A Saturday like this

---

[youtube=iCKDkQUTy0g]

When I look back over my happiest moments in life, they often have one or several elements of utterly childish behavior, which is probably why I looked forward to Saturday the 22nd with such enthusiasm; this date signifies the International Pillow Fight Day, and it was to be held at the Sydney Opera House Front Court, commencing at 1 AM.
I showed up 15 minutes early with a plastic bag veiling my weapon of choice, and awaited the event’s start. As far as I could tell, there was only me and 6 kids, none of whom looked older than 17, and I feared I had just wasted my time going to the Opera House in order to have some pimply teenagers publically whack me in the head with flea-infested pillows.
It had rained earlier that morning, and maybe this discouraged the participants, I reasoned, but now the sun was shining softly on my face, and I was thankful that I had had the foresight to change out of the long-sleeved shirt that I initially had dressed in, and dump the down vest in favor of a t-shirt and thin hooded zip-up.
As I sat there congratulating myself on not over-dressing for once, the number of pillow fighters had suddenly doubled, so I rapidly unleashed my fluffy weapon and jumped into the walloping crowd to join in on the fun.

There couldn’t even have been 20 of us, yet it didn’t take long for a couple of guards to come over and usher us away from the premises, so we walked a bit away from the Front Court area and continued the battle there.
The event had few rules if any, but some improvised teams did form from time to time. Someone hollered “Battle of the sexes!” and that was all that was needed for the females to gang up on the guys. At one point I gave it a try and yelled “Hit the cow!”, an order that sent everyone bashing the guy wearing a cow-hat, much to my delight.
It was obvious then that I’d make a great general.

I don’t remember pillow combats being this exhausting, but except for some terrifyingly active youngsters who could definitely benefit from a Ritalin-smoothie or two, we were all ready to drop our pillows and go for a few beers after a little over an hour. I hadn’t thought to bring water, and once wrapped up in all the boisterous fun, I couldn’t be bothered walking away from it to prevent something as trivial as dehydration, so at this point I was all for quenching my thirst with an alcoholic beverage.
It was quite interesting to sit down with a bunch of people whose real names I didn’t know, and whose first acquaintance I had made by striking them as hard as I could with my pillow (which, according to some well-expressed complaints, I swung with a surprising force). For example, the guy who draped himself in the Canadian flag (and a red table cloth wrapped around his hip), was hailed Canada to no one’s surprise, and his actual name was not really needed. Based on my accent, I’m afraid I was referred to as the Yankee or the American, but no one dared call it to my face, so I can’t be sure. Also, first chance I got I immediately clarified that I was Swedish, not American. No offense, dearest American friends, but since I’m not actually from the States, I don’t want to have to carry the cross of that particular nationality in these politically volatile times.
“No, no, my country didn’t instigate any war in the Middle East. I come from the land of IKEA, meat balls, smorgasbord, the Nobel Prize, health care for everyone, Bjorn Borg, cheese slicers, Jose Gonzalez, the Cardigans, the Hives, the Knife, ABBA, Saab, Volvo, and useful inventions like dynamite, the zipper, safety matches and the propeller. We gave the world all this, along with ridiculously attractive women, so puh-leaze don’t get me confused with those silly yanks.” (P.S. Cali, I love you to death).

So now I’m learning the actual names of some of these people over a beer, and they’re a cordial bunch. I’m talking to my new semi-Danish friend Will as the cow-hat guy leaves, but before he does so he invites us all to a bbq at his place later on.
Once the rest of us depart from the bar, I follow Will back to his place, where we maraud his mom’s cabinets in search of much needed victuals, before heading over to a grocery store to pick up some veggies and meat/fake meat-products for the barbie.
While Will is trying to decide between the organic sausages or the generic “No Frills”-brand’s suspicious-looking meat, I can’t resist taking a picture of one of many odd variations that make Australia so interesting; Rice Krispies. Here they go under the name “Rice Bubbles”. To add to that list, I’ve learned that bell peppers are capsicum, the Honda Fit sells better if called Honda Jazz in Aussie-land, raisins are called sultanas, and we’ve already covered the Hungry Jack’s pseudonym of the good ol’ Burger King.
I can trust the King of Burgers, but I don’t know about that Jack dude. Why should he be hungry? He owns a burger chain, it doesn’t make any sense. There’s something fishy going on here…
When having lived in the States, living in Australia is almost like being trapped in one of those dreams where you think you’re in a familiar place, except there’s something slightly off about everything, keeping you on your toes.

We’re soon grilling capsicum and soy sausages in Vincent’s backyard, and I’m upbraiding Will for having the audacity to leave the country for an around-the-world trip in just a little over a week, so soon after meeting me. He’s the second person I’ve ever met who has never used pot, giving me all kinds of crazy ideas of starting a straight edge posse, since apparently I’m not the only one. But instead that selfish bastard is going away for a year.
“Sucky timing”, I grumble, but in my head I’m scheming an evil plan to sneak back to his house to first find and then thoroughly misplace his passport. That way I figure I can add him to my list of friends and all is well, but then I realize he might become depressed if I ruin a plan of these proportions, and then he’ll be no fun anyway, so I eventually decide against it. Also, after having seen the eyesore he calls his room, I have little hope of finding anything in there. Instead I settle for the fact that he gave me a working mobile phone (how do I find these generous people?) and that I might get to buy a decent road bike from him, which definitely comes in handy if I take the café job in the city.

The most interesting part of the bbq must have been when Canada told us the story about how he faked his own death just for kicks. Also, for the first time ever, I met a person who actually airbrushes model photos for fashion magazines for a living. His name is Dave and he seems like a great guy, so it’s impossible to dislike him for this one flaw, but I really disagree with that type of photo manipulation as I believe it contributes to the distorted image of what humans are supposed to look like more than almost anything else. And, being me, that probably was pretty evident to everyone around the table.
I guess Dave picked up on my aversion to his profession as well, since he somewhat defensively said: “Well, hey, somebody’s gotta do it”, to which I retorted: “Actually, Dave, that’s the thing. No one has to do that”.
I wanted to go on about how I believe that his very profession is the main culprit for anorexia, boob-jobs and a number of other unhealthy behaviors, which today has become a huge social problem, predominantly among young women as they are futilely battling with becoming physically perfect as if physical perfection exists, something they believe thanks to all these manipulated pictures that they’re being fed colossal doses of every day.
But instead I dropped it, and I even wish I had stopped myself sooner. It’s just a job, and it doesn’t define Dave as a person, so there’s no point in making him feel bad about how he earns his living. And who the heck am I to judge?
I really need to learn to keep my mouth shut.

The family’s English bulldog may be cute, but he is by far the dumbest dog I’ve ever met. I’m afraid he’s a canine retard. Having said that, though, it might just be that he hasn’t been trained. Today when I took him for a walk I made a point of teaching him to not pull on the leash like a freaking dachshund the whole time, and at the end of the walk he was behaving much better. But he still poops in the yard rather than while we’re out walking, which proves he possesses a rather dense lack of intelligence. Two sandwiches short of a picnic, that dog.

Everyone keeps telling me I have small feet for being tall. This always happen when I’m wearing my classic Reebok Hi-tops, which confuses things further, since I’m sure they’ve misprinted the size on the label on this very pair. It says they’re s a 6.5, or 36 for you Europeans, but I’m a 7.5 (or 38-39), so I would never fit in a shoe that was actually that small. Still, they fit nicely, and since it says they’re a 6.5 right there, it’s hard to convince people that my feet aren’t really that small. I obviously can’t refer to the inaccurate label as proof, and it makes for a completely absurd conversation anyway, to try and argue your shoe size when you’re wearing the “evidence”.
I’m not sure why I’m mentioning this in my blog, but now you all know my actual shoe size. Maybe I’m hoping some of you will send me shoes, as they are a fetish of mine.
Did you all get that? I love shoes, and I’m a 7.5.
Good, let’s move on.

In life, you usually find yourself surrounded by the same “type” of people, and I’ve decided I need to break out of this, to discover what the other categories of people have to offer that I’ve been missing out on this whole time.
I’ve reviewed what kinds I tend to socialize with, and what kinds I’m yet to develop friendships with, and I’ve essentially narrowed it down to two necessary additions; I need one proper suit-man, and one flamboyant gay guy. After that, I’ll consider my social circles to have pretty good variety, without necessarily covering all areas.
Today was helpful in the gay department, as I biked to Tamarama Beach, locally referred to Glamorama because of its high occupancy of gay guys. I met up with Jett and Will, and we played beach volleyball with some fun people, and some exceptionally creepy people. Jett had to leave after an hour or so, but Will and I stayed on, playing some more games. I didn’t end up getting acquainted with any flamboyant gays, but these things need to marinade for a while, so it's all according to the plan. I’ve made my appearance, and I’ll return. Shortly, I should have at least one gay friend who dresses ostentatiously and talks with a cute lisp, on top of being occasionally obnoxious. This is all I want out of Glamorama Beach.

After playing ourselves hungry, Will and I biked over to Bronte Beach where we had some delicious fish and chips, and since we were getting a bit chilled by the clouded sun and our damp clothes, we decided to go for a cuppa somewhere. On the way to a café, however, we were drawn into a Gelatissimo, and instead of a hot beverage, we returned to the beach with a half liter of ice cream that we gluttonously indulged in.
There was no lack of entertainment at the beach at this hour. Right in front of us was an old man with a metal detector, and exactly how we decided to amuse ourselves with this is viewable in the attached movie snippet.
Please don’t expect too much, as we are on a sugar high at this time, and can’t possibly be held responsible for anything we say or do. I’m definitely allowing for the possibility that this is not the least bit fun for anyone who wasn’t there. Still, if you want to hear us giggle like the idiots we are, the audio on its own might be uplifting. And please don’t miss Will’s wonderful running style in the beginning, as I think this is the highlight of the clip.

---