Don’t ask me why, but this morning on my run I started thinking about my family’s IBM Tandy 2000 computer. This was the computer you bought in 1987 if you didn’t want to buy an Apple IIe and get dysentery playing The Oregon Trail…rather, get dysentery in the game The Oregon Trail (I don’t know anyone who has gotten dysentery just by playing the game, but I suppose anything is possible). Anyway, apparently even in the 80’s we weren’t Mac people, so the Tandy 2000 it was.
And now, every summer when I go out to Otis, my parents beg and plead with me to let them throw this monstrosity of a computer away. And every time they ask, they are met with the same response: “What are you, crazy? You can’t get rid of that computer! It was bad enough when you sold our house in Kingston! Now you want to get rid of one of the last relics of the house I spent my childhood in?! Shya right! Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be outside watering the roses with my SuperSoaker.”
But really, what are my reasons for keeping anything in that house? There are none! There is no excuse for a 26-year-old woman to harbor 4 Cabbage Patch Kids, a toddler-sized stuffed Elmo, Andrew Keegan, Celebrities’ Brains On Drugs, and New Kids on the Block posters, a Mickey Mouse comforter, a Glo-worm, and 37 troll dolls. I am at that house for a total of about 25 days a year and I can’t remember the last time I played with the Bar Mitzvah troll. So what’s stopping me from getting a huge trash bag and finally cleansing myself of All Things 80’s?
But back to the computer. This morning I wondered what the reason was exactly as to why I prohibited my parents from trashing it. Sure, there are a lot of fun memories attached to it – there’s that one contestant on Family Feud who gives the middle finger when he answers a question wrong, a very robotic-looking Vanna White who claps with her arms perpendicular to the ground and straight as a board, the ever-elusive Carmen Sandiego who somehow always manages to hide the Statue of Liberty in Lisbon or Reykjavík, and of course, all the outrageous team names my dad used to come up with like Bungeeshmungees and Billybonkers.
If I went back and played these games today, none of them would be very fun. After all, when it comes down to it, I’d just be playing a crappy 80’s computer game from a floppy disk. (My dad actually asked me why I couldn’t just transfer the games to my current computer and I had to remind him that the games were stored on a flimsy disk the size of a cd case that has been obsolete since before our deaf dog Annie decided to take a stroll across our very trafficky street.)
And so maybe it IS time. Maybe that first weekend I go back to Otis this July will be the start of a new era for me, one without my treasured, outdated computer. Oh I know I will still shed a tear for every game of Gertrude’s Puzzles I played, for every dot matrix banner/card/sign I made using Print Shop, and for every game of Card Sharks I lost because at the age of 8 I didn’t know how many women out of 100 said they would never cheat on their husbands. But it will be okay. Because I will always have the memories of playing those games. And I suppose that’s all that matters. Well, that and the high scores, but since I could never do better than team Bungeeshmungees, I suppose that’s okay too.
Plus, now maybe there will be extra room for yet even more beds in that house. Because 8 isn’t enough. Seriously. I’m not lying. 8 beds. 1 house. For just my mom and dad. Talk about pack rats.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
Who took Senator Kennedy to the laser show?
On my way into work this morning I saw a man wearing those zipper pants that can be made into instant shorts. I’m not sure what line of work this man is in that things would get so hectic and sweaty he would absolutely need to do away with half his pants to alleviate the situation. I will just go ahead and assume this man is a tool.
If you needed any more evidence that women are the most unreasonable, catty species on the face of the Earth, take the London Circle Line from Bayswater to Blackfriars any morning around 8:15 AM. It is here that you will see women, aged 21-35, push little children, step on grown men, and elbow the elderly all for the sake of being able to sit for their 21 minute train commute. If you had asked me a couple months ago who I thought the demographic is for Obnoxious, Selfish Train Commuters, I would have said obese people, male assholes, and tourists; I would not have been more wrong. It’s these yuppie, corporate females reading Nick Hornby books or checking their Blackberry that are the scum of the tube. They are devils in pants suits. And they will stop at nothing until their asses are firmly situated on those upholstered seats. I used to try to get a good ‘position’ on the train car in order to maximize seatage opportunity so I could go from standing to sitting in less than two stops. But seeing these savage animals tear each other’s heads and limbs off with nary a thought for anything but themselves has changed my way of thinking. I would rather stand for my 40 minute commute than be categorized as one of these self-obsessed biotches.
That is all.
If you needed any more evidence that women are the most unreasonable, catty species on the face of the Earth, take the London Circle Line from Bayswater to Blackfriars any morning around 8:15 AM. It is here that you will see women, aged 21-35, push little children, step on grown men, and elbow the elderly all for the sake of being able to sit for their 21 minute train commute. If you had asked me a couple months ago who I thought the demographic is for Obnoxious, Selfish Train Commuters, I would have said obese people, male assholes, and tourists; I would not have been more wrong. It’s these yuppie, corporate females reading Nick Hornby books or checking their Blackberry that are the scum of the tube. They are devils in pants suits. And they will stop at nothing until their asses are firmly situated on those upholstered seats. I used to try to get a good ‘position’ on the train car in order to maximize seatage opportunity so I could go from standing to sitting in less than two stops. But seeing these savage animals tear each other’s heads and limbs off with nary a thought for anything but themselves has changed my way of thinking. I would rather stand for my 40 minute commute than be categorized as one of these self-obsessed biotches.
That is all.
Friday, May 16, 2008
**How many pastries is one too many?
I am sitting in a huge glass-and-metal foyer outside the office of a very important man. There are plasma screens everywhere and busy people rushing around, shaking their heads, studying pieces of paper. I sit quietly with a cup of tea and a croissant.
“This is very different from my office,” I think, to myself. “In my office there is just me and some unopened mail.”
I bite into my croissant and notice a homeless man outside. He is shuffling around, looking at his feet, and glances inside. I stop chewing. It feels rude.
“Danny?”
I look up. It is the important man’s assistant, who has come to collect me.
“Imagine having an assistant!” I think, as we walk through the building together. “You’d be able to get all sorts of assistance with things. You could say, ‘Quick! I need some assistance!’ and be guaranteed to receive it. I bet they never have any unopened mail lying around the place.”
In every office we pass, there are more important people, being important, and being assisted by their assistants. I am jealous. Finally we arrive at the office of the important man I’m here to meet.
“Please do take a seat,” says the assistant. “He’ll be here in just a second. And help yourself to a pastry!”
She says this with joy in her voice and indicates a plate of them. She hovers by the door, waiting for me to take one, but I’ve just finished mine and I don’t really feel like another. She looks disappointed.
“I’ll have one in a moment,” I promise, but the door has closed.
I stare at the pastries in silence. The door opens and in strides the important man.
“Danny!” he says, and we shake hands. “Have you had a pastry yet?”
“I haven’t!” I say. “I just finished one of my own.”
“Oh,” says the man. “Well, have another!”
“I’m fine,” I say, patting my tummy and making a satisfied face, to show that I am satisfied, and that I have a tummy.
“They’re very good pastries,” says the man, raising his eyebrows and pushing the plate slightly towards me. “Freshly made. Bought especially for this meeting!”
“Please don’t let me stop you,” I say, generously. “Do please feel free to eat one yourself!”
“Well, you first,” he says. “I had quite a big breakfast!”
“Well, maybe I’ll have one when you have one!” I say.
We are both being very jolly about things but it is clear that there is a certain tension growing. This is becoming some kind of pastry-off.
“Come on,” he says, picking up the plate. “I insist.”
“I really couldn’t,” I say, quite firmly.
There is an awkward moment. Suddenly, the important man’s voice lowers. His eyes dart nervously towards the door.
“We’ve got to eat a pastry,” he says.
“We’ve got to. She went out to get these this morning. She went to a lot of trouble.”
I suddenly realise the seriousness of the situation. If we don’t eat one, the important man will get into trouble. Hey, I might too!
“But I just had a croissant,” I whisper. “Downstairs! Moments before coming up! I think she even saw me!”
“I had a full English,” he says, desperately. “I’ll be lucky if I can fit a coffee in. Please!”
Suddenly, by the frosted-glass door, we hear the assistant, shuffling about. We both fall silent. The important man puts his hand out, ready to grab a pastry if she walks in. It is absolutely terrifying. It’s like that bit out of Jurassic Park. We can see her shape through the glass. We hold our breath. For a horrible moment, it looks like she’s reaching for the door handle, but then a phone rings and she stalks away. We breathe out.
“I might have to hide some in my desk,” says the important man. He suddenly seems a little less important than before.
“But we’re grown men!” I want to shout. “Grown men shouldn’t need to hide pastries in a desk!” But I don’t. Instead, scared, I say, “Good idea,” and decide to help him.
He stands and grabs two small pastries and tip-toes over to the desk, never taking his eyes off the door. While he does that, I wrap a croissant in some tissue and pop it in my bag, then do the same with a pain au chocolat. We break it in two to make it look like it’s been somehow devoured.
“Hey,” I say, “turn the plate slightly to make it look like it’s been constanty to-ing and fro-ing between us.”
“Yes! Good!” says the important man. “How about crumbs?”
Silently, we sprinkle crumbs over the table and on two plates. The important man scrunches up a napkin and tosses it on the floor. I carefully place a flake of pastry next to it, and then two more. We look around us.
“Perfect,” we say.
We have our meeting. When it’s over, we flinch as his assistant strides in. She takes in the scene. Her face falls. It is one of devastation. It looks like we’ve been throwing foodstuffs at each other for an hour. She scans the room, trying to work out where her huge number of pastries have gone. All that remains is one small piece of Eccles cake. The man and myself look at each other, guiltily. We shake hands and say goodbye.
“I don’t think I want an assistant,” I think, as I leave. “It is too much like having a boss.”
I offer my croissant to the homeless man outside. He declines.
“This is very different from my office,” I think, to myself. “In my office there is just me and some unopened mail.”
I bite into my croissant and notice a homeless man outside. He is shuffling around, looking at his feet, and glances inside. I stop chewing. It feels rude.
“Danny?”
I look up. It is the important man’s assistant, who has come to collect me.
“Imagine having an assistant!” I think, as we walk through the building together. “You’d be able to get all sorts of assistance with things. You could say, ‘Quick! I need some assistance!’ and be guaranteed to receive it. I bet they never have any unopened mail lying around the place.”
In every office we pass, there are more important people, being important, and being assisted by their assistants. I am jealous. Finally we arrive at the office of the important man I’m here to meet.
“Please do take a seat,” says the assistant. “He’ll be here in just a second. And help yourself to a pastry!”
She says this with joy in her voice and indicates a plate of them. She hovers by the door, waiting for me to take one, but I’ve just finished mine and I don’t really feel like another. She looks disappointed.
“I’ll have one in a moment,” I promise, but the door has closed.
I stare at the pastries in silence. The door opens and in strides the important man.
“Danny!” he says, and we shake hands. “Have you had a pastry yet?”
“I haven’t!” I say. “I just finished one of my own.”
“Oh,” says the man. “Well, have another!”
“I’m fine,” I say, patting my tummy and making a satisfied face, to show that I am satisfied, and that I have a tummy.
“They’re very good pastries,” says the man, raising his eyebrows and pushing the plate slightly towards me. “Freshly made. Bought especially for this meeting!”
“Please don’t let me stop you,” I say, generously. “Do please feel free to eat one yourself!”
“Well, you first,” he says. “I had quite a big breakfast!”
“Well, maybe I’ll have one when you have one!” I say.
We are both being very jolly about things but it is clear that there is a certain tension growing. This is becoming some kind of pastry-off.
“Come on,” he says, picking up the plate. “I insist.”
“I really couldn’t,” I say, quite firmly.
There is an awkward moment. Suddenly, the important man’s voice lowers. His eyes dart nervously towards the door.
“We’ve got to eat a pastry,” he says.
“We’ve got to. She went out to get these this morning. She went to a lot of trouble.”
I suddenly realise the seriousness of the situation. If we don’t eat one, the important man will get into trouble. Hey, I might too!
“But I just had a croissant,” I whisper. “Downstairs! Moments before coming up! I think she even saw me!”
“I had a full English,” he says, desperately. “I’ll be lucky if I can fit a coffee in. Please!”
Suddenly, by the frosted-glass door, we hear the assistant, shuffling about. We both fall silent. The important man puts his hand out, ready to grab a pastry if she walks in. It is absolutely terrifying. It’s like that bit out of Jurassic Park. We can see her shape through the glass. We hold our breath. For a horrible moment, it looks like she’s reaching for the door handle, but then a phone rings and she stalks away. We breathe out.
“I might have to hide some in my desk,” says the important man. He suddenly seems a little less important than before.
“But we’re grown men!” I want to shout. “Grown men shouldn’t need to hide pastries in a desk!” But I don’t. Instead, scared, I say, “Good idea,” and decide to help him.
He stands and grabs two small pastries and tip-toes over to the desk, never taking his eyes off the door. While he does that, I wrap a croissant in some tissue and pop it in my bag, then do the same with a pain au chocolat. We break it in two to make it look like it’s been somehow devoured.
“Hey,” I say, “turn the plate slightly to make it look like it’s been constanty to-ing and fro-ing between us.”
“Yes! Good!” says the important man. “How about crumbs?”
Silently, we sprinkle crumbs over the table and on two plates. The important man scrunches up a napkin and tosses it on the floor. I carefully place a flake of pastry next to it, and then two more. We look around us.
“Perfect,” we say.
We have our meeting. When it’s over, we flinch as his assistant strides in. She takes in the scene. Her face falls. It is one of devastation. It looks like we’ve been throwing foodstuffs at each other for an hour. She scans the room, trying to work out where her huge number of pastries have gone. All that remains is one small piece of Eccles cake. The man and myself look at each other, guiltily. We shake hands and say goodbye.
“I don’t think I want an assistant,” I think, as I leave. “It is too much like having a boss.”
I offer my croissant to the homeless man outside. He declines.
David Shrigley pictures
I came across an artist named David Shrigley while perusing a Soho bookstore. He takes pictures, sculpts, and draws. Here are some of his photos (I'll send out some of his drawings later.)
Who else is seriously bothered by Simon Cowell’s haircut?
Not a lot of updates today.
I will clarify since many of you have asked – I didn’t move my seat in the theatre the other night because about 5 more people came and sat on the other side of me, essentially trapping me in my hell. However, they did have enough common sense to leave an open seat between us.
British people love ice cream. I mean, they really love it. If it gets to be over 65 degrees, people flock to ice cream trucks like it’s their job.
The forecast for Saturday is: Rain, some thundery
I don’t usually get my panties in a bunch about being politically correct, but this blurb from yesterday’s paper regarding Angelina Jolie’s babies rubbed me the wrong way:
“The twins will be the fifth and sixth children for the star who already has one natural daughter, one-year-old Shiloh, and three adopted kids.”
I mean, ‘natural daughter’ isn’t the best way of saying that, is it?
P.S. Congratulations to everyone graduating this weekend (and in the upcoming weekends as well)! Special congratulations go out to Elissa who will officially become a librarian tomorrow; she will be handed a cardigan and glasses on a chain as she walks across the Simmons stage. Let’s all whisper our praises to her.
I will clarify since many of you have asked – I didn’t move my seat in the theatre the other night because about 5 more people came and sat on the other side of me, essentially trapping me in my hell. However, they did have enough common sense to leave an open seat between us.
British people love ice cream. I mean, they really love it. If it gets to be over 65 degrees, people flock to ice cream trucks like it’s their job.
The forecast for Saturday is: Rain, some thundery
I don’t usually get my panties in a bunch about being politically correct, but this blurb from yesterday’s paper regarding Angelina Jolie’s babies rubbed me the wrong way:
“The twins will be the fifth and sixth children for the star who already has one natural daughter, one-year-old Shiloh, and three adopted kids.”
I mean, ‘natural daughter’ isn’t the best way of saying that, is it?
P.S. Congratulations to everyone graduating this weekend (and in the upcoming weekends as well)! Special congratulations go out to Elissa who will officially become a librarian tomorrow; she will be handed a cardigan and glasses on a chain as she walks across the Simmons stage. Let’s all whisper our praises to her.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
David Crosby's love child
Hampton Palace. I'm looking into a timeshare. Who's with me?
The Goat Major pub in Cardiff. Seriously. Who thinks of these pub names? Do they have a brainstorming session with a bunch of drunk dudes and one douchebag in the corner (who clearly has had some intimate moments with livestock) slurs, "Waitaminute, waitaminute, waitaminute. Whattabout this? The Goat Major. Right? (burp) People'll luv it." And then, because no one else thought of anything better, that's what they went with.
The Goat Major pub in Cardiff. Seriously. Who thinks of these pub names? Do they have a brainstorming session with a bunch of drunk dudes and one douchebag in the corner (who clearly has had some intimate moments with livestock) slurs, "Waitaminute, waitaminute, waitaminute. Whattabout this? The Goat Major. Right? (burp) People'll luv it." And then, because no one else thought of anything better, that's what they went with.
There were dragons everywhere around the city of Cardiff. You can't get a cuppa without being reminded that "Hey...dragons are on the loose."
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand it’s raining again
The short story: Don’t go see the movie Heartbeat Detector.
The long story: Time Out London magazine sent me a free pass to go see a French flick that sounded somewhat interesting. And by that I clearly mean that I manipulated a past email they sent me and changed the date to May 13 and the movie title to Heartbeat Detector and voila! Instant movie pass! (I’m okay with this since these movie screenings are never at capacity.) I show up at 6:20 to the 6:30 showing and the theatre is sparse. I know it’s not going to get much more populated either. Here is a picture of what the seating looked like. “Other People” are blue squares, “Yours Truly” is the pink square.
Enter a man and his girlfriend. They stop and scan the theatre, assessing the seating situation. Guess where they decide to sit. Take a look back at that seating plan. Look at all the empty seats. LOOK AT THEM!!! Now, I will ask you again. Where do you think this wanker and his cow of a girlfriend decided to sit? Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaat’s correct. Right. Next. To. Me. (Wanker and cow are green squares.)
So fine. They’re sitting next to me. I can deal with that. I just won’t be able to drape my legs over the armrest (which may or may not be a rude thing to do anyway) and if it’s a tearjerker of a film, I’ll just have to be discreet about wiping my tears. But then. Then, my friends. He takes out a sandwich and begins to attack it with his face. It sounded like like the sound effects from Jurassic Park. I prayed that he would take big bites and just get it over with already. I didn’t care that I was staring at him and making judgemental faces; I was just hoping he would catch me glaring at him and realize that wild boars have more etiquette than he does. So finally(!) he finishes the sandwich. And I breathe a sigh of relief. But no sooner do I finish thinking, “What an arsehole,” that he takes out a Fosters tall boy. For the love of all that is holy!!! And so the loud beer sipping begins, followed by the silent, yet pungent, beer burping. At this point the movie hasn’t even started yet and I am contemplating walking out. Between sips he leans over to French kiss his girlfriend and all I can do is wonder, “Who is this woman that she not only tolerates this disgusting behaviour, but she is still physically attracted to him enough that she wants to kiss that mouth?”
The movie begins. It is dreadful. It is the slowest movie I have ever seen and there’s a scene that is just literally one man singing for 10 minutes. He trails off at some points and you think he’s done but just like Austin Powers peeing for the first time after the cryogenic freezing process is complete, he starts right back up again. Everyone in the theatre laughed when this happened because they too couldn’t believe that there is a filmmaker out there that sadistic. But I continue watching. Because I like to boost my culture levels and watching an awful French movie seems like a good way to do that.
But that man. Oh, that man. He starts to do this nose breathing/throat clearing thing. At first I think he’s laughing…you know, one of those big-burst-of-air-through-your-nose types of laughs. But nothing funny was happening in the movie. And then he did it again, a little more abrasively this time, and I cringed thinking, “Oh heavens to Murgatroyd! He has a nervous coughing tic! Will the horror never end?!” And so it continued. For the next two and a half hours! One time it was so loud that I thought for sure someone would say something like, “Hey buddy, if you’re gonna do that, take it outside will ya?” It was terrible. It was soul-wrenching. It was homicide-inducing.
I went home and took 6 hot showers trying to wash the bad away.
The long story: Time Out London magazine sent me a free pass to go see a French flick that sounded somewhat interesting. And by that I clearly mean that I manipulated a past email they sent me and changed the date to May 13 and the movie title to Heartbeat Detector and voila! Instant movie pass! (I’m okay with this since these movie screenings are never at capacity.) I show up at 6:20 to the 6:30 showing and the theatre is sparse. I know it’s not going to get much more populated either. Here is a picture of what the seating looked like. “Other People” are blue squares, “Yours Truly” is the pink square.
Enter a man and his girlfriend. They stop and scan the theatre, assessing the seating situation. Guess where they decide to sit. Take a look back at that seating plan. Look at all the empty seats. LOOK AT THEM!!! Now, I will ask you again. Where do you think this wanker and his cow of a girlfriend decided to sit? Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaat’s correct. Right. Next. To. Me. (Wanker and cow are green squares.)
So fine. They’re sitting next to me. I can deal with that. I just won’t be able to drape my legs over the armrest (which may or may not be a rude thing to do anyway) and if it’s a tearjerker of a film, I’ll just have to be discreet about wiping my tears. But then. Then, my friends. He takes out a sandwich and begins to attack it with his face. It sounded like like the sound effects from Jurassic Park. I prayed that he would take big bites and just get it over with already. I didn’t care that I was staring at him and making judgemental faces; I was just hoping he would catch me glaring at him and realize that wild boars have more etiquette than he does. So finally(!) he finishes the sandwich. And I breathe a sigh of relief. But no sooner do I finish thinking, “What an arsehole,” that he takes out a Fosters tall boy. For the love of all that is holy!!! And so the loud beer sipping begins, followed by the silent, yet pungent, beer burping. At this point the movie hasn’t even started yet and I am contemplating walking out. Between sips he leans over to French kiss his girlfriend and all I can do is wonder, “Who is this woman that she not only tolerates this disgusting behaviour, but she is still physically attracted to him enough that she wants to kiss that mouth?” The movie begins. It is dreadful. It is the slowest movie I have ever seen and there’s a scene that is just literally one man singing for 10 minutes. He trails off at some points and you think he’s done but just like Austin Powers peeing for the first time after the cryogenic freezing process is complete, he starts right back up again. Everyone in the theatre laughed when this happened because they too couldn’t believe that there is a filmmaker out there that sadistic. But I continue watching. Because I like to boost my culture levels and watching an awful French movie seems like a good way to do that.
But that man. Oh, that man. He starts to do this nose breathing/throat clearing thing. At first I think he’s laughing…you know, one of those big-burst-of-air-through-your-nose types of laughs. But nothing funny was happening in the movie. And then he did it again, a little more abrasively this time, and I cringed thinking, “Oh heavens to Murgatroyd! He has a nervous coughing tic! Will the horror never end?!” And so it continued. For the next two and a half hours! One time it was so loud that I thought for sure someone would say something like, “Hey buddy, if you’re gonna do that, take it outside will ya?” It was terrible. It was soul-wrenching. It was homicide-inducing.
I went home and took 6 hot showers trying to wash the bad away.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Just another egret
Who can take a sunrise sprinkle it in dew? Cover it in chocolate and make a miracle or two? The candyman can.
I've got a Thing To Treasure....having a roof that doesn't look like it's about to collapse.
I've got a Thing To Treasure....having a roof that doesn't look like it's about to collapse.
A duck walks into a bar and says, "I'll take a shot of bourbon and put it on my bill."
Why did the algae and the fungus get married? Because they took a lichen to each other.
Photo Caption Results!!!
Runners Up:
- Scaramouche! Scaramouche! Can you do the fandago?
- Leonard: "En garde! Coule! Quarte! RIPOSTE!"
Mortimer: "I have to poop."
- Little is known of the fate of Aaron Burr, save the oft-quoted vow the controversial Founding Father once made to 'go down fighting.'
- Errol Flynn and Douglas Fairbanks, Jrs., The Golden Years
- My name is Inigo Montoya. You wet your pants while sitting in my barcalounger. Prepare to die.
- Az di bobe volt gehat beytsim volt zi geven mayn zeyde! (This one is from Brent...apparently he's going through a Yiddish phase.)
But I must declare Sylvia Mon the winner of this one (though really, the picture alone is a winner).
Her award-winning caption is:
- See, Rupert! I told you I'd poke Agnes one way or another.
- Scaramouche! Scaramouche! Can you do the fandago?
- Leonard: "En garde! Coule! Quarte! RIPOSTE!"
Mortimer: "I have to poop."
- Little is known of the fate of Aaron Burr, save the oft-quoted vow the controversial Founding Father once made to 'go down fighting.'
- Errol Flynn and Douglas Fairbanks, Jrs., The Golden Years
- My name is Inigo Montoya. You wet your pants while sitting in my barcalounger. Prepare to die.
- Az di bobe volt gehat beytsim volt zi geven mayn zeyde! (This one is from Brent...apparently he's going through a Yiddish phase.)
But I must declare Sylvia Mon the winner of this one (though really, the picture alone is a winner).
Her award-winning caption is:
- See, Rupert! I told you I'd poke Agnes one way or another.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Lunges are really not my favorite exercise in the world
This is the Churchill Arms pub in Kensington. I think that in order to technically be called a pub, there must be an exorbitant amount of plants taking over the facade of the building. Well done, Churchill Arms. Well done.
Our drinks at a Leicester Square pub. The story of my life.
Our drinks at a Leicester Square pub. The story of my life.
Neon sign at the coffeeshop on Brick Lane. This place is great to go to on a Sunday morning to read the paper and do crossword puzzles while drinking orange and coconut tea (it tastes better than it sounds).
The 'dilly Circus tube.
Here's another Photo Caption Contest for you. This is a picture in this morning's Metro from an article about old people and fencing. So work your magic and send me your ideas. There is no excuse not to have any, either. I mean, just LOOK at this picture!!!
Tube delay due to a person UNDER a train
One of the perks of living and working in downtown London are the world movie premieres. Case in point - Sex And The City: The Movie last night in Leicester Square. Here is where I'd like to tell you that I was in the front row of the crowd, got autographs from SJP, Kim, Kristen, and Cynthia, and took amazing pictures that I will now sell to Hello! Magazine for oodles of cash. However, I'll opt to not lie and tell you that I made Yulia stand on some street corner with me for 35 minutes while the limos drove past and I tried to peer in the tinted windows to try to discern (to no avail) who it was. This got old quickly and Yulia was itching to be anywhere but there. In my defense, unless we had started queueing at noon for a 7:30 premier, there was no way we were going to get a glimpse of anyone; there was just an overwhelming amount of screaming girls and flamboyant guys. But honestly. For a show BASED IN NEW YORK whose title even includes a REFERENCE TO NEW YORK and a plot line that CENTERS AROUND NEW YORK, why oh why would someone choose to have a world premiere in London?! I am assuming money had something to do with it and that people aren't that dumb.
There was a big presentation at work last Friday for some big shot manager who is leaving the company. My friend K was in charge of organizing the card, gift, and presentation. So we're all standing around watching as this guy opens all 7 of his gifts (I told you he was important) and Aussie T says in front of everyone: "What about my idea for the gift, K? Is she not coming?" (This is the type of stuff I miss about the people from Australia.)
The problem with stopping at the bathroom before you go outside to read on your lunch break is that you're just the freak walking into the work bathroom with a book under your arm.
Joke of the day that is just so horrendous it has no choice but to be funny: What's green and sings rock 'n roll? Elvis Parsley
London's Crazy Headlines:
Stunning Results For Police Tasers
Bodies Of Two Babies Are Found In Toy Boxes
I Have Just Been Run Over By A Cow
There was a big presentation at work last Friday for some big shot manager who is leaving the company. My friend K was in charge of organizing the card, gift, and presentation. So we're all standing around watching as this guy opens all 7 of his gifts (I told you he was important) and Aussie T says in front of everyone: "What about my idea for the gift, K? Is she not coming?" (This is the type of stuff I miss about the people from Australia.)
The problem with stopping at the bathroom before you go outside to read on your lunch break is that you're just the freak walking into the work bathroom with a book under your arm.
Joke of the day that is just so horrendous it has no choice but to be funny: What's green and sings rock 'n roll? Elvis Parsley
London's Crazy Headlines:
Stunning Results For Police Tasers
Bodies Of Two Babies Are Found In Toy Boxes
I Have Just Been Run Over By A Cow
Monday, May 12, 2008
She didn't even bring me a kangaroo, that wench
So y'all remember Yulia From Sydney, right? She was a main character in stories such as Lisa Wears Fancy Shoes On A Sydney Harbor Boat Cruise And Still Has The Scars On Her Feet Today, Yulia And Lisa's Adventures With Bikram Yoga Vol. 1 - Lisa Wants To Die And Yulia Smokes A Cigarette Immediately Afterwards, and the ever-so-classic Yulia Tells Lisa About Thai Street Massages And Lisa Gets Punched In The Back So Hard By One That She Cannot Sleep Comfortably For Two Days. Well Yulia (Gulia) came to London for a quick visit this past weekend. As much as I'd like to tell you that she travelled across the world just for me, that wouldn't exactly be truthful; her sister lives in Paris and so she took a month off from work to visit her and travel around Europe. We had a great weekend - I showed her the good (and bad) parts of London and she caught me up on all the stories I've been missing from Sydney (Glenn, Holly, and Kieran - I now have some great blackmail material).
This is Yulia freaking out about looking down the ginormously long escalator at the Piccadilly Circus tube (she wasn't as calm as her face appears). Granted, she has a point since people have died trying to slide down those handrails...idiots.
I made her walk a lot this weekend for many reasons: 1) I walk a lot. 2) It's cheaper than taking the Tube (and at $4 a ride, she agreed). 3) It was a gorgeous weekend. But she got to a point on Saturday afternoon where sitting in a pub and drinking a beer was a WAY better idea than taking just two more steps.
(I think she was talking to me from the looks of her mouth in this picture...I can't be sure because I wasn't paying attention to anything she said.)
This is Yulia freaking out about looking down the ginormously long escalator at the Piccadilly Circus tube (she wasn't as calm as her face appears). Granted, she has a point since people have died trying to slide down those handrails...idiots.
I made her walk a lot this weekend for many reasons: 1) I walk a lot. 2) It's cheaper than taking the Tube (and at $4 a ride, she agreed). 3) It was a gorgeous weekend. But she got to a point on Saturday afternoon where sitting in a pub and drinking a beer was a WAY better idea than taking just two more steps.
(I think she was talking to me from the looks of her mouth in this picture...I can't be sure because I wasn't paying attention to anything she said.)
She might be mad about that picture, so here's one that she can't complain about. (We shopped for two hours on Oxford Street so that she could buy that pink singlet. If she had listened to me when I told her that a long sleeved t-shirt would be too hot in 25 C weather, we could have spent those two hours picking the nose of a Buckingham Palace guard instead. Her loss.)
This is scenic Trafalgar Square outside the National Gallery. When I say it was gorgeous out, I mean it. I am still as pale as a raw potato.
Friday, May 9, 2008
You and your pussycat nose
Okay, where’s the fight? I’m ready to kick some ass! I’ve got my Wales flags comin’ out BOTH my ears, I’m daintily holding my sword, and I can’t see for shit. Bring ‘em on! Wait a tic…why am I in a souvenir shop? There ain’t any Romans here…
Daughter: Mommy!
Mom: Don’t worry, it’s only a picture of Tom Jones, not actually Tom Jones.
Daughter: His tight pants scare me!
Mom: I know, dear. I know.
Edith: I love your skirt, Gertrude.
Gertrude: Oh thanks, deary. I got it at the Oxfam shop up the street. Only cost me two quid. Are those new pants you’re wearing?
Edith: No, they’re old. But I pulled them up a little bit higher today for the Prince’s parade. Louise, why don’t you stand up straight?
Louise: I am standing up straight! What do you want from a little old lady who has no neck? Ooh, ooh! Here he comes, here he comes!
Gertrude: That Prince Harry is so fine, I tell you. Maybe if he looks this way as he passes by he’ll notice my skirt and give me a hug.
Louise: Bollocks! If he’s going to notice anyone, it’s going to be me. Just look at how many jackets I’m wearing!
Edith: My dentures are too big for my mouth and my face is stuck in a perpetual smile. I’m in pain.
Daughter: Mommy!Mom: Don’t worry, it’s only a picture of Tom Jones, not actually Tom Jones.
Daughter: His tight pants scare me!
Mom: I know, dear. I know.
Edith: I love your skirt, Gertrude.Gertrude: Oh thanks, deary. I got it at the Oxfam shop up the street. Only cost me two quid. Are those new pants you’re wearing?
Edith: No, they’re old. But I pulled them up a little bit higher today for the Prince’s parade. Louise, why don’t you stand up straight?
Louise: I am standing up straight! What do you want from a little old lady who has no neck? Ooh, ooh! Here he comes, here he comes!
Gertrude: That Prince Harry is so fine, I tell you. Maybe if he looks this way as he passes by he’ll notice my skirt and give me a hug.
Louise: Bollocks! If he’s going to notice anyone, it’s going to be me. Just look at how many jackets I’m wearing!
Edith: My dentures are too big for my mouth and my face is stuck in a perpetual smile. I’m in pain.
Check it out, it’s the actual magazine! (Okay, maybe I’m a little obsessed with Notting Hill.)
This was an actual book (as opposed to a hologram or something) I found at one of the antique stores in the Cotswolds. I didn’t peruse through it so I can’t elaborate on the kinds of food a hungry monk would eat, but if I had to guess, I’d say Doritos, Twinkies, and Hot Pockets.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
**Unleash your inner pyjama-wearer
I am embarrassed because my wife has caught me. “What are you doing?” she says, moments after walking into the bedroom. She looks horrified. I had hoped she wouldn’t notice, that perhaps I could get away with this.
“I can explain!” I yell, desperately, but it is too late. She has seen me. She takes her wide eyes and walks into the bathroom, possibly to sit down and shake a bit.
I am wearing little pyjamas.
I didn’t mean to. It just happened.
I’d just returned from a few weeks away on the other side of the world, working. It had been a tough routine of constant flights, drab and dusty hotels, punishing early mornings and very late nights. Of long car journeys and bad fast food. Of throat-drying air conditioners and bone-chilling winds. But in the middle of it all…I found comfort. Comfort in the form of a free pair of slightly undersized cotton airline pyjamas. Pyjamas that I only put on, that first, fateful night, because I was a shallow, jetlagged husk of a man, who stank of aeroplane and taxi and smog. I wasn’t thinking straight. I was confused.
But everything changed in that one moment.
These pyjamas just felt good. They felt…right.
Yes, they were a little too small, but that night, I slept the sleep of the innocent. I was warm. Comforted. Protected. I was a tiny cotton ball, all wrapped up in a charcoal sleep suit and as my eyes opened the next morning, I realised…my eyes had been opened.
“Pyjamas are incredible,” I thought to myself. “Why don’t I always wear pyjamas?”
I wanted to scream it to the world! “I am Danny Wallace and I love wearing little pyjamas!” I wanted to text my friends! To ask them whether they, too, had discovered the delights of little pyjamas! To tell them there is no need to explain, that we could embark upon this journey together – that we could wear our little pyjamas with pride! Maybe it would just take me to show them!
But this, of course, was all through the freedom that travel brings. I was in a different country, in a different time zone. Anything seemed possible. The world was my oyster, and I would be in that oyster – a small and simple pearl bouncing happily around in a pair of cotton PJs.
As the trip had come to an end, however, a certain hollowness had begun to creep in. Because I knew that, for me at least, the world of pyjamas was soon to be over.
“But why?” I thought, as I pretended to watch Desperate Housewives with my wife. “Why must I deny who I really am?”
“Coming to bed?” she said, as the credits began to roll.
I nodded, silently, and then decided: tonight would be the night I’d test the waters. And 20 minutes later, I’m yelling, “I can explain!”
“Look,” she says, the next morning. “I don’t mind if you want to wear pyjamas. I just wish you’d given me some warning. It was a bit of a shock.”
I am still wearing them and eating a bowl of Coco Pops.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I promise it won’t happen again.”
But I know it will. Because I have become an addict. How could I have been blind to them all these years? Why had I not seen the signs earlier? My dad was virtually born in pyjamas. When did it become socially unacceptable for a man to wear formal nightwear? Have pyjamas gone the way of pipes and monocles? I’d look great, all dressed up in my pyjamas with a pipe and a couple of monocles! We all would!
Why, then, do they bring such shame upon us? Why do our womenfolk frown upon us so? Maybe they just need to see us in our pyjamas to realize the comfort, the joy, the pleasure they bring! Maybe they will want their own. And if they do, we should be kind. We should simply pat them, patronizingly, on their heads and say, “There is no need to explain.”
I keep my pyjamas on all day. It is my own kind of protest. “Maybe this is what I will do,” I think, as I wander around the house, liberated. “Maybe I will wear pyjamas during the day and change into more appropriate clothing when she gets home.” But I resent having to go underground with this.
At half past six, though, I get changed into jeans and a T-shirt.
My wife is a little late home. “Perhaps she’s stopped off for a drink with her friends,” I think. “To come to terms with things. Settle her nerves. I’ve come out of the closet, wearing a little pair of pyjamas, after all, and this kind of thing can have an effect on the unenlightened.”
When she arrives home, things are a little stilted.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hello,” she says.
She puts her bags down and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“I just got a couple of microwave meals from M&S,” she says. “Is that OK?”
“That’s great,’ I say.
There’s an awkward moment.
I look in the bag.
She’s bought herself a little pair of pyjamas.
“I can explain!” she says.
“There is no need,” I say, patting her on the head. “There is no need.”
“I can explain!” I yell, desperately, but it is too late. She has seen me. She takes her wide eyes and walks into the bathroom, possibly to sit down and shake a bit.
I am wearing little pyjamas.
I didn’t mean to. It just happened.
I’d just returned from a few weeks away on the other side of the world, working. It had been a tough routine of constant flights, drab and dusty hotels, punishing early mornings and very late nights. Of long car journeys and bad fast food. Of throat-drying air conditioners and bone-chilling winds. But in the middle of it all…I found comfort. Comfort in the form of a free pair of slightly undersized cotton airline pyjamas. Pyjamas that I only put on, that first, fateful night, because I was a shallow, jetlagged husk of a man, who stank of aeroplane and taxi and smog. I wasn’t thinking straight. I was confused.
But everything changed in that one moment.
These pyjamas just felt good. They felt…right.
Yes, they were a little too small, but that night, I slept the sleep of the innocent. I was warm. Comforted. Protected. I was a tiny cotton ball, all wrapped up in a charcoal sleep suit and as my eyes opened the next morning, I realised…my eyes had been opened.
“Pyjamas are incredible,” I thought to myself. “Why don’t I always wear pyjamas?”
I wanted to scream it to the world! “I am Danny Wallace and I love wearing little pyjamas!” I wanted to text my friends! To ask them whether they, too, had discovered the delights of little pyjamas! To tell them there is no need to explain, that we could embark upon this journey together – that we could wear our little pyjamas with pride! Maybe it would just take me to show them!
But this, of course, was all through the freedom that travel brings. I was in a different country, in a different time zone. Anything seemed possible. The world was my oyster, and I would be in that oyster – a small and simple pearl bouncing happily around in a pair of cotton PJs.
As the trip had come to an end, however, a certain hollowness had begun to creep in. Because I knew that, for me at least, the world of pyjamas was soon to be over.
“But why?” I thought, as I pretended to watch Desperate Housewives with my wife. “Why must I deny who I really am?”
“Coming to bed?” she said, as the credits began to roll.
I nodded, silently, and then decided: tonight would be the night I’d test the waters. And 20 minutes later, I’m yelling, “I can explain!”
“Look,” she says, the next morning. “I don’t mind if you want to wear pyjamas. I just wish you’d given me some warning. It was a bit of a shock.”
I am still wearing them and eating a bowl of Coco Pops.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I promise it won’t happen again.”
But I know it will. Because I have become an addict. How could I have been blind to them all these years? Why had I not seen the signs earlier? My dad was virtually born in pyjamas. When did it become socially unacceptable for a man to wear formal nightwear? Have pyjamas gone the way of pipes and monocles? I’d look great, all dressed up in my pyjamas with a pipe and a couple of monocles! We all would!
Why, then, do they bring such shame upon us? Why do our womenfolk frown upon us so? Maybe they just need to see us in our pyjamas to realize the comfort, the joy, the pleasure they bring! Maybe they will want their own. And if they do, we should be kind. We should simply pat them, patronizingly, on their heads and say, “There is no need to explain.”
I keep my pyjamas on all day. It is my own kind of protest. “Maybe this is what I will do,” I think, as I wander around the house, liberated. “Maybe I will wear pyjamas during the day and change into more appropriate clothing when she gets home.” But I resent having to go underground with this.
At half past six, though, I get changed into jeans and a T-shirt.
My wife is a little late home. “Perhaps she’s stopped off for a drink with her friends,” I think. “To come to terms with things. Settle her nerves. I’ve come out of the closet, wearing a little pair of pyjamas, after all, and this kind of thing can have an effect on the unenlightened.”
When she arrives home, things are a little stilted.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hello,” she says.
She puts her bags down and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“I just got a couple of microwave meals from M&S,” she says. “Is that OK?”
“That’s great,’ I say.
There’s an awkward moment.
I look in the bag.
She’s bought herself a little pair of pyjamas.
“I can explain!” she says.
“There is no need,” I say, patting her on the head. “There is no need.”
Gargamel and Azriel
Correct me if I'm wrong, but that sure does look like a unicorn gargoyle outside Hampton Court, doesn't it? Now that's my kind of palace!
One of the inside courts of the palace. Looks like someone had one good idea for a window pattern and got a little carried away, no?
This is a man wearing uneven socks looking longingly at a sundial. Pretty self-explanatory. Well actually, wait. No. No, I can't think of ANY explanation as to why he was doing this.
They're not cankles, it's just the way my legs were resting on the ground! (That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.)
One of the 7 gardens surrounding the palace had these cute little mushroom-shaped trees everywhere. They were great for shade and picture-taking. I could have spent the entire day just lounging underneath one of them, but bearded-Marie would have wrung my neck if I was late back to the bus so I didn't.
One of the inside courts of the palace. Looks like someone had one good idea for a window pattern and got a little carried away, no?
This is a man wearing uneven socks looking longingly at a sundial. Pretty self-explanatory. Well actually, wait. No. No, I can't think of ANY explanation as to why he was doing this.
They're not cankles, it's just the way my legs were resting on the ground! (That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.)
One of the 7 gardens surrounding the palace had these cute little mushroom-shaped trees everywhere. They were great for shade and picture-taking. I could have spent the entire day just lounging underneath one of them, but bearded-Marie would have wrung my neck if I was late back to the bus so I didn't.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Peter, Paul, and Mary are kinda frightening when you think about it
I must have a knack for capturing men in photos grabbing themselves. But I promise you I didn't notice the guy in this one until I was transferring the pictures from my camera to my computer. I don't seek these people out, they just happen to be standing in front of the British prince.
The band in the changing of the guards. It's one thing to be a male flute player. It's another to be a male flute player wearing a big fuzzy hat.
A part of Windsor Castle. Rapunzel not included.
A cottage and garden in the Cotswolds. I like to think really nice British grandparents live here and not just rich yuppies whose primary residence is in North Hampstead, London.
Your stereotypical English cottages. I can just smell the tea brewing and the scones baking.
The band in the changing of the guards. It's one thing to be a male flute player. It's another to be a male flute player wearing a big fuzzy hat.
A part of Windsor Castle. Rapunzel not included.
A cottage and garden in the Cotswolds. I like to think really nice British grandparents live here and not just rich yuppies whose primary residence is in North Hampstead, London.
Your stereotypical English cottages. I can just smell the tea brewing and the scones baking.
If I’m not back in 5 minutes…just wait longer
There I am walking in the gardens of the Hampton Court Palace when two 7-year-old girls, presumably sisters, walk past me. One holds something out in her hand and says to the other, “Smell it, baby! Smell it!” Now, what is even more disturbing than the fact that a 7-year-old girl has just said that phrase is exactly where she heard it from. Because little girls don’t just come up with shit like that on their own; they have to hear it somewhere. Personally, I fear they overheard their mother saying it to their father, but about what specifically I don’t want to know.
Marie, the little old lady who happened to be my tour guide on both Sunday’s trip to the Cotswolds and Monday’s trip to Windsor and Hampton Court, was a little more sane than Alun Booth, but came very close to having as much facial hair as him. Anyway, at one point during the drive to Windsor, Marie is talking to us about the town we’re passing through and stops mid-sentence to point out, “Oh look! They’re playing cricket! How very British.” (This is the same woman who later said, “Everyone who’s here is here.”)
Overheard in a kitchen store in the quaint town of Burford, England: “Do you have that knife that does everything?”
(I immediately pictured a knife doing a tap dance followed by a knife drag racing followed by a knife drawing a bubble bath. Because if they make a knife that indeed does everything, I’m buying two.)
Okay, so Prince Harry. Princess Anne was giving out some medals to Harry and his fellow soldiers for fighting in Afghanistan at the barracks in Windsor. I didn’t know this until I walked past a barricade and overheard a policeman talking to some other tourists about it. Naturally I wasn’t going to let a date with royal destiny slip through my fingers and I made my way to where the crowd was forming; little did I know that the viewing spot I picked, right in front of a church, would be the last stop on the troops’ parade across town. So the horsies come. And the band comes. And then a bunch of army guys in fatigues come. And I am taking pictures like it’s my job. I kept my eyes peeled for ‘the other prince,’ Prince Charles, and/or Kate/Chelsy, but didn’t see any of them. I think I should have kept my eyes peeled a bit better since all the papers today showed pictures of them there. Hmm…. But whatever. I am happy with my pictures of Harry. Because even though he likes to dress up like a Nazi (which is unforgivable no matter who you are), it’s not every day you get to see a member of the royal family.
Today I bought some super duper pills with codeine and some other stuff in them without a prescription. England regulations are fun! (I bought them at Boots and not on a street corner, so settle down.)
Marie, the little old lady who happened to be my tour guide on both Sunday’s trip to the Cotswolds and Monday’s trip to Windsor and Hampton Court, was a little more sane than Alun Booth, but came very close to having as much facial hair as him. Anyway, at one point during the drive to Windsor, Marie is talking to us about the town we’re passing through and stops mid-sentence to point out, “Oh look! They’re playing cricket! How very British.” (This is the same woman who later said, “Everyone who’s here is here.”)
Overheard in a kitchen store in the quaint town of Burford, England: “Do you have that knife that does everything?”
(I immediately pictured a knife doing a tap dance followed by a knife drag racing followed by a knife drawing a bubble bath. Because if they make a knife that indeed does everything, I’m buying two.)
Okay, so Prince Harry. Princess Anne was giving out some medals to Harry and his fellow soldiers for fighting in Afghanistan at the barracks in Windsor. I didn’t know this until I walked past a barricade and overheard a policeman talking to some other tourists about it. Naturally I wasn’t going to let a date with royal destiny slip through my fingers and I made my way to where the crowd was forming; little did I know that the viewing spot I picked, right in front of a church, would be the last stop on the troops’ parade across town. So the horsies come. And the band comes. And then a bunch of army guys in fatigues come. And I am taking pictures like it’s my job. I kept my eyes peeled for ‘the other prince,’ Prince Charles, and/or Kate/Chelsy, but didn’t see any of them. I think I should have kept my eyes peeled a bit better since all the papers today showed pictures of them there. Hmm…. But whatever. I am happy with my pictures of Harry. Because even though he likes to dress up like a Nazi (which is unforgivable no matter who you are), it’s not every day you get to see a member of the royal family.
Today I bought some super duper pills with codeine and some other stuff in them without a prescription. England regulations are fun! (I bought them at Boots and not on a street corner, so settle down.)
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
A preview.....
I know I haven't written about this yet, but I would just like to bring this picture to your attention. (You can read all about the event on cnn.com or thelondontimes.com or your other favorite news source.) Yes, I took the picture and yes, I was about 15 feet away. Yes, we made eye contact, he mouthed the words 'marry me,' I mouthed 'of course, my prince,' and we are currently engaged. Yes, I am only using him to get to his brother.
Save the Wales
This t-shirt was almost too hilarious to pass up. I took a picture instead. After all, I wouldn't want someone looking at me wearing this shirt and thinking I was serious about any of these principles. (Especially #4)
This sign reads 'WHEN RED LIGHT SHOWS WAIT HERE WHEN GREEN LIGHT SHOWS TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS'
This sign reads 'WHEN RED LIGHT SHOWS WAIT HERE WHEN GREEN LIGHT SHOWS TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS'
Aaaaaaaahhhh!!! More flowers!!!!
Sir Alun Booth (check out the award-winning facial hair). I do believe he's saying, "And over there you will see a sheep wearing ass-less chaps."
Despite the imminent threat of a dragon attack, Wales is a pretty country.
I am an unhealthy (i.e. unattractive) shade of pale
Saturday afternoon I was surrounded by about 10,000 large, bald, drunk, enthusiastic men. I’m sure there are many places you’re thinking I was, not limited to - the Independence Mall in Kingston, a Wolk family reunion, the International Burping Competition (oh MAN, what if that were an actual thing?!), and a Rammstein concert. Unfortunately you would be wrong on all accounts, for my friends, I was in Cardiff, Wales. Little did my tour guide know that there would be some massive rugby competition taking place at the stadium downtown. And I’m not just talking one team versus another; something was going down with ALL the Rugby League teams since faces were painted every color of the rainbow (not in an actual rainbow…that’s a different gathering).
Our Cardiff tour guide was literally a Welshman we picked up on the side of the road. Granted, we planned to meet him there, but still. Side of the road. That pretty much sums up his eccentric personality. His name is Alun Booth and he talked for about 20 minutes explaining the in and outs of the Welsh alphabet and how the ‘u’ is pronounced like an ‘i’ so his name still sounds like “Alan.” (At one point he also said “It’s take-your-clothes-off weather.” This would have been okay had it not been said by a 70 year old man.)
Right. So Cardiff. There’s a castle. There’s a pedestrian mall with a KFC, Starbucks, Next, and Quiksilver store. There’s one of those mini merry-go-rounds with a child sitting on a double decker bus looking more nauseous than jovial. Most of the teenagers wear makeup (both male and female) and black clothing. It rains. There are dragons everywhere. And the signs are all in Welsh and English. Oh, and the tuna pasta salad they sell at the grocery store? Its onions are way too potent.
I would write more about what I saw in this other UK country, but eh. It wasn’t all that exciting in person and so to make it exciting just by using words would be like trying to describe how amazing all my camera, phone, and computer cords look on my desk.
Our Cardiff tour guide was literally a Welshman we picked up on the side of the road. Granted, we planned to meet him there, but still. Side of the road. That pretty much sums up his eccentric personality. His name is Alun Booth and he talked for about 20 minutes explaining the in and outs of the Welsh alphabet and how the ‘u’ is pronounced like an ‘i’ so his name still sounds like “Alan.” (At one point he also said “It’s take-your-clothes-off weather.” This would have been okay had it not been said by a 70 year old man.)
Right. So Cardiff. There’s a castle. There’s a pedestrian mall with a KFC, Starbucks, Next, and Quiksilver store. There’s one of those mini merry-go-rounds with a child sitting on a double decker bus looking more nauseous than jovial. Most of the teenagers wear makeup (both male and female) and black clothing. It rains. There are dragons everywhere. And the signs are all in Welsh and English. Oh, and the tuna pasta salad they sell at the grocery store? Its onions are way too potent.
I would write more about what I saw in this other UK country, but eh. It wasn’t all that exciting in person and so to make it exciting just by using words would be like trying to describe how amazing all my camera, phone, and computer cords look on my desk.
Friday, May 2, 2008
May Day! May Day!
Here's one of Piccadilly Circus (not as crowded as usual).
I meant to send these pictures out with the roast entry yesterday since they're relevant, but I suppose I was too preoccupied with wondering just what the HELL Nick Cannon (or the now Mr. Mariah Carey) is thinking.
This is K's garden/backyard.
I meant to send these pictures out with the roast entry yesterday since they're relevant, but I suppose I was too preoccupied with wondering just what the HELL Nick Cannon (or the now Mr. Mariah Carey) is thinking.
This is K's garden/backyard.
This is K's spacious and cupboard-filled kitchen. Oh, and K.
He doesn't like his picture taken, so this is probably the closest picture of K you'll see. I know it's blurry. Shut up.
Tolerant and even welcoming of lactose
I’m trying to be a more positive person. The whole ‘say Yes more thing’ and an eye-opening email suggesting I try to talk my way through a misunderstanding instead of just sighing heavily and doing an obnoxious eye roll are just two changes I’m trying to make that show me I could use more than a slight nudge towards Let’s Be Awesome About Life and away from Let’s Make Snide, Sarcastic Comments About Things That Piss Me Off.
Having said that, this morning I came across a hilarious blog called 1000 Tiny Things I Hate. I highly recommend watching the video in post #101, or The Way The Man Who Sat Next To Me On The Train Last Night Ate His Peanuts. It’s even funnier than it sounds. Seriously, check this site out. I know I suggest a lot of things…books, movies, MUSIC…but this one is pretty damn funny. And plus, I know you don’t really need to check CNN.com for the 8th time today. Nothing has changed.
My co-worker BT sends me a link to some random online game pretty much every day. I’m not really sure how he finds them (his answer is always simply ‘RSS Feed’), and so far his success rate in me clicking on the link, giving more than 3 seconds of my attention to it, actually playing the game, and liking it enough to play it more than once is about 3 in 437. (He actually sent me a couple awesome typing games which appeal to the nerd in me and so I must thank him for that.) But the other day he sent me a link to a game whose objective was…. “Protect the castle from invasion by not allowing evil tiles to spread to it.” Evil tiles, BT. Evil tiles.
I know a lot of you have heard about my feelings behind the lobby security guards at the office in Boston. In fact, I wrote a little blurb about them and won some free milkshakes for my team (the point of the contest was to explain why my office deserved to win the shakes and I claimed security guard harassment entitled us to them). But let me tell you that the security guards in London have those Yankees beat by a long shot. Sure, we have those same turnstiles you have to swipe your card at in order to get through. And sure, we have the same sign-in book for Guests, Clients, and People Pretending To Be A Guest Or Client So They Can Enter The Building And Secretly Use Our Coffee Machine. But the actual security men...oh boy. Before you can even think about swiping your ID card, you have to first show it to them so they can see that yep, it’s your picture on there and yep, it’s my company's badge. Not that this isn’t enough craziness on its own, after all, it’s no small feat to gain building access on an ID card since it takes at least three weeks for an actual employee to get it. But the security guards, all three of them on a rotating schedule, act as though THEY HAVE NEVER SEEN YOU BEFORE IN THEIR LIVES. I feel like I know their eating habits, the way they tie their shoes, and the names of their children, but they don’t recognize my face every morning? There was one day that one of them was logging someone into the guest book and I stupidly assumed I could just walk by without assuring them I wasn’t an employee from a different company in disguise. Oh he let me have it all right; he all but punched me in the face to prevent me from going through those turnstiles. And it’s not just a day-to-day thing, either. I’ll enter the building in the morning, smile, show them my chipmunk cheek-faced ID picture, go out for lunch later in the day, and when I come back am met with quizzing looks as if to say, “And who are you? Do you work for our company? I’m going to need to see some ID before I can let you in this building, Missy.”
How did I do on staying positive?
*music – Hey there I said it “I’m in love with you,” There’s an ocean between us just like me deep and blue, And I at times have had nothing, But tonight I want nothing but you
Having said that, this morning I came across a hilarious blog called 1000 Tiny Things I Hate. I highly recommend watching the video in post #101, or The Way The Man Who Sat Next To Me On The Train Last Night Ate His Peanuts. It’s even funnier than it sounds. Seriously, check this site out. I know I suggest a lot of things…books, movies, MUSIC…but this one is pretty damn funny. And plus, I know you don’t really need to check CNN.com for the 8th time today. Nothing has changed.
My co-worker BT sends me a link to some random online game pretty much every day. I’m not really sure how he finds them (his answer is always simply ‘RSS Feed’), and so far his success rate in me clicking on the link, giving more than 3 seconds of my attention to it, actually playing the game, and liking it enough to play it more than once is about 3 in 437. (He actually sent me a couple awesome typing games which appeal to the nerd in me and so I must thank him for that.) But the other day he sent me a link to a game whose objective was…. “Protect the castle from invasion by not allowing evil tiles to spread to it.” Evil tiles, BT. Evil tiles.
I know a lot of you have heard about my feelings behind the lobby security guards at the office in Boston. In fact, I wrote a little blurb about them and won some free milkshakes for my team (the point of the contest was to explain why my office deserved to win the shakes and I claimed security guard harassment entitled us to them). But let me tell you that the security guards in London have those Yankees beat by a long shot. Sure, we have those same turnstiles you have to swipe your card at in order to get through. And sure, we have the same sign-in book for Guests, Clients, and People Pretending To Be A Guest Or Client So They Can Enter The Building And Secretly Use Our Coffee Machine. But the actual security men...oh boy. Before you can even think about swiping your ID card, you have to first show it to them so they can see that yep, it’s your picture on there and yep, it’s my company's badge. Not that this isn’t enough craziness on its own, after all, it’s no small feat to gain building access on an ID card since it takes at least three weeks for an actual employee to get it. But the security guards, all three of them on a rotating schedule, act as though THEY HAVE NEVER SEEN YOU BEFORE IN THEIR LIVES. I feel like I know their eating habits, the way they tie their shoes, and the names of their children, but they don’t recognize my face every morning? There was one day that one of them was logging someone into the guest book and I stupidly assumed I could just walk by without assuring them I wasn’t an employee from a different company in disguise. Oh he let me have it all right; he all but punched me in the face to prevent me from going through those turnstiles. And it’s not just a day-to-day thing, either. I’ll enter the building in the morning, smile, show them my chipmunk cheek-faced ID picture, go out for lunch later in the day, and when I come back am met with quizzing looks as if to say, “And who are you? Do you work for our company? I’m going to need to see some ID before I can let you in this building, Missy.”
How did I do on staying positive?
*music – Hey there I said it “I’m in love with you,” There’s an ocean between us just like me deep and blue, And I at times have had nothing, But tonight I want nothing but you
Thursday, May 1, 2008
**Bridging the great train class divide
I am standing, jammed against the toilets of a packed and sweaty train from London to Bath. It is a Friday evening. There are at least one-million people on this train, only a handful of them sitting.
“Look at them,” I think. “Sitting with their smiles and their laptops and their Guardians. The bourgeoisie. The so-called ‘Elite.’”
I shake my head in disgust. It’s all about who you know on a train like this, I think. And about booking a seat in advance.
Perhaps, though, I am the lucky one. For I am one of a small group of people standing in the cold, jolting section between carriages, and I am part of a brotherhood. We have camaraderie through our suffering. We are the proletariat. We may not have seats, or warmth, but we have spirit.
And then, for the fifth time, a man bats me in the face as he turns the page of his newspaper and I realise that, really, I’d rather have seats and warmth. He doesn’t apologise. His eyes remain fixed on the sports reports. His paper is two inches from his face and one inch from mine. I am in real danger of receiving severe paper cuts every time he finishes another supplement.
Someone opened the window somewhere outside Reading and now it won’t shut. A large man has jostled me into straddling the section of the carriage that twists and gives as the train rounds bends. I am essentially snowboarding.
A feisty young woman barges through my section of the crowd, swearing at us under her breath, as if standing there deafened by the screeches and groans of a too-old train is a lifestyle choice. We look away, ashamed, blaming ourselves for being a burden, sorry to have bothered our masters. Twenty minutes later, she barges back through the other way, holding a can of Foster’s and a baguette, and swearing again.
I try to find someone’s eye. Enough is enough. Perhaps we can start a revolution. Perhaps those seated buffoons are not better than us. Perhaps we can rise up! But no one meets my eye.
“Where’s the camaraderie?” I think, looking around me. “Where’s the spirit of the Blitz? We’re just outside Swindon! Here, if anywhere, we need the spirit of the Blitz!”
But there is nothing. I strain to look down the still-rammed carriage. The feisty woman with the Foster’s has sat down with a grunt. And then I notice…she is alone! The feisty woman is now alone! She wasn’t before! There is a spare seat! Someone must have got off at Reading!
I wonder whether this is my chance to make something more of myself. To do something with my life. To join my betters. To sit down for the last part of the journey!
I cast my eyes around the brotherhood. Their eyes are fixed on the floor, or on their newspapers, or on the ceiling. They have not seen!
“I will do it,” I think, and I break away.
The small automatic door opens, and I can feel the eyes of my former brotherhood fixed on the back of my head, looking at me with hatred and envy. And then there are the surprised and panicked eyes of the already-seated. “What is he doing here?” they seem to be thinking. “Who are you, traveller, who dares enter our world?”
But I press on, exhilarated. I steady myself on the seats as the train judders, taking care not to hold on to them for too long, lest I anger my superiors. And then I am by the feisty woman’s side. Her Foster’s is open and there is a small piece of tuna on her lap. So this is how the other half live!
“Excuse me?” I say, a little too quietly. She does not look up. “Excuse me?”
She is sitting by the window. But I see what she has done. She has placed a small handbag and a light windbreaker on to the seat next to her, as a kind of clever shield. Her plan is impressive. By putting those things there, she thinks I will think they are an actual person. Or a strange shield which means she can’t see me or even hear me. But I will persist!
“Excuse me,” I say, louder, and this time she looks up.
There is no getting out of this one. That’s her lightweight windbreaker. That’s her handbag. It’s the same bag she was carrying when she bought her Foster’s and baguette!
“Is…er…is someone sitting there?” I say.
She looks at me. I look at her. I smile.
“Yes, there is,” she says, and goes back to eating her baguette.
I am stunned. Of course there’s no one sitting there!
“Sorry?” I say.
“No problem,” she says.
No! I was not apologising! And yet somehow I’ve…apologised!
I turn, shamed, and begin the long walk back. Those seated in the warmth look satisfied that my efforts have been rebuffed and go back to their Dan Brown books and style magazines. “No matter,” I think. “I will return to my rightful place, my head held high. I will return to my people!”
But I see that someone has already taken my spot. Now I must stand, embarrassed, next to the automatic door, where I will constantly set it opening and closing.
The man with the sports pages looks at me, smugly. I am an outcast. I have betrayed the brotherhood. I stare at the back of the woman’s head. At Swindon, she gets off, taking her windbreaker and bag with her.
The man with the sports pages waits a moment, and then takes her seat.
I stand all the way to Bath.
“Look at them,” I think. “Sitting with their smiles and their laptops and their Guardians. The bourgeoisie. The so-called ‘Elite.’”
I shake my head in disgust. It’s all about who you know on a train like this, I think. And about booking a seat in advance.
Perhaps, though, I am the lucky one. For I am one of a small group of people standing in the cold, jolting section between carriages, and I am part of a brotherhood. We have camaraderie through our suffering. We are the proletariat. We may not have seats, or warmth, but we have spirit.
And then, for the fifth time, a man bats me in the face as he turns the page of his newspaper and I realise that, really, I’d rather have seats and warmth. He doesn’t apologise. His eyes remain fixed on the sports reports. His paper is two inches from his face and one inch from mine. I am in real danger of receiving severe paper cuts every time he finishes another supplement.
Someone opened the window somewhere outside Reading and now it won’t shut. A large man has jostled me into straddling the section of the carriage that twists and gives as the train rounds bends. I am essentially snowboarding.
A feisty young woman barges through my section of the crowd, swearing at us under her breath, as if standing there deafened by the screeches and groans of a too-old train is a lifestyle choice. We look away, ashamed, blaming ourselves for being a burden, sorry to have bothered our masters. Twenty minutes later, she barges back through the other way, holding a can of Foster’s and a baguette, and swearing again.
I try to find someone’s eye. Enough is enough. Perhaps we can start a revolution. Perhaps those seated buffoons are not better than us. Perhaps we can rise up! But no one meets my eye.
“Where’s the camaraderie?” I think, looking around me. “Where’s the spirit of the Blitz? We’re just outside Swindon! Here, if anywhere, we need the spirit of the Blitz!”
But there is nothing. I strain to look down the still-rammed carriage. The feisty woman with the Foster’s has sat down with a grunt. And then I notice…she is alone! The feisty woman is now alone! She wasn’t before! There is a spare seat! Someone must have got off at Reading!
I wonder whether this is my chance to make something more of myself. To do something with my life. To join my betters. To sit down for the last part of the journey!
I cast my eyes around the brotherhood. Their eyes are fixed on the floor, or on their newspapers, or on the ceiling. They have not seen!
“I will do it,” I think, and I break away.
The small automatic door opens, and I can feel the eyes of my former brotherhood fixed on the back of my head, looking at me with hatred and envy. And then there are the surprised and panicked eyes of the already-seated. “What is he doing here?” they seem to be thinking. “Who are you, traveller, who dares enter our world?”
But I press on, exhilarated. I steady myself on the seats as the train judders, taking care not to hold on to them for too long, lest I anger my superiors. And then I am by the feisty woman’s side. Her Foster’s is open and there is a small piece of tuna on her lap. So this is how the other half live!
“Excuse me?” I say, a little too quietly. She does not look up. “Excuse me?”
She is sitting by the window. But I see what she has done. She has placed a small handbag and a light windbreaker on to the seat next to her, as a kind of clever shield. Her plan is impressive. By putting those things there, she thinks I will think they are an actual person. Or a strange shield which means she can’t see me or even hear me. But I will persist!
“Excuse me,” I say, louder, and this time she looks up.
There is no getting out of this one. That’s her lightweight windbreaker. That’s her handbag. It’s the same bag she was carrying when she bought her Foster’s and baguette!
“Is…er…is someone sitting there?” I say.
She looks at me. I look at her. I smile.
“Yes, there is,” she says, and goes back to eating her baguette.
I am stunned. Of course there’s no one sitting there!
“Sorry?” I say.
“No problem,” she says.
No! I was not apologising! And yet somehow I’ve…apologised!
I turn, shamed, and begin the long walk back. Those seated in the warmth look satisfied that my efforts have been rebuffed and go back to their Dan Brown books and style magazines. “No matter,” I think. “I will return to my rightful place, my head held high. I will return to my people!”
But I see that someone has already taken my spot. Now I must stand, embarrassed, next to the automatic door, where I will constantly set it opening and closing.
The man with the sports pages looks at me, smugly. I am an outcast. I have betrayed the brotherhood. I stare at the back of the woman’s head. At Swindon, she gets off, taking her windbreaker and bag with her.
The man with the sports pages waits a moment, and then takes her seat.
I stand all the way to Bath.
William Makepeace THACKERAY
No matter how much Splenda you put in it, a Parisian cup of espresso will always be insanely potent.
Also potent? Theresa drinking wine out of a plastic cup before 9 am.
Also potent? Theresa drinking wine out of a plastic cup before 9 am.
The pig looks worried. Understandably so.
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