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.
1/20/09
Effing this and effing that
That's what the guys sitting next to me said about God knows what, probably something Britishy, but I decided to use it as the title because I thought it had good cadence. I sat next to--well, not right next to, they were in the next row, so close enough--a couple of authentic Brits. They were drinking bloody marys and wine throughout the first half of the seven hour flight from Dallas to London. Quite festive fellows is the least that can be said about them. Pretty good senses of humor too. One of them, in regards to the cities the flight tracking map displays, said something along the lines of "I know Kent pretty well but I've never heard of Chartwell. That's not a big city." (I realize the humor fails to translate in this format but take my word, it was pretty funny.) They also mentioned herpes a lot, and proclaimed gonorrhea the best sexually transmitted disease you can get. All in good fun I hope.
To my left the seat was empty, but the other was occupied by a one year old or so baby. I know, I know. Babies? On a plane? No good can come of this, right? Surprisingly, yes. The baby was pretty cool. He offered me cookies and laughed when I shook my head no, only to watch me give in due to his tenacity. He talked to me for a bit--not so much talking but pointing and making mouth noises that indicated "THERE'S A GUY BEHIND US!"--and let me play with his doll which I moved about in front of his face, causing him to smile and laugh. Then, he went to sleep for the rest of the flight. He woke up when we landed; that I couldn't believe.
As for me, I couldn't get much sleep. I rested my eyes for two hours or so, which pretty much did nothing to boost my energy level. But when the pilot said we were close to landing, I got a second wind (which is now slowly fading). We landed, I got my baggage, went through customs, none of it with any hassle at all. Then I took the Heathrow Express to Paddington Station and took a cab to my place of residence. I must say, everything thus far has been very organized and thorough. There was a huge line of thirty or so people waiting for a cab and it only took five minutes to get one; anywhere else that would've been at least an hour's wait. I have a mini-orientation at two, but after that who knows. Maybe some walking around Chelsea. Or perhaps some much needed sleep.
To my left the seat was empty, but the other was occupied by a one year old or so baby. I know, I know. Babies? On a plane? No good can come of this, right? Surprisingly, yes. The baby was pretty cool. He offered me cookies and laughed when I shook my head no, only to watch me give in due to his tenacity. He talked to me for a bit--not so much talking but pointing and making mouth noises that indicated "THERE'S A GUY BEHIND US!"--and let me play with his doll which I moved about in front of his face, causing him to smile and laugh. Then, he went to sleep for the rest of the flight. He woke up when we landed; that I couldn't believe.
As for me, I couldn't get much sleep. I rested my eyes for two hours or so, which pretty much did nothing to boost my energy level. But when the pilot said we were close to landing, I got a second wind (which is now slowly fading). We landed, I got my baggage, went through customs, none of it with any hassle at all. Then I took the Heathrow Express to Paddington Station and took a cab to my place of residence. I must say, everything thus far has been very organized and thorough. There was a huge line of thirty or so people waiting for a cab and it only took five minutes to get one; anywhere else that would've been at least an hour's wait. I have a mini-orientation at two, but after that who knows. Maybe some walking around Chelsea. Or perhaps some much needed sleep.
1/16/09
The Pregnant Man
I was flipping channels the other day, idly staring at the TV as I'm prone to do throughout the day, when I caught this one hour special on Discovery Health titled The Pregnant Man. You've read that correctly. Not a pregnant man, but the pregnant man, as in the one and only man (I say that very begrudgingly and with a sigh of annoyance) to defy nature. The guy in question is Thomas Beatie, and he was all over the news and the daytime talk show circuit last year.
But as any elementary school child can tell you, men cannot get pregnant. Females are the sole creatures who bear the gift of life, thanks in part to the sometimes mystifying, consistently wonderful, occasionally elusive but always sought after vagina and its accompanying organs. Men, on the other hand, have penises, which is what Thomas Beatie lacks. He was born a woman and at some point in her life decided to undergo hormone therapy and the appropriate surgeries to let the man inside her out; she, however, opted not to change her genitals, hence her pregnancy.
I'm all for equality and whatnot, and I really don't care what a person does to their body. What gets my goat (I've been wanting to use that ever since I heard Devo's "Gut Feeling") is the fact that people keep referring to her as a pregnant man. Never mind her masculine appearance, and lets ignore Oregon's decision to legally recognize her as a man (I'm assuming this was before her pregnancy). What remains, and what will always remain, despite the number of surgeries she or others like her go through, is that she is biologically a woman. And you can't change DNA. In my mind, she will always be a wolf in sheep's clothing, no matter how technologically advanced and visually deceiving the clothing may be.
I'm all for equality and whatnot, and I really don't care what a person does to their body. What gets my goat (I've been wanting to use that ever since I heard Devo's "Gut Feeling") is the fact that people keep referring to her as a pregnant man. Never mind her masculine appearance, and lets ignore Oregon's decision to legally recognize her as a man (I'm assuming this was before her pregnancy). What remains, and what will always remain, despite the number of surgeries she or others like her go through, is that she is biologically a woman. And you can't change DNA. In my mind, she will always be a wolf in sheep's clothing, no matter how technologically advanced and visually deceiving the clothing may be.
I know that really had nothing to do with London, but I just had to get it out. It was irking me something vicious.
1/11/09
Preamble
Why hello virtual world! What brings you to my neck of the woods? Let me guess: you're one of the few people that care I'm abroad and clicked the link on my facebook page so you can be as aware of my travels as I so choose. Or somehow stumbled onto this via the miracle of interconnectivity. Regardless of how you ended up here, I welcome you all with arms as wide open as Scott Stapp is filled with faux Christ love, that is to say a shit load. In here I hope to document my travels and experiences while in London as often as possible, but if London life proves to be one bloody good time you'll understand if this blog is at best periodically or at worst sparingly updated. One final note, you might be wondering (if you even care) why the title and domain name of this blog is 'Doodles Galore.' "Doodles have nothing to do with London" you might be saying to yourself. And as far as I know, you're right. I chose this name because, sometime ago, I came up with the idea to create a blog showcasing the doodles I drew while very, very bored in class. Much like inhibitions when drunk, the idea flew out the window and disappeared into the recesses of my mind, occasionally poking its little head to remind me it still existed, but always meek enough to push it back down. But I liked the idea, and in effort to perhaps start it when I get back to the states, or possibly while abroad (very slim chance), I registered the domain name before anyone else could. Basically this blog will be sans doodles for a while, no matter what the title and domain name lead you to believe. I guess that's all for now, but I'll probably write once more before I depart to the land that birthed the English Renaissance AND the Industrial Revolution.
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