Sigh.

As you’d expect, I’m a bit discouraged by Tuesday’s primary results, but maybe not for the reasons one might think. I expected that Clinton would win Ohio, and that the race would be close in Texas. The irrational exuberant in me wanted a knockout blow, but that didn’t happen.

What did happen was that we ended up essentially where we began. I think the latest math says that Clinton netted only about four delegates on the day, due to the “Texas Two-Step”, the hybrid primary/caucus method, a.k.a. the primacaucus (prima facie? Prima donna? Optimus Prime?). While Clinton may have won the popular vote in the Lone Star State, Obama won or is winning the caucus portion. That is key, because remember, this is all about delegates.

But the main reason I wanted a knockout blow was that, as expected, John McCain became the clear nominee for the Republicans. Tuesday’s result guarantees that we Democrats will be fighting amongst ourselves while McCain carries the torch of his message (which, sadly for him, is “four more years of the disastrous Bush administration and a thousand years in Iraq”) and tries to gobble up independents on the strength of his “maverick” status, even though that’s a crock of shit.

I guess Obama’s imperative now is to demonstrate how he is much better positioned to beat McCain then Clinton is. And that’s something that should resonate with Democrats, especially because it’s true in my opinion. I honestly think that if Clinton is our nominee, we will commit the biggest electoral sin in Democratic history—losing the unlosable election.

People outside of America cannot fathom how anyone from Bush’s party could possibly win the White House this year, and until this week, neither could I. (Although I have always believed Obama to be the best chance of winning the presidency, even a year ago.)

Anyway, the race goes on—sadly. I am glad, though, that my two home counties—Montgomery County, Ohio, and Tarrant County, Texas—both went for Obama.

In other news:

1. What is it with the recent trend of women wearing shorts in a professional setting? There’s no way this is happening in America. Granted, they’re “nice” shorts, but they’re still shorts. I know that there’s nothing substantively different about shorts from skirts, but I don’t think they’re as professional. Until I can wear shorts, no deal.
2. Sports is all about superstition, but these take the cake. I can understand Jason Terry’s pre-game ritual, but I think I’d draw the line at pissing on my hands to avoid calluses when I bat bare-handed (I’m looking in your direction, Moises Alou). And Turk Wendell: WTF?
3. Greatest. Ad. Campaign. Ever. Are you a douchebag? Be sure to check out the DoucheSpace.
4. First two headlines on the Sydney Morning Herald’s RSS feed currently: “Swedish socialite jailed for hitman plot”; “Sydney sex slaves freed”. Did they get some sort of emancipation proclamation? (Emancipation Sexclamation?)
5. Are Baylor fans douchebags? Yes. But you already knew that.
6. The new episode of “Lost” is airing RIGHT NOW back in the USA. They’re one minute in and I bet some weird shit has already gone down. Sadly, I won’t be able to watch until tomorrow, after heading home this evening tonight after going out for happy hour, which will meld into a night out, which means I will hit the torrent site at about 2am tomorrow, download overnight, then watch hung over tomorrow. Ah, Saturdays.

That’s it for now, K Streeters/Sydneysideders.

My weekend: Pineapples and the Prime Minister

Went up to Queensland on the weekend, which was a great time away from the city. I didn’t even venture into Brisbane; Drew picked me up from the airport and we headed straight for Noosa, which is about two hours north. It’s a small beach community—lots of holidaymakers and surfheads. Had great weather, so the itinerary was, essentially, head to the beach, eat, beach, eat, pub, eat, pub, sleep, repeat.

On Sunday I got to see one of Australia’s “big things” for the first time. For some reason, there are dozens (probably more than 50) giant, well, things on roadsides throughout the country. Mostly, they’re fibreglass or something similar, but they’re just big, kitschy tourist traps—giant prawns and bananas and rolling pins and cows and things. I love it.

We saw The Big Pineapple, which is in Woombye, Queensland. I don’t think all the Big Things are like this, but the Pineapple is at an actual pineapple plantation. You can go up in the Big Pineapple, and inside is a little educational diorama of how pineapples are grown, harvested, canned and shipped.

Essentially, this display is one big commercial for Golden Circle, which owns the plantation. But the great thing about it was its out-of-date pathos—it’s a bit run down, hasn’t been updated in ages. Some of the little figurines are tipped over, like a sheep here or a farmer there. If it were shiny and new and resplendent with plasma TVs, I’d have been disappointed. There is also, of course, a big souvenir shop, and I got the tackiest Big Pineapple koozie I could find. It rules.

Here’s me outside the Big P, still in my swimming trunks and wet from the ocean:

My friend Heather, a fellow North American expat here (she’s from Canadia), will be mad at me when she finds out I went to the Pineapple, I think. She and I have the idea of road-tripping to all of the Big Things. Oh well—sorry, Heather. You can’t deny the call of The Big Pineapple.

On the way back to the Brisbane airport yesterday, Drew and I passed what looked like an unmarked police car making a routine traffic stop. Except both the police car and the one they pulled over were the same model and white, and the cop was in a suit. As we whizzed by, Drew saw an Australian flag on the front of the lead car. “I think that’s a Member of Parliament,” he said.

A few minutes later, we were in the right-hand lane (that’s the fast lane for those of us who drive on the left, you American types), and they came up fairly fast behind us. Drew moved over to the left to let them pass (oops, overtake) us, and told me to look out for who it was.

Sure enough, there was an Australian flag sticking up in the middle of the hood (oops, bonnet), and this white car had a licence (oops, number) plate that read: “C 1”.

“Um, Drew,” I said as they passed us and I got a good look inside, “That’s Kevin Rudd.”

So the Prime Minister of Australia swept by us on his own way to the airport. But it was strange seeing the leader of the country in a two-car motorcade, although I’m not sure you can call two cars a motorcade.

K-Rudd was sitting in the front seat, with sunglasses on, and there were three people crammed in the back, aides probably, maybe a bodyguard. The car following, the one I thought was an unmarked cop car, was tailing him—but only about three feet behind, and this was at 100km/hour. (The irony of this is that we all had just passed underneath one of those electronic highway signs, and this one had read: “Don’t drive too close!”)

We almost pulled up next to him at a traffic light, but we had to turn off to go to the public entrance of the airport, while Rudd went to the executive entrance. But we did wave, and I think he did wave back.

It was weird to see such matter-of-fact informality from a motorcade. Having lived in Washington, where they’re a dime a dozen, I can pretty much figure out at least the level of the person by their entourage. The President, obviously, has a limo, a dummy limo, two or three black Suburbans, half a dozen marked cop cars, and a phalanx of motorcycle cops. Oh, and an ambulance and probably 10 unmarked cars. Probably a bit of overkill. The Vice President has a lot, but fewer than that. Someone like Nancy Pelosi, the Speaker of the House, has one that is smaller still, as are most foreign dignitaries’ motorcades.

Rudd’s was somewhere along the lines of what the Governor of Texas would get in Washington, although something tells me that Rick Perry wouldn’t have to stop at traffic lights.