We Lose Bad at Soccer

If you want to know why I haven't written in awhile, it's because I am sore with disappointment. (Minds out of the gutters, please. Rick, this means you.)

My friend took me down to the RSL (Retired Servicemens' League) on Bondi to watch Australia take on Italy in the World Cup quarterfinals. The RSL is like any Elk's Lodge you've ever been to - and if you're from Michigan, you have. There were tons of Aussies there, dressed up in green and gold with their faces painted, screaming "You cheesy cunt!" everytime something didn't go our way.

It was great. It was perfect. It was really good.

'Til it was really bad.

But I must say, as an American, I did us proud. I carried four beers at a time back to our table, impressing a pro footballer so much that he invited me back to Australia during cricket season. Ostensibly, to carry beers. And I measured my hands against this other guy's at our table and found out that my penis was, in fact, bigger than his. You should have seen his face when I told him that.

Coco in the Antipodes, Part Deux: The Coffee (And, Yes, The Sandwich)

So all I heard when my Aussie friends were in America was how, at every damn corner grocery, you can get the best freakin’ coffee you’ve ever had in your life. Especially compared to our paltry American swill, the coffee was rich and full-bodied, sans dollops of caramel or raspberry-mint syrup, and came in just large or small sizes, with no confusion of vente, vini or vici in between. I heard these reverential descriptions of said brew so many times that I prompty dubbed it The Coffee.

And, once they got bored complaining about the coffee, they started in on The Sandwich. Apparently, every corner shop also serves a sandwich that is perfection. No overstuffed, cheese-bloated American monstrosity here; The Sandwich is a finely honed balance of one slice of meat, one slice of cheese (maybe), one slice of to-mah-to, and perhaps a light scraping of condiment. Neither too light nor too filling, The Sandwich is heaven on bread. Talk of The Sandwich led my friend Eric to picture one giant sub made in Australia at some central kitchen every day, then cut into pieces and deftly distributed to food stalls, cafes and trattorias across the continent.

Well, I’m here to say, they’re right.

Bloody Aussies.

One latte (a Flat White, if you please) made by Serena at the corner shop: $3 AUS. (Think 75% of a real dollar). 1 BLT: $7 AUS.

Oh yeah, the Opera House, the Harbor Bridge, the Tower blah blah blah beautiful blah blah read a guidebook.

Bondi, Baby

I fucking love it here. I got up and went swimming at Bondi this AM, got a bacon and egg roll at the corner shop, and now I'm writing in my friend's place overlooking the beach, where there are jumping whales. Oh. Hell. Yeah.

I defy anyone out there to top my morning.

I Attend Nicole and Keith’s Wedding

Other people had to actually have a career, slave their balls off, and kiss Nicole Kidman and/or Keith Urban’s ass for years and years. Me, I just walked in, wearing jeans and a tee shirt, with my friend Siobhan, who lives in Manly, the lovely part of Sydney where Ni-COAHL and KEUYTH (Aussie talk) got married. And poof! I was there.

We strolled into the gate of the seminary, which is a religious place so anyone can go in whenever they want. We passed by paparazzi with super-long lenses hiding behind trees. The wedding was going on. We milled around with the guests. I whipped out my camera to take a picture, and a very round security guard advised me that I could only take pictures out towards the sea. But on the gravel path on the way in, I took a picture of the seminary and marquis. So there.

(Disclaimer. It was the day before their wedding. We had crashed somebody else’s wedding. But dude, we were there.)

Let me tell you, it’s not good to be famous. The marquis was plastic and white and ugly. The cathedral was beautiful, the lawn was beautiful, the view out to sea was beautiful. The famous people had to stay inside the white plastic tent. You decide.

Go Socceroos!

5 AM, BAT (Bloody Australian Time): I just got up to watch Australia v. Croatia in the World Cup. Along with the rest of country.

7 AM: WE WON!! On to the next round.

11 AM: My friend Siobhan just called. Her husband has been in the pub since 1 AM. She advises him to go home and rest up cause we are going out tonight to celebrate.

Fuck, yeah...

Trivia Night Down the Kirribilli Pub

There's nothing like drinking beer in a pub with your mates, no matter where you are. Last night we went to my friend Ben's local, in a part of town called Kirribilli (one of my favorite town names, right up there with Woolloomooloo).

I had a fews beers and a meat pie, which under Australian law must contain at least 25% meat. And I helped Benny Ulm, Cranie, Siobhanskie, Fatboy, Ruddy and Nob come in 3rd place in the trivia contest, because as an American, I knew the name of the director whose first movie was "What's Up Tiger Lily?" and that dragonflies are carnivorous. Good thing they had me there. We won $20 in bar vouchers, so that's one round for free.

A night at the local with your friends, in any part of the world. Does life get any better?

Newsflash: My friend Jen just told me that they have pubs here that are open 24 HOURS A DAY! We rang her friend Taguie to confirm: "Fuckin' oath. There's one right round the corner from my place that's open right now."

Apparently, life does get better.

The Dirt From Down Under

So here I am in Australia, visiting my mates from all the Aussie TV crews I've ever worked on. They've come to LA and SF so many times that I wanted to see how they behaved in their natural habitat. And, as I gently reminded them in an email before I arrived, they all owed me big.

So, Coco is in the Antipodes. The great thing is, the friends who I'm staying with live right across the street from a graveyard, with a huge view of the ocean right behind it. For a former goth chick who now lives in SoCal, this is pretty much heaven on earth. I got up this AM to go get The Coffee (more on this later), and looked straight past these old stone crosses and various interpretations of the Virgin out at the beautiful Pacific.

How did I get so hooked up, you ask? This is what you do - you have a mother who works for the airlines, so that flying to Sydney costs about as much as a ticket to NYC. Then, you befriend people who have apartments overlooking Bondi Beach, or in a cute area called Manly, or with a graveyard view of the Pacific. And, BOM! You find yourself having breakfast on the terrace of The Tratt overlooking Bondi Beach on a fine Tuesday morning. It really is God's Own Country.

One small problem: If it isn't enough that I lost a day coming over, I also woke up to find that today is the shortest day of the year (it's winter here). So, indeed, somebody somewhere owes me big.

I Got New Panties

Dude, I got the best panties, the really cute boy-cut kind, @ Ross Dress For Less for $1.99. Nothing wrong with $1.99 panties. I'd like to buy the $12 ones at American Apparel, and some day I will, but right now, I am lookin' fine for a buck ninety-nine.

(PS - parking is crap at the store on Sunset. CRAP.)

I'm Broke and I Have the Best Life

Dude, the other day we hung out by the pool at the Mondrian, after watching the World Cup for about 6 hours. The first thing I saw was an ass in a string bikini, and I mean a string going up someone's ass. Turns out we got seated on one lounge right next to this porn star with the biggest tits I have ever seen in my life. They were rectangular, they were so huge. So basically, no one was looking at me at the pool, that's for sure. This porn star was ordering bottles of Cristal rose and slathering huge amounts of suntan lotion on her tits and face, which never got quite rubbed in, so you can imagine what it looked like. Everyone around the pool was snickering and making comments, and she'd totally call them out on it. She was very aggressive - I was terrified to even look her way. She caught this one chick looking at her and was like "Hey, bitch, can't you keep it classy? Can't you have a little class!?" with all this white splooge all over her.

Oh, yeah, and on the other side of us was Steve-O from Jackass. I had no idea who he was, but my friend did. My fave thing about Steve-O - he had the cock and balls tattoo'd on his arm. You know, the cock and balls that appears, grafitti-style, on walls across the world, in every country you've ever been to. You might want to stop reading right now and draw one. Cock and balls.

About the Mondrian - NOT a good hotel. It's more shabby than chic, very Martha Stewart, no wastebaskets in the bathroom, and the milk in the little creamers was curdled every morning, which I have never seen before in my life. And if you want to know why my broke ass was staying there, it's because my Aussie TV producer friend was in town and his work was paying for it. So, breakfast in bed and the World Cup. And porn stars. Fuck, yeah.