“LBWAD”

My new coffee preference is a long black with a little bit of milk. I expect you to remember this when you have me over next. For the snootty-nosed, that’s Long Black With A Dash. Dahling. (LBWAD.) Imagine throwing that acronymn at the person behind the counter; wouldn’t I look every bit the village ass?

Anyway, it’s my new preference because I still get that maximum coffee taste with body. That’s very important. The body comes from the slight presence of the dairyness… (I’m still in village ass mode — can you tell?)

A while ago I reported that Chessar Cellars is where I get my coffee in Adelaide, but, the truth is that wherever I go depends on what kind of coffee I want. Chesser is great for short blacks, Adelaide Espresso Bar is great for long blacks, Cibo is great for a quick flat white (they always serve it warm rather than hot) whereas, I can order anything at Ciao Coffee Bar (Adelaide Arcade) and not be disappointed. Generally, it’s at Ciao where you’ll see me ordering my LBWAD.

It’s nice to have a bunch of good places to choose from in Adelaide. Well done, SA.

Anyone tried anything from the new Starbucks yet? I am yet to. I keep thinking it will be like Hudsons or Gloria Jeans (shudder) as I don’t do either. I made an exception last Friday night with a colleague and we met at a Hudsons outlet. Because I thought that I was going to be on my own for ages (long story), I ordered a long Macchiato. Well, hand me a nescafe in a tall cup with two droplets of milk and extra aeroplane-hot water and I wouldn’t have tasted the difference. I had two sips and left it.

I still don’t know why I took a second sip.

Light-Red Friday

As part of the AW Chain, tech-enthusiast Peggy mentioned the “low-level hum” from the computers at her house. It’s pretty much the same deal at our place, too. Within five minutes of coming home from work, my computer will be switched on — despite the radiation from my work machine not having worn off me yet. Ah, what can I do; my interests are tied in with my PC-comfort. Digital age stuff. It’s that or the TV, I guess. I feel spent (in a very unsatisfactory way) after too much TV. But I feel productive after a good session with my PC.

Tonight, I had a “light red” with dinner. It made me heavy. I don’t drink much.

I’ve got Elvis entertaining me in the background with Ain’t It Funny How Time Slips Away. It might be five to midnight but when I last looked at the clock it was ten.

I’m very aware that my thoughts are disjointed right now. Hope you don’t mind.

Since I had my wisdom teeth out recently, wedding nostalgia has slowly been eating away at me — it’s crazy. During those couch-ridden days, I spent two nights (six hours worth) watching the raw video footage — from the wedding morning up until the reception. And I’ve been organising all my wedding photos; I’m getting framed copies out to family members (heh, it’s only been more than twelve months later!) and I also hope to compose some kind of scrapbook which has all my ideas from the planning stages. Ugh, that sounds rather sickening and excessive, doesn’t it? I think the anaesthetic from two Saturdays ago hasn’t worn off yet…

If you’re thinking of emailing me another freaking video file of Zidane – DON’T. For fark’s sake, DON’T. In case you missed it, I just typed: D-O-N-’-T. I maintain that Zidane’s an idiot for reacting the way he did and FIFA are just as idiotic for awarding him best player, and the stupid, bitter, sore-loser French lawyer that I read about today (who wants to prove the linesman used video evidence so that the match can be replayed) is an idiot, too. Yeah, that’s my opinion. Wear it.

Laurie’s Peregrinas is next in the chain. Hmmh, come to think of it, there’s a real negative tinge to this post – it’s not my usual style, eh? – but it’s been worthwhile for me. (Hope you can find something to work with here, Laurie.)

Meme: The Ideal Guy

Okay, firstly, I believe I married my ideal guy anyway. But, if I was God and had the task to create the ideal bloke from scratch, or if Shai straight-out asked me to do it, here are the eight qualities that I would chuck into him:

1) Sensitive

2) Pragmatic

3) Optimistic

4) Open-minded

5) Witty or comical

6) Winning smile

7) Patient

8) Self-Aware

They’re not in any order, mind you. Note that domesticated gets an honourable mention. Hehe. ‘Cause it always helps to be, and it’s about making my life easier, isn’t it?

Aside from sensitive (which the ideal guy that I happened to marry only has small bouts of), I am lucky to report that he has all of the rest.

(The pragmatic and patient qualities are important because I have neither.) 

Now I will tag three others: Kelly, Kappa and Kira 

The 2006 World Cup Belongs To Italy

Yes, fans are overjoyed, and others are livid, and some are getting racist, and new soccer-lovers are behaving as though they’ve been officiating since the prehistoric ages, and Lucas Neill is still saying it was a matter of beating Ukraine and then InLikeFlynn… but people, as sure as the sore throat I had from yelling out in my lounge room this morning, I am proud! In the city, car horns were going off as if motorists had discovered them for the first time; lots of green, white and red – I visited Italy for some minutes indeed. I am so tired due to only three hours sleep last night but you can still move me with words like: FORZA AZZURRI and CAMPIONE DEL MONDO. Yeah, you can!

Say what? Say uh-huh.

More official photos here.

School Paper Fun

The following is the kind of joke “fwd” that will make me laugh (but with my hand over my mouth to keep my jaws shut ’cause it hurts too much to laugh with my mouth open right now)…

Gems from alleged school papers using metaphors in 2003:

“Oh, Jason, take me!”; she panted, her breasts heaving like a Uni student on $1-a-beer night.

Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature prime English beef.

She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.

The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife’s infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM.

The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.

McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.

From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you’re on vacation in another city and “Sex in the City” comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.

Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.

The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot oil.

John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

Even in his last years, Grandad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

She was as easy as the TV Guide crossword.

She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.

It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.

I called out for your crazy similes or metaphors before but didn’t have much success.

Actually, this reminds me of my attempt to write the worst opening sentence in a class exercise. Speaking of classes, I got a distinction for that subject – I found out the day before yesterday. It’s my first result for the course (which I started this year) and I’m quite pleased.

And for loyalty’s sake, go Italy.

It’s Been A Slumbersome Week

Arky and I just want to find a little spot to fit in the Zzzs – comfort doesn’t matter so much – and just sleep the anaesthesia-infested week away…

Forza Italia! (Yes, it’s another World Cup entry)

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I’m not really in the mood for writing. I’ve had part of my oral spirit amputated, you know, and am still in re-building mode. However, pain aside, I’ve found some little gems relating to the great victory this morning. I’ll start off with a quote from Fabio Grosso who scored the first goal in the match and who dedicated it to the right people (hehe)…

What a feeling and it’s because of our team spirit and the work we’ve done. The match was very hard. We were already thinking about penalties when luckily I scored. I shed tears of joy, I just couldn’t believe it. The Final will be just as difficult and memorable. I dedicate the goal to my wife, son and everyone else who wants the best for me.

Official photographs from the game here. Below is one of my favourites:

And for the cuteness factor:

Thousands of Italy fans had watched the match on a giant screen at the Circo Massimo in the heart of ancient Rome.While most bars installed TV sets for customers to follow the action, the capital’s venerable Peroni restaurant simply closed for the evening, informing customers in a notice outside: “Sorry, but Italy are playing.”
Source. See a great shot here.

I’m glad Del Piero finally got his moment to shine in the tournament.

It’s funny because I’m starting to see bits of the team members’ possible personality traits by their conduct on the field. What am I talking about? Buffon has a smile that can light up the screen (even when under pressure); Cannavaro looks like he’s the team’s rock; Gattuso is the bloke you don’t want to get in a fight with; Lippi looks like he won’t express any kind of joy unless it’s very safe to do so; patient Del Piero is probably the team’s Gandalf; Nesta (get well, son, hope you’re playing at the final) might be the temperamental one; Totti could very well be Mr Sensitive; Toni is cheeky and boyish. I could go on because they’re all fabulous. (Naturally.)

Yeah, it’s probably all a crock of shit but it’s how they’ve come across to me — such a great, charismatic team, all of them knowing their position so well and what it is they’ve gotta do when they get out there.

I hope Australia can now see that the Socceroos lost to the right team (if you’re going to lose, you want to lose to the best, don’t you?.) However, I won’t be heartbroken if they lose on Sunday. I’m ecstatic that they’ve come this far.

Go Italy!