A work in progress

A few new posts today, but I'm still getting the hang of blogging. I just turned off the account requirement for posting comments, hopefully that will makes things easy for people so they don't have to login just to post comments.

So, you hear that you spamming bastards? It just got easier to clog up my blog with your junk. Oh well, at least someone is commenting on here. I guess I should feel flattered.

Whoever wins, we lose

Last night, after getting back from a long walk around town, my friend invited me to meet up with some people at one of the local pubs. Having never been to this place before, and not quite ready for bed, I was game. Alas, my night was cut short by one of the most regrettable scenes I've had the misfortune to be around.

The pubs in London, by law, have to close early (I believe it is at 11). So by the time we got there about quarter past, the people we were looking for were soused and milling around the sidewalk. Since I'm in England, I think I'll honor the monarchy and claim that I was using the royal "we", because I didn't actually know any of the guys we met up with. And for this I'm glad, because if nothing else it gives me some plausible deniability for what transpired next.

Within four minutes of my arrival, two guys from the group started having an argument with a guy on the sidewalk. "Hey", you are probably saying, "that isn't unusual, guys get into arguments and fights all the time when the bars are clearing out." Now all this is true. But most people don't end up getting into arguments about how America and Britain have each fared in past wars. And most people don't find themselves arguing with drunken homeless guys. And they usually don't gang up on them, either. Yup, that was about the way it went down: two drunken American guys (I think they were both about 19) got into an argument with a drunkard about past military victories, going all the way back to the 17th century. I think the low point was when the American guys started gloating about the number of Brits the Nazis killed. They were almost giddy with joy at the thought of dead Londoners.

Does it get any more sad than that? Somebody hurry up and put a tent on that circus, because the clowns are already here.

Watching all this, I was torn. I wanted to step in and put a stop to the bickering, but by doing so it would be an admission that I knew someone involved in this embarassing display. What to do, what to do? I managed to ease away from the arguing, so that the casual passersby wouldn't know that I was part of this group. Finally I just left and walked back to my flat by myself. That little display just set back the notion of international relations back about 1000 years.

Lord. A drunkard and two frat guys arguing on the street.

Whoever wins, we lose.

A containment breach concerning my crotch

I've been having a bit of a love/hate relationship with my newest underwear. Let me explain: some time ago I was shopping for some new underoos, and I couldn't help but notice that there was a vast array of styles and cuts that I had never worn before. I soon tried boxer briefs, and found them mildly satisfying as far as comfort goes.

And yet, I was still haunted by some of the more risque styles available for purchase. I have to admit, it took some time to muster the courage to buy the men's string bikini brief underwear. Now this may sound silly to some, but people (especially the ladies), hear me out...nobody I know wears these. Not a single soul. Bikini briefs are the clothing equivalent of those horrible looking foods from Mexico that make you cringe every time you see them. Now, I love Mexico: its people, its language, and most of its food. But honstly, are you going to buy that? Fuck no. But somebody has to buy it, or else they wouldn't stock it. More than anything, I was worried I was really missing out on something heavenly by not buying the string bikini briefs, so I made the bold move to purchase them (although I do have to confess that I still used the U-Scan checkout; my courage does have its limits, after all).

So, what is the verdict, you ask? Well, that is tough to say. For the most part, I like the minimalist comfort they provide. But the major problem I have is the distribution of material. As I have discussed earlier, I have big hips and buttocks, which means that, proportionally, the back of the bikinis has a lot to handle. Unfortunately, the slack needs to be taken up from somewhere else in the garments. And considering that the undies are essentially some fabric in back with a lesser amount amount of fabric up front, tethered together via some thin strings...well, let's just say this can be problematic. Ouch.

And it's not just the occasional snugness that is the problem. When you have a lot of movement and shifting going on behind a small piece of cloth, well, it's only a matter of time before you experience a breach in the containment field. For those still a little slow on the uptake, let's just say the banana can sometimes fall out of the hammock. Is that vivid enough for you?

So, would I buy them again? Can't say for sure. I don't wear them too often as it is, so they are far from my favorite undies. So, for any men still thinking about purchasing some string bikini briefs, take heed. Fairly thee be warned, says I.

I'll be sure to keep the public up to date on any more of underwear adventures. And just so you think I can't top being a guy who wears string bikini underwear, be advised that I'm still contemplating buying this sort of abomination.

Jesus.

I'm a tubby, tubby man

So, I went with my German friend Hanno to buy pants today at some of the hip London shops. And apparently I'm too outrageously fat to actually buy any stylish clothes out here in England. I'm used to some difficulties buying jeans, because my hip, ass and thighs are proportionally larger than my waist size, so most of the pants I try on are pretty tight across the butt and crotchal region. But English jeans take this to a whole new, ridiculous level. I'm about 6' 2" and I weight about 190 pounds, and I was up in the 36 waist size range and they were skin tight. Actually, more than skin tight; they were actually compressing my flesh towards my bones. It was like I was wearing denim biker shorts. Ouch. Not the most comfortable thing I've ever worn.

Now that I am feeling thoroughly dejected and defeated, it is clear to me that I'll have to buy some of those horrible "Husky" pants I had when I was a child. Now, I was fat as a kid. No, I was actually obese, and it wasn't just as a kid, it was clear up through high school. And let me tell you, when I was young, they didn't have any nice looking clothes for fatties like me. I think the key word used to describe the clothes available would have been "rugged". And no, this isn't rugged in the masculine, cool, Marlboro Man type handsome ruggedness. No, this was thick, dark dark blue denim jeans and super thick sweaters rugged. You know, to keep fat kids from ripping through their clothes after they ate one too many Butterfingers. You know, the functional (aka ugly) type of rugged.

So, yeah, now I'm going to have to purchase "Rustler" pants from the Husky section of Sears. If there are any fat people out there reading this, well, I guess I'll see you there, compadres.

Now I'm going to eat a whole tub of ice cream and cry myself to sleep because I'm so fat :(

I've been around the Globe, and the songs that I wish came with me

Last night I had a ticket to a performance of Shakespeare's Tempest at the Glober theater here in London. The theater is reputed to be a fairly accurate recreation of the original Globe where many of his plays were produced in, and I have to admit, it is a pretty amazing venue to see a play in. I decided to purchase a standing ticket in the yard area so I could get the full peasant experience.

Oh, yeah, and also because I'm poor.

Anyway, I can now claim to have been around the "Globe", as I stuck around after the performance and wandered around to soak up the atmosphere for a few minutes. After leaving the theater, I decided to walk around London for a bit, and about 11 at night I found myself sitting on the steps of Trafalgar Square staring out aross the city, just sort of experiencing being alone. You see, I asked for a single room out here at the residence, but alas, I got put into a double room with another guy.

Now, he is a great person, a really nice guy from Russia. But I really value my privacy and my alone time, so having a roomie can sort of be difficult, especially when you are just sharing one room together. And because I don't have any real alone time or privacy in my "home life", I find that I really have to carve it out of other areas in my life. My main recourse is to get out and about the city by myself, and it is actually common for me to head out by myself and spend three or four hours just walking around London, getting in touch with the city. But I also find that I sequester myself from the rest of the students in my dorms. I'm friendly with many of them, but I don't actually hang out with them very often. I think a perfect example of my isolationist lifestyle was last night, as the official "welcoming" party at the University was held the same night as my ticket to the play. I actually bought my ticket with along with someone else, and when I talked to some other people I found they too had standing tickets for the same performance. But of course, since I'm enjoying being by myself so much, I decide to just go by myself down to the show. I think the best part was my brief appearance at the welcome party, which I attended for about 15 minutes before leaving for the play. In honor of Shakespeare, I'll present it here in script format:

ENTER Andy. He walks down the stairs into the lounge, and immediately
searches out the free drinks table.

ANDY: Hey, have you seen where the wine is?

STUDENT: I don't think there really is a line, you just grab stuff.

ANDY: No, the wine. I heard there was free wine tonight.

STUDENT: Oh, yeah, it's over there.

ANDY walks to free wine table, and grabs several glasses.

ANDY (internally): Hello, free wine! (Gulp, gulp, gulp...) Goodbye, free wine!

EXIT Andy, stage left

Essentially, my experience at the welcoming party was confined to welcoming free wine into my gullet. I'm so awesome.

Actually, spending so much time alone actually sort of becomes a balancing act. Most of the time, I love it. It is a great feeling to get out and about on my own, and even travel around the countryside or even to other countries. It is very liberating and empowering. At the same time, though, it can periodically be lonely. Being in such an enormous city doesn't help matter. Knowing that you are in a city of 8 million people, plus all the thousands of tourists who come and go every single day, and being keenly aware that you really don't know anyone there...well, sometimes it doesn't feel that great.

With that in mind as I sat in Trafalgar square, I started to think about some of the songs that I would want to hear as I walked alone through a city, late at night. Just off the top of my head, I came up with a short list:

1) Streets of Philadelphia-Bruce Springsteen
2) Most of the Time-Bob Dylan
3) Where you get Love (live in SLC acoustic
version)-Matthew Sweet
4) Kettles- The Arcade Fire
5) The Long Road- Pearl Jam
6) Old Man-Neil Young
7) Distortions- Clinic
8) Crying Game-Boy George
9) How Soon is Now-The Smiths
10) Either Way- Guster
11) You are the Everything- REM
12) Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald-Gordon Lightfoot
13) Your Blue Room- U2

I like to think I have pretty good taste in music, but I'd also like to thank some of my friends for giving me the heads up on some great music in general, and some of these artists in particular. Hernandez, for being my eternal link to the best of indie rock and U2; Gregg for getting me into Motown, Elvis and soul; Curtis for getting me into Morrissey and the Smiths, as well as Latin music; Nalley for getting me to finally respect some rap after making fun of it for years; my parents for getting me into classic country, early rock and blues; Levi for getting me into Clinic and other artists...I'm sure I'm missing out on some people, if I forgot you, sorry!!

I need to visit Parliament

On my mobile phone back in Idaho I keep the phone numbers for various political figures. I find it comforting that anytime, day or night, I can ring someone up and at least leave a message on their voicemail. My most recent call was during a drunken night out at the Alberta Public House in Portland, when I decided to ring up Senator Craig and let him know what I thought of him. To the best of my recollection, the message was almost exactly this:

"Yes, hello Senator Craig, this is one of your concerned constituents. I would like you to know that you sucky suck suck. Furthermore, you...are...gay. Thank you."

And there are those who say the average citizen doesn't engage in meaningful dialogue with their political leaders anymore. Pfft.

And I've just now decided I'm going to try and sit in on a session of Parliament, and maybe even catch a Tony Blair speech if I can. But most of all I need to get the phone numbers of a few government officials so I can call them and give them the good word from a man on the street. The Pocatello streets, that is.

I love screeching sperm, I hate the "biggest show in Idaho", and I'm scared of robot roosters

This past weekend was the Thames River Festival, which is essentially a big festival put on by the Mayor's office. The several mile festival took over the southern embankment and stretched from Westminster and Big Ben down to the Tower Bridge, filling it with arts, crafts, food stalls, music, street performers and, of course, drunkards. In a way, it was like the Blackfoot Fair, only replace the words "stretched from Westminster and Big Ben down to the Tower Bridge" with "stretched from a primer-painted broken down Camaro down to two-drunk teenage farm kids humping in the sagebrush and cow manure". Oh, and I didn't see any exhibits for farm animals, while is actually kind of a shame. That would have been kind of a neat reminder of home. Too bad.

I've been feeling like somewhat of a lone wolf these last few days, so I made it a point to attend the festivities by myself this weekend. I spent five hours of my Saturday evening there, just walking around and enjoying the sights, and I have to admit it was rather bizarre to attend something like that all by myself. Almost everyone I saw out was either there as a couple or at least with a group of friends, so in a sense I felt almost invisible as I weaved through the crowd. It's hard to explain the feeling, but I felt a bit of distance to the whole proceedings, almost a bit of journalistic, voyeuristic detachment. Which doesn't mean, of course, that I didn't have a great time down there, since the weather was great and there were scads of things to see. One of my favorite parts was the parade of lights and dancers, which included a giant robot rooster all alit. He actually looked sort of like a dragon as he loomed over the crowed, his neck swinging back and forth and his metallic beak opening and snapping shut. Cool, but menacing.

It was Sunday evening, however, that I was most excited about, since that was when the closing fireworks display, fired off of a boat in the middle of the Thames, was going to be held. Unfortunately, years of living in Pocatello has conditioned me to the point that I cannot see (or even think of) fireworks without the phrase "The Biggest show in Idaho" running through my mind. (For those of you unfortunate enough to have heard the radio broadcasts or attended the show in person, the usually good fireworks display is marred by a smarmy voice actor bellowing out the words "The Biggest Show in Idaho" ad nauseam with all the faux sincerity he can muster. A horrible, horrible thing. There really should be some sort of UN Resolution passed against this guy; it really is almost a human rights violation to have to be subjected to that.

But on the fireworks show, and its overtly erotic theme. The show started a bit slow, with rhythmic shockwaves as the explosions hit the crowd. Picking up the tempo a bit, the fireworks came out harder, faster, thrusting shell after shell into the sky. The repercussions pounded more quickly now, creating an orgy of colors, and finally climaxed with a shower of shrieking sperm ejaculating from the long hard tubes on the boat. I want to stress this mental image: at the end, fireworks streamed out of the tubes that created white, round, sparkling heads and had a tail that trailed behind. And there were dozens of them coming out all at once. And they all made a loud screaming noise. Hilarious. When it was over, I felt strangely relaxed, and wondered if I needed a cigarette...

I wish I had screaming sperm. I wish every guy had screaming sperm. I think it would really cut down on some embarassing mishaps if sperm would make a piercing cry as it was released out into the wild. Pee-Wee Herman wouldn't have performed maintenance on his "playhouse" if he knew what sort of ruckus it would cause. George Michael wouldn't have used a rest area to want his own sex if it made that much noise. And no longer would mothers of teenage sons have to stand outside of the bathroom door and ask worriedly, "What's going on in there?" They would just have to listen in for the sound of self-love in action.

Why the Brits might lock me up for visiting Fort Hall Reservation

Anyone who has travelled abroad knows that local laws can be wacky, and sometimes a little bit disconcerting. I've had Hungarian police randomly stop me on the street to check my papers (this was a bit unusual, in that they mainly harass dark-skinned people, primarily the Roma [Gypsy] population) and Italian customs agents disappear with my passport into a different room. I've had Slovakian train agents, on two separate occasions, try to fine several friends (and even try to take an ATM card from one guy) for having their feet on a seat.

Most comical to me was my experience on the international ticketing platform at the main train station in Bucharest while getting a price quote for a ticket to Istanbul. I needed to get an exact amount so I could go back out to the main hall and go to the ATM. As I walked out, however, I was stopped by two cops who pointed to a sign on the wall and started speaking Romanian to me. Romanian can be vaguely similar to Spanish in construction, so as I strained to understand them I thought I caught a word that was a cognate to a Spanish word. Aha! I thought my spanish studies would actually pay off in the real world. Apparently they weren't talking about the bathroom like I thought, because when I tried to leave they physically restrained me. Turns out they have a wacky law that if you enter the international platform, it actually is a crime to leave the international platform unless you buy a ticket out of the country. What. The. Fook. Anyway, some 30,000 Romanian Lei lighter (I think this was a little over a dollar at the time), I was on my way to the ATM and back to buy my ticket. This time I made sure to wave my ticket in their face to avoid any more international intrigue.

Anyway, the point of all this is a new law being proposed out here in England which has me a bit concerned for my early July activities next summer. Seems the government is making it a crime to "glorify" any terrorist act from the past two decades in an effort to calm tensions and increase the peace, so to speak. Now, I could go off on a long tangent about how this is an interesting case study to an American studying in Britain, particularly because of our culture of free speech, British traditions, American laws against inciting speech, and so on. But I'll get to the relevant part:

But the small print of the draft terrorism bill published yesterday shows that the home secretary is preparing to go even further and draw up a list of historical terrorist acts which if "glorified" could mean a criminal offence being committed.

Hmm, anyone out there know any "terrorist" acts that America has historically committed against Britain? So, yeah, guys...uh...July 4th? Um, nothing significant about that date to me...

Looking at some of the provisions listed in the article, I can see a few sticking points for enjoying July 4 in the typical American tradition of drunken buffoonery:

Preparing terrorist acts and training: Carries a life sentence. Anyone involved in instruction concerning using "noxious substances" or adapting any techniques for use in terrorism will face a 10-year sentence. An offence of "attending a terrorist training camp" anywhere in the world will also carry a prison sentence of up to 10 years

Ouch. Let's see, have I done any training or acted with anything that could be adapted to terrorism. Attended "any terrorist training camps"? Let's see, those are usually out in some hot, dry, desolate, poor part of some country right? Usually surrounded by mountains? A place where you can get your hands on some illegal munitions? Uh oh. That all sounds like the illegal fireworks stands out on Fort Hall. Damnit. And guess what everyone? Guess who turned me on to Fort Hall fireworks last year? Gregg, who we have already established has ties to terrorism. Talk about falling in with the wrong crowd...

However, there is some hope for me in this passage:

Supergrasses: Sentence discount of up to 60% to give incentive to divulge information.

You hear that Kemp? If the British bobbies come looking for me, I'm ratting you out. Sorry old chum. Tough break. On the upside, it sounds like I get some sort of "supergrass" for singing like a canary. "I was gonna go to jail for terrorism, but then I got high..."

On why I'm 93% cheese and grains, and why 10 year schoolchildren are my peers

In the comments section for an ealier post, I was talking with Mandy and Gregg about the high cost of drinking in England. The consensus was that it was, well, way too high for any normal (non-wealthy) person from the US to consider reasonable. With that in mind, I thought I'd actually make a post about the cost of living here in general versus back home in Idaho.

While reading through this, bear in mind that London is either #1 or #2 on the list of most expensive cities in the world to live. Tokyo rivals it, so I'm not sure which is currently pricier, but needless to say things cost a small fortune here. Case in point: I tried to go see a matinee of a play yesterday, but didn't have advance tickets. So I went to the box office right before curtain and tried to get some last minute ducat. When I got to the window they told me the price would be 80 dollars. Huh. Well, I'll see you guys later, because I certainly can't afford that. To be fair, you can get tickets for about 20 dollars, but there seemed to be a field trip of dozens of school children to the performane that day, so those little bastards bought up everything in the cheap seat section that I was hoping to get.

So, in sum, I am about as financially secure and independent in London as a bunch of 10 year olds. Wow, how is that for a blow to your self-esteem.

Anyway, marvel at this list of price differentials (all listed in dollars):

Idaho vs. London

A gallon of gas
2.60 vs. 6.88

Month of transit (gas for my car vs. month
travelcard on tube and busses)
30 vs. 128.57

Crappy apartment 30 minutes outside of city center
(beats me, I don't know how much
real estate costs in Marsh Valley)
vs.
1000/month

An evening movie
8 vs. 18

Proper dinner with 1 drink
11 vs. 26

Cheap meal at bar w/out drink
5 vs. 8-12


All you can eat Asian buffet + drink
5 vs. 12.50

Well, as you can see, it can cost a princely sum to survive in London, especially if you are converting Idaho costs to London costs. Consequently, fully 97% of my meals so far has been from the grocery store, while 80% of my meals have consisted of cereal, bread and cheese, and fruit. And, given the old adage about being what you eat, I think my body has reached a sort of carrying capacity where I'm actually turning into cheese and grain at the cellular level.

I looked in the mirror and saw a man who wasn't there

It all started with the fact that I don't exist for the British postal system. From there, and this is rather scary to admit, I've had the dawning realization that the living quarters I'm occupying don't actually seem to exist. Oh, it seems tangible enough: the wall and floors seem quite solid, the traffic noises outside sound convincing, and my convulsions as I wretch every time I pass the fetid, putrid trash heap on the second floor stairs feel real enough. But alas, these are all superficial; merely amateurish parlour tricks just convincing enough to fool most of the populace.

Consider the evidence: I live in a non-descript building that utterly lacks any sort of identifiers that would indicate address or function. The only entrance is a solid green door without a number or name on it, and it lacks even a mail slot or post box anywhere near it. Consequently, nothing I have applied for through the mail has gotten to me yet. I spent £5 on a discount card for the grotesquely over-priced public transit in London. That never arrived. I'm assuming the mailman threw it in the nearest gutter when he realized that no such building existed at the address on the envelope. So the only monetary decrease I've experienced so far has been in my bank account balance, and not in the price of the tube.

Additionally, I applied online for a Tesco club card, anticipating that I would be able to earn points for every one of my purchases at their fine stores. I'm also going to assume that this is lying somewhere near my tube discount card in the gutter. By now I would suspect that the mailman is really starting to hate this "Andy Robinson" bastard who keeps addressing things to a non-existent place. What sort of sick joke is he playing, anyway? I really hope I don't bump into the local postman at the pub one night, because I fear he would challenge me to British fisticuffs if he knew who I was.

On top of this, the computers in the building only have internet access for about five minutes at a time before the router goes down and takes down everything. Yesterday one guy I was in the lab with spent twenty minutes typing up an email and the router went down just as he sent it. Whoopsie! The same thing happened to me, although I had the foresight to copy my text to a word document just in case that happened. Clearly, someone is afraid that if I have access to too much information, the truth may come out...

My initial reaction was to wonder, "Am I in the Matrix?" But that seemed too obvious. I had to dig deeper, I had to continue searching for the answer. What were some clues to my situation? I've long had an inclination towards cartoonish supervillainy, what if there was some power out there that wanted to contain me...perhaps some superpower? Hmm...power...super...superpowers...Great Ceasar's Ghost!!! I've stumbled across it!! I uncovered the horrible secret! Superman has imprisoned me in the Phantom Zone!

I swear that if I ever get out of here, I will make the son of Jor-El kneel before me...

I'm rubbish

Oh dear, I've been a bad lad out here in London. This time I have to blame, paradoxically, the high cost and low cost of beer. Let me explain. This beverage, like everything else here, is astronomically expensive. A single pint can will generally cost about five dollars, and even store bought beer costs a shade under two dollars per can. Ouch. So when a bar is running a cheap drink special, people come in hordes. Or droves. Or droves of hordes. Whatever. Anyway, the point of all this is that there is a large bar imaginatively named "The American Sports Cafe" near Picadilly Circus that has £1 pint night on Tuesdays, a fact they advertise to all incoming college students in the area by handing out fliers at all the dorms. Naturally enough the place attracts a large number of people...

Many people from my building have been going to this bar with a sort of religious devotion, the same kind of irrational attachment I've previously seen Gregg Kemp exhibit for his god "Mazda". So last night I decided to go along and see what this place had to offer. But first, being the cheapskate that I am, I polished off a few glasses of wine with dinner, because one pound for a pint still isn't cheap enough for me. Cost of my wine? Free, courtesy of the local University. And by the time I got to the bar, I decided that £1 really isn't bad, so I proceeded to knock back as much cheap beer as I could stand. Consequently, this led to me being very sauced, and by the end of the night, very stupid.

A side note: We were on our way there with a group of people when the German guy from down the hall decided that he knew a shortcut there that didn't involve taking the tube. ( I should mention that I saw this guy looking at some pictures of Hitler online in the computer lab yesterday). This would, apparently, save us about a dollar sixty four and, by my calculation, 38 seconds of travel time. Little did I know that the German actually had no clear idea of where we were headed, and the bus was actually taking us somewhere not quite to the bar, while the tube would have. Also, the German said that once we get to where we are going, it was up to me to navigate over to the bar. Well, seeing as how I had never been to this part of town before, I failed to see how that would be my responsibility. In the midst of this confusion, I had to start asking around the bus exactly where it was headed. (Thanks again, elderly gentlemen, for letting me know where we were headed.) Despite all this, we did make it to the bar eventually...

The moral of this digression is to never let Germans fool you into letting them plan a trip. Also, don't let them have internet access, because they'll just look up pictures of Hitler instead of watching internet porn like normal people.

Anyway, the reason why I saw I'm rubbish is because I was getting tired and decided to leave early and walk back home. En route some guy tried to stop me on the street to ask directions or something, and he said "Sir? Excuse me, sir...sir?" Well, it had been a long night, and not particularly fun, so I was in a bit of a foul mood, so with all the annoyance and derision I could muster up, I replied "Piss off!" And just for good measure, I even threw in a dismissive hand gesture to make sure he got the point the point that I really, really was hoping he would, in fact, piss off.

I have to say, that was far from my finest hour, and it is sort of embarassing to think about. Hopefully karma doesn't put the sham-whammy on me when I am in need...cause I really don't have any desire to "piss off".

Why Gregg Kemp hates freedom

I was at the British Library today, and they had an exhibition of important copies of religious texts from around the world on display. In one area they had a section on the ancient Iranian religion of Zoroastrianism, and made mention of their principal god, Ahura Mazda. Now my we all know that Iran is part of the much-publicized "Axis of Evil". Some, however, may not know that my friend Gregg drives a Mazda. In fact, he has owned several Mazdas, and has a great deal of brand loyalty.

I've always considered Gregg a patriotic guy, much like myself. Although we may not agree politically, we both love our country. Now however, I'm suspicious that his patriotism is a bit too, shall we say, convenient? After piecing together the clues, I'm beginning to sense Gregg is a double agent in service of evil. In fact, I can link Gregg to evil in four steps: Iran-->Zoroastrianism-->Mazda-->Gregg. Now compare this chain I found online: "Kevin Bacon was in Footloose with Dianne Weist, who was in The Birdcage with Gene Hackman,who was in The Firm with Holly Hunter,who was in Copycat with Sigourney Weaver,who was in Alien with the Alien."

Just think about that for a moment: Gregg is closer to terrorism than a fictional space creature is to Kevin Bacon. I'm pretty alarmed by this, and ashamed to say I called Gregg a friend for as long as I did. Oh, and Gregg works for Sprint, so if you have a Sprint phone I just want you to know that you are supporting terrorism. You un-American bastards. You make me sick, all of you. Why do you hate our freedom?

Piss off airline industry! I'd rather walk...

I think most people are familiar with the concept of airplanes and their function, right? People use them to move around over vast distances, right, oft-times ending up somewhere far from home? Well, somebody needs to get on the damn horn to British Airways and fill them in, because that concept has apparently never struck them. I tried to book some tickets from London to Helsinki during a class break this August, and I found some reasonably priced direct flights on the BA website. After poring over competing airlines and schedules, I finalized my decision and made it to the payment page only to find that you have to have a British credit card to buy plane tickets. That's right: if you are in London and don't have a return ticket out of here, BA won't allow you to buy tickets out of the country. You can rot here for all they care.

To try and circumvent the system, I went to travel agencies, each of which was about $40 more expensive than the webfare. So I guess I should amend my ealier statement to read as follows: if you are in London and don't have a return ticket out of here and you are not wealthy, you can rot for all BA cares.

Well, leave it to the Good Ol' USA to come through in a pinch. Turns out it was quite a bit cheaper to buy my tickets through travelocity.com, have them mailed to my parent's house in Idaho, and then have them mail them out here to London. Hey, who says globalization hasn't brought the world closer together, eh?

Anyway, when I'm in Helsinki, surrounded by many beautiful Scandinavian blondes, I'll be sure to hoist a glass of champagne in toast to British Airways and their wonderful customer service.

Not seeing a play makes you gay

Most of the people who know me are aware of the fact that I constantly, and quite inexplicably, cause a sensation in the gay community anywhere I go. I don't quite know why it happens, or why I am essentially invisible to women yet attract so many men. But it happens every time I visit Helsinki, it happens at Charlie's back home in Idaho, honestly, it happens everywhere. If there is a gay man within a three hundred yard radius of me, odds are that he will soon strike up a conversation with me and try to put the moves on. What's that? You want an example? Well, how's this as a "for instance": while at a club in Hungary, in the space of an hour I had three men come up and try to get some love off of me. This was not a gay club, this was a plain old fashioned guys and gals club, but apparently I seem so outrageously gay not matter what I'm doing all these gents just gravitated towards me.

I was explaining this to my friend Marcy the other day, and tonight we were walking around after a failed attempt to go see "The Postman Always Rings Twice." This play has actually sort of haunted my brief stay in London, and has succeeded in breaking my heart. I intially found out it was playing when I walked by a theatre and noticed that they had posters advertising the fact that this production starred Val Kilmer. Val Kilmer! I've long had an odd affinity for Val, so my heart leapt when I saw I had a chance to see him live. Alas, my heart quickly sank back down when I saw that the run of the play was ending that night and I would have to miss the show. However, checking the London events calender a few days later, I saw that the show was listed as running for a few more days. Wow, maybe they extended the run! So, tonight I went with Marcy to try and catch a live sighting of Val. Alas, fate would have its way with me again, and the play was indeed over on Saturday. Damn you internets, and all your bloody fictions!

This was actually a pretty crushing blow to me, as I had planned on rushing the stage at some point and trying to...I don't know, hug Val? Kiss him? I guess I was just going to go with the moment and see what happened. Regardless, without a Val sighting, I was left with an overabundance of unexpressed manlove. Later, as we walked through town, I couldn't get over not seeing my main man Val. Devastated, I ended up at an all-you-can-eat Thai restaurant, hoping that a massive influx of MSG laden food would somehow numb the crippling pain of being so close to Val, yet so damn far away.

What happened next didn't really shock me, but it took Marcy quite by surprise. Even though I had warned her of my wily, gay-attracting ways, she was still stunned to see it unfold right before her eyes. Towards the end of dinner, two men sat down at the table next to us, and literally within minutes one of them was chatting me up and fawning over me. It all seemed quite usual to me, just another day in the life of Andy, but Marcy found it rather hysterical.

I still wish I knew exactly why this sort of thing continues to happen to me. Well, here's my theory about tonight: since I never satiated my aforementioned man-love for Val, I had a surfeit of quasi-homoerotic tension built up inside me. This, consequently, triggered a blip on the "Gaydar" of epic proportions, one so large that must have shone like a beacon in the night. And up until I ate dinner I was a moving target, so nobody could really lock onto me; at dinner, however, I sat still for just one moment, and that was all the time they needed to hone in on me.

What can I say? I am gay......a gay magnet, that is.

"There have been rumors on the internets"

One site I make sure to read up on whenever possible is my friend Brian's blog, who is currently based in the idyllic town of Pocatello, Idaho. He was noticing that I keep getting wonderful spam comments on my three day old blog. Those bastards move fast. Maybe if they slowed down, took a deep breath, they wouldn't make so many grammatical mistakes, such as this one: “Don't miss visiting this site about how to buy & sell snowboarding on interest free credit; pay whenever you want.” Oh, really, you can show me how to buy and sell snowboarding? Could you sell me some running, because I've been too lazy to get out and jog on my own recently, and it really would just be easier to buy some from you guys. Actually, it looks like I'm a little short on money right now, maybe I could just trade you some spelling.

What is puzzling to me, however, is how they decide that I am the perfect market for their products. As far as I can tell, these spammers think that I am a Jewish horse-lover who currently has bad credit. Or maybe my horse has bad credit, I can't be sure.

Actually, this whole "horse-lover" tag has me sort of freaked out. Given recent news reports out of Washington (which borders Idaho, my home state) I'm not entirely comfortable being labeled as a horse lover. Oh, and for those of you who think your job is tough to stomach, imagine yourself as the cop who has to pore over hundreds of hours of videotaped evidence. I have to admit, though, that this passage absolutely had me in stitches:

Deputies don't believe a crime occurred because bestiality is not illegal in Washington state and the horse was uninjured, said Urquhart.

But because investigators found chickens, goats and sheep on the property, they are looking into whether animal cruelty — which is a crime — was committed by having sex with these smaller, weaker animals, he said.

The moral in all this? It’s okay to get your bone on with animals…just don’t be a bully about it, okay? I think Aesop really missed the boat by not including this one in his fables...

A very angry man (or how I learned to stop worrying and love people who watch people take other people's clothes out of the trash)

I was sitting in the computer lab at my dorm with my back facing the doorway when I hear a guy suddenly start yelling at me: "No way, no way!" Being the epitome of cool that I am, I slowly pivot around in my swivel chair to see what the ruckus is all about. This guy was starting right at me, mouth agape, looking absolutely stupefied and mortified. After sputtering and stammering for a moment, he managed to tell me that he had a very mean ex-boss with a shaved head, and he had mistaken me for him. The best part? He used to work at a camp, presumably for children. Who knew there was so much drama at Camp Happyland or wherever he worked? I think I'll double check the lock on my door before I go to sleep tonight .

With that crisis narrowly averted, the guy sat down at a nearby desk and chatted with a few of us in the lab. I quickly realize this man harbors a great deal of anger, hidden under a thin veneer of nonchalance. One girl borrowed a pen from him, and he very pointedly made sure she knew that he needed his pen back. Later he told me that he thought anyone who ordered Miller Lite while in London was making an insult to all Brits and Irish, and should summarily be physically assaulted by said nationals. While I admire his vigor in promoting native beers while in the UK, given the long history of hooliganism in Ireland and England, I think his advocacy of pub violence is misguided. And finally, after being out of the room for about 30 minutes, he came back and started swearing up a blue storm, threatening to tear it out of the wall, after he had trouble with a payphone in the dorms.

All in all, I started to become quite worried about this very troubled, albeit young, man. Please God, in your infinite mercy, do not allow this man to be led down the destructive path of anger. Once down the dark path you start, forever will it dominate your destiny. Do not let Satan fill him with anger over pens, Miller (lite or otherwise), or youth camps. Amen.

A few minutes later, some lady ran into the lab in quite a lather and yelled out to nobody in particular, "Is Heather here? There is some lady across the street picking other people's clothes out of the trash! Seriously, she is taking clothes out of the trash!" Wow, you mean you actually saw a homeless person go through the trash?! In London, a city of almost 8 million people?! What are the chances on that one!

Despite the fact that I wanted to be a garbageman when I was seven, I had a little trouble understanding why anyone would be agog over the prospect of seeing someone pick through rubbish. Perhaps she is distantly related to Oscar the Grouch, and a deep-seated love of garbage runs in her veins. Yes, that must be it.

Monkey junk

So I'm buying groceries last night, and I decide I want some variety of nut to snack on while around the dorm. I see bags of hazelnuts, pistachios, you know...the usual suspects. Well, up on the top shelf I see a picture of peanuts emblazoned on a large bag. I reached out for the bag, and yet I paused, hand half-outstretched. Whatever could cause a person to hesitate when reaching for the nutty goodness that is the hallmark of peanuts? Well, I saw that the bag was actually labeled "monkey nuts". I felt like I was on the set of some bad sequel for Planet of the Apes: "YOU MANIACS. YOU BLEW IT UP. DAMN YOU. GOD DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL. GIVE US BACK OUR PEANUTS!!"

Scientology, I dub thee Suckatology…

A flew blocks from my flat exists a Scientology center. Tonight I passed it by while on my way home from shopping, and the representatives from the center (what the hell do you call the guys at the Church of Scientology anyway? Clergy? Fathers? Bishops? Morons?) were giving out free stress tests on the sidewalk. One person approached a man walking hurriedly towards me, walking directly into his path and asked if he wanted a free stress test. His response was inspired: "No, but you're giving me stress, that's what you are doing! " Haha, genius!

Next time I see them, I'm going to take them up on a free stress test. I would have tonight, but I had two big sacks of groceries; but rest assured, I won't pass up such a golden opportunity to make a scene again. I'm sure they will tell me I am stressed in order to get me to join their group, at which point I'll yell out, "You're damn right I'm under a lot of stress!!" This declaration will immediately be followed by my flipping the table with the machines over in a fit of ape-like rage. And not just any old ape, either. I'm not talking about Cocoa the Chimp pouting because she didn't get her extra banana for dessert. I'm talking about 'silver-back, head of the clan when he sees a poacher moving in' style ape-rage. I fully intend to throw their machinery through their windows, and possibly even attempt to choke one of their employees into unconciousness with the power cord.

At this point, I'm assuming that they will know I'm a drastic case, and will skip over a lot of the preliminary malarky and give me direct access to some of their greatest secrets. With any luck, I will soon have just as much power as Tom Cruise does: http://www.big-boys.com/articles/tomkills.html (Just make sure you have the sound on on your computer, and that you are at least passingly familiar with the Star Wars movies when you hit that link.)

Ka-blammo!!!

I've been quietly damning the Tesco corporation, along with Google, over the last few days out here in England. In case you aren't familiar with them, Tesco is a large British chain of supermarkets that have spread across Europe. I first came across them in Hungary, where they have these megastores that are essentially analogs to Wal-Mart superstores. And as I'm in need of a few essentials on the cheap, I've been searching for one nearby. The problem is that Tesco has expanded into small cornershops, meaning that when I search google maps or the Tesco corporate websites, I can't quite distinguish between the superstores and the ministores, partially because the labelling on their home web page is inaccurate. Damn you, Tesco. And damn me for falling in love with your low prices and wide selection while in Hungary, and thinking the love affair could survive the years apart and the move to London.

So, like a jilted and lonely lover, I'm walking several miles to another Tesco location, holding out a fool's hope that this one will finally be the superstore I've been dreaming of. On my way, I see a huge traffic jam up ahead, and soon notice that a long city bus, one of those extended ones that flexes in the middle, had got astray and crashed into a large metal pole. Glass was everywhere, people were staggering out of the bus, and almost comically a woman leaned out of her first floor kitchen window and offered to be a witness to the wreck happened only ten feet from her. After that, as I walked along the snarl of traffic, I served as the Sidewalk CNN, giving everyone the heads up on what was happening. I felt like a 1920's newsie: "Extra, extra! Bus crashes into post! Local commuters boned!"

The Russian mob makes a move on me

Despite asking for a single room, I got stuck inside a double at my dorm. Well, my better half moved in today, a guy from Russia who is still learning English. Oh, the fun we'll have! He actually seems like a decent guy, although the language gap is pretty big between us. Between my non-existent Russian, and his sketchy English, I think we're bound for wacky linguistical hijinks. The most interesting thing so far, though, is the fact that this guy apparently has money to the ceiling. And given the fact that our room is in the attic of this building, that ceiling is pretty damn high.

To wit: Today he asked me if I had a laptop, and I sniffed and told him, no, I do not. He replies that his Russian laptop doesn't work in England (apparently he could find a Communism/Capitalism converter; I guess we're on a different system over here ). His solution to this quandary? Why, buy another laptop, my good chaps!

Sucka, I can’t even afford on laptop, let alone one for each country I go to!

After this, I think he took pity on me, because he came back and offered me some of his expensive beer and pistachios, as well as free rein of his laptop.

Must be nice, ya know, being in the Russian mob and all…

First of many updates (this one is boring)...

So my morning was spent wandering around the Soho area with my friend Marcy (who strangely enough, is also from Idaho), searching for a decent (and by decent, I actually mean cheap) pub to get some fish n' chips at. So, while we're seeing the sights, we finally come across a suitable candidate for food, and stop in. Okay, so I didn't actually get the fish, but I did get chips alongside my main dish of mushroom and goat cheese pie. Eh, it wasn't too bad, but the topping was more like a pastry, and not as bread-like as I hoped. I wanted something, oh, I don't know, more substantial, yes?

Ah well...Anyway we stopped by the Virgin Megastore and looked at some CDs and DVDs, but didn't buy anything due to my abject poverty. Something I've noticed is the phenomenal heat everywhere in London stores. I think they are trying to sap the strength from the shoppers who come in, wear them down, wilt them until they can no longer resist reaching out of the sea of overpriced crap around you and clutching at least one piece of merchandise like some life preserver. Haha, but jokes on you, Virgin Megastore, and you too, London shopkeepers! I'm from the quasi-desert of Idaho, suckas, you can't beat me with your mild Northern England heat. It's gonna take a hell of a lot more than that to put the whammy on me, punks.
Anyway, went to class after that, "Migrations and Diasporas", and got our book assignments. This guy Charlie and me went to the book store and got the last two copies of a required text. Uh-oh classmates, looks like the early birds get the worms.

Finally, went to a local museum and saw and exhibit of Chinese porcelain throughout the ages. It was actually fairly fantastic. Although I've seen serveral exhibits like that in the past, I'm always astonished by the craftsmanship that I see in those pieces, as well as by how well they are preserved, despite many being over 600 years old. Yeah.

Test, first post...

Okay then, let's see if this thing actually works...