El Bueno, El Malo y El Feo

Chinatown has lots to offer in the way of food, including chicken buns for under two bucks and four emperor's puffs for a dollar. (Chinese New Year bueno) I shouldn't tell them how tasty these are, or else they'll raise em to normal Sydney prices. (which are regularly malo)

On the way to Tropfest, an annual short film festival held in Sydney (bueno), the overcrowded buses forced me to hoof it up to Bondi Junction and take the very same buses, only emptied out. I got to Tropfest an hour and a half late. (malo)

From Central Station, they offered shuttle buses right to the cricket grounds for the Australia-West Indies 20/20 match (bueno). Oh, but you couldn't use your regular bus ticket, you had to buy a special return ticket, even if you weren't returning (nooo bueno).

There's a pedestrian walk on the Harbour Bridge into the city. Instead of taking the bus a few weeks back, I hoofed it across the bridge while it's still staying light until 7 (bueno, bueno).

Speaking of summertime hours, I've fallen into the habit of either running to, or running beforehand, and then going to the beach around 6 or 7. (so very bueno). Today, however, there was a tsunami warning after an earthquake in Chile. (obvious malo).

Foxtel (the cable service) has four new channels dedicated to Olympic coverage from Vancouver (a cool bueno), but even for long-time subscribers, they charge us for these channels (lame malo).

I recently noticed they sell Ben and Jerry's here now (bueno!). Oh, but it costs $12.50 for a self-sized carton (uhhh, seriously? malo).

The train to work is quicker and arrives more frequently, but it's pretty depressing and there are changes. The bus ticket is cheaper and no changes, but it takes longer and only arrives once every 20 minutes. (hmm, both bueno and malo).

I have a really cool girlfriend (bueno), who currently lives 17,000 miles away (muy malo).

I recently went bowling for friends' birthdays (bueno), but bowled by far the worst score of the group (feo). A group that included guys and girls.

Aussie, Ozzie, Ossie

Unlike previous Australia Days, I didn't take part in any flag waving, barbeques, VBs or even renditions of 'Land Down Under.' Pretty lowkey, but for the sake of blogging about my life, here is a synopsis. Keep in mind, while not wildly exciting, these are all fairly quinnesential Australian activities.

- Displayed my Aussie flag on the windowsill, held up by a Padres matchbox ice cream truck.

- Went to Bondi and saw people go into the ocean with inflatable Haviana sandal floaty raft things, completing a world record attempt of some sort.

- Ate a veggie burger at 'Australia's largest vegetarian BBQ.'

- Fought with Vodafone, and got out of my two-year contract with their 'broadband' service

- Watched about two minutes of cricket - that's all I could handle.

- Ran to Bronte, then Tamarama Beach - went for a swim and almost had my shoes and shirt washed away by the Pacific tide.

- Had a kangaroo burger for dinner and watched the Aussie Open tennis

- Ate Tim Tams for dessert

Oye, oye, oye....

Game, Set, Game

For a few years, I’ve heard people describe full tennis competitions as ‘games,’ even though a game is only one-third. This has perplexed me – there’s a game of rugby, a game of cards, but in tennis, it’s a match. With that said, I travelled down to Melbourne last weekend to watch many MATCHES of tennis at the Australian Open. Figured while I’m here, might as well check out the only Grand Slam (and yearly sporting event of significance) in the Southern Hemisphere.

After a flight on the luxurious Tiger Airways (enter sex clinic jokes here) and catching a few trains to East Saint Kilda (home of the Saints), I settled down for a long summer’s nap. My first mistake of the weekend was only one application of sunblock – and missing the ‘above-the-knee’ and upper arm areas – later revealing a baaad farmer tan and knee sunburn look. Guess that’s what nine hours under the Australian sun will do to you.

Now a few quick notes about tennis in general. First the ballboys and ballgirls. This is such an odd little setup, with these disciplined ball-retrieving soldiers tracking down every stray ball that’s humanly possible in a three-hour tennis match. How do they never trip, drop a ball or even sneeze during a match? I did learn that one actually relieved himself on centre court, resulting in a 40-minute delay. So they are human after all... Another strange one are doubles teams, both men and women. They slap five and discuss strategy after pretty much every single waking point, to keep up the team camaraderie I suppose. I decided to do the math on this one, and at a minimum, they would slap hands at least 48 times if they won every single point. At a five each, that totals 240. Then at breaks, they sit on their ‘bench’ without saying a word to each other. Huh? Not even a 'this water is good,' 'you're hitting your forehands nicely' comment??

Day one was court hopping between women’s singles, men’s singles, women’s doubles, men’s doubles, mixed doubles and a scattering of practices. I hardly knew any of these players, with the exception of an Australian female player, whose name I’m ironically now forgetting. But there were memorable moments, from the rambunxious young (probably drunk) Aussie fans to cheering on what I assumed was one half of an American team. Day two, I repeated the early start and met up with friends Mike and Laura, who proceeded to recruit me out of the sun of Margaret Court (Court? no, Stadium) to Rod Laver Arena. It was like being called up to the big leagues. Murray, Nadal...I know these people! Oh, and I was a sunblock Nazi on day two, so my awesome looking redness wouldn’t spread. Like day one, I managed to stick around until pretty much every match was exhausted, deciding to skip the end of a 'legends' match (four guys I never heard of either). The weekend of tennis ended with another attempt by Aussie fans to cheer on their country people to victory. In vain. They try so hard, they really do.

Another few great things about the Open is they allow you to take in food to the grounds and Melbourne is a centrally located city that really embraces the tournament. This allowed me to catch a free tram, grab a burger from Lord of the Fries and watch some of the night matches from Federation Square.

Why do I insist on leaving Melbourne with 6am Monday morning flights? 4am should never be a wakeup time unless you’re a fisherman. On to Australia Day....

Good Things Come in Three (Phases)

Let's just start by saying that Christmas 2009-10 was much more productive, fulfilling and hard to recover from than last year. Maybe it was the Rose Bowl, the extra six days or merely the fact that I accomplished that much more this time around...but let's do it again sometime real soon. Will take this in three phases, since each chunk of the US tour had it's own unique personality. Starting with the fantastic 14-hour flight back home...you think I'm kidding.

Phase 1 (Where We're Going, We Don't Need Roads):














This is the phrase where I learned to appreciate the endless entertainment on V Australia, did not learn how to play dice, that Barney's Beanery has an endless supply of beer and food, the California DMV doesn't have to be that bad of an experience, it feels like Christmastime 110% more than in Australia (even when it's 70 degrees out in LA), being back makes me drink consistently more (probably because my friends do), Runyon Park is an excellent place for a run, get togethers honoring me spawn couples, Pag has access to all the Captain Morgans he can get his hands on, I seem to know people in big houses in the Hollywood Hills, Huntington sidewalk sales still rule and Long Beach Airport may look rundown, but it's underrated.

Phase 2 (Twas the Night Before Christmas...):














New York is a cold, snowy and slushy place, I can get jetlagged (or maybe just can't sleep on red eye flights), I still like oatmeal with Cool Whip on top, when I hear of Chianti, I still think of 'Silence of the Lambs,' I haven't been in a limo in more than five years, I have the cutest newphews ever (who cares if that's biased, it's true), being back east makes me even more in the Christmas spirit, I have a certain level of tolerance for incessant Christmas music, luxury cars drive niiice, Dunkin Donuts does eventually close (except with gas station drive throughs), Bellini is one drink that will wake you up, any form of hot dog is delicious, Candyland is quick and fun, Monopoly is endless and a form of fun, Sound of Music is lame when on during football, homemade lasagna is unreal, clothes in the US are oh so cheap and the best way to JFK Airport is not the Grand Central Parkway.

Phase 3 (Three's Company, Four's a Double Date):












Flying with a friend is much better, pho is a great meal at 10pm, sleeping on the floor isn't all that bad, six hour road trips are best with good food, music and company, California is georgeous (even on the 5), I should buy stock in In n Out, West Hollywood is west of the 101 (duh),I'll never really like Scotch, don't try to call for a taxi in the hills, Sport Chalet is in fact open at 10am on New Year's Day, you can tailgate without a car, some seven-year-olds know how to open beer bottles, PR agencies do get good seats, Oregon fans are nice enough people, bacon-wrapped hot dogs remain amazing, Aspen is old money/Vail is new money, snowboard lessons use endless instructors and analogies, skiing is like riding a bike, the chairlift remains dangerous, even after 31 years, Bill Cowher isn't going to coach in 2010, Rainbow Factory closes at 5, Pedro's breakfast stops at 11, Ralph's is open all night, there's a train that goes through San Clemente, Estancia wine is good and V Australia is still a legit airline.

Well worth every minute and penny spent. It couldn't get Eddie Vedder than that, until next time America.

A Three-Hour Tour, a Three-Hour Tour

OK, it was more like an eight-hour tour (was it really that long?), but a Saturday fishing trip inspired me to whistle the Gilligan's Island song. This trip was delayed about two months based on incelement weather and apparently the rest of Sydney's male population wanting some Australian sweep fish.

Sea sickness was on everyone's minds, since last time a few of our friends didn't have their sea legs and subsequently lost their sea lunches. But other than a bit of rocking and feeling like I was on a boat later in the night, the boat's bouncing was more ride than anyhing else. On the way through Sydney Harbour out to the mighty Pacific, a few of the rods showed a bend, which meant the fish were foolishly going for a bright and flashy bait that wasn't really bait at all. I was taking notes as some of the guys managed to fight these slimy fish into the boat.

This is where I'd like to make the comparison between fishing and wine tasting. Throwing back the fish after a hard-working catch is kind of like spitting out the wine after a taste. What a waste, enjoy your newly caught fish and wine, Jesus would.

When we got out into the ocean, that's when we set up shop by our 'rods,' stationary lines with the bait hooks. Something they don't tell prior to fishing is two of the more challenging things (at least on this boat) are hooking your bait and not getting your line tangled with the guy next to you. But basically, the rest of the time is waiting and reeling. Waiting....and reeling. Then moving the boat to a different spot with apparently more fish, and more waiting and reeling. Oh, and getting your hands to smell like fish the rest of the day while putting prawns, mini fish and squid on the hooks. I was shocked I didn't prick myself with the hook during one of these bait sessions.

But there was good music on the boat, sort of. I got 'Working for the Weekend' by Loverboy caught in my head, presumably thinking of the classic Chris Farley Chippendales SNL skit.

Fishing also reminded me of another nautical pasttime, sailing. They're both alot of prep work, with all the lines, bait, reels, sails, hooks and said hooks getting caught on the ocean floor. But for the times that a fish actually nibbles on our line and you come up with a salmon, pigfish or kingfish, it's pretty cool. Otherwise, beer may be required.

Despite the waiting, reeling and sun burning, all in all, good experience. Got a rare view of the coast, saw some pretty cool catches (with fish flapping around, of course) and saw old man Hal gut and scale about 30 fish on the way home. Ohh, that's what they mean by that...

During our day on the ocean (which wasn't really that far, we could see Bondi the whole time), I also caught one fish, my first ever: it's called a sweep and it was delicious.



















This is neither me catching a fish, nor any of our group. Hell, this is actually fly fishing. But Rory's pics are forthcoming and this shows Sydney Harbour, so close enough!

Best Commute in the World?

Many of us go through the daily commute to work: fighting through crowds and traffic, trying to wake up and prepping for what the day ahead holds. I do miss my car, but the Sydney work commute has been an adventure. First, it was the 333 and 380 bus fun. Since moving our office to North Sydney a few months ago, I've now had the pleasure of taking Sydney's trains and getting squished next to school kids and office workers from Bondi Junction to Town Hall and North Sydney stations.

A few weeks after arriving and taking the train across the Sydney Harbour Bridge, I predicted that this has to be the best commute anyone can enjoy, anywhere in the world. Tourists pay thousands just to see the Opera House and harbour, where I pay just $28 a week for ten trips over one of the most iconic settings on the globe.













However, this might be a little overrated, since I usually have my head in a book or too blocked by the packed train car to see anything more than traffic and bridge beams. But a good view of the water and top of the Opera House 'shells' reminds me of the scenic city I reside and work in. One strange aspect of heading back into Sydney is that while the train is going south, the traffic is driving north making passengers feel like we're going back in time or the wrong way down a one-way street.

Whether you work or visit Sydney, I'd suggest you grab a train over to Milson's Point or North Sydney for the journey and see what it's like every day on my way to the office. And after the train, another bonus is a good glimpse of the bridge going down the hill to McMahon's Point.

Koo Wee Rup

After the traditional trip to the Opera Bar, hiking the Bondi to Bronte cliffwalk, ferry to Manly, picnic at Ryan and Andy's and Japanese fish dinner, the next stop on mom and Aunt Eileen's Aussie Adventures took us south to Melbourne. OK, well, they ventured up to Cairns and the Great Barrier Reef, but this was MY next stop on their tour.

It was Friday the 13th, so I was expecting bad things to happen somewhere in the vicinity of the airport. Nothing drastic, but maybe sitting next to a fat guy or a delayed flight. The closest things I could decipher is the inability to catch a stand-by flight, sitting next to a fat guy and not having any money for the one shuttle bus into Melbourne. But good luck prevailed, as the kindly skydiving instructor Chris fronted me the $20 for my ride. Yes, my life is at a point where I need the help of skydiving instructors to pay for my shuttle bus because I don't know my Wells Fargo pin.

Finally getting into Melbourne around 11pm and grabbing a quick dinner, I snoozed away on my rollaway cot in room 121 of the Rendevous. Three things struck me from the Melbourne city tour the next morning: the guide spoke way too softly for 8am, Melbourne has a gaggle of sports venues and Captain Cook grew up in a house the size of an outhouse. Oh, and Yarra means 'everflowing' in Aboriginal. Why do we end up tired after just sitting in a bus most of the morn? Well, we needed our rest for a trip to Phillip Island and the Penguin Parade.

In short, the penguin tour took us two hours (in part through a town with one of my fave Aussie names, Koo Wee Rup) to Phillip Island, a scenic spot that's host to what else: an F1 and Moto GP racetrack. At sundown every night, hundreds of little penguins leave their daytime home in the ocean to head home to their burrows. On the marathon trip, I was wondering what all the fuss was about hanging out in the cold to watch penguins walking around...until I saw the little guys waddling out of the Pacific in droves, at exactly the time they promised. We even got something called the 'penguin premier' tickets, which was like box seats for the show. It was pretty cool to see these identical black and white birds rush out of the water and take to the penguin highway, coming home from work. There was even a Wallaby sighting to complete the night of nature.

They forbid us to take pictures, so here's a generic shot of the parade:













Sunday was looking like a hot one, so I made it over to the Australian Centre for the Museum Image to check out a exhibit of Dennis Hopper's films, photos and art collection. All I can say is the dude had it together, and still rolling along strong at 76. After Easy Rider, Colors and Andy Warhol paintings, I met up with friends Nirali and Martin right in the middle of a Polish festival. Seemed like a perfect time to grab a polish sausage for lunch.















Later on, mom, Aunt E and I cruised down Lygon Street, which seemed to have as many Italian restaurants as Phillip Island has penguins. We decided on the one that offered free wine and garlic bread, better deal than any others. Although it was 12 days after mom's birthday, I arranged the whole 'make a big deal' birthday dessert thing, and sure enough, they brought out tiramisu with the entire restaurant singing happy bday.
















Back to the Rendevous for a whopping four hours of sleep before saying g'day to mom and Aunt Eileen (they were headed for a week in NZ) and a 6am flight, then straight to work on Monday. This time I had the $20 for the shuttle bus.

Oh, and Tiger won the golf tourney, which took over the country's attention for a week. Speaking of blue blood sports, thinking of heading back down to Victoria for the Australian Open in January. Maybe I'll run into Andy Roddick at one of the alleyway bars.