Move ya ass

I spent most of Saturday afternoon getting my schoolwork organized and printing off some readings that I have been missing, finally finishing up and leaving the computer lab at around four in the afternoon. On my way back to Byng Place I generally cut through the grounds of the School for Oriental and African Studies, and I would be remiss if I didn't mention that this place is hilarious to me, attracting quite a mix of people trying to get you to sign up for the Socialist Student Union, Amnesty International, the anti-Google club, and various other causes. I'm pretty sure there was a place where you could donate money to help assassinate George Bush and Tony Blair, but maybe I just imagined it. On the upside, there is one person I like to see at this daily congregation, and that is the Hare Krishnas. Why, you might find yourself asking? Easy. They give out free vegetarian meals on the SOAS campus, served up off a tiny trailer hitched to the back of a bicycle. The only problem is that every time I go there I have absolutely no money on me, so I can't pitch in a few pence in the tip jar. Oh well, I figured organized has taken so much from society over the centuries, it is high time they started giving something back. Free meals for people like me is a good start (although I certainly hope they are helping to feed the homeless as well).

This Saturday the grounds were fairly vacant except for a few people milling around the stairs of one building, although I hardly noted them initially as I was walking into the sunset and my vision was rather impaired. Out of seemingly nowhere a lady jumped in front of my holding a camera and asked if she could film me. Specifically, she wanted me to wave to the camera and then shake my ass for her. To my credit, I maintained my composure rather well when confronted with this request; a small smirk flashed across my face, I arched one eyebrow said, "You're joking, of course." She informed me that she was not, and was doing some sort of project involving men or somesuch, and she was filming random guys waving to the camera and wiggling their posteriors. Needless to say, I was more than eager to get my buttocks jiggling on film, so I performed for her not once, but twice (the light was quite satisfactory in the initial shot). After ensuring that my performance was adequate, I continued on my way, safe in the knowledge that this is the kind of thing will eventually torpedo any attempt I make to run for political office. Ah, well...

I <3 geography

I love dictionaries and atlases. Nothing feels more productive or fulfilling than having a flick through a fact-filled book and picking up some new words or learning about the political and physical realities of our world. With that in mind I thought I would share some little-known facts about our world with my friends out there who read my blog.

1) Everyone knows that much of Africa is plagued by abject poverty. Did you know, for instance, that Angola is so poor that they couldn't afford new names for their provinces upon gaining independence? The best they could do was to have generic knock-offs of existing places around the world. For instance, near the bottom right hand corner of their country, you will find Moxico, the generic knock-off of Mexico. And just below that is Cuando Cubango, which means, I believe, "we're the RC Cola version of Cuba!!" Finally, at the top left of the country is Zaire, not to be confused with the actual country of Zaire that it borders. Presuming that I recall my history correctly, this province simply found some old signs in the rubbish heap that the country of Zaire had pitched out and decided to not let a good thing go to waste and recycled them by posting them in their province. Problem solved.

2) England has a city called Cockermouth. I don't even need to make a punchline for that, you guys can all insert your own. Ooops, I just said "insert your own" in Cockermouth, so I guess that was a punchline. Incidentally, this city has its own Search and Rescue squad...you know, to, uh, help out with all your cock and/or mouth related emergencies. They have some interesting rescues listed on their website; one claims that "two sheep became stuck on Anglers Crag, Ennerdale. Rescued successfully by three Team members." Again, these punchlines write themselves, as three sheep and two men are involved in something getting stuck in Cockermouth. Outrageous!! Additionally, the Squad was involved in a "search for a man missing in Big Wood." Oh, that naughty Big Wood in Cockermouth!!

Red Dawn

Russian politicians sure have the life. I was reading an article in the Wall Street Journal the other day about how those with political careers in Mother Russia get special license plates and blinking blue lights for their cars, and these in turn mean that they enjoy a sort of lawless freedom on the roads. In practice, this makes all other cars belonging to private citizens yield to them on the road, even to the point of forcing them to the shoulder to let them pass, and they get to speed around and break any law they want.

I would love that type of freedom. Just think of it: Say you get a hankering to go to Dairy Queen one afternoon, and some arsehole is on the road in front of you, weaving around a bit and only going 45 in a 20 mph zone while you would rather be going 85 mph in that 20 zone. Oh, he'll give you some excuse for driving distractedly: "My wife is going into labor and I'm trying to help her while driving to the hospital." Pshaw!! You think I'm going to stand for that? I'm going to drop the hammer, flip that guy the finger, and yell, "Piss off comrade, I loves me some Blizzard!!"

Then I would buy me two Blizzards at the DQ. Why, you ask? Am I really that in need of creamy refreshment? Naw, son. I figure I've put enough distance between us that I'll pass that slowpoke wanker going back down the other way on the road, so I'll have a second Blizzard to whip at his windscreen. With his vision obscured, he'll have no choice but to put it into a ditch, and as his gas tank bursts into a life-consuming fireball in my rear-view mirror, I'll chortle, lean out the window and holler, "Don't forget to vote Robinson in the next election!!"

Actually, this story isn't that far from fact. In that article, I read where some Governor and his wife were being driven somewhere in their Mercedes by their driver, presumably to pick up his kickback money from the Russian Crime Syndicates. Well, en route they came across an average Russian family puttering down the road, with a blinker on and getting prepared to make a left hand turn. Well, clearly someone so important can't wait for this guy to make his left turn, and seeing as how they were already in the left hand lane because they were passing another car, they dropped the hammer and decided to pass this guy as well. Bad call. The Mercedes clips the front of the family car and rockets off the road into a tree, killing the driver and governor immediately.

You know what the best part of this is? The family-man driver, who worked in a mine or a dock or somesuch, was charged and convicted of killing the politician, getting some four years in the hoosegow. The reasoning? Well, he had the special license plates, of course, which gave him complete and unfettered right of way on the road, and the family-man never should have had his car in the turning lane in the first place when a politician wanted to speed along there.

All I can say is I'm glad I live in a country where when our politicians make mistakes they own up to it and don't expect regular citizens to take the blame. I'd hate to see some life-threatening accident take place due to the negligence and recklessness of one of our politicians, only to be followed up with cowardly, wheedling apologies from the victim:

Oh. Well, never mind. Be sure to vote Cheney in '08, comrades!

I'm done with Chupa Chups

You hear me, you tasty Spanish bastards? It was bad enough I ate a Chupa Chup lolly that had been lingering in a dingy men's room for God knows how long, and things certainly didn't improve when I found out you have vague overtones of pedophilia on your website. But I can no longer, in good conscience, buy your products. The reason? Well, it has become clear to me that it is no longer just "vague overtones" of kiddy-loving that tinge your site; indeed, it is now apparent that you are a bad case of pedophilia permeates your entire corporate structure.

Last night I wanted to show a few people how suggestive the Chupa Chups website is, and in doing so decided to click through the picture of the young girl with the words "Sucking is good for you! Find out why!" next to her face. Her picture came up again, only this time with the words, "It's natural!" next to her. Creepy.

But click on her face again and see what happens...go on...read that block of text, and tell me if that isn't completely foul in the context of a young girl there. Here are some highlights for my lazy friends who won't click through in another window:

It is the absorption of these nutrients through the walls of the mouth (oral mucus?) that contribute to a quick feeling of fullness...In both cases, sucking is a natural, normal and healthy reflex and it is in fact necessary behaviour for very young children and babies.

Riiiigghhhhtttt....

Revenge of Parliamentary Procedure

London Model United Nations opened up yesterday, thus marking the beginning of my stint as Togo. I quite purposefully use the word "stint" instead of "tenure" just now since I am, as of 9 a.m. Greenwich Mean Time, unofficially retired as Head Diplomat and self-appointed King of Togo. But before I get to that decision, let me give a brief recap of the first day of MUN.

After arriving and quickly registering for the conference at the Victoria and Albert Museum, the students from our University decided to get some lunch, and began to walk around the neighborhood looking for something suitable. We eventually ended in a sandwich shop, but because the VA Museum is quite close to Harrod's I decided to dip out and go across the street with two friends to get something tasty in the food halls. Mission accomplished, my friends. I bought a Salmon, leek, and caramelized onion quiche, as well as a Scotch Egg, and enjoyed the bloody hell out of both of them on the steps of the museum with two friends.

Prior to the opening ceremonies of the MUN, we were advised to attend brief lectures regarding parliamentary procedure and formatting written resolution. Now, just to set this moment up properly, I want to take a brief moment to talk about the mechanics and philosophical underpinnings of comedy; specifically, I want to talk about the twin phenomena known as the "beat" and the "inversion of expectations". The latter occurs when an element of the unexpected is injected into a situation. A basic example would be the old 'arrow through the head' gag. You see a guy with that gear on, and you can only say, "Wow, that guy got shot in the head with an arrow, yet he is still walking around. Haw haw!!" Mind you, this may not be that funny to us to today, but in the 1890's I expect it was a proper gut-buster, and it does serve illustrative purposes still.

The former element, the "beat", deals with pacing issues. Comedy is, as the cliche holds, all about timing, be it on written word, spoken routine, or visual performance. The "beat" is that brief moment just prior to a punchline, when people savor the set-up and prepare to have their expectations overturned. In instances where the set-up is the punchline (for instance, deadpan humor where understatement or feigned seriousness makes something funny), the beat is the hanging period in time when the audience is unsure if the speaker is serious or not. Given a wink or a sly smile, and the audience is relieved by virtue of having something they thought was serious end up being tongue-in-cheek. Their moment of pause gives way to relief and gratitude, which is expressed through laughter.

Back to the lectures: While the speaker was introducing the topics, he said he felt confident we were familiar with all this since he expected that we had been studying and practicing parliamentary procedure and resolution drafting for weeks, or possibly months. Just as I was opening my mouth and preparing to join the diffuse laughter that I expected to ripple through the audience, the speaker moved on to the first point of his presentation. This guy was utterly serious about the expectations for preparation. Realizing that I couldn't laugh now, I sat there with a half-open mouth, which I quickly turned into a fake yawn, and slumped down in dejection.

By the way, did I mention that out of some 250 plus men (out of 500 total delegates), I was the only one there not wearing a suit? Awkward.

After some blahblahblah opening speech by some Minister of Parliament, Lord Widepenny or somesuch, we broke up into our smaller committees, and I went to the room where the African Union Peace and Security Council (AUPSC) would be meeting. Out of 15 members, only 9 were there last night, and we quickly opened debate, at which time I realized I hadn't the faintest notion of how parliamentary procedure actually works. It was a dizzying flurry of people calling out "point of parliamentary order" and "the chair recognizes...." followed by "the speaker yields to point of information". The worst part was these people in my group were like parliamentary procedure Gestapo. They kept challenging the chair (who has been doing this for eight years, apparently) on his knowledge and application of the rules, which led to an exchange of passages from the rule manual; a rule "quote-off", if you will. When the chair asserted his ultimate authority, the rest of the proceedings were marked by much eye-rolling, sighing, and arms being cast upwards to heaven. It was like...hmmm...what exactly was it like? Well, if you imagine crossing parliamentary procedure nerds with sports geeks who yell at the TV, I think you would have a close approximation. It was akin to watching the most boring parts of C-Span while some guy yells, "C'mon Senator Akaka, get yer goddamn head out of yer ass already! You just gonna let them sit there and pass amendments on yer ass all day? Aw naw, don't filibuster, what the hell kind of coaching decision was that!!"

Actually, I have a few pictures from our Union here someplace...let me just see if I can find them...ah, yes, here we go. Here is a snapshot I took of the other members on the AUPSC:

And here is one of our eight year veteran chairman:

Here are some of my fellow members reacting to the news that I, unlike them, have kissed girls before:

And here I am (on the left) pumping some iron to get psyched up to debate some issues:

So, while sitting through just over a little over 1 1/2 hours of debate, I decided I couldn't face another six hours of debate on Saturday, followed by three more on Sunday. Therefore Togo is a no go. (Editorial note: I also debated using Togo is no mo' at this point; I'm not sure which one is better, so I am including both.) So to the people in the African Union Peace and Security Council, I say this: Whenever you look back at Andy, think fondly of me. While I wasn't there long, I hope I made a good impression on everyone. And as I pass through this life and occasionally recall my brief stint with you folks, I'll always think of you as...

...NERDS!!!!!

How to spot a racist

Bigots can be crafty, surreptitous folk. While many people today are proud of their racist attitudes, others hide their feelings under a veneer of civility. So what can you, the average citizen do to spot a racist hiding in your midst? Well, I had a brief experience last night that may help everyone pick out and ostracize the racists that hide in modern society.

After going out with a few friends to one club, we decided to move on to another spot. I, being the inveterate cheapskate that I am, blanched at paying a $15 cover charge to get into a club I had already been to before and found to be, well, "distasteful" would be a diplomatic way to put it. Anyway, I made my patented Batman-esque escape, in which people turn around and see that I have left without saying anything. This one was another work of genius on my part, as I made sure to be at the end of my line of friends to go into the bar, and when it was my time to go in and pay, I turned on my heel and left. Batman, indeed. Now my friends know how Commissioner Gordon feels.

Instead of heading straight home for bed, I decided to take in a bit of night air and enjoy a little stroll towards a bar my friend Charlie works at. One thing I should mention at this point is that one of the best things about London is that it is a hodge-podge of ethnicities, nationalities, and religions, meaning you can find any sort of food you want here, and you can always count on meeting people from around the world while here. During my walk I passed three blokes standing on a corner, and these chaps looked, at a glance, to be North African...Arab maybe, it is really tough to say. I can only guess at what their ethnicity is, but the important thing for this story is that my lone self and their trio were of visibly different ethnic extraction. As I passed them one of them leaned in close to my face and said, "racist!"

So, there you have it folks: walking down the street reveals that you are a racist. Next time I'll take the bus so people don't think I'm some sort of outrageous bigot.

T-minus one day part deux

Since my time as Togo will dominate my experiences over the next few days, expect some running updates of my UN experience up through the weekend. In my earlier post today I outlined the paucity of Togo-related facts I have at the ready, a situation I have recently tried to remedy by actually doing some research. But here's the juice: there is almost no information on Togo available on the web. I tried the Library of Congress, the IMF, and various university research sites. Nothing. Hell, I even tried the Reuters news service to see what kind of world news Togo was involved in, and this was all I got back:

No results found for 'togo'

Togo, really and truly, seems to be the figment of someone's imagination, so it is in that same spirit that I will continue with my original plan to manufacture information about Togo as I deem convenient during the course of the weekend. Another fact I have made up is that people in Togo really enjoy to drink while on the job, so I plan on buying a hip flask or small bottle of alcohol to take with me to the Model UN. The first four sessions tomorrow are teaching units on "How to write a resolution" and "Rules of procedure." Zzzzzzz....Alcohol seems to be my only escape during this part of the day.

I have also decided to advertise my love for Togo by sacrificing one of my white undershirts by marking it with my tourism board slogan in laudry pen.

Further updates as warranted...

Flimsy drinks

Last night I ended up as part of an international entourage (two Romanians, a Serb, and someone from the United Arab Emirates) that went to the student bar at the London School of Economics and Political Science (LSE). While I originally intended to stay in most of the night and study, the prospect of cheap beers with some people was too much to pass up, and I ended up not reading anything at all.

One thing I realized while there: No words exist that will stop me from drinking a brand of beer faster than "reduced alcohol". There was a type of beverage on tap that we had never heard of, "Worthington's Creamflow", so I inquired if it was a beer or alcohol cider. "Oh, it's a beer, but it has less alcohol in it." Why, I never! They might as well just put a label on the bottle that says, "Now with 33% less fun!" Bollocks, I claim.

T-minus one day

Tomorrow is the start of the Model United Nations weekend here in London, where I am still charged with being the representative for Togo, and I must admit that I have no more knowledge of this country than I did two weeks ago. The only progress I have made was branding a slogan for my fictional Togo Tourism Board: "I go, you go...we all go to Togo!!"

However, over the last few days I have realized that nobody, frankly, knows anything more about Togo than I do, and that I can simply fabricate a series of facts to throw out whenever necessary. With that in mind, I could use some help making up stuff for my country. Thus far, my main fact is that Togo was the first nation to land on the moon. Here is the picture to prove it:


The Mtv actually stands for "Mugalutuba Togo volatmala!" Which translates, roughly, to "Recognize that Togo was here first, bitchezzz!" The US, in its eternal perfidy, took down our flag and replaced it before filming their moon "landing". Oh, you sneaky yankee bastards!!

So, does anyone have any more facts I can use this weekend? I really don't want to do any research for this project, and I could certainly use the help.

Valentine's tip: Bitumen is not romantic

During the break period for my first class I went to the student lounge to pick up a free copy of the Wall Street Journal Europe, a paper in which you can always find fascinating and life-altering articles. Did you know, for instance, that a recent merger has put a new name at the forefront of world nickel production? If you didn't, you certainly do now. And if that is as boring to you as it is to me, don't worry, you will soon forget about crappy old nickel production. Woohoo.

On the backpage of this particular issue was an article about a heavy grades of crude oil, and one of the products that was mentioned was bitumen. My friend Charlie and I were riding up to the fourth floor on the elevator while making jokes about bitumen when a girl got on the elevator and pushed the button for floor three. As we neared her destination, and just before the elevator voice intoned "floor three", I noticed the girl rather desperately pushing the "door open" button. You know, this one: [<>] As best as I can figure, this girl was horrified at even the remote prospect of potentially getting asked out for Valentine's by guys who like to laugh about bitumen.

I don't know, maybe she is the daughter of a bitumen magnate, and was terribly offended that we would dare speak ill of bitumen. Some may argue that talking about heavy crude oil products isn't the pathway to impressing the gals, but I would vehemently disagree. After all, oil is the patriarchal figure in a whole range of romantic products. It makes plastics, for one, without which some of the fancier valentines day cards couldn't be produced. Oh, but what's that you say, you are tech savvy and send out your valentines via email? Well, you just better forget about that buster, because without our friend plastic, you can just forget about using a computer to check that email valentine. That's right my friends, I suspect that wouldn't be any love in the air at all tonight without the aid of plastic! I shudder to think what people did before plastic; I would venture that this is the reason for so many arranged marriages in earlier, pre-plastic eras.

From the "Brands I doubt I'll ever buy" category

There is a store right next to the Lloyd's bank I do my "banking" at (as chronicled in my previous post, the one at which I'm enduring the soul-crushing experience of opening an account) that advertises various high-end fashion brands for sale. At the top of the sidewalk display is the name "Aquascutum". Invariably, while walking past this sign, my mind recognizes this name brand as either "Aquascum" or, even worse, as "Aquascrotum". Since both of these associations are highly distasteful to me, this brand is unlikely to ever make an appearance in my closet.

Still, curiousity led me to search their website to see what their clothing lines looked like. And as much as I hate to say this, this traditional English brand does nothing to dispel the equally traditional notion that Britian is populated by, well, nothing by pansies. The most damning bit of evidence comes in the "Aquascutum Collection" range. To get there, go to their website, click "collections", and then select "Aquascutum Collection" and "menswear". If the picture I am thinking of doesn't come up automatically, just click on that guy at the very top, since he is the one you should see. I'll pause here for a moment for you all to catch your breath after chortling at the dubious choice of linen jacket paired with Daisy Duke shorts. Who wears short shorts? Why, British men, of course! Is it any wonder this fine island gave the world such intense and masculine sports as golf and cricket?

I finally found out what the other "L" is for

To say that the bureaucracy in Britain is thick and frustrating to navigate through is to tread the waters of ridiculous understatement. Securing the services of a plumber can take months, apparently, and I haven't seen many other sectors of society move that expeditiously either. The worst load of bollocks seems to be the banking industry. I am in the midst of trying to open a bank account in London, and by "in the midst" I don't mean I am in the process of getting it done this afternoon; rather, the process is into its third week, and by all measures looks to continue well into a fourth.

My experience with banking matters in the States has always been fairly straightforward and pleasurable, and I expected something along those lines out here. Oh, what a pitiable fool I was! British banks operate in the realm of the deceptively simple, and when I first went to open an account I was informed I would simply need a letter verifying my status as a student from my university as well as my passport. Hey, easy enough, yeah? I should have this account opened up in no time. A day later, letter in hand, I traipse off to my local Lloyd's branch to begin my banking. After a quick look over my letter and a talk with a colleague, I was informed that they wanted my letter to read that I had just arrived in England. Those attempting to open up a bank account after being here for a few months are immediately branded "no goodniks" and denied any banking privileges. Falsification was in order, it seems, and I was told to have my university change my papers to show that I had just arrived in January. Fair enough.

After going back and getting a second letter, I returned and was told that everything appeared to be in order, and now things were really going to kick into high gear and happen quickly. Which meant, of course, that I was told that now that everything was ready, I could finally make an official appointment to open my account exactly one week from that day. Riiiiight...

Fast forward to one week later and I am in the process of opening up my account when I am told my letter is no good. I have to go back a third bloody time to get my letter changed again, as they need the exact day that I (falsely) started courses in January; just the month itself wasn't good enough for them. Honestly.

This was all last Thursday, and I thought everything was taken care of and I could deposit a check I had with me. Negative on that, hombre. I was told they would give me a call in a few days when I could officially open up my account. Yup. So now it is Monday and I get a call to come in and sign a few documents, and at this time I am informed that I will have my debit card and pin number sometime next week. Oh, and my check that I officially deposited today? That balance should show up in my account by Friday at the earliest. For fuck's sake people. The topper was when I went to talk to someone today, he shook my hand right after his ink pen blew up, and I placed my hands on my lap without noticing this, leaving a wonder reverse "7" shaped stain on my jeans. Huzzah.

After all this I think I officially know the answer to something I have long wondered: why does the name Lloyd have two "L's" in it? Well, it would appear that the second "L", at least at Lloyd's bank, stands for "leisurely". I am tempted, in my frustration, to tell Lloyd's to fuck directly off, but I am sure they won't get around to it until sometime in the 22nd century, when I will be well past dead, so I'm not going to waste my breath on such imprecations.

I'm an active man

Just wanted to make a quick post that I've been better about responding to comments, so I hope everyone checks back in on past posts periodically (three cheers for alliteration!), as I have been keeping up with them.

The night I sucked some guy's Lollypop in the bathroom

One of the fine things about living in America is the overwhelming abundance of Mexican restaurants available in any given town. In Pocatello we have at least five or six I can count off the top of me head. Hell, we even have guys who drive around in a bus and serve Mexican food. How fabulous is that? Conversely, one of the downsides of Europe is the paucity of Mexican places. Normally this isn't a problem, as you can go to any one of hundreds of restaurants serving food from places spanning the globe; however, it does make things a bit dicey when you actually want Mexican chow.

Last night a group of the Master's students from the International Relations club and the Business Administration club got together for a dinner and decided beforehand on Mexican, and we knew of only one place, Chiquito. By American standards, it is a pretty ordinary place, sort of a cross between Chilli's and Applebee's. But what is hilarious about it is that it reveals how unfamiliar with Mexican food the Brits are; so much so, in fact, that the people at Chiquito feel the need to make their literature phonetic. Take the menu for instance (available at their website). Quesadillas are listed first by their proper name and are immediately followed by this bit of helpfulness: ke-sa-diya. And paella, unless my Spanish lessons are wholly failing me, wrongly appears as pie-ella. It's like the whole thing is Spanish by way of George W. Bush. "I've heard rumors on the internets about this Mexican, uh, pee-layla y'all are offering. Now, I've been spent all day clearing brush during my two-month long vacation, so I've got a mighty hunger, so I'll take that plus some, um, koo-see-drillers."

Best of all, the website navigation at the left offers a choice of destinations, and in an effort to add a touch of authenticity to the proceedings, when you roll your cursor over the options, they magically turn to Spanish! Hooray! So go ahead, check out their site and one is "What's Happening" (sic), I'll wait. Notice anything? That's right, it becomes Kpassa, which looks more like a Norwegian word than anything Spanish. I think maybe they meant "que pasa", but who knows. But in the spirit of cooperation, I've decided to lend a bit of assistance in the realm of pronunciation, just in case they are interested: Chiquito's Corporation (pronounced REE-tahrds).

After drinking a few sodas during the course of my meal, I needed to use the restrooms, and entered a clownish colored men's room. The thing you need to know about larger clubs and restaurants in London is that they are always staffed by an attendant. I'd like to think that this is a holdover from a more civilized and genteel era of British culture, when you could see gentlemen going to the market in their fine linen suits wearing hats and strutting about with canes. Like I said, I'd like to think that, but the reality is that the attendants are there to prevent people from snorting coke. (Incidentally, my friend works at a bar in London that has no bathroom attendants, and his place of employment is notorious as a place to get coked up before heading to the nearby clubs.)

The usual routine with these blokes is that they turn on the water in the sink for you, perhaps pump some soap into your hands, and pull out some paper towels for you. Afterwards, they have an array of colognes and lotions available for your use, and payment isn't required, although they do have a tip plate in case you are feeling generous. Chiquito's restroom, I must say, had a large place with an assortment of gums and Chupa Chups lollipops, something I hadn't seen before elsewhere. (Again, allow me to digress for a moment. Go to the Chupa Chups webpage, and I think you will see that it was designed by pedophiles. Why, you ask? Well, Jesus, they have a picture of a seven year old girl with the phrase "Sucking is good for you! Find out why!" right next to her! Jimminy Crickets! I can easily imagine the people at the Chupa Chups company saying that to some little girl on the sidewalk near a playground as they hang out the window of their car, trying to tempt them inside. Creepy.)

Back on topic...while in the bathroom, I think I got confused and panicky. The walls were too colorful and distracting for one thing, and the attendant was there operating the faucets for me. Yes, I did say faucets; another of the British bathroom charms is that the hot and cold water comes from two taps, one so Satanically hot it is useless, meaning you wash your hands in arctic cold water. So there I was trying to wash my hands and avoid the hot water output, all the while looking at the lotions and colognes trying to figure which, if any, I wanted. Then some blue towels were jammed in my face, and I saw all the colors of the plate of Chupa Chups, so without thinking I grabbed one, unwrapped it, and put it in my mouth.

It wasn't until I got back to the table that I started to think that taking food items from a busy and not overly-clean bathroom is likely not the wisest course of action. As a matter of fact, it is rather a foul proposition. At best I can plead insanity in my defense, since I wasn't even drinking alcohol with dinner. So, yes, I did suck some guy's lolly in the bathroom, and it was revolting.

No joy in Loserville

This is the third in a flurry of posts from today, and it goes out to Mr. Kemp. On the off chance that the pain is not as sharp anymore for Gregg, I thought I would post a short passage from a poem that encapsulates some of what it feels like to be a Seahawks fan:

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

Of course, this poem speaks of the pang when a reliable hero fails, thus letting down the people. Seahawks fans, naturally don't have this problem, since they are never expected to succeed. Still, I thought it makes for a nice moment.

When a joke gets away from you

Yesterday as I was walking down the street, I was talking to a German friend, Hanno, about the rash of violence and protests over the Danish cartoons (which aren't even any good, by the way...they look like they were cribbed from an eight year old). On the sidewalk someone gave us a coupon for a free Bible (which you can order online here!), and I got to thinking about how I'm likely headed for hell, so I said that I should riot.

Me: I'm really upset, I think I'll burn down Jesus's embassy.

Hanno: I don't think Jesus has an embassy.

Me: Sure he does. I think people call them "churches".


So, yes, I did make a joke about burning down churches, which probably has me on all sorts of hate crime lists at the FBI right now. And for the record, no I didn't expect the joke to end up like that; it was more a case of not thinking things through at all and having a joke finish in a bad place. Mea culpa.

An ode to the Winter Olympics

I just realized that the Winter Olympics are starting, uh, today, I think. As someone who is only vaguely interested in the Summer Olympics, let me just say that I absolutely adore the Winter edition. And I will be the first to say that I love, just love, the biathlon. It is easily my favorite sport at the Winter Olympics, and one that I really enjoy watching.

So, why do I love the Winters so much? No, it isn't that silly ice-skating bollocks. The interaction of humanity with natural elements really does it for me. Every event that I can think of takes place either outside or on a sheet of frozen ice, and that is something beautiful and wonderful to me; much better than lamely running around a track in a stadium. Plus, the how cool is it to have a sport where you ski around and shoot at stuff with a pellet gun? That's the kind of sport I can really get into.

I am Togo

Does that title mean anything to you in particular? Because up until three days ago, my response to hearing someone say "Togo" would be complete befuddlement. I had certainly heard of Tojo, but not Togo. (Parenthetically, check out this picture of Tojo. What a physique, eh? Hard to believe that stringbean was responsible for some ten million deaths during his time. Overcompensate much, Tojo?)

The reason I bring this whole thing up is because I am going to be in the London Model United Nations next weekend, where a bunch of students get to play as countries in the UN. I am certainly looking forward to trying to funnel some money from corrupt governments towards my personal bank account. Maybe I'll declare a "war on terror" in my country and try to get G.W. to send some fighter plans and a few million smackers my way. On Saturday night there is supposed to be a party on a boat on the Thames for the Model UN people, so I guess it will be like the real UN in that we get to talk shop all day and then use our membership fees to drink and party. Might as well get trained up for a job in government, right? Anyway, while the rest of the students at my school who are participating will be the Czech Republic, I ended up being on the African Union Peace and Security Council. And yes, Gregg, you are seeing "Africa", "Peace", and "Security" all in the same sentence without the words "has no" in there. Hardy har har.

Anyway, I guess all the name-brand countries were taken up on the council, because I ended up with some generic country called Togo. Nothing against the good people of Togo, but I had never heard of your country before. Sorry guys. I've read about and heard of some pretty out of the way countries in my time, but no luck on Togo. Additionally, I was talking to some people from Morocco who made me feel guilty about not hearing of Togo before. Good luck with that guys, I don't think the people in Togo have heard of their country before.

I look forward to my time as Togo, and will be sure to let you know how successful I am representing my new favorite country. Or favourite, as the Brits would say.

Look at the size of that guy's log!!

I finally went out to eat, for the first time in the nearly three weeks I've been back in London, and a small group of us ended up in Chinatown. Our friend Masako showed us a place she had been to before, and we ended up dining there as they had a fairly reasonable dinner special going on. I selected the roast duck in plum sauce and, as I was feeling very adventurous, used chopsticks throughout almost my entire meal. Huzzah for me!

Afterwards we all went to a pretty good Chinese bakery to get some after-dinner sweets, where I purchased a Chestnut cake. It isn't circular like we normally think of cakes, but rather it is a rolled up log of cake and filling, very similar in structure to the Little Debbie Swiss Rolls, except it isn't frosted. So, basically, it is a light green log about 10 inches long and about five inches thick, and after purchasing it the clerk put it in a red bag and we all made our way towards home, our purchases in each of our hands.

Along the way we passed a store that bills itself as the "Largest Licensed Sex Store in Europe." Well alright! We all take a spin through there, to the delight of everyone in the group. I am truly astounded by what people can and apparently will purchase in sex stores. There was underwear that contained an inward-turned dildo in the rear so, well, you know, you can have it inside you all day long. And that was just the beginning. There was bondage and fantasy gear, inflatable women, the whole works. The needle just went past "Awesome" and straight to "Outrageous".

Needless to say, we didn't buy anything at this place, but as we left onto one of the busier streets of London, I noticed we were all holding red bags, making it look for all the world like we had just stocked up. Furthermore, I realized that the outline of my Chestnut cake inside my bag made it appear as if I had just purchased one massive phony wiener at the sex shop. Even though, you know, I hadn't actually bought one, I still felt that some people may have thought I did. So, I did the only thing I could in that situation...I had to strut around like I was mega-pimp number, and fake that I wasn't the least bit embarassed to have just purchased a colossal weenie at the sex-shop, and I was very, very excited to get home and try it out.

I've got bad news and, um, bad news

I think we're all familiar with the stereotype of the Gypsy from Transylvania who lives in the misty woods and does palm readings and gazes into a crystal ball right? We've seen that in classic werewolf films and so on, I'm sure. Well, I had the modern day equivalent of that cinematic experience this past Friday.

First thing to know is that the Transylvania region is in modern day Romania, and this weekend I ended up going to a Romanian bar. One of my friends, who is from Bucharest, decided to do some palm-readings for some of us, and while she was observing my friend Justus's fortune, she was all smiles. So, I turn my palm over to her, and a cloud immediately passes over her face. She gets this very worried look on her face, and says, "You have a life that is filled with much sadness." Outstanding! So I, uh, waited for some good news to come from my fortune telling, and she told me that there really wasn't any.

What a way to start the weekend...

The hardest working cereal at the breakfast table

One of the most tired cliches in the business sector (and this includes the business of sports) is that people succeed only by giving 110%. You know, the idea being that people need to give more effort than their opponents. Well, the other day I was looking at the ingredients list for a breakfast cereal that commonly graces my breakfast table: Weetabix.

The ingredients list said this: 105%* Whole Grain Wheat. Fwuh? How can my cereal by 105% wheat? Well, my eyes slid down the label to see what that asterisk meant. The explanation was this: 105 grams of whole grain wheat per 100 grams of cereal. Yeah, that still doesn't check out. If I pour 100 grams of cereal in my bowl, than at most I can have 100 grams of whole grain wheat. The word "ingredients", by the very nature of the word, centers on what is in the box itself. I don't care what went into the production of the cereal, and what ended up on the floor as extra, 100 grams of cereal can only contain 100 grams of wheat.

WhatI find most unnerving is that my cereal is, every single day, giving 105% effort at the breakfast table. This is doubly troubling because Weetabix is producing boxes of cereal where you get 50% more free (36 total biscuits per box versus the normal 24) with each purchase. That means my cereal busting its ass all the time to such an extent that they are giving me half-again as much per box for nothing. All this makes me think about my own life, and the fact that I only give about 32% effort at any given time. Even then, that is my peak performance; I think my effort level hovers around the 9% mark on any given day. I feel extraordinarly lazy seeing extra large boxes of such effort-intensive cereal around me all the time. It's like hanging out with Rudy all the time; it makes you mindful of just how easy you are taking it any given time. So, with this in mind, I think I've decided to start eating some sugary cereals, which contains only 4 or 5% of grain, which is really more my speed anyway...