Some things change but Blue Steel stays the same

After my sensitive and sentimental last post I have received mixed feedback including a right royal tongue lashing that questioned my masculinity and several individuals expressing concern for my mental wellbeing. But fear not kind (and not so kind) souls, all is well in the state of New York.

Those who know me too well would be familar with my penchant for finding lyrics consistent with my underlying mood. If life is a journey then music is my radar. And New York has given me a whole new soundtrack. And I'm especially excited this week as I will definitely be seeing The Strokes kick off their US tour at the Hammerstein Ballroom on Wednesday night and I may be lucky enough to see MC Hammer (yes the MC Hammer!!) tonight when he fronts a live audience for the first time in 6 years for a Mardi Gras charity benefit concert at The Roxy. I'm also chasing tickets to Coldplay & Richard Ashcroft in late March.

But I'm they'll all be subjects in later posts and I had a massive weekend to fill you in on. It all started rather inauspiciously on Thursday night when I was contacted by Shamus "Barry" Gibb (a former PP employee now living here in NYC) who had a work function at bar on 53rd St called The Black Finn Inn. Rumour and innuendo had floated around that the bar offered $10 all-you-can-drink (full bar) from 6-7. I could not contain my excitement and immediately drafted in the Poms to join the sortie on this unassuming bar.

As I watched the clock tick down towards 6pm, the nervous energy became too much and relief was sort in a visit to the restroom. Given the litany of blatant contraventions of toilet etiquette I had been subjected to in the past (somebody report these guys to The Hague please!), I approached the door hesistantly. As I reached for the door my phone buzzed twice in my pocket signalling the delivery of a text message. I reached for my phone as I rounded the corner towards the awaiting cubicle.

Oblivious to the disaster that awaited me, I read the text message from Shamus and began the necessary movements required to return the phone to its rightful place in my pants pocket. I can't explain what eventuated in those few seconds but before I knew it I was watching my Nokia 6600 spin end over end in slow motion towards the toilet bowl. I dived forward in a vain attempt to deflect the phone from its path but my efforts went unrewarded. I cursed as the phone made the sickening splash-thud into the pan's murky contents.

After years of unsubstantiated claims that I talk shit - it would appear there is now irrefutable evidence. I plead the fifth.

Where's Bule?: Although I think Andrei borrowed Wally's top and washed it with his red jocks. 

My fellow Survivors : We survived Eisner 2006 - well almost. 

Try saving tackle: I do my best George Smith impersonation on the two South African wingers. 

Have you seen this one before? : I'm starting to get sick of these myself. 

Ok this is getting unhealthy: Bule + Crouss + Budweiser + Camera = Rampant exhibitionism.

Dances with midgets: Chris Crouss and I continue our narcisstic obsession with total disregard for the others. 

Big fan of the Kaffers: Me and the Ginga Ninja manhandle a Kaffer Lover. 

Halfway in the USA

This is just a short post to recognise that I have now been here in New York for 50 days. And that I only have another 50 days left in this beautiful city.

So I thought I'd share with you lyrics from a song I've been listening to today that has got me a bit worked up about the conflicting emotions of being away from home and being here.

It's February Star from my favourite album of all time - Foo Fighters' The Colour & The Shape.

"Even though
I watched you come and go
how was I to know
You'd steal the show

Hanging on
here until I'm gone
right where I belong
just hanging on

Even though
I pass this time alone
somewhere so unknown
it heals the soul."

Ladies & Gentlemen, Bule has left the building

Well well well. My third weekend in a row away from the Big Apple - this weekend past seeing the Bule Express make its way up north to Boston, Mass. and the formerly beautiful abode of Mr Glenn "G Unit" Ormsby and Matthew "Baa" Findsen from Staples Rodway Auckland.

Having wangled an extra return flight into my RTW ticket, I was due to depart from LaGuardia on Friday night at 7pm and be in Boston at the sociably acceptable 8:15pm. I decided I would attempt to catch public transport to LGA in order to save about $25. Little did I know that the $2 ride on the train/bus came with a hidden price - my personal safety. As I awaited my 'connecting' (in name only) bus, there were at least half a dozen instances where youths engaged me in conversation - their eyes firmly set upon my heavily laden backpack. I managed some Aussie charm which the Harlem natives took a liking to and decided not to rob me. Bule 1 - NYC nil.

Upon arriving at LAG, I was informed by the less than curteous AA staff that my flight was delayed by 1 hour. Bule 1 - NYC 1. I checked my baggage in and headed to the bar for a beer and something to eat. It was brought to my attention that all flights 'on the board' had been delayed and that meant the bar was packed. There was even an informal line for bar stools. I joined the marauding pack and watched as skirmishes broke out as the occupants toyed with their potential replacements. After about 20 minutes I glanced at the board and my flight was now leaving at 9:30. Bule 1 - NYC 2.

I had to dig deep and use all of the guile I have developed in almost 10 years frequenting bars if I was to obtain an elusive seat. I decided to align myself behind 2 nerdy girls who I had seen pondering their pending departure. Pulling out my mobile phone, I acted as if I was answering a call - 'How's it goin'? Yeah sweet. I'm just leavin' New York. Can't wait to sink a tinnie. Have ya started the barbie yet? Alright mate catchya later". The inevitable "Are you Australian?" was thrown out into the abyss between seated and awaiting. I toyed with the response : "Yes, I'm Heath Ledger's cousin" but my dire need of seat got the better of me.

The girls immediately mentioned they we're just leaving and said I should sit in one of their seats. I looked around and was confronted by an angry Hispanic couple - the male staring me down. I was in a real Mexican stand-off! The phrase "no way Jose" almost got passed my lips but I decided that plonking my bag down and ordering a Budweiser had the same effect. Bule 2 - NYC 2.

A few beers and some food later, my concentration span could not handle the need to read close-caption text on ESPN. All bars here have no volume on the TV, with CC text and music blaring way too loud. This phenomena has forced me to propose another chicken and the egg type hypothesis - Are Americans loud because their bars are? OR Are the bars loud because Americans are? Anyway I'm digressing again so back to the story.

Time was moving swiftly towards my new scheduled departure time. I moved sluggishly to the gates - which those of you having travelled in post 9/11 America can empathise - is a tedious and exhausting process. This becomes even moreso when your boarding pass is denoted with "SSSS" (high security risk as I am male between 14-45 who is not American). I now refer to this code as - let's muck up all his sh1t and generally harass him. Bule 2 - NYC 3.

Completely exhausted (as some of you may be by now following this massive post), I found a semi-comfortable chair in the boarding lounge and awaited my departure. Not one milisecond after my derriere touched the seat, an announcement was made "your plane is here but your crew will not be here for 40 minutes". I quickly scanned the lounge for anyone volunteering to fly the plane as I would have suggested they got the SSSS treatment. Bule 2 - NYC 4.

Game over. NYC wins again.

Consistent with my life-long mantra of "just taking it one week at a time", I waited until the plane actually touched down at Logan International Boston before I even thought about what I would achieve tonight. That was at about 11:30pm. It would have quicker catching the train.

G Unit had organised a party with some of the crew from Vitale (the Baker Tilly affiliate in Boston). Staying at the beautiful Oakwood Apartments across from Fanueill Hall in the heart of Boston, I expected to walk into a throng of drunken louts ready to party the night away. At least Glenn didn't let me down.

I was quickly informed that Mass. Law prohibits bars being open past 2am. I had some work to do. Glenn had forwarded the Vitale boys my blog and they expected big things from me. I grabbed the 600ml can of Fosters I bought as a joke and proclaimed that I would "shotgun it". The crowd erupted (not really). It tasted terrible but I made it through (except for some dregs). Glenn told me the building actually houses two bars and as residents they get back-door access. That excited Glenn too much for my liking - especially as I was to share his double bed later.

We headed downstairs and continued on our merry way. Someone was having a Hawaiian party in the bar and the crew set about procuring as many leis as we possibly could. The Heath Ledger Legend continued it's spread into New England - with one poor soul almost hyperventillating as a result (oh my god, you're Heath Ledgers cousin, oh my god!!). Glenn shared with me his pure excitement in discovering the pie joke - which he is certain will live on in perpetuity. Soon it was 2am and we were escorted out the back door.

With 2 sober American blokes in tow, Glenn and I exercised our right as overseas visitors to act as rockstars in their hotel rooms. Music blared, couches tossed, lamps strummed like guitars, and general loose behaviour ensued. We were to busy to notice the Americans passing a dissenting comment onto the Kiwi and leaving in disgust. No real damage was done and a good time was shared by all.

Headed to the outlets on Saturday and picked up a few bargains. Quieter night on Saturday and and full day of sightseeing on Sunday. Boston is a nice and quiet town compared to New York. I guess anywhere is. Disturbingly though I don't have many photos in front of 'famous' landmarks to post - either they weren't there or I didn't find them.

Bostonians do take great pride in their revolutionary history - the Boston Tea Party and the seed in the American Revolution and American Civil Wars - rebels with a cause. Unfortunately I spent most of my time here like a rebel without one. I look forward to returning on St Pats Day.

Aftermath II : Old Fella finds time in between passing wind and burping to get some vital shuteye. 

Aftermath I : The lamp I air-guitar'd to destruction. 

The calm before the storm: Three healthy young (except Old Fella on the left) men about to get a lot less healthy. 

Our definition of "getting lei'd" for this trip : Several back home breathe a sigh of relief (Happy Birthday Xtina by the way). 

All of this except the detergent : Never fear responsible souls - we weren't the only ones at the party - there were two others who helped us polish this off. 

Let's hit it: The G Unit's unit provided a stable base for Boston shennanigans. 

A Tribute to Picabo Street

Ok so I've been majorly slack on the updating the blog front but once you've read the three posts from today you'll understand why. The last two weeks have flown by and provided many ups and downs. The culmination was this weekend's trip to Killington, Vermont which left 13 secondees 'snowed in' on the mountain. In the meantime New York City experiences the biggest snowfall since 1947 (nearly 27 inches in Central Park).

So I've finally found time to write some spiels (not without experiencing mild levels of abuse from some regular bloggers about the perceived lack of activity). Having lost 2 and a half working days as a result of the snow/Detroit issues I have been working hard to catch up. But as always Friday afternoon provides the sort of 'downtime' required to update this properly.

After getting back from Detroit, I nervously began counting the days until I hit the slopes. Having committed myself to playing football for the past few years, it had been some time since Bule skated down the runs of Mt Buller. Without my trusty mentor Olly "Olliwan" Wilhelm to guide my piste-al development, I was deeply concerned I would not be able to recreate my previous lofty exploits.

Drawing on the inspiration of US Olympic skiiing champions like Bode Miller, Sean White, Picabo Street and Misty Hyman (ok so I know she's a swimmer but her name is ridiculous), I found myself possessed as soon as I slipped into my boots and clipped into my Rossi Bandits. After taking some of the beginners down a few runs, it wasn't long until the blacks were being worked over by "It's SnowBule" and his partner-in-crime Glenn "G Unit" Ormsby.

The weather on Saturday was perfect. The sun was out, wind was almost non-existent and it was a balmy 10 degrees fahrenheit (you work it out). With 35 lifts and over 300 runs, G Unit and I were never disappointed in our search for exhillaration and inspiration. The contrast between the packed powder of Vermont and the icy slush of Mt Buller could not be more stark. I really enjoyed the ability to put turns in with confidence. Sunday was a little warmer but snow fell heavily as storms had beset the surrounding New England area.

Midway through Sunday we received a call from the base of the mountain. The biggest snowstorm in 50 years had hit NYC and in all likelihood we would not be able to get back that night. We met this news with an appropriately mature response - snow dancing and singing "It's a snow day, It's a snowday." We skiied out the rest of the day until the last lift. Upon hanging up the skis and ordering a well-earned cold beer, we received another call. The mesaage had not been relayed to the others and they had been waiting for us for 2 hours expecting to leave. Oops.

Hurriedly we made our way back to the lodge. I was nominated to take the first steps into the awaiting verbal onslaught. Some rogue South Africans wanted to try to drive out - yet they had not seen what was unfolding on the weather channel. 27 inches of snow in Central Park and widespread chaos on the roads. Given that the trip up (undertaken in far more hospitable conditions) had been scary enough with the Proteas behind the wheel, I was far from keen to try our luck that night. I found it extremely hard to stop myself from laughing when repeatedly the suggestion was made to "joost drive the cor and ef it snows, pork it on de side of de road, dood eh".

Thankfully common sense prevailed and we book another night at the Cascades Lodge. After enjoying a quiet dinner and drink, we retired to our rooms to consume the remaining beers in our fridge. An unexpected knock on the door revealed a topless male who immediately invited his other two mates into the room with a slab of Budweiser. The three unknowns continually hinted that they had travelled the world and listed numerous places they had been that were synonymous with Armed Forces bases (including Townsville). I became disturbed when the lad I know label "Dahmer" began talking some extreme material about blowing up kangaroos. The other boys looked to scared to ask them to leave so I stood up and announced that it's too late for me and I need some sleep. Thankfully the three trainee psychopaths took the hint and left.

The drive back on Monday was uneventful other than my inability to regain feeling in both of my big toes. The snow in and around Manhattan was spectacular but I'll leave that for my next post. Until then, stay safe, stay cool, stay Aussie (it's so much better that way).

And that's a wrap : Two days of awesome skiing in the can. 

Another day, another smashing : G just soaks it up at the end of a massive day. 

Just a little nap : Skiing non-stop for 8 hours will do that to you.  

The Killington Express : Stopping no stations to the bottom. 

We eat mountains like this for breakfast. 

So many fans, so little time : The crowd get the acknowledgement they demand after another slashing run. 

G Unit says "Smash the Peak" : Resident mountain guide O Train directs traffic at the top.

Putting the G in Gnarly : O Train keeps it real on the gondola. 

Actions speak louder than words : G Unit displays his unique style. 

Minus 10 degrees - no worries : Rugged up and ready to hit it. 

Ready to smash some runs : G Unit and Bule fire up for another attack on the slopes of Vermont. 

The Storm Before The Calm

Still to find time to write about snow in NYC.

Perhaps after I actually do some work.

And slowly it all melts away: Three days after the "storm" the melting snow starts creating monster sidewalk puddles in which I have almost drowned in on several occasions.