Losing a Voice, Gaining a Smile at the Texas Bowl

It only took me one quarter to get hoarse. Thirty minutes of warm-up cheering, followed by the first 15 minutes of Rice’s stomping, and my voice had gone the way of Western Michigan’s pass defense.

So I’m sorry if my lack of vociferousness cost us a couple shots at catching the Broncos with a false start. But can you really blame me? Because if you were sitting, standing, working, or playing at the Texas Bowl, I’m sure you can understand why my voice went so quickly.

After all, it had been only 54 years since Rice looked like it had a shot at grabbing a bowl-game victory. And while I haven’t been privy to that half-century of angst — the closest I can come is watching Wonder Years, That 70s Show, and Everybody Loves Chris, in that order — I can understand where the desire to see your team, your crew, your boys succeed at the highest level possible.

The Texas Bowl was not full of neither Tostitos, oranges, nor national champions, but what it lacked in bravado it made up for in sheer existence. With its invitation earlier this month, the Texas Bowl instantly became the focal point for Owls fans across the world, leapfrogging the EagleBank Bowl and the Papajohns.com Bowl and nestling in as our favorite bowl of this wintry holiday break.

If you’re reading this blog, you already know the reasons why. A shot at a double-digit win total, considered by only the most fanciful — and fanatical — back in September. A chance to replace the 1954 Cotton Bowl trophy with a more recent set of hardware. An attempt to give Chase Clement and Jarett Dillard, our two most cherished gridiron giants, a proper farewell in front of a quasi-hometown crowd.

With paint painfully cracking from my chest, I looked up at the cobalt sky of Reliant Stadium, knowing I would be seeing these two in Rice threads for the last time. A bittersweet tinge filled my gut, but I could only imagine what it would be like for the two of them, with records, history, and friendship behind them that will guide them into the annals of Rice history.

And that's to say nothing of the other seniors: Brian Raines, ever the casted gladiator, out there once again; David Berken, always-underappreciatedlineman; Tommy Henderson, just a second late and an inch short of Dillar; and Ja'Corey Shepherd, whose ability to pump up a crowd was sorely needed during the games that saw lower attendance than a Detroit Lions awards dinner.

So the reasons for my voice going ballistic were evident.

What I didn't anticipate, however, is that the team would require us to yell and scream (and jump and clap and high-five) on end throughout the entire contest. Every time we looked up, it seemed that the Owls were set to kick off, stuffing a Broncos receiver, or finding another receiver (even Clement once) to snag the endzone toss. The breaks were few, and without the necessity of television commercials, I don't think my fumes would have lasted me through the light-rail swing back home.

If tonight was not perfect, it was damn close. Clement and Dillard, as ever, were two peas in a pod, stretching their record to 52 shared touchdowns -- although the 51st, from Dillard to a wide-open Clement, showed that tandem isn't just a one-trick pony. James Casey and Toren Dixon continued their superb play, C.J. Ugokwe barrelled down the Broncos and ate important minutes off the clock, and the defense -- boy, the defense -- held the Broncos' offense to 13 less first downs and 177 less yards.

The play-calling, emphasizing running early, threw the Broncos' defense awry, opening up options down-field as the game progressed. I wasn't privy to the sideline decision-making, but offensive coordinator Tom Hermann and head coach David Bailiff had their game-plan set with Rhino Glue and a dash of kahones. Our cheerleaders were prim, the MOB refrained from name-calling, and the Gray and Blue was out en masse, splled from the student section into John and Jane Doe of greater Houston.

This bowl game was magnificent, superb, and without compare. It's superlative to say that much has changed since Rice last won a bowl game: cell phones have eliminated landlines, Ford is currently drowning, and while North Korea may still be saber-rattling, our incoming Administration looks ready to pursue peace rather than war-mongering. Those who witnessed both the 1954 Cotton Bowl and the 2008 Texas Bowl number less than the wins that the Owls had, but those who will watch Rice return to their next bowl game will undoubtedly tally in the thousands.

(BTW It looks like my voice came back as the game's trophy presentation waned -- a second half full of calm awe at Rice's demolishing of Western Michigan's heart was, it appears, a panacea):

The Funniest Name for a Lake?

Lake Pukaki is not the biggest lake in New Zealand, nor is it the oldest, nor is it the coldest. It does not have the most fauna; it’s neither the bluest nor the most breathtaking.

But it was my first exposure to an authentic New Zealand crowd-pleaser, which is why I’ll always remember it well.

Lake Pukaki was, like the hundreds of other massive lakes scattered across the country, carved by glaciers and mastodons, meaning that the water filling its shores was fresh, freezing, and the remnants of a river of ice. The air of the quasi-alpine setting didn’t bring blizzards and ice sheets to mind, but the range of snow-capped ridges, peering from beyond the lake, reminded us that the countryside still experienced chills.

As we approached the lake, we found that the hairy mastodons had been replaced by a copper collie, erected in 1968 in memory of those who helped graze the wild countryside. The dog, peering out along the shore -- which was dotted by purple lupins, fighting the rocky ground -- stood between the lake and its curator, the Church of the Good Shepherd. Born in 1935, the Church was little more than a stone-masoned shed, but its clear glass looked out over the lake, making a serene setting for weddings and spying on tourists.

As the elderly waddled, slowly, back into the bus, our bus driver began telling us the legend of our next stop: Aoraki. The largest, eldest son of the Creator, Aoraki was filled with jealousy at his father's love of Mother Earth and joined his three brothers in an excursion to our world. Apparently, motorized transport did not exist in pre-human times, as the four brothers' canoe was soon overturned in the choppy waters. The wind whipped away the warmth, and, unable to move, the brothers have were frozen in stone. (Kind of like what will happen to Portland if this damn storm doesn't soon pass.)

As crazy as my cynical self thought this story -- silly pre-science peoples! -- I quickly understood its influence when I caught a distant glimpse of Aoraki peeking through the distant clouds. More commonly referred to as Mt. Cook, this behemoth towered at 12,000 feet, higher than anything in New Zealand (besides my Kiwi roommate, who enjoyed the ganga, and how!) The top member of the Southern Alps, Aoraki had quite the history under its rather impressive belt. During the 1940s-earl 1950s, the peak was a tried and true staging ground for Sir Edmund Hillary's eventual assault on Mt. Everest. Hillary, whose impressive height should have been enough to tower over his fellow humans, grew up not far from Aoraki, and credited the mountain's hard, harsh conditions with leathering his skin and weathering his soul enough to become (presumably) the first human to conquer Everest, way back in 1953.

Aoraki towers over Lake Tekapo, a mammoth lake that stretches dozens of kilometers in length. (That's Aoraki, tiny, next to my head.)



I'm not sure if there's a Crayola factory nearby, but the lake look like it was constructed of billions of melted-down Robin's-Egg Blue crayons. Never have I seen a lake this vibrant, this thick with color, as Tekapo. The color drowned out the reflections of the Alps in a way that would have made Peter Jackson proud. After a couple snapshots of the lake -- we were never close enough to actually swim in the crayon-y gunk -- we were on our way to get a closer glimpse of the mountain named for what Mr. T would exclaim during his right with Sylvester Stallone never mind, terrible joke.

Next stop: Encountering Aoraki, eating cherries, and arriving in Queenstown

[End of post disclaimer: I finally put our cubic tonnes of snow to use today and went sledding four nearly four hours with some neighbors. Apparently, my Dad's not the only one whose age has caught his body off-guard (although I'm still yet to be hungover from a few after-dinner drinks like him), and I feel like I've been trampled by a herd of overweight rhinoceroses. Thus I'm about as useless as clothes while you get tased, so I hope this post didn't disappoint! Now, back to stomping on some Terrible Towels.]

Baby, It's Cold Outside

Really, really cold. Like, 20 degrees cold. Like, 30 degrees below what it should be. The reason many people enjoy the Portland weather is for a temperance that would make the Prohibitionists proud (and consequently angry, seeing as pride is a Deadly Sin). Never have I seen a storm this prolonged, and if you've lived in the city under 30 years, neither have you.

But I guess I should have seen this coming. After all, it was only 10 days ago that, walking to Tracy's car, the marshmallow-sized flakes flew around us, nearly big enough to be audible as they hit the ground. Not in New York -- in Houston. I have friends from Rice who have never seen snow, who believe its existence is like global warming -- factually-based, but something that, without visual evidence, is only discussed.

Well, they've seen it now. But I'm glad they aren't joining me for the holidays in Portland, because they may not have been able to compute this much frost, flowing sideways across my cars and covering everything in a blanket of Alaskan white. I'm barely able to fathom this much snow myself. Portland's had a couple memorable snowstorms in recent years -- in 2004, a week of school was axed, while in 2006, slip-sliding down the hills on garbage bags and lunch trays was the mode of transport over a two-day stretch.

But this time, it's different. Not just because I'm listening to Katy Perry, not simply because the Blazers are dealing with destiny, not simply because it's a Saturday afternoon and I don't have a Stanich burger calling my stomach home. This time, I'm annoyed.



Yup, you read that right. I'm peeved at this white stuff. It's cramping my style, it's impinging on my plans, and it's keeping me from going out and exploring the Portland I had every intention of picking apart. After reading the Portland Mercury blog for the last four months, I was looking forward to all the Powell's readings and the concerts at the Aladdin Theater. All the nooks and crannies of the under-21 Portland were ready to be parsed.

But then this damn storm hit, and I'm stuck inside, blogging my complaints and illegally downloading borrowing Starcraft from friends I've never met. So much for my plans of exploring the city I've only superficially met. I know the Starbucks on 23rd, I know the Hollywood District, but, to paraphrase Donald Rumsfeld, there are places I know I don't know. (I never understood the criticism for his statement - it's pretty simple, if you think about it.)

In the meantime, I'll be watching my Dad stack our life-saving logs -- albeit in a damper-less fireplace -- and my Mom sing the first line "Tiny Bubbles" over, and over, and over, and over, and over....someone needs to introduce her to music that's come out since 1967. My brother, currently, is sledding Dead Man's Hill with a purple headband and a gang of college hooligans. The pets, of course, are fat and content, lolling by the fire and waiting (surprisingly) patiently on meals. As for me, I have every intention of finally consuming a Taco Bell meal, six months in the making.


And I'll be doing by best impression of Robert Falcon Scott, the great Antarctic explorer whom New Zealanders absolutely revere. Upon my return to the house, I have every intention of striking this pose, followed by heating some popcorn, watching some movies, and dominating my family in Scrabble.

Heck, that doesn't sound too bad. Maybe this snow isn't quite so annoying as I thought. Let's just hope my Taco Bell isn't cold by the time I get back.

Mmm, brrr-itos.

Jeez, I Hope This Doesn't Offend

Please, don’t take offense, Phil. And Elisha, it’s nothing personal.

But guys, it’s time to grow up.

Maybe I’ve been subscribing too much to the Judd Apatow School of Crude, Base, and Immoral Thoughts, but there’s no reason for last week’s uproar surrounding the golfer and the girlfriend.

For those who may not have seen the recent news, Phil Mickelson, he of southpaw putts and a penchant for heartbreaking losses, was addressed by someone else’s caddie in rather odious terms. The word seems to have, ahem, pricked at the thin skin of Mickelson, a golfer known more for his pudgy, pouty dregs than his powerful, prolonged drives. But the real crime, it appears, was not that Mickelson’s tender feelings were trod upon; rather, it’s the fact that the name-calling came from the caddie of the GOAT, Tiger Woods.

In similar straits as the droopy Mickelson is Elisha Cuthbert, best known as “The Girl Next Door,” who seems to have made a few enemies along her way to stardom. Cuthbert may have broken onto the scene as Jack Bauer’s daughter that girl from “Are You Afraid of the Dark?”, but she’s since broken the heart of the wrong hockey player. With his spirit charred by Cuthbert’s burn, former boyfriend Sean Avery, late of the Dallas Stars, resorted to throwing Cuthbert back into her “Next Door” role by calling her an alliterative synonym for “unkempt after-firsts”. (Sorry, there aren’t many synonyms for “seconds.”)

According to the fervor meeting each “offensive” disturbance, you’d think that Avery and Williams had been pulling Bernard Madoff’s strings or were at least responsible for the (hilarious) shoe-throwing fiasco of Bush’s victory lap.

But in fact, these two professionals did something far more unseemly, far more insidious than actual ruining bank accounts or expressing their disgust at the pointless loss of thousands of lives. They called other people names.

That’s right. These two men, decidedly successful at the highest levels -- granted, Williams is simply an intelligent pack mule, but can you name any other caddies on the circuit? -- brought out their second-grade weapons of derisiveness and bombarded their enemies with (shudder) names.

Now, you’d think that these two would have earned certain leeway when it comes to expressing their opinions. After all, Williams has prodded Woods to become God’s gift to golfers, eclipsing record upon record and earning the most words of accolade since JFK. And while Avery may not have earned the hardware that lines Woods’ yacht, he has, arguably, accomplished something far more noteworthy: piqued my (and many others’) interest in the NHL. As much as Gary Bettman turns me off with his elfish looks and corporate folly, it’s the crazed warriors like Avery that keep me returning to the once-moribund NHL.

However, it seems like Bettman, with his penchant for rash decisions, has once again decided that must steer away from the best interests of his sport. Claiming that Avery had stepped the invisible line of offensiveness, Bettman promptly suspended the left winger from the league. As much as I hate to say it, I can begrudgingly see where Bettman is coming from on this one. Avery’s comments were not a flash in the pan, rarer-than-a-Dick-Cheney-supporter occurrence. In recent years, the Canadian has not necessarily been the perfect little angel of the sport: From calling Mighty Ducks announcer Brian Hayward a gritty pretty bad player and announcer to calling his the NHLPA’s management a pack of liars, Avery’s past has been more checkered than a Guy Ritchie movie. But for Avery to be suspended in a matter of personal relations, at a time when the only thing controversial about the NHL is whether to leave the Wrigley Field ivy up in next year’s outdoor game, is simply stupid. The guy had a slip of the tongue, perhaps, but for him to lose both pay and prestige is misguided and sets an ugly precedent.

Like Avery, Williams’ days in the sunshine have netted a share of hoopla. The Kiwi has often clashed with fans attempting to snapshot the Woods, at one point snatching a spectators’ camera and depositing it, $7,000-lens-down, into a nearby lake. As the Rahm Emanuel to Woods’s Barack Obama, Williams hasn’t hesitated to crack a few heads along the links. Fortunately for the sake of good humor, Woods understood his caddie’s sentiment and smirkingly noted that Williams would, of course, be back behind the bag.

The latest rounds of controversy may have forced a couple people to check out Urban Dictionary, but let me assure you, there are worst things out there. There are worse names, there are worse intentions, and there are worse ways to run afoul of fans, teammates, and sponsors. The Dallas Stars’ management appears to have skin as thin as the NHL’s margin of error, and Avery has been axed for the remainder of the season, unleashing a purported barbarity in the sport of barbarians. Meanwhile, by forgoing punishment, the generally stiff-upper-lipped gentry of golf actually let the content dictate their standards, rather than the other way around. They -- and the game of golf -- are better for it.

No one threw sticks, no one heaved stones, and no one trudged home with broken bones.

And Phil, Elisha, I hope I don’t offend you when I tell you to grow up, and grow a pair.

They Say You Never Forget Your First

And it's true, you don't. Kiss. Car. Bionicle Lego set. All of them memorable, keepsakes, safe from the hurricane of emotion and turmoil that the rest of life turns over.

So it's safe to say that even without the otherworldly performance of Brandon Roy, tonight's Blazers game, my first of The Resurgence, would find its place in the lockbox of the heart.

But then Roy had to go and roar, deafeningly, like he did. Then Travis Outlaw had to snipe with stepback swishes. Then Greg Oden had to bash Shaq, ptu away soul-shaking dunks, and swipe two huge offensive rebounds in the waning moments. Then the Blazers had to go and play like they did, in the first game I could watch all year.

See, Australia's NBA contract is about as existent as the Bush Administration's limits on terror, meaning that the only Down Under shots I saw of the Blazers were the chopped-up dregs of the internet. Without download speed belonging to the dial-up dinosaurs of the '90s ("Crack Bing Zzzzzzzzp Doom, Doom, Enchhhhhhhhxxxxxxxxx: The Soundtrack of the Decade"), I went without seeing Oden suited up, without watching Rudy Fernandez float like a Spanish butterfly, without catching Roy continue his development to transcendentalism.

But tonight, braving both snow and the extra 30 pounds wrought by my Mom's desserts, I found myself finally ready to see the fruits of the team's labors. Kyle's 52-inch TV held the goods, and with Marv Albert calling the shots, I was ready to return to Blazermania.

Welcoming the Phoenix Suns, a team they hadn't beaten since 2006 (11 straight games, enough to qualify as "bothersome"), the Blazers did not take long to recall my feelings of fandom. Sure, absence makes the heart grow fonder, but 5,000 miles of distance could not hold a candle to seeing the team finally coalesce on the court. The most welcome sight, as you may have guessed, was a clean-shaven Oden - finally looking on this side of 40 - in his Blazers threads. And in the first few minutes, Oden looked the part that he will undoubtedly become. Matching against Shaq in the red-and-black paint -- in their previous meetings, Oden had only notched a paltry five points -- the rookie looked like Zeus warring with Kronos; I'd never seen the generational split more pointed than tonight. Shaq had clearly invested in the Butterbean diet, looking more like his gravitational pull would click into effect than ever before. The two opened the contest as if on a one-on-one mission, trading pound-and-dunks before finally realizing the others on the floor were teammates, not just fans dressed like the battling monsters. Oden, I dare say, showed up Shaq with a monster block on Amare Stoudamire, but foul trouble limited the 20-year-old to the bench for much of the game. The battle for the Rose Garden's heart, it appeared, would be fought on another battleground.


Gettysburg. Metropolis. The Rose Garden's backcourt. All places where heroes have been born. All places that Brandon Roy would thrive. But (as far as I know) in only the latter could Roy show that he is truly a star.

As the Blazers and the Suns traded baskets, it was soon apparent that the game would be a shootout. The halftime score was 66-59, and while fans looked toward chalupas, Roy was warming up for a run that would put Usain Bolt to shame.

Phoenix kept up the pressure, using Amare's gifts and Matt Barnes' threes to keep the game just out of reach for Portland. Soon, a double-digit lead arose, and as time wound down in the third, it looked like head coach Nate McMillan's plans for a win were heading out the door.

But the Roy did what he does best, which, frankly, is exactly what I, and the thousands of Blazers fans watching, expected. He turned the compassion dial down, keyed his Terminator ignition and kicked his game into overdrive. You could almost see his pupils turn an blazing red.

Roy, top of the key, Barnes five feet back, dribble through the legs, back up front, quick jump shot from the arc, swish.

Roy, fast break, going lefty, backboard-then-net, And One.

Roy, crowded with a pair of defenders and a Steve Blake handoff, leaping right to drain the three.

Roy, one-two-stepping, see ya, Shaq.

Roy, with the game tied 119-119 and 1:01 left, put up a game-breaker that everyone knew would fall. And so it did. A pair of Roy free throws later -- with a 19-21 night from the charity stripe, you knew those were going in too -- the Suns' fate was sealed.


124-119, Blazers. 17-10 on the year, 9-2 at the Rose Garden.

After the dust settled, the chalupas were consumed, and Craig Sager's jacket was hung, Roy was credited with 52 points. (FIFTY-TWO POINTS!) A career high, and second only to Damon Stoudamire's 54 points in 2005 in Blazers history. (Side note: The Stoudamire allusion doesn't count as foreshadowing. But maybe this note does. But can foreshadowing be self-aware? And doesn't it have to avoid being self-evident? Oh, the questions the English language poses.) The game ball, snug on his hip as time expired, was one Roy would be keeping with him for a long, long time.

Kinda like my memories of this game, I guess.

Listen to this!!!

Ever since I saw her serenading on Elf, I've always had something of a schoolboy crush on Zooey Deschanel. Maybe it's her half-dollar eyes, maybe it's her sweeter-than-thou attitude, or maybe it's just the fact that the girl can sing. Think Dusty Springfield meets Ellen Page. And after checking out NPR's Top 25 Songs of 2008, now I learn she's in a band: She and Him, comprising herself and Portland's own M. Ward. Try as I might, I can't pull myself away from She and Him's "Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?", which I now humbly present as listening fodder. Of course, you could always try out her doppelganger Katy Perry, if you're more of a cherry chapstick kind of girl.

Turning Blue in the Face, Part 1

The closest I ever came to suffocating was in high school, when some friends felt the need to exploit my ticklish tendencies. That episode ended with a blue face and my knuckles meeting someone else’s nose.

However, when I was suffocating in New Zealand, I felt no desire to punch the country in the face. Instead, I reveled in my breathlessness, which occurred over, over, and over again.

“New Zealand: Redundantly Breathtaking” has a nice ring, doesn’t it?

I flew into Christchurch, a terribly-named hub on the South Island, after the friendliest plane ride I’d ever met. (I suppose it helped that I watched The Dark Knight for about 90 percent of the ride.) The sister city of Seattle was nothing more than a quick stopover, a nap-break standing between me and my catered, cushioned voyage.

As I woke on that first day, I was at ease. My finals, somewhere between effortless and rigorous, were behind me, as was a kitchen full of fly-infested dishes and the constant bickering over whose turn it was to take out the recycling (certainly not mine, I can assure you). I was facing a new country, not altogether foreign — NZ nearly became part of the Australian Federation of 1901, and, like its big sibling, shared currency that looked more Monopoly than monetary. Lord of the Rings rang through my head, riding alongside excerpts from Flight of the Conchords, that too-awkward-for-words duo that sings about business socks and how she’s the prettiest girls in the…room.

As the trip was at my own expense, I started a pattern by skipping breakfast, so I don’t know if the shivers as I waited were from the dewy chill or the stomach pains.


After what seemed liked weeks, the bus air-braked up. With two stories and a seven-car girth, the bus looked more like an apartment complex than a mode of transportation, but it got the job done. The passengers I joined were…not like me. Whether Japanese, geriatric, or oftentimes both, I felt more unique than my Americana would have alone produced. Near the front of the bus, I don’t think any of the Greatest Generationers saw my looks of unease as the first thoughts of inaction crossed my mind.

A tour of adventure, this would not be. Comfort would be the game, and our ride commenced.

A quick fact about New Zealand: With 4 million people in tow on more land than the British Isles, the population density of the country is minuscule. Fortunately, the country isn’t entirely vacuumized — the empty areas are brimming with the country’s main export (and also it’s main inside joke), sheep. 38 million of them. Look at that ratio. Now imagine what the sheep-herders, lonely from the bare expanses between civilization, get about doing in the middle of the star-speckled nights. Baaaaad (pun intended) news.

So, when I tell you that I saw more sheep than I know how to describe, you’ll hold your cries of lethargy. These sheep were everywhere, like pieces of lint on New Zealand’s sweater (which would, of course, be sewn out of lint), spilling out at every opportune moment. Just when you thought you’d escaped the hordes, you’d turn to find more. There are so many sheep that one rancher has resorted to helicoptering his flock into herds; there are so many sheep that New Zealand’s most famous person is actually Shrek, a Merino sheep who lost 60 lbs. of wool after seven years of dormancy. M. Night Shyamalan’s The Happening could have made a killing by replacing deadly tree toxins (ooooh!) with murderous sheep. Oh wait, that may have already been done:



With the sheep dotting the land as far as my eyes could stretch, I lulled in between consciousness and sleep. The bus driver informed us that Icebreakers was one of the country’s most well-known exports, and we should watch for billboards pointing toward their headquarters. I drowsily imagined hobbits smacking some Icebreakers gum during Fellowship of the Rings, wondering how much the cross-promotion cost and whether or not Peter Jackson held a controlling stake in the company, or if he ever blew bubbles and found it sticking in his beard.

The next thing I knew, we were pulling up to a tourist cafe, and any dreams I’d had of a pig-tailed Peter Jackson popped. As I entered the store, I saw that Icebreakers didn’t have anything to do with gum — instead, it was the name of the leading wool company of this tiny nation. I picked up a mini-magazine sporting their goods but found it nearly impossible to get beyond the cover. There stood a nude man with a tanned, muscular human body — think me with a darker ethnicity — with a well-placed leg and, strikingly, a giant ram’s head in place of a normal top. Clinging to his arm was a pale waif of a woman as they leapt over a glass-like pond. Nowhere could you find any hint of the company’s goods; rather, all I could see was some avant-garde attempt at an Other whisking away an attractive female. I felt my base instincts rising. “No! These ram-men can’t steal our females! They must be stopped at all cost! I must support those shear these terrible creatures! I must buy Icebreakers!”

So on second thought, it looks like the cover worked, and the magazine is currently sitting up in my room. (Fortunately, my adamancy at pinching pennies meant I didn’t cause any sheep to go without their winter coats.)

Next installment: The first of New Zealand’s natural beauties.

Listen to this!!!

I’ve never been the biggest fan of NPR — no offense Garrison, but the second you cast Lindsay Lohan in the film adaptation of “This American Life,” I looked elsewhere for entertainment. However, NPR may have redeemed itself, although Garrison’s still in my doghouse. Courtesy of their audience’s input, NPR has released the top 25 songs of 2008. Although they whiffed with Fleet Foxes’ “White Winter Hymnal,” I finally had an excuse to listen to Vampire Weekend, a poppy rock band from New Yawk. And now I can’t stop. (Too bad Pringles has the whole “Once you pop, you can’t stop” slogan under wraps.)

Here’s “A-Punk.” Try not to dance. I dare you.

There Were No Hobbits, But Wizards Were Rampant

Stop.

Stop whatever you're doing. Stop lounging, stop eating, stop reading this infantile blog. Stop that confused look you have on your face, wondering just why I would ask you to stop digesting these words.

Stop it all, and go to New Zealand. Go to Expedia, find the cheapest tickets, and buy them, right now. Not tomorrow, not next week, not next year - now.

I'm a patient guy; I'll wait. I'll catch you in a couple days, and then I'll tell you about my voyage.

Something to whet your appetite? How about the Milford Sound, aka the most redundantly breathtaking sight in the world:



In the meantime, there are far too many videos to mull over, videos that should have been shared over the last few weeks, but have fallen through the cracks of either New Zealanding or resuming the adventures of Rice:

The Greatest Trailer Known To Man



The Greatest Trailer Known to Trekkies



[Side note: At Sunday's President's Study Break, I munched on a gyro as Chuck Throckmorton, the hirsute leader of Rice's Marching Owl Band, paced the stage eagerly attempting to dole out moon pies to informed students. As he began a question about molecular-bonding, I turned to my pals, and made an altogether whiny comment about how English majors are maligned at Rice trivia nights. But when Throckmorton threw the word "Ferengi" into the question, I instinctively yelled out "Quark!", not really knowing if I was right but more than willing to make my return known to the Grand Hall crowd. A half-second later, a fellow Star Trek fan yelled out the same thing, but my cry reached Throckmorton first. I immediately felt like Brad Lidge during Game 5, pumping my arms and turning my face into a strong visage of well-earned jubilee. Yeah, I won. As Throckmorton brought over a four-foot inflatable blue alien, I made sure to let everyone know who the champ was: Pointing to my alien's nether-region, I yelled "Suck on that!" to whoever would listen. Anyway, that's a weird story, so back to the videos!]

I like Mike Huckabee, I really do, but...

The Daily Show With Jon StewartM - Th 11p / 10c

Mike Huckabee Pt. 2

Barack Obama Interview
John McCain Interview

Sarah Palin Video
Funny Election Video

How did I ever survive without this?

Dispatch

Captain's (B)log, 120308: I've just returned from the land of verdant greens, aqua skies, shimmering waterfalls, and glacial carvings. The locals refer to it as New Zealand, but in all my years of traversing this varied and diverse earth, no land holds my esteem higher. Thus, I've dubbed this land, "Heaven."

Unfortunately, before I delve into the intricacies of Heaven - and the natives, their kindness, their thrift, their settings, and their unimaginable fortune - it looks as if the semester has officially wound down. No more class-based tedium (not full of Marx, but full of marks, both on essays and exams), no more charred, albeit delicious, cooking, and no more revolting Australian television. No, now is the time to pack.

My suitcases are beckoning, but fear not - this is not the last dispatch from the land Down Under. I'm not sure when the next notification will come. It may be tomorrow, it may be next week, or it may be Christmas morning (but probably not). But this blog is not yet over, for I still have a few adventures - and nifty pictures - my fingertips are ready to convey.

And now, for some blackened, crusty, delectable dinner.

A Brief Blogga about Wagga

It’s never a hot dog stand.

It’s sometimes “a drunken old man.”

It’s always so nice, they named it twice.

Wagga Wagga. Where Dreams Comes True, and Where Chinese Food Will Do the Riverdance in Your Stomach.

If you weren’t privy to my Facebook status the other day — unfortunately, that does not include my Mom, who froze hell with her recent foray into social networking — then you must have thought I spent the weekend simply skating by with my pals James Bond and Jim Beam (not the truth, just a line paraphrased from some country song). In reality, I was in the social/cultural/bogan capital of Australia, Wagga Wagga.

As you may remember, my flatmate (Brendon) Boney was reared in WW, and as last Friday marked the end of my week of type-as-many-fluff-words-just-to-meet-the-minimum-count essays, I decided to pay a visit to his hometown. Of course, it helped that he was heading that way for a gig, allowing me to clamber over the front seat’s CD cases, fast food wrappings, jacket linings, and random accoutrements and hitch a ride.



The five-hour ride south comprised of a 45-minute turn-around (after he realized he left his phone laying around in our living room), an impeccably Australian sunset, a late-night McDonald’s pit stop, and an ELO sing-along that put me in an Almost Famous frame of mind. (Also, the new name of Boney’s band will be the Jeff Lynne-inspired Acoustic Folk Duet.)

Passing signs for Canberra, Woolongong, and Jugiong (population 150!), we finally entered into Wagga’s outskirts with the stars scattered above. As we meandered through the town’s suburbs — who knew 60,000-plus populations warranted suburbs? — Boney reminded me of how his high school persona ran the town. Tales of scavenger hunts, loose mothers (er…), and a tight circle of friends painted Wagga as a screenwriter’s dream, not as an actual center of business and family life.

My first tour of town was bereft with dark alleys, shady vagabonds, and shadowed war machinery — mainly because it was about 11 p.m., but also because tanks and planes lined the roads, somewhat eerily. Rumor has it that an RAAF base was not far off — its products, affectionately known as “RAAFeys” (Raffi?) apparently painted the town red in their buzz cuts and $150 aviators — but such a conspicuous display of Australian military might made me wish I had Donald Rumsfeld in the backseat.

The brief nighttime tour led us past a hospital, a KFC, and an RSL Club — the elderly purportedly play Aussie Rules Football there, but I’m not so sure, seeing as it’s no longer 1962 — before we arrived at Boney’s house. His dad, a former boxing champ, stayed past the final bell to keep awake (terrible analogy, sorry), letting us into the house. (I’ve never met an Aboriginal father before, so I wasn’t quite sure if the chewed-off earlobe was typical, but Boney later informed me that his dad was the original Evander Holyfield.)

Hilariously, Athol made Boney sleep on the floor while I got his bed, so I awoke next morning refreshed and ready to tackle Wagga. My enthusiasm was furthered by the homemade brekky, and after washing down the eggs with some salsa and toast, we headed out.

The day was cool and blustery — I’m eternally grateful to Boney’s mom for gifting me a sweater — and while the driveway’s basketball hoop wouldn’t blow over until that afternoon, my first foray into the city wasn’t met with the sunny glow I was expecting. (But at least it felt like home?) That being said, there’s nothing to deter a true blue Aussie from hitting up the beach, not the pelting rain, and certainly not the fact that you may be dozens of miles inland from the nearest ocean.



Yeah, Wagga Wagga has a beach. This sign is proof. But not all beaches are created equal, and, sometimes, inside jokes garner public financing.



The “beach,” renowned throughout the area, is actually just a sandy spit since deserted by the Murrumbidgee River, no more than a football field in length and, seeing as we were miles away from what could be termed “Baywatch babes,” not necessarily the most keen of spots to spend a weekend sunning. Still, the Waggamen and Waggawomen have taken quite the liking to it, and its awkwardness and undeniable uniqueness have made it a town jewel. Plus, it’s a great pit stop to restock your drink cooler as you float down the river (or so I’ve been told).

Once I got the beach-bummin’ out of my system, Boney and I headed to the town’s bustling, beaming, brimming-with- anything-but-boredom center. Ok, that may come across as a bit hyperbolic, but as much as I wish it were — Lord knows I love a good sarcastic disparaging — it wasn’t. The patrons were out, the shops were unshuttered, and even though the weather was as cooperative as the Sandinistas (taking a break from studying for a history exam…), the mood was anything but country-bumpkin-dour. There was the American “Hog’s Breath” Café; there was the music shop where Boney’s old jam-members still worked; there was the indoor mall, complete with a line for Santa and the aforementioned Irish Chinese food. It may not be as large as Canberra, but Wagga has thousands more flavor (flavour?) than the capital ever will.

After walking through the Veterans’ garden — and hearing about what Boney did on each bench to which girl — we decided that the time had come to prepare for the night’s gig. And by prepare, of course, I mean head to the nearby liquor store. Seeing as I’ll be underage in only a week and a half, I had no qualms about taking a 2 p.m. advantage of my current situation.



With drinks in hand, a couple games of pool, behind-the-back-darts, and some lessons on cricket nuance, courtesy of Boney’s 11-years-old-and-nearly-as-tall-as-me brother, followed. I also got a chance to see the behind-the-scenes photos from Boney’s Australian Idol experience, and while I don’t know any of the names in the photos, it was pretty apparent that Australia will do anything that America does some of the people have gone on to do bigger and better things (although collaborating with Flo Rida really shouldn’t count).

The show that evening was going to be held at The Red Steer, and as Athol dropped us off, it was quick to see that I would be more out of my element than hydrogen at a noble gas party (ha, my high school chemistry teacher would be so proud). The setting was unlike anything I could have imagined (mainly since I’m too lazy, and I don’t really write fiction). I was bordered by a rarely-used fireplace, a booth of betting tabs underneath the TV greyhounds, a guy with a sinewy guy with a mohawk mullet (just think about that one), and the pregame show of the Australia-New Zealand Rugby League World Cup match, and the only things moving were the video game bucks on the back-of-the-bar arcades.

This was going to be sweet.

Boney began setting up the gear, and I collected a couple drinks to keep warm. We were greeted by Jay, a semi-professional footballer and full-time drunk (11:30 a.m. is pushing it, even for a college student), whose words were more slurred than some of the nicknames Boney has garnered from his xenophobic friends. As Australia began to pile on New Zealand, 9 p.m. rolled around, and the set began.



For a while, I sat around by myself, heckling Boney and trying to convince him to play songs he didn’t know (and if I was lucky, getting other people to join me). A 45-minute set went by quickly, and another round brought both drinks and company. People began filling up the main area of the Steer, guys and gals alike, and excited, quasi-drunken chatter — the kind you’d typically find at a bar? — began to fill the air. Andrew, a sweater’d 37-year old husband of Boney’s high school math teacher, brought us both beers and questions about why I would ever support someone as terrible and ungifted as Boney. Scotty, his cricket-playing pal, then asked, on a grid, which part of America I was from (the top left part) and what I’d thought of Wagga so far (incoherent mumbling on my part, saved by the beginning of Boney’s next set). As soon as Keith Urban broke from Boney’s guitar, the two most enthusiastic girls stepped up to the plate, dragging their boyfriends behind, and unleashing their unending renditions of “Belt This Tune As Loud As Possible, But Don’t Forget To Take A Swig Of Alky After.”



And so the night went. Scotty attempted the Worm a few times, Andrew ended up break dancing on his back, and the girls made sure to recharge with some more Toohey’s. When I heard my name called from the back of the bar, I saw Athol with a smile, and I looked up to see that midnight, and the end of the set, had rolled around. One more Keith Urban song followed, and after that, the nightcap — which included some more bars, a “dirty kebab,” and, at last, a picture of me next to the Wagga Wagga sign — ensued.

As we drove home the next day, feeling like the Carlton Draught had replaced the Chinese food as the Lords of the Nauseating Dance, I made sure to shape up for our pit stops, half-heartedly napping in between. The first came in Gundagai, home of local-made brooms (who would buy them, I have no idea), but more importantly, the Dog on the Tuckerbox.

According to Boney, the dog represented the eternal loyalty of man’s best friend to those who serve in the Australian military. But according to the sign we saw, the dog belonged to a hungry drover, whose food was now in the dog’s stomach. One of those stories has a higher ceiling of romanticization, but I’m not going to tell you which.

The other stop along the way home was to appease me, in Goulburn. Ever since Bill Bryson told me of Australia’s “Big Things,” I knew I had to lay my eyes on at least one. Four months had passed in this country, and still, not one “Big Thing” has graced my presence.

Until yesterday.



Finally, I got to see a “Big Thing,” a pointlessly pork-barrel construction, serving no purpose other than to continue the legacy of other “Big Things,” all roadside attractions that inevitably bring people together in awe and utter confusion. [EDIT: According to Wikipedia, the Captain Cook in Cairns was the first "Big Thing" I saw! This semester just got so much better!] My “Big Thing” was a sheep the size of seventeen school buses, or a young Refrigerator Perry. Blocking a McDonald’s from the freeway, the sheep was not doing much, as sheep are wont to do. Simply standing there, idling by, holding his ground as tourist after tourist streamed off the freeway and into the adjacent parking lot. With a Mona Lisa-smirk, the sheep was just…there. And that, my friends, is the essence of these “Big Things.” Whether they’re koalas, prawns, or bananas, these mammoth feats of human endeavor are just…there.

Which is the great thing about Australia. Things like Wagga, like bogan beaches, and like this sheep. You may not know it exists, but you’re happy to have found it.

Unfortunately, that also includes middle-aged guys trying to do head-spins on the dance floor, which pretty much negates everything else.

An open letter to the Mariners' new manager

Since my gears have been grinding over final papers this past week -- and since I'm sure you guys aren't interested in the notions of Empire and exoticism of late Victorian Era fiction (although maybe you care about Australian colonial literary identity, the topic for the other paper I finished yesterday) -- I figured I'd oil up the machine with a piece on the new Mariners manager, Mr. Don Wakamatsu. (For those who have chimed in about the recent spate of M's writing littering this site *cough* lmtao *cough*, the writing stems from a recent promotion to Mariners Co-Community Leader at Bleacher Report.) But if you'd rather have me discuss the merits of sentencing grids in Australian courts, just leave me a message, and I'll write on it the next time around.

An open letter to Don Wakamatsu, from a gray-haired, prune-munching, gout-having M’s fan, still waiting on his meatloaf:

So you’re the new guy, huh? Just came aboard a couple days ago, didn’t you? Mr. Don Waka-something, the new Mariners manager, the replacement for ol’ leather-face Jim Riggleman, right?

Yeah, that’s what I thought. I remember your days of playing ball in Hood River, Oregon, back before that town was overrun with microbreweries and wind-surfers. You put up some mean numbers, and if I remember correctly, you were once a catcher in the M’s system. Too bad you couldn’t pull onto the big-league squad, or you coulda contributed to the losingest organization of the 1980s.

Now, those teams knew how to lose. Not like these knew guys, these pampered, light-their-cigars-with-Benjamins types who roll into town, plug softball-sized holes into their bats and gloves, and then pout when they don’t get their playing time. These new guys, the free agents and their ilk, they’re the ones who are the new losers.

But the boys from the 80s, they were something else. They were as inept as an Alaskan voter, and they owned it. They knew they were bad; they understood that Gaylord Perry, in town for all of a year and half, was the best thing that would ever happen to the organization — even though he went 13-22 while he was here.

But I curmudgeonly digress. These new boys aren’t born losers — they are, as you say, “a young, talented team.” Maybe not 95-win talented, but certainly not a typical member of the 100-loss/$100-million payroll club (then again, as the charter members, there isn’t really anything to compare them to). These boys — Mr. Ich-i-ro, Mr. Felix the Cat, Mr. Yummy Tennis Court, or whatever his name is — they know how to play. That big Sexson, Paul Bunyan’s unskilled brother, is outta here, and so is Jose Zero, er, Vidro. I don’t know if Raul’s coming back, or if that Bell Tray kid will bring back his fancy glove — with the economy the way it is, good thing he’s got so much gold! [Groan…] — but I do know that the team’s not nearly as terrible as those boys runnin’ General Motors.

I couldn’t find anything on the telegraph line, so I flipped on the inner-net to look up some stats on you. Looks like you know the division pretty well — bench coach for the A’s, third base coach for the Rangers. Now, I’m no fan of espionage, but if you could tell us everything you know, that’d sure help, and if you remember any of their signs, well, why don’t you just tell your old teams that “you forgot.” Then we could win some ball games! Also, I checked out that cute picture over on the Seattle Times site. Cute kid, you got. But does that mean she’s the one who inspired the unnamed Mariner to knock out Ichiro last year? Back in my day, if a random-o had threatened me, I woulda gone up to each and every one of my teammates and fed them a knuckle sammitch, because that’s just how teams ran back then. Then again, I always ended up with a face of pulp, so maybe it wasn’t the best course of action.

Too bad you beat out our old firestarter, Mr. Joey “Before Griffey in ’95, I Had to Scora” Cora. Woulda been nice to see the munchkin kicking dirt on the shoes of the looming umps, trying to make eye contact but only finding the blue’s naval. Heh. Reminds me of my days watching Bob Hope, when he once…Eh? Oh, yeah, Cora. Good guy. But I trust this Jack Jury’n’Chick, that new General Manager. He may have less hair than me, but his mop musta been constraining his creative powers. In just a couple days, he’s cleared house, bringing in his boys and is starting a stats department. I tell you, I may be old, but I know a successful saber-mattress-in when I see one.

And I hear you’re the first Asian-American to become a manager, eh? Good on ya for that — maybe you can talk some sense into Hiroshi Yamauchi for that crazy-as-Lizzy-Borden contract he gave Ken G. Joe G. Maw, or however you spell his darned name. (You want to know what caused the financial crisis? Contracts like that.) I was durn sad when Kim Ng wasn’t offered Jack’s position, but it looks like the team’s making up for their backward-thinking. A stat department, the first Asian-American manager…what’s next, a World Series appearance? Well, that might be a stretch, but I’ve got faith in you.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is, welcome aboard. These kids might not know, but we old seabirds understand that a true Mariner can weather even the choppiest of seas — and with you helming from the dugout, we may finally get a chance to break out of this storm.

Now, go win us some ballgames. And try not to let the dugout get bought out by microbreweries and wind-surfers.

(Mabel, where’s my meatloaf?!)

Good thing Huey Lewis didn’t sing about Australia

If Canberra is the heart of Australia, then it’s time to call the funeral parlor.

The capital of Australia, the only resident of the Australian Capital Territory, the only Western capital in which it’s possible to see from one end to the other — from the town’s center — Canberra, sadly, makes Salem look like Babylon, though I’m not sure the Babylonians could produce chips as delicious as these. After months of wishing, hoping, and praying for the day to come, Kate, my high school pal, finally leant me the keys to Canberra with a weekend invite. Chomping at the bit to finally explore the house of Australia’s government — and possibly meet the coolest guy in the room, PM Kevin Rudd — I shoved some underwear, deodorant, and a camera into my backpack, hitched a ride with Microwave Jenny, who were heading to Wagga Wagga, and found myself crunched in the backseat as we headed south.

The three-hour excursion was largely uneventful, but there were some highlights. Not only did I swipe a “milkshake” cup from the Wahroonga shopping center — their “milkshakes” were about as thin as my Dad’s hair (ZING!) — we discovered that the freshly-minted iPod adapter was a bit to fresh (or minted?) for Boney’s stereo system. Jason Mraz filled up the car with his syrupy, doppelganger-esque sounds (little did I know that my ears would bleed to Jesse McCartney on the way back…ugh).

Arriving in Canberra was, actually, not my first time. While volunteering at Tidbinbilla a few weeks back, Rodney The Guide offered to trek us into the city on a Friday night. With my best anti-kangaroo clothing in tow, we skirted into town around 9 p.m. or so, tired from a day of shoveling but eager to blow a couple bucks. Unfortunately, Rodney forgot to mention that our tour of the town would be comprised of circular driving in search of a gas station, thus nixing any chance we had of ever getting out to join the dressy people milling about. At least I got a Snickers bar at the servo.

Ah, Canberra. Or is it, ah, crap, Canberra?


Arriving in Canberra was, actually, not my first time. While volunteering at Tidbinbilla a few weeks back, Rodney The Guide offered to trek us into the city on a Friday night. With my best anti-kangaroo clothing in tow, we skirted into town around 9 p.m. or so, tired from a day of shoveling but eager to blow a couple bucks. Unfortunately, Rodney forgot to mention that our tour of the town would be comprised of circular driving in search of a gas station, thus nixing any chance we had of ever getting out to join the dressy people milling about. At least I got a Snickers bar at the servo.

This time, though, was different. Not only did I quickly bail from Boney’s car — I could only get so many assertions from Jason Mraz that I was his — but I found that Canberra in the light was…well, I hadn’t really explored the city yet, so why pass judgment from a street corner surrounded by construction, a thoroughfare, and a glaring, 95-degree sun? Kate and her friend Flick (aside: great name, although not her legal one) whisked me off and we headed to the shopping center for alcohol and leggings — always a good match.

As we meandered back to Australian National University, passing towering skyscrapers, marvelous fountains, and brilliant white doves cooing through the air, I shook myself from the daydream to find a lone, tree’d main street, a duo of restaurant’d avenues, and about three people looking as befuddled as I was. Where were the magnificent displays of Australian austerity? Where was the conviction, the determination to ostensibly display the greatest architectural jewels of the world? Where was the silly affirmation that “We’re Number 1”???

About as apparent as Joan River’s actual skin.

I mean, it’s possible that Australia acquiesced to America’s claims of Number-1-hood, but more than likely, the architects of this city, in typical Australian fashion stayed out for one-too-many beers with the blokes and forgot to turn in their assignment. The government then had to look through the recycling bin to find a meaningful design, but in the end, there was no way to salvage the hopes of their capital.

If Washington D.C. is the turkey at the capitals’ Thanksgiving, then Canberra is the dumpling - cute and necessary, but still bland and filled with doughy white fluff.

Luckily, ANU made up for the dearth of interessant in the, ahem, “city”. At last, I felt like I was at a real college, the kind that Rice and Animal House embody so well. There were the rank stairwells, the stained dorm hallways, and the burn-your-tongue greases over the meal-planned food. There were the kitchy, hand-made “Welcome to College!” signs still tacked to doors, there were the arches of balloons celebrating someone’s birthday, and there was the common room, the leather couches complete with semi-translucent white stains.

And yes, there was the campy, iTunes-infused music/dance/drink-in-one-room party that Macquarie has gone without.

Needless to say, that first night at ANU was wonderful. Following a few rounds of talk-laugh-drink-repeats, I found myself wandering into downtown Canberra, where the streets are aglow in, um, streetlights and the people are as sparse as John McCain’s remaining brain cells. The rest of the evening is a blur, but upon later inspection, I had a wonderful time. From apparently threatening to kick automobiles in body parts to clearing the dance floor with my mind-of-its-own rump, I apparently made quite the impression on Kate’s friends — although not as much of an impression as Kate made on some certain gentlemen. (For further details, feel free to Facebook her. Hey Kate!)

I knew Saturday would be memorable from the second I woke up in my jeans. And, of course, by remarkable I mean full of recovery. Although 8:30 jolted me awake, I pawed around for a good six hours, not wanting to move for fear that my dizziness would spill into the nearby garbage can. (Ewwww.)

My youthful resiliency fortunately kept me as sober as Norwood-now-at-college, and we scrounged the energy to go to an American football game. Canberra has a preponderously high influx of foreign kids, so gridiron in Australia isn’t always relegated to 4 a.m. NFL games. Unfortunately, the talent still is, and we could only watch so the quarterbacks run around like headless, and armless, chickens before we called it a night.

Well, I guess there are some things worth seeing in Canberra


Sunday morning, my last day in Canberra, rolled around in a sweaty balm, and a plate of Eggs Benedict (“Have some Hollandaise during your Holidays!” is patent-pending) got my day started. Since there wasn’t much time before the Microwave Jenny-mobile swung into town, Kate decided we could only check Parliament, which was fine by me. After all, I hadn’t seen K-Rudd either day before — so I figured my best would be at the pulpit where he always makes snide comments about George Bush.

I got to see Ruddy!...kinda


Alas, no Krudd was to be found — a mere facsimile of his gleaming face was all I could find — but I did stumble upon a piece of history that I feel, quite frankly, should be lost to history: The Magna Carta. Wait, hold on — THE MAGNA CARTA. You know, the one from 1297? The one that lays out the essence of worker’s rights? The one that is the basis for all Western political procedure? Yep, that’s the one. That’s the exact freakin’ one.

And it’s in Australia.

All together now: Huh?

Well it turns out that this Magna Carta, “one of only four known surviving originals” from King Edward I’s confirmation, wasn’t much heralded over the last 700 years. It was kept at the King’s School in Bruton, Somerset, when some lucky stumbled onto it in 1936. The National Library of Australia broke the bank in 1952, shelling out 12,500 pounds for the tree pulp and ink, although today it “would certainly cost several million dollars”. Now that is something I’d like to see on The Antiques Roadshow.

Yeah, you know — that’s the Magna Carta


And the greatest thing? It wasn’t even the oldest thing in the building — that honor belonged to a twelfth-century Norman mace. Basically, artifacts are to Parliament what retirees are to Florida — they only come old.

After latching on to a couple Asian tours, admiring the booster seats that certain Senators need to get comfortable, nodding along with the Chinese guide (in hindsight, I should have exclaimed “Fung pay?!” which translates directly into “Who farted!?”), and picking out just the right spoon to go with my girlfriend’s crazy collection, we were on our way. Goodbyes ensued, although I’ll be seeing Kate the second day I’m back in Portland — possibly to get dessert at Papa Haydn with one of her Australian friends, who will preferably pay. Microwave Jenny whisked me up and away from the city, and just like that, we left the heart of the country.

Which, in the end, is a good thing, because funeral parlors can be expensive, and everyone know how cheap I am.

Joey Cora, former Mariner, could be on his way home

Could it really be? With more struggles Dubya and more fans jumping ship than the Lusitania, have the Mariners finally begun atoning for their wrongs? And, in the process, has a distant inkling of an M’s fanboy finally come to fruition?

Maybe, perhaps, and, well, quite possibly.

As you may have been reading, former Mariners sparkplug Joey Cora is a front-runner for becoming the 16th manager of the Seattle Mariners .

That’s right. The same Cora who broke into stardom as the Mariners All-Star second-baseman of the late ’90s. The same Cora whose bunt, sprint, and Matrix-like dodge of Don Mattingly allowed Ken Griffey Jr. and Edgar Martinez to oust the New York Yankees in the 1995 playoffs. The same Cora whose encumbered tears following the ’95 ALCS still resonate with Mariners fans across the globe.

Yeah, that Joey Cora.

Cora was always overshadowed by his larger-than-life compadres. Griffey had the swing, A-Rod had the youth, Edgar had the heart, and Buhner had the dome. But somehow, Cora carved a spot in the hearts of M’s fans, eliminating Harold Reynolds from the second-base podium and bringing some vim to the position.

When Cora’s ’95 tears soaked a clubhouse towel, Alex Rodriguez wrapped a throwing arm around his diminutive teammate, confidently assuring him that the Mariners would be back next season.

But a year later, we weren’t back. Nor were we back a decade later. That season, that shot-in-the-dark moment, was a blast into the memorable that the organization has yet to recreate.

Seeing as I’m a typical M’s fan, I have an unhealthy obsession with the 1995-2001 clubs, with a childish preference for the first couple campaigns during that heyday. The Joey Cora poster still lining my room — at three-feet tall, it could well be life-sized — has always reminded me of the team’s scrappiness, its bygone grit, infused by Lou Piniella and implemented by Cora and his fellow foot-soldiers.

When Cora left, the headlines didn’t break hearts, nor did the rabid fans demand Woody Woodward’s head. Granted, a few female M’s fans were saddened — no “Marry me, Joey!” signs have since graced the Kingdome — but his 1998 swap for David Bell went largely unnoticed.

And now, a decade later, with a World Series ring and a two-fold education, stemming from a first-rate Vanderbilt schooling and the tutelage of the crazy-as-Hugo-Chavez Ozzie Guillen, Cora could get a final shot at fulfilling A-Rod’s promise.

Cora’s competition is deep, but it’s fair to say that he is toward the front of Jack Zduriencik’s pack of seven finalists. With Jim Riggleman now sitting comfortably aside Manny Acta, Cora comes in as one of the most weathered coaches on the list, despite his youth.

Red Sox bench coach Brad Mills may have a leg-up with Boston’s recent successes, but word on his interview is yet to leak. Randy Ready, manager of San Diego’s AAA affiliate, the Portland Beavers manager, left a great impression the few times I spoke with him last year, and yet his ascension probably won’t come with the Mariners.

A few others, such as A’s bench coach Don Wakamatsu, Diamondbacks third base coach Chip Hale, Cardinals third base coach Jose Oquendo, and Red Sox third base coach DeMarlo Hale are all relative unknowns, and may not own the experience necessary to helm this young squad.

Thus, Cora floats to the top.

Aside from Cora’s experience, the former Mariners will bring a sense of ease to the clubhouse. Long knows for his good-naturedness, Cora is still relatively young, allowing him to associate with the green crew stacking the team’s lineup.

His demeanor is fluid and his MO is reserved, not exactly harking to the firebrand he has worked under. As he told the Seattle PI’s John Hickey, “I'm not Ozzie. He is maybe the other side of the coin. We made decisions based on that, and so far we have been very successful, winning the World Series (in 2005) and making the playoffs this year.” Cora was there to balance Ozzie’s belligerence, and it is his coolness that has brought him respect among both his peers and, apparently, Zduriencik.

The decision on the new manager is looming, much as the choices about Raul Ibanez’s future or Jose Lopez’s position. Unfortunately, the fans won’t know the minutiae of the interview process: what Zduriencik asks, how the candidates respond, or whether or not Howard Lincoln and Chuck Armstrong are somehow bugging the room. (My guess: probably.)

If history is any indicator, however, there’s no reason to avoid hiring Joey Cora. With his history, his experience, and his demeanor, the guy would be a return to gravity for a team lost in space.

But let’s just hope he won’t cry after every loss.

It was a good day

[Warning: Rambling 2 a.m. blog post ahead. Proceed with caution.]

There are some days that won’t make it into the history books, days that provide nothing more than fodder for complacency and notions of calm.

Today, I am fortunate to say, was one of those days.

Sure, complacency may not be the most admirable of attributes — after all, only conflict can bring change — but sometimes a sense of comfort can beat all the change in the world. (Sorry, Barack.)

The day began a bit ominously, with a noise I’ll never cherish — an alarm clock’s beep. 8:15 a.m. was here, but since I had been tossing for a good hour, the racket didn’t shake me from any stupor. With a bowl of Weet-Box —Australia’s thieving “Breakfast of Champions” — in my gut, I turned to my computer to start the day’s business.

First order on the agenda: Interview for Alternative Spring Break group. As I shook the cobwebs from my attic, I signed on to Skype with and actual hitch in my throat. For someone who’s typically as cool as the other side of the pillow, wouldn’t you know it, the nerves had begun their terrible game of torment! Fortunately, the early-morning grog had some latent effects, but I could still sense an oncoming gaffe coming like a freight train.

For all my worries, the interview actually went relatively smoothly. The two girls I interviewed with, Sarah and Hilary, were both informative, polite, and forgiving of my early-morning jitters. I managed to touch on my perpetual rosy outlook, my pride in my family, and my girlfriend’s insistence that I get upset when I should (as opposed to just laughing her concerns off. She may be on to something there….) As I hung up, I was hopeful that they would select me to travel to Chicago next spring break to help at the Boys & Girls Club, trading Jamaican lounging for bettering the lives of underprivileged kids. (Cue: “Aww.”)

I talked with Tracy for a bit after that — no more jitters there —but my blasted internet kept cutting out like the Soviets from Afghanistan. As Tracy and I were wrapping up the conversation, the call was dropped, so I immediately rang her back to say I loved her. Unfortunately, the voice responded with a different sentiment than I was expecting: “Huh?”

I just called Hilary. Crap.

“Ah, sorry Hilary, that was supposed to be for Tracy! I mean, not that I don’t love, uh, wait, um, yeah, I guess I’ll let you guys get back to work.”

Yeah, Tracy loved that one.

The next order of business, as any Gen Y’er will tell you, was checking the email and Facebook, typically simultaneously. As I deflected the spam from Viagra knockoffs and Nigerian princes (not connected, thankfully), I noticed a message from a good pal, Nick Farris. And immediately, I was reminded of a dream I’d had the previous doze. Brian Lee and I were at my buddy Sam’s house, alongside Nick and our other pal Justin (or J Puff, as he’s known in certain circles). Brian and I talk quite frequently, so his presence was pretty typical (not that I dream about him, just that he and I would be hanging out). Sam, J Puff and Nick, on the other hand, hadn’t heard from me in quite a while — my fault more than anyone else’s. Soon, Sam, Nick, and J Puff were trying on some tuxedos, but when Brian and I asked what for, they replied that they were attending an event to which we weren’t invited.

Ah, there’s the elephant in my psyche. High school friendships, crumbling like the Kingdome, right before my eyes. Doomsday-ish? Maybe. But steeped in reality, I suppose.

Anyway, this message from Nick was more than a bit eerie to receive. I hadn’t talked to him in months, had just dreamt that our friendship had bit the dust, and boom, there he is, reaching out to us. Tragically, the email detailed the loss of a friend of his — a grim reminder that our perceived teenage invincibility is going the way of the dinosaurs. But Nick used the friend’s passing as a reminder that he still cared for us, deeply, and that the friendships we all shared were still as fresh as ever. Still, the email was tinged with a sense of etherealness, a quasi-illogical step toward the unexplained and phenomenal. Eerie Moment No. 1.

Moments later, with Facebook in view, that sentiment was strengthened by a message I’d received from Sam, not detailing anything as stark as Nick’s email, but a sign that he was still there nonetheless. Eerie Moment No. 2.

After shooting off emails to my Dad about Verizon’s unwillingness to cooperate vis-à-vis stop-charging-us-money, you-dad-gum-corporate-conglomerate, I noticed I received another Facebook message, but from neither Nick nor Sam. This one, as you may have guessed, was from Justin. Again, the subject material was relatively unimportant —Tupac was prescient and is surely alive, and is undoubtedly proud of Obama — but the fact that it was there, on my wall, alongside Sam and chasing Nick, was more than enough to get me to question everything I’d believed about logic and rationality. Yup, that was Eerie Moment No. 3.

Fortunately, that final sally met the day’s quota for eeriness, and the day sailed smoothly until our final day of my Colonial Literature course. Interested in the future plans of our 20-something female teacher — she hadn’t been teaching long, so I was wondering whether or not she would continue next year — I asked, innocently, “So what are you doing after this class?”

Boy, am I good with words, or what?

It took me a moment (and dozens of giggling girls) for me to realize what I’d actually said, but by then my cheeks were as red as a barn door. Suffice it to say, I never got a straight answer, but the teacher and I are going out for coffee tomorrow (JOKING).
After wrapping up the course, I decided to brush for the final paper, due in a week. As I plopped down outside, I figured I’d get some sun, so I unveiled my chest’s Casper-like complexion for the envious world to see. (Currently, it’s almost as red as my barn-cheeks, but it was totally worth it.) I prodded the pages of different Australian tomes, memes, and biographies, piecing together the essay still in my mind. But I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t concentrate on the lines and dots of the pages, not only from the insipidness they were evoking — I’m sure someone finds “digitized homogeny” interesting, but not me — but also from the ornithological wonders that were reveling in my backyard.

There was a family of Pied Currawongs, sheer and dichotomized, with the father bashing a pretzel against a chair, a mom flitting through the trees in search of food, and a molting baby squawking as incessantly as Rush Linbaugh. There was a foursome of Cockatoos, massive remnants of the Jurassic epoch, with Mohawks in full bloom as the bounced along the ten-pounds-too-thin branches of the bright gum trees. There was the waddling troop of ducklings, growing ever-larger as the parents grew ever-fiercer toward the human neighbors. There was the Purple Swamphen, coming within a body-length of an intrigued student, only to dutifully remember it had children down the path to attend to. And there was the Noisy Miner, the smallest flier but the one most intent on harassing anything that had two legs and a beating heart.

For all the bouts of homesickness I’ve had this semester, for all the times I’ve been ready to pack it in and leap into the company of my States-based friends, this country keeps finding a way to pull me back in. In another life, with a different path and better (and earlier) science teachers, I would be out here permanently, remarking on the wildlife as a profession rather than a hobby. Until that lifetime comes, I’m just going to have to tick these animals off in my mental scrapbook, compiling the memory banks so that one day my grandkids will want to hear all the tales of grandpa’s crazy bouts with flying monsters. (Who said I couldn’t embellish every once in a while?)

A few hours of lulled interest passed, and soon it was time for the Tuesday/Thursday Spin class and Ab Blast. According to one of the cops from Superbad, Spin class is a great way to meet girls. Ironically, the cop who claimed that was about 75 pounds heftier than I am, so if he can do it, I can too, right? Nope. If I’m ever single again, I’m going to stick to farmer’s markets and Match.com. Spin class is 45 minutes of the most hellish physical output known to (this) man, and the lack of breaks or breathers is matched only by the insistence of the teacher to go harder, faster, and stronger with each ensuing music track. Whether she is bionic or inhuman, I’ve yet to determine, but I do know a couple months of this have turned me into a handsomer Lance Armstrong.

Compounding matters, our Spin class teacher also leads Ab Blast, so she gets to see me suffer doubly as I try in vain to keep up with her lessons. (Although, to be fair to myself, I was only one of two people in the class of thirty to be able to complete all of our routines today. The teacher called me “a machine,” and since logic dictates that “it takes one to know one,” I’ve come to the conclusion that she is, indeed, bionic.) A semester of this hasn’t quite turned me into a member of the 300 clan, but people won’t laugh at me anymore when they draw on eight-pack abs.

So I’d had interviews, slip-ups, class closures, nature watches, and unbelievable physical exertion, all within the span of 15 hours. What could possible finish it off? Why, an evening at the cinemas, of course!

Whoever said Guy Ritchie wasn’t a genius is obviously on some type of hallucinogen, because after seeing Ritchie’s new “Rocknrolla”, a film about sex, thugs, and rock’n’roll, there’s no one else I want directing my biopic. In a world of English house-of-cards capitalism, the only solution is a group of underground that have thrived the whole time. The plot is tighter than a jar of old-school mayonnaise, the cinematography is entirely unique, and the editing — whew, the editing — is out of this world. A must see for any fan of action- and coherency-based plot.

What a way to cap off a day. Not one for the history books, I’m afraid, but one to warrant the longest blog post on this site.

It was a good day.

And the title of "Greatest Sport" will go to...

So I'm lying in bed, recovering from a post-finals-paper-induced grog, and I'm wondering what there is to write about in the world of Australia. In politics, there's John Key's improbable win in the New Zealand prime minister elections — "Yes, We Can...Eventually Matter" — and there's Kevin Rudd's futile attempt at horse-racing. In exercise, there's spin class, the 45 minutes from hell I dread every Tuesday and Thursday, although my thighs are now as steely as Daniel Craig's gaze. In food, there's the Casey's Crunchy Burrito, a spicy mixture of tortilla, onions, capsicum, and veal, usually consumed after a breakfast of oatmeal and Nutella and before a dinner of stir fry and cookies.

But none of these topics are interesting enough to warrant a full blog post (even though I fully intend on relaying my semester of Pilates debacles in the near future). Instead, what do you say that we have a debate, mano-a-mano, on one of the most high-minded topics to ever grace this fair blog: The Greatest Sport in the World!

Here's my argument:

What sport, above all others, embodies the fire of the human spirit? What sport combines more grit, guts, and gregariousness than Odysseus or Ulysses ever knew? What sport propels men, women, and children beyond their hardened limits and into the world of excellence and legend?

Most of you, I’m sure, have already guessed the answer. Maybe you got it from my last name, or maybe you have actually experienced the ethereal, emotive responses that this exercise engenders. Regardless of the reason, you get my eternal props for your correct answer, and I’ll be mailing you the transcripts of some “Ozzie Guillen as Obama’s Press Secretary” outtakes.

For the rest of you, the heaven-sent sport in question was the progenitor of civility, the preeminent judge of one’s character, and the original wear-your-slacks-and-drink-some-tea pastime.

That’s right — I’m talking about the sport of croquet.

Now, there may be a few of you inbred ingrates who chuckle at the thought of croquet being the epitome of human achievement. But lest ye forget, there were also people who laughed at Picasso, Petey Pablo, and Puff, the Magic Dragon. If these cultural and intellectual giants had bowed to the gaggle of giggles, the modern world would be without their unsurpassable talent and gifts, to say nothing of the greatness of “Freek-A-Leek.”

Fortunately, the founding fathers of croquet did not hide from those ignorant chortles. They stood their ground, rightly believing that what they had produced would one day change the world for the better. Now, as we stand on the eve of a new era in America, we can look to the future knowing that the past and present will always be held together by the glue of croquet. This sport may be old, but in accordance with the all-inclusiveness (and obesity) of the 21st-century, can any sport match croquet in welcoming both athletes and non-athletes alike?

But it’s recently come to my understanding that, inexplicably, there are those who have not partaken in this greatest of sports. I can’t help but feel the deepest pangs of sympathy, and although I may not know you personally, I feel that it is my duty to enlighten you as to the courage and temerity that croquet exemplifies.

(In the interest of full disclosure, I should point out that I have the aforementioned greatness in my bloodlines — my grandfather, Jean-Claude Michel, is the inspiration for the annual Jay Michel Memorial Croquet Tournament in Seattle, Wash. Please, don’t be jealous, but feel free to deride your grandparents for not attaining the importance that mine did.)

Before defining its perfect nuance, let’s take a look at why croquet gives other sports more shame than Nieman Marcus gave Sarah Palin. Basketball and soccer may have the fluidity of Coca-Cola, but you’ll end up tired and — I shudder just thinking of this — sweaty. Baseball may be “America’s pastime,” but could you really fit a baseball diamond in Camp David? Tennis may pride itself on its sportsmanlike demeanor, but croquet gives you the opportunity to whack your opponent’s ball into oblivion, or at least the neighbor’s yard. Why John McEnroe chose tennis, we’ll never know.

Sure, croquet can be described as “just another game you play with your family by the estate in [insert overtly-pompous European grounds],” but there are key differences between croquet and other sports you can play whilst decrying the loss of upper-class tax breaks. Lawn darts supposedly stump croquet in terms of danger, but as the ribs of a friend of mine can attest, croquet mallets are often harder than Michael Chiklis. And while bocce ball may always own ties to the Mafia, croquet traces its roots back to the rebellious French nobility. (Side note: The mallets can also double as sabres, leading many notable croquet historians to theorize that the Three Musketeers may have originally begun as croquet maestros. En garde!)

Croquet has surpassed all sports, even in the realm of the marital matters. Though they were

unavailable for comment — likely debating what to get me for Christmas — I can attest that the marriage of Jules and Kathy “Inaugural Winner of the Jay Michel Tournament” Michel frequently cracks during a heated game of croquet. Either Jules enjoys sleeping on the couch, or he unwittingly believes that he may some day beat Kathy. Either way, croquet has influenced their marriage in ways their children could only dream of.

Truly, croquet is both the sport of kings and the king of sports. Its impact is often compared with the invention of fire, and is said to have inspired the Taj Mahal and Einstein’s theory of relativity. Clearly, the world would be a worse place without it.

For those who’ve yet to enjoy the game’s unimaginable bliss, I can only hope that you come out of your shell and play a round with us, because in the end, it’s the greatest thing you shall ever do.

I mean, unless you’re listening to “Freek-A-Leek.” But that’s on a whole different level.


Jack, to my Mom: "I beat grandma!" Mom, to herself: "F*$%^@# kids."

That's where I stand; what about you?