A beautiful thing

Last night, and again tonight, I'm getting the very rare opportunity to watch live Major League Baseball featuring the Red Sox. And it is great.

God bless Opening Day in Japan (only a two hour time difference from me), God bless my satellite TV service, God bless the sports package on my satellite TV service, God bless the DVR on my satellite TV service, and most important of all, God bless ESPN Australia for not only carrying both games live, but when the game went into extra innings last night, God bless them for running over the scheduled air time. (The scheduled air time for the game was from 9pm to midnight, and as midnight approached, I was half convinced that someone would be asleep at the wheel -- or more likely, not at the wheel at all -- and allow the game to be cut off so that Madden frickin' Nation could run as scheduled at midnight.* And as 11:56 turned into 11:57 which turned into 11:58 and so on, I became more and more convinced that this would happen. Because really, this is baseball in Australia! Who cares if some random show about Americans playing a video game about "gridiron" cuts into the end of some random baseball game, right?** But even then, when I fully expected this to happen, if it actually had happened, I think my tortured screams would have woken you up in the States.)

*As I became more convinced of this inevitable scenario, my hatred for Madden Nation grew to levels of hatred of which I never knew I was capable.

**Don't get me wrong -- I'm quite glad that ESPN Australia apparently has some dude that has to stay back at the offices to monitor the game. (For our purposes here, let's call him DTHTSBATOTMTG.) But you almost have to feel bad for him. I could very easily imagine the following phone call between him and a friend:

Dude's Friend: Oi, mate! Wanna grab a few beers?

DTHTSBATOTMTG: Mate, I'd love to, but I have to wait until a baseball game being played in Japan finishes so I can switch the programming over to Madden Nation.

DF: (Dead silence.)

DTHTSBATOTMTG: (Embarrassed silence.)

DF: (Incredulous silence.)

Yeah, I think you get the point. An apt analogy to an Aussie working at ESPN Australia would be like a guy working at The Lifetime Network; it would be completely incomprehensible to his friends, and worse, he would know that no rationalization would allow him to save face with them.

Anyway, I'm savoring these two games. They may be the highlight of my year. And here's to hoping that the order of the teams in the picture above doesn't change for another 161 games.

This morning's sunrise

Worst idea ever

I came to Australia in September. And in my first full month here -- before moving on to what was first known as The Real World house but quickly transformed into The House That Crap Built -- I stayed in my friends' apartment. And I was there all the time: sleeping on their futon, watching their TV, playing their Xbox, using their Internet and just being there... all the time.

Quite belatedly, I finally gave them the formal thanks they deserved on Saturday night. For on the six month anniversary of my arrival, I took them out to a nice, steak dinner. Or so I thought at the time.

You see, the guys had been telling me about this pub/restaurant in the neighborhood that served a one kilogram steak.* And the concept of eating a one kilogram steak is simply too absurd and ridiculous and irresponsible and moronic to pass up.**

*For those of you who aren't down with the metric system, that would roughly equal 2.2 pounds. Or 35 ounces. For those of who aren't down with the English system, suffice it to say that it's a frickin' huh-yuge cut of meat.

**I didn't take any pictures, but thankfully, I've tracked down someone else's blog post and pictures from the same restaurant, which you can view here.

Let me pause for a moment to channel my inner Comic Book Guy: Worst Idea Ever.

So there we were on Saturday, ordering 5 one kilogram steaks. The waitress thought it was funny after two or three of us ordered the steaks. By the time we had all ordered one, I think we had sent her into shock. And honestly, when you rationally think about it (which we clearly were not doing at the time), that's the only proper response.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, the steaks were served. They were monstrous. (For proper scale, take a look at the cell phone in the above picture!) We ate. And ate. And ate. And, uhhhhh, ate. And amazingly, we all finished our steaks. We left, feeling quite full and proud of what we had just achieved.

And then -- not so shockingly -- my body rebelled. First it was a severely bloated sensation, much as you'd get after any large meal. Then came the pains in my stomach. Then came the nausea. And by 11pm, I had had enough. I headed home and passed out.

Have you ever had the dreaded two-day hangover before? I have, and it's never pleasant. But have you ever had a two-day beef hangover? My God, I would never wish it upon anyone. I woke up Sunday morning with a fever. I went back to sleep. I tried eating, and almost vomited. And I never vomit. I sat around the house all day in a dazed stupor, practically drooling on myself. I went to sleep Sunday night feeling better, but yesterday, it came back with a fury. Nothing went down my stomach without upsetting it. So last night, I went to sleep at 9pm. And this morning, roughly 60 hours after consuming the steak, my stomach is still pissed at me.

All from 1,000 grams of steak. Never again.

Throwin' Kleinballs like it's 2007

My God, it's been nearly three months since I threw my last Kleinball. But on this day, my half year anniversary of being here, I feel like I must bring it back full force. Until it goes away again for another three months.

(By the way, a quick pat on the back for me for keeping up regular to semi-regular posts on this blog. The safe bet when I started this -- and it's still documented to the right -- was that I wouldn't last two months. So here's to proving myself wrong!)

I stumbled across The Breakfast Blog the other day, and I have to say, it makes for a strangely comforting and interesting read. The guy who writes it is based in Melbourne, but he's actually reviewed quite a few breakfast spots in the US, so check it out. Just make sure you're not too hungry before you do, because the first time I read through it, it left my mouth watering. Who's up for some eggs?

In my previous house, I had grown used to not having cable TV. And perhaps even enjoyed it. But then I sat down the other day and watched my first SportsCenter in six frickin' months. Imagine the joy! (Okay, I'm sure many of you would consider this to be anything but a joyful occasion, but still. This is me.) A few minutes in, I caught myself in a full trance: leaning forward in my seat, staring into the TV quite aimlessly, with my mouth wide open. God, who knew I could miss Scott Van Pelt so much?? Now I record every SportsCenter and Pardon the Interruption, much to the chagrin (I'm sure) of my Scottish and English housemates.

What's better? Football or football? The Aussies say football. The Yanks say football. Chaos ensues. (Get it? They both call it football!)

This weekend is the semi-finals of my friends' cricket league. And with only a 9 and a duck to my batting record (you'll just have to trust me that those scores are nothing to write home about... even if I kind of am writing home about them), they've entrusted me to play. No, scratch that: they're simply desperate for a warm body. Whatever happens, I'm sure it will make for a good story.

And finally, as I absolutely dread the approach of my first winter in fifteen months, we're pulling the ol' two hour swing in time difference between Australia and the US. Now that the States has sprung forward an hour, what was a 16/19 hour difference between here and the East and West Coasts is now 15/18 hours. And come March 30, when we fall back an hour here, it will be 14/17 hours. Just in case, you know, anyone cares.

I live in Fort Knox

With more exposure to a new person, place or thing, our perception towards them/it almost always changes, right? Well, a week and a half into my new house, this has absolutely proven to be true. In both a good way and a kinda bad way.

First, the good: I'm increasingly happy with my decision to move into it over the other place. There was some serious apprehension when I first made the decision, but now... yeah, it's good. This past weekend was absolutely gorgeous, and I had plenty of opportunity to soak it all up in the place, having some friends over, sitting by the pool and looking out onto the ocean. Then I went to the other place I was considering, and... yeah, not so good. Again, it would be great to live with friends and be walking distance to many more, but in the end, the new house and location just outweighs that. So... yeah, it's good.

But alas, there is some bad. For a few days before I moved into the place, it was broken into, and my housemate/landlord's laptop was stolen. For we apparently have a laptop burglar in the neighborhood who, according to the policeman that came over, has already taken 30. So Craig (the housemate/landlord) got motivated and has turned the place into Fort frickin' Knox. Alarms everywhere, two or three locks on every door, and as I type this, Craig is drilling away to install a few more locks. Well, at least I feel quite safe.

The irony of this whole situation is that if my new place is Fort Knox, then my old house -- no more than a three minute walk down the road -- was easier to get into than Tara Reid's pants. (Hey-ooooo!!!) I guess that place just looked like shit, so no one even bothered. Kind of like Tara Reid. (HEY-YOOOOO!!!!)* Even if all you had to do to get inside was:
a) walk through the front door by simply sticking your hand through a gap and opening it from the inside, or
b) simply hop a fence and just saunter on through the back door, which didn't even have a lock!

*Upon further inspection: Tara Reid references? In 2008? That's a little dated, no? Oh well, it's the first thing that came to mind.

Anyway, maybe we should take the fact that people want to break into this place as a compliment? You know, that it's actually worth it to take the chance and break into the house? Because who wants to get into Tara Reid's pants when Fort Knox is right around the corner?*

*Yup, I've officially taken this analogy too far.

But regardless of the laptop burglar, I couldn't be happier with my decision right now. Because, among many reasons, you really can't overstate how great it is to wake up to a view of the sun rising over the water every morning. And for all those in the US, it's time you got off yer keisters and came down to check it out.

I am Ryan Atwood

Just without the Perfect 10 girlfriend. Or the boyish good looks. Or the mean streak. Or the brooding. Or the psychotic mom. Or the psychotic brother who was shot by my now-deceased Perfect 10 girlfriend to the tune of Imogen Heap's Hide and Seek. Or the goofy, curly-haired, neurotic sidekick. Or the adoptive parents.

Yeah, I think you get the point. There aren't really many similarities between me and Ryan Atwood. But my first Aussie nickname is Chino, and that gives me something in common with the fictional character.

You see, people here don't wear khakis/chinos. It's apparently quite an American -- or maybe just non-Australian? -- thing. So when I started showing up to work in the pants, well, the nickname came quite organically. So now, I'm Chino, and that makes me feel wicked cool.

Welcome to Australia, mate! Part II

Quick little follow-up to Thursday's post: Late on Friday, I was talking with a co-worker and brought up the story of how that python stalked and ate a frickin' dog. Can you guess her reaction? I'll give you some options from which to choose. You know, it's like an SAT question:

A) Shock and horror

B) Hysterical laughter

C) Not surprised; nothing new

The answer? Well, I guess this is a little leading, because I probably wouldn't devote a post to this topic unless the answer was C.

That's right, she's heard about this happening before! And not just heard about it, this happened to her cousin! For a few years ago, her cousin's cat had a litter of kittens. And soon after they were born, the kittens began to disappear one at a time. The culprit? A frickin' carpet snake living in their frickin' wall!

Gotta love this place.

A new home. And the grueling agony of an impossible choice.

I spent 45 minutes at the supermarket on Sunday. I purchased enough items -- or perhaps more accurately, I purchased within enough items -- that I was able to check out at the express lane. And before you all whip out your abacuses (abacai?), I'll just tell you that that averages out to roughly one item every four minutes. Which might be ridiculously long for you, or any other normal person. But it's the norm for me. You see, that's my thing: when making a decision, big or small, I take my time. I deliberate, internally and/or externally. I consider all possibilities, all options, all perspectives, all scenarios. And yes, that includes deciding if I want my orange juice pulp-free but enriched with calcium or with only light pulp. Because God forbid they combine the two.*

*I just came up with this theory on the spot, and I'm sure that at least one of the five people that will read this post could debunk it, but it sounds right: people who like pulp-free OJ also like smooth peanut butter. And vice versa, those who like their OJ with pulp like chunky peanut butter. And yes, those in the latter group are much better people for it. This feels right.

So when the stakes are raised beyond my weekly shop, even by just a little bit, imagine how much I might agonize over each decision. Picking my profession? Choosing a college??? Moving to Australia???!?!? None of these decisions were made on a whim, believe me. The combinations and permutations run through my head ad nauseam until I come to a definitive conclusion.

Except when I don't.

And when I don't, I'm screwed. Which is exactly what I'm facing now. For I've just made a decision, and I have absolutely no conviction that it's the right one. Or that it isn't the right one.

As my fantastic landlord is moving into my current house in South Coogee with her lovely family, I'm being forced to move out. Which is fine, because I've wanted to get out of the place for the last month or two. So as I've mentioned in previous posts, I've been looking for a new place and saw a fantastic apartment to share the other week. Great location by the beach, lots of space with a large deck, barbecue and pool, and two guys who seemed pretty cool. So assuming they offered the place to me, I'd go there, right? Not necessarily. Because shortly afterwards some friends offered me a room in their house in Kensington. And how great would that be, right? Living with friends! But whereas the location (vis a vis the beach), amenities and upkeep of the first place was fantastic, my friends' place was, uhhhhh, not. And I've reached that point in my life where not only can I afford something that's at least relatively nice, but I actually want that.

So in anticipation of potentially being offered the first place, I struggled with the hypothetical decision of which place I should move into. Because this was like the yin and yang of housing options. Both good in their own right, but for completely different reasons.

In the end, I didn't have to choose between these two places, because the first place didn't pan out. Why didn't it pan out? Well. Well. Well? Well. I'm going to summon all of my energy to not go off on a 3,000-word tangential rant here, but it didn't pan out because the two guys in that place decided to give the room to someone else (which is fine)... for free (uhhhh, what?)... in exchange for that person's housekeeping services (uhhhhhh, WHAT??!??!).

(Biting lip...)

(Wanting to vent...)

(Must resist...)

(Resist...)

(RESIST...)

(Okay, I'm there. I think.)

This news aside, one of the two guys in that place was at least kind enough to pass my name onto another guy he works with who was also looking for a roommate. So we got in touch, and last Saturday, I had a look at his place in Maroubra. And it... is... awesome. Four hours later, I was in receipt of an offer to move in with him and the third roommate. And my hand, stripped of any hypothetical situations, was completely forced. Make a decision -- this place or my friends' place -- and make it by the end of the day. Uh oh.

I thought. I rethought. I over thought. I went on a walk. I even tried to reenact the Seinfeld running-through-flock-of-pigeons scene. I stopped at a pub for a contemplative beer. But for the life of me, I could not make a decision. So for what I believe is the first time in my life, I made a pro/con list. And they were as follows:

The Maroubra house
Pros
- Every amenity possible
- Clean
- View of ocean
- Near beach
Cons
- More expensive
- Will I get along with new housemates?
- Farther from city/work

The Kensington house
Pros
- Within three blocks of 15 friends
- Cheap
- Close to city/work
- Walking distance to restaurants/shops
Cons
- Squalor
- Will it be too over-the-top/chaotic?
- What happens past May?

And you know what? After creating this list, with four pros and three cons for each house (this was an absolute coincidence, by the way), I was even more lost. I looked at the list over and over and couldn't decide what I valued more: a beautiful house on the water with some guys I don't know or a POS house that's close to friends and the city. So what ultimately decided it, I think, was the last con for the Kensington house: what happens past May? For in May, my friends' house will be sold, and they don't know if the new owners will want to continue to rent it to them or not. And as I was out on Saturday night with these same friends, it was this uncertainty, contrasted by the absolute certainty of the Maroubra house, that guided me to my decision.

So as of this Sunday, this will be my new house.

Looks amazing, right? Well, it is. It's one of the nicest places I've ever lived in. And yet, as I said earlier, I have no conviction that the decision I made is the right one. Or that it isn't. So, you know, ask me in six months.