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.

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.

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.

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

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

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?

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.

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?