The mighty double blues

First semi-finals today at the Adelaide Oval. The Oval is famous for its association with cricket and the venerable Don Bradman. You know this because everything in the Oval is named after him (the Don Bradman bar, the Don Bradman club, the Don Bradman scoreboard, the Don Bradman stands, and the Don Bradman beer tap).



The mighty Sturt Double Blues took on the wretched Norwood Redlegs. You may recall from earlier posts that the Redlegs destroyed our beloved Double Blues several weeks ago. Not this time.




133 to 62. Afterwards, I asked whether it is considered a footy "game" or "match." GOFF (Good Old Fashioned Flogging) was the reply.


This puts us in the second semi-finals, which we will unfortunately miss because we'll be in Brisbane. And here we are feeling pretty good after a decisive win and a few "heavys."

NZed's Dead

Day 6

Woke early to skies of the New Zealand national color – gray. We reluctantly decided to leave the National Park Village (given that it was pouring outside) and drove north to Waitomo.

We stayed at the Waitomo Caves Hotel, a very impressive place sitting at the top of a hill. The hotel hadn’t been renovated since the early 1940’s and had that rustic, dilapidated look that Stanley Kubrik must have been looking for when he was in preproduction for The Shining.

When I checked in, I asked if my father had been there yet. The concierge said, “You’re the first guest to arrive. You’ve always been the first guest to arrive.” I didn’t think this was quite accurate but he seemed to know what he was talking about. We were also informed that the dining room would not be available that evening, narrowing our options to two. We brought our bags up the creaking stairs and I just couldn’t help commenting on HOW MUCH the hotel reminded me of Stephen King’s novel. Amy politely reminded me that, although she’s never seen the Shining, she’s pretty sure that it would freak her out. I said “Heeeere’s Johnny!” She didn’t get it.

We went for a beer and a veggie burger. Then the four of us did a forty minute “bushwalk” that was extraordinary; a path that ran through caves, alongside waterfalls, and culminated in an underground viewing platform over a subterranean stream.

We ended the hike and toured the most amazing cave I’ve ever seen. I imagine that the Glowworm Cave is like an acid trip without the brain damage, flashbacks, and DEA agents. The upper chambers include the “cathedral” which has excellent acoustics and has attracted singers such as Kenny Rogers and the Vienna Boys Choir. I thought about trying the opening of Welcome to the Jungle, but really wanted to see the glow worms so I just hummed it.

The chamber that held the glowworms was *insert favorite expletive* awesome. We boarded on a metal boat in near darkness and our guide used hanging ropes to maneuver the boat into a chamber where thousands of tiny, bright blue lights glittered on the ceiling. I’ve never seen anything like it.

I should mention here that the lifespan of the glow worm is rather tragic. Sure, it’s not bad when you’re in the cocoon stage, dangling a sticky snare line to catch insects and draw them up for brunch. Upon hatching, however, each glow worm discovers to its horror that it has no mouth. So it’s a fun filled four days before starvation sets in.

We hiked back from the caves and encountered beautiful hilly terrain bounded by a maze of barbed wire fencing. We mastered the art of climbing over stiles. Surprisingly, the hiking path led us right through a field filled with approximately thirty cows.

We started to walk through (somewhat nervously). Someone commented that these appeared to be very well endowed cows, sort of a bovine Crying Game. Amy and Cris did their version of speed walking. There was snorting and heavy breathing (which seemed to startle the bulls). My father took pictures and said things like “thank you so much for letting us pass through” and “we come in peace” in his best therapeutic voice. If you know my father, you know I’m not kidding. We responded by pointing out that my father was the only carnivore in the group.

I took pictures of bulls that I thought might be responsible for my death.

We got back just before sunset.

Day 7

Breakfast at the hotel. An acceptance that things were grim. It was going to rain. We decided to drive north to Raglan, a small village next to an excellent hike by the Tasman Sea. We agreed to meet at in the town of Three Streams, prominently marked on our map. Funny … “Three Streams” is not so much a town as two houses next to a stream. With no sign. We reunited by luck and determined that hiking was not going to happen.

As we prepared to drive north to Auckland, I thought I should probably visit the Shire. After all, we were going to pass about three centimeters from it, translating to about three extra hours on the road. However, a quick Google search and I discovered that a tour company has a stranglehold on the site and charges an obscene amount to poke your head in a hobbit hole. I know how that sounds and I still considered doing it. The tour company has attempted to sweeten the deal by offering (as a bonus) a personal viewing of a sheep shearing, the New Zealand equivalent of a bull fight. My ovinaphobia got the better of me, however. So I settled on visiting the local gift shop and picking up hobbits for everyone at home.

Unfortunately, I was informed by a customs official that hobbits are considered an invasive species. They were confiscated.

NZed Redux

Day 3

Norma pulled up a chair to our breakfast table and proceeded to “chat us up,” which is apparently New Zealand slang for “make disparaging remarks about one’s physical fitness in order to dissuade them from hiking.” She kept repeating that our intended hikes were “very difficult” and “physically demanding” in the same kind of way my teachers used to tell my mother that I was “very energetic” and “had a lot of interests.” She then suggested an alternative hike that could accommodate wheelchairs. She also pointed out that we would be stupid if we didn’t go to Mount Maunganui.

Not being stupid, we went north to Mount Maunganui. This proved to be Norma’s one good recommendation. The mountain was on the end of a peninsula and the hike to the top was stunning. Perfect weather. A lot of sheep. New Zealand at its best.

We walked along the beach. We hiked. We drank lattes. We dove out of the way of pimped out minivans driven by New Zealand gangstas.

In a desperate bid to avoid Norma, we walked aimlessly around the town until deciding to see Tropic Thunder. Amy discovered that she is not fond of jokes involving decapitated heads.

Day 4

Breakfast with Norma. This delightful hour and a half was spent listening to her tell us how incredibly relaxing her B&B was. Very calming and peaceful and healing. It made me itchy just listening to her. She also appeared to enjoy listing the advantages of her current lifestyle choice. I began to suspect that she was either trying to sell us a time share or had overdosed on Ativan.

We stopped by the kiwi 360 and bought a load of kiwi crap.

We felt a patriotic need to sustain the American image as ultra consumers so everyone back home is getting a kiwifruit key chain, a kiwifruit magnet, and a Bob the Kiwifruit action figure; all of it nonbiodegradable plastic covered in lead paint. Happy holidays, but please don’t touch, taste, or look at the stuff.

Then it was south to Rotorua (which I was never able to pronounce under pressure – Rotorura … Rortarura … it got ugly). My wife (the psychologist) laughed so hard that several passerbys thought she was choking and attempted to administer first aid. After fighting them off, she said “it’s like you missed a phase of imprinting.” Imprinting is for ducks and chickens! It has nothing to do with phonics. I’d say that my difficulty with pronunciation is a result of my brain making things more difficult than they need to be. Rotorua is clearly missing a syllable, so my brain helpfully adds a sound. Unhelpfully, it is rarely the same sound and it occurs at random.

After Amy compromised by agreeing not to listen to me anymore, we walked along the shores of beautiful Lake Rotorua. We toured Whakarewarewa (I settled on calling it the Whack), which is described as a “living thermal village.” It really was amazing - a group of 26 Maori families live in the middle of geothermal activity and use the superheated water to cook food, wash dishes, and bathe.

I’m up for any tourist activity with a brochure that reads “WARNING – GEOTHERMAL ACTIVITY” in bright red letters and has all sorts of legal caveats about exclusion of liability in tiny print at the bottom. It was a great insight into past and present Maori culture.

Towards the end of the tour, our guide related a great story about the simultaneous arrival of Catholic and Anglican missionaries. The chief met with both groups and then gathered his tribe together in front of their meeting hall. He walked through the middle of the group drawing a line in the earth with his staff. Maori on the left were Anglican and Maori on the right were Catholic. Well, after a bit, it seems that conflict erupted between members of the previously harmonious tribe. Shockingly, the Catholics and Anglicans had some trouble getting along, gleefully condemning each other to hell and thereby hurting each others’ feelings. Who could’ve foreseen that? The chief finally brought them all together and said “Look, chill out. It doesn’t matter whether you’re Anglican or Catholic because we’re all Maori. We all believe the same damn thing.” Something might have been lost in translation there, but I think that was generally the gist.

We left Rotorua and drove south to Lake Taupo for dinner. We ate at Hell Pizza, sure to be a popular chain in the bible belt. Then we drove to National Park Village along a deserted, I-Know-What-You-Did-Last-Summer kind of road.

Day 5

Forecast for the day was “rain easing to showers in the afternoon.” This is not a joke. It’s some strange NZed code for hikers in the know. It didn’t matter. I was still going to hike.

Driven to desperation by the lack of a latte, I slowly drove around the 12 blocks of the National Park Village (NPV) and stumbled upon an unbelievable café at the very outskirts of town, right next to the train tracks. Great coffee, amazing food (a lot like Fuel). Set up reservations for that night.

Dad and I hiked throughout the day, despite the dire warnings of rain.

Amy and Cris watched the US Open and made unnecessary comments about our lack of judgment. A few notable finds on the hikes; National Park employees have limited patience for fans of Lord of the Rings; hiking in snow is much more tiring than you’d expect based on watching it on the Discovery channel; the metal bands we saw on trees were designed to prevent “possum browsing,” which seems like a pretty cool name for a band.

Ate. Slept.

NZed Part I

Day 1

Off to New Zealand (or Mordor as Aim says in her creepy Gollum voice). Land of the Kiwi, cousin to the Tasmanian devil, and fifth uncle to Paul Hogan. Our flights were unremarkable, though I’ll warn you now that spilling half of your wife’s bottle of Chardonnay on her seat is only funny if you’ve already had your bottle (and they were really little bottles). We landed in Auckland in the late afternoon. I was accosted at Customs, apparently because they suspected me of illegally importing tiny Australians in the treads of my hiking boots. A really big guy in his 70s led me into a neon lit X-files type room where he ordered me to march in place on a sopping and foaming black mat. I looked around to see if anyone was laughing at me or filming me.

We arrived at our hotel and were dismayed to see that it was last remodeled in the early 1800s. We arrived at the same time as a group of unruly teenagers who were clearly part of a gang or “team,” as they were all dressed in their colors or “uniforms.” We capped the night off with an insulting front desk staff who managed to convey disdain through subtle intonations in her conjunctions (“and?!!!?!?”).

Day 2

I woke early enough that I was able to peruse the fine art in the hotel lobby.

I saw that our hotel decided to screw the art to the wall – a telltale sign that it must be worth holding on to. Despite the fact that I’m no art historian, it occurred to me that screw holes probably don’t improve the value of a painting.

We drove south and passed through Thames on our way up the Cormandel peninsula on a very cool drive along the ocean, finally making our way back south to the Karangahake Gorge. Amazing hiking.

Then the four of us headed south to Maketu to our B&B.

There’s no delicate way to put this; the B&B was run by a woman I’ll just refer to here as Norma Bates. She was what we psychologists call “prickly” or “independent minded” when we are talking to volatile parents of aggressive children. The B&B had a stunning view of the ocean.

It also had two cats. My favorite quote of the night was Norma telling us that if the cat (I’ll refer to this cat as Mother) gets an attitude when we try to pet it “just leave your hand there. Don’t take it away.” I assured her that I would not be petting the cat.

We were shown our room and I noticed that the door to our room had been open for our arrival. I mentioned that I was allergic to cats. Norma looked offended and assured me that the cats never get on the beds. Right. There was enough cat hair on the comforter to create a third cat.

Around midnight, we experienced our first earthquake (though I confess I initially thought it was the sound of a body hitting the floor) that gave the whole house a shake. That seems to be the point when my insomnia really took hold. I ended up sitting on the porch staring at Mother. We agreed that we had a mutual dislike of one another. She expressed this by rubbing repeatedly against my leg. Cats just know when someone is allergic.

Vegemite update

As Archivalist noted, Vegemite is unspeakably bad. I find it amazing that it is still produced and regularly sold to anyone other than curious American tourists. I was also surprised to find that the label describes the product as 'concentrated yeast extract.' Not exactly a tantalizing line. I can only assume that this is descriptive or mandated by the government, as the possibility that 'yeast extract' is a selling point is just disturbing. It is the vegetarian equivalent of spam.

Just back from New Zealand. It was green and wet. More later.

Kangaroo Island?

Went to Kangaroo Island with Dad and Cris. The island is notable for being south of Australia and having kangaroos.


When we docked, the Avis agent provided dire and descriptive warnings about driving at dark, almost promising us that by getting in our car at 5:45 p.m. we would have an opportunity to engage in vehicular kangacide. My father had his license revoked by Cris for driving too fast around a turn. I later revoked it for driving on the wrong side of the road.

We visited the Remarkable Rocks.

There are two theories on how these rocks were formed. The first involves magma, xenoliths, seismic activity, and millions of years. Like we haven’t heard that before. The second: in a desperate bid to foster interest in their barren island, the local tourism board hires a team of sculptors, makes them watch David Lynch movies for inspiration, and sets them to work with a couple of shovels. Once they’re finished, they throw the sculptors off the cliff, preserving the secret and allowing the board to issue dire warnings about fatalities on the rocks.

Dinner was simple fare. Cris had pasta. I had fish. Dad ate a kangaroo. This proved to be the only kangaroo I saw on the island.

We paid six dollars to walk around in the Koala Preserve. The parking lot was empty, but we reckoned that the lack of people was a benefit of the “off season,” which is typically how we make ourselves feel better about wearing Goretex jackets on a beach in 40 degree weather. The preserve consisted of several paths wandering among eucalyptus trees that ranged in height from 20 feet to somewhere around 100 feet. We wandered the ground staring at the boughs and twisting ankles on roots and, over time, decided that the one disappointing but important absence in the park was the Koalas. Not a one. We decided that a) this was either a sick aussie joke or b) the Koalas had fled an impending disaster (this was before we were informed that Koalas, as a rule, do not flee. Fight or flight translates to sleep or eat for Koalas). Finally, at the far end of the preserve, we spied a gray ball at the very top of a tree that was either a Koala or a stuffed animal stapled to the tree.

Final tally: less than one KPH (Koalas per hour).


We were basically starving by that point. But, with a total population of around 5,000, Kangaroo Island doesn't have a lot of amenities. We were forced to stop for a falafel at the deliverance cafe.



When we got back, I listened to Men at Work and had a sandwich.

A bit of blog

Quick update. This isn't a funny update, so don't get your hopes up.

My writing hasn't gone as planned. There appears to be a critical period of productivity that must be correlated with caffeine. I've noticed that my first latte gives me a boost of energy, focused attention, and elevates my mood. I'm pretty sure that it makes me more attractive. My second latte makes me jittery, a bit paranoid, and I notice that my characters end up behaving very strangely. A-child-rescuing-adults-trapped-in-a-schoolbus kind of strange. Unfortunatley, I'm pretty sure it's not the kind of strange that elicits offers for the movie rights.

I wrote 3 pages and then decided to cut 4. At this rate, I will have unwritten my novel by the time we get back to the states.

Things that don't look like they should be able to kill you but are incredibly deadly

The title pretty much says it all. Australia is a deadly place. I've watched enough nature channel shows at friends' houses and Best Buy to know that Nature often gives you a heads-up when something is about to kick your ass. You know what I'm talking about ... the footage of the scorpion raising its stinger, the poisonous butterfly with the bright orange coloration, the grizzly bear acting in an agitated manner. In each case, Nature is saying, 'One day, a member of your species will understand that snarling and bared teeth and raised hackles is bad. That member will have an opportunity to pass along his or her genes. You are not that member."

You may wonder why I have to watch nature channel shows at Best Buy. I'll just get this out of the way now. You know that one guy in the US who doesn't have cable? That's me.

But back to deadly things. There's another side to this - the things that look harmless but, in fact, are incredibly lethal. This is Nature's way of saying "um, forgot about that one."

A perfect example is the magpie.



Looks harmless. I personally think 'cute' is going a bit far, but bird enthusiasts might comment on the beautiful coloration, the intelligent eyes, the melancholy, warbling cry (at 4:45 IN THE MORNING). They might generally bemoan the misunderstood magpie.

But those bird enthusiasts have never seen this.




This is a public service announcement attempting to educate the public on ways to protect themselves from the Australian equivalent of the pigeon. This sign was posted on a sidewalk that Amy and I have come to regard as the Adelaide equivalent of Cabrini Green, but let me be clear. These Magpie-Larks are everywhere. There is no safe place.

I think this would make a good Michael Bay movie. If you see him, tell him I said so. If you think there's not enough plot there, you've never seen a Michael Bay movie.


Here is another example.

Wine country

Amy saw an ad for a bus trip to the wineries in Barossa Valley during “gourmet weekend.” Seemed like a good idea. We bought tickets Saturday morning and were on our way by nine. Several ‘lads’ sat down in the seats in front of us and, after about thirty minutes, it occurred to me that ‘the wine bus’ might not have been such a good idea. The phrase that keyed me into this was “Och, those Brits can’t hold their liquah.” Reflexively (and unfortunately) I looked forward just in time to see the alleged Brit leaned forward over a bucket, looking wistfully at the bottom. It turns out that bus rides to wineries hold an appeal for a wide range of people, but wine connoisseurs are not among them. I’ll spare you the goriest of the details, but suffice it to say that the bus was warm and aromatic by the time we reached Tanunda.

Once there, one of Amy’s colleagues and her family spent the afternoon wandering the wineries with us. There’s nothing that says Australia like wineries, 55 degree weather, and motorcycles.

I journeyed through the Australian wine country via motorbike with a rider who had been in the Barossa Valley all his life and was therefore very knowledgeable about the area. Certain landmarks triggered a memory that he related while gesturing at the countryside. I found this disconcerting, especially when his other hand was signaling a right turn – but I figured we were in this together. He later told me that he was counting on me to balance the bike. He looked a bit disconcerted when I told him that I couldn’t remember whether to lean in to the turns or lean out against the turn and so decided to lean in and then out.

Seppeltsfield ...

... one of the oldest wineries in the area. After a tasting, I became an immediate and enduring fan of Muscat. If you’ve never had it before, Muscat is a cross between Port and alcoholic honey infused with sugar. It’s the kind of drink that makes it easy to forget that your third glass is actually your sixth.

Then to Gibson Wineries, where we had great Shiraz, killer blue cheese, and listened to a very good jazz band. Then a brisk and information filled ride back to the bus.

I hadn’t really visualized the bus trip back. The afternoon bus crowd was noticeably louder and I instantly regretted not drinking more heavily. I didn’t know whether to feel reassured or worried when I heard someone comment that they had “a lot of buckets” at the front. We saw our British friend from the morning. We sat down as far away from him as we could and were immediately patted repeatedly on the heads by completely hammered New Zealanders sitting behind us. They appeared to mistake us for Muppets until we spoke, at which point they were very pleased to be sitting behind Canadians. Amy gave us away by using ‘about’ rather than ‘aboot.’ One of them commented that she “really had to wee” and asked how much longer we had on the bus. I told her it was about an hour but she seemed happier believing her drunken friend who slurred that it was "prolly" twenty minutes. In any event, it wasn’t possible to change her mind.

Australian lexicon

G’day mate. Wasssssaaaaaap. This phrase was used much more frequently by Australians before it was co-opted in 1988 by the writers of Crocodile Dundee II. G’day is making a slow comeback but I intend to overuse it so much that no self-respecting Australian will ever use it again.

Mate. Wide applications. Friend. Good friend. VERY good friend (wink wink nudge nudge). Person that bumped into you on the bus. I have never heard this used as a verb in Australia.

Be there in a tic. Stop being so impatient. What are you … American?

Are you Canadian? I think you’re American because you’re loud and ordered the large latte but I don’t want to offend you by asking in case you’re Canadian.

Power point. Electrical outlet. Not a computer program.

Arvo. Afternoon (e.g. let’s meet in the arvo). You will get strange looks if you ask someone to direct you to the arvo.

How ya going. Wassssaaap.

No worries. Possibly the most versatile phrase in any language, no worries can be used to convey forgiveness, welcome, good humor, indifference, and an adaptable, easy going personality – all at the same time! It can mean ‘you’re welcome,’ ‘any time,’ ‘no problemo,’ ‘sure,’ and ‘hell yeah.’ No worries can also mean ‘don’t worry about that. I’ll tell you when you should worry and then you should REALLY WORRY.”

It is difficult to misuse the phrase, but you should be wary of a few inappropriate situations …

when you hurt someone
when you are being threatened by someone
when you are threatening someone
when reassuring an anxious person
when you are American

It’s not clear how this phrase came into being and the two Australians I asked weren’t able to give a consistent picture. Certainly early on in Australia’s history, there was a lot to worry about; your fellow countrymen were either convicts or security personnel unable to land a better gig and you were traveling to a place where everything is deadly. This hasn’t improved in modern times; pick anything in the states and there’s a good chance that there’s an Australian version that can kill you.

Taken. I’m not talking about the latest Liam Neeson fiasco. ‘Taken’ is the relaxed Australian way of letting you know that a person of interest has been bitten, chomped or devoured by an aquatic creature, as in, ‘a few years ago, this foolish American tourist was taken by a 15 foot whitepointah down at Glenelg.” Or, “a few years ago, these foolish American tourists were camping by the rivah when a huge croc took the smallest of ‘em. It was a rippah!” An alternate form of taken (led gently away) is now used primarily in discussing the taking of small children and German tourists. Apparently, there are so many awful ways to die in Australia that being eaten by a Great White Shark is nothing to get worked up about. Note: A good way to confuse an Australian is to use taken in the Victorian sense (i.e. he was quite taken with her) or the Henry Miller sense (he took her on the divan).

That’ll be 10 dollars, thanks. The Australians are efficient in monetary transactions. Rather than wasting an unnecessary syllable on ‘please,’ they simply skip to the end, assuming total compliance. This can also be used to deter overly quizzical foreigners; for example, an American tourist wasting time by asking "Does this calling card actually have 1300 minutes as advertised instead of the last one I bought which only had … "Yes. That’ll be 10 dollars, thanks."

I reckon. This is an efficient way of saying ‘I have calculated the likelihood of various possibilities and settled on this as the most likely. You may disagree if you wish, but that will simply expose you as the intellectual fraud that you are.’ It implies that you have carefully thought about this in the past and that you have already moved on to other, more interesting topics.

Race Walking

As I wrote earlier, the Australians cover every Olympic event in which one of their own competes. With horror, we realized that several Australians were competing in race walking. I’m not sure what the opposite of endorphins are, but I’m absolutely positive that my body is swimming with them while enduring national televised coverage of fifty race walkers strutting in a circle. Are they considered a gaggle? A clump?

The only thing worse is race walking in slo mo. Swimming in slo mo? I get it. The Matrix in slo mo? Absolutely! Race walking …

Amy and I did our own version of the race walk this weekend. A new world record was established (I'm pretty sure that no one has established a faster time from our doorstep to North Glenelg Beach - approximately 14k). That's what we set out to do and that's what we did.

Amy set a blistering pace and tried to distract me with questions about my writing. I kept my responses monosyllabic to conserve energy. The weather was exactly what we've grown to love here in Adelaide; 53, rainy and windy with enough patches of sunlight to fool you into thinking that it can't be overcast forever. The walk gave us the chance to see the underbelly of Adelaide. I'm not saying it's seedy. I'm just not saying anything.

The Australians appear to be at least a decade ahead of us in 'loo' technology.

There was a fully automated restroom in a park, complete with auto flush, auto soap, auto wash, and auto dry. Space for a bidet. And nothing says classy like soft elevator music and a recording of a deferential woman's voice informing you that the door will open in no less than eight minutes. Apparently a safety feature in case you've passed out.

As the day wore on, we realized a few other important things; google maps is not kidding when it notes that the "walking routes" may lack sidewalks, Autralians regard 55 as the dead of winter and dress accordingly, Adelaide drivers speed up when they see you crossing the street, and the city of Adelaide has decided to randomly distribute street signs (appearing to believe that if you don't know where you are you're probably the kind of person who deserves to be lost).

As you can see, it was a photo finish with my final time one one hundredths faster than hers.

Sweet victory ...

... and bitter defeat.

Amy lodged a protest, stating that she "didn't know we were racing" and "thought we were just going for a walk to be together." After due consideration, these protests were rejected on the basis that I distinctly muttered "let's race" while she was in the bathroom.

Critics might agree with Amy, possibly noting that the course from our doorstop to Glenelg beach is arbitrary and irrelevant. I understand that perspective, but ultimately, I think we can all agree that race walking itself is sort of arbitrary and irrelevant. Apologies to all the fast walkers out there.

Blog This

When I started this blog, I wrote that I would occasionally blog about blogging and today is a perfect opportunity to do this, primarily because I have nothing else to write about.

I’ve noticed something a little troubling about the blogging experience.

I was walking along King William Street to join Amy at the Central Market ...

when I realized, in some dark, out of the way place in my mind, that I was blogging my walk to the market. It was a lot like a narration. Small observations about the people, the culture, the Magpies on King William Street (this actually will be a blog subject) were immediately posted to and then deleted from my mental blog. The central problem (and the reason for immediate deletion) was that there simply isn’t that much going on. I don’t necessarily think you need to be subjected to the mundane details of my daily life such as what time I woke up (9:14), what I had for breakfast (mug of latte), where I had it (Scuzzi), or what I’m wearing right now …

If I did, my walk to the Central Market would read like this (actual excerpt)

Crossed Tynte street
Stopped at the light at Archer St
Thought about post-modernism, but only as a joke for the blog
Still stopped at the light at Archer St
Thought about the types of people who make jokes about post-modernism
Still stopped at the light! What the …
No cars … decided to walk across Archer St
Yelled at by an old woman in a walker for not waiting for the green walk symbol
(wait for the LIGHT!!!)

In itself, the narration would probably not be that big a deal. I could simply reframe it as “composing on the run.” However, a bit later I realized I was narrating my narration which was both confusing and tiring and made me wonder why I haven’t taken up drinking more seriously now that I’m in Australia. I don’t think you need to be a psychologist to recognize that this is not what we call a “good sign” in the business.

Those optimistic aussies

Amy and I were in London for the 2004 Olympics. It was there, in our Frognal Lane flat, that we were treated to the eloquent but fatalistic coverage of their athletes. “Disappointing finish, there.” “Another disappointment.” “Yet another disappointing afternoon.” They tried to mix it up a bit, I think, with phrases like ‘fantastic disappointment’ but that was just confusing. After they lost America, I think it has pretty much been downhill for the Brits and, based upon the 2004 Olympics, they know it.

The Aussies have a different take. It is worth noting that they cover every event in which an Aussie is competing (even if such events are not coverage worthy). As a result, we have been privy to in depth (painfully, agonizingly deep) coverage of rowing; twos, skulls, fours, eights. The Aussies were there and so were we, every oarstroke. Men’s field hockey? We were there for their ‘legendary’ battle against the Canadians. And what can you say about the Canadian guys who make up a field hockey team? Overprotective mother? Had pneumonia as a child? Couldn’t get the hang of skating? Even Judo doesn’t play well on television.

But back to the Aussies’ take. They have an indefatigable optimism. Lost the event you were favored to win? Gallant. Hopelessly outmatched against a superior opponent? Plucky. Fast but clumsy? Rippah!

I’ve been thinking about this and I have a pretty good explanation for the Aussies’ optimism. This country was founded by convicts and prison guards. They were placed on great floating prisons called hulks, forced to sail three months across dangerous waters, sleeping in rope hammocks inches away from 59 other sweating, incontinent, sea-sick convicts. This is the definition of a low point. After that, it can only get better. Got bronze in the 200 butterfly? Well, at least you’re not rowing to a desert continent for stealing six pence of bread. So that’s something.

Aussie pride is also evident in their colorful name choices for their teams. The Olyroos (men's soccer). The Boomers (men's basketball). The Kookaburras (men's field hockey). The Hockeyroos (WOmen's FIELD hockey). The Opals (women's basketball). In America, it might be the Microsoft Buffalos or the McDonald's Tatankas, so it's probably best to keep it the way it is.

Finally, anyone wanting an official Olympic jersey just needs to send $3990.00 - you too can be the proud owner of a silver, signed jacket in a display case. It’s Australian dollars, so it isn’t as much as you think.

If you don’t have this offer in the states, I can get you one. Email me for shipping and handling charges.

Footy

Have you ever wanted to spend halftime at a Patriots football game standing on the middle of the field only ten feet away from Tom Brady and yelling “It’s a freaking dime defense you moron! Quit throwing into double coverage!!!”? If so, you’re in the wrong country.

You need footy.

Amy and I began our education on the beloved Australian sport one evening on the tele. To the untrained eye, footy is a chaotic mess that appears to be an amalgam of soccer, rugby, American football, and mud-wrestling. Eleven muddy men with calves the size of a fifth grade child’s torso desperately chuck, kick, and wrestle a leather oval towards the opposing goal while another eleven men attempt to smother the first eleven men with their armpits. The umpires run alongside blowing their whistles with the desperation of cocaine addicted rats pressing a bar. The whistles appear random and play almost never stops after a whistle is blown.

The umpires, we were told, have some issues. Specifically, they have a pathological need for attention, an inflated sense of self-importance, and a dictatorial sense of justice. In another country, they would either end up as cult leaders, American Idol contestants, or presidential candidates. I felt a deep and abiding sense of pity for them until learning that they can make up to $200,000 a year. That’s right, $200k to wear very tight white shorts (think 70s after school special), to blow your whistle whenever the hell you feel like it, and to be bitterly despised by every Aussie in a 20 mile radius with a blood alcohol level of .20 and a few hours to kill. It’s a life.

Footy on the tele is nothing compared to the real thing, especially Adelaide footy. Amy and I became immediate converts to the mighty Sturt Double Blues, one of the local teams.

Two hours in an intermittent downpour (occasional hail) in our equivalent of March watching twenty two small figures in tank tops slamming each other repeatedly into the mud – that’s Australia.

An unexpected bonus is the intermission between quarters. That’s when both teams huddle on the middle of the field for a motivational talk and whoever feels like it can come onto the field to listen to the coaches scream at the players.

This is also the moment when you can really demonstrate your knowledge of the game. Standing only ten feet away from the huddle, you have the opportunity to tell number 7

that his play is really “piss poor” – the ten feet giving you enough of a head start that you have a reasonable chance of making it to the safety of the stands. I’m not saying that’s what I did. I’m just saying I thought about it.

The fans are remarkable as well. One of them, a man in his fifties dressed in a black raincoat, apparently has four players on Sturt with restraining orders against him for what I’ll call unwelcome invitations. Repeated unwelcome invitations.

Unfortunately, the Double Blues lost by 40 points. If that sounds bad it’s because it is.

Daggy

On to Adelaide. Advance press for the city wasn’t great. It had been described as a “sleepy” town in the sort of way you might describe an unattractive and socially awkward cousin as “nice,” “has a great personality,” or “not contagious.” In the months before I left, my brother was chatting online with someone from Australia and he mentioned that I would be living in Adelaide. There was apparently a long pause and the Aussie wrote … “Adelaide? Why?” That seems to sum up the country’s attitude towards the city; it’s a fine place to fly over but why on earth would you live there?! Too boring.

Upon arrival, we were almost immediately informed of its checkered past. Adelaide is apparently the ‘go to’ place for serial killers in this part of the world, as a quick Google search will give you the pithy nickname “Adelaide – City of Corpses.” Sort of wish I’d done that Google search earlier. Notably, Adelaide is also known as the City of Churches. I’m not saying there’s a connection there, I’m just stating facts. The Snowtown Serial Murders (aka the Barrel Murders) are a local favorite - as the name implies, these murders involved barrels, acid, and a social security fraud scheme. In another, the three Beaumont children were abducted, suspicions centering on a wealthy but eccentric young man. These murders were never solved (and are therefore almost certainly fodder for the next CSI Miami with the signature Caruso acting - sunglasses removed melodramatically and husky, terse dialogue given by profile. My next blog will probably be ihatecaruso, though it’s likely that name has already been used). Upon learning of the roster of murders, I found it hard to think of Adelaide as a “sleepy” town, unless you’re using sleepy in that Stephen King, Castle Rock kind of way.


Adelaide is also known for its parks





and Don Bradman


If you don't know the name Don Bradman, I feel nothing but pity for you because it means you haven't followed cricket religiously for the past century and therefore have absolutely no idea of a good way to spend 36 hours on a weekend (average game length) and probably think 'wicket' is the name of an Ewok. Suffice it to say that, after his death, they retired both his number and his name. It is now illegal to be named Don Bradman in Australia.

We rented a place in North Adelaide, which is apparently a good place to live. This is our little slice of home.





Neil, Amy’s host at Flinders, informed us that prior visitors have chosen to live at Glenelg beach, which is a “daggy” place. Daggy means shabby or untidy. However, it also refers to the dung that becomes embedded in the fur around the business end of a sheep. This is apparently an unfortunate situation both for the sheep and the farmer, who has to shave the “affected area” to prevent bowflies from setting up camp. Just thought you should know, since I intend to use daggy at every possible opportunity once I return home.

There are no visual aids for daggy. I encourage you to visit your local farmer if you have questions.