Nobody Likes an American

Well folks, it’s been fun blogging on blog.com but I think we ran the course of our relationship. It seams like only a year and 8 months ago that I posted my first entry about some party I went to, did a bad impression of the Aussie accent, made a few people uncomfortable, and then spoke in binary in a post; but it’s time to move on. It’s not you blog.com, it’s me. I just need to sort out a few issues I have with posting. You’re too good for me anyway. Thanks for the memories.

Anyways, due to poor support, recent spamming through posts, very very slow loading times, and a clunky & hard to use interface; I have made the very difficult decision to move locations of this site to a wordpress.com one. That’s right. I’m up and moving locations in cyber life just as I did in my real life.

For those who read this blog via iPhone or Blackberry (you know who you are) you will be pleased to know that it will now be quicker, sleeker, and appear in your screen completely and in larger font. (I have a blackberry now too so I checked)

Oh the memories we shared on this blog. Exploration, strange people, nervous breakdowns, hospital visits, kebabs, drink, procrastination, and finally a blog off that was the perfect season finale of this site. Well kids, the Nielsen ratings are in and it’s officially time for Season 2 of NLAA.

So without further ado, please follow me as I take you to your new and most favouritest blog:

www.nobodylikesanamerican.wordpress.com

Bookmark it!

Blog Off: 5

So, here we both are; opponent against opponent, beaten and bruised from a weeklong bout of keyboard pugilism. We’re tired and frustrated with aching fingers and sore eyes from staring far too long at computer screens that have baked into our eyes with such hostility that it would make even the cruel sun itself turn and cover its eyes in a solar cringe. What have we learned since the first mortar shell post was fired here between our two blogs?

Well I for one have learned that Dangerous Girl in Safety Town; who lives in a city that spends far too much money on ridiculous warning signs for the stupid and not on street signs that would tell the driver just where the hell they are going and potentially prevent accidents; would never conform to the oppressive yet delightfully wonderfully Norwegian craftiness of a pair of Helly Hansen trail cutters – ding – but instead would rather ride through the plains of Rohan on a Nazgûl and into the very heart of the Mordor travel tour wearing a pair of mid to low platform heals that she will likely break along the way. I learned that with the magic power of sparkling wine and orange juice you can banish an outer suburb clown on stilts so far up a tree that even the Giving Tree itself wouldn’t give it a limb to climb down on.

What have I learned about my own blog? I can often abuse the gift of parenthesis with no moral accountability. I learned that I have no idea what this symbol is -> ; <-  is and either don’t use it when I should or probably use it when I shouldn’t. (I didn’t really do well in school) I learned that run on sentences should force the city council to use the taxes of blog readers everywhere to put up grammatical cross walks and stop signs wherever my mouth may run. I’ve learned not to judge a bloke by its cover and just because they drive a Ute, wear a blue wife beater under flannelette or have tattoos and an owl on their neck doesn’t mean they are going to glass me with a pint glass.

So what is the conclusion here ladies and gentlemen and others? Can two people from The United States of America share the interweb and blog about the same country and city without calling an all out war in a ferocious bloody conflict of a blog off that has taken so many arms, legs, fingers and toes, of many a blogger before us? The answer is resounding YES.

That is……

ONLY IF THEY ARE FROM DIFFERENT COASTS!

Heaven help you if you are from LA or worst yet
Sacramento and move to Melbourne and try and start a blog off with me. I will rip your hardrive out and shove it so far up your motherboard that your operating system will cough out the blue screen of death. I have the scripting minions of millions beneath me to make a virus so evil that it will give your Myspace page diarrhea so bad your Facebook page will be wiping its ass. Worst of all, and the most horrible of all blows, I will continue blogging about this country and who knows how many others long after your 418 student  or 417 working visa has expired and they deport your sorry ass back to Barstow where you belong. I’ll do it and I’ll do it better then you could possibly dream of. You will think that the black and blue throbbing lump that used to be your ass not only hurts, but it “hella hurts”.

Not to you though Mrs. Smith. You were a worthy and honorable opponent and I therefore declare a draw and a truce between our two blogs. I’m tired, as you no doubt are after a week long battle in the blown out vowel and consonant QWERTY fox holes of blogging warfare. I need to rest my shaking black and blue wrists that are at this point suffering greatly from my un-ergonomically correct setup I have in the room of my filthy flat, where the laundry still hasn’t been done; though I have taken the time to fling my clothes into the corner like cat flings dirt over its poo.

Being that you will be returning to the mighty state of New York once again; a place that truly terrifies me far more than all the bogan’s and blokes of all of Victoria; I think you will need this site to continue to know the current events here and live vicariously through someone else’s Australian blog whilst you continue your own adventures with your family, friends and career. I would therefore be honored to be the blog you do so through. I will be here, forever the wandering, rambling, and reporting fool in the country you will someday no doubt return and reclaim long after I am gone, because you are a resident now and CAN. (Congratulations on that again by the way good for you)

Your blog has provided me with laughs and inspiration on my own entries over the past many months and I hope that you create a new one when you move back to The Big Apple and write about your re-assimilation into American culture and who knows, down the road, motherhood.

So to you and Husband I extend my sore and aching shaky hand (though not as sore as those blokes that played Ouch…idiots) across the far reaches of cyberspace and extend my sincere thanks for the week now thankfully behind us. May others in the future who are so foolish enough to declare one of these learn from our example.

I’m going to disappear for a little while on the blog scene, crawl into some books instead of the bottle, but one other thing I forgot that I also learned was that visual aids are really good to have on a blog because people prefer pictures over the almost never ending ranting of a neurotic insomniac that doesn’t know grammar from a hole in the ground. So for you….the reader…here’s a video of two kittens fighting.

Cheers ecs,

And remember, unless you are in America or have lots of money in a third world country,

Nobody Likes an American

Blog Off: Day 4

I was raised in
Southern California (Northern Mexico) and grew up on only the finest of delicatessen from our dear friends south of the boarder. As a young impressionable latch-key child, my taste buds were quickly defined by the free handouts my loving Mexican neighbors would sometimes give me. A life long love of the vast variety of the same exact ingredients being shaped slightly differently was formed and has not ceased to this day.

When I decided to uproot my life and move to the opposite end of the earth, my greatest fear was that I would no longer be able to eat my beloved food and has proved to be one of my greatest struggles down here in the sunburned country. Oh sure, they DO have “Mexican food”, but it is under the name of Taco Bill’s and Montezuma’s (Queensland). In all reality this entry is a bit premature because I have never actually eaten at either of these establishments, which I am regretting now, but every single American and Australian I have met said NO! to them. So I listened. I didn’t want to ruin my delicate and sophisticated taste buds I have refined over the past 3 decades. I have stepped foot in both places however and had a drink or two at a Montezuma’s in Brisbane. So I do have some street credit.

All of this went out the window of course last night when I threw caution to the wind and threw a wild party of me and my friend Ian from Wodonga. Kangaroo Taco night!

At lunch time that day I had gone on a hunt to get minced kangaroo taco meat for the evenings events. I took a tram down High Street to Chapel Street to find a butcher shop for this gourmet meat. I walked all the way to Dandenong Road and with not a butcher to be seen. I then hopped on the 5 tram and went to Park Street where I was hoping to catch the 112 tram to the South Melbourne Market, which is one of several giant markets featuring a wide variety of local venders.

I found the area where all the meat vendors are, which is right amongst the toilets where people poop in, and spoke to a few butchers about getting this precious meat. It turns out none of them sell it but one of them leaned in towards me and whispered the secret location I could find it. Safeway.

With my heart racing I swiftly made my way to the meat isle of this establishment of fine meats and couldn’t find it anywhere. I asked the kind worker there, who was stamping meat with a tape gun, where I could find the meat and with a grunt and a nod downward he showed me a row of kangaroo steaks. “Do you have it minced?” I asked with growing excitement. With a grunt and a nod upward I found the meat of my quest; processed minced kangaroo flesh in a vacuum sealed package.

After a heart pounding evening of trying to get my Wednesday entry (scroll down I’m not going to attach a link) of the blog off against nemesis Elizabeth, I realized that the owners of blog.com, who are Australian, found out about my revealing of the History of the Australian Male Council of 1770, and sabotaged  the battle by freezing my account. (My theory anyway) I was greatly distressed over this as I had to get my entry in before midnight. Later in this evening, I crept back into work at 11:10pm and resubmitted my entry whilst they were sleeping and got it in…barely.

I arrived at my friend Ian’s (From Wodonga) small old apartment at 7pm and we quickly got to work in laying out the ingredients for our great Mexican-Australian meal.

Although minced meat is a little easier to work with then its steak version, Kangaroo is a very tender meat that falls apart fairly easy so you need to cook it slowly and thoroughly at a low temperature. It’s a meat very high in protein, iron, and zinc but most importantly, very low in fat. If you can get past the fact that you’re eating this guy, I recommend this very healthy meat. Ian says next time, we can go out into the country and “make if from scratch”.

 
I understand why Australian’s have trouble meeting the same quality standards of Mexican food as Mexicans do, because they don’t stick to the traditional simple ingredients passed on since the dawn of Mexico. For his portion, he would throw in any seasoning he could get his hands on, Tabasco sauce, half a can of tomato paste, and for garnish shred Tasty cheese, the worst cheese invention ever made. This is because you can’t get proper sharp cheddar cheese in Australia. He would then scale some carrots for a topping for the taco. YOU DON’T PUT CARROTS ON TACOS!

The tacos were quickly ready for eating which brought us to our next agenda for the evening, tequila. Well we hadn’t bought any tequila so fortunately enough Ian distils pure grade alcohol in a shed up in Wodonga and had many bottles of it for just the occasion. Home brewing wine, spirits, and beer is extremely popular here as it tends to be infinitely less expensive than purchasing the mass amounts required for your average Aussie appetite. He had purchased a magical potion called “tequila essence” which was extracted from creatures that live inside agave cactus plants.

It’s a very complicated process to make moonshine tequila so I’ll walk you through the steps:

1. Get a bottle of moonshine
2. Open bottle
3. Get a bottle of tequila essence
4. Open bottle
5. Poor tequila essence into open bottle of moonshine
6. Seel bottle of now mixed tequila and shake
7. Poor as desired.

We now had before us a smorgasbord of Mexican-Australian cuisine and spirits. Time to eat and drink and ….

………………………..gross.

Yeah, not too good actually. Sorry. Nevermind.

Blog Off: Day 3

On Monday the emergency weather reports were stating that there would be exceedingly strong winds heading our way to Melbourne. As a way of improving their warning system, everyone in
Victoria got a text message (SMS) from the Victoria Police that read:

“Msg from Vic Police: Extreme weather in Vic expected Mon night & Tues. High wind & fire risk. Listen to local ABC Radio for emergency updates. Do not reply to this”

Yesterday morning I was expecting to wake up with smoky skies, but instead woke to the friendly pitter patter of falling rain. Unfortunately this didn’t last long and by lunchtime the rain stopped, the wind picked up, and the haze in the sky evilly crept back into the city. By 4pm everyone was told at work that if they lived far or in anywhere close to fire risk areas that they should leave early as very fast winds were coming. The hardworking firefighters along with a cooperating second rain held off the fire as best as it could.

A bush fire is particularly intense because the 700 species of Eucalyptus trees (known as gum trees for their oil) often explode when they catch fire because these trees love fire. Now I’m not a treeologist, but I do know that they lust for it and it’s their natural born tendency to catch fire.

“So why would people build their homes right up against of forest of them if they know historically it will only be a matter of time they burn?” asks the inquisitive reader.

I.  Don’t.  Know.

Land is out there is cheap I guess. Regardless, our hearts go out to them. When I was in New Zealand, where Elizabeth was last month and broke a heel climbing a glacier, the only news reports of the fire I saw was the report of a New Zealander who is living in Australia that was not affected by the fire because he had cleared all the trees around his house. This was a giant controversy because this is not actually allowed in Victoria. He had been firghting a legal battle because of it and it ended up saving his house and family in the end. Now the Victorian government is reconsidering allowing people to clear the trees around their immediate home.

And now for story time….

Once upon a time there once was a town called Marysville. In this magical kingdom there lived a woodsman named Bruno Torf who would go into his magical forest where he would carve out of the wood various creatures who would come to life to play with him. All creatures lived in peace and harmony and brought great joy to all who visited.

For example there was Waldo, the happy wizard whom all the naked young imps loved to climb upon.

Then there was Sandra the Snail, the toppless Mersnail who slept her days away on soft gentle moss.

Let’s never forget cuddles the she cat who would always let her young friend Pogo ride around on her back.

My favourite was always Brutus the Brewer who was always ready and willing to share a fresh batch of his mystical ale with everyone who passed by.

And sometimes some of our friends there would have a little too much of Brutus’s mystical ale and fall on the ground and start tripping out, seeing little men on the back of rats.

All of this changed however on 7^th of February, the day now called Black Saturday, when fire mercilessly attacked the citizens of Marysville and its magical forest. Roughly 40 people were killed by the fire and the town was burned down and declared an official crime zone. During the fire, surviving citizens said “they’ve seen the inside of hell” and saw bats and birds falling from the sky around them. Bruno Torf and his family fortunately survived the fire attack and are dedicated to rebuilding their magic forest.

This is what it looks like now:

So where is the funny you ask? There is none. Fire sucks.

Blog off: Day 2

A blog off can be very taxing physically and mentally so last night I did some heavy thinking about my blokaphobia. The best way to conquer a fear is to confront it I once heard. So I decided that I would go and hang out with some real Aussie blokes and try and find out what makes them tick.

After work I met up with my secret elite travel club, whose names I can’t disclose, at the Windsor Castle Hotel on
Albert Street to discuss our upcoming adventure to Perth that I will indulge to you all in detail on a later date. We had maps, compasses, thumb tacks, highlighters and brochures out to plan out our strategies on the invasion on the natives of this far and distant western land.

I was feeling very exhausted from the whole “not eating or sleeping” thing, but I needed all the strength I could get for the expedition I was about to embark on and so I had a few bites of the delicious lamb meatloaf they prepared for me. I was introduced to two new operatives of the team. Two gentlemen we can case file as legitimist “Aussie blokes” who hailed from Queensland and another traveler friend from Wodonga aka “The Dong” in Victoria.

This was a good variety of the genuine article. The Queenslanders wore surf cloths, shorts, and thongs (flip flops) and the other male specimen from Wodonga wore a blue tank top known by some as “a wife beater” and a flannel button up shirt and work boots. The cherry on the top was that they all drove “utes“, which I would later crawl into the back of to go to another pub. I wouldn’t describe these gentlemen as “bogans”, as they were more educated in construction and drank Carlton Draft instead of VB, so maybe we should we call them “blokans”?

Along with these three gents, there was a very annoying uninvited, over compensating American girl from Utah that joined us. I was upset that she was going to join us at first but then I decided it would be good to watch the interaction of the two species and observe the mating habits throughout the evening.

Two of us climbed into the back of a cramped camper shell in the Queenslanders Ute where we proceeded with a very uncomfortable drive to the Espy (The Esplanade Hotel) in St. Kilda which is a landmark pub and venue across St Kilda beach. I had recently seen the hip-hop group, Public Enemy there and at that time caught up with my old friend Flavor Flav who shook my hand whilst rapping with a clock around his neck from behind the bar.

Now, the loud mouthed, try hard, American girl whom pulled all stops in completely annoying me, opened up the back hatch of the Ute and with waving arms and a loud shrieking voice said, “Do you want to earn some money!?! I just made a bet. Are you circumcised?!? Apparently according to her research, all Australian men are uncircumcised and she thought it would be a very brilliant and exciting cultural topic of discussion and continued to discuss it far past its welcome.

She continued to annoy me to a painful extent throughout the evening with her excessive dancing and playing with her top as she pushed out her breasts every ten minutes. She would complain in the style of a B movie actress that she wasn’t sure if she wanted to have another beer and then say she would if it was purchased for her. After 5 more beers she would then dance around in a sandwich board of the two blokes and then complained that I was uptight and arrogant because I wouldn’t watch or join in on her ass slapping.

The blokes, as I was attempting to observe in their natural habitat, were completely rude to her and would periodically make fun of her to me in front of her, which I think she actually enjoyed. She had turned to me once and told me that she couldn’t stand Aussie guys because they are so rude to females but progressively spent the evening encouraging them. I probably shouldn’t have done so and I realize it is now probably a fatal mistake in getting my permanent residency, but I explained to her an ancient Australian secret that has been kept under wraps for many years until now.

I would probably have never discovered this secret if it hadn’t been for one an unexpected evening, back when I was living in St Kilda, when I ran into a very inebriated Aussie gentlemen at the The George one fateful night. He was so inebriated that he couldn’t tell if I had an Aussie accent or not. He started to tell me the great Aussie secret but suddenly stopped and asked, “You be an Aussie right mate?” In which I replied in the best Australian accent I could muster, “Yep”. He then sighed with a relieved smile and went on to tell me… The Secret.

History of the Australian Male Counsel of 1770

In 1770 when Australia was officially claimed by Brittan, all of the Australian men in the country gathered together in an undisclosed location to discuss a plan to establish a country at the far end of the earth where they could get rid former gentlemen like conduct towards women. At this very secret council all in attendance came to a unanimous vote that they would completely dispense any traditional gentleman like English courtesies and politeness towards any members of the opposite sex. The idea was that they could condition the female mind to no longer expect to be shown dignity and over the years convinced them that such things are considered “poofy” and not something a true Aussie Sheila would want. Purchasing a beer for her bloke and then expecting a “root” for it afterwards (sexual congress) would certainly suffice in this new society they created. Many rules were drawn up that day and have stuck till this day.

This delicately contrived conspiracy lasted countless generations until war came to Australia followed by the introduction to foreigners from other lands. Their customs towards females frightened and confused them at first but then quickly became desirable in some recorded cases. I don’t know what my life expectancy is after revealing this long kept secret, but perhaps I can die a martyrs death knowing it’s been revealed. The truth had to be told and if I don’t live to the fifth entry of the great blog off of 2009 you know why. This has secretly been passed on to generation after generation of Australian men who secretly meet once a week to discuss it at men’s social clubs.

Australian men get very territorial around American men as I discovered a year ago when I was at a bar in Brisbane’s south bank and I let a woman go ahead of me in line. All around me I heard gasps followed by a strong hand that fell on my shoulder with a very large Australian man slowly shaking his head at me.

The American girl mentioned in the above story was not honoring American women. She finally at one point sat down complaining her tummy hurt and then came to the idea that she should go into the woman’s rest room and make herself vomit. Shortly afterwards she returned to the pool tables smiling and dancing. “Feeling better I asked?” which she replied with a quick happy nod. “Did you puke yourself?” which she took some time to answer and then smiled and nodded again. “Excellent, I recommend you now have one of these guys buy you a vodka soda, it will settle your stomach”, which she did.

As the evening went on I was introduced to a ancient Aussie billiard game that they confirmed to me as being a very proper bloke game to play. It was a pool game they called “Ouch”. The rules are simple really. The first player shoots the white ball to the other side of the table. The other player stands on the other side then marks where the ball hit. Then vice-versa. Then the game begins.

Each player has to place a selected finger over the edge of the table of where the other player hit the ball. Then, holding the cue one handed, they then take turns on hitting the ball toward the other player’s finger. The other player cannot remove their finger unless it is hit by the other player’s ball where they can then say “ouch”. The key is to fully wrap your finger into lip of the table; if you put your finger straight down or out, it will be much more painful when it breaks. If a players ball falls into a pocket on their turn, the other player can then take a shot at the other players finger fully aimed holding the cue with two hands. This goes on until the other man quits. 
 

After about 30 minutes of screams and biting down on pool sticks, the game ended. That is until they asked me if I wanted to see the “Extreme Ouch” version of the game. For the sake of journalism, I said yes. This version of the game requires no pool cues. It’s finger against finger, man against man, and the balls are thrown full forced on the table using their hands. I can’t go on to explain in detail what I saw next as I am blocking it out of my mind, but I saw grown men cry not long afterwards. When the game ended they drank beer and merrily laughed about their mangled fingers.

I would like to continue my research on the interactions of the bloke and perhaps get its findings published someday. I still need to do much research on their behaviors.  If I can stay under the radar long enough to smuggle my research out of Australia to the US I believe that maybe in a few decades we can begin our work on a cure.

Blog Off: Day 1

Dear readers,

This is the first of 5 entries to take place this week from this site in a rock/paper/scissors  style blog off against Dangerous Girl In Safety Town. I’ve received a few letters of concern because blog offs can be dangerous and people can lose limbs, but I think we’ll live through it. For this entry we will write about our meeting on Friday night. The entries that follow are a free for all.

Here we go….

The Friday night showdown

For those whom don’t believe we are living in a knee jerk reactionary economical crisis (and likely don’t believe in global warming as well…idiot), last week I had to lay off half my staff in Brisbane because they A. Made too much money or B. Were over qualified for their jobs. I had to sit down with a guy who was on the verge of tears and ready to punch me in my stupid face, because his wife is 5 months pregnant and unemployed herself, and tell him that little Johnny won’t be able to be born because daddy is now “redundant”. He was more qualified for his job then I am of mine but makes…err should I say made, less money for it.

If I were Al Pacino I would have gone off on a brilliant speech that was cleverly written for me by someone else, saying, (with spittle coming out of my mouth and veins in my forehead) “I’m redundant?!? You’re redundant!! This whole place is redundant!” and then taken a flame thrower to the joint. I’m not Al Pacino unfortunately so instead I did what any civilized man does when he’s down and out and decided to crawl into a vodka bottle for a week. Like a boss.

Australia isn’t as badly affected by this wildly irresponsible economic bush fire like our beloved NLAA readers in the US and Iceland, but I can assure you it will be very soon. On the bright side, and I probably shouldn’t “let the cat out of the bag” as the intellectuals sometimes say at their intellectual parties, that I am in fact working on a cure for manic depression through alcohol and denial. My research is not conclusive yet, but is very thorough and showing prominent results I can assure you. I’m expecting a Nobel with this one and after 30 years of trial and error it will be about bloody time I get the recognition I deserve in this cause.

This last Friday, at 3:12pm I crawled out of that vodka bottle (The Research Bottle™ we coined here around the lab) and poked my head out into the bright, cruel and frightening world with its ever belligerent sun that continuously mocks me with its crass brightness, and proceeded to place foot after fantastically crafted Helly Hansen shoed foot - ding! - and took on the city of Melbourne with all of its staring, judgmental, and heavily accented eyes. I had a blog off to engage in and so I dizzily made my way into the city via a dirty tram where I fell asleep and woke up to a lady next to me touching my arm hairs who followed it up with the rapist’s grin of a sexual predator. I promptly got off at a stop much earlier then expected and had to wait for another tram that I would hopefully not be molested on.

After wandering around the city of Melbourne, eating a few leaves of lettuce of a Grecian variety, and getting completely lost, I found my way to Hell’s Kitchen, a locals pub upstairs of a European styled alleyway on Centre Place, where, from the data collected on previous visits, was populated with people who were far more attractive and with much gooder educations then me and KNEW IT.

I sat in an awkward side table and read a horrifically written article on “Hippie Chique” architecture and very slowly drank a pot of Coopers whilst I waited nervously for blogging adversary Elizabeth to arrive. I was tempted to get up and leave in all honesty and lock myself back in my room for another week of research, sitting in nothing but my  boxer shorts, starring at a monitor screen, periodically smelling my arm pits, and hate myself, BUT, a blog off aren’t words you throw around all willy nilly like are they? This was serious and needed all of our immediate attentions.

Elizabeth is a 30 year old American born fontist (I’m not sure the technical term but I wanted to type “fontist” because I’m not sure anyone has before), who has scattered tattoos over her of various letters of the alphabet in different fonts. She spoke fluent French to a guy after giving traditional side kisses and I realized that I was completely outgunned.

Her Husband, a medium heighted, bald headed, tattooed covered, silversmith and jewlest (not an actual word) who works the bar on Friday nights for some extra cash, drinks, and laughs; greeted me warmly and gave me drink after we established that I wasn’t black and that he wasn’t a racist skinhead.

This lovely power house of a couple are locals in this establishment and I was definitely NOT. I was, justifiably, getting sized up by many a bloke and body language was being spoken loud and clear. I have, until recently, avoided social awkwardness through reckless interactions with other human beings, but, despite the fact that I was running on very little sleep and was “seeing all spotty”, found the whole experience very liberating in my now completely comfortable confidence in my uncomfortable lack of confidence.

It was a very awkward setting for all parties involved because, well lets face it, the whole thing is really rather weird, but we were safe and in a very controlled Petri dish of an environment, and no doubt had very well planned exit strategies, mine, naturally, was the window in Hell’s unisex bathroom. This social science experiment was happening before all of our very eyes and once a drink or two were generously provided and we determined that neither of us would be killing the other later on in that night; proceeded with a very wonderful evening of relaxed conversation and commentary on our Australian experience.

I’ve learned to appreciate the simple things in life and there is nothing like having good conversation and cold drink on a hot night with someone who isn’t going to cause you physical or emotional harm. In a few swift drinks and a list of pubs and bars I can’t remember the names of, Elizabeth, a Detroitian who later moved to New York, (I like to think of her as a “diet New Yorker”), covered a far gamut of topics.

We spoke of Fresno and the contrasts of personalities of the American West Coast vs East Coast. We established that St. Kilda is the LA of Melbourne which provided a natural gravitational pull to me, whilst the CBD (Downtown) is her New York equivalent and that our newly established Australian personalities continue to draw to what is our natural environment.

My dream of becoming a UN negotiator is finally starting to see light I think. Robert Mugabe? Yes I’m talking to you again! Stop ignoring my emails! Please, let’s sit down together in the local pub of your choice, any pub, (please no stripper poles this time), and let’s have a pint of lager and talk about our mothers. Let’s sort this whole evil dictator thing out and then go our separate ways and keep in touch through post cards and email forwards. Send me a link to your favourite cat blog? Do you watch the IT Crowd? Which do you prefer? Lost, Heroes, or Fringe? Murder She Wrote? Send me your favourite YouTube clips why don’t you. I’ll let you choose.

Hell’s closes at 1am and I wanted to make sure that Elizabeth was back by closing time and I could present her to her husband, albeit slightly and acceptably drunk, completely unscathed from the evening. We had taken a taxi to someplace I can’t recall in some part of the city where the friendly taxi driver from Macedonia turned to me and said “Have I met you before in Milan?” and then told me that “You have legs like that of a gazelle” I’m pretty sure I have never been to Milan before and I have no idea what the legs of a gazelle look like or what that actually means, but………thanks?

We went to The Croft Institute which is a recurring obsession of mine and went to the top floor Friday/Saturday night feature, which is a 1950’s gymnasium/bar. We had vodka sodas and sat on the bleachers ridiculing pretty much everyone in the place which was brilliant. I never understood un-choreographed club dancing. It has always reminded me of the blue footed boobie bird who attracts its mate through its seductive blue footed feet tapping. The girls on the dance floor this night, although lacking the blue feet, I think, were displaying the same basic primordial characteristics.

Okay, I take it back, I guess I do understand un-choreographed club dancing.

The night ended as good as I could have hoped for in my mind. We stuck around for the guys to close up the bar and had a few more drinks. Elizabeth bowed out, as she had a job in the morning to write font on a chalkboard, and left me with Husband and a table of blokes that silently, yet politely, wondered just who the hell I was.

What was I supposed to do then? I can’t talk blokey with people and I’ll be totally honest, sit down, I was slightly pissed. (Tipsy to the American readers) I’m the weird American video games professional who gets giddy over categorizing his favourite hotels he visits on business trips as well as his movie and television collection he downloaded from the internet into heavily handed Excel macro scripts he had his employees write for him because he’s not clever enough to actually do himself. Even though I have lived in this country for almost two years now, my Australian is still very poor. I can speak very basic footy but eventually get discovered as a fake when I can’t actually name a single other player other than Buddy Franklin.

Nobody Likes a Foreigner. THAT is what I really should have called this blog. I got scared, silently freaked out, and proceeded with a true to my style quick and awkward flee of a departure into a busy city on a late Friday night with drunk bogans buzzing all around me. I wasn’t in my safe controlled environment anymore and I once again felt lost and completely out of my element.

After a taxi ride that I don’t remember, I finally made it home safe, uncut, unshot, and unmolested and fell into a heavy sleep on a pile of clean clothes that had been sitting in my dryer for over a week, which I am likely going to have to rewash because I can’t tell what’s clean or dirty anymore because I can’t smell the difference between detergent and arm pit now.

I learned a lot this night. Two things particular are 1. That for people who are displaced from their country of origin lose their previously conceived notions of what “home” is. Home then ceases to be the building, land, city, or town you lived most of your life in but becomes the people you surround yourself with. Home is Husband. Home is a cat or possibly a bit of bourbon. Home is whatever the hell gives us peace and doesn’t put us down and keep us down. Home is good people who buy you shots of Agwa liquor and whom you blog against. Home for me right now is this entry.

Oh and 2… I don’t actually remember. I think it was those final vodka sodas I had that erased my memory, but I’m sure it was really profound and life changing stuff that would have blown all of our collective minds. Elizabeth says that a good blog has visual aids. This blog is a bit overly wordy and is run by a guy who fires fathers to be and asks, in the purest of intentions, if he can take another man’s wife out drinking to discuss their country of residence and then write about it. I certainly wouldn’t have let my imaginary supermodel/actress/black belt/yoga instructor/iron chef/free lance assassin of a wife that I have do the same even if she was real, but, he did and good on him. I can only return the favor by seeing this through.

This isn’t a great blog or entry by the standards and regulations of the International Blog Association of Fine Blogging® and lacks the necessary visual aids for a proper entry, but….anyway, for all it’s worth…here’s a picture of a cat in a dress with cake.

Cheers,

Nobody likes an American

Well its Tuesday so I did what any good manager would do and rocked up to work at lunch only to take an employee to $4 pizza’s and black Russians at The Lucky Coq (Formerly The Duke of Winsor) on
Chapel Street where we were engaged in stimulating business conversation.

Black Russian #1

Employee: So there’s this girl I’m taking out Friday night

Nick: Yeah?

Employee: Yeah, I’m way into her and have to seel the deal on Friday

Nick: Where are you going?
Employee: The Cherry in Fitzroy, you should stop by
Nick: I’m doing a pub crawl with my nemesis that night, I’ll show up and totally ruin it for you.
Employee: Cool
Nick: Yup, if you let this go another week you’ll all of a sudden become her friend

Employee: Well, I don’t want that. She’s so awesome. She knows HTML.

Nick: That’s hot

Employee: I know right!?!

Nick: Is she a gamer?

Employee: She likes Atari 2600 games!

Nick: NO WAY!

Employee: I KNOW!

Black Russian #2

Nick: You know, man can build a bridge or a skyscraper…can build a space shuttle that takes a man to the moon….but can’t build a stupid table that doesn’t wobble!

Employee:  I know right? I want to roll up this gross cold pizza and shove it under the leg!

Nick: This place sucks!
Employee: Another Russian?

Nick: Yup

Black Russian #3

Employee: So I’ve been thinking a lot about my work situation

Nick: Yeah?

Employee: Yeah, I try too hard

Nick: Yeah, you can be a bit over zealous

Employee: I know right?

Nick: Look, I have certain expectations of my employees

Employee: (Looks down and nods head)

Nick: You need to take your job a little less seriously, start taking 2 hour lunches at a pub, and if you are going to be late in the morning, please make sure it’s due to a hang over and not over some silly personal reason.

Employee: Yeah, alright. Thanks Nick, I won’t let you down.

We then walked back to work and discussed The Pac-Man Dossier that was posted on Gamasutra today and that is the end of my nerd rant.

Since the dawn of the internet there has existed a rivalry of blogs the like’s man has never seen. Through the machine gun rattle of keyboards, two American born fake writers have laid their lives on the line to report to you the hidden secrets of the Australian culture. Well push has come to shove here ladies and gentlemen and war has officially been declared.

There is only enough room for one Americans Australia blog and this Friday, in the dark murky depths of some random pub in Melbourne Australia, the gloves are coming off, beer will be spilled, and pride will be wounded in this epic event… 

                                                         Friday February 27th 2009

                             Nobody Likes an American

                           Dangerous Girl in Safety Town

This is about to get real people!

It’s a known fact here in
Australia that koalas are not the cute and cuddly “bears” that they are in the United States. Generally they are very irritable and can cause some severe lacerations with their long death claws. That was until the 45C/113F heat wave that hit 3 weeks ago here in Melbourne. It was late coming as the weather has been very strange here, but when the heat came, it came with a vengeance. Last year on New Years Eve I became very light headed and almost passed out on Chapel Street and it was “only” 42C/107F then. I was fortunate to be up in Brisbane for the inferno that hit the kind non-fire retardant people of Melbourne. It is a rare occasion when you escape to Brisbane for cooler weather but there I was, escaped. Even the Australian Open had to take a step back and call it quits for a cooler day.

You know it’s a heat wave when most of your employees call in late or out because more than 500 trains have stopped working in the Victoria and New South Wales states because the trains buckle under the prehistorically designed tracks they run on because they expanded past their design. You see Melbourne engineers tried to defy physics by building their train tracks without leaving space where they connect. In Europe and pretty much everywhere else in the world they put at least a 20mm gap in-between the tracks so that when the weather gets really hot, the tracks have space to expand, which is their nature. People are outraged blaming everyone from the drivers, to the engineers, to the government.

The koala however did not protest anyone. These previously hostile rascals who have waged war on mankind for more than 100 years decided enough was enough and laid down their arms in desperation for a cool drink of water. With compassion men and woman alike let by gones be by gones and helped out their new furry allies to cool down. A truce has been called and permanent peace negotiations are being drafted. I for one am hopeful.

 
“U.N.I.T.Y!“
 - Queen Latifa

“I declare the war is over!“
 - Phil Ochs

“War! Huh? What is it good for? Absolutely nothing! Say it again!“
 - Edwin Starr

“Anything goes when it comes to hoes cuz pimpin aint easy“
 - Big Daddy Kane

Now back to the adventure…