6/26/09
What a day its been. Sky Saxon of The Seeds dies of an illness, seminal poster babe Farrah Fawcett succombs to anal cancer, and Michael Jackson, the undisputed King of Pop as well as the undisputed defendant of several child molestation charges, all died today, or rather yesterday cause its currently 12:37am Eastern time. I'm not bawling about any of them cause I've got no heart and I never really cared for them either, but it is quite striking all three died the same day. Sickness deaths suck cause they're a slow and painful process, but Jeff Goldblum's death easily trumps the above three in terms of badassitude. News junkets have been reporting Goldblum fell 60ft to his death atop the Kauri Cliffs whilst filming a movie. Pretty manly, don't you think? But before you shed even more tears for a celebrity you never knew, they were just as quick to report it as a hoax. And the silver lining in all this? The New Zealand Film Commission was unaware that Goldblum was "currently filming anything in the country." It took a fake death to alert the kiwis of his presence; hopefully now that they're no longer in the dark they'll pull the plug and instead just show The Fly and Jurassic Park cause thats all the awesome he'll ever commit to celluloid.
4/11/09
This blog has definitely fallen by the wayside, but its not for lack of trying. I've just been a busy bee the last couple weeks that I haven't had time to properly 'blog' about my 'travels,' but rest assured this entry will more than make up for it. So let's start off way back, to the weekend where my two buddies Alex and Eric and I went to Munich, which, if memory serves me correctly, was March 19th-22nd. I still had two papers to write, but I didn't care about them, so we flew to Munich to experience a Bavarian slice of life, and upon our descent to the airport we get shepherded into a bus without knowing where its taking us. Funny how history repeats itself, huh? They very likely said in German what our destination was, but my friends and I were in the dark, chuckling at how reminiscent this was of a time not too long ago. Not that I'm saying the Holocaust is funny, but if you can't laugh at the similarities then clearly you're not a fan of gallows humor.
Our worries were all for naught, as the bus dropped us of at the main terminal, where we went through customs and entered a state of confusion as to how to get from the airport to our hostel. Everything was in German, and us three Americans were at a lost, looking every bit as confused as the thoughts in our heads. Luckily for us, an incredibly nice German man was heading in our direction, towards Hauptbahnhof, and proceeded to guide us there. He explained the ticketing system for the public transport, which is cheaper if you buy it in groups than a single passenger, so we split the costs and head on the train, making chitchat to pass the forty minute train ride. We arrive at our station and we say our thanks and goodbyes, going our separate ways: us, to drink a shit ton of beer, and him, on his way home. It should be noted that during all of this no one exchanged names and no tip or anything of the sort was given; it was done for niceness' sake, so at some point in time I'm going to have to pay it forward. Hopefully I won't get stabbed like Haley Joel Osment.
We make it to our place of stay, the awesome Wombat Hostel, check in and walk around the area looking for a place to eat dinner. We pass by a lot of kebab and Halal stands, but we settled on Thai. We head back and make our way towards two bars, one whose name I can't recall and the other X-Cess (I swear it was spelled like that). The former was a place inhabited by mid to late twenty-year olds, and even though the receptionist at the hostel told us this was "a place where you can get laid--easily" we left because it wasn't our scene. We wanted something young and rowdy, not pretending-to-be-a-sophisticate-while-kind-of-popular-music-plays-in-the-background. Onwards and upwards, we soldier on to X-Cess. It was nowhere near the type of place we thought it'd be (we secretely think it was a gay bar--TOO MANY DUDES), but we were able to have a good time nonetheless, drinking two Euro beers till our stomachs told us "I'm full." We mosey on back to our hostel just in time to catch Midnight Madness where, for thirty-three glorious minutes, beers and shots are a Euro and 1.50 Euro, respectively. We abuse the deal as Joseph Fritzl did his daughter, and in the process we meet two Londoners named Jack and Harry. We exchange greetings and stories: they just finished their A-levels and are spending some time traveling across Europe; we (as you already know) studying abroad and traveling for the weekend. We talk and drink some more, and at some point throughout the night we decide to go to a strip club. There were tons of strip joints in the surrounding area, so we pick one, and enter the saddest establishment I've seen thus far in my twenty-one years. I seriously think a cancer party, with whatever that entails, would've been more fun than this place. The club was empty, the strippers weren't at all into their 'job,' and the music playing was ill-fitting. As my friend Eric said, "When I saw that stripper grinding her ass to Rihanna , I just felt like crying." Afterwards, to rid our bodies of sadness and despair, we headed to the twenty-four hour Burger King near our hostel. We wore crowns on our heads and feasted like kings before we called it a night.
We made plans to meet up the next evening for the mini-Oktoberfest-esque festival that was going on, but before we did that we took part in a free walking tour that was part of our hostel. Our guide's name was Aussie, and he was damn good, taking us on a walk around Munich and telling us bits of history. Did you know, for instance, that all the buildings sans four are all less than sixty-years old? That's because every building got wrecked by the bombs during WWII, and rather than build them anew, the city decided to rebuild them as they were originally and aged them accordingly. This gave the city a kind of Disneyland vibe, where behind every door lurked some one, or some thing, that was pulling switches and levers to keep the city running.
The tour ends, and sometime passed before we made our way to the hostel bar to meet Jack and Harry and their friend Vic, a pretty blonde Australian who was traveling for two months and who defied the stereotype of Australians being loud, big drinkers. Vic goes her own way, promising us that she'll get in touch with one of us when she's heading to the festival, so we set off and board a train, then a bus, and walk a bit, till we arrive at the beer hall. There were, I'm going to guess, somewhere around 2,000 people, a lot of them decked out in traditional Bavarian clothing (aka white-collared shirt, lederhosen, boots, and a green hat) and all of them with a liter mug of beer in their hands. My friends and I followed suit, drinking two or three mugs each, all the while being in awe of how orderly and well-behaved the festival and its patrons were. No fighting, no violence, no aggression of any kind, and not even to us foreigners. We even got Proust-ed (Bavarian cheer where you say "Proust" and clink the bottom of the glasses together, because clinking the top could shatter it) by the man we dubbed the uber-German, a portly, tough-looking guy who had the traditional Bavarian clothing and one better: a feather in his hat! We talked amongst ourselves how a festival of this sort wouldn't fly anywhere else; too many macho-, aggro-, alpha-male characters who need to strut their stuff as if they have something to prove. Dicks, in other words, whereas in Bavarian culture people grow up with beer and treat it like any old thing. I don't mean to say there aren't assholes in Munich, cause they're like the human cockroach, but during our stay we didn't encounter a single one. Everyone was all smiles, as were we after the ample amounts of beer we imbibed.
We left the festival to, once again, take advantage of Midnight Madness. We drank and bonded some more, talking about American and British sitcoms, and got to know better some of the kids in our walking tour. Three of them were in their mid-twenties, sold all of their belongings and were traveling for as long as they could; one of the guys' plans was to be traveling for four years. That takes balls the size of grapefruits, and as much as I like traveling, my balls aren't nearly big enough to handle something of the sort. They're more the size of ping-pong balls, which is enough to handle a couple months and more than enough to handle the Munich club scene. Clubs there don't open till 1am, so at or around that time we make our way to the club district known as Haidhausen. The area as an ungodly amount of bars and clubs all within 60,000 sq. meters (645, 834.52 sq.ft, according to Google), making it look like some sort of carnival where debauchery and and fun are the main attractions. We ended up entering the first place we saw and were very disappointed. The club was empty, save for two people whose dancing was as awkward and funny as they were oblivious to it. The guy appeared to be jackhammering his lady friend from behind, in rapid succession, with quick one-two pelvic thrusts. This was all in the dark, but even so there faces bore no traces of amusement, especially the girl but not even the guy, almost as if each had a job to perform that they didn't care for, hence the absentminded expressions on their face. We cut our losses and took a cab ride home, cause at that point no one was in the right state of mind to make sense of public transportation.
It has to be said Bavarian beer is the fucking jam: it tastes delicious and you get NO HANGOVER. The next morning we wake up feeling great, and because we missed our free hostel breakfast, we headed over to the next best thing: Pizza Hut. I had Hawaiian pizza and it tasted just like its American counterpart, delicious corporate fast-food pizza. We then head to the Deutches Museum, a monster of a science museum that would take weeks, if not months, to fully explore. We were there for four hours or so and saw a good chunk of things, though we didn't learn much. Much of the written descriptions were in German, but it was still fun to see tons of science-y things and to fiddle with knobs and whatnot. Later that day, my crew (and I say crew because we had enough people/we've been hanging out long enough to call it so) and I head to the Augustiner-Keller Beer Hall, home to the finest beer I've ever had. Seriously, their dark house brew is like none other, though it should be made public that I'm not a beer connoisseur. We drank a liter or two and started dancing on the tables, which is what is done in beer halls, before we make our way to the front of the band. That band knew exactly what to play for drunks; their set list consisted of Bon Jovi, Blink 182, Bloodhound Gang's cover of "The Roof is on Fire," and at this juncture in time I forget what else. People were lifting each other up into the air and dancing and hugging, everyone was just so happy (myself included) that words couldn't do it justice, so I won't try to. We head back to the hostel for Midnight Madness, where we party it up a bit more and where at some point Jack goes to Burger King, buys burgers, and hands them out to people in the hostel whilst wearing a crown on his head (though to be fair we were wearing crowns as well). He truly was the Burger King. We exchanged goodbyes, as well as pertinent Facebook info, and the next morning we flew back to London.
That's all...for now. I have more stories/travels to write about, but for the moment I'll just post some photos of Munich; I promise you I'll write at least twice this week.
Me, Alex, and Eric at the Beer Fest
Our worries were all for naught, as the bus dropped us of at the main terminal, where we went through customs and entered a state of confusion as to how to get from the airport to our hostel. Everything was in German, and us three Americans were at a lost, looking every bit as confused as the thoughts in our heads. Luckily for us, an incredibly nice German man was heading in our direction, towards Hauptbahnhof, and proceeded to guide us there. He explained the ticketing system for the public transport, which is cheaper if you buy it in groups than a single passenger, so we split the costs and head on the train, making chitchat to pass the forty minute train ride. We arrive at our station and we say our thanks and goodbyes, going our separate ways: us, to drink a shit ton of beer, and him, on his way home. It should be noted that during all of this no one exchanged names and no tip or anything of the sort was given; it was done for niceness' sake, so at some point in time I'm going to have to pay it forward. Hopefully I won't get stabbed like Haley Joel Osment.
We make it to our place of stay, the awesome Wombat Hostel, check in and walk around the area looking for a place to eat dinner. We pass by a lot of kebab and Halal stands, but we settled on Thai. We head back and make our way towards two bars, one whose name I can't recall and the other X-Cess (I swear it was spelled like that). The former was a place inhabited by mid to late twenty-year olds, and even though the receptionist at the hostel told us this was "a place where you can get laid--easily" we left because it wasn't our scene. We wanted something young and rowdy, not pretending-to-be-a-sophisticate-while-kind-of-popular-music-plays-in-the-background. Onwards and upwards, we soldier on to X-Cess. It was nowhere near the type of place we thought it'd be (we secretely think it was a gay bar--TOO MANY DUDES), but we were able to have a good time nonetheless, drinking two Euro beers till our stomachs told us "I'm full." We mosey on back to our hostel just in time to catch Midnight Madness where, for thirty-three glorious minutes, beers and shots are a Euro and 1.50 Euro, respectively. We abuse the deal as Joseph Fritzl did his daughter, and in the process we meet two Londoners named Jack and Harry. We exchange greetings and stories: they just finished their A-levels and are spending some time traveling across Europe; we (as you already know) studying abroad and traveling for the weekend. We talk and drink some more, and at some point throughout the night we decide to go to a strip club. There were tons of strip joints in the surrounding area, so we pick one, and enter the saddest establishment I've seen thus far in my twenty-one years. I seriously think a cancer party, with whatever that entails, would've been more fun than this place. The club was empty, the strippers weren't at all into their 'job,' and the music playing was ill-fitting. As my friend Eric said, "When I saw that stripper grinding her ass to Rihanna , I just felt like crying." Afterwards, to rid our bodies of sadness and despair, we headed to the twenty-four hour Burger King near our hostel. We wore crowns on our heads and feasted like kings before we called it a night.
We made plans to meet up the next evening for the mini-Oktoberfest-esque festival that was going on, but before we did that we took part in a free walking tour that was part of our hostel. Our guide's name was Aussie, and he was damn good, taking us on a walk around Munich and telling us bits of history. Did you know, for instance, that all the buildings sans four are all less than sixty-years old? That's because every building got wrecked by the bombs during WWII, and rather than build them anew, the city decided to rebuild them as they were originally and aged them accordingly. This gave the city a kind of Disneyland vibe, where behind every door lurked some one, or some thing, that was pulling switches and levers to keep the city running.
The tour ends, and sometime passed before we made our way to the hostel bar to meet Jack and Harry and their friend Vic, a pretty blonde Australian who was traveling for two months and who defied the stereotype of Australians being loud, big drinkers. Vic goes her own way, promising us that she'll get in touch with one of us when she's heading to the festival, so we set off and board a train, then a bus, and walk a bit, till we arrive at the beer hall. There were, I'm going to guess, somewhere around 2,000 people, a lot of them decked out in traditional Bavarian clothing (aka white-collared shirt, lederhosen, boots, and a green hat) and all of them with a liter mug of beer in their hands. My friends and I followed suit, drinking two or three mugs each, all the while being in awe of how orderly and well-behaved the festival and its patrons were. No fighting, no violence, no aggression of any kind, and not even to us foreigners. We even got Proust-ed (Bavarian cheer where you say "Proust" and clink the bottom of the glasses together, because clinking the top could shatter it) by the man we dubbed the uber-German, a portly, tough-looking guy who had the traditional Bavarian clothing and one better: a feather in his hat! We talked amongst ourselves how a festival of this sort wouldn't fly anywhere else; too many macho-, aggro-, alpha-male characters who need to strut their stuff as if they have something to prove. Dicks, in other words, whereas in Bavarian culture people grow up with beer and treat it like any old thing. I don't mean to say there aren't assholes in Munich, cause they're like the human cockroach, but during our stay we didn't encounter a single one. Everyone was all smiles, as were we after the ample amounts of beer we imbibed.
We left the festival to, once again, take advantage of Midnight Madness. We drank and bonded some more, talking about American and British sitcoms, and got to know better some of the kids in our walking tour. Three of them were in their mid-twenties, sold all of their belongings and were traveling for as long as they could; one of the guys' plans was to be traveling for four years. That takes balls the size of grapefruits, and as much as I like traveling, my balls aren't nearly big enough to handle something of the sort. They're more the size of ping-pong balls, which is enough to handle a couple months and more than enough to handle the Munich club scene. Clubs there don't open till 1am, so at or around that time we make our way to the club district known as Haidhausen. The area as an ungodly amount of bars and clubs all within 60,000 sq. meters (645, 834.52 sq.ft, according to Google), making it look like some sort of carnival where debauchery and and fun are the main attractions. We ended up entering the first place we saw and were very disappointed. The club was empty, save for two people whose dancing was as awkward and funny as they were oblivious to it. The guy appeared to be jackhammering his lady friend from behind, in rapid succession, with quick one-two pelvic thrusts. This was all in the dark, but even so there faces bore no traces of amusement, especially the girl but not even the guy, almost as if each had a job to perform that they didn't care for, hence the absentminded expressions on their face. We cut our losses and took a cab ride home, cause at that point no one was in the right state of mind to make sense of public transportation.
It has to be said Bavarian beer is the fucking jam: it tastes delicious and you get NO HANGOVER. The next morning we wake up feeling great, and because we missed our free hostel breakfast, we headed over to the next best thing: Pizza Hut. I had Hawaiian pizza and it tasted just like its American counterpart, delicious corporate fast-food pizza. We then head to the Deutches Museum, a monster of a science museum that would take weeks, if not months, to fully explore. We were there for four hours or so and saw a good chunk of things, though we didn't learn much. Much of the written descriptions were in German, but it was still fun to see tons of science-y things and to fiddle with knobs and whatnot. Later that day, my crew (and I say crew because we had enough people/we've been hanging out long enough to call it so) and I head to the Augustiner-Keller Beer Hall, home to the finest beer I've ever had. Seriously, their dark house brew is like none other, though it should be made public that I'm not a beer connoisseur. We drank a liter or two and started dancing on the tables, which is what is done in beer halls, before we make our way to the front of the band. That band knew exactly what to play for drunks; their set list consisted of Bon Jovi, Blink 182, Bloodhound Gang's cover of "The Roof is on Fire," and at this juncture in time I forget what else. People were lifting each other up into the air and dancing and hugging, everyone was just so happy (myself included) that words couldn't do it justice, so I won't try to. We head back to the hostel for Midnight Madness, where we party it up a bit more and where at some point Jack goes to Burger King, buys burgers, and hands them out to people in the hostel whilst wearing a crown on his head (though to be fair we were wearing crowns as well). He truly was the Burger King. We exchanged goodbyes, as well as pertinent Facebook info, and the next morning we flew back to London.
That's all...for now. I have more stories/travels to write about, but for the moment I'll just post some photos of Munich; I promise you I'll write at least twice this week.
Me, Alex, and Eric at the Beer Fest
3/16/09
Everyone Loves Catch
The past few weeks have yielded some interesting events, not in the sense that I've changed as a person or turned a new leaf, but more poignant, quirky, that-wouldn't-be-out-of-place-in-an-indie-flick. The first of these episodes occurred a while ago (probably towards the tail end of February) on, or "in" as a friend likes to say, the Tube, the good ol' reliable London Underground where people don't really converse unless they know each other, preferring to read the free tabloid papers where they complete suduko puzzles or read up on the latest celebrity gossip. They insulate themselves with their music of choice, eyes darting around from Tube map to person and vice versa, never settling on one for very long, and on the very likely chance that two sets of eyes meet, the encounter produces, well, nothing. No recognition, verbal or otherwise. It's as if the event doesn't even get registered, but more like an item gets scratched off a list. Then again, you can apply this to any form of public transportation. Such means of traversing amongst cities produce small windows of time where accurate judgments of people aren't entirely feasible and accurate, though Malcom Gladwell will argue (quite well, I may add) in his book Blink otherwise.
On this particular night, after filling our stomachs with mighty fine Mexican food, Mike and I board the Tube, take our seats, and await for the ride to commence. Before long we leave the platform, saying goodbye to the tiny and exceptionally cute mice that make their homes there, and it's here that the ride takes a turn. (Metaphorically, of course; literally, we knew where we were going.) A few seats over from us were two guys who were tossing around a little foam football, the kind that as a kid you would've traded tickets for. I didn't think much of it, and neither did anyone else. Just two people having a bit of closed-off fun. A few minutes into their game, they toss the ball to one of the many neighboring Tubees; she tosses it back, and, to the surprise of everyone, they proceed to throw the ball to another rider. Pretty soon they have a full-on game of catch going, getting everyone in that section of the train, including the quintessential irascible old man reading a newspaper, to lower their guards and play a game thats as fun as it is simple, which is to say very. No wonder the originators kept repeating "Everybody loves catch." I think it's embedded into our pleasure center, the nucleus accumbens, since conception. Needless to say, it was a memorable and truly unique Tube ride, one that'll in all likelihood never happen again: I played catch with a bunch of strangers, and when I stepped off the train, part of me wanted to stay, not just to say thanks, but to, in a naive sort of way, make friends, or at the least acquaintances who are down for impromptu catch sessions.
The other mildly amusing episode happened two weeks ago. It was a Friday afternoon, and as per usual I had nothing to do. I could've done a bit of work, but let's face it: Do college students ever do so except when they absolutely have to? I opted out of the former and instead decided to treat myself to a movie and dinner, the one-two combo that can knock anyone's ennuic fog on its ass, the kind that you get constantly through adolescence. Make that shit bite the curb and stomp it, as per Edward Norton in American History X, with some steel-toed boots. I decided to see American Teen, a documentary about a Breakfast Club-like group of teens in their senior year of high school. I ended up thoroughly enjoying it. Some parts of it were a bit too sensationalized I felt, but the film's protagonists dealt with problems (girls, the future, being a big pussy, etc.) I can still resonate with. As interesting and engaging as the teens in the documentary were, they weren't nearly as captivating as the guy watching the movie behind me was. I met him prior to the movie starting, in the men's restrooms. I used the urinal and then washed my hands, and down the end of the counter is a guy who would be the end product if the voice of The Boondock's Uncle Ruckus Gary Anthony Williams merged with his cartoon, forming some kind of creepy, definitely weird, and certainly startling version of life meets art. As I leave, he looks up into the mirror from washing his hands and simultaneously pumps himself up and fights the reflection. Our eyes meet, if only for a second, but in that fraction of time I see the look of a man who is very likely to do something crazy. I bolted on to the theatre, walking quickly so as to not be seen. I sat down, hoping the next person to come in wasn't the potential crazy man, but it was him! And he turned out to be actually crazy! Throughout the movie he kept shouting "Fucking white people...(some other expletives)...(expletive)...shut up!" and coming in and out of the theatre. At one point he got pretty angry at something--could've been those white kids; he especially cursed when they appeared, and they were a SHITLOAD of them in the film--and started to play his fat belly like a drum. My initial worry turned to amusement, and then annoyment because he kept doing this throughout the movie. Normally I would've gone up to him and been all like 'Hey Brah, is there a problem?! Are we gonna need to take this outside? Huh?' But I decided against it; who knows what a crazy man would've done? I for sure did not want to find out.
On this particular night, after filling our stomachs with mighty fine Mexican food, Mike and I board the Tube, take our seats, and await for the ride to commence. Before long we leave the platform, saying goodbye to the tiny and exceptionally cute mice that make their homes there, and it's here that the ride takes a turn. (Metaphorically, of course; literally, we knew where we were going.) A few seats over from us were two guys who were tossing around a little foam football, the kind that as a kid you would've traded tickets for. I didn't think much of it, and neither did anyone else. Just two people having a bit of closed-off fun. A few minutes into their game, they toss the ball to one of the many neighboring Tubees; she tosses it back, and, to the surprise of everyone, they proceed to throw the ball to another rider. Pretty soon they have a full-on game of catch going, getting everyone in that section of the train, including the quintessential irascible old man reading a newspaper, to lower their guards and play a game thats as fun as it is simple, which is to say very. No wonder the originators kept repeating "Everybody loves catch." I think it's embedded into our pleasure center, the nucleus accumbens, since conception. Needless to say, it was a memorable and truly unique Tube ride, one that'll in all likelihood never happen again: I played catch with a bunch of strangers, and when I stepped off the train, part of me wanted to stay, not just to say thanks, but to, in a naive sort of way, make friends, or at the least acquaintances who are down for impromptu catch sessions.
The other mildly amusing episode happened two weeks ago. It was a Friday afternoon, and as per usual I had nothing to do. I could've done a bit of work, but let's face it: Do college students ever do so except when they absolutely have to? I opted out of the former and instead decided to treat myself to a movie and dinner, the one-two combo that can knock anyone's ennuic fog on its ass, the kind that you get constantly through adolescence. Make that shit bite the curb and stomp it, as per Edward Norton in American History X, with some steel-toed boots. I decided to see American Teen, a documentary about a Breakfast Club-like group of teens in their senior year of high school. I ended up thoroughly enjoying it. Some parts of it were a bit too sensationalized I felt, but the film's protagonists dealt with problems (girls, the future, being a big pussy, etc.) I can still resonate with. As interesting and engaging as the teens in the documentary were, they weren't nearly as captivating as the guy watching the movie behind me was. I met him prior to the movie starting, in the men's restrooms. I used the urinal and then washed my hands, and down the end of the counter is a guy who would be the end product if the voice of The Boondock's Uncle Ruckus Gary Anthony Williams merged with his cartoon, forming some kind of creepy, definitely weird, and certainly startling version of life meets art. As I leave, he looks up into the mirror from washing his hands and simultaneously pumps himself up and fights the reflection. Our eyes meet, if only for a second, but in that fraction of time I see the look of a man who is very likely to do something crazy. I bolted on to the theatre, walking quickly so as to not be seen. I sat down, hoping the next person to come in wasn't the potential crazy man, but it was him! And he turned out to be actually crazy! Throughout the movie he kept shouting "Fucking white people...(some other expletives)...(expletive)...shut up!" and coming in and out of the theatre. At one point he got pretty angry at something--could've been those white kids; he especially cursed when they appeared, and they were a SHITLOAD of them in the film--and started to play his fat belly like a drum. My initial worry turned to amusement, and then annoyment because he kept doing this throughout the movie. Normally I would've gone up to him and been all like 'Hey Brah, is there a problem?! Are we gonna need to take this outside? Huh?' But I decided against it; who knows what a crazy man would've done? I for sure did not want to find out.
The cartoon character Uncle Ruckus
The voice behind it
Edit: I started this entry March 6th. It's taken almost two weeks to finish. Damn my instantly gratified, scatterbrained ways! But I should warn you, though, the next few weeks aren't going to fare too well either. I'm off to Munich this coming weekend, and the weekend after that I'm off to visit my good friend Chris in Siena. And somewhere in all of this I have to find the time to write two papers.
2/28/09
It's been some time since I've last written in this here blog--two weeks, but really, who's counting besides me?--but I've been quite the busy guy. My parents, my brother, and my grandma were here last weekend, which made for good fun. With their help, it was the first time I considered myself a 'tourist' in London, taking pictures of the telephone booths, which at night become plastered with escort ads and by morning are gone; posing with the Royal Guards, who are every bit as serious as their reputation leads you to believe; entering most souvenir shops, with their must have refrigerator magnet replications of the Big Ben and Buckingham Palace; going to Harrod's, a huge department store that has EVERYTHING; and participating in a day-long bus tour, which was pretty neat. It took us to St. Paul's Cathedral, the Tower of London, Tower Bridge, Westminster Abbey, a boat cruise along the River Thames, and we got to see the changing of the guards. The latter is such a spectacle. It's an old tradition, dating back to the time of King Henry VII (1485-1509), and it seems like not much has been updated. They change guards every two days, and when they do it it requires an army of guards wearing big black long fuzzy hats called Bearskins, which resemble Butt Head's hair, prompting my brother and me to dub them the 'army of Butt Heads.' Each guard carried an instrument as well, so not only can they kick your ass but can do so to the beat of a drum.
Being the resident Londonian, I took them to a few museums throughout the weekend. We went to the Tate Modern and laughed at Paul McCarthy's video installation. It consisted of five videos playing simultaneously, each of which showed the 'artist' either jumping whilst naked and flopping his wiener around or wearing panties and shoving things up his butt or covering himself in ketchup or some such liquid. Silly and stupid, yes; art, I'm not so sure. And as an aside, art in video format never translates well. What critics deem 'transgressive' and 'shocking' just comes out making the 'artist' in question looking like a complete ass. The other mediums work well because they're just moments in time, fragments of a scene you may not know the beginning or the end of, hence they're lasting power (or so I think). While films are also a series of moving images, they at least don't try to realize surrealist ideals or confront personal demons by defecating on the floor and then eating it.
Anyways, I digress. We also checked out the Natural History Museum and saw the dinosaur exhibit, which I somehow missed the first time through--I'm not sure how; it's a big room filled with dinosaur fossils--but nonetheless was really cool. And then on Monday we saw Wicked, my first proper show in London. I'm not a big fan of musicals, but this one I liked. It's the backstory to the The Wizard of Oz, told from the Wicked Witch's perspective who, as it turns out, is quite nice. It was a good show, and it left me with an urge to check out some of the shows London theatres have to offer, specifically Avenue Q. I know nothing about it, but the fact that it's an all puppet cast definitely bodes well.
Butt Head, for comparison
The real deal
Being the resident Londonian, I took them to a few museums throughout the weekend. We went to the Tate Modern and laughed at Paul McCarthy's video installation. It consisted of five videos playing simultaneously, each of which showed the 'artist' either jumping whilst naked and flopping his wiener around or wearing panties and shoving things up his butt or covering himself in ketchup or some such liquid. Silly and stupid, yes; art, I'm not so sure. And as an aside, art in video format never translates well. What critics deem 'transgressive' and 'shocking' just comes out making the 'artist' in question looking like a complete ass. The other mediums work well because they're just moments in time, fragments of a scene you may not know the beginning or the end of, hence they're lasting power (or so I think). While films are also a series of moving images, they at least don't try to realize surrealist ideals or confront personal demons by defecating on the floor and then eating it.
Art?
Anyways, I digress. We also checked out the Natural History Museum and saw the dinosaur exhibit, which I somehow missed the first time through--I'm not sure how; it's a big room filled with dinosaur fossils--but nonetheless was really cool. And then on Monday we saw Wicked, my first proper show in London. I'm not a big fan of musicals, but this one I liked. It's the backstory to the The Wizard of Oz, told from the Wicked Witch's perspective who, as it turns out, is quite nice. It was a good show, and it left me with an urge to check out some of the shows London theatres have to offer, specifically Avenue Q. I know nothing about it, but the fact that it's an all puppet cast definitely bodes well.
The left thigh bone of a Apatosaurus, a 75 foot 20-30 ton plant-eater
Not a dinosaur, but the cutest little Fennec Fox I ever did see
My parents left the next morning, and later that night I saw Wire, the seminal British post-punk quartet. Their whole ethos and attitude can be summed up with vocalist Colin Newman's opening remarks to the crowd, "Yeah, we're Wire and all that shit." Later on, someone in the crowd requested a song, to which Colin responded with "No fucking chance...wouldn't know where to begin," and to which bassist Graham Lewis added "You've more chance of seeing God." Pretty fucking punk. Cool attitudes aside, it was a very good show filled with a nice collection of new and old material, and not one, not two, but three encores! They would play a song or two and then leave, to only come back out and play another song. Mike and I thought this was pretty funny. The venue itself (Cargo) was good as well. The stage wasn't too high, it's a nice, big room, and the sound was tight. The Fall is playing there April 1st, so I think I'll check that out.
2/14/09
It's Valentines Day in London, and all day I've seen plenty of couples locking lips and whispering sweet (presumably meaningful) nothings to each other, holding hands and caressing each other ever so softly, all under the guise of a Saint Valentine buried north of Rome. As per usual, I'm all by my lonesome, but no worries; that's why I have hands. To type. To you, dear reader, and thus keeping me company. The only time I came close to ever having a valentine was in sixth grade. Her name was Denise, and she was tall, skinny, brunette, and wore glasses. She had a small mouth with thin lips that always appeared pursed and long legs that, since she was skinny, always left a sliver of space in her clothing. Her hair was thick, but tame; she always had a scrunchy or some other hair clip. I had seen prettier girls than her, but for whatever reason, perhaps due to Cupid's arrow or to our 'chemistry' or 'pheromones,' I liked her. I fancied a her, she fancied me, and as things were done in middle school, there was an intermediary to whom we professed our like-likeness towards each other. We became a couple, but at that age all that really means is holding hands and having lunch together, both of you hoping for a kiss but worried about who was going to initiate it and things like the time and place and whether or not people were watching. I suppose your average things a kid at that age with not the highest sense of self or self-esteem would ruminate over. A few days into our 'relationship' she tells me she loves me, and even at that age where I had no notions of love and all I had gleamed of it I gathered from small and large screens, I knew what we were experiencing was not 'love.' It was attraction--prepubescent attraction at that--and to confuse the two would lead you towards a world where you're committed to people you may not even like that much. And not wanting to experience that at the tender age of thirteen, I broke up with her a few days before Valentine's Day, and ever since I've been flying solo, the only company being Lisa 'Left Hand' Lopez. I'm not exactly sure why I decided to write this; I suppose I thought it'd make for a good read, and it gave me something to write (which I've been trying to do more of, hence this blog). But if there's a lesson buried here I guess it's not to toss around the word 'love' lightly. There's a lot of people and things in this world that I'm fond of, but I only love a select few of them, and I like to think they know it as much as I do.
2/9/09
Were you making fun of my picture?
Pretty recently I've done quite the number of touristy things. I've been to The Globe Theatre, the Tate Modern, Stonehenge, and the Salisbury Cathedral, in that order, starting on Wednesday of the past week. The Globe Theatre was just that: a replica of the original, only 750ft away from the actual site that hosted Shakespeare's plays. I'm not a huge fan of the guy. He's a bit too frilly for my liking, and the entire time we were walking around the theatre I thought of one specific Mr. Show sketch that basically lambasted actors (they called them jackasses and said acting is nothing more than jumping up and down while screaming), but it was interesting to note all the history and change associated with that particular area. The theatre gave rise to, for better or worse, the 'celebrity.' People would take the time to dress up in their best garbs and shower--believe it or not, showering was rare back in the day; a good percentage of the people were of the persuasion that stripping to your birthday suit and being covered in water drained you of your life force. At one time or another, to be precise 1644, theatre was banned and lumped into London's Red Light District, along with the likes of bear baiting, gambling, cockfighting, and prostitution. It kind of makes you, or at least me, think of how far we've come in such a short period of time.
Afterwards I decided to check out the Tate Modern. It was right next to it, as I saw it coming from the Millennium Bridge, which, by the way, gives you a killer look at:
St. Paul's Cathedral
And
All these cranes
And
All these cranes
There were a ton of cranes in that part of the city; a friend counted thirty-six in our vicinity. I thought it was neat how a city already set in its ways still has room for improvement, constantly building/rebuilding, modeling/remodeling, and structuring/restructuring sites and locales. Nothing is static, not even cities. Enough of that, though. You didn't come to here to read about a place's sense of identity or it's inhabitants power relation to time-space compression (this is from my Media, Culture, and Society class), so back to the Tate. The building itself was once known as the Bankside Power Station, and as such it still has a factory feel. The floors are massive and it has high ceilings. This, combined with taking the escalator to its various floors, made me feel exceptionally tiny. It goes without saying I saw tons of cool art. I spent an hour or so on the second floor before I realized there were four other floors to check out. Needless to say, I'll be back. Here are some of my favorites.
Asger Jorn's The Timid Proud One
Ellen Gallagher's Bird in Hand
(I think I know where Doseone gets his shit from)
Clyfford Still's 1953
Asger Jorn's The Timid Proud One
Ellen Gallagher's Bird in Hand
(I think I know where Doseone gets his shit from)
Clyfford Still's 1953
On Friday morning, after putting up with a very annoying tour guide who would not shut up during our bus ride, I went to Stonehenge. Hands down one of my favorite things I've done in the little time I've spent here. It took 1500 years of construction, from 3000 to 2500 B.C., with bits of tinkering before and after, to get it to its iconic state. There are countless theories as to the origins of Stonehenge. Some say it served as a lunar calendar, others solar; others say it served as a burial site, while some say it served as a healing center (this one sounds a bit too new agey for me). And of course there are those who believe extraterrestrials were involved. Ultimately it doesn't really matter what theory you subscribe to, for in the end a theory is just speculation and guessing. Part of Stonehenge's appeal is the fact that we're never going to know its significance of a time long since passed. It is a relic in the truest sense of the word. All you can do is marvel at its scope and beauty, knowing that at some point it meant something and now its a symbol of not knowing. And on this particular day, with the desolate fields covered in snow and no sign of life in the immediate area, it looked especially mysterious.
Later that day we went to the Salisbury Cathedral, which houses one of the four original Magna Cartas. I couldn't take a picture for security reasons, but Mike and I thought it'd be great to take a picture of the poster. We didn't though. The Cathedral itself is done, according to the pamphlet we were handed, in one architectural style: Early English Gothic. It was very grand, with tons of spirals and symmetry and stained glass. It also had a very cool courtyard where you were encouraged to come out and play. Mike and I exchanged a few words on how everyone was taking the same picture (themselves in focus and the tree in the courtyard the background) when a girl overheard and asked us the titular question of this post. In short, yes. But the real question is: Did our comments tarnish your preconceived notions of originality? I feel like most pictures tourists take are going to be unoriginal. Each site has seen countless visitors who at one point or another struck the same, if not a similar, pose. At the same time, I see the impetus behind doing so, that is a sort of command and conquer type of schema overriding the whole process. It's as if the pictures are saying "Yes, I have been there and here's the proof. Here's me, and here's the attraction." I get it, and if you want to do that that's fine, but it's not my bag. I'd rather be taking the picture than being in it. Either way serves its purpose: both act as mementos. And isn't that what matters after all?
2/7/09
I Love Zoo
I'm finding one of my favorite things to do in London doesn't involve getting shit-faced and going out to a club or pub, to only drink more and try to drunkenly chat up or impress the ladies within a two foot radius. It doesn't involve going to museums, though this leisurely activity is highly ranked. And it doesn't involve doing the touristy things around London (not that there's anything wrong with that), such as going to St. Paul's Cathedral, the London Eye, the London Bridge, in other words all the stuff you'd want to do if you were only here for a few days. So what's this mystery activity? Is it walking around various parts of London? No, but this is something I enjoy. Is it becoming a cultured man by going to the theatre, witnessing great and sometimes not so great works of art being performed by skilled thespians? Once again, no, but I have a class where I'll be doing this, so culture here I come! Is it having copious amounts of sex with broads while abroad? This hasn't happened...yet--oh man I'm so funny!--but if it does you better believe I won't be writing about it here; a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell.
This mystery activity consists of nothing more than my roommate Esmaeil, our Italian friend Franchesco, who lives down the hall, and myself hanging out in the kitchen, sometimes for hours at a time, doing what the laymen call 'shooting the shit' or what sophisticates refer to as building a rapport. Names aside, all we do is talk; about what it's hard to say. I have such a good time conversing with them I sometimes forget all the discussion points we hit upon, similar to how a good movie moves effortlessly from scene to scene, rendering the editing process as easy and smooth as a quartz stone. In actuality there is a lot at work: there are segues, sections are cut down for length, entire scenes are left in the cutting room floor. But in good film and conversation these things go unnoticed, forcing you to backtrack how you got to G from A. That said, I only remember bits and pieces of our exchanges, some of which probably need context, but either way are funny in their own right: a deal where if a bad joke is made the other members of the party must go "Haha" to save face; how Esmaeil has the culture of a goat; the difficulty of meeting people in a building where everyone has their doors closed, sticks to the groups they know, and never hang out in the common room; poking fun of our fourth kitchen mate, Zibo, who is very meticulous about the way you clean his pans; repeated references to Family Guy; business, since both Esmaeil and Franchesco are business majors; our love of zoos; and generally ranking on each other--especially ethnicities, that seems to big with these two--as is the tendency for males to express their liking towards one another.
I'm missing plenty more, but in that little kitchen time just flies by and conversation rolls off the tongue. As you can tell I genuinely like these guys, and seeing that the semester just started I look forward to the coming months, which will provide us with ample opportunities for fun, discourse, and plain getting to know each other. Just now, in the middle of writing this post, I stopped and went to the kitchen, not because I wanted to cook myself dinner or have a snack, but because I saw my friends heading there, and knew, almost instinctively at this point, that whatever I was doing wouldn't be nearly as much fun as doing nothing with them.
The lone picture I was able to take. Cameras are,
apparently, forbidden in the kitchen.
This mystery activity consists of nothing more than my roommate Esmaeil, our Italian friend Franchesco, who lives down the hall, and myself hanging out in the kitchen, sometimes for hours at a time, doing what the laymen call 'shooting the shit' or what sophisticates refer to as building a rapport. Names aside, all we do is talk; about what it's hard to say. I have such a good time conversing with them I sometimes forget all the discussion points we hit upon, similar to how a good movie moves effortlessly from scene to scene, rendering the editing process as easy and smooth as a quartz stone. In actuality there is a lot at work: there are segues, sections are cut down for length, entire scenes are left in the cutting room floor. But in good film and conversation these things go unnoticed, forcing you to backtrack how you got to G from A. That said, I only remember bits and pieces of our exchanges, some of which probably need context, but either way are funny in their own right: a deal where if a bad joke is made the other members of the party must go "Haha" to save face; how Esmaeil has the culture of a goat; the difficulty of meeting people in a building where everyone has their doors closed, sticks to the groups they know, and never hang out in the common room; poking fun of our fourth kitchen mate, Zibo, who is very meticulous about the way you clean his pans; repeated references to Family Guy; business, since both Esmaeil and Franchesco are business majors; our love of zoos; and generally ranking on each other--especially ethnicities, that seems to big with these two--as is the tendency for males to express their liking towards one another.
I'm missing plenty more, but in that little kitchen time just flies by and conversation rolls off the tongue. As you can tell I genuinely like these guys, and seeing that the semester just started I look forward to the coming months, which will provide us with ample opportunities for fun, discourse, and plain getting to know each other. Just now, in the middle of writing this post, I stopped and went to the kitchen, not because I wanted to cook myself dinner or have a snack, but because I saw my friends heading there, and knew, almost instinctively at this point, that whatever I was doing wouldn't be nearly as much fun as doing nothing with them.
The lone picture I was able to take. Cameras are,
apparently, forbidden in the kitchen.
2/2/09
Strange phenomenon
It's a snow day today, a freak occurrence for London. Trains and buses stopped running, schools shut down, flights were canceled, streets ran barren, pubs were empty. The city pretty much came to a standstill, leaving thousands stranded, all for six inches of snow. It's not a lot, and coming from Rochester where snow is an everyday winter fixture, this is downright laughable. But I didn't let out a guffaw or as critics like to say a 'big belly laugh'; instead I observed, how something so commonplace to me is alien to a city full of people, how something I'd consider a mere nuisance others would view as a luxury, and how something I'd grown tired and oblivious of others think as lovely. Especially my roommate. He really liked the snow. When it was still flurrying, and once it hit that critical moment and became snow, he looked out the window for stretches at a time, never once changing his glance and all the meanwhile commenting on how pretty it all looked. It was kind of beautiful and enlightening to see someone get so worked up about something I had no particular thoughts towards. It made me want to feel more of that childlike naivety that we all have growing up but lose as we become more used to things, expecting them to be instead of thanking or appreciating their mere be-ing.
(Sorry for all the emotional/psychological speak, but it's how I've felt ever since taking the feelings class at school. Just the other day, for instance, I was at the Natural History Museum, watching videos on how animals bond and play, when I almost teared up. It was moving to see how we're (at the basest level) no different than our closest relatives. It was so pure. They were grooming and playing for their own sakes, not to achieve a higher purpose. I'm not saying I want to be an animal, all I'm saying is "As above, so below.")
In other news, I had an important realization today concerning my time abroad. Most students--and I lump myself into this category--go abroad with the idea of doing extensive traveling. They want to see and experience the faraway sights and sounds of cultures they'd otherwise never get the chance to. And then reality sets in, and like how the apple struck Isaac Newton on the head, giving him the idea of gravity, you hit upon the notion that all these cultures and cities you'd like to experience, and experience them right, cost money. And lots of it. You think that if you fail to travel then it's time wasted, a whole semester of potential fun and adventure down the drain. But simultaneously with the above idea came its exact opposite, that is not traveling and how much fun that'd be. Today it hit me that even if I didn't travel, if I spent my entire time in London and its surrounding areas, cooped up in a double and class during the day and exploring the city whenever I had the chance, I'd still have a good time and wouldn't regret going abroad. I'm not saying this won't be the case; I want to do some traveling, and damn hell plan on it! I'm just going to be more careful when choosing my destinations, as opposed to doing so in a haphazard manner or going to places because other people are going. I want my trips, just like everything I do, to mean something; otherwise, what's the point?
(Sorry for all the emotional/psychological speak, but it's how I've felt ever since taking the feelings class at school. Just the other day, for instance, I was at the Natural History Museum, watching videos on how animals bond and play, when I almost teared up. It was moving to see how we're (at the basest level) no different than our closest relatives. It was so pure. They were grooming and playing for their own sakes, not to achieve a higher purpose. I'm not saying I want to be an animal, all I'm saying is "As above, so below.")
In other news, I had an important realization today concerning my time abroad. Most students--and I lump myself into this category--go abroad with the idea of doing extensive traveling. They want to see and experience the faraway sights and sounds of cultures they'd otherwise never get the chance to. And then reality sets in, and like how the apple struck Isaac Newton on the head, giving him the idea of gravity, you hit upon the notion that all these cultures and cities you'd like to experience, and experience them right, cost money. And lots of it. You think that if you fail to travel then it's time wasted, a whole semester of potential fun and adventure down the drain. But simultaneously with the above idea came its exact opposite, that is not traveling and how much fun that'd be. Today it hit me that even if I didn't travel, if I spent my entire time in London and its surrounding areas, cooped up in a double and class during the day and exploring the city whenever I had the chance, I'd still have a good time and wouldn't regret going abroad. I'm not saying this won't be the case; I want to do some traveling, and damn hell plan on it! I'm just going to be more careful when choosing my destinations, as opposed to doing so in a haphazard manner or going to places because other people are going. I want my trips, just like everything I do, to mean something; otherwise, what's the point?
1/29/09
1/25/09
I have great hindsight
It's true; it's actually better than my myopic vision. Sometimes I can't see things right in front of me, even with the proper corrective lenses. I fail to notice tiny details and peculiarities, mistaking letters and confusing strangers for friends, and every so often losing sight of the bigger picture. But not so with hindsight; mine is on point like a harpoon (you can thank Lil Wayne for that one). After the fact I always know what went wrong and usually in what manner, whether it was a verbal, physical, behavioral, or (as it mostly tends to go) psychological misstep. It's a lot like that episode of The Simpsons where Lisa breaks Ralph Wiggum's heart, and in the videotape Bart pinpoints the exact moment his heart breaks. He goes from this:
To This
Now replace Ralph Wiggum with my consciousness and insight and you get the picture. It's the ultimate "Oh, fuck!" moment because at that precise instant, your mind makes all the neural connections it failed to do earlier--when you really needed them--and you see how simple the solution was, how with a slight nudge in direction different outcomes could've been netted. Let me illustrate my point by relating the events of the weekend, at which point I'll tell you what went wrong.
Last Friday night some friends and I went to Fabric, one of the many cool clubs in the city situated in the East End of London. It's three floors of trendy club mayhem, meaning: lots of pretty people dancing, drinking, and standing around looking cool; live acts and DJs; unisex bathrooms (talk about breaking down barriers); three rooms with independent sound systems; and one of those rooms with subs on the floor, so you literally feel the music in your feet. You enter this place
See this
And go
To This
Now replace Ralph Wiggum with my consciousness and insight and you get the picture. It's the ultimate "Oh, fuck!" moment because at that precise instant, your mind makes all the neural connections it failed to do earlier--when you really needed them--and you see how simple the solution was, how with a slight nudge in direction different outcomes could've been netted. Let me illustrate my point by relating the events of the weekend, at which point I'll tell you what went wrong.
Last Friday night some friends and I went to Fabric, one of the many cool clubs in the city situated in the East End of London. It's three floors of trendy club mayhem, meaning: lots of pretty people dancing, drinking, and standing around looking cool; live acts and DJs; unisex bathrooms (talk about breaking down barriers); three rooms with independent sound systems; and one of those rooms with subs on the floor, so you literally feel the music in your feet. You enter this place
See this
Upon entering we walk around and survey the scene, which is code for walking around without purpose, and decide to enter one of the rooms; I forget which one, perhaps due to some alcohol that was involved that night but I'm putting my money it's because all the rooms look the same. They all had people dancing and all were playing the same music, so naturally they bled into each other, congealing into an amorphous unidentifiable blob or 'clob' (club + blob), not to be confused with 'klob,' the shitty gun in Golden Eye. So we step inside the dance floor and, naturally, we dance, not with skill but with heart. This goes on for a while and we move from floor to floor, room to room, and over the course of the evening, or rather early morning--we got there at 11ish--the group splinters and breaks off until everyone is flying solo.
I'm walking around by myself when, to my surprise, a pretty young blonde to my right waves me over. She was sitting with three other blondes in this one section of the room, all wearing black dresses, and once I get there she says "I'm Kate."
"I'm Kevin. Are these your friends?"
"We're sisters," she says and starts to laugh. This was probably a gag or an inside joke amongst her friends/sisters, but I was in no position to question. "Today's my birthday" she exclaims, and everyone around her starts whooping it up.
"Happy birthday," I responded. "Do you have any birthday wishes?" I tried to feign as much as enthusiasm as I could muster without it being too much. I wanted to hit that perfect spot between sounding cool and sounding like you just don't give a fuck, what I call the Desario spot, appropriately named after James Franco's character in Freaks and Geeks. I guess I hit it, because the next thing out of her mouth is "I want you to dance for me." My next course of action was crucial. If I obliged then I would've been nothing but a plaything for her, a top for her to spin whenever she so desired, becoming one of the many endless guys who do whatever is requested, all in the hopes of them being the one. But girls don't dig that, or at least the girls who go to clubs. If guys are puppies, they want the ones who shit and piss all over the house, the cute ones who chew their shoes and furniture and make a mess out of their belongings, not the ones who obey every command. Women like to train them, and if you already know the rules, then what's the point of picking you up?
After processing this I replied "I only dance with a partner," giving her a cool glance. She took the bait and we move to the dance floor. After a bit of dancing I ask her if she has any other birthday wishes. She says "Kiss me," and I go "You first." This went on for some time, and before my friends and I called it a night she gave me her number, telling me she had a good time.
So what went wrong? For starters, I never did or said any of those things. She told me to dance, I danced. She told me to kiss her and I did; all I got was a peck on the lips. I was her top, her toy. She knew it and I knew it, and to save face I left the area shortly after the kiss, if you can call it that. I knew it was going nowhere, but as soon as I left my hindsight came up with this alternate reality that could've been. I saw what I had done wrong: I played the fool. But why write it down? If you want to change something about yourself, the first thing you have to do is believe it as real. You have to accept it as fact and not doubt yourself about it happening or not, and this is something I keep doing, though not as much as I used to. I've got a few hurdles left that I'd like to overcome, so by writing this I'm basically saying I am going to be outgoing and cool and worry-free and unafraid to be so in the presence of the opposite sex. All I can say is I was the antithesis of those things at one time or another, but not this time. It's time I start being instead of willing or wishing.
*Edit: I realize this is a week late, but see the post above this one for the explanation.
I'm walking around by myself when, to my surprise, a pretty young blonde to my right waves me over. She was sitting with three other blondes in this one section of the room, all wearing black dresses, and once I get there she says "I'm Kate."
"I'm Kevin. Are these your friends?"
"We're sisters," she says and starts to laugh. This was probably a gag or an inside joke amongst her friends/sisters, but I was in no position to question. "Today's my birthday" she exclaims, and everyone around her starts whooping it up.
"Happy birthday," I responded. "Do you have any birthday wishes?" I tried to feign as much as enthusiasm as I could muster without it being too much. I wanted to hit that perfect spot between sounding cool and sounding like you just don't give a fuck, what I call the Desario spot, appropriately named after James Franco's character in Freaks and Geeks. I guess I hit it, because the next thing out of her mouth is "I want you to dance for me." My next course of action was crucial. If I obliged then I would've been nothing but a plaything for her, a top for her to spin whenever she so desired, becoming one of the many endless guys who do whatever is requested, all in the hopes of them being the one. But girls don't dig that, or at least the girls who go to clubs. If guys are puppies, they want the ones who shit and piss all over the house, the cute ones who chew their shoes and furniture and make a mess out of their belongings, not the ones who obey every command. Women like to train them, and if you already know the rules, then what's the point of picking you up?
After processing this I replied "I only dance with a partner," giving her a cool glance. She took the bait and we move to the dance floor. After a bit of dancing I ask her if she has any other birthday wishes. She says "Kiss me," and I go "You first." This went on for some time, and before my friends and I called it a night she gave me her number, telling me she had a good time.
So what went wrong? For starters, I never did or said any of those things. She told me to dance, I danced. She told me to kiss her and I did; all I got was a peck on the lips. I was her top, her toy. She knew it and I knew it, and to save face I left the area shortly after the kiss, if you can call it that. I knew it was going nowhere, but as soon as I left my hindsight came up with this alternate reality that could've been. I saw what I had done wrong: I played the fool. But why write it down? If you want to change something about yourself, the first thing you have to do is believe it as real. You have to accept it as fact and not doubt yourself about it happening or not, and this is something I keep doing, though not as much as I used to. I've got a few hurdles left that I'd like to overcome, so by writing this I'm basically saying I am going to be outgoing and cool and worry-free and unafraid to be so in the presence of the opposite sex. All I can say is I was the antithesis of those things at one time or another, but not this time. It's time I start being instead of willing or wishing.
*Edit: I realize this is a week late, but see the post above this one for the explanation.
1/23/09
Kristen Schaal is very obviously artistic
I know it's only been three days since my last post, but for some reason, perhaps jetlag, or maybe due to the constant traveling on feet, or possibly even the copious amounts of blow I've been doing (JK ROFL LULZ!!) I feel like more time has passed. Regardless, enough events have transpired that it requires a proper blog entry. Tuesday, as I said in my last post, was not only the day of my arrival to the UK but the first time I met with the other kids in my program. Actually I should clarify; there's a bunch of other American and international students who are attending City, so when I say "the other kids in my program" I mean the ones that I happen to live with. There are six of us who live in the very posh Chelsea and the group is evenly split: three boys and three girls. Thus far everyone has been very nice and easygoing, and, like me, are pretty much up for anything (with some reservations) whilst in London. I'm making it my goal not to judge them, and anybody I met here as well, on trivial matters such as music, films, books, etc. because, let's face it, everyone's a critic. And critics are dicks, so I'm just not going to be one. Besides, there's more to people than their pop culture preferences, although I will admit it sometimes can, to quote Gob's wife 'Crindy,' "seal the deal."
I also met my roommate that same day. He's a nineteen year old Iranian named Esmaeil who's been in this building for almost two years. He's a stylin' dude: he blow drys his hair and has a variety of ritzy-looking hygiene products that put mine to shame. Then again, his could be the same caliber, the only difference is his can be only-found-in-London products, but I'll find out once I run out of soap and the like, which should be in the not too distant future. The room we share is slightly bigger than a single in Anderson or Wilder and longer; it houses a bunk bed, two dressers, two desks, and our own bathroom. Next to us is the fully stocked kitchen that we share with four people. Here are some pics.
Our tiny shower and bathroom
The view from our room and kitchen windows
I also met my roommate that same day. He's a nineteen year old Iranian named Esmaeil who's been in this building for almost two years. He's a stylin' dude: he blow drys his hair and has a variety of ritzy-looking hygiene products that put mine to shame. Then again, his could be the same caliber, the only difference is his can be only-found-in-London products, but I'll find out once I run out of soap and the like, which should be in the not too distant future. The room we share is slightly bigger than a single in Anderson or Wilder and longer; it houses a bunk bed, two dressers, two desks, and our own bathroom. Next to us is the fully stocked kitchen that we share with four people. Here are some pics.
Our tiny shower and bathroom
The view from our room and kitchen windows
On Wednesday we had our real orientation with everyone in the program. This pretty much was what I expected, that is lots of introducing faculty and the people in charge, a campus tour, and a sample of the campus food (there's no meal plan, but it still beats the shit out of Danforth). Part of the orientation was a walk around the campus and surrounding areas, where I saw tons of cool looking buildings. A lot of them weren't anything remarkable or anything of note, but in a city filled with history everywhere you go, every building is worth looking at; it definitely trumps the standardized American way of things.
The house where Lenin wrote his newspaper
and where the Russian Revolution was planned
London's first pawn shop
The Peabody houses, named after George Peabody
London's first clown lived here
Afterwards, I met up with Mike and went to Indian Street. It's a street littered with Indian restaurants where each one hires a guy to stand outside and offer passerbys deals and discounts, very often forceful and persistent. Mike and I stood in front of this one restaurant and looked at The Famous Curry Bazaar across the street, and the hired guy next to us told us to eat at his place of establishment. "But the other place has such a good name," Mike replied, somewhat sarcastically, but for those who don't know him this can be taken as sincerity. The hired guy quickly responded with "We also have a very good name." I forgot the name, but it was quite a funny exchange nonetheless. We ended up eating at the Curry Bazaar, and afterwards went to Soho to watch Kristen Schaal (Mel from Flight of the Conchords) and Kurt Braunohler. It was a weird, though very funny show, that dealt with harelips, Pocahontas and John Smith's first telephone conversation, a dating competition (where I got the title of this here post), and this, which proved even better in a live setting (you know a joke is good if the laughter runs dry).
Yesterday there was a Cheese and Wine, as opposed to Wine and Cheese (one of the faculty said "we have our priorities straight") as part of City's orientation-ish week (classes don't start till Monday). It was free, and I thought it'd be a good way to meet people, so I went, along with the five other kids I live with. I met some people, not a whole lot, but enough to spread my wings. I noticed that though it's only been a short while, a good deal of the groups and circles seem closed off. Everyone for the most part hung out with the entourage they showed up with, giving echoes of high school cliques and the wallflowers who watched them with envy and hate. But whatever, this was just the first shindig. Perhaps their hive-like behavior can be attributed to nerves, and over the next few weeks, they'll start straying from the pack, as is par for the course. Plus, I came here to meet some local Brits, and seeing that I'll be going to class and clubs and generally be out and about, I don't foresee that as a problem. (Goddamn I sound cocky! I assure you, I am not a dick.)
And today I registered for classes and got my student ID. I'll be taking Positive Psychology, News and Society, Media, Culture, and Society, Performing Arts in London, and Historic London. There was was this one journalism class I wanted to take where you write a sitcom, but sadly it's only open to journalism majors. It's a good schedule, though; I have no Friday classes and only an afternoon class on Mondays, so essentially I have a four day weekend. Which reminds me, this is my first weekend in London. I have no plans yet. I might check out this free VICE party tomorrow night, and I want to bum around Soho for a bit. So perhaps I'll do that.
The house where Lenin wrote his newspaper
and where the Russian Revolution was planned
London's first pawn shop
The Peabody houses, named after George Peabody
London's first clown lived here
Not of historical significance,
but our guide's hat and hair were seamless
*Correction. I guess there were a lot of historical landmarks on our walk, but the original point still stands. Here are some non-historical buildings and locales.
but our guide's hat and hair were seamless
*Correction. I guess there were a lot of historical landmarks on our walk, but the original point still stands. Here are some non-historical buildings and locales.
Afterwards, I met up with Mike and went to Indian Street. It's a street littered with Indian restaurants where each one hires a guy to stand outside and offer passerbys deals and discounts, very often forceful and persistent. Mike and I stood in front of this one restaurant and looked at The Famous Curry Bazaar across the street, and the hired guy next to us told us to eat at his place of establishment. "But the other place has such a good name," Mike replied, somewhat sarcastically, but for those who don't know him this can be taken as sincerity. The hired guy quickly responded with "We also have a very good name." I forgot the name, but it was quite a funny exchange nonetheless. We ended up eating at the Curry Bazaar, and afterwards went to Soho to watch Kristen Schaal (Mel from Flight of the Conchords) and Kurt Braunohler. It was a weird, though very funny show, that dealt with harelips, Pocahontas and John Smith's first telephone conversation, a dating competition (where I got the title of this here post), and this, which proved even better in a live setting (you know a joke is good if the laughter runs dry).
Yesterday there was a Cheese and Wine, as opposed to Wine and Cheese (one of the faculty said "we have our priorities straight") as part of City's orientation-ish week (classes don't start till Monday). It was free, and I thought it'd be a good way to meet people, so I went, along with the five other kids I live with. I met some people, not a whole lot, but enough to spread my wings. I noticed that though it's only been a short while, a good deal of the groups and circles seem closed off. Everyone for the most part hung out with the entourage they showed up with, giving echoes of high school cliques and the wallflowers who watched them with envy and hate. But whatever, this was just the first shindig. Perhaps their hive-like behavior can be attributed to nerves, and over the next few weeks, they'll start straying from the pack, as is par for the course. Plus, I came here to meet some local Brits, and seeing that I'll be going to class and clubs and generally be out and about, I don't foresee that as a problem. (Goddamn I sound cocky! I assure you, I am not a dick.)
And today I registered for classes and got my student ID. I'll be taking Positive Psychology, News and Society, Media, Culture, and Society, Performing Arts in London, and Historic London. There was was this one journalism class I wanted to take where you write a sitcom, but sadly it's only open to journalism majors. It's a good schedule, though; I have no Friday classes and only an afternoon class on Mondays, so essentially I have a four day weekend. Which reminds me, this is my first weekend in London. I have no plans yet. I might check out this free VICE party tomorrow night, and I want to bum around Soho for a bit. So perhaps I'll do that.
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