I went to Cairns and Sydney, a long time ago!

Hey guess what? I'm not dead. Although it's been eons in internet time since my last blog entry, I'm still here. Just lazy. Maybe the pervasive non-chalant attitude of this entire country has finally gotten to me. No worries, though. At the end of September I went on an epic trip to Cairns, in North Queensland for a week of diving the Great Barrier Reef and hangin in hostels with Germans and partying. It got off to a rough start. I couldn't find my wallet just minutes before the last known bus to the airport. By the time I found it in the closet, (it flew out of my pants when I whisked them off the night before, no need to read into this) I had missed the bus. Fortunately, after revising my search terms in the public transit website, I found another bus. Right when I got on, "The House of the Rising Sun" was playing on the bus radio, a small but brilliant pearl of happiness in the abysmal hell that is Newcastle's public transit system; something I regarded as a near-miracle experience and the best indication that my trip was wrought with good fortune. Turns out, I was right.

I took ten dives on the outer GBR while aboard the "Kangaroo Explorer," and saw some of the most amazing coral formations and sea life I could imagine. Black tip and white tip reef sharks, loggerhead and green sea turtles, my car's spirit animal, the barracuda, giant Maori wrasses and my favorite, striped butterfly fish. I took this crappy little disposable camera and actually came up with a few decent pictures, so the $70 DVD can sit on it. I met lots of cool travellers from all over the world, and while on the trip I actually crossed two things off my bucket list; dive the GBR and dive with a funny French videographer. Seriously he was hilarious; wearing all white and talking like Jacques Cousteu on our pre-dive. Awesome. The weather was sunny and hot, the visibility was about 45 feet and the water temperature was like a warm bath. The trip was dream-like in it's perfection. I began reminiscing by the time I was back on shore. That night the crew bought everyone drinks and pizza at The Woolshed, Australia's self-proclaimed #1 party bar, and I danced and drank with friends from the trip. Passed out at 3:30 a.m., woke up at 6:30 p.m. Like I said, epic.
Then I went on a jungle tour through Daintree, one of the world's oldest rainforests and met Birthe, a ridiculous German girl who confirmed my suspicions that German backpackers were part of a plot to take over Australia and eventually make her their queen. Her ability to bullshit was on par with mine, and we made fast friends while posing like Japanese tourists, hiking through giant spiders' webs, and swimming in a river during a tropical downpour that made Washington rain look like a light sprinkle.
After Cairns I went down to Sydney with some friends from Uni to do the requisite Sydney touristy stuff (Opera House, Harbour Bridge, Chinese Gardens, and Paddy's Markets) and non-touristy stuff, like a foam party. Take my advice and NEVER GO TO A FOAM PARTY EVER. Imagine being asphixiated by foam in a dance-club environment then walking across downtown Sydney at night, soaking and freezing. That's what my friends did. I dried off using paper towels and got a cab. All in all though, Sydney was awesome. I got real drip coffee from Starbucks! Yay coffee! My homie Mikie got me addicted to McDonalds! Wooo, MSG! But four days down there wasn't quite enough, and I plan to spend a few more looking around after I get back from New Zealand and the ancient land of Middle Earth. You heard right. I'll keep you posted.

I played rugby, and had a sweet B-day for myself

The other day I, while I was pouring green liquid (referred to as "green stuff") into my cup at the cafeteria, I was approached by Zach Roach, a senior RA who played for the Returners in the Inaugural International House "Pride of I.H." Freshers vs. Returners Footy (rugby) Match. He wanted to know how to spell my last name, not because he was looking to stalk me on facebook, (although I have been rather elusive, electrono-socially speaking) but because he was putting my name on a plaque so that I would forever be known in the annals of history as a champion of rugby. Because on that fateful Friday a few weeks ago, in a light drizzle falling from grey skies and in front of nearly half the residents of my fair college (I.H., not the whole uni,) I was a part of a victorious force of men, the Freshers.

Some may say, "But Mark, you only played for one of the three quarters, never touched the ball, and got what could be euphemistically called 1/3 a tackle! How can you possibly take credit for this?" To such naysayers I would respond, "Shut your pie-hole and let me have this. I was wing, they never ran it outside, I played solid positional D, and was really good at running back to where the ref was after we tackled a guy." As of now I am 100% in my rugby career, but it may not always be this way. After I had practiced a few times and got working knowledge of the crazy rules, (there's 6 downs, you can only pass backward, but can kick it forward and can drop-kick the footy through the uprights at any time for some small number of points, among others) I had a lot of fun. So I may try and play some more here, or with Western when I get back.

I also had a birthday on Friday, which turned out really great. I bought myself some excellent Bulleit Bourbon, decent beer and a cheesecake, shared with some of my sweet Aussie, German and Austrian friends, and went out to Finnegans for the first time. I couldn't dream up a better bar. It's Irish and plays 90's music.

On Saturday I found out that a Led Zeppelin tribute group was playing in town later that night. For the last 7 years, the show's sold out in Sydney and this was their first time in Newcastle. Tickets were a bit expensive, but they sounded legit on YouTube and what the hell, right? It's Led Zeppelin (kind of). The show was absolutely phemonenal. The group was comprised of 20 musicians, including 2 incredible guitarists, awesome keyboard/percussion, a 6-piece string ensemble that played for some songs, and seven well-known (Australian) vocalists that had to rotate for different songs in order to try and match Robert Plant's ridiculous vocal range/intensities. You know those tingles that eminate from the top of your head and flow across your skin to your toes and back, raising hair and producing a drug-like feeling of pure joy? I had those for approximately 1/2 the 2.5 hour show. "Since I've been loving you" was sung by this gorgeous, tall blonde woman who I think, at the risk of spouting blasphemy, made it sound better than the original. And forced me to posit a man question; if tears well up in your eyes but don't actually stream down your cheeks, does it count as crying? 'Cause that's what happened when she sang. I don't care. It was the epitome of awesome in a way much like climbing Everest without the aid of socks. I just kind-of wish dad was there. He would've loved it.

Afterward I went a back to Finnegan's, a few blocks away, and met up with some I.H. kids and danced and stuff. Oh, and there was a live band there that played classic rock. We even sang some of my fav songs on the 2:30 bus ride home. One of the best nights in the history of man, methinks.

My first dive EVER!

A frozen pizza, 1.5 lame Aussie sitcoms and a nap ago, I got in from one of the most totally awesome weekends of my life. I went to a diving/campout/birthday party organized by Grace, a member of the N.U.D.E.S. (Newcastle Underwater Diving & Exploration Society) who turned 21 on Friday. Good on ya, Grace! I got to ride up in Gary's 3.0 litre turbo diesel Toyota Hi-Max 4wd crewcab pickup. I told him how much I admired it. He showed off by letting the clutch out, standing still, in third gear and pulling away nicely. The girls in the car were not impressed.

Right, diving. The dive was incredible. The water was the same bright blue you see in the Carribean and crystal clear. Even on the long snorkel trip out to the rocks, I was spell bound by tiny, colorful fish darting in and out of rocks and seaweed beds. The constant low-volume clicking of fish gnawing on coral reminded me of Hawaii, and probably would have brought back visions of snuba-ing on St. Thomas, if I had retained any memories of that whatsoever. I seriously may have amnesia. Once under the water we saw three kinds of sharks; Port Jacksons, 2-3 foot long sharks with bullish heads, a massive, 7-foot-long Wobbegone, which lays on the bottom and has goofy-looking fringy things around it's mouth, and 4-5 Grey Nurse sharks, which were around 6 foot long and look much like sharks that would enjoy eating people, but are harmless. I had heard this going in, but didn't know how to tell the nurse shark from, say a bull shark, which loves to bite humans. We saw them congregating in open water a few feet from the reef, looking like they were planning something devious, and the dive group huddled behind a rock and began pointing excitedly. Numerous questions ran through my mind: are my fellow divers hiding for safety, or to prolong the viewing experience? Are they pointing excitedly in joy or crippling fear? Will I have both of my legs at the end of today? How likely would it be for Christain to pee his wetsuit right now? Fortunately, they were indeed nurse sharks and I continue to have all my wonderful legs. We also saw two big stingrays and a few 1.5 foot seaturtles. And I didn't touch them this time. Promise. So it was approximately the coolest first dive in the world.

Back at camp, Grace's and her boyfriend Tim's parents brought out some gourmet food (spring rolls, potato salad, garlic bread) and the drinking commenced. I, being the token yank, brought out a fifth of Jim Beam and with lots of help, finished it. I also retained my membership in the club after Grace threatened to kick me out if I didn't take a shot of Sour Monkey with her. It was as gross as it sounds, and I didn't find water the next day until around 12:30. It was a tough morning, but a good weekend.

Cool Australian car of the week!

So, the sixth week here and I thought I'd finally put up the cool car of the week, as well as some notes on Aussie cars in general. Some are so incredibly cool that I'm seriously looking into export, despite driving on the wrong side of the car. Such is the case of this beauty, a 2-door, turbo diesel Land Rover Discovery, I'm guessing about a 1995-6. And it's a 5-speed. If you're reading this, you probably know how I feel about diesel cars in general, and I won't have to say how much they turn me on. If we're close you may know about my primal, testosterone-driven attraction to Land Rovers. And if you've ever witnessed my late-night, possibly drunk ravings over two-door suvs, well, you'd know I'm fond of them. This bad boy uses 11 liters of fuel per 100 kilometers, which is around 30 mpgs. The 4 cylinder turbo diesel pumps out 83 kW of power and 263 newton meters of torque at 1800 rpm. Pretty sweet. No idea what it means, but I can't be held up at conversion websites all day can I? You can get one with 275,000 k's for $9,100. Ridiculous. Stay posted, I may even throw something else up next week.

Updates and the John Madden of fishing

A lot's happened since I last got on here, although a lot of it's boring and I won't talk about it. Such as how my beard very near a perfect, Brett Farve level of scruff.



First, Autonomy Day. Weird stuff can happen to a man who doesn't sleep the night before, then starts drinking, hard, at 3:30 a.m. I took a six-pack of disgusting Costa Rican beers next door, to the 140 block, where a group of about 12 of us downed a fat bowl of some of the most alcoholic punch I've ever tasted. Meanwhile, I got into a jello-shot competition with some Dutch guys, who after years of life on the Discotec floor are apparently impervious to jello-shots. Just when I thought I couldn't take any more, a persuasive Aussy beguiled me into a race where we put a full punch cup on our biceps and empty the thing without touching it. I think it's called an Ironman. Suffice to say when IH met up in the courtyard at 6:30, the sun was just peeking over the hills and I was hammered. Not surprisingly, the strict security at my campus's Bar on the Hill wouldn't let me in. I wandered around for a half hour, leaving the same distinctive American flag bandana on my head, and was denied again by the same guy. So I passed out until 4:30, returned to the bar to dance, and had a strange sleeping schedule until my mom and dad picked me up the next day.



We had a really cool weekend, driving up the coast and stopping off along beaches and in small oceanside towns that reminded me much of the Seasides, Cannon Beaches and Ilwacos of the Pacific Northwest. Dad drove his rented Ford Falcon like a rally car on a high-speed, twisty gravel road through a rainforest. He also mispronounced so many things and places that we weren't sure if he was trying or not. Even some common american words. It was ridiculous.



I read the Children of Hurin, a string of tales written by J.R.R. Tolkien two decades before he wrote the Lord of the Rings, but never published. His son, who now controls his estate, compiled the works and edited them into an epic tale of heroism and evil treachery in the Elder days of Middle-Earth, when Morgoth's black stench filled the land and the mysterious city of Gondolin stood yet. It's the nerdiest thing I've done in a while.



We decided to go fishing, so I called some numbers we found on the sides of charter boats in Coffs Harbour to take us out the next day. The first guy I got on the phone sounded conspiciously drunk, because he'd ramble on about myriad aspects of fishing for huge swaths of time, didn't really let me say anything, and I could understand about half of what he was saying. Granted, some of this was due to his accent, but after a three minute description of what we could fish for, I knew something was up. Introducing the John Madden of Fishing. For added enjoyment you can read the following in either a heavily drugged/ alcohol impaired Australian accent, or in the lingual stylings of the legendary and possibly brain-dead former NFL annoucer John Madden.



Me: "So, what can we fish for?"



John Madden of Fishing: "Well, lesse, everybody thinks that ya gonna go out and do sport fishin, ya know, loik Marlin or swordfish or Bluefin or somthin' loik that, ya know? But what they don't know is this isn't really the toime a' year for those fish. In the summa you could probably even catch small sharks out there. But now we'd probably go fer perch. Yeah, ya can catch perch out there, and that's pretty good, and then there's the (some indeterminable species of fish), and that's even bettah than perch, so we'd fish those, and then there's the (some other indeterminable species of fish) that's even bettah than that. He's loik the king of fish, the king of kings of fish. But he's got a mouth about the consistency of wet toilet paper. I swear the hooks jus' rip roight outa those guys' mouths. It's real tough to hook em, and ya can only do it if ya know what you're doin'. They don't boite like other fish. Sometoimes you'll reel it all the way up in, ya know, and he's foightin' pretty good, and then you get 'im up up to the boat, and the hook'll just slip roight outa 'is mouth. It's just loik toilet paper. But you can throw 'em on the barbie, with some lemon, and they grill up real noice. I was gonna have my son go get some for dinner to grill up, but then he said he'd maybe do it tomorrow."



Me: "oh, ok..."



At which point he'd dive into another diatribe about how he thought halibut were like flounder, only bigger, which is largely true, but not what I needed to hear concerning our plans for tomorrow. After literally a ten minute conversation, I found out he'd thrown out his back and was currently in the hospital, and didn't know if he could get someone to take the boat out tomorrow. Consensus in the family after a hearty laugh was that he was probably strung out on pain pills and was bored and needed someone to talk fishing to. I called another charter and set up a trip in approximately 46 seconds.



Mom and dad's lines were on fire. I not only caught 0 keepers, but had the dubious distinction of bringing up a fish so small that i couldn't see how it got it's mouth around my hook, while the back half of his body had been bitten off by the time I pulled him up. Poor bastard.



On the other hand, I saw a humpback whale breech completely out of the water nearly 100 feet from our boat and heard their song, two of the most awesome and majestic experiences of my life.



Back at uni I impressed my housemates with my pocketknife, learnt-as-I-went fillet job and beer-battered fried fish (including a hold-harmless agreement considering salmonella and a stern warning of bones). I didn't tell them I didn't actually catch any.

Autonomy Day is neigh

So tomorrow is Autonomy Day, where the venerable University of Newcastle celebrates it's independence from the University of New South Wales. According to Wikipedia, it gained independence on January 1, 1965, and the day was usually celebrated on July 1, so what we're doing tomorrow, I have no idea. Other than drinking. Starting at 3 am. Seriously, it's the standard time throughout campus, and when quizzed why, the majority of Australians respond, "Because we can." Fitting for a college holiday.

So I'll wake up at 3, go next door for a communal 'breakfast and punch' for a few hours, and basically hang out and drink until one of the campus bars opens at 7 am with live music, DJs, and games like soccer with inner-tubes around your waist.

And be ready for my studio photography class at 4.

I'm stoked. Keep you posted.

I swear pictures are coming, plus the Aussy word of the week

I know you fast-talking media-munchers want pics and I don't blame you. They're coming. (This is partially funny because at the moment I'm addressing followers I don't have, but I'm confident.)

So I thought I'd share my first Aussy word of the week, which, interestingly enough, is actually a phrase.

"How'd you pull up?"="Were you hungover this morning when you awoke?"

Not that I've been getting it alot, or anything like that.

Australia doesn't have any coffee

It's a strange thing to be in a place so similar to your natural habitat that you feel at ease, can get around and exchange ideas with the locals, but small differences exist to remind you that you're very nearly halfway across the globe. It's as though you're looking at a completed puzzel and can define what's pictured but the pieces don't quite fit right.

For instance, the other day i went to Gloria Jean's, a coffee shop nearly identical to a Starbucks at the local mall. Like Starbucks it was packed, they kept pastries and hot food behind a glass case and you could pick your drink and alter it with soy substitutions, flavors, etc.

I meet the barista.

"Hello how are you?"

Her: "I'm fine, thank you. What for you?"

"I'll take a regular drip coffee."

"Like a black coffee? We don't have that here. I'm guessing you're from the states."

"Yeah I got in about a week ago."

"Well what we've got is a 'tall black,' which is a double shot of espresso mixed with hot water. I actually think I've been asked for a black coffee three times in the past seven years."

"So you don't sell black coffee in Australia?"

"Not really, no."

If there hadn't been a line stretched behind me, and if the lady selling me the drink hadn't been extremely cordial, I would have explained to her the sheer stupidity of the situation. Don't get me wrong; I accept that there are differences in cultures, and what works for the US doesn't and shouldn't have to work everywhere. But honestly, if you have coffee beans, and you have hot water, and you have the very miniscule manufacutring capabilities or trade relations to acquire a coffee maker or at least a French press, there undoubtedly should be coffee. Especially if your method of replication involves creating espresso (timely, expensive machines) only to water it down.

A hasty search through local department stores and appliance catalouges yields not a single coffee-making device, confirming my suspicion that coffee in Australia means nasty 'instant' or the laughable process explained above.

So I took the 'tall black' with a grimmace and drank it and thought up this blog post. I have since vented on not a few Australians. They don't seem to care.

In other news, I officially bet on horses, which is a pastime for Australian students (well, one horse, for $5, which got 4th). The deal is you dress up, get drunk and bet on horses. It was pretty fun.

I also saw some dolphins, fed a kangaroo, petted a koala, fulfilling my earlier posted promise and checking some of the most fantastically touristy things to do in Oz off my list. Unfortunately when I went to load these shots onto my computer, I didn't, and wiped them all off my card. I'm looking for replacements.

I got sick, a sore throat, and laid in bed all day on Saturday and got better.

And my parents are coming over this weekend! Sweet! See you guys here. Enjoy the flight. Sike!

I'm meeting a bunch of sweet people from all over the globe and dancing my face off, but with my small repetoire of moves (Three!), I'm going to have to get inventive fairly soon.

Stayton out.

I'm here.

G'day mates. (sorry about that, I had to.)



So for the last 5 months or so I've been filling out applications, oddjobbing for money, and frantically getting prepared for my trip to Australia, where I'll be studying until late November.



(I want to send a special shoutout to mom, dad, and the Jendros for making this happen, you guys rock, and I will always oddjob for you.)



It was hectic and weird. The uni (that's what they call it) didn't let me know I even was accepted until a month ago, and International House, where I'm staying, didn't give me a room until about 10 days ago. On top of that I decided to get scuba certified the week before I was to leave. There was nail biting in the Stayton household. But everything eventually worked out and I got on the plane.



After a 3 hour flight from Portland to LAX, I endured a mind-numbing 15 hour flight across the Pacific Ocean to Sydney. In the middle seat. There was warnings in the plane about DVT, a condition in which the low-oxygen climate, general dehydration and prolonged lack of movement causes blood clots to form in your legs, requiring surgery for removal. Fortunately I escaped unscathed.



From there I took the Happy Cabby to Newcastle. I saw the Sydney Opera House; very cool, but smaller than I expected. I did not see koalas on the stoplights, kangaroos boxing citizens, or dingos eating babies, but then, it was only my first day.



Last night I went to a social mixer for the International House, a Rubix Cube party, where you wear all different colors of clothing and trade until you're a solid color. What I didn't expect was a full-on rauceous time with lots of alcohol, dancing, and crazy Aussy drinking rules that apply all the time. And that was before the bars. These people are crazy.



For example: if a guy is chatting up a girl apart from everyone, he takes a "nudey lap" which is exactly what it sounds like. Swearing, pointing, or calling someone by their first name or recognizable nick name results in putting your chin on the floor for 10 seconds. I'll keep you updated with new ones as I come across them.



after the 'cube party we loaded up 3 full city busses with students (sloshing puke and community singing included) and filled a bar downtown. It was awesome.



Tomorrow I'm going on a dolphin-spotting cruise around the harbor, and I will pet a koala and feed a kangaroo, and I'll be watching his every waking move.



Of note: cockatiels sound like screaming monkeys, and the cars here are awesome: Audi A8L TDI? yes. Toyota Landcruiser V8 diesel with a flatbed? Oh yeah. I'll be carrying my camera around and posting pictures soon, and will try to integrate a cool car of the week feature, for your enjoyment (I'm looking at you Christain. Where are my tweets?)



Anyway, Stayton out.