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?

I know I've been slacking on this, but I'll do a proper post or two in the next few days. Sometimes it takes me awhile because I think I'm a writer and I like to tweak and edit them.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.