And now, some thoughts on the Mariners' new GM

You don’t know Jack.

Seriously, you don’t. That’s not an insult — it’s the truth, and you know it.

It’s cool though, because I don’t know Jack either.

But does that make us stupid? Ignorant? Laughable? Does that bring us down a notch, Stump-the-Schwab-wise? Will people look at us with smirks and jeers, whispers and sneers?

Nah, they won’t. Because the Schwab, in his infinite, Dunkin’-Donuts-induced wisdom, doesn’t know Jack, either. In fact, no one really does.

Which is why I hesitate on applauding Jack’s hiring as the newly-appointed Mariners
general manager.

Jack Zduriencik, usurping Lee Pelekoudas’ throne, is the latest Northwest gunslinger. A scouting man by trade, the Z-man — whose name sounds more like a Polish independence movement than a baseball lifer — made his reputation by stockpiling the Milwaukee Brewers’ farm system in ways that would make Billy Beane proud. As Scouting Director of the once-moribund Brew Crew, Zduriencik oversaw a greater facelift than the Joan Rivers Experience, helping Milwaukee eclipse the playoff threshold for the first time since M*A*S*H went off the air.

See if these names ring a bell: Corey Hart, J.J. Hardy, Prince Fielder, Dana Eveland, Tony Gwynn Jr., Yovani Gallardo, Rickie Weeks, Ryan Braun, Cole Gillespie. All property of Zduriencik’s foresight, all succeeding in ways Mariners’ draftees could only dream.

While they’re still young, the three best M’s picks in recent years have stagnated at the big-league level. Jeff Clement? Can’t hit. Wladimir Balentin? Can’t hit, can barely field. Brandon Morrow? Showing Felix-like promise, but still unproven. On that same parallel, the Brewers’ top three have had more success than US Special Forces in Syria. (Er….) Braun? Too many rookie awards to count. Fielder? Holds the Brewers’ record for jacks in a season, with 50. Gallardo? A meager 3.35 ERA in a healthy 134.1 innings tossed.

Yeah, Jack’s done all right.

Let’s face it: the Z-man has some scouting chops. But don’t take it from me; let his “Executive of the Year” trophy do the talking. Let his two former protégés-turned-Scouting-Directors, Tom Allison and Bobby Heck, tell you. Let his glowing predecessors describe the hire: “I think the hiring of Jack Zduriencik is going to be looked upon very favorably by a huge percentage of the baseball community,” says former Cincinnati Reds GM Wayne Krivsky.

But the Mariners weren’t looking for favorable posturing. If they were, Kim Ng would be helming the Mariners’ future. Nor are Howard Lincoln and Chuck Armstrong looking to update to a 21st-century, numbers-only mantra. If they were, Tony LaCava or Jerry DiPoto would be steering the Mariners back toward respectability. No, the M’s were looking for someone that would get the job done without the frills or pomp that had invaded the previous executive box.

Zduriencik is old-school, a 57-year old, suit-and-tie, as-much-flash-as-a-potato kind of guy. He’s not made of flair and fluff; from his initial press conference, the guy believes in both stoicism and minimalism. He’s a man of few words, and unlike Bill “Jarrod-Washburn-is-Cy-Young-Material” Bavasi, Zduriencik looks to let his actions speak for themselves.

Unfortunately, Zduriencik already comes to the club with a stigma attached: He is a product of an Armstrong-Lincoln decision. For those keeping score at home, these two knuckleheads, who seem to be on a decade-long audition for the “Dumb and Dumber” reboot, have run a once-promising franchise into the ground, and are threatening to break underneath China if not soon stopped. While the Z-man has claimed that he will have as much autonomy as anyone else, the numerous people turning down GM interviews were obviously influenced by Armstrong’s call for a “collaborative and inclusive” work environment. This style of management was rampant before Bavasi endure the “hot seat” of ’07-’08, but it’s not as if the preceding cooperative era of Carl "Dinosaurs-Ain't-Real" Everett and Charles "Spiderman" Gipson was much better.

Suffice it to say, the duo of Armstrong and Lincoln would have made Lehman Brothers upper management look good over the last couple years, which is why I worry, fret, and fear for Jack. Ultimately, Zduriencik’s success will ride on his ability to coax Armstrong and Lincoln out of the room and onto Edgar Martinez Drive, allowing the new GM to focus on the changes needed (which, if you haven’t noticed, run aplenty).

When he finds a new center fielder, DH, and first baseman, we’ll know Jack. When he decides the future of Raul Ibanez and Adrian Beltre, we’ll get an idea about Jack. When the Mariners’ new manager strides to the plate on Opening Day, we’ll have formulated an opinion on Jack.

Right now, though, we just don’t know jack about Jack.

The Greatest Thing Ever

Apparently, I'm not the only one who's had a rough go of it over the past eight years. When the original video came out eight years ago, a cultural staple was born, and 'Hey' fell into the 20th century. I'm not going to spoil the video, but, well, I'm sure you'll get it in about 11 seconds:

At long last, it feels good to be a Blazers fan

Eight years ago, I dribbled a worn basketball in my cracked driveway.

“Beat LA!” yelled the blue-shirted dude passing on his bike.

“Yeah,” I offered, meekly, turning my back to the guy. Try as I might, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the reason I was outside, dejectedly displaying my Rucker Park game for all the neighbors to see.

We weren’t going to beat L.A. We weren’t even going to have another shot.

My Trail Blazers, the only team I’d shared a city, a home, and a ’hood with, were about to be ousted from the 2000 NBA Western Conference Finals after owning a 13-point lead in the fourth quarter. Portland’s pride, the NBA team most often compared to the Green Bay Packers, was staring down the barrel of a Game 7 Shaq attack, and there was nothing the dreadlocked Brian Grant or I could do about it. So I cowered, running outside and avoiding the on-court onslaught.

Eight years have passed since that June. Eight years of Rasheed Wallace’s vitriol, Damon Stoudamire’s Hummer, Ruben Patterson’s sex life, and Bonzi Wells’ I-black-out-sometimes middle finger. Eight years of Jail Blazers, Fail Blazers, and Sigh, We Need Someone to Post Bail (Again) Blazers.

That may have made you laugh, but just remembering those names brings a Medusa-stopping cringe to my face.

There’s no getting around it — those eight seasons sucked.

Sure, you could argue that karmic fortune got the ping pong ball rolling when 2007’s No. 1 pick came to town. Or you could say this Rose City Renaissance began with the 2006 draft, a haul that netted the indomitable LaMarcus Aldridge and the incomparable Brandon Roy. Heck, you could even mark the reboot at Kevin Pritchard’s ascension to assistant general manager a couple years back.

But you’d be wrong. Those examples are nice, no doubt — but you’re forgetting Zach “Stat-Bo” Randolph, Darius “Head-Bop” Miles, and the 21 “wins” of 2006; you’re omitting Oden’s microfracture and Paul Allen’s bankruptcy; and you’re overlooking the still-maligned Chris Paul debacle.

After all, it was just last year that Rick Reilly, pre-Bill Simmonsized at ESPN, told Oden that if Portland picked him, he’d get to see his teammates in orange jumpsuits.

Suffice it to say, I’d rather give Rosie O’Donnell a Thai massage while watching every Nicholas Cage movie than have to relive those years.

Fortunately, Blockbuster was out of The Wicker Man and Rosie’s publicist never called me back, so I can look to the ’08-’09 season with my innocence and sanity intact. A new season is just around the corner, and just like Bush from the White House, eight years of abject failure are about to be swept into the past, replaced by change, hope, and, above all, some basketball IQ. (Is it any coincidence that Barack Obama’s brother-in-law is now the head coach at Oregon State University?)

The era of the Great Northwest crime wave appears to be over, and we once again have a team to pack the Rose Garden for. No matter what NBA preview you’ve read, the basketball brains are all saying one thing: The Blazers will be a force from the opening tip till the first round of the postseason, and possibly beyond. In the toughest conference across the sporting world, one of the youngest teams in the game’s history should find itself hosting an above-.500 record, a Rookie of the Year — not necessarily named Oden — and a playoff game or two.

But it’s not just the fact that we can, technically, ball. Any team can with shoelaces and some leather can find net. The reason my eyes glint while talking about the Blazers is because these are guys who could hang out with your Mom, guys you would want to watch your kids, guys who wouldn’t say no to a neighborhood potluck. These are amiable, affable, and downright approachable people, all of whom are proud, right-minded citizens of a proud, left-minded city. Channing Frye wants your advice on artwork, Travis Outlaw drives around in a Neon-Hulk Impala, and Greg Oden has diversity that only Philip Seymour Hoffman could rival.

See? You can’t help but smile, can you?

You know, there’s a reason that NBA commissioner David Stern claimed, after shining Clay Bennett’s shoes, that the Blazers were the team he’s looking forward to the most.

Portland may not take the scepter, crown, or throne this year — it’s only fair that we let Madman Artest and his gang of Houston misfits get a shot — but the next decade will be ours. Behind Roy’s acumen, Aldridge’s deftness, Rudy’s YouTubery, and the Tower of Oden, the Blazers’ reemergence will surprise no one, yet astound everyone. Our future is mind-numbingly open for success, bright in ways that only Stephen Hawking could imagine.

And yes, the bandwagon will be up and running — Sonics fans automatically get the front seat — but feel free to join the likes of Magic Johnson, J.A. Adande, and the whole Sports Illustrated crew when the postseason winds its way through an Oregon trail.

And this time, I promise, it’ll be different.

This time, we’ll beat LA.

So, who wants on the Blazers bandwagon?

Unless you’re busy spending $150,000 on clothes and makeup — and therefore spreading the wealth! — you’ve undoubtedly heard that my Trail Blazers are back. With Oden’s beard, Roy’s stealth, and Coach Nate’s bark, these P-Towners are set to squash Western Conference bottom-feeders and force the looming giants to take heed of their future replacement.

And that’s good news for you, because the Blazers Backers’ recruitment office is currently taking applications for bandwagoners.

The requirements are simple and straightforward, and remember, please note how many times an airport screener has discovered your tinfoil-covered marijuana. (We can’t explicitly deny entry to Damon Stoudamire, but we’re going to try everything we can.)

No cutting, unless it’s on a backdoor pick, and please, no head tattoos or calls to “Get caught up in life!” Sonics fans should form in the quick-pass line, while those abandoning the Suns’ ship, busy going down in flames, might take a bit longer to organize their burning paperwork.

The requirements are as follows:

• Must despise being surrounded by four walls, especially while awake. As a parallel requirement, you must scale at least one mountain per year, kayak one river per six months, and hike a national park every other week.

• Must be willing to deface anything at a moment’s notice, so long as said item contains gold and/or purple. If anything in your house — be it clothes, faucets, satin sheets, or shrines to Omar Cook — is colored gold or purple, discontinue reading, because we don’t want you.

• Must display bike rage at ignorant motorists breathing down your neck as you pedal along I-84. If you have to get a license plate on your bike, then, heck, you should be able to cruise along the highways, right?

• Must believe in Sasquatch. (Sonics fans may have a leg up in this area.)

• Must be willing to slash tires of any U-Dub or Wazzoo fan, but willing to root for the Ducks or Beavers no matter the opponent.

• Must sign a petition to return Boomer the Beaver to his rightful place in PGE Park.

• Must be willing to spend at least seven straight hours in a bookstore. If illiteracy is your thing, then I have no idea how you’re understanding this, but I’m intrigued, and you may continue your application.

• Must wear a bullet-proof vest when traveling on the East Side. (Ok, this one’s a joke — Portland’s safer than the Bubble Boy, and Hawthorne St.’s bistro-and Shins-lovers won’t try to hustle you as you pass them by, unless it’s for your opinion on Gus Van Sant.)

• Must be terrified of three centimeters of snow.

• Must not time travel to 1815 and get Shanghai’d in one of Portland’s underground tunnels. I mean, you can, but do you really want to sweep the poop deck as some pirate’s slave?

• Must always see a Major League Baseball team just beyond the horizon, knowing that one day, the politicians, team owners, and city officials will all be on the same page, bringing the Portland Cascades from my dreams to a downtown ballpark.

• Must convince at least three people to place “Nader/LaDuke 2000” signs in their front yards, and keep them there through Nov. 4.

• Must have seen The Hunted, Mr. Brooks, and Are We There
Yet? and despised every one of them.

• Must know what geoducks and tree octopi are. (If not, feel free to look them up — you won’t be disappointed. Well, maybe you will, but that really depends on your standards.)

• Must claim East Coast bias on everything from NBA predictions to food reviews, because let’s face it, it’s always there.

• Must revile Bob Whitsitt, love Martell’s shooting stroke, guess Oden’s age, miss Kevin Duckworth, grow Brian Grant’s dreads, want Bill Schonely as a surrogate grandfather, admire Jason Quick, feel for Sam Bowie, smoke with Bill Walton, and name first child “Clyde” (or, if it’s a girl, “The Glide.”)

If you have read and understood the stipulations for Blazers bandwagoning and are still interested in this unique and vaunted position, please contact recruiters at Remember1977@RoseGarden.com, JRRidersnipple@ArvydasSabonisWasSmoove.com, or DariusLovesMoCheeks@BonziBlackouts.com.

NB: If you use umbrellas, nuh-uh, thanks but no thanks. None of those namby-pamby water shields — only Columbia Sportswear up here, kid.

(PS: Any more I missed?)

With a smile as wide as the Pacific

Have you ever felt that you’re living someone else’s life?

Have you ever been swept away by some feeling, some event, that seems beyond the realm of possibility, breaking the back of the proverbial camel in the best way possible, and landing you with a smile that normal circumstance cannot explain?

I hope you have, because the feeling is wondrous. And today, for Buddha-deemed reason, was my day to claim that feeling.

Not simply Greg-Oden-finally-recovering-from-surgery wondrous, for that was to be expected; rather, wondrous with a four-leaf clover, rare-as-a-drunk-Stephanie-Rice atypicality. A sense of uniqueness that arises only in Disney movies or Mariah Carey music videos. A sentiment that arises with aligned cosmos, hemorrhaging of rabbit’s feet, and just a pinch of Gilda dust.

Something that blows your mind.

The other day, Tracy let slip that Norwood was sending me something in the mail. (As you may recall, the day-to-day tragedy of an unfruitful mailbox has beset me since the days before Katy Perry “Kissed A Girl” — for those non-Gen Y’ers, that means it’s been a while.) Before I had a chance to ask the little bro what he was shipping my way — not to mention how he figured out my address is 59/122 Culloden Rd, Marsfield, NSW 2122, Australia — I got an email from the Admin office, the holders of the keys to the postal service kingdom, that I had a parcel in need of my ownership.

After a full day of kebab-eating and resume-printing (and as I secretly expected, I’ve only realized how much I omitted after spending 45 minutes waiting for a library computer), I trekked over to the West Side of the Macquarie University Village, where the previous Sunday I’d reveled in Domino’s pizza and a projector screening of Iron Man (“Yeah, I can fly”) to ask the friendly hostess for my mail.

She brought back a thin, flat envelope, and it only took one look at the return address to realize that my girlfriend was a liar….but only in the best way.

You see, the package wasn’t from my Big-Sky-livin’ brother — it was from the cosmopolitan (no pun intended) who goes by Miss Dansker.

I somehow made it back to my bedroom without spilling its contents. Sprawling on my bed, I poured the papers out of the container, and it quickly dawned on me that I may have again been mistaken. You see, this envelope wasn’t just from her — it was from all of the best mates a boy could ask for.

Yes, the feeling was wondrous.

There was the scrawled, scratchy handwriting from Matt and Mark; there was the colorful collage of ’stache-laced football players Liang Embie used to remind me how much I was missed at the Thresher; there was the burrito-stuffed, googly-eyed guy Peter must keep mistaking me for; there was Mollie’s letter with news on Brown sports and our new, Casey-will-eventually-dominate-this-like-only-Sam-Bowie-knows basketball hoop; there were Chris’ edits to Mollie’s article — “After giving up on another Indian’s playoff berth masturbation, I settled for a .500 season and ruining other teams’ playoff berths Tracy” — and notes on an improved beer pong game; there was Jazzle-Dazzle’s reminder that I refer to him as a terrorist (which I’d let slide in recent months); and there was Tim’s autographed wang, not necessarily life-like, but a valiant attempt nonetheless.

And there was the signature of the enabler, the one whose ideas never cease to amaze me. (Again, not Norwood. Still waiting, little buddy….)

After reading, pondering, and re-reading these miscellany, I tacked them on the board next to my desk. (Unfortunately, that meant I had to remove my “Oregon Voting Stipulations” form, which I never got a chance to comb through…hopefully I filled in all those vote-bubbles correctly!) See for yourself:



Before I opened the package, I knew the end of my semester was arriving a bit quicker than I had anticipated, and I was tinged with distress. But after I remembered what I get to come home to, I can’t help but count down the days until I feel the States under my feet.

I’m a lucky guy.

Video of the day!

Courtesy of Ferras Vinh, the future Rick Davis:



(Watch till the end — it is worth every second.)

News story of the day!

Oh tear of tears, oh shame of shame,/It’s safe to say the drinking world will never be the same: Goodbye, Zima.

(I’m a poet, and I don’t even know it.)

Giving back never felt so bad, good

Thank you, Mom. Thank you, Dad. Thank you, adolescent influences. Thank you for not raising me to be a convict.

Being a free citizen never felt so good, and yet giving back to Australia never felt so painful.

I just spent the weekend at the Tidbinbilla National Refuge with the sole purpose of helping the native animalia and vegetation restore their dominance over imported creatures. As we left on Friday morning, picked up by a semi-toothless old man named Rodney — whose stories ranged from watching mountain gorillas in Uganda to, uh, well nothing else; he really knew how to keep to himself — I sat through the four-hour ride, half-asleep, thinking of all the smiling wallabies and thankful ferns awaiting us.

But feet of rock-hard mulch, skin-piercing thorns, and piles of porous pitchforks later, I ended with a different view on the experience.

Nope, the convict life — replanting Lemura grasses, spreading piles of weed-repressing mulch, and reppin’ neon-yellow vests — is not for me. Of course, my obstinacy stems from my actual history of volunteerism. In high school, I scraped by riding shotgun as my Mom drove to the homes of the senile and handicapped, walking from the car to the door with hot food in tow. The worst part about that gig was probably the sour-milk smell I could never shake from my nostrils, but, in hindsight, listening to the radio and talking to my Mom about her family history are undoubtedly favored to Tidbinbilla.


But for all the hands full of blisters, arms full of burns, and legs full of bull ant bites, it’s safe to say I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Aside from the dancing brolga, territorial koalas, games of charades, magnificent stir-fry, star-blazed nights, and rampaging kangaroos — more on that later — this trip finally allowed me to escape the cabin fever that’s infected me the last week. After my mid-semester break allowed me to escape the confines of suburbia, I returned to find myself inundated with newfound internship options. So with approximately 1,932 hours of staring at an unrelenting computer screen over the last couple days, I was ready to head out.

An uneventful drive landed us at the Tidbinbilla National Refuge, only 37 clicks from Canberra, the capitol city of Australia. Finally, I’d arrived in the elusive, mythical, tiny Australian Capital Territory! Maybe I could finally see my favorite politician, Kevin Rudd! (Alas, that didn’t happen — he was probably too busy saving the Australian economy to visit the Tidbinbilla sanctuary.) We saw the rewardingly-elaborate displays of ACT animals, checked out the stuffed echidnas, and, as a treat for waking up so early, bought ice cream cones — little did we know, Rodney was going to buy us all ice cream tomorrow. (Although quieter than a wombat, Rodney was a champ.) And I finally saw my first wild emu, unblinking eyes and everything!

The packing list called for a sleeping bag, so, being the Northwesterner I am, I figured a camp and a Coleman stove would be in order. Unfortunately, we found ourselves in actual cabins, with a mess hall, shower, and ropes course all within shouting distance. But what the refuge lacked in rustic amenities it made up for in sheer volume of kangaroos.

They were everywhere. Everywhere. Since they were wild, they never got within rasslin’ proximity, but when you hear a kangaroo snuffling around your door at 3 a.m., you know you’re not in Kansas anymore.

Ok, I guess this is a good spot for the rampaging ’roos story. The second day of the trip, after we had mangled mulch for the last four hours, we were resting at base camp. The typical tourist, I left the cabin with camera in hand, seeking to get some good shots of the kangaroos out there. Doing my best ninja impression, I stalked a “mob” of kangaroos (that’s actually the proper term, hilariously enough), coming close enough to gain their attention in my camera lens. As I began to snap my shots, the kangaroo in sight turned his head to my right, facing a low rumbling noise that had just caught my ears. I looked to the hill on my right, unable to discern whether a semi was rumbling by or if a rockslide was taking place. What I saw made me catch my breath, for this was no rockslide.

These were kangaroos. Dozens of them. All leaping down the hill, only 100 meters away.

All leaping right at me.

I’d lie if I said I didn’t turn and run — have you seen their claws — but I soon realized that they weren’t pursuing me directly. Instead, they were creating a horseshoe, blocking my exits and forcing me away from camp.

They’re organizing my demise, I thought.

Crap.

With some 75 kangaroos all on their hind legs, boring me down with their eyes, I rationalized my situation by reminding myself that this would at least me a story my friends would love to tell. But then, putting to use the thousands of dollars my parents had invested in my education, I remembered that horseshoes aren’t connected — there’s always a way out. So with my knowledge of shapes in mind, I found the far exit of the mob, meandered through the woods for a bit, and finally found a dirt path that would lead me back to base camp. Yeah, my heart was in my throat, but better that than a joey’s teeth.

The dangers, fortunately, stopped there, although we did see a Red-Bellied Black Snake, one of the most poisonous in Australia, smashed into the asphalt outside camp. (Some others in the group saw its cousins in the park, but on three separate occasions, I missed it quicker than you can say “How are the Rays still in the playoffs?”) The bull ants, each a couple centimeters in length, weren’t necessarily life-threatening, but boy, did their bite — through my jeans — make me yelp.

But not all the animals were out to get me, I swear. A sighting of a rare Brush-Tailed Rock-Wallaby, a species with only ~20 left in the wild, provided a reminder of the fragility of the ecosystem we’ve taken over. (The one we saw was in captivity, where about 100 more exist, so its sighting was still something remarkable.) And while we didn’t see any platypuses, we spotted some Australian Pelicans outstretched in the sun, a Black Swan and her brood, and a gaggle of emus hiding while we refilled their grub selection.


At camp, while we weren’t busy reenacting scenes from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off — that only took about, oh, 30 hours to guess — or elbowing each other in the nose during a violent game of Spoons, we found ourselves exploring the landscape, or at least what the kangaroos would allow us. On the second day, me, Mark from Colorado, and Danial from California scaled a 1,000-foot hill, out of breath from both the hike and the views we found atop the hill’s crowning granite boulders. The weirdest part? With no service in the base camp, I was still able to receive a drunk dial at the top of the hill.

Volunteering is what we came for, and, thus, volunteering was the focus. But as you can see, there was so much more.

And I didn’t even end with the sour-milk smell in my nose.

[I’ll have some more pictures on Facebook tomorrow.]

Videos of the day!

I just can’t get enough:



…and again…



And for those handful of you who don't share my schoolboy crush on Sarah Palin, here's something to satiate your Caped Crusader appetite. The parallels are...uncanny? eerie? absolutely, unequivocally, clear-as-glass true?

Sarah Palin, you slay me!

Since I've been busy staring at a computer screen for, oh, the last 48 hours - applying to newspapers across the country has given me such an appreciation for, um, excessive typing? - I figured I'd reward myself (and you!) with another dose of the Orwellian life of Sarah Palin:



On a related note, I've missed cable news - watching Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd talk economic policies just is not the same as having Keith Olbermann's doomsday saber-rattling [insert terrifying buzzword] going in the background.

Anyway, hope to have more wit, irony, and humorous insight coming your way after I figure out 500 words on a significant moment in my life. (My first Stanich burger? Doing my laundry? Getting eight-pack abs?)

Age is just a number; idiocy is forever

There's always going to be debate about the civic duty of voting vs. keeping the uninformed watching Jerry Springer come Election Day. With so many "Get Our and Vote"-style ads, campaigns, and slogans aimed toward the "young voter," it could be easy to assume that the youth of America are the sole transgressors of the "politically illiterate" (polilliterate?) camp. At least, that's what 20/20 seemed to think in this clip:



Fortunately, a hometown hero, the Bus Project's Jefferson Smith, flipped the argument on its head, and took to downtown Portland to expose our politically anemic (polanemic?) elders:



Either way, it seems that America is screwed. So what time does Maury start again?

[Thanks to the Portland Mercury for the link.]

Feelin' young, thanks to ornithology

Laitham’s Snipes. Red-kneed Dotterals. Whistling Kites.

No, these are not the newest options of aero-themed Christmas gifts. These are the names of some of the different birds I encountered on yesterday’s day-tour of the Hawkesbury Wetlands.

While you were busy listening to The Kaiser Chiefs' new single, I was bouncing around some dirt roads alongside a gaggle of geriatrics, stopping at every other lagoon, tree path, or picturesque pastoral landscape that overlooked the slow-moving Hawkesbury River. And, you know, see what little winged creatures were flitting about.

As you may have gathered from some previous posts, I have an affinity for ornithology, stemming from a one-credit course I took senior year in high school Sole requirements: show up…or at least, since we were seniors, be somewhere on campus, but preferably not napping in the teacher’s lounge (KIDDING. The class was actually quite informative, and, as you can see, has stuck with me.) Ever since, much of my travels have involved the perfunctory binoculars, camera, and heavily-scribbled birding book (and at least one person referring to me as “that weird bird guy.”)

The day began early enough — again, anytime before the “p.m.” pops up on the laptop screen is too early — and by 8 a.m., a bus and train had landed me at the Killara Rail Station. Ominously Tellingly, the stop featured a tree with a swarm of Sulpher-Crested Cockatoos, still screeching worse than hemorrhoid-filled dinosaurs, locking claws (literally!) with a Galah.

As soon as my fellow birders began to congregate, I felt like I was the only one who hadn’t voted for Dwight Eisenhower. It seemed that everyone who joined me at the pick-up point would be experiencing their Golden Years with me. “Depends” would have had a field day with this group. Needless to say, I felt a bit displaced. I’m sure I would have loved Rita Hayworth as a 1950s teenager, but I really don’t think that was something I was going to get across with these birders.Fortunately, the conversation didn’t consist solely of applesauce and the Lone Ranger. One of the women, admittedly pushing 80, caught me by surprise when she fluently fixed “internet” into the conversation.

But age, antithetical to the post above this one, does not necessarily mean senility. After, oh, about two seconds of birding, noticed that our guide, Yorkshire Keith, was the most knowledgeable antipodean ornithologist I’d ever seen. I don’t plan on being a diminutive, leather-skinned guide when I grow up, but, dang, do I have respect for anyone who can identify a speeding black bullet with the sun ceaselessly beating down through your pupils. Not only did he amaze me time and again, but it gave me the opportunity to feel totally unaccomplished (or accomplished, as it were) as I ticked the birds off my list.

The birds, as you can imagine, didn’t disappoint. From the hovering Nankeen Kestrels to the Black Swans, tailed by some kids, to the wandering Brown Quail — which I somehow spotted amidst the low brush — the life list I keep kept on growing. The highlight of the birding afternoon came when a White-bellied Sea-Eagle, tailed by a pair of Whistling Kites, barrel-rolled out of the way, dropping both altitude and his pursuers in fantastic fashion.

All told, I saw or heard some 100 species throughout the day, including around 20 new ones and my very first crake (which is kind of like a snipe, which is kind of like a godwit, which is kind of like a plover, which is kind of like a sandpiper…). It may not have been worth the $100 I shelled out*, lugging around bruised bananas and damp PB&J’s, or feeling like everyone on the bus was going to start complaining about those new-fangled pagers they just came out with, but, yeah, it was fun.

Unfortunately, my college-bred malaise has gotten the best of me, and I haven’t put the photos on my computer yet. Once I get off this couch, stop watching my roommate play music on TV, and wash my sheets for the first time in three months — woohoo! — I’ll get them up, I promise.. Picture time!

Apparently, you have to be a member of AARP to bird. Guess I missed the memo.



I now know what I want for Christmas.



Overlooking the Tidbinbilla plains, where birds absolutely love to not pose for me and my non-zoom lens.


For more tantalizingly blurry bird photos, go here.

*I made up for the loss of monies later in the evening when, instead of buying beverages at the Ivy Nightclub, Noah from Arizona and I stole people’s drinks when they weren’t looking. Not only did my budget stay fit, but I had the most fun possible this side of a phonebook and a fire extinguisher (man, the things you do in college). Unethical? Yes. Inexpensive? Yes. Two free bottles of champagne? Yes.

Video of the day!

Thanks to late-night Australian TV, I, sadly, had to watch this commercial:

Trials, Tribulations, and the Terrors of Watching New Zealand Rugby

They are the stuff borne of nightmares.

They are more terrifying than Donald Trump’s hair, Mike Tyson’s mind, and season three of Are You Afraid of the Dark?

They are the New Zealand All Blacks, and they’re coming for you.

Well, okay, maybe not you specifically, since you don’t play on a national rugby team. But if, in another life, you find yourself as a member of the Australia Wallabies or the South Africa Springboks, then you’ll be more screwed than Sarah Palin in a Katie Couric interview.

And how do I know that the All Blacks are the embodiment of Bane, Charles Manson, and Hades, or that their parents are the Hulk and a harem of banshees? Because even though I’m (purportedly) a rugby-loathin’ “Amurrican,” the All Blacks’ moniker rang a familiar refrain in my mind.

Still, this rampage squad was mostly rumor and hearsay before I arrived Down Under. Tales of demon-possessed New Zealanders and their haka, some will.i.am-inspired dance routine or something, were all I knew of these terrors from the South Pacific.

So it was without hesitation that I bought a Wallabies jacket in August — not only was it comfortable, but hey, I got it on sale, which my Mom would be proud to hear.

And now, two months later, I rue that day, trembling in fear that the All Blacks will find me out.

Why?

Because I finally saw what they could do to anyone who stood in their way.
Last month, the Wallabies, All Blacks and Springboks were all competing for the Tri Nations Cup, an annual competition for a big shiny trophy. Set outside the typical international competition, the tournament began in 1996, although the contests between Australia and the sheep-shaggers, er, New Zealand — oh man, I hope they don’t read this column — started in 1903. Ever since, the rivalries between the three nations have grown quicker than John McCain’s nose, and as any rugby player can attest, so have the friendships.

But friendliness and camaraderie come after the tournament, when the on-field blood, sweat, and tears — the latter often coming from the Wallabies and the Springboks — dissipate and the beer flows through the night. It’s the midst of the competition, when the hearts are pumping and the eyes are focused, that won’t get Barney singing anytime soon.

If you check Wikipedia, you’ll see that the All Blacks had won eight of the previous twelve Tri Nations Cups (and if you blur your eyes, Australia’s flag starts to look like New Zealand’s, which gives the Kiwis a couple more wins). So it should have come as little surprise that the All Blacks came into 2008 as odds-on favorites yet again.

With South Africa’s hopes quickly going the way of the Tasmanian Tiger, Australia ended up hosting New Zealand in last month’s final. Attempting not to singe my stir fry, I flipped the television on just as the players began their pre-game jog. I watched the behemoths striding and secretly wondered if my Pilates would ever get me to look like that. (Nope.)

And then, as I took my first bite of burned noodles, the crowd got silent. Across from the checkered All Blacks, the Wallabies lined up, not dissimilar to an old-school firing range. And something strange, something eerie, something blood-curdling began.

The haka.

It’s as if the All Blacks were held by Lucifer’s highly-choreographed minions, bulging their eyes, sharpening their teeth, and turning these He-Men into terrors of the night.

As I sat in a dread-driven stupor, I found extremities going cold and my organs beginning to shut down. How did the indigenous people explain the terror of European guns? How could the Japanese express their horror of Godzilla? How will you tell your kids about Paris Hilton?

There are places where English comes up short. Embarrassingly, as I’m an English major, this was one such instance.

Needless to say, the Wallabies rolled over quicker than a 1998 Ford Explorer. With tries falling, scrums writhing, and muscles that seemed ready to burst, New Zealand ran roughshod over the poor Australian blokes, easily capturing the Tri Nations Cup for the ninth time in 13 years.

Ever since I witnessed this rugby drubbing, away from the safety of a loving family or supportive Thresher staff, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that the All Blacks are out there, roaming, sacking, and pillaging the Australian landscape.
And there’s nothing I, nor anyone else, can do about it.

So, who wants my Wallabies jacket?

Doing my part and, somehow, my homework

I never get anything in the mail. It's quite the sad sight, seeing me approach my mailbox, a gleam in my eye that hey, maybe today will be different. But, as always, that gleam turns into a tear, and a little piece of my heart breaks off every time the aluminum (or, Australianly, 'aluminium') box remains barren. I can only imagine that the residents next to the mail enclave have started a drinking game, imbibing every time I dejectedly walk away.

Fortunately, the US government has my back. (That's probably the most oxymoronical statement you can find, but bear with me.)

For those of you wearing earmuffs and living under a rock in Fallujah, the presidential election is fast approaching. And after years of watching cool cable news graphics of George W. Bush's slams on Gore and Kerry - I was too young to remember Clinton saxophoning his way past Dole in '96 - I can finally vote.

And, boy, have I taken full advantage of it. If Sarah Palin can claim she's keeping Tina Fey in business, then I can say that I've been keeping cnn.com, politico.com, and time-blog.com/swampland/ in the black for a good couple months.

Sadly, upon arrival Down Under, my lethargy had gotten the best of me, and my absentee forms were still like Palin's opinions on the Bush Doctrine: blank. Finally, an email from my Dad prompted me to make my opinions heard, and thus, the process officially began.

The last two week were remarkable in every aspect - including the ironic fact that the first Victorian book I read, The Moonstone, I left in a hostel - so, needless to say, the ballot's arrival slipped my mind. It just wasn't on my mind. (What was? Training Day, which I had watched the night before. Seriously, Denzel should be cast as Greg Oden in the Blazer's biopic. Can you imagine Oden, after slamming the ball over Yao Ming, screaming "King Kong ain't got shit on me!"? But I digress....) With that ever-returning gleam still nestled in my eyes, I keyed the door to my mailbox, saw that there was more than just metal and darkness, and tried to swallow my heart back down (it tends to get lodged in my throat during instances of wonder).

There it was. My ballot. My ballot. (Go get your own!)

Time to vote.

So why did I do it? Why go to the effort of voting for a candidate who has the state locked up? Why spend $2.35 - which could easily buy me, oh, nearly half of a beer - on the required postage? Why even bother on becoming a drop in the ocean? Well, it's simple: It's my right. My ancestors didn't immigrate to the United States seeking an oppressive dictatorship - they sought the means to fight injustice (whoops, that's Bruce Wayne) to make their voice count in a constructive, worthwhile manner. They came here because the freedom to vote was attainable, unique, and new. They came here because they wanted to have a say in my existence, in my future, and in my happiness. Through voting, I can ensure that I perpetuate their purpose, and I honor the commitments they made for me and my countrymen.

But my reasoning doesn't stop there. Not long ago, I interviewed my born-in-1917 grandmother about her experiences during the 1960s. The talk naturally turned to her years leading up to that decade, and I remember her telling me that she couldn't recall whom she voted for when first casting a ballot. That fact, bless my grandmother's heart, resonated with me, and she helped me learn from her experience to never forget which candidate I believed in most (or which I believe was the lesser of two evils, depending on perspective). Thus, with my vote and voice now delivered, I will be able to relay to my children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren (yes, Mom, I eat my vegetables, so I'll still be around) that I participated early, and I participated often.

Lastly, there's a a reason which, unfortunately, didn't come to my attention until one of the literary and journalistic greats of our time passed away. David Foster Wallace, who took his own life but a few weeks ago, was highly-praised and much-heralded for his clever insight and deep and constructive writing style. I hadn't read anything by him until he was no longer with us, but now that I have, his previously meaningless death now carries weight. The best piece I've found comes from Rolling Stone Magazine, circa 2000, when Wallace tailed McCain's "Straight Talk Express" in the days leading up to the South Carolina Primary. I would highly recommend reading the entire piece - it would only take 30 minutes of your time to see how far the (ahem) mighty have fallen - but this excerpt will sum up why, especially as a young voter, casting your ballot carries added meaning:

"If you are demographically a Young Voter, it is again worth a moment of your valuable time to consider the implications of [not voting]. If you are bored and disgusted by politics and don't bother to vote, you are in effect voting for the entrenched Establishments of the two major parties, who are not dumb and are keenly aware that it's in their interests to keep you disgusted and bored and cynical and to give you every possible psychological reason to stay at home doing one-hitters and watching MTV Spring Break on Primary Day. By all means stay home if you want, but don't bullshit yourself that you're not voting. In reality, there is no such thing as not voting: you either vote by voting, or you vote by staying home and tacitly doubling the value of some Diehard's vote." [Thanks to Common Sense Dancing for the link.]

Perpetuating my ancestor's and my country's integrity, being honest with my children, and eliminating the doubling of another vote. That's why I did it. (Well, that, and keeping McCain's "goodies" out of the White House. Side note: After watching that video, since when does the ATL crew hang out at car washes?)

And, honestly, I haven't been prouder of myself in a good, long while.

Actually, I may have been prouder today, as I finally got back my first big papers of the term. Since writing comes pretty naturally to my keyboard (I'm just the button-masher - he's the real hero), I've always done better in essay-intensive courses than with multiple choice, memorize-the-mass-of-the-Earth tests. With my returned papers, obviously, came the grades, and instantly I was thrown back into the days of impossible-to-get-an-A Catlin Gabel high school. I hadn't seen numbers - yes, they do percentages here; don't ask me how - this low since I checked the Mariners' 2008 winning percentage. I cringed, I grimaced, I questioned. Had I really slacked off that much since I'd arrived?

Well, yeah - but then I realized I was forgetting something.

Australia is a wonderful place. It's got those fluffy marsupials, an easy-tan sun, and people who care nothing for enunciating. And it's also got the toughest grading system I've ever encountered, difficult enough to make a dingo wail and thorough enough to send a Death Adder into hiding.

My papers served as a case in point. It looked like a miniature samurai, with a pencil instead of a sword, had gone to town on the pages. Scribbles here, curlicues there - a plethora of criticism reigned down in a fiery ball of question marks and rewording, and my essays ended up more graphite than ink.

Fortunately for me (and every other American student in my classes) with Australia's stringent grades come lowered expectations. That's why anything above 85% is an A+, above 75% is an A, etc., etc. To paraphrase a friend of mine, it's like everything is on a permanent curve.

So if you heard some hurricane-like gusts rattling your windows today, that was just my sigh of relief.

WHEW.

Now, back to slacking off.

Video of the day!

It is such, such a good time to be a Blazers fan. This is Rudy Fernandez, a newly-minted Blazer, turning two-time All-Star Dwight Howard into his own personal ironing board.

Some Cinematically-Inspired NBA Predictions

Even though I'm out of the States, this whole intertubeweb thing has kept me pretty abreast with the sports of my homeland. So...

With the NBA season fast approaching, let's take a peek at how the 30 squads will compare to one another. And for all you cinephiles out there, try to spot the movie reference accompanying each team (which will be about as difficult as making Manu Ginobli flop)!

Atlantic Division

1. Boston Celtics, 58-24: With Rajon Rondo’s post-season ascension, a clever media takes to calling him, KG, Paul Pierce, and Ray Allen the Fantastic 4. Following the script, Rondo, as the Invisible Woman, will end up marrying Garnett in this year’s sequel.

2. Philadelphia 76ers, 45-37: Looming larger than life in his new town, Philly fans and teammate look in awe at the terrifying Elton Brand. With zero fourth-quarter assists on the year, it’s apparent no one wants to take the Monster’s Ball, at least not with the game on the line.

3: Toronto Raptors, 43-39: Rumor has it Andrea Bargnani, the No. 1 pick from 2006, underwent an intense offseason workout regimen. Secretly, though, Bargnani has been training as an undercover assassin, as succeeding in the NBA not something he ever really Wanted (as evidenced by last season’s abysmal performance).

4: New Jersey Nets, 34-48: On a new squad and still utilizing incomprehensible English, Yi Jianlian continues his transformation into Wall-E by befriending one of the Continental Airlines Arena cockroaches (and, in a scientific find of the decade, inadvertently discovering actual vegetation in North Jersey).

5: New York Knicks, 12-70: Stephon Marbury’s downward spiral continues as the point guard claims he goes spelunking in the nude, eats live pigeons before gamedays, and actually enjoyed The Happening. Somewhere, Freud and Isiah Thomas smile.


Central Division

1. Cleveland Cavaliers, 52-30: With a swift rebuke from Cavs owner Dan Gilbert, King James comes clean on his future in Cleveland: Will he stay? “Definitely, (Maybe).”

2. Detroit Pistons, 50-32: After Rasheed Wallace, Tayshaun Prince, and Rip Hamilton all retire to form a break-dance troupe, “The Motown Movers,” first-year Pistons coach Michael Curry looks to Rodney Stuckey to Step Up. Stuckey feels the beat, leading the Pistons back to the Eastern Conference Finals.

3: Chicago Bulls, 40-42: Seeking Atonement for last year’s horrific implosion, Joakim Noah offers to sacrifice his hair, turning it into some Hot Fuzz via blowtorch. (Oh man, two movies for the price of one Joakim Noah-has-awful-hair joke! Sweet!)

4: Milwaukee Bucks, 31-51: Still smarting from his team’s humiliating loss to the USA in the Olympics, Andrew Bogut, a native of Australia, retaliates by sending every member of the Redeem Team live crocodiles. And thus, the legacy of Steve Irwin lives on.

5: Indiana Pacers, 18-64: This team’s highest-paid players, in order, are Troy Murphy, Mike Dunleavy, and Rasho Nesterovic. Is Will Ferrell filming a sequel to Semi-Pro, or does Larry Bird just not care anymore?


Southeast Division

1. Atlanta Hawks, 59-23: With Josh Childress soaking up the Hellenic rays, general manager Rick Sund has a midseason Nightmare Before Christmas when he dreams that the former Hawk’s ’fro is still taking up cap space.

2: Washington Wizards, 49-33 In a recent blog entry, Agent Zero asks his fans to share a Quantum of Solace for his brittle legs before every home game. Deshawn Stevenson pleads for the same, as multiple fungi have started taking over his beard. (Meanwhile, Jay-Z formulates a ‘Yo, Dat Fungus is Humongous’ riff.)

3: Miami Heat, 46-36: Stealing the cape from his in-state neighbor, Dwyane Wade uses the 2008-09 season to show that when Superman Returns, he does so with a vengeance. (Plus, Chris Quinn could pull off a Lex Luthor, don’t you think?)

4. Orlando Magic, 31-51: After being on the wrong end of Rudy Fernandez’s Olympic YouTubery, Dwight Howard switches superhero personas but regresses more than Sam Raimi did with Spiderman 3 as the Magic fall from playoff contention.

5: Charlotte Bobcats, 30-52: With apathy and approaching senility, Larry Brown spends most of the season lounging on the Carolina coast, earning the moniker of Old Man and the Sea. To everyone’s surprise, Adam Morrison eventually grows a beard and wins a Hemingway look-alike contest.


Pacific Division

1. Los Angeles Clippers, 60-22: The Life of Brian Skinner entails many things, such as riding the pine, picking up Baron Davis’ water bottles, and cowering from the Cloverfield monster, Marcus Camby. And although no one knows who Skinner is, at least he’s not as ugly as Chris Kaman!

2. Los Angeles Lakers, 58-24: With Pau as Brian, Odom as Champ, Kobe and Ron, and Bynum as Brick, this Laker squad succeeds both on the court and in the newsroom. (What, you didn’t know Phil Jackson coaches Anchorman reenactments in his spare time?)

4: Sacramento Kings, 48-34: Kevin Martin plays out of his brain, sneaking his surprising team to the second round of the playoffs. As congratulations, Shaq sends K-Mart a copy of The Queen.

3: Golden State Warriors, 41-41: After being axed as the Warriors’ mascot, “Thunder” finds success of the set of the upcoming Smurfs film, awkwardly playing Smurfette’s sexy pool boy.

5: Phoenix Suns, 28-54: Looking to reclaim the run’n’gun offense from the departed Mike D’Antoni, Steve Nash and company average 299 points for the season. Unfortunately, their opponents average 300.


Southwest Division

1. Houston Rockets, 64-18: In order to protect his (deep breath) back, neck, shoulders, wrist, knee, ankle, and hamstrings, T-Mac constructs a protective suit of gold alloy for game-day. Much to his chagrin, the non-element-savvy media still tags him as Iron Man.

2. New Orleans Hornets, 60-22: Now that people actually recognize him, David West lies awake at night, just waiting for someone to come forward and produce a picture of his 1987-89 stint as a Jerry-curled Wedding Singer. Think Calvin Murphy, but with falsetto.

3: Dallas Mavericks, 43-39: Using the Pineapple Express to take his game to the highest level, Josh Howard helps Dallas smoke out the regular-season competition. (Not to be blunt, but Howard also loves the ganja.)

4: San Antonio Spurs, 29-67: Trying to will his way past stale teammates and an aging core, Tim Duncan toughens up and adopts the moniker of American Gangster. However, people quickly remember he’s from the Virgin Islands, and the Big Easy reverts to being softer than a marshmallow Peep.

5: Memphis Grizzlies, 22-60: As brother of Pau, Marc Gasol may always be considered Almost Famous, but he reaches the apex of Google searches when he stands on top of the FedEx Forum and screams, “I am a golden god!”


Northwest Division

1. Utah Jazz, 56-26: After carrying the Russian flag through the Opening Ceremonies, Andrei Kirilenko decides to continue the tradition at all Jazz home games. Alas, David Stern is a big fan of Red Dawn, and quickly nixes Skeletor’s Kirilenko’s idea.

2. Portland Trail Blazers, 48-34: Calls are still out to Danny Glover, a Portland native, to portray Greg Oden in the sequel to The Rookie, so long as Glover can look a bit older.

3: Denver Nuggets, 41-41: Deciding that it was frugal to ride to Denver together on a moped, AI and ’Melo give new meaning to Dumb and Dumber when they decide to try some of Chris Andersen’s, um, “prescriptions” along the way.

4: Minnesota Timberwolves, 30-52: Kevin Love’s weight continues to balloon as the rookie devours anything he can get his hands on. Kevin McHale cringes when, during a road trip to NYC, Love mistakes the city’s power cords for black licorice and throws Gotham into The Dark (K)night.

5: Oklahoma City Thunder, 12-70: Acting out scenes from Superbad, the utter boredom of OKC leads Kevin Durant and Jeff Green to get the baby-faced Russell Westbrook, a.k.a. McLovin’, to buy them some booze. “The funny thing about my hook shot is that it’s located on my…”

Never have I ever, part three*

In order to get some visuals for these quips, here are the links.

— Had the desire to unironically use the words ‘whilst,’ ‘mate,’ or ‘bloke.’ Too much Outback will do that to you.
— Experienced a state of unconsciousness while remaining conscious. (Our Kelly Caves tour guide, who brought us to fierce stalactites, growing stalagmites, and unique helactites, decided to blow out the candle and tell everyone to shut up. ‘Terrifying,’ I though out loud. When prodded, I finished the thought: ‘Terrifyingly cool.’)
— Had an Australian Pelican, the largest in the world, sucker-punch me in the eye during a mad scramble for raw fish.
— Watched wild kangaroos grazing, wild wallabies (unsuccessfully) hiding, wild dolphins skim by my ferry, wild Wedge-Tailed Eagles pick apart kanagroadkill, wild penguins return to shore (and proceed to mate, which, though rare, was loud enough to wake their neighbors), wild New Zealand Fur Seal pups duke it out as the rest of the colony sun-bathed next to two-story-high spray over a rocky outcropping, wild koalas do, um, nothing but sleep, scratch, and look cuddly, wild White Bellied Sea Eagles partake in a bout of domestic fighting, a wild camel muck about the Outback, wild dingoes roving their territory, or a wild brushtail possum stare daggers at me with his saucer eyes. And don’t even get me started on the dozens of non-birds of prey I saw. (Upon meeting Jan, a prescient 20-year old Darwinian German, he said ‘You like birds, huh.’ Yup.)
— Talked for nine hours with an Indian maxillary-facial resident (nor have I ever written those words in succession) whilst while on a nine-hour train ride from Melbourne to Adelaide.
— Seen anyone (HA lolz jk) a man stick a four-foot long balloon down his throat, pose with another balloon extending simultaneously from both nose and mouth, and, when an audience member didn’t respond to his beckons, says, ‘Look at him, pretending like he doesn’t recognize me out of women’s clothes.’
— Lost a staring contest with a Thylacine (Tasmanian Tiger)…although to be fair, this guy was taxidermized, since his species is extinct and whatnot.
— Spent so little time looking at a stuffed horse that I thought my free admission to the Melbourne Museum time was wasted. Then, though, I realized that this posed pony was Phar Lap, Australia’s greatest racehorse, who died of arsenic poisoning while in the States. (CSI: Kentucky Derby?)
— Been awestruck by the Tin Man. Then again, the Tin Man wasn’t Ned Kelly (read this, and you’ll see why I made a point of seeing the armor of Australia’s greatest legend).
— Thought Adelaide was the sketchiest city this side of post-Katrina Houston (and, obviously, the only Houston I’ve ever known). I mean, I’ve had cracked-out skin-head zombies stumble by me before, but never had cracked-out skin-head zombies stumble by me with their shoes untied!
— Had a drunken German roommate wake me up in the middle of the night, turn the light on, see me roll over, wave, and then slur something in German to me. (Nor have I ever had another German invite me to the Lake Constance region - 50 km’s north of you, Aunt Jean! - to ‘eat apples and look at cows.’)
— Seen sheep get milked. That was actually quite traumatic, so I’d rather not go into it right now. (‘I'd like to recharge my batteries and shut down the engines, and get myself back to neutral.’) But my, do they make good cheese.
— Beheld hundred-foot high ocean-side rocks, each in a shape only [insert famous postmodern abstractionist artiste here] could have imagined. There’s a reason they are described ‘Remarkable Rocks.’
— Donated to a fund protecting the remaining 11,000 Australian Sea Lions, whose population, sadly, is decreasing by 25% annually. What convinced me to shell out my Dad’s hard-earned money? Look at these pictures, and you’ll understand.
— Discussed with Richard, a 60-something UK national-turned-Kangaroo Islander, why Sarah Palin is more terrifying the Japanese version of The Grudge; listened to a 70-something English couple describe their courtship and subsequent travels; and had a 70-something English woman tell me how much it snowed when she visited Nebraska (what’s with me and Ye Olde English?)
— Seen the Melbourne bishop proceed to a mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral after I had patrolled the hip, café-and-bistro-laden Brunswick St. after my 11-hour overnight train ordeal ride from Sydney was broken every 20 minutes by a three-year old’s commentary on the passing sheep/mustard fields/sheep/houses/sheep.
— Eaten honey from the purest strain of bee left in the world. Originally from Italy, the Ligurian bee has been isolated on Kangaroo Island for over 100 years, spreading peace and goodwill between honeycombs and taste buds ever since.
— Learned of the role clipper ships played in bringing early (non-convicted) immigrants to the Australian shores (a few artifacts of the Lightning, a ship constructed by my great-great-great-great grandfather, Donald McKay, were on display in the Melbourne Museum.)
— Watched stick bugs go for each other’s jugular for almost a half hour. That was cool.
— Seen (and instantly lost interest in) how eucalyptus oil was produced (and sometimes paired with emu fat for all sorts of disorders. Relevant, it was not.)
— Failed (in brilliant fashion) at finding the ways to describe Uluru, Kings Canyon, and Kata Tjuta. Although this will sound more than cliché than any Palin soundbite, I felt spiritually invigorated by the three beastly formations. I was dwarfed by Ulur's redness and palpable immensity, so it was not difficult to see why the giant holds a highly-sacred position in Aboriginal lore. With plains as far as the eyes can stretch in the pre-dawn darkness, the silhouette of this behemoth reminded me as much of the Cloverfield monster as a gift from the heavens. King’s Canyon, constructed of 1.5 billion-year old rock, provided me with the widest natural view of the Outback. With multi-layered and multi-color precipices, dozens of rounded domes forming a ‘Lost City,’ and a lush ‘Garden of Eden’ set in the middle of a barring, sun-baked ravine. The three-hour, 90-degree, ozone-less hike meant my breath, quickly taken, has not yet returned. Lastly, Kata Tjuta, also known as the Olgas and largest of the three giants, provided gullies and gorges in between the 36 mammoth sediment piles. Reminiscent of the drone tanks from Star Wars: The Phantom Menace, I’ve never been so happy to turn to my left, to my right, and to my rear and see nothing but rock.
— Fallen asleep abreast a bonfire, swathed in a sleeping bag, mere miles from Uluru and staring at the purest blanket of stars I’ve ever seen, at 1 a.m.
— Woken three hours later, opening my eyes to the same desert stars with a smile on my face. (For the full weight of that statement, just ask my parents how much I enjoy getting out of bed before noon.)
— “Snuck” into a “museum” without “paying.” (The main attraction inside Alice Springs proper is the Royal Flying Doctor Museum. When I arrived no one was at the entrance gate, and the wide-open doors were begging me to save seven bucks. And what a good call that was - the exhibit was all of three rooms, filled only with cheap placards, old transistor radios, mannequins in doctor’s uniforms, and a flight simulator game. I'm still holding out hope that it's a practical joke.)
— Been so disgusted and disappointed with a township as I was by Alice Springs. With rampant, unartistic graffiti adorning almost ever public monument and plaque, trash choking out the main streets’ vegetation, and a homeless population — mostly Aboriginal, unwashed, unshaven, shoeless, and with children — at every turn, the town is truly a craphole. Furthermore, my Lonely Planet book informed me not to go wandering at night, a point I ignored at my peril (fortunately, the three youth who tailed me at 11:30 p.m. ended up wandering off after I headed toward my hostel. Never have I come so close to using my yellow-belt in tae kwan do.)
— Sat idly on the Alice Springs train platform, with everyone in their seats, waiting five (!!!) hours for the locomotive to be fixed. Without compensation, we still got to Darwin on time, but our four-hour break in Katherine got the axe. However, when we arrived for our brief stopover in Katherine, I had the chance to get out and stretch my legs. As the stop was outside the city limits, I wandered into the bush to see what I could. With nose-high grass, random termite mounds, and a few clumps of trees, I startled a couple packs of wallabies and glimpsed a flock of Wedge-Tailed Eagles. Upon returning to the train station, the train manager plopped down next to me, and this conversation ensued:

Manager, in semi-amazement: 'Was that you out in the bush earlier?
Me, flush-faced from the heat: 'Yeah, wanted to get some sun, see what was out there, you know.'
Manager, hearing my American accent, understanding I'm an idiot: 'Yeah, we were watching you from the locomotive. Now, you know we have the three deadliest snakes out there, right?'
Me: 'Uh….'
Manager, returning to semi-amazement: 'Sometimes we see them scurry across the track, so we were really just waiting for you to go down out there.'
Me, staring: '......'

Well, at least they were looking out for me.
— Spent 14 hours (traveling between Uluru/Kings Canyon/Kata Tjuta and Alice) in a car befriending a native Moldovan, and Italian technician, a Melbournian surfing dude and his travel agent quasi-girlfriend, a University of Arizona entrepreneur, a drunkardly tour-guide-in-training, a Buddhist/Aboriginal tour guide (who had taken private lessons from the Dalai Lama himself), and about 10 Japanese folks whose sole purpose seemed to be to sleep (and entertain us when their heads dropped and rose in unison).
— Actually completed - and enjoyed - a Victorian novel. The Moonstone, which T.S. Eliot ignorantly called ‘the first and best detective novel,’ kept me company through the long stretches of train-induced ennui, and was a thoroughly enjoyable read. It’s inspired my next trip: Traveling to India, stealing a palm-sized diamond, and seeing what kind of adventures follow me back to my English mansion. Hopefully, somewhere in there I’ll get to say, ‘Egads! The diamond has gone missing!’
— Known that ‘cockchafer’ was a word (check out Chapter 13 of H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds, which I began after the close of The Moonstone).
— Wanted another Darwin crocodile burger immediately after finishing off the first one. Halibut can’t hold water to this Mesozoic monster meat.
— Putted around on the lush Mary Ricer, flanked by elegant Brolgas, towering Jabiru, flocks of magpie geese, and Rajdah Ducks who were seemingly ignorant of the toothy dangers lurking not far from shore.
— Gazed, awe-struck at murdering machines, ravenous reptilian rapiers of regrettable repercussions, whose sole purpose in life is to wreak more havoc than (hopefully) Greg Oden: crocodiles. You can’t see it right now, but I’ve just broken out in a nervous sweat. Thankfully, I wasn’t the idiotic American of a few years ago who dove into the river to recover his memory card with a croc only 30 meters away.
— Heard tales of ‘salties’ (salt-water crocs) actually devouring ‘freshies’ (fresh-water crocs) and displaying their prize for a smattering of lucky tourists.
— Eaten the seeds of lilypads, chomped off the aphrodisiacal stem, and utilized the veiny, hairy top as a head-covering. And just like that, I learned how to survive in Kakadu National Park.
— Felt like the humidity in Darwin could actually choke you. Houston has nothing on this town.
— Explored the Darwin coastline’s Bicentennial Park, replete with palm fronds, squawking birds, and WWII memorials - the Japanese Pearl Harbor vets killed 292, including 91 on the USS Peary, on Feb. 19, 1942, and continued air raids through 1943.
— Seen plaques commemorating Cyclone Tracy, which, on the night of Christmas Eve, 1974, razed 60% of Darwin and bulldozed the few 19th-century buildings left untouched by the Japanese. Fortunately, my Tracy only bulldozes my heart…which probably doesn’t sound as romantic as I wanted it to .
— Met a former employee of Lehman Brothers, who not only lost his accrued bonuses (stock options), but also hasn’t cooked a meal in the last five years. Let’s hope he can figure out ramen.
— Felt desensitized - to the expansive rain forest, dewy sunrise, and Mayan ruins giant stones we traversed on the 900-meter trek to Jim Jim Falls - by the most recent Indiana Jones flick.
— Splashed in a fresh-water destination for the currently barren Jim Jim Falls (who will awaken with the wet season in a few weeks), surrounded by sociable fish, magmatized sandstone rocks, and a concave tower of sheer rock 110 meters high, creating optical illusions and a sense of swimming in Narnia.
— Failed to fathom what 5,000-year old artwork truly meant. Such a span is not only aged, but aged beyond compare. Maybe when I’m my parents’ age I’ll appreciate such ancientness more. Until then, I’ll just be glad I trekked across some hills where Crocodile Dundee was filmed.
— Banged across a road of rock and emptiness for nearly two hours, feeling like I was unwillingly giving my seat a lapdance. (Unfortunately, no money changed hands.)
— Created new, wonderfully non-linear tan lines on my back - seen by my tour group, a chatty kingfisher, and much of the city of Darwin - after I had explored Twin Falls. Fortunately, I shelled out for a t-shirt, although the selection was limited to beer advertisements and sexual innuendo.
— Had someone recognize a Rice Owls hat (thanks Jon and Beth!) while I, with nothing better to do, strolled to a screening of Eagle Eye.
— Had two Korean girls, who both spoke with broken English, titter to one another after they heard my name. ‘Casey’s a girl’s name!’, they laughed. Using that as inspiration, I’ve formulated the motif of the start of my autobiography: investigating how many people named Casey are gentlemen and scholars (such as my ego-stroking self).
— Listened to so much damn Colplay in my life (so much for putting random songs on my iPod shuffle).
— Stared up at a 65-year old, six-meter high termite mound. Since vacated, we couldn’t decide if the tower was the termite government’s high-rise project or actually a once-catchy abode that had fallen on hard times.
— Spent two week traveling through the southern pastorals, central deserts, and northern rain forests of Australia, with no companions, no shaving, no cell phones (save for wishing Tracy a happy 21st), and only one backpack - and finally realized that my study-abroad education was not going to be found in a classroom.

*Until these last two weeks

Videos, in case you missed them:

The greatest commercial of all time?



[Thanks to Common Sense Dancing]

The greatest movie of all time?