! Ten minutes later and we're in the middle of nowhere. Already lost! Good, good times.

Anyway, thanks to directions from some locals in a nearby meat pie store, we find our way back to the highway and start cruising north. I'm still getting the hang of driving, and since we (Americans, that is) drive on the left side of the car and hence are used to aligning ourselves on the left side of the lane, I find myself drifting into the lane left of me at times. And we're getting stares from people. Uh oh.

I quickly get quite self-conscious and continue the mantra, with a little twist: "Stay to the left but align on the right, stay to the left but align on the right, stay to the left but align on the right." Which of course is far more than I'm able to process. And we're still getting stares! What the HELL!

But then I remind myself that I'm driving a ridiculously painted van. I mean, it's ludicrous! Of course people are going to want to see what sort of loons are driving it! Or at least that's what I tell myself for the rest of the day. And the day after that. And the one after that. And so on and so forth.

Anyway, the driving got easier and by Day #3, John joined in on the act. There were some growing pains there as well, but soon it was smooth sailing. Well, not entirely. For on the roads of Australia, we soon found that our own ineptitude at driving was the least of our worries. And that, my friends, we'll cover next time.

Danger Doooooooooom!

This is Part Two of my thematic recap of my trip to Queensland and the Great Barrier Reef.

I first hatched the idea of renting a campervan for the trip during my weekend in Forster in early December. Now, if you do the math, you'll (shockingly) find that there isn't much time in between early December and later December. Weeks, one might say. Combine this with the fact that late December is summer break for kids and many companies give employees the two weeks off during Christmas and New Year's (read: it's warm and everyone's on vacation), this is kind of high season to travel. So I initially found some difficulty in finding any company who still had campervans available. At first I was somewhat picky, but I was soon calling any company who had a phone number.

Enter Wicked Campers. I call, they (somehow) have some vans available, I book, and we're all set!

A week or two later, Jez is in town.

"So you got a van, hey?" (I'm of course paraphrasing here, and added the "hey" because it's one of my favorite Aussie expressions. The "hey" in this context can be compared to Fluff. It's completely extraneous and serves absolutely no conversational purpose -- just as Fluff serves no nutritional purpose -- but God dammit, it's fun.)

"Yup, I had some trouble at first but thankfully I found a company who still had some available!"

"It's not Wicked, is it??!?"

(Yes, he said it just like that. In italics. And with that, my heart sank.)

"Uhhhh, yeah, it actually is."

"HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAAA!!"

(And yes, he said it just like that. In bold. And my heart sank further.)

"What's wrong with Wicked?"

"Oh, nothing, if you don't care about having a hideous paint job on your van and probably breaking down. Dude, it is the ultimate tourist van."

Faaaaaaaaaaaaantastic. Anyway, Jez probably noticed the dread that swept across my face and began to retract some of his statements, saying that it wouldn't bad, that we'd have a great time, but the damage was done. I was annoyed, and my day was ruined. (Wait, strike that. I recall that day being quite drunken and amusing.) And I was fearful for what I had signed John and myself up for.

Jump ahead a few weeks and John and I are in Brisbane, fresh (or not at all) off a 16-hour train ride from Sydney and breakfast with Adrian and Joe. We walk towards Wicked's location, and there it is: a parking lot full of ridiculously painted vans. You cannot miss it. Among the dozen or so parked out front, there's a van with a koala smoking a joint, a van with The Eagles on it and a van basically inferring that its inhabitants were drunk. ("Yes, let's joke about driving while wasted out of our minds! If people can do it in Texas without any ramifications -- or at least until they inevitably plow into a McPlayground -- then why not here!")

(And yes, that last DWI comment was directed towards a certain someone.)

Our van turns out to be named Danger Doom, which, compared to others, was (thankfully) on the tamer side. And I'd love to show you a picture of Danger Doom, but over the seven days that we spent with it, I somehow managed to not take even one frickin' picture of it. And this has me flabbergasted. How did I allow this to happen??!? It's absolutely unforgivable. So you'll just have to trust me when I say that it was basically a van with a picture of a cartoon mouse and a thought bubble with "Danger Doom" in it. What does that mean? I have no idea. But it could have been worse. A lot worse.

And off we went, driving down the left side of the road. But let's leave that discussion for next time.

Make it rain on them GBRs

Just like my back did a week after my first cricket session, the pain from New Year's is slowly subsiding. And that's a good thing, because (a) I have to get off of this self-pity train and (b) I'd be quite remiss if I didn't start to write about my trip up to Queensland and the Great Barrier Reef the week prior to NYE. Even if every time I drive down the road, I want to jerk the wheel into a goddamned bridge abutment.

Anyway. The trip.

Much like when Scott Storch, Fat Joe and Lil' Wayne enter a strip club, it rained. A lot. (Well, I guess it was a slightly different type of rain than what Storch & co produce, but you get the point. And I had to somehow refer to the title of this post in here.) Being the wet season and all, I guess you'd expect it to rain, but I somehow never really accepted the concept. But there John and I were, trying to lie out on the beach or take a day trip, and it rained. Every single day. Literally.

Now, when you live and sleep in a caravan that should never, ever house two full-grown adults under even the best of circumstances, there's not much to do when it rains. No hotel room to take refuge; just our two front seats and "bed" in the back. So what did we do when it did rain? Drive, baby! "Oh, it's raining again? Well let's just drive further!" But as we made our way up the coast, I turned to John at one point and said, "You know, we can't just keep on driving. If we do, we'll just get to Cairns (our destination) like three days ahead of schedule."

The premature arrival fortunately didn't happen. Because the 1,700 kilometers that we had to cover turns out to be a really, really long distance. So we went about our business (albeit very wetly), saw some stuff and managed to have a grand old time.

Now, I started to write up a big recap of this trip and realized that it was getting out of hand. I have no patience in writing 10,000 words in one post and I'm sure that you have no patience in reading it. So I'm breaking this baby up and we'll cover the trip over the course of a few posts. And to really spice things up, I'm not doing it chronologically. Instead, we're doing this thing High Fidelity-style and breaking it down thematically. So consider this post's theme RAIN. Which will probably be covered in every other post as well, because really, it was a huge part of our trip. Huh-YUGE.

Two pictures tell a thousand drunken words

Following up on Friday's post, here are two pictures that all too vividly illustrate my state of mind on New Year's Eve.

Exhibit A: My beautiful photograph of the fireworks on New Year's. It would be nice if I even remembered a scene as crap as this. I don't. Yes, yes. Emergency, indeed.


Exhibit B: A photograph from New Year's -- from the same vantage point that I had, mind you -- that was taken by someone who had presumably consumed much less alcohol than me.

I'm not sure why I felt compelled to post this, as this exercise hasn't exactly proven to be therapeutic. In fact, after juxtaposing these pictures, I mindlessly stared at the computer screen for a good ten minutes, not sure what I wanted to hurl out the window: the computer (a la Ari Gold) or myself (a la Waring Hudsucker). Fortunately for all (I think), I've decided to forge on with life and let this debacle slowly dwindle away until it's just a dull, numbing pain. And there it will live along with many other embarrassments, including (but most certainly not limited to) Prom 2000, the night I indiscriminately flagged down cars in West Philly during a snowstorm, NYE 05/06 and, yes, Goulet.

Sometimes I hate myself

My first New Year's in Sydney. I pay a large sum of money (let's not define "large sum") for entry to a party in the botanical gardens on Sydney Harbour, with a great view of the Opera House and Harbour Bridge behind it. Absolutely fantastic spot, and a warm, gorgeous day to boot.

We got there when the gates opened at 6:30pm. Thanks to my patented bourbon in an iced tea bottle (smuggled in along with several water bottles with vodka), we began drinking. The appetizer was good. As was the liquor. The main course was good. Liquor was still going strong, but -- what the heck! -- we decided to start buying bottles of wine. Then there were the 9pm "family fireworks." They were good, although we all knew they'd pale in comparison to the midnight fireworks. Whatever... we had our liquor and wine (which I was probably double fisting at this point). The dessert was good. As was the booze flowing down my throat.

And then? Well, I couldn't tell you. For the freaking dessert is my last pseudo-solid memory of the night. That was maybe 10pm, no later than 10:30pm.

Now, the Sydney fireworks on New Year's are considered to be some of the best in the world. They are absolutely huh-yuge, and I don't think I've ever been present for a greater display than what Sydney puts on. Fourth of July in New York probably comes the closest, but I think Sydney even beats that fairly handily.

So needless to say, leading up to New Year's, I was excited for the fireworks. And at that particular moment in time, as fireworks were being shot off from every conceivable angle around me -- the bridge, nearby buildings and multiple points on the water -- I'm sure I loved the hell out of them. But please note my careful choice of words in the previous paragraph: "I don't think I've ever been present for a greater display than what Sydney puts on." Because that's as accurate of a statement as I can make; I was physically present for the fireworks.

As far as a memory goes? It just isn't there. When I'm old and shrivelled at 80, I would absolutely love to be able to recall how great those fireworks were. But it just isn't going to happen. For my next semi-vivid memory is at 3am, as I walked back to my house scarfing down some wedges with sour cream and sweet chilli sauce (my new favorite late night drunk food of all time).

For those who were lucky enough to be in New York during New Year's 05/06, you witnessed similar debauchery. So for 06/07, I resolved to pace myself, which I did a little too well. Which put me on a direct collision course for 07/08. Caution was thrown to the wind, and now I have a big fat blank for the night.

It's infuriating, it's embarrassing, it's frustrating. And so on New Year's Day, yesterday, today, and probably the next few weeks, I hate myself for it. Here's to 08/09!