A cross-dressing nun called Transister

Kanye West, here’s an update for you. The word ‘invisible’ does not rhyme with the word ‘invincible.’ (Another update? You are neither.)

I love to see a grown man walking down Oxford Street eating a Belgian waffle with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. I love even more to see that same grown man’s chin, nose, and cheeks covered in ice cream as if he were a 3-year-old with no inhibitions about shovelling dessert into his face. Wear that ice cream proud, sir.

Walking down the busiest street in the world filled with flocks of tourists is usually a painful experience for me. But studying (i.e. laughing at) human beings’ behavior in their natural habitat (i.e. within proximity to schlock-y stores and Chinese takeaway stands) more than makes up for it. Like when that one girl bumped shoulders with that other woman and she kept walking but quite obviously mumbled ‘bitch’ under her breath.

Lisa to Apple employee Pearce: “Is there any way to add songs to a current playlist on an iPod?”
Pearce: “Can you move to the iPod station over here? I’m not allowed to move from this spot.”
Lisa: “Okaaaaaay.” (Moves 1 foot to the right)
Pearce: “So, what can I do for you?”
Lisa: “I want to know if it’s possible to add an artist to a current playlist on an iPod.”
Pearce: “If you click the center button, it will play the selected artist.”
Lisa: (Realizing I need to put this in his terms so that maybe he’ll start answering the questions I’m asking) “Okay, say I’m listening to COLDPLAY but I want to also listen to THE BEATLES. How would I do that?”
Pearce: “Ah, okay. Well, say you’re listening to X&Y…that’s an album by Coldplay…if you click Play, it will play all the songs from that album. If you click on The Beatles, it will play Beatles songs.”
Lisa: (Thinking “Oh my God, my mother knows more about iPods than this man”) “Is there any way to create a playlist that crosses artists though?”
Pearce: “Sure, on iTunes you can create playlists. If you want to create a playlist for a party, you can choose the songs you want to hear and set them as your ‘Party Playlist’.”
Lisa: (About to shove the iPod up his British nose) “Right. I know about creating playlists on iTunes. But can I do that on an actual iPod?”
Pearce: “Oh on an iPod? No. You can’t do that.”

This weekend was the Glastonbury music festival. It’s about as big here as Woodstock was in America, except it happens every year. I suppose you could compare it to Bonnaroo these days, but with more people, normally more rain and mud, and more skinny jeans. Saturday afternoon I caught Amy Winehouse’s performance on BBC2. Okay. Here’s the thing. I used to feel sorry for this chick. She has genuine talent and put out a couple good albums, but the media won’t let up on her for a second just because of a few mere things like crack pipes, anorexia, domestic violence, and an incarcerated husband. But I really thought she was undeservedly being crapped on. Until I watched this show. Holy moly that girl has issues! I’m sure you heard about the highlight of her performance when she repeatedly punched a fan (in her defense, they are claiming he grabbed one of her knockers). But what you may not have heard about is Amy:
- Calling Kanye West a cunt
- Fiddling non-stop (and non-soberly) with the hem of her dress
- Shoving her boobs back into her strapless dress after each song
- Asking the audience to let her know if one of her “tits pops out”
- Holding up her beehive hairdo so that it wouldn’t fall over
- Running at pretty high speeds across the stage in heels that were not made for a 95-pound drunk girl
- Flubbing her entrance on “Rehab,” stopping the band, and starting over again
- Confessing that Blake used to beat her with a cricket bat

All in all, it was a pretty decent set.

Ridiculously unlikely suspects (A guest blog)

Technically I don't have permission (yet) to re-print this email sent to me by Chris Wyman, but I have promised him a new container of lo mein if he has an issue with it. Actually, I'll probably end up buying him some Chinese noodles even if he doesn't have an issue with it. In any case, here's a fun story written by a man with self-proclaimed delicate and ladylike toes.

When I got home on Friday, I noticed that something in my kitchen smelled kind of funky. My roommate Tom has been off visiting relatives for a few weeks, and when left to my own devices I try to minimize the presence of perishable items in the apartment... so I was a little confused. I'd eaten Chinese take-out a few nights earlier, though, so maybe some decomposing lo mein was stuck to the bottom of one of the cartons and stinking up the garbage? I figured taking out the trash would get rid of the odor, and promptly did so.

The next morning, I meandered into the kitchen to discover that the smell was not only still present, but noticeably worse. A quick visual search of the fridge, cupboards, microwave, and stove revealed no suspects -- everything in sight was clean, non-perishable, or sealed in an airtight container, and no lingering remnants appeared to be stuck in the nooks and crannies. Naturally, I switched to following my nose, and carefully sniffed everything present, moving from likely suspects (like the drain in the kitchen sink and a pair of running shoes I'd left next to the radiator to dry) to ridiculously unlikely suspects that I felt the need to check "just in case" (like the paper-towel dispenser and a box of Cheerios).

Eventually, my nose reached the toaster -- or, more specifically, Tom's toaster. I do not own a toaster, nor had I ever used Tom's toaster. I'm not sure if I even know how to make toast. Like most normal people (or so I assume), if I want toast, I go to a restaurant. Moreover, this was a fairly new appliance -- Tom had received it as a christmas present, if memory serves. (I'm not sure how this fact entered into my reasoning over why the toaster couldn't possibly be the source of the bad smell... I guess I assumed that young toasters are less likely to "go bad," or that enough time hadn't passed for the toaster to have something rot-worthy entered into it?)

Well, in any event, I was wrong, because after one investigative sniff of the air around the toaster, I nearly fell over. Good LORD. There's only one thing in the universe that produces the ripe, charnel-tinted vapors that I had just inhaled, and that is our good, old-fashioned friend DEATH. Although no visual evidence could be produced to support my theory, it was clear to me that someone or something had crawled into Tom's toaster to die, and had done a pretty good job of it.

Since Tom is, like I said, on holiday, I decided to give his toaster a fair trial before executing it. Taking it apart to fish out the source of the odor was clearly out of the question, since this would involve occupying the same physical space as the toaster (and thus also its intolerable) smell for several minutes. Instead, I put a plastic bag over my hand, picked up the toaster, and ran outside, depositing the appliance under a lilac bush. Upon returning to the kitchen, the overall smell was worse, as if I had disturbed it, and it had become enraged -- but I was not deterred. The trial would continue.

The next morning, I confidently entered the kitchen and inhaled deeply. It smelled of dish soap, which is -- in fact -- one of several dozen acceptable smells for a kitchen to have, so I was pleased... but also saddened over what I knew had to happen next. I quickly found another two plastic bags for my hands (no sense in wasting a perfectly good pair of gloves, right?) and marched out to the lilac bush.

The cartoon version of events playing in my head expected the lilac to have wilted and browned over night from the presence of its new neighbor, but this was thankfully not the case. The toaster was still there, though, and it was attracting the interest of about a half-dozen flies. I don't remember what happened next, probably because I had resolved not to breathe once I had left the kitchen and was running out of oxygen, but I'm pretty sure it involved our apartment building's dumpster. When I came to my senses, I was back in the kitchen, searching desperately for a scented candle.

I learned many years ago (from Sesame Street, I think) that toasters, like ice cream cones and telephones, are not alive, and thus do not die. Also, I learned about two weeks ago that our apartment building has mice. So, naturally, I am operating under the impression that we are now short a toaster AND a mouse. Tom has yet to return from his vacation, but I have a feeling that when he returns, this whole story will end up costing me a trip to Target and about forty bucks. It will be money well spent, though, because I may be able to use this experience as evidence that we probably need to get a cat.

Abe Froman, Sausage King of Chicago

So here's something amusing. As you may know, advertisements are everywhere in London and double decker buses are certainly no exception. This picture shows the ad for the new Will Smith movie, Hancock. The first time I saw this I thought, "Someone has put something on Will's lip to make it look like he has herpes. Well, that's kinda funny I suppose. Serves 'em right for plastering such a huge picture of his face on a bus." But then I saw the same circle thingy on another Hancock bus. And that's when I thought, "Wow. They got that one too. That is dedication to the vandalism cause." But when I didn't see ANY Hancock buses without the STD-resembling circle, I started to wonder if there was something flawed with my thinking. So I started checking out other ads, and lo and behold, that circle was on all of them. (Unfortunately for the model, placed in a very embarrassing place on the Armani underwear ads.) You would think that the advertising people would take this bus "nubbin" into account when designing their public transportation ads. I'm just saying.

Further down the fence is a sign that says "IMPOLITE NOTICE - LOCK YOUR MOTHERFUCKING BIKE TO THIS MOTHERFUCKING RAILING AND YOU'RE DEAD, MOTHERFUCKER"

If I had all the money in the world I would buy this truck for my niece, Chana...she absolutely loves trucks. She also loves to wear flannel shirts, smoke Marlboro reds, listen to Loretta Lynn, and be referred to as Large Marge.

The back wall of a butcher shop. First of all, that's a lot of plastic bags. Not very eco-friendly are we, Mister Animal Slaughterer? Second of all, I'm pretty sure that if you open the tape deck of that boombox, you'll find a Culture Club tape.

I have no funny quip about this one. I just like the picture.

Still on a mission to singlehandedly bring back the side ponytail

You can't see it in this picture, but to the right is a Saint Bernard with a London Times in its mouth heading this way.

If this doesn't look like a relaxing summer afternoon to you, I don't know what would. (Okay maybe he could be eating an ice cream cone, but that would be overkill don't you think?)

A sign in Holland Park. If it were legal for a country to marry parks, I would be living in the land of Mr. and Mrs. Lovesparksalot. And Elton John would have sung at their civil partnership ceremony.

Here's a sign stating the obvious. Hidden on the left is a sign that says "TREE" with an arrow pointing to the right.

Here's what looks like a boring picture of old people...
The woman on the left is drinking some anti-oxidant pomegranate juice hoping it gets rid of her crows feet and finally makes her attractive to the 30 year old hunk in Corporate Accounting. The man in the blue sweater is talking about how his wife just spent £50,000 to renovate their kitchen which didn't need any sprucing up since she hasn't cooked a decent meal in her goddamn life. The woman in the yellow blazer is thinking that this 6th cup of wine won't be enough if he's going to keep talking about his whore of a wife and their kitchen. The man in the white jacket is thinking that it's been over 4 hours since he popped that blue pill and maybe he should consult his doctor. The couple on the right is talking about giraffes.
However, if you look closely, you will notice that on top of the brick wall is a blue blob. And wouldn't you know, that's a peacock!! They just roam free in Holland Park. It's amazing! (Not as amazing as old people's conversations, though.)