Please Oh Please don't play Tom Brady

The Patriots play on Sunday against Mighty Joe (Vince) Young, and I would like nothing more than for them to rest the peerless Tom Brady, and perhaps even Corey Dillon and half of their defense, to prepare for the playoffs (in which Brady's arm may or may not make a return to its usual form). Of course I can't watch this game on my computer because of a little twist of fate preserving the run of lousy karma I've sustained this calender year. Give me 10 minutes to assemble a hecatomb offering of nubile virgins to appease the gods (drinking age here is 18, shouldn't be too hard).

OK, I'm back, and my knee is feeling stronger than ever, hopefully my new Nike Frees will strengthen it back to health even quicker. This brings me to my next point: I hope my new Nike Frees don't get stolen. I've told you about the guy that lives in the shanty backyard, well he keeps leaving the door unlocked, so I keep locking it. I don't give a damn about you, Lee, as long as you don't seem to give a damn about my stuff. So everyday before locking my bedroom door, I feel obliged to hide my more valuable belongings, such as my ipod and camera. And every day I return home to find my door still locked, possessions safely stowed inside, I let slip a gleeful yelp. And speaking of my Ipod, since it had run out of batteries, I just purchased a charger for it, against the suggestion of the most highly regarded member of my counsel. I'm sorry, Christina, I just couldn't take it anymore. The tinny sounds of hip-hoppers berating my eardrums with threats of bitch-slaps and orders to stop snitchin is the aural equivalent of the feeling of elation that comes with scoring a touchdown, albeit minus the butt patting.
Since I do a fair bit of walking concurrent with Ipod enjoying, I've noticed that Justin Timberlake's "Futuresexlovesound" song is set to a perfect walking tempo. The beat is just so that it matches my every footstep; the podiatric permutations of sound simply hypnotize my stride, accompanied by the falsetto crooning of JT. You should totally try it sometime. Crazy.
Oh, and the annoying trance/techno/satan's laughter music that every retail store is required by law to play (and you overhear a guy too old for this store bopping his head and saying "nawice mewsic") is not only limited to clothing stores - it is actually played in almost every storefront on some streets here, including the walk in mcdonalds and hungry jacks (Burger King equivalent). I don't know about you, but I don't need someone dancing and shaking their sesame seed bun with two all beef patties while I'm trying to eat, least of all if there's special sauce involved.
Not sure if I mentioned this before, but of all the American fast food places to export here, the most prevalent is KFC. I don't know what it is,but I wouldn't have the majority of these people pegged as fried chicken patrons. Mock it, I may, but in all honesty, when drunk and looking for drunk food, most people here may turn to an afghan kabab establishment; for me, KFC seems to appear as if delivered by Hermes himself upon winged sandals. God bless you Colonel Sanders, and your tender, all white [in color] meat strips of genetically altered and mechanically separated fowel.

In keeping with the trend of bird-eating, you'll be happy to know that Chinese restaurants here have crispy pidgeon on the menu. Not sure how I feel about this. Don't get me wrong, I've always assumed they were serving me pidgeon, I just don't think I like the unabashed honesty of it all. It brings to mind a picture of the ancient owner, training young Daniel-san out in back of their establishment, luring the birds closer with fortune cookie crumbs, free hand prepared to pounce and break their delicate necks with a swift stroke of his chopsticks, like his father, and his father before him. Perhaps pidgeons were actually introduced into chinatowns everywhere by the chinese, eventually permeating cities everywhere, a justifiable hoax to fatten them up on scraps of foodstuffs and the seldom eaten crust in the outstretched hand of a bewildered toddler, escaping the watchful eye of the PETA who have effectively banned the force feeding of geese for foie gras. All I can say is I hope to death the pidgeon that shat on me once met a grisly demise on the plate of an unsuspecting tourist sitting down for a pu-pu sampler. How apropos.

Finally, I finally experienced on of the marvels of ancient India that Russel Peters spoke about. For those of you reading in your unawares, Russel Peters is an Indian comedian with a propensity for racial humor, especially that of his ancestors (their race, not their traditional humor). He hilariously recounts tales of cheap (in the spirit of political correctness, I shall call them thrifty) Indian men who will actually try to convince you into giving them a discount. My firsthand agreement with this comes as such: exiting the cab thursday night at our destination (keep in mind you don't tip cabbies here), I (we, I just happended to be sitting up front) paid the guy a 20 for the 15.80 cab ride, and was waiting for change. 3 Dollars (in coins) later, I was waiting with my hand out patiently for the remaining change (ok, "we" didn't pay him, Andrew did, so it was his change I was awaiting). "It's OK, go on" said the Indian cab driver to me. "??" "Nevermind that, don't worry about it," he continued. I left him to his own scheming devices after that, not sure if he had just given me a break or taken a little extra cwon (jerry maguire). Very shrewd business dealing, I just may try that sometime. Instead of paying my landlady the 300 I owe her every two weeks, I'll just say, "here's 200, and I'll tell you what, I'll let the rest slide."

Screw Chicks Tonight, Dude, I Just Wanna Dance

When last we spoke, I was venting over the obvious misfortune of having my laptop removed from my possession. Since the aforementioned laptop is not in its homeostatic location (i.e. my lap) right now, I chose to walk down to the lab at 130 in the am, so that I could inform you vultures as to what was happening in my life, you know, what Ian's up to these days. While it is 20 min out of my way to come here, it goes by in the blink of an eye after yopu've been drinking, it's like sleepwalking, really. Why would I come down here? To inform you vultures as to my happenings in a developing nation (I'm only one man, but my correspondence will have to suffice) But, without further ado, let us take a trip down my week-long-memory lane:

tonight we went out to celebrate the birthday of one of the phd students here in the laboratory; since this is australia, the celebration included alcoholic beverages, many of them. Remeber what I said about people dancing in australia? Yes, well, it's all true. Irregardless (regardless?) of that, tonight there was a point where our group (comprised of all male humans) was in a circle surrounded by other gyrating humans whilest beats were broadcast in a repetitive fashion over the audio system. Sans females, it was straight out of Dane Cook's bit on dancing. However, one of the party's members, a 37 year old computer programmer may or may not have been dancing like Janet Jackson (now, since he is an IT guy, he will in all liklihood view whatver I post on here, because the www is his playground; so I say to you: thank you for the shots, and not to worry, it more resembled Janet from the days of yore, such as during the Rythmic Nation video, and not, as she spiralled downward, as the time when she started looking like michael, such as in their duet, "scream").

As I stated last week, I attended a party at which I was the only person that I knew. While this may seem strange given my lack of social-butterflyitude, keep in mind I otherwise may not meet anyone. So through an online roommate finding profile I had used to attempt to find an apartment, a young lady, Kate, emailed me saying I would make the perfect roommate for her quaint apartmenthold. Of course, I had just signed my lease in my hole of the hell variety, and informed her of such. No bother, though, I said I knew no one here, so we should still get together for a be-ah, and she invited me to her birfday/housewarming party, saying she had trouble finding a normal rommate. I thought this was code for "no one normal wants to live with me" whereas others seemed to think this was evidence of her coolness. Either way, I headed down to her apt. last friday, and -lo, I was the only male human in the joint. Of course I was. The 10 women in attendance included her mother and little sister. Who's normal now? Now, I would obviously never stoop to the point of using my good looks as justification for appraising the appearance of another, but let me put it this way; if I had chosen to live there, it would not be because I was attracted to my potential roommate. In all honesty, and fairness, though, I had a really good time, a few guys showed up and evened the balance between good and evil, and everyone was really easy to get along with, I'll proably hang out with them again. The place was really cool, too, unfortunately she's filled the room with a french chef-- I can't really compete there. Now that I mention it (to myself) I may as well start the online search again. In any instance, we all got shattered on cheap champagne, and all was good (until I realized I can't order a vodka collins at a bar, they have funny names for drinks here - I bet the girl next to me it would take me 4 tries of different ordering techniques before getting something out of the bartender - I was right, and still only ended up with vodka and sprite, and a lemon)

Now I don't think I've informed ya'll about my housemate (we'll call him Ben, because that is his name) who was home when the robbery was performed. He was still passed out drunk at 130 in the pm when this occured. He has a penchant for the wine and the THC. When I caught up with him, smoking a fattie (phattie?) in the backyard, he asked me what I was up to:
"Nothing really"
"Oh that's really cool"
"Umm, ok - I just got back from doing laundry"
"Nice, far out man"
"No, it's not nice...LAWN-DREEE"
"Sweet, totally"
Seriously, it's like talking to Forest Gump on barbituates. Such behavior is acceptable when it's not an excuse for failing to hear someone kicking in 4 bedroom doors. Shit. Continuing, he has a girlfriend that lives with him (read the rest of what I say under the pretense that she actually is very nice). She is 24 and has a 5 year old kid. Ok, fine, I'm cool with that (the kid does not live in our international house, it lives with her parents). Now, though, they were discussing plans for new years (ben and his gf, michaela, not michaela and her daughter), and having trouble choosing between popping pills (most likely of ecstasy) or dropping speed. Are you kidding me?! Don't you just want to grab some people by the shoulders and shake the shit out of them sometimes? You have a kid! You're gonna be a grandmother within 10 years if you keep this shit up! Won't that make for fun Christmas holidays, enabling theives to take your granddaughter's cigarrettes that she probably stole from your purse, while you sleep off the previous night's drug-fueled buzz. Shit.

One more brief anecdote before I stumble home (you'll get more later, vultures; don't forget, I will have nothing good to say about this country until I experience some form of aussie euphoria). So I decided to do some belated christmas shopping, and by that I mean hawk the post-christmas sales for stuff for myself (by the way, I've decided I will succomb to paying more money for an easily attainable good or service, because I have no patience anymore for rifling through tables upon tables and racks upon racks of sale items). Anyway, I am in a nifty little boutique today, attemtping to purchase some designer jeans for my beautiful legs, and the sales associate gentleman picks them out for me. After telling me what would look great on my figure, he pretty much touches my butt in the jeans I was trying on (I foiled his grope, however, by placing my wallet in the back pocket for more "real-world" fitting). Of course he did. He said the jeans looked "sexy as" on me, and asked if I could go a size tighter. I politely explained that, no, recovering from surgery my legs were still growing, and so I was able to stop him from forcing me into a pair of jeans better suited for Christina. However, I was not able to stop him from conjuring up images of me in my sexy as tight jeans, feeding him grapes while he lounged clad in a purple and gold tunic. Needless to say, I bought the jeans... I'm a sucker for compliments. And gay men have discerning tastes, right? So I should feel flattered, right? The American accent works every time. Not to worry, Christina, I think it only works on dudes... though there was a girl, deborah, working in one store who said she loved american accents and kept asking me stuff so I'd reply and apparently say funny things. But she was 13 feet tall with cankles and said she often watched DVD's by herself. I told her I would watch DVD's on my computer but my computer's not here anymore, now is it? Then I fumed out.

Should I be less judgemental of people? I should be less judgemental of people. I feel like I come across as an arrogant prick. Oh well, maybe next time. As my boy Mike P says, by this time next year he "will be experiencing the sights and sounds of urban warfare, fighting so that I may have the freedom to continue acting like an obnoxious American tourist...Hooah."

AAARRRRGGGHHH

In terms of shitty mcshit things to happen, I think yesterday takes the cake (most likely without permission, and while the baker was not home). So I return early from work (the venerable director here gave us an early release before christmas), to find the doorframe to my bedroom broken w/ plaster everywhere. That damn landlady, doing work and not cleaning up - nope - that can't be it, someone must have broken in; so if they broke in, that means they probably took - looking left - yes, yes they did steal my laptop. Allow me to calmly tell you that I am furious and my blood pressure is probably a good 50 points above its already elevated 155/90 ish range. Just thinking about this makes me want to stab something (not someone, like a pillow or something). Oh man am I angry. I'm so pissed I can't even type the fluent thoughts that I'm almost having. The computer was really my only way of staying in contact w/ the US. And there's not even a definitive criminal population I can blame, which just makes me suspicious of everyone.
Here's how it went down: there's a guy that lives in our backyard, in a shed. Yes, this is strange, and yes, I was going to tell all of you about him sooner or later, on a slow blogging day or something. Apparently, and news to me, because of Lee, the backdoor stayed unlocked, I guess some kid that used to live there used to get locked out when he'd use the outdoor shower or whatever, so Lee got in the habit of leaving it unlocked. Fuckin A. We have a fenced in back 'yard' but someone must have hopped it, went in, and kicked in all the doors to the bedrooms, taking money and small valuables (I'll tell you what else in a minute). Magical time of the year my ass. Let me be the first to disdainfully say "bah humbug."
My Cruella deVille of a landlady, completely unconcerned with our plight, is more upset with the fact that now she has to fix doorframes and doorlocks (she's refusing to change the front and back house locks), and says that I have no reason to break my lease early because she's securing the rooms by reinstalling doorknob locks. Listen, if they were secure to begin with, they wouldn't have been kicked in so easily. Secondly, all she did was glue my shattered frame back together! She almost came across as blaming us for having our doors locked, because that required more damage to be done by breaking the frames to enter. I really loathe this individual. Literally did not care one iota that our shit's stolen. Of course blaming us that the back door was unlocked, even though apparently when Ben, one of the housemates went to tell her someone broke in, probably through the back, she said Lee needs the back door unlocked. Aaarrrgghhh. And she blamed ben for having his door unlocked (he had locked it, she was wrong) that goes straight out through his room to the outdoor bathroom. I can't explain to you how obtuse this lady is. But, yes, she sustained property damage, and no, she's not the one to blame in all this. You know what else those bastards took of mine. Not cufflinks, not cologne, my camera and ipod were with me at work (they were nice enough to disconnect my ipod cable that was in my computer and leave it for me, yet they also disconnected and took my computer cable), not even one of a kind pictures of me and the beautiful Christina; no, they took the one piece of apparel I own that's completely novel and stands out when on my person. My fucking yellow Pumas! I'm not joking, it took me til later last night to realize it, but who steals a shoe?! Honestly. I loved those shoes, they were sweet. It's almost like they were pissed at me for not having easy cash to steal, so they sent a final "fuck you" my way by taking the coolest looking thing on my floor. So I spent all day today scouring melbourne to find a pair, no dice. Which leaves me with two options: look online for them, or use this as an excuse to purchase another pair of shoes no one else will have: Bathing Apes.
So no computer, no yellow pumas. If you were expecting emails from me, forget it. If you were expecting pictures from me, all gone, forget it. If you were expecting jocularity and a general sense of good vibrations, all gone, forget it. Here's an interesting little factoid, though. Prior to discovering my collapsable door, I really had to go to the bathroom. I mean I was rushing upstairs to do it. After I saw my door/room, I literally didn't have to go anymore, I completely forgot about relieving myself, and didn't end up doing so until I got back later that night at 3 in the morning. What an interesting sensation. It's like the fight or flight response (sympathetic nervious system) completely trumped my parasympathetic - rest/digest system (which, not coincidentally, controlls things such as bowel movements). It's all science, really. This is all true; I work with doctors.

So far I've had a $100 (american) pair of shoes stolen, $150 cash (Australian, which is about equal to the value of the perpetrator's soul) stolen, and my (John's Hopkins's) laptop stolen, along with all my music on it (which fortunately is on my ipod, with no way of charging). Let's just say I wasn't expecting to be victimized quite this much in the land down under. So, as much as I actually like this place, until something really cool actually happens to me (or something truly horrible happens to the culprit), I will not have one complimentary thing to say about the country of Australia (after this: the food still is really good). Sorry, australia, it shouldn't have come to this, but I will have no more positive utterances (re: you) prior to you providing me with some sincere happiness.


So I'll probably be blogging/emailing less frequently, I'll come in to the lab computers when I can. I'll tell you all about my night last night (I was out with a group of people I had never met before, always a gutsy move) when I feel like it, and right now, vultures, I don't. In fact, I don't feel like doing much besides going to a shoe store to see what size pumas I need to buy off ebay, and going home to watch football on my computer. Since I can't do that, I'll read the damn book I bought today, for this very reason. I don't even read books.

Eeeek! Real Lab Work

To be honest, this blog is starting to become like essay writing. As I notice something interesting or worth commenting on throughout the day, I'll make a mental (or even literal) note to pass such [worthwhile] thoughts on to you, the reader.

There's an interesting phenomenon that happens sort of regularly in australian summers, and I can't remember whether or not I talked about it before, but there are brush fires that envelop large parcels of land in the countryside, but move cityward. Think along the scales of the fires out by LA. These burn down houses, eat up tremendous acreage of land, and send plumes of smoke into the air, a la R. Kelly puffing a cigar in music videos. It's really bad, though, since on a day where the wind is blowing preferentially, the city will get filled with smoke, and visibility goes way down (for instance, my lab is on the top floor of our building, and normally we can easily see all the city skyscrapers, only about a km or so away, but today you couldn't even see the tops, honestly; everything is completely blurred - I really need to take a picture of this, the lack of clarity is impressive, if not slightly disturbing. Which brings me to another note: I have a penchant for landing my workspace in the top floor of science buildings, owing to my top-shelfiness. And not the obnoxious top shelf requirement of the two Jons I know: Jonty refuses to do a shot of any tequila less than the $8 (american) a pop Patron, and J.A.G. has been known to throw down $15 in a bar to quell the pinings of his capricious date for a lychee/champagne concoction. (aside: see the problems with white bread, Jon? - a little too flaky, low nutritional content, and never a surprise to see red, blue, and yellow dots on the packaging))
- You can actually smell smoke inside the buildings, in fact, the Melbourne weather center had to evacuate last week because the outdoor smoke tripped the fire alarms in the building...our own building switched to recycled air venting, because the A/C was bringing in smoke and causing complaints.

As for my lab, it's very safety oriented (or as many australians say, noticeably, "orientated"). Besides the lab coat thing, they're always double checking disposal protocols (there's a special waste container for trizol), plastic pipette tips need to go in a sharps container, and there's even a "man down" system we're required to wear if we're every working alone. Haven't read the manual on that one, I must have passed it while I was skimming through such safety recommendations as "do not run through the lab" and "do not dip your ciggies in chemotherapy cell treatments in order to acheive a buzz like Lance Armstrong."

There are subtle intracacies that make even the most high tech new research building look like it's lacking something (having seen both ours in the states and this run down research facility that (no joke) has scaffolding with boards and corrogated aluminum near the entrances to catch any of the upper bricks that may fall due to age onto any unsuspecting visitor). In the tea room here, no plastic cutlery or paper plates - real silverware and a dishwasher that is run daily (by some mysterious life force), thus renewing the clean supply of flatware. And free biscuits (tea-cookies). Words are funny here, huh? (my english co-worker, Kathryn, calls lunch "dinner" and dinner "tea", as well as sandwiches, "butties" -- no wonder they couldn't hold on to their colonies). Although Kathryn is my target for our lab secret santa service, known as Kris Kringle (just Kris Kringle, not Secret Kris Kringle). Since I don't really know anyone personally, and was bound by a 10$ Australian limit (you'll see what that can buy here -->), I stumbled into a "Dirt Cheap CD's and DVD's shop and picked up a Pink Panther DVD. Who doesn't like the hilarious bumbling Detective Clouseau? ("Catooooo?")

And finally, and I mean no disrespect to those who influenced this section, but there is a lot of B.O. around here. Craig promised adequate anti-perspirant in this country, but I've noticed a severe lack of aroma-camouflage by a small population of guys here. Perhaps you can chalk it up to pop culture's depiction of the masculine, crocodile wrestling Australian, and the requirement to ooze testosterone-riddled man musk whenever possible. Who knows. But seriously, dude with the jean shorts and long hair standing on the tram holding the overhead railing, please be more discrete. Thank you

Lab Safety, Santa, and FREAKS!

My project to genetically engineer a mouse officially began today, as I began growing E. Coli with my gene in question. The E. Coli, if anyone is curious, was cultured from a spinach field in California, then passed to Australia via the Jack in the Box customs department. Anyway, day 1 of real lab work, and as is my habit, chose to forego a lab coat (it's hot as balls, and always too long). Naturally, the safety representative came over to point out the coloquial, "Lab coat, mate." Of course he did. After pulling a T.O. and spitting in his face, I stomped on my lab coat and rudely pointed out that the world's greatest scientist, Dr. James Naismith, the inventor of the game of basketball, never wore no damn labcoat. Actually I immediately put it on, apologized, and asked if there were an extra layer of protection, or gay apparel, I could don.

Our institute had it's Christmas party today, and, like any other Australian gathering, beer flowed like Persian blood in ancient battles against Sparta. It was at a country club/garden setting, w/ beer, wine, and gourmet bbq (mmm, chorizo). There was Santa for the kids, no kangaroos though. No milk and cookies, though, just Premium Draught and tea-biscuits.

On another note in relation to the giving season, Save the Children is quite prevalent here. They have girls (young women) come up to you and try to talk you into committing towards a daily contribution of $1 Australian. 1$ American might be able to save some children, but an australian dollar per day might get them a haircut every year at Tenpachi. Anyway, these people are everywhere, similar to the Salvation Army, except carrying a clipboard and exhibiting cleavage, not that I've noticed. I've started explaining that I already contribute to an American children's charity...Furhawn's "NUKs" in baltimore (Never Underistimate Kids - how they ever got "NUKleus approved I'll never know). Granted I don't actually donate, nor is it anything that requests contributions; but if you want to get technical, I've already been at least partially responsible for donating 3 bikes, a cellphone, and 6 dollars (American) to NUKs in balitmore. Not to mention an indictment. Merry Christmas.

Finally, since 'tis the season for giving, I was around the central district today, browsing ("haven't you ever heard of a browser?"). You know, looking for that perfect something for that special someone - A pair of running shoes for me. Preferably low-top D-Wades. And here's the weird thing, in both shoe places I went in, they didn't have converse Wade's. OK, that's not the oddity, but as I was undressing the shoe boxes with my eyes, scanning the great racks of shoes, no one came over to ask me if there was anything in particular I wanted, or if they could help me with anything. It was great. All I wanted to do was look around, and they let me. They weren't in my pocket reaching for my wallet while prying at my feet with a shoe-horn like in American places. Had I asked for help, I have no doubt they would have gladly assisted me, I mean, someone looked right at me and said hi, but they didn't pressure me into trying on the new Uggz cross trainers or something. Another example of the laid back attitude so prevalent in Australia, and I like it.

I hate you, Craig (and a story on double standards), Here's your TWO new posts, vultures

First of all, one day after lauding myself for my 4.4 pound beef purchase, we now encounter the problem with having so much fresh meat and no freezer. Didn't forecast that one in my crystal ball, so now I'm trying to roast all these pieces, and hope I have enough tupperwear so provide myself tasty morsels throughout the week. Do you know how long it takes to roast all that beef? Me neither, so I'll be up a while figuring it out. Bam!

Now, on to my new nemesis, Craig. I thought we were tight, CDP. I thought our roommate relationship was something special. What happened to trust, companionship, and mutual nursing? So for those of you not familiar with this new trifle, I purchased the NFL gamepass for this weekend for $25, so I could watch the patriots, my golden boys. Craig, using his unawares as an excuse, sent me a message on Skizype that the pats won 40-7. Cold Blooded. I didn't even know craig (no more capital c for you, Judas) watched football; he's always been more of a field hocky fanatic. His reporting prowess belongs with the songwriting skills of Milli Vanilli. If you see this man, do not divulge your secrets. President Logan over here will be happy to blab them to anyone listening. Given my recent discovery of my mental firepower, you don't want me conjuring up images of you bald and having lost your exfoliating loofa; it just might happen. I'll let it slide this time for the ice purchases you made for me, but I swear I'll bewitched your ass back to an age lacking bath and body works.

Good news. I fit my meat into 2 containers obtained at a pampered chef tupperware party. I feel so pampered. Bam.

There are groups of people I hate at the gym, no matter the country in which I am getting swole. For instance, guys wearing too little clothing, chubby girls wearing too little clothing, people lifting right in front of equipment I want to use, sweaty dudes leaving behind a trail of slime like a tree snail, and just anyone who detracts from my aura in general. Another group I hate are the gym staff who take pride in having a position of authority, and feel the need to remind you of this authority. Don't point out that I'm not using weight clips, then try to imply I don't know how to lift, and then watch me like a hawk to make sure I don't break anymore "rules". Look, because you're a monitor, and not an actual personal trainer, I'd rather you not take it out on the object of your jealousy...someone who actually accomplishes something in the gym, namely me (it's tough to accept such a specimen into your jurisdiction, Yosemite Sam, but you're gonna have to just let me do my thing while you "help" spot girls on the squat rack). Fuck.
But an even worse display of peacockery (the unnecessary preening, not the more recent object of my ire) was a girl who decided it was prudent to remove her shirt and continue her workout in her sports bra. This shit would never fly if a guy took his shirt off, for which he would be ridiculed, but this tramp does it and has 2 guys immediately assist with her training regimen. And she was not attractive, I can't be more clear. Her body was not great, I'm sure it was in the process of improving, but so is the socioeconomic structure of Somalia, and I'm not interested in visiting there.
All I know is, if I tried that shit, I'd be escorted out, yet no one said shit to this girl. And no, I'm not making a big deal of it because she distracted me -- I just ignored her and focused even more on my workout; I wish everyone did the same and shunned her. Welcome to countless paternity tests on the Maury Povich show, soulless groupie.
The best part about being wound into a tizzy, is exacting revenge on your plate of sushi, which immediately soothes your mood ring into a serene blue. God I love sushi, mmmm

Best. Grocery. Ever.

Before I bore you with my new fanaticism over the local market, allow me to tell you about the freakiest thing that's happened here thus far.

So there I am in bed this morning, under my new IKEA comforter, the cheapest possible textile available. Paying 12.95 Australian, I new quality was not going to be the dominating trait of this comforter (12.95 A$ is approximately equal to the cost of having a key to a lock that does not belong to you copied, minus the profits from using said key to remove contents that also do not belong to you). So this particular comforter feels almost paper-ish, like a dollar bill that's been crinkled repeatedly, and it is filled with a highly sythetic substance, perhaps polyurethane, who knows. Whatever, it keeps me warm and provides neutral camouflage for my Misha Barton-dress pattern sheets. Anyway, I was in bed thinking of how flammable this quilt must be, that in a fire it would go up like tinder, not exactly a safety net for me. so I begin looking around at how a fire could spread or catch on my bed. I swear on Lil' Wayne's life the following took place:
I told myself the only way my bed would ignite is if my light hanging on the ceiling sparked and blew out, falling to my new throw rug and jumping to my quilt, like something out of the movie Final Destination. So I get up to go to the bathroom, come back in (no more than 2 minutes later), and turn on the light switch. On cue, my light explodes from its casing, goes dark, and falls to the floor, albeit harmlessly. I can't believe my fucking light blew out 2 minutes after I envisioned it blowing out. the modern day Nostradamus I am, I'm currently focusing all my mental prowess (which is a lot) on imagining yankee stadium ablaze, with godzilla-like dinosaurs crushing the new proposed stadium.

In other apartmental news, while in the shower this morning, high sensitivity sensors in my skin told me to lower the temperature; the water was too damn hot. While attempting to turn the "cold" nob counter clockwise, it came off in my hand. Of course it did. So now I'm standing there scalding my back, yet having to risk life and limb to re-enter the bombardment of radioactive fluid to replace the knob and increase the cold water. Ahh, the relief of having your skin blister off - that's how you know a shower gets you clean. Naturally, the steam was a natural hair straightener, and I emerged looking like Balki from Perfect Strangers. Hot.

So this market, the Queen Victoria market, is about 6 or 7 blocks from my house, and it is a hunter/gatherer's dream. This bitch Vicky has everything, at least 10 meat vendors, a whole warehouse sized facility for fruits and veggies, and breads, cheeses, cured meat, sandwiches, pestos, greek places, italian antipasto, olives, i could go on and on. And everything's cheaper than the bulk-selling safeway. It's all vendors hawking their wares, but such quality! Such convenience! Such a cess-pool of civilization, ripe with a mass of humanity swelling and moving with the deals and shouts of asian men yelling that their meat is the most succulent. I bought 4.4 pounds (2 kg) of lean diced beef for 12 A$ (which is cheaper than 2 big mac meals in american dollars... seriously) 3 Fresh containers of pesto/tapenade/eggplant spread for 10. A freaking bag of oranges for two bucks. It's incredible..the competition drives the quality up and the price down, like the hookers on K street in DC (and by quality, here, of course I mean transsexualism). Honestly, it was overwhelming, but I can't say enough good things about it. You need to see it to believe it. It's like my hunger had entered free agency, and all of these teams were offering me competing contracts. Delicious Italian chicken breast stuffed w/ ham and smoked mozzarella for dinner last night. Ain't nothin like seasoned chicken titties.

Now speaking of food, I haven't quite fulfilled my requirement to speak on my first drunk night here. We started off at a bar called Young and Jackson watching cricket (we, Australia, won the Ashes vs. England on Monday, recapturing the urn of burnt wickets from the Poms), and continued to some other bar overlooking a road, accessible by escalator. At that point, I wasn't up to my normal routine of hiking up moving escalators, and shooting condescending sideways glances at the plebian butterballs I pass. So after we had 9 or so rounds of aussie beer (probably a distant cousin of Mr. Foster), I was starving. Fortunately the next bar we went to, The Retreat, had a kitchen. AUSTRALIA HAS THE BEST BAR FOOD EVER. We got chicken parmasean that came with salad. At a bar. Amongst throngs of drunken people. What other bar (that has a dance floor no less, more on this in a minute) in the States has a full gourmet kitchen. I know the BA does, but this is more of a social atmosphere, weird, but good. Nice of them to make sure I eat my vegetables to go with my hops and yeast.
Now the dance floor. Awesomely hilarious. One of the other lab workers, luke, says to me while motioning to the court of gyration, "you much of a dancer" - I said no, rudely pointing out that I am white. His natural reaction was to tell me everyone here is white. I look around. I agree. Everyone on the dance floor is white, and they all make the tin man, oil free, look like Justin Timberlake on extasy. They all looked like Elaine (Seinfeld) had children with Carlton Banks (Fresh Prince) and the kid has scoliosis. And a Joe Theisman broken leg. I cracked up, not remembering that I suck at dancing, but I'm pretty sure Shakira couldn't help australian rythm. Here's the funny thing, it makes these people more comfortable to be around, because you know their not going to attempt to "Bring it On" while you're drinking your beer, or have a drop it like it's hot competition while shaking 280 pounds of fried chicken or oatmeal legs. They all were just enjoying themselves, singing along to the 80's and dancing, and had a general air of geniality. I don't think i'll be showing off my groove thing anytime soon, but I enjoy the bars here so far, very relaxed, housing suit wearing business men as well as fratted-outfit wearing college kids, all intermingling like a utopian sociology experiment on Noah's Ark.

But chicken parmasean with a salad! And beer too!

1000's of words

A wise man once said, "A picture is worth a thousand words." Kim reiterated this wise statement and requested pictures. As it were, I would rather just write 1000 words, I think, namely due to my timely ability to consistently forget my camera. So you get what I give you.

food tinman matches concentric rings kitchen bill clinton

After some time at the gym today, I returned home to realize I was quite tired, and would soon be hungry. You know when you're hungry but lazy, and all you want to do is sit there and eat, but ideally skipping all the active steps in the middle that comprise the preparing of your food? So I just sat there, doing nothing but watching basketball highlights online. Here's where things went south. First, I discovered that in my area, I will be unable to purchase NBA League Pass Broadband. It's broadband! My region shouldn't matter! I am willing to pay money for a service that is already set up, yet they don't want my money (maybe they found out I was going to be using Australian currency, which for the cost of league pass [$150 American] is roughly equal to placing a reasonable 2:1 odds bet on Mama Medallion, the champion kangaroo boxer, in her match this afternoon at the local TAB). NBA.com, you will incur my wrath. Just because I am not actually a basketball player does not mean I won't file a grievance with the players' union. Mark my words.
So no live streaming bball games, I lamented. At this point, eating eggs would make me relatively happy, but only so long as zero mis-steps crept into the actual procedure of formulating those eggs on a plate. Mis-step no. 1: I go downstairs, forgetting the new $4.50 frying pan I bought from IKEA. I scowl and trudge back upstairs to retrieve it. Mis-step no. 2: The drawer containing spatulas, etc, has a faulty handle, which comes loose in my hand as I try to pull the draw open, like shaking the wooden hand of a shark attack victim to watch in horror as it detaches from his foreharm, still clawing your palm. Now frustration is setting in. Three minutes of trying to re-fit satan's bastard of assorted knobs back into its screw-hole until I realize I can just pull the drawer open from its sides. Hopkins engineering. A defunct piece of hardware in the kitchen, get out! You mean the maintenance of this place is a little suspect? I'm as surprised as Bill Clinton must have been that chubby Monica bragged to her chubbier friend that she, a lowly intern (at least she wasn't a he who was a scribe) was fortunate enough to felate the first fallus. At this point I am annoyed with the shoddy cabinet, but I'm about to cook my eggs, which will put a smile on my otherwise steely countenance. Mis-step no. 3: I can't get the stove to light, neither lighters work, and the pilot light must have forgotten his wings, or be on auto-pilot, I don't know. Finally I find a box of matches whose use must be for this very occurance. Here comes the single dumbest thing I've seen since getting here. There are used matches in the matchbox. I'll let that settle in. People have been using matches, then instead of simply throwing them away, putting them back in the box. I would rather my floor be covered in spent matches than have to sort through this little box with my fat sausage fingers for a fresh match. They're one time use, people! Just throw it away. Christ. The Illogical Express is now entering a new county. Welcome to Moron-ville, population: My housemates (most are gone now for the holidays). Well I'm glad i was able to vent, which is good, because not much of any consequence happened today, other than the phenomenal salmon and eggs with freshly juiced pineapple I had for breakfast. I literally watched the old lady cut up chunks of pineapple from the exoskeleton frame of the tropical fruit, put it through the juicer, and voila, into my glass. No pulp, just pure frothy goodness. Shit I love juice. A continuation of the "food is fresher here" theme, which seems to recur quite often.

Sorry, this was all a very shitty blog post. My heart wasn't really in it, so my timely charisma couldn't really shine through. You vultures will get some better recounts of my travels later.

durnk

you want spontanaieyt? I'm here, live and spontaneous at 1248 pm my time (i mean am). First, we had a ferry ride accross the bay as a lab bonding exercise. This ride, which passed right under the purported hole in the ozone, fried my skin like the fish and chips we ate on the other side. Then we headed back for sume much need ed beer and crikcet watching. so for the last 8 hours, i hae been beering and cricketing watching. It's true thwat they say about auussies - these mofos can drink. i would be remiss saying they drink beer like water, because i've drunk this much wwater before, and still was uncofmortalbe. they drink beer like they breatrh air, it's simply a necessity. after each one of the 4 of us bough t 2 rounds ("it's my shout" = this round will be depricating the value of my wallet), they were going strong. This was just the beginning. They are vampires, slaking their thirst on the malty goodness of yeast fermentation instead of midnight lifeblood. After the second bar, I needed resucitation, and so retreated to my abode, and here a i am. This all is after I stopped at my lab to pick up my ipod and to use the facilities. speaking of which, yesterday I used said facilities twice, and both times, there was the same guy in there, all unkempt. He looks like a derelique version of the boss on the british version of "the office". This man is on my shitting schedule. How does this happen. How, with 480 minutes of the wokring day, dides this man happen to be in the baffromm ath the same time as myself? Flabergasted though i was, i neglected to ask hi mhis intent.
and speaking of yeast fiermentation, I actually have grown accustomed to vegemite. The stuff is a little wiird at first (and by wierd i mean, you say to yourself: "ah, i am consuming the very refuse of the creature used to make beer"), but you get used to it, after buffering it with such common household condiments as butter and Pb. (peanut butter, not the elemental formula for lead). If you think I haven't tried it with tuna fish, you are clearly insane.

And speaking of insane, I saw a man on the tram yesterday, who was clearly off his rocker. Not even close to his rocker. In a different zip code from his rocker. He had that crazy (you know) look in his eye, and still had an IV line stuck in his arm (this man was not in captivity, mind you). He also had the very skinny facial features indicative of AIDS patients (this is not funny). Aside from the sunken cheeks, however (now this is funny) he looked exactly like craig. I mean exactly. And I've seen pictures of craig's family, and he is not one of them, he's simply a lunatic version of CDP only australian... well, you know what i mean. Alright, I need to pass out and asleep off this brew. one

103 Million Reasons I better be loving Japan... umm, not what you're thinking

$103 Million for Daiseke Matsuzaka, or D-Mat. 52 Million dollar contract, coupled with a 51.11 million dollar auction price just to deal with his sniveling agent, Scott Boras. It almost makes my 150 A$ a week look like a bargain. One thing I forgot about the location of my place, and its proximity to bars and cafes, it's also right near Lygon St., which is home to all the italian restaurants, outdoor seating, and some of the best smelling bread you can imagine. Seriously, the patisseries and bakeries here make the bread factory near Fells Point smell like my gym shoes (recall, if you will, how I neglected to let them dry after running stairs in them sans socks during a rainstorm).

Many of you (ok, just Kim) have been asking about how my new lab is. It's good. As of right now, that's how I'll describe it. Pros and cons, like anything else, but it's mainly just incredibly different from american-funded lab space (at least what I'm used to at hopkins). For starters, everything has a cost-benefit analysis, for instance, they don't order miniprep kits, too expensive. This is fine, I'm cool with saving money by cutting back on shortcuts. But then when you see the animal facility, and all the open experimental cages (as in, no lids), the "clean" autoclaved bins sitting out w/ open sawdust, and people doing barehanded mouse dissections on open-air tables, you notice the difference (is this barehanded mouse handling an Australian thing, Neil?). However, I must say, the animal workers here trump each and every individual in the hopkins veterinary system. They make harriet running our mouse-house seem like that beetlejuice guy from the howard stern show running a swiss bank. I went through my facility introduction today with Maya, who runs the place - she and her mouse folk do injections, set up breeder pairs, bleed mice, wean them, etc. We can't even trust the hopkins employees to properly sex the mice, let alone do complex experimental series of injections. Though when we witness the same type of people as the hopkins staff attempt to sex a "yo light skinned tall thang" on Caroline St., we are no longer surprised. I'll relay more info about my work (all I've been doing is reading the past few days, my head hurts, but i'm starting to get my mind around what needs to be done), and the people in my lab, but right now I don't feel like it, and, as the historic spousal intimidator Bobby Brown once said, "It's my prerogative."

As many of you know, if there's one thing Asian I love, it's raw tuna. Fortunately for me, there are sushi shops everywhere here. They're all over the place. And not just restaurants, there are these sushi bars on the street (not like carts or vendors, but just as in any other place in a row of storefronts built into the large buildings). The bars have a dining area inside, but also a window service to just get "take away" sushi (sashimi, sushi rolls, chicken rolled in rice and seaweed, seriously, eggs and kangaroo rolled in platapus tails, not seriously). It's pre-made (fresh and recent, just ready to go) and you can walk off w/ a roll or sit at one of the little outdoor tables. I may eat sushi 5 times a week, and it's relatively inexpensive. Delicious. While I was chopsticking my way through some salmon today, a guy (who I can only assume to be gay for reasons that should become obvious, but you never know these days, maybe he's just honest) rolled up, looked at me, and said "my my there are some sexy boys out today," and departed. I'll take compliments from anyone, so I was pleased. My powder blue terry cloth polo shirt does the trick every time. He also said Hugh Jackman was a former lover of his. I believe him.

My move in

Below you will find the ramblings of an apartment hunting addict.

I moved into the new death star last night, and my second-first impression was less than stellar. Where to begin? I started searching for a place last monday, the quest luring me all around Melbourne with but a map and a list of phone numbers/room prices. While a few places seemed OK (these places were then rented out just prior to me requesting a "let" in them - one with a couple of Aussie guys, another w/ 3 Aussies who chose to balance w/ 2 girls/2 guys - there were already 2 dudes and a fat girl, I wouldn't want to room with them anyway lest I be gobbled up in my sleep by the cheese-cakery, and one place with 2 girls who told me to come check out the room on friday, yet "sold" it on thursday [clearly they had no idea what they were passing up]--> the lesson, as always: Girls are not to be trusted - they are bastions of dishonesty and shrewd but poorly formulated business practices), the rest of the places were, to be kind, ramshackle relics of horrendous proportions, sort of like those of the ancient Minoans of Crete, but only if you took away all the mosaic art, moved into them now, as ruins, and used a team of mutant beavers to gnaw out the prehistoric indoor plumbing. It is a sellers' market.

So as is my wont, I began to panic, and became semi-desparate to snatch up a semi-decent place. I got the "place" part down ok. I already introduced you to my splendid land lady (whom no one in the house can stand, wart nosed heathen that she is), now let me lead you down the hallway to the kitchen. A transluscent film of ill repute coats all, with three small refrigerators running idly, incubating the contents sporadically (i.e. growing spores, not whimsically random). My room is quite small, but that's ok, who needs space when you have science. Oh, this is fun: my biological compass (which many of you know to function about as well as Captain Jack Sparrow's, but without the magic) told me to blurt out, "at least my window doesn't face the east," upon discussing my room's shortcomings with one housemate, Skye. Alas, fellow wanderers. The sun still rises in the east down here, right through my shade and into my bloodshot eyes.

I wouldn't be telling all of this if it didn't have a gold lining (or bronze, or a semi precious stone, or even one of those "tiger's eye" stones): The location is sweet. I'm about 2 blocks in every direction from all sorts of cool stuff. I can walk to work, walk to bars, walk to all sorts of cafes (which, as I've stated, are sweet). Plus, my lease goes til Feb, at which point I can renew, and cut my balls off, or try to find a decent place brimming with glitz.

If you look hard in the upper right hand corner of my room picture, you can just start to make out the floral print bedsheets. My host, Penny, sent me on my merry way with twin sized sheets to call my own, from her roses and pink cosmopolitan collection. This is perfect, however, because Christina wanted me to give off an air of homosexuality, so as to ward off potential evil minded women lurking around corners to steal away with my fidelity. Mission accomplished.

Speaking of the interactions of women and men, there is way too much goddamn PDA in this country. On the train, on the tram, in the streets, IN THE GYM! Touching, cuddling, hugging, nuzzling, tripping over accents like they had golf balls in their mouths -- I seriously want to vomit. I don't know if it's more accepted, but it's not cool.

And with that, I bid you all adieu, and will discuss my new job that I started yesterday. Yesterday to me, not yesterday to you -- life is sure good on this side of the international date line, coming to you live from the future.

I'm Back

Just got my internet up and running in my new cell, er, apartment. That means skype, NBA broadband, and back with the blog - more to come tonight. Before I go, though, I think I should divulge the funniest thing of the modern era: Mustaches. Sorry, Dad, but they're simply astoundingly out of place (both in public and in their general anatomical locale). Whenever I see someone with a full-on lip tickler I just assume they're trying to be funny or "grow" a costume. If god wanted people to seriously have mustaches he wouldn't have invented the razor. and if he wanted little kids to avoid concussive scooter injury, he wouldn't have invented the Razor. Just a little reminder... beat your kids, it's the master plan of intelligent design.

Housing

So I finally inked a deal that would net me one rooming accomodation (picture to come later) in an international student house. Ideal? Probably not, but it'll work. Besides, my current lease only goes til the end of the semester, in February (crazy, huh?), and I can choose to renew if I'd like, otherwise I could look for someplace cooler to live. The place has a few Americans and an english dude and I guess a German kid, so I imagine those of us from the master-nation will band together to exclude the Europeans if they get too rowdy (I better not hear any Wayne Rooney chants). When I took over the lease, I had to go see Lillian, the landlady. Eli, the young Aussie lad from whom I am acquiring the room, said she doesn't seem very honest; I had a pretty vivid image of her on my way over there, and, needless to say, after meeting her, I'm pretty sure she doesn't cast a shadow. Maybe the fact that I could see my breath upon crossing the threshold to her lawyerly lair should have tipped me off. Anyway, I can always opt out after a couple of months. Who knows.

In other news, my father says he enjoys reading my blog, because it is like I am a little kid experiencing things for the first time. Fie I say to that, fie. In reality, I am simply documenting the reactionary awe of Australia in response to experiencing me for the first time.

In terms of new things I've noticed, here's one: no napkins. You can't get a good slab of napkins anywhere. If you get any at all, it's one, otherwise you can't seem to find a dispenser around. This leads to two potential results (which oddly enough I haven't seen): 1) The country should be overrun by trees. Everyone knows we need the napkin industry to keep the deciduous tree population in check. 2) This should be a nation of grease-stained shirts and crumby finger marks on everyone's pants, neither of which appear to be very prevalent.

Since I came into the student union to use a computer to check on the football scores (my other option being watching the two fox contests of carolina/NYG and SF/GB beginning at 5:00 this morning), they informed me there is a charge of $1 Australian to use the computer (this, in American dollars, could go about approximately as far as relacing your Chuck Taylor All Stars with shoddy twine). So I suppose it's worthwhile for me to use up my whole half hour. I know what you're thinking, and no, I won't honor that thought (that famous Aussie Mel Gibson might be right about Jews taking over everything and raking in money for even the slightest service) with a response. I just won't.

Poison

The Ozzy's are trying to poison me. I just wrapped up a set of "drinks" with Warren and co. from 6 pm to 1230. Thank you, Prometheus for allowing my liver the opportunity to regrow weekly. Props to the state of Victoria for being the home of sparkling Shiraz.

Cafes, Paddy Wagons, and Beverages

..so as a continuation of last night's cricket extravaganza, let me just say I'm sold on it, and here's why: yes it's rather long, and no, nothing truly exciting really happens, but it's really an excuse to drink beer ("bE-ah"). At David's game (keep in mind these are 13 year olds) everyone sat around in the sun for 3.5 hours drinking ice cold beers. It was glorious. So not only do the streets practically run with Fosters, but parents/fans/me drink beer at juvenile cricket matches. This would be unheard of in the States, where you can't buy, let alone carry in, some suds for even high school games. Here it goes all the way down to the wee ones. In fact, one of the kids came over and asked his dad for some, and the father said (as we would all expect): "no (here's where it's different), not while you're playing." In other words, beer is perfectly acceptable for this youth outside of [semi] athletic competition. Another kid playing what is sort of like outfield came and sat in a lawn chair next to his dad. I fell asleep (hot sun + beer + no food + recently worked out +, obviously, cricket), so I don't know who's attention span is shorter, the players' or the fans'.

Now here's perhaps my new favorite thing about melbourne: about a third of the police cars look like this:

I love it. Not only is there very little crime (aside from that in which I would be the plaintiff on Judge Judy), but the police force looks like it's well equiped to pursue such notorioius criminals as Slimer and the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. Who ya gonna call?!

On a more praising note, the food here is very fresh (not as fresh as Lil' Wayne, who is reportedly "fresh, like I'm by Mennen and shit", but fresh), and very good. I don't know how else to describe it other than fresh-tasting. For instance, you pay a little more, but in all the cafes (and there are tons) the chicken is not frozen for delivery, the hollandaise sauce is made just before being added to my eggs benedict, etc. I had a fresh-squeezed OJ with my breakfast, and they did it right in front of me, no pulp or anything, it was fantastic. I was drinking from the teat of Valencia. It reminded me of those old Tropicana commercials where they just stick a straw in an orange...don't tell me you've never tried this. When I did it I think I gave myself a blod-clot behind my eye from sucking so hard to try to get a few molecules of orange-like substance out. This was much more satisfying. The other interesting thing to note is that when you get a glass of water (they think I say it funny, by the way -- foreigners are weird) with your meal, there's no ice in the glass. You either get a caraffe of cold water and glasses, or they'll refill your glass from a pitcher; again, no ice in any of the above water repositories.

But the strawberry milk! Oh man, this stuff is great. I think you all know how much I love my pink-milk, in fact, some of you may remember when I knocked over my Nesquik onto my computer, shorting it out (the laptop, not the beverage). However, I was much more concerned about the spilled milk. In fact, I cried over it. But the strawberry milk here (goes by Big M) is terrific, it tastes cleaner and less artificial. I've had 3 in the last day. There's a place in the train station that sells it colder than others, so I'll go out of my way a little bit to get it there. It's .05 more than than buying it at 7-11, which in American dollars is about equal to purchasing a nappy-ass weave from chinatown.

Finally, a little human note. The people are all very friendly and happy to give directions, along with a "no worries, mate." They are also quite soft-spoken in general. In fact, if someone asks for the time or directions, they don't say excuse me and wait for you to look at them (like you'd do back home; again, they're totally polite about it though, you'd know what I mean if you heard it) - but they just ask very softly, and you're not really sure they're addressing you at all, noticably so if you're not even looking in their direction.

aight, drinks with my hosts and their neighbors, holla back.

More cultural learnings

So in keeping with the richard pryor thing, I just saw an exact (yet Australian) replica of Rich B, the nazi leader of Sigma Chi at John's Hopkins (whoops - and no, I'm not correcting that).

Also, babies here - i've seen many in strollers, and they all have HUGE foreheads. Not just big, I mean, these domes could be used to pick up alien radio waves at S.E.T.I. It's weird, because grown ups look normal, it's just every baby looks like it's destined to eventually star on little people big world (a show about a midget/dwarf family for the uninitiated).

Another odd cultural thing is the words they use. Obviously this is the case anywhere you go, but here, american words meaning the same thing may be more or less appropriate. Example: In many of the postings for apartments for rent (i'm still hunting for that elusive australian room - it's wiley (sp?)), anyone requesting a gay roommate, or announcing that they are cool with having a gay roommate (or even just saying the roommate has to be ok living with a gay person), will say "queer friendly." Apparantly this is widely acceptable, according to Penny. So I wonder; is it simply ok to use "queer" in Australia, or is it appropriate only in the same way black people can use the "N" word in America? Interesting.

OK, a little more later, I'm off to Daniel's (my 13 year old host) cricket match. Speaking of cricket, it's actually kinda cool to watch - very relaxing, you never have a play where it's expected of the fans to get up and cheer- nothing's ever so tense or euphoric, it's just completely a laid back, almost delta-wave sleep inducing, yet not annoying sport. And there's a Pakistani guy named Enzamam that looks like Fidel Castro and wears no helmet. He's sweet.

Early Australian Observations

And now for a break from my sarcastic cynicism. Well, real cynicism, but you get the idea. So far I've noticed a few things about this country that I didn't know coming in. This alone should be astounding - not my keen sense of observation, but that there were some things unbeknownst to me. Anyway, the toilets...they're all this new damn breed of "smart" flushers, with a button for a half flush (they're in a water conservation state) and one for a full flush. I think you can guess what the differences are for. That's right, one button to flush endangered ostrich eggs, and the latter to dispose of children's pet kangaroos. So I haven't yet gotten to see a "backwards" flush, which is downright frustrating. Also, light switches-- they flip DOWN to turn the light on, or the outlet, or the toaster, or whatever. Crazy southern hemisphere. I can only assume this means they use the opposite of a sinusoidal alternating current. Perhaps co-sinusoidal (anyone with any science here knows I'm joking). Or tangential, who knows. they could use DC and I wouldn't be surprised. Oh, and people do actually wear hats like the one paul hogan wore in crocodile dundee. Not many people, but you do see it. Let's call them top hats, even though they're not exactly, for the time being. More on this later.

The driving on the left side of the road is odd, but going left around rotaries is downright terrifying! I can't bear to look if I'm riding with my glorious hosts Penny and Warren and a "round-about" is coming up - it's quite counter-intuitive (but counter-counter-clockwise) - who goes left around a rotary?! Here's the weird thing though. Everything's opposite, right?, the driving, you walk on the right side, etc, yet the person on the right still has the right of way! How does this make sense? you're turning left, into a rotary going left, yet the person (on the left) who would be in the roundabout for a shorter time, must wait for the person on the right to enter and go by before entering. Weasly little way to borrow from America if you ask me. Except for the small fact that we do things logically (for instance, a hospital charging the same person to a different account number for each of his therapy sessions - this ought to be an SAT or LSAT logic question it's so unexplicably obvious).

So the other backwards travel thing, and affecting me even more than cars, is walking. You know if you're walking towards someone coming in the opposite direction, and you're going to pass them, you angle slightly right so they pass by you off your left shoulder (and the same is true for you walking past them). Not here, apparantly. You have no idea how many times i've nearly collided with people, or just flat out elbowed old ladies in the face trying to slide right-wards. I'm learning though, now I make a bee-line for the westernmost spot on the sidewalk so as to give people a wide berth.

There are also a lot of what are entitled "hotels" but they're mostly just bars with a few rooms upstairs, or places to grab a bite and watch the game (er, match). Curious. And the money is different sizes AND colors for different denominations. for instance, 50 is yellow, 20 is red, 10 is blue, etc. (no dollar bills, just 1 and 2 dollar coins). Can you see where I'm going with this? Colored money, hotels everywhere, a top-hat? All that's missing is the guy with the monacle. Monopoly was introduced by Charles Darrow in 1935. They say the commonwealth of australia signed its Constitution on July 9, 1901. I don't buy it. Plus, a girl named Lizzie Magie patented "the Landlord Game" in 1904, a sort of ancestor to monopoly (wikipedia facts). Close enough. I'm just assuming the constitution date, or "Australia Day" really happened somewhere between 4 and 35 years after it was claimed. Once again, an American stalewart has a hand in the design of Australia. I couldn't find out when Aussie started with the colored money, but I'm willing to bet they just stole the idea from Parker Brothers.

Let's see, what else? oh, lots of jewish people in the neighborhood of south melbourne in which i'm currently residing. no, not the kind of jewish people who retire and move south from new york to melbourne, florida to eat chinese food weekly (though there are tons of chinese and vietnamese and thai restaurants); these are real orthodox russian jews who settled here and shave their heads so as to wear wigs (women), and ask penny to turn off the light switches on friday night in the temple (located, warehouse fashion, above let's say a bagel shop), because they aren't allowed to do any 'work' after nightfall through the sabbath. No, this still does not excuse solomon for closing me-latte for like a month around passover. People need their coffee more than other people need their faith/traditions. And tons and tons of asian people. Like the jews, I have no problem with this but it's slightly odd when you see the same kinds of kids who only speak korean or what have you around hopkins(and refuse to speak english, even though they go to an american school.. whatever), yet when they open their mouth, they sound like neil or craig. I can't tell you how weird this is. It cannot be explained, you don't know what it's like until you actually hear it, trust me.

And the sun - really hot, really bright, and really high for a long time. It was 4:00 pm today and i thought it was 1:30 at the latest. i'm in the process of burning, and thus developing skin cancer. Hurry up, Dwang.

And finally, has anyone ever seen some of Richard Pryor's stand up? He talks about going to africa, the motha'land (for black people, and as some archaeologists theorize, all people). He says that everywhere you look, theres an equivalent, perfectly matching person to someone you know. His example was Joe Frazier (though without a triumphant Ali standing nearby, arms raised as in the Thrilla in Manila - correction, Ali fainted after winning, they both basically killed each other, but I digress). And in Richard Pryor's Africa, African Frazier was a wino. Anyway, here, same thing. I've seen Kim (KB). I've seen Hugh Jackman at least twice. I've even seen that asian kid that's always calling bullshit fouls when playing basketball (only he had a deep australian voice here, of course). All very strange. Of course I haven't seen anyone come remotely close to being as good looking or as much of a specimen as myself. And we're talking an entire continent. No real surprise, I suppose, that one's flummoxed scientists for years- they may never find a suitable equivalent.

Congrats to Vince and Jen, apparantly Cameron Christopher was born today - more kids with multiple first names (their last name is a first name, too) - not to be trusted.

Peace

Welcome

Welcome to my first ever blog post. That's right, MY blog; something I pretty much decided against, but then changed my mind when i thought about emailing you the observations to follow. Here's why - No one wants to be forced emails to read on a weekly, even bi-weekly basis, let alone every couple of days. We all know that person that goes away or abroad and thinks we want to hear what she went through on the daily. "What about my life?" I ask while reading these emails - they never seem to convey any interest in the reader. Which is fine. Because we (and by we I mean anyone who is abroad and wanting to keep others updated...ok fine, by we I mean me [or I], your correspondent only concerned with his own happenings for now, -- we -- don't care what's going on with you right now. Let's be honest, I'm writing this so you will say to yourself, "gee, he's witty and bright" and perhaps tell your friends you know someone as capable on so many levels as myself. Or you'll wonder if I'm available - I'm not, right now I'm happily taken - so, you'll then wonder if I'm available to do parties or barmitzvah's, perhaps as a dancer, or wallflower. Clearly I'm not, I'm in Australia; how quickly we forget. That and I'm writing this to make you laugh (ok, it's actually to make you laugh, and then tell me you laughed, so I can pat myself on the back for being a sarcastically funny person). And finally, I'm writing this so that I can one day go back and see all the things I was thinking while in a different country, or what little nuances I picked up, or to remind myself how clever I thought I could be (or really am). You know what's missing from all of these reasons for writing this blog? You. If I'm curious about how things are going for you, you'll get an email, separatlely (well, separate from the ones i'll probably send out to brag about my blog updates). Otherwise, just assume I don't care.

This way, I can stay current updating anyone that chooses to read my recent literature often (we'll refer to this group as my closest compatriots), or, I can drop minute words of wisdom to my other minions who elect to neglect most of my writing and only glance haphazardly at this site every now and again - I shall deem this group the bottom feeders, or to borrow from Jon Hodgman of the daily show (and "I'm a PC" commercial famedom), more accurately, "Morlocks."

So, to get on to the early aussie stuff - I've been robbed. yep, 150 dollars (Australian - which is equal to somewhere between a Ticonderoga No. 2 pencil and a Fiat). That sucked. It was taken from my wallet, from inside a locker at the gym. Yes, my new gym. Where people (men) don't seem to mind wearing short shorts. This is an even more glaring difference in the Queen's Kingdom than even the cars on the wrong side of the street. Believe me. This shit would never fly in America, at least not in any gym in which I would actively purchase membership. And back home, there's an unwritten rule that only the ripped, truly jacked bamfs can wear cut off shirts, wife beaters, (basketball playing aside) - let's just assume this should be a rule, because we've all seen the people who do this who really don't deserve to. Well it happens here. a lot. and yes, by (you guessed it) - skinny asian kids (and relatively bigger guys in their short shorts). OK, I'm signing off (temporarily, only to write a new entry under the title "Australian Observations") And by the way, if you're cool enough to get this far, I actually do care what's happening with all of you back home, feel free to email me or call. and if you don't get an email from me (often), it's not cause i don't care, just because i'm actually pretty busy with science stuff, but I do hope all is well stateside for all of you. ok both of you.
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