London Living

WTF-mate?

2009-01-29T13:39:00.003Z

Sometimes, during the course of my life, I forget that I live in a fantastic city. What with insisting on espousing my opinions on everything and trying to apply my academic gaze to the world at large, I realize that I alienate the very pressence that makes this blob possible, London and all the really weird shit that happens in it. As I've noted before, this place is odd, blame the fact the it breaths 12 Million people a day, and those people are dirty, smelly, selfish and produce a generalized grimy effluent that is so foul that every thirty minutes on the subway (or as we call it 'the Tube') is equivilant to smoking 2 cigarettes, minus the benifits of nicotine. No wonder Londoners die younger. In the past, I have even commented on the wonders of discovery--like finding out why the tube stations smell of piss (in case you're wondering, it has something to do with the ionic conversion of liquid amonia to a gaseous state--or more bluntly, becaue they are good places to piss in, apparantly). Nothing in the past, however, compares to the present, in terms of both weirdness of London, or general creepy, I don't want to think about it in any other way except humour, sort of way.

To preface. My GF/partner and I are students, both finalizing PhDs before embarking on high flying careers as public intelectuals--like the folks on the news who are interviewed about why bankers have fucked us all. As such a condition, we, despite our future prospects, live on the economic margins--read as below our station and class. I'm not a proponent of a rigid class system by any means, but it's there for a reason, some of which may acutally reflect an evolutionary trajectory...but I digress. This station of near-poverty means that we end up living in a variety of lowish rent sorts of places. The last flat, for instance, over looked a derelect building on the edge of one of the most notorious social housing estates in the city. Convienent for scoring drugs and hookers at any hour, but not so nice to perpetuate a nice, middle class existence. Our current flat, at the outset, is better, least of all becaues our landlord is actually a nice guy: ex-Cambridge, archictect, you know, middle class, like us. Note, our landlord rents out his flat having left for better prospects, elsewhere. This flat has almost all of the right elements: good locale, excellent light--even in the darkness of winter, what it doesn't have is a dish washer, or thick walls. And, it is in a building that is ex-social housing, meaning that some of the flats are owned by individuals, some are rented out by the local government. A combination that leads to a mixed and diverse community where, although values are different, we all share the same space in a loving community friendly environment.

In other words, we don't fit. For instance, the people downstairs booze and do drugs, staying up late with loud music and proceed to beat the hell out of each other the next day--probably something to do with the late nights, booze, drugs and the nasty hangovers these things bring about. They used to be our bad neighbors. Now I'm not so sure. The 'good' neighbors, those next door with whom we share a bedroom wall, and an occasional passing word of solidarity about the bad neighbors, have sliped.

As of last week during a fairly nasty late night early morning split with at least three suicided threats made on the part of the bloke, a nice guy called Len, or Lenny, something to that effect, our peace and peace of mind was shattered. Len no longer has a girlfriend. It's a shame too since she cooked really nice smelling food: pastas, curries etc. I've never eaten it because this is London and the greater distance (as we shall soon see) from the neighbors, the better. It's best not to develop personal relationships when the walls are so thin.

The following, that which has insipired this polemic, occured last night, and represents my shattered peace. We were woken, after a comfortable few hours of precious sleep to another loud argument. I was annoyed because I assumed that the break up had already occured and that there wouldn't be any noise coming from next door for a while...at least not unitl we moved to far greener and more middle class pastures. Oh no. I was wrong, or at least I slipped back into a state of unrestful dozing thinking I was wrong. I found out, after debriefing with my other half that this row was not a make-up/break-up that so many of use are familiar with. Indeed it has a much more sinister, weird and really fucking funny element to it. It goes something like this.

Neighbor (bloke): 'You're a fucking queer!'
Neigbor's 'companion (in a feminized, yet masculine voice): 'no I'm not, I'm a wo--man.'
Either: 'cry' 'sob' 'grrrr!' (yell, yell, yell) 'arrghhh' -- (door slam) (I've condensed what turned out to be thirty mintues of altercation into a few lines for editorial sake. What matters are the first two lines of dialog)

It would seem, that in my neighbor's haste to find a replacement, he seems to have picked up the wrong type (for him) of available person. While there is no evidience of prositution, as of yet, there is a strong liklihood, that what my neighbor thought was a female companion was not...I don't know much about these things. When someone at a party orders a stripper, I'm the first to make an exit. But what I do know, is that if I was to solicit for sex, I would make damn sure that 'she' had the right bits before proceeding to get my freak on. I'm told by those who know that it is actually acceptable practice to manually double check (because it is apparantly quite hard to tell with a visual inspection) before wandering off to a dank room in some dark corner of the third wolrd. Not that I have anything against lady-boys. I believe strongly that it is every person's right to express their gender identity however they feel best suits them as a person. Equally, I believe every human being has the right to earn a living--however it may suit them. I also happen to believe that those outside the norm should at least advertise the fact that they don't quite fit the norm, just to save us 'normal' people the trouble and embarrassment, but really, it's none of my business. What is my business is that because all of this goes on, I don't get any goddamn sleep. And that is a problem.

More broadly, this just speaks to the general bizarrness that life in a big city brings. I'm not even surprised that this happened to my neighbor, really. And I should be. This shouldn't happen; it's not normal, or acceptable. But regardless, in London, this is just derigour for everyday life: sometimes your hooker is okay, other times she turns out to be a he. While I don't judge, I do have to wonder. And unfortunately, since this is all aural, it cannot be shut out by a mere 30degree cone of smugness.

What this reall signals, however, is that, class based economic arguments aside, it's time to move.

shit hammers and mud

2009-01-05T17:36:00.002Z

New Year’s day greeted me with a righteous headache and a giant fucking restaurant bill. And there were explosions. Explosions enough to shake the very ground I walk on and wake me from the deep time-fog where I have lingered for the past few months after a nail biting end to what will go down as the longest most expensive presidential race ever. The result of this tedious process is that in this new year, Jesus himself will walk amongst us promising government accountability and tax cuts to the middle class. Someone once said that the meek will inherit the earth (if they want it), and those that trouble their own house will inherit the wind. The soon-to-be crowned black Messiah will, in the words of Michael Herr, inherit a giant shit sandwich.

Allow me to present an example. Missiles, bombs and now troops fall on the Gaza Strip in an attempt to stem the flood of Qassam rockets; black rain to stop black rain. But something in this makes no sense. A Qassam rocket is, more-or-less a few metal tubes welded together, fuelled by fertilizer and sugar and armed with a warhead composed of ammonium nitrate and fuel oil—fertilizer and diesel for those who didn’t already know. The net cost of making and deploying one of these has to be around $20 per unit (not including indirect cost of total and massive retaliation from the world’s second angriest war machine). These rockets, explode, occasionally maim someone and more often make a hole in the pavement. Their biggest threat is that they have no fancy, read expensive, guidance systems, so no one knows where the fuck these things might land once shot off. My water rocket has the same problem.

In contrast and witihin five days Israel, under the cover of stopping terrorism from these rockets, has deployed its own weapons, managing to devastate a few piles of rubble and kill one or two enemy combatants—not counting collateral damage. These also come from the sky, but they do not fall (and, rather are guided), and this is where the comparison stops, since these are a bit more sophisticated than a bit of fuel and a bit of fertilizer. I do not purport to know how much it costs to fly a warplane, launch a missile, drop several tons of TNT, and return home in time to watch it on the news. Millions? But, I bet, per unit, it costs more than $20. Bringing me to a roundabout point. If the purpose of this increase in hostilities is to broker an end to rocket ‘attacks’ then surely raining death in the form of precision guided munitions and street to street ground operations is not the best way. This analysis suggests rather that Israel, although interested in ensuring the end of terrorism in the form of Qassam rockets, has more in mind than just the usual rampant subjugation of a suppressed people. This is war of aggression, not defense, and before it ends we will all be asking some serious and deeply introspective questions about militarized nationalism, the foundations of Western Civilization and how quickly worms may turn. Jesus, the people’s Messiah, will wake on 21 January, the first day on the job, to his own vicious and mean-tempered hangover to find yet another quagmire in a region known for quagmires where one side has little to loose, everything to gain, and some angry and heavily armed friends.

On a separate note, I managed to watch the new bio-pic about Hunter Thompson. I have a hard time eulogizing anyone who’s topped himself, and having known a fair few number of people who have done so, my cynicism about useless, futile and pointless gestures of self-indulgence leads me to hold an aloof and ambivalent view. Thompson was decent writer, who said some funny and poignant things about events that occurred several years before my own birth. Indeed Thompson’s words had a rhythm and turn of phrase without which we would not be able to use the terms ‘shit hammer,’ ‘cheap rotten chimp’ ‘or furiously masturbating bum’ in reference to presidential candidates in polite conversation. He was neither oracle nor sage like the media materials of the film or his widow might suggest. Rather, Thompson was a pop-journalist who got caught up in his own mythology, and when he couldn’t foot the bill he took the cheap way out while somehow managing to get a bunch of his extremely wealthy friends to shoot his remains out of a 100 foot tall cannon. Explosions after all are pretty cool; and what better way to cap a 30 year decline then with a column of fire. Happy New Year.

Cynicism

2008-11-04T22:53:00.003Z

Severed Heads and Dismembered Corpses: Answers to Life's Little Mysteries

2008-09-02T14:25:00.001+01:00

Living in a city that swells to 12.5 million people in the day time means encountering some percentage of these in the course of one’s daily life. Most of these interactions are subject to split-second evaluations and people are objectified into three categories: threats, annoyances or irrelevant. For instance, a knife-wielding yob chasing you down the train platform or a tyrannical mini-cab driver blindly bolting for the cycling lane are both considered threats. American summer study-abroad students or tour groups stopping in the pavement to investigate the blue plaques on buildings, e.g. Sir Thomas Stone lived near here in 1821 are mere annoyances. Anything else, including a gangland murder across the park, is irrelevant to one’s day. This world view can even be measured spatially, equalling about 10 meters in a 45 degree front orientated cone meaning that anything that happens beyond 10 meters outside this cone has no impact to the self. It is even typical to see Londoners scanning the requisite distance in front, left and right, just to ensure that any possible threats and annoyances do not fall within this cone (of smugness) and are therefore rendered irrelevant by proxy.
Given the chances for even random associations in a city that swells to 12.5 million people each day, however, opens a door wide for some of the more stupefying and bewildering things. Most of these exist because of their ties to random processes that fall well outside the 10 meter cone and are relegated to the realm of urban mystery; these things I will never understand. As such, these mysteries have no business being solved, and generally, people who tend to solve these very mysteries tend to bewilder me more than the mystery ever did in the first place. A year ago, for example, somewhere in a place called Kilburn, North West London, a severed head was found in a bin bag in a large bin. Don’t get me wrong; I, in no way, condone severing heads and placing them in bin bags, but on the same token, I don’t advocate opening bin bags in the first place. Who is the man (or woman) who discovered such thing, and what was he doing looking in bin bags anyway? Another case in point, periodically bodies are found, dismembered, charred and stowed in suitcases that inevitably find themselves dumped somewhere outside the suspicious eyes and prying hands of those who might take offense to murder, dismemberment and arson. Again, I do not condone horrific crimes, and at many levels have nothing but sympathy for those who have to deal with these things. On the same token, at the same time as I sympathize with victims and their families, I have none for the finders of such suitcases, which are invariably discovered by random walkers out for a stroll in the country side who come across these suitcases, are horrified to discover their contents and then see fit to remark about their own shock and disbelief at what they have discovered. Given the number of suitcases that are discovered containing charred and dismembered corpses, I wonder where this sense of disbelief comes from. Furthermore, I argue that the odds of not finding a corpse in a suitcase dumped in the countryside are longer than finding one, so it baffles me as to why anyone discovering a dumped suitcase doesn’t simply call the authorities and let them deal with the shock-horror of discovery.
Not all little mysteries are as traumatic as severed heads and dismembered corpses, but their possibility does impact more banal behaviour. For instance on the way home from work yesterday, after dodging door-to-door stolen goods merchants, both Lowri and I after regarding a large piece of Christmas wrapping paper blowing around in the street, stepped over it and continued on our way. The people in front of us, in employing equal measures of observation and avoidance carried on like us, and I can only imagine that those behind us did the same thing, though since they fell outside the 45 degree 10 meter cone, I have no idea. Questions abound: why did we all do actively avoid a piece of litter that could be easily picked up and wadded in the bin, or more significantly, why was there a piece of Christmas wrapping paper in the street in September, and thus we have an urban mystery. The reason why no one dealt with the litter, even such a seemingly innocuous piece of litter is that most people read the pulp newspapers and are aware that behind even the most trivial piece of trash, suit case or bin bag, could be something horrific beyond words. This is, after all a London street and God only knows where that paper has been and what manner of foulness it has encountered. It could be attached, somehow to a head, or headless body or charred and dismembered corpse just outside the cone vision. Thus, it, like any other anomaly is to be avoided.
Because a city of 12.5 million people does contain its share of randomness, chaos is sometimes unavoidable, and inadvertently the riddles of urban mysteries are solved. For instance, I have always vaguely wondered about particular urban smells; unfortunately, living next to a stadium seating 60,000 people means that the sources of malodour are generally attributed to the fans that inhabit the stadium. For instance, everyone knows that you don’t go into the park next railway tracks adjacent to the stadium if you seek to get away from the clamour of the city and enjoy some greenbelt nature. You go into the park to either dump a body or use it as a public convenience. As a result, the park smells of piss and the source of piss are the fans pissing in it. The same thing goes for the churchyard, square, or anywhere vaguely private but still accessible by the public. This includes the walls to the station and especially behind bins. These smells, however, are not that intriguing and are not even urban mysteries. Having witnessed or participated in my fair share of public urination, I know only too well what happens when there are a bunch of blokes and a bunch of beer. I remember a bike racer I knew who after many beers was found with his back to the wall pissing across a sidewalk, holding up considerable foot traffic with his considerable quantity of urine. It is safe to say that, given these contexts, very few urinary events shocks me, let alone surprise me, or even evoke the most casual sense of wonder, except one thing. I have always wondered why the Tube station smells of piss. Given the cameras, the fact that most people don’t like walking in piss, theirs or otherwise and that the tube is heavily guarded on match day to avoid such incidents, the Tube stations still seem to always smell of urine. Vomit makes sense. When one has to vomit, they have to vomit, and vomit on a platform is about a billion times better than vomit on the train itself. Indeed, platform vomit ought to be viewed as blessing because it is specifically not train vomit. But station piss is a mystery, namely because out of all the tube journeys I have taken, I have never seen anyone pissing, so where does the smell come from? Whenever I’ve had to piss on the tube, I’ve held it and waited for a more convenient place, be it station wall, bin storage, park, square, alley or occasionally the church yard (though this one is a bit spookier given the sacrilegious overtones). The point is I’ve always held it until I was beyond the overt public gaze and somewhere private enough.
As noted above, the funny thing about living in such a big city is that the solution to mysteries often present themselves at the most seemingly bizarre moments. So, when I stepped off the tube at 5:30 in the afternoon and found myself facing a suited chap pissing against the wall in front of me and 6.5 million other commuters, I did not react in horror or revulsion; a bit of trepidation perhaps given my flip flop clad feet but certainly no shock, unlike the girl in front of me who screeched. Rather, I was pleasantly satisfied that, despite my not really wanting to know, at least now I did know where the urine smell in the tube comes from.

Fan mail, 'project ghetto,' k-holes and a-holes

2008-08-07T17:11:00.000+01:00

Dear Ben,
I notice you spend a lot of time referencing your PhD as a miserable experience. You also make references to tangential interests spawning from your PhD, while disparaging it: Specifically in your post about Ghetto Bike Racing and semiotics. However you have never once, on this blog, mentioned what exactly your PhD is about. Your readers want to know, what are you working on?
Sincerely
XXXXXXX [A loyal fan]

Dear [Loyal Fan],
Since you asked, I will tell you. At the moment, I am working on deploying visual-ethnography of sensorial affect to subvert the visual and visualicity of material culture.
Hope this helps, and keep on reading!
Ben

Times are strange. Not only am I getting fan mail again, to which I always happily respond, I am also being ‘plagiarized,’ and have had in the last week two near relations with recreational veterinary pharmaceuticals.
Plagiarism:
It would seem that Adam is stealing my words and representing them as his own. Actually, he’s not. Adam has dutifully used my words; in this case a discussion centred on the developmental praxis of ghetto bike racing, and he has cited me. Usually, I have nothing but disdain for intrinsically atavistic endeavours, such as the ghetto bike racing project—or as I prefer, ‘project ghetto.’ But as I injected myself with yet another 50mls of caffeine, I concluded that atavism only applies in perspectus, like in my use of Latinized sounding words in order to sound more social sciencey, which if you recall is a tenet of ghetto bike racing in the first place. To me, considering ghetto bike racing is truly an atavistic end. To others, practicing ghetto bike racers for instant, it’s as current as John McCain (running for president). So, with this justification, I can now more fully comment on this act of supposed plagiarism. From the Adam’s explanation, he too is moving towards a working definition of ‘ghetto bike racing’ with the hope of one day launching this on a website. I am intrigued because it more or less proves my main point about transitory semiotic mobilities. Only this time, the term is being re-appropriated and commoditized by the practitioners who originally appropriated it in the first place. It is a nearly classic (by classic I mean Ecoian) case of sign-signified-symbol-icon and if my eyes have the right kind of gaze (or glaze) dare I say ‘brand.’ Hence, ghetto bike racing is to be subsumed and therefore rarefied into and by the commodity system. And, I am not sure how I feel about this. From a philosophical point of view, this represents a collapse of the subject-object divide as both Baudrillard and to a lesser extent Eco, in his theory of the visual (see Victor Burgin’s text on this) predicted. In the process, the icon itself would be devalued, jeopardizing any cultural ‘value’ the term may have once implied. On the other hand, as one of the owners its intellectual property by right, I would be entitled a percentage, which is cool.

Pharmacology 1
Many of you may know and/or remember that I am not adverse to pharmacological experimentation; my preference, before retirement, being heavy duty phsychotropic hallucinogens and stimulants. So, it is little wonder that a friend of mine, upon hearing of my travails, jokingly invited me to a bump of special K that I politely declined. First off, Ketamine, besides being widely regarded as a club drug,’ is a horse-tranquilizer. Second, the notion of falling into a ‘K-hole’ doesn’t so much appeal to me, mainly because it sounds too much like ‘A-hole’ and I have no interest in falling into one of those, equine or otherwise. Finally, the best reason, if having no desire to wake up smelly isn’t good enough reason, writing a PhD is a lot like long term tranquilizer use; if practice is defined symptomatically, then PhDs have all of the classic characterizations of NDMA inhibitor abuse: wide eyed middle distance staring, slumped posture, slurred speech, infectious time-out-of-mind experience, not to mention the potential for adverse reactions to alcohol. Face it, writing a doctorate degree means staring into the time-vortex of a computer screen for hours, if not days, weeks, really who the fuck knows how long-on end. And, lost in that time-fog is any remembrance of the present, while unfurled before the blank eyes are long uninterrupted albeit fragmentary memory sequences—if that doesn’t nail drug use to a tee, I don’t know what does. Some espouse, manly recovering drug addicts, that one can get much higher without drugs than with—and though I don’t support that postulate, I can see why someone might think it if for no other reason than the placebo effect.

Pharmacology 2
In my daily internet trawl where I investigate whether friends’ blogs are updated I cam across something from Rob (cyclist at law to the right. The link’s broken, so just delete the last slash in the url and it should take you there). Rob has been referenced before in the blog—potentially in a discussion of hard points in the GBR analysis. Rob is a nice guy who writes eloquently about his experiences racing bikes and being a law talking guy. His recent post, however, has caused me some alarm—it would seem that he has been dabbling in some product branded ‘Mane ‘n Tail’ which according to their website is a topical equine analgesic liniment to make his (well horses’ legs stop hurting. All I can say (after ahahahahahahaha!!) is dude, seriously...I mean, sure, it’s no ketamine and therefore falling into the k-hole is unlikely, but ‘icy hot for horses’ can’t be many steps behind, and well frankly, I’d hate to find out what happens when that stuff gets anywhere near, well, anywhere (you thought I was gonna do it, didn’t you? I am above such cheap laughs). So please, if anyone here knows Rob, speak to him, tell him it’s not worth it. Or, if its anything like the o’le Crisco on the wheel rim gag, get him to try it out as chamois cream...which would be funny, because that stuff is moisture activated...

Public Relations on the Bike

2008-07-22T11:14:00.000+01:00

Today’s post is inspired by a commuting occurrence that I only wish was rare but in fact is common place for anyone on a bike—public aggression. I was stopped on my way into work by a young(ish) late 30’s year-old woman on her way to the British Museum with a gaggle of sprogs. As I slammed on my brakes and swerved nervously to avoid this family who was darting across roads and gathering in the cycling lane (a fairly obvious green painted strip on the side of the road with day glow bicycle symbols imbedded into the surface), this lady wanted to know if I ‘know why people don’t like cyclists?’ as if I was to blame for almost dying, and possibly running into her kid(s) in the process. Of course, because this is not the first time this has happened to me (today), my politeness tank is on ‘E,’ so I responded, ‘dunno, is it because we are a painful reminder what it’s like to not be fat and old?’ and then, quoting Jay-Z ‘do I look like a mind reader? You tell me.’ Then, after witnessing the disgust on this individual’s face, not to mention a tirade that almost made me blush, if I didn’t start laughing (and remember there were children around), I was hit by what alcoholics call, ‘a moment of clarity.’ This WAS my fault. Cycling has received a lot of bad press lately; what with doping in the Tour, and some twat running down a teenager and what not. And, because I was so vain to believe that a lane reserved by the City for cyclists was for the use of myself, while cycling, and not as a public gathering place while not cycling, I did not realize that I missed a brilliant opportunity for some public relations and role modelling for the kids, a la the end of a Gi-Joe episode, that is quite obviously lacking in their lives. In short, my behaviour was out of line, because, as a cyclist, I am to blame for every traffic, commuting, marital problem in the GLA.

I have been commuting in London for two years. In that time, during what amounts to 2 category 4 criteriums per day on a completely open course complete with buses, taxis, white vans, motorbikes, scooters, hipsters of fixees (aka Fakengers), messengers (aka the ‘’bottom feeders of ‘professional’ cycling’’) and pedestrians, each trying to get to a non-existent finish line first...not to mention all variety of fixed road hazard, such as pot holes, man holes, man hole covers, service ducts and rain, I have decided that cyclists have a public image problem. Sure, we’re not all to blame all of the time for miscellaneous mishaps, but sometimes, a little extra extended courtesy can go a long way in diffusing a potential angry situation—or to brighten someone’s obviously gloomy day--besides a little positive karma can’t hurt in the world of bikes and autos. With that in mind, I have compiled a short list of what one should say when faced with road aggression in particular situations—these are tried and true, and guaranteed to get the necessary response.
1. Getting shouted at and/or honked at angrily by a boy racer in a 3 series BMW, Audi A3, TT or Porsche Boxster or similarly modelled bottom-end European Coupe. ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry; I thought you were my hairdresser. I’ll be happy to get out of your way.’
2. Getting shouted at and/or honked at angrily by a middle-aged man in a Porsche or similarly middle-age-crises car ‘I’m terribly sorry to hinder you sir, but perhaps, if you are having difficulty negotiating the roads with a cyclist on them, you should consider alternative means of transport. The city has a wide variety of public transportation options, while, if necessary, the council provides ambulance services to pensioners.’
3. Getting shouted at and/or honked at angrily by a trophy wife in a Range Rover or similar ‘Chelsea Tractor while driving and talking on the phone. ‘I’m terribly sorry, I was distracted by your ‘tan’ and enormous fake tits; did your husband get them for you on Harley Street?’
4. Having to stop in traffic while an anorexic wanna-be glamour model waddles across the street, oblivious to what’s around while talking on his/her mobile but really more interested in being ‘noticed.’ ‘Move your fat ass!’
5. Having to stop in traffic while a hipster in ridiculously tight ¾ length trousers, Dutch architect glasses, and a cardigan crosses while pushing a brakeless fixed gear bike that he hand-built using boutique fixed gear parts, ‘hmm, I think my girlfriend/sister/mother/landlady has those trousers, do you shop at John Lewis too?’
6. Getting shouted at and/or honked at angrily by an estate agent. ‘I’m terribly sorry, the credit crises has hit us all. Can you give me a lift on your way to the Job Centre?’
Note: this one works equally well for investment bankers and derivatives traders, but you’re unlikely to see them driving. But, you can rework it to reflect their shopping trolley filled with tins for recycling: e.g. ‘Can you push me to the Job Centre.’
7. And finally, to another cyclist who would be better off on the Tube/Bus/Taxi but wants cycle 'for the environement, ‘I’m sorry, I think you dropped your Cone of Smugness on the hill.’ --Also works for electric cars, but only if you're passing them on said hill.

This, as you can see, is only a partial list, albeit proven effective by myself. More often than not, the motoring public will not give you the opportunity to try out your new found politeness, and you may have to resort to more everyday gestures and one word insults, ‘wanker!’ is my favourite, but, because language has become so diluted, especially expletives, it is sometimes useful to push insecurity buttons for maximum impact: so instead of ‘wanker,’ try ‘hooker!’ or ‘fucking-Tory!’ (if you can see they’re carrying a copy of the Guardian--if they have a copy of the Telegraph, try suggesting that 'the Church of England is better off now'). Now for the fun; see if you can come up with your own way to impress upon others your new found appreciation for them with overt politeness. I believe someone wrote a little book about ‘turning the other cheek.’

Because Knowing is Half the Battle

Ya'll know me still the same ol' G

2008-06-27T13:25:00.000+01:00

Most of you by now have figured out that I am in the long, slow, death knell of finishing a PhD. Many, if not all of you should not care. PhDs delve into the pits of academic minutia—making them interesting to very few, closely aligned, academics into the same mode of academic minutia. PhDs are a strange thing because they are like the David Letterman’s tv show. Long after it’s interesting, or even funny, it still isn’t over—and then there is the band at the end. I have reached that point. No more research, which is interesting. No more reading, which is funny, just typing—day-after-day—and I have the next 16-20 of the same thing. PhD’s are not a measure of intelligence or creativity; they are a testament to tenacity, proof of a stubborn will to get something, really big, done.
All of this beside my main point. Lately, as a result of the particular chapter I am writing about—again, I won’t bore you or me with the details—I have taken keen interest in semiotics. Semiotics, for those that don’t know, means ‘system of meanings and ideas,’ and in particular, I have become interested in how ideas become ideas, and then circulate. In the context of my thesis, this involves all sorts of loaded concepts, terms and words I don’t want to learn how to spell. As a side, this interest has evolved into a fascination with how terms move between subcultures, enter the mainstream and later evolve back into usage within a different subculture. Recent posts on this blog have hinted at some of these broad themes; two examples are ‘Mills is Genius’ and ‘Ghetto Bike Racing.’ Admittedly, even in this blog years ago, I have argued that the theoretical underpinning of semiotics and its parent, linguistics amounts to little more than an ‘academic circle jerk,’ I have since come around—not to thinking that this set of theory is anything more than a academic circle jerk; rather, academia itself, with its insular, self referential world resembles very little more than an academic circle jerk albeit one that is rather post-modern. Though on that token there is nothing wrong with it.
Back to the mobilities of semiotics:
Recently, cyclingnews.com wrote a news blurb about team Slipstream-Chipotle (now called ‘Garmin-Chipotle’) and their Tour de France roster. This prompted a discussion in my living room about Jon Vaughters, and, specifically, his inability to stay upright in bike races and/or avoid bee stings. In this conversation, my girlfriend, Lowri, queries, ‘so what you’re saying, JV doesn’t have the ghetto skills.’ At this precise moment, the Earth stood still in space and the universe revolved around it very similarly to the clever film editing in the movie version of Stephen Hawkings’ book, ‘A Brief History of Time’ when the coffee mug falls of the table, shatters spilling coffee on the kitchen floor and then is backed up, slo-moed, repeated etc. ‘Ghetto Skills!?’ I proclaimed. And, after a brief flurry of conversation, it was determined that Lowri was using the term ‘ghetto skills’ but referencing ‘ghetto bike racing’ culture in its deployment.
Now, when I heard her say ‘ghetto skills,’ I immediately flashed to the 90’s when inner city basketball was entering mainstream and popular culture with films such as ‘White Men Can’t Jump,’ ‘Above the Rim’ and importantly an entire Nike Advertisement Campaign. But not, this grounding was not in use. Remembering that anyone who was a member of the Ghetto Bike Racing Culture knows of its propensity for gangsta rap: Jed and myself frequently rapped whilst training: ‘She was dressed in yellow, she says hello...’ , or importantly and most famously, whilst warming up for a collegiate race in liberal and very white Minnesota having to put up with utter shit singer songwriter music by the likes of Dave Mathews or Jack Johnson coming from other cars that most bike racers are into, finally snapping, and blowing up the speakers of a rental van with Ice Cube (‘Pimpen aint easy but it’s necessary’)— complete with the image of Pierce’s dad leaning against the bonnet nodding his head to the beat, and Harper stopping, looking at the the white bread with the folk music and back to our car proclaiming, ‘hmmmph, this isn’t Jewel.’ And, finally within the context of Ghetto Bike racing, given Jed’s apartment in Topeka, was that it emerged from the ghetto.

However, Lowri, not being a member of the defunct subculture would not have known this. For her, ghetto ‘bike racing’ and ultimately ‘ghetto skills’ were only in reference to themselves, leaving her usage of ‘ghetto skills’ as representative of an entire semiotic paradigm shift—and it happened in my living room. Many of you are probably wondering by now, ‘what in the hell am I talking about’ (something I ask myself every two hundred words in my work). What I’m talking about is the mobility of language and meaning: both internationally, but also within and through cultures. ‘Ghetto Culture,’ or perhaps urban hip-hop (across generations) culture, exemplifies this cultural therefore semiotic mobility. Take Sugar Hill Gang and ‘Rappers Delight’ (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p2wbKv4aCaQ&feature=related). Musically, it is derived from a number of sources: Queen, James Brown, Pariliament to name a few. And, also lyrically, that is linguistically, deriving its rap from Jive (urban slang)—a language that has its own historio-linguistic trajectory. These two elements, not only produce a truly infectious groove, have later been appropriated, first within its ‘own’ culture but then to others, through music, and then lexicon where, a few twists and turns aside, emerged a new sub-culture—e.g. Gangsta Rap (chicken egg questions not withstanding). Then, this sub-culture, focused in urban slums of coastal cities (specifically, New York and LA) makes its way into the interior, predominantly affluent suburban environs where they become subsumed by pop-culture. Fascinating, as these semiotic systems move and evolve is that the two ‘cultural hearths’, eventually engage in what can only be termed a cultural war as both progenitors of this wider pop-culture vie for supremacy, a contest most famously embodied in the East Coast-West Coast rivalry that ended in bloodshed with the murders of both Tupac (of the LBC) and Notorious B.I.G. (of the Bronx).
Of course, this marginally fleshed out argument, is academic (at best) and mostly irrelevant both to practice and to itself. Mainly I use it to both point out my own fascination with the way words themselves move, and also to ‘warm up’ to the business of writing. And in case anyone is really wondering where I would like to take this argument: I’m listening to Danger Mouse’s Grey Album...whilst killing time.
Thanks for reading and keepin it real in the hood...well, my at least my urban, mostly gentrified middle class hood, complete with artisan cheese shop, fine wine merchant and Italian deli.

p.s.

This pretty much proves my point http://www.slangcity.com/songs/99_problems.htm

Adam R. Mills: Genius

2008-06-13T13:44:00.000+01:00

Adam Mills is a genius.

The title of today’s entry brings forward a sentiment I never thought I would have and a belief that ought to compromise any sense of cosmology I may have ever possessed. Adam is a nice guy, a hard worker, fun to hang around, good friend, but unabashed genius? The fact that this idea is actually being reported, archived and available to the public and thereby public scrutiny is testament to my own zealous dogmatism, and despite the visceral urge to qualify the statement, it is a sentence that I unreservedly stand behind. The questions that now must be emerging on any reader’s mind is why? Why make such bold statement; why refuse to qualify it; why open oneself to the potential of unfathomable criticism; why, exactly, is Adam Mills a genius?

The answers to such queries, and the reason why Adam has earned himself a permanent spot on my couch, spare bedroom or any other domicile facilities (provide matches are available) comes from two verb clauses he deployed in recent blog listings (see ‘Mills’ to the right): ‘Priceline’ and ‘man-up.’

Priceline: and why Adam is a genius for it.

Despite modernist reckoning that achievement is only notable if it is quantified in material terms—in this case Adam’s brief mention of Priceline.com saved my girlfriend and I £200 a night on an underfunded business trip to Copenhagen—is the context which Adam uses Priceline: Ghetto Bike Racing. Having gone on record previously by stating that the chief difference in my life between Ghetto Bike Racing and my post-Ghetto turn is pork, mainly bacon and pork-chops, but occasionally shins or pork belly, it is time to reemphasize the importance of the Ghetto way of life and its relation to Priceline.com. On the surface, Priceline.com symbolizes a refusal to pay retail—why buy something at full price when it can be had for less; more broadly Priceline subverts an entire mainstream world view by reinforcing the principles of a dedicated subculture. I could pay the rack rate for a bed surrounded by four walls and a roof, next to a bunch of other like material arrangements, but why when I can get the same thing for less if I deploy privileged knowledg? The value of the hotel room, therefore is not fixed. Philosophically this makes no sense—the notion that two identical objects have different values is intrinsically a paradox unless value is determined by negociants (email me if you want a fully fleshed out explanation). Priceline.com mediates the subversion of the status quo implicated in perpetuating the paradox, unless of course, it reveals the true value of a given commodity, while Adam mediates the relations between Priceline and the wider (post)Ghetto community. In my case the Copenhagen Hotel room must actually cost only £67 instead of £267 per night. The genius is in the broad strokes; Priceline undermines traditional notions of value by transmuting it to select social groups—as a surrogate to reality. Adam, in the context of Priceline.com, is not only a genius for saving me a fuck-ton of money in an overvalued commodity market by helping reveal to me the true value of a commodity, rather, Adam is a genius for reinvigorating a culture/sub-culture wide set of debates about entitlement and the true meaning(s) of value while simultaneously reinforcing the same sets of principles he manages to subvert in the first place by becoming a conduit to the very reality that is typically obscured (that Steve Tilford is the person who uses Priceline.com regularly in what Adam describes as ‘a mission lately to get the best hotel possible for the least amount of money’ is irrelevant because Adam as mediator brings these knowledges into practice through a referential system of semiotics a la De Sausseur)

Manning-up

Reinforcing Adam’s genius is that he simultaneously deploys a complex set of relational mediators and facilitators, manifest in the concepts behind Priceline while also utilizing the term ‘man up’ (though he graciously offers credit for the term to someone called Matt Ankney—again, see my note above about referential semiotics). As a term, it shouldn’t need unpacking, but in today’s world of shifting meaning and transitory knowledge systems, I feel that a bit of discussion is warranted, if for no other reason than to challenge an otherwise passive set of practices that render discussion closed without debate—back door fascism.
Man up itself is an exceptionally complex term that on one hand could be easily dismissed as phalocentric and chauvinistic with a feminist reading, (re)appropriated by both post-feminists and critical linguists or completely re-deployed by what could be read as a latent homoerotic tendency (for instance, I would hate to learn what would happen if I were to ‘man-up’ in a Kings Cross leather bar or a Vauxhaul S&M club). The brilliance behind Adam’s usage of the term transcends these definitions and contextual/decontextual readings by configuring it as part of the lexicon of the Enlightenment—however problematic revisionist historians may try to portray it. In other words Mill’s kicks it old school, by suggesting that the intended meaning of ‘man-up’ is to supersede one’s own ability by striving for something grander in the face of almost assured destruction. If that is not a sentiment that embodies the same idealism that conquered Everest, the Moon, the Russians, the flat Earth, built the pyramids, and a nearly endless list of human achievement from time immemorial, then I don’t know what does, and frankly don’t want to live in a world where human-achievement is so easily disregarded. Imagine what would have happened if Kennedy did not man up to Khrushchev in ’62? Dunno about anyone else, but I for one hate fucking borscht.

It is easy, perhaps too easy to draw unfounded conclusions at this stage, but between Priceling it and manning up, Mill’s keeps it real, yet in a more subtle way, Adam ravels the complete complexities of modernity into what appear at the onset to be simplest, somewhat binary distinctions but with a deeper reading provide insight into the very fabric of reality itself. I whole heartedly invite the owners of any dissenting opinions to man up and be counted.

Ghetto Bike Racing

2008-05-09T12:35:00.001+01:00

Recently I was queried by two founding members of the ‘Ghetto Bike Racer’ school of thought as to some of the rules for Ghetto Bike racing. This spurred a deep period of meditation and associated trip through my psyche and into my deep memory. In other words I went all ‘ohm-and-shit’ for a good two-and-a-half minutes. Ghetto Bike racing was more than an activity; ghetto bike racing was a philosophically derived praxis—the perfect Hursurlian marriage of the phenomenological ‘to do’ and ‘to be,’ that amongst other things involved over-intellectualizing the day to day with clever phrasing and complex pseudo-social scientism in order to pass the many long hours spent on the windswept hills of Kansas. Ghetto bike racing was, and is, a life style. The rules are unimportant here, though, I imagine Adam Mills (adamrmills.blogspot.com or click on the link to the right) will indeed discuss them at some point. But, the philosophy remains an intriguing avenue for epistemological introspection and interrogation of what it means to be (ghetto) and be hard, the later a subject of intense debate and an even more intensive pseudo-scientific ranking system for the measurement and analysis of hardness that often resulted in conversations following a feat of stupidity such as ‘Uh, I’m hard’ to which was invariably met with ‘No Rob! You’re not hard; you’re a big pink pussy! (BPP),’ a condition that resulted in its own pseudo-scientific ranking system so that at the end of the year, all of one’s BPP points could be added together and subtracted from the sum of one’s yearly hard point tally to yield a gross hardness metric. This metric could be further normalized (that means divide by 100) into a percentage score, and then a team (or groups) scores could be collated resulting in the derivation of an entire set of statistical measures of hardness: pseudo-social science at its very best.

The thing about all philosophies, and sub-cultures formed around such philosophies, is that eventually schisms develop over the true meaning of the philosophy—these are the classic epistemology/ontology debates that mark most great paradigmatic turns so that there were both old and new schools that each claimed penultimate status of the one truth. In other words, we all got girlfriends (who weren’t shared groupies) and then disagreed as to who maintained the ghetto-ness and who began to pose in its representative form. Many years on, the opinion of this writer maintains that the shift away from ghetto, though mediated by extenuating outside pressures, was really caused by inevitable sociographic (and in one main respect geographic) shifts predicated on growing up and growing out of a tired collegiate existence.

I digress. The ethos of ghetto bike racing, summed around these key rules, with the added perspective that safety indeed sucked, was that nothing except the race mattered. And, life evolved around the race—which, in those days, oddly enough, Steve always had to win. Whether it was on the road in the race, through dinner, or even the line to ice-cream, life was all about racing, and Steve was all about winning the race—whatever it took. The greatness of such a simplistic seeming lifestyle cum philosophy is the level of competition this type of existence garnered and by extension the speed at which one is forced to cope—metaphorically in the As You Like It sense—and also through the literal—all acts were done at top speed: racing, training, driving, eating, drinking, the goal was always to be first to the finish line—even when there was no obvious competition, there was always competition: be it cars echeloned across the highway to maximize drafting in the cross winds, maintaining a steady ‘nine-over’ in conditions that would make the post-man blush, hyrdro-planing (sp?) on the way to good weather, driving through a car wash at 100, or a foot race to find the car at 2am in a torrential rainstorm whilst drunk only to decide upon failure (to find the car) that perhaps driving is not such a good idea, to two person automobile operation (one steers the other works the pedal) (the person in the back scans for five-oh). All of these were (and may still be) modes of adapting and coping with the speed that the lifestyle mandates (ed). But, like most physio-metaphorical evocations of ‘speed’ these too often ended abruptly with the carbon snapping, aluminium scraping carnage of a bunch of Masters Cat 5’s in a damp corner. It’s like when I got my first real six-string in the summer of ’69, having a band and trying real hard. Jimmy has to quit, and Joey, inevitably gets married. Getting band back together can only look like the Pixies reunion tour—a little balder, a little greyer yet a little less desperate for cash than before—and desperation for cash is a powerful motivator when one signs on to a race with a bad check. If the Pixies look and sound this bad, what about Brian Adams?

Strange memories blasting through the time fog on this muggy morning in London. Has it been that long? 3 years, 4, 5? I set out this morning to meditate on ghetto bike racing and now find myself in a post-ghetto turn—a paradigm for the aging. And, it is to the post-ghetto that I now focus my argument. After the initial query I have been periodically considering ghetto in relation to the post-ghetto. And, I found myself deep in contemplation last night over dinner where it hit me like the Newtonian apple: pork. The chief difference between the ghetto and the post-ghetto focuses on the purchase and later consumption of pork and pork products. Allow me to elaborate. Myself and my partner were tucking into a stew constructed primarily from butternut squash, a mire-poix and potatoes, that had been slowly braised in a cochon-de vin (that’s pork legs in wine). Though, being ghetto, this meal was built from leftovers and was comprised mainly of the afore veggies and some broth that had been spiced up by added sautéed chorizo. The ghetto factor is important because this is the third meal from the same pot—a truly post-nouvelle style of economical cooking of the post-ghetto lifestyle. The change between the ghetto and the post-ghetto, by this point, should be obvious—the old ghetto lifestyle is present but with the addition of pork. In all my time as a ghetto-bike racer I can remember consuming pork once, in bacon form at the KU-KState pre-pre-pre-party (where a keg was tapped at 7:45 to beat the AM rush). I remember once, in addition, a furtive conversation where it was revealed that one of us broke down and ‘indulged in the swine.’

Ultimately, if the post-ghetto has anything in common with other ‘post’-movements, conclusions at this stage are irrelevant because they are still evolving. It will take a post-post-ghetto turn before the bets are cleared and reason can resolve these earlier tensions.

Horseshit, utter horseshit

2008-05-07T14:50:00.000+01:00

There are very few things more exciting, more exhilarating and exponentially cool than a spring day: except a spring day in London. The sky is clear and blue, and there is only a hint of breeze to keep the smog at bay (breeze + Base Wind Factor (BWF) = -6). And, the only way to celebrate such a spring day in London, besides cocktails, which by my watch are still some hours off, is a bike ride into work. Now, for those of you who do not know London, I mean intimately, like a cyclist would, probably do not realize how urbanized it is. Granted, my friend Arnaud—a Frenchman—argues that London is actually quite sub-urban, but that is a topic for after cocktail hour, so for the sake of argument, we will just call the City urban. This of course means that it has all of the facets of an urban, mostly modern city: electricity, running water, sewers, tall buildings (sort of, but not like Manhattan), a number of cars, roads, sidewalks, infinite numbers of speed bumps, and even bike lanes painted green, which are extra fun when it rain, like it never does in London. So, when I rounded a corner on my way in this morning, near a Taxi driving training facility where, amongst other things, the teach The Knowledge http://www.taxiknowledge.co.uk, and near a decidedly urban junction near a big international train station, I nearly ploughed into a giant, steaming pile of horse shit. Fortunately my bike hopping skills are well tuned, and I was able to avoid the mess; the Mini-Cooper behind me was not so lucky, but drivers of those are twats anyway. What intrigues me about this whole incident, however, is that here, in London, on a Wednesday, there could be a steaming pile of horseshit in the street. My experiences with shit in the city are fairly mundane and centre around dogs mainly. Though recently, I did spy a spent diaper on the sidewalk near my house. However, horseshit is somewhat rare in a city where horses are not the normal mode of transportation. I know for policing purposes that horses are common, especially in riot situations, like when Arsenal plays Manchester, but I would assume that those horses are indeed wearing diapers when they shit, else there would be horseshit on the pavement. So why, here in almost Central London, where there are no football grounds, would there be an enormous pile of steaming horseshit? My only guess is that it comes from a real life inspired game of Cowboys and Indians that a come a whooping and a’hollering through Kings Cross all before Mungo arrives...
Only slightly more bizarre than this image is that there is a place where the Knowledge can be taught, and that, once having been taught the knowledge, one could say that they have the Knowledge. The concept of the Knowledge is intriguing. The be a cab driver in London, one has to pass a ‘basic’ test of their knowledge of London’s intricate geography. Only this small test takes about 26 months to learn, there are dedicated training centres http://www.kpmknowledgeschool.com so that the test can be studied for and presumably passed at some later date, once the Knowledge is learned. Now I’m not one to advocate extra testing, but when it comes to cabs in a big city, absolutely should there be a test on not only the core competencies of driving a cab, but also a test to ensure that the driver knows where the hell he or she is going. Take this example. I was in San Francisco last year trying to find a particular bar on a particular street in the city. I hopped in a cab, told the driver the name of the bar and the street, which was something like 115th. The cabbie looks at me and says ‘so where’s that?’ ‘It’s on 115th street.’ ‘Where’s that?’ How the fuck do I know? You’re the cab driver; it’s probably after 114th and before 116th.’ Needless to say, after guiding him to the bar, with the help of a mobile phone sat nav (not the driver’s), the subject of the bill came up. ‘That’ll be $21’ ‘Excuse me?’ ‘$21’ ‘But all you did was operate a car, which, according to a Clint Eastwood movie, any monkey can do. I’m not giving you $21 dollars when I supplied most of the information to get me to where I needed to go. I’ll you $6 for gas.’ ‘Fuck you. You give me $21!’ ‘For what? You did not do your job, so why should I pay you for what you didn’t do? How about I give you $21 dollars and you give me $100 for my time because as a highly qualified professional in a geographically related field, I’m worth about $100 an hour as a consultant, which is precisely the amount of time it took for me to figure out how to tell you how the fuck to get to the bar that I was going to even though you, the cab driver, were hired to provide me that service. Fuck you here’s $5!.’ A few words on the street later, I was merrily drinking in said bar, an hour late, relishing a nearly free cab ride.
But, I digressed from my point. Having drivers know the city they are to be drivers in is an important quality to the qualifications for being a ‘driver.’ And now, you may ask, how comprehensive is the Knowledge. A friend of mine’s dad is a London cabbie which makes him able to do at least two things very, very well. Quote from the Daily Mail, and drive a cab in London. We were out one night on foot trying to find a bar, and in lost desperation, Pete calls his dad. His dad asked where we were going, i.e. the name of the bar, where we were at the time and preceded to direct us to take ‘two immediate lefts, a right, walk about 40ft, take the next left up an alley and veer right past the news agent. It’ll be on the left across the road.’ And, low and behold, after two lefts, a right, a 40ft walk, a left in an alley and veering right at the news agent, the bar was across the street. The Knowledge. Though, if I were to ask him about the horseshit in the street, he’d blame the former mayor, Ken. (‘Fahcking Ken!’)

Wow.

2008-04-08T13:15:00.000+01:00

“And the fourth angel sounded, and the third part of the sun was smitten, and the third part of the moon, and the third part of the stars; that the third part of them should be darkened, and the day should not shine for the third part of it, and the night in like manner.”

News Desk: Columbia
A cold wind blows through downtown Columbia. It is a sad day, perhaps the saddest since ’88. Not only did the Tigers fail to make the tournament, and fail to win the Orange bowl, the ‘Hawks did...both. The forums and blogs are on fire with statements like these. “Chicken-hawks were handed the championship;” “Memphis deserved to win,” and according to someone at ESPN “Memphis still has the best season of any Div I team ever. “ To the first two comments, all I can say is, “score board.” To the third, the only winning streak that matters in college basketball is the last six. I remember KU’s great undefeated seasons...except that we lost in the tournament. And, I guarantee that the players at Memphis, as well as the fans, are not congratulating themselves on a ‘incredible season’ with the sound of ‘Rock Chalk, Jay Hawk, KU!!” reverberating through the arena. The thought chills me as I struggle to write in anything longer than short statements and pithy musings.
Dick Vitale, as one of ESPN.com’s ‘analysts’ was the only one to not choose the Jayhawks as even making it to the Final Four. Though, as Roy Williams once said, ‘if Dick Vitale knew anything about basketball, he’d still be a coach.’ I can only imagine the stony silence in his heart as he woke this morning.
While on the subject of Roy Williams: “At the moment, I don’t give a shit about North Carolina...” yeah, Roy, neither do I. Though, at this precise moment in history, as Roy is sitting in his office at UNC—the one that is smaller than Dean Smith’s—I can only imagine that indeed, he wishes it was him that was having a street named after him in Lawrence, which is exactly what will happen if Bill Self stays at KU: a street and a statue bigger than Phog Allen’s

I was awaken at around 03.30 GMT to the mournful wail of ‘Rock Chalk, Jayhawk, KU’ seeping from the collective consciousness that binds KU Alums the universe over and that manifests in a visceral, yet unrequited, stirring of the loins. Living five hours in front of 02.21 GMT tip off, and not having a readily available TV that broad cast the Game, I decided that the most prudent course of action was to go to sleep and read about the inevitably close, yet disappointing Game in the papers tomorrow—from hence forth known as ‘today.’ I can unreservedly say that my error was huge, and it will haunt me. Furthermore, with as much joy as there must be in Lawrence at this precise moment, hangovers notwithstanding, I can only look on with a vicarious gaze.
I leave you with this:
http://www2.ljworld.com/photos/galleries/2008/apr/07/fans_watch_championship_downtown_lawrence/44080/

The tired old cliché, more tired and older than the cliché of ‘tired old cliché,’ is that a ‘picture is worth a thousand words.’ And, like most tired old clichés, it is true.
All energies flow according to the whim of the Great Magnet, and the Wheel of Karma must forever turn. The Universe demands balance, and as the self-appointed tortilla in the giant burrito of existence, it is my duty to find balance—call it my burden.

News Flash!

2008-02-22T12:36:00.000Z

International Sports Desk: London (high atop a secret tower--next to the foriegn affairs bunker)

'Come here little kiddies, on my lap
Guess who's back with a brand new rap'

The news wire's on fire, along with an Embassy or two.

In response to my earlier posting about Western Diplomats' response to the Embassy attacks (see below)--former diplomat Richard Holbrooke says, 'the Russians are behind this because they have encouraged the worst and most extremist elements in Serbia for the last year.' Thank fuck. Now we can get back to blaming the Russians. Al Quaida, though a brilliant marketing ploy, was too faceless as a symbol for terrorism. In theory, Bin Ladin, or former top level Taliban officials could have been Al Quaida, but who knows (and God knows we tried to find them...)? Al Qaida essentially became the brand that jihadist extremists applied to their action, once the 'original' terror organization was 'broken' (if it ever existed). Since then, it became, or already was,a splintered, fractional, idealogically organized collective of cells, who each operated individually as 'Al Quaida' without any material ties to a central structure.

But now, we have Ivan and Boris a tagteam duo also known as The Red Menace. I for one am pleased. Something never sat right with the new world order of post-imperialism that manifested into 'extremism' and quasi-organized 'terrorist cells.' However, the Russians present a throwback challenge and the good old days of the cold war. And, for those who think that these attitudes are perpetrated only by the Kremlin and its reassemblage of ex-KGB officers, I can gurantee that there is some one one, or many someone's in the CIA who are wetting themselves at the prospect of going at it again with Russian security services. The press is rife with reports of injured soldiers from hot war zones returing and suffering from PTS, but as far as I can tell, no one has considered what happened to the Cold Warriors on both sides who bent their minds to their own version of freedom. Surely, after a career of fighting the Russians (Commies) or Americans (Capitalist Dogs) only to have the whole thing end rather unspectacularly in a student-led coupe d'etate has to be the ultimate bum-trip and leave some healthy unrequited scars--for both sides. They talk about healing in all of the places where the Cold War bubbled into outright conflict--making amends for death squads and Operation Condor, but there was never healing in the homeland where the crimes were ultimately planned.

Now brewing in the East, is our former partner in world chess--scars have opened! Shame about Castro--almost made 10 US presidents. Let the games begin!

'The Promotion of Olympism'

2008-02-22T10:10:00.000Z

The International Sports Desk: London

The New York Times reports that the US Olympic Team will bring its own meat to the Beijing Games citing concerns over contamination--from both a food safety and drugs testing perspective. The recent Westland/Hallmark recall of 15.9 Million Kilograms as the benchmark of US meat safety not withstanding, the Olympic meat campaign brings to mind at least three points. The first is what are the logistics of hauling 25,000 pounds of meat across the ocean? Beyond just the meat, presumably different varieties of high quality organic, free range, grass fed, beer massaged, cruelty free flesh, there has to be vast air-born refrigerators, service staff, buyers, and quality standards administrators that have to ensure, amongst other things, that the meat did not originate in China. Which leads to point number 2: who's to say that US meat is any safer, especially after it is hauled across the Pacific? The Westland/Hallmark case provides some point. Within this massive beef recall, made up of primarily processed products sold to schools and prisons, is an order to recall the meat retroactively, meaning, according to a USDA guy that a vast majority of this meat has already been consumed...er, so wouldn't the effects already be manifest and therefore the company should just take responsibility, or merely apologize for breaking a series of federal laws? Finally, my third point is that actually, I support the US Olympic team. Really, I do, and for a variety of reasons beyond blind patriotism. Now there can be no excuses for failed dope tests like, 'the Chinese put HGH, EPO and steroids in the hot dog I fed to the evil-twin who still lives inside...' (yes, I still think Tyler Hamilton is a wanker and for that matter his new boss, Michael Ball of Rock and Republic Jeans and Rock Racing, is a complete douche who I would like to invite over to my house for dinner just so I can have the distinct pleasure of kicking in his teeth). Another major reason that I see for the US not wanting to eat Chinese meat, besides the obvious stereotypes of 'what kind of meat is this anyway,' and/or threat of mercury, lead, etc, poisoning, is can you imagine the horror of a bunch of straight laced athletes when they bit into a skinless, boneless 'chicken breast' only to find out it turned into MDMA on the BBQ?

In other sporting news, major western countries are condemning the fire-bombing of embassies in Belgrade. A coalition, comprised of the US, UK and various others are 'officially' protesting that the US, UK and various other embassies had been attacked by protesters angered at Kosovo's succession from Serbia. More as the story unfolds

Troubled

2007-12-07T13:03:00.000Z

Santa’s butt plug and ‘back door atheism:’ when the going gets weird, the weird go pro, or at least remain firmly entrenched in the amateur ranks so as not to risk censure.

I was planning on developing a long running thesis about the decline of Lawrence, Kansas, a teaser I ran a few months ago, but recent news headlines have made me rethink this story and consider the recent news, and in the process, I would like to expound on a topic close to my own heart, fascism

Item 1: Santa’s Butt Plug.

entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment
/visual_arts/article2955473.ece

It’s not often that I get to use the term ‘butt plug,’ let alone use it multiple times in the same diatribe; in fact, the last time I seriously considered butt plugs at all is when a hair stylist friend of mine asked me if I brought her back one from a conference trip many years ago. Now, half a decade later, not only can I use ‘butt plug’ in all seriousness, I can refer to it as ‘Santa’s Butt Plug.’ I would seem that a New York artist, in the provocative ‘artist way’ has manufactured chocolate Santa Claus statuettes in time for the holiday season. Only, instead of a giant bag of toys, or say a Christmas Tree, towering over this chocolate Santa is a fully engorged Priapus disguised as giant chocolate butt plug.

Don’t get me wrong; what people do with their Santa statuettes, their chocolate, or frankly their own asses, with or without butt plug, is none of my business, and in my never ending libertarian battle against fascism, I will defend all Santa, chocolate, or butt plug activities. However, I am also a really twisted person, cynical, some might even say…evil? (whahaha). And, in my quest for betraying the clinically stupid to the righteous, I cannot let a Chocolate Santa Butt Plug pass by uncommented. Also, since I am in the midst of finishing an entire PhD on the subject of objects, agency, embodied practice and corporeality, I can’t help but wonder about the use and consumption (in the commodity sense) of a Chocolate Santa Butt Plug—and frankly, in which order. There are some mysteries in this world that I shall leave to my kinkier friends—call me prude, but I have no idea what one would do with a Chocolate Santa Butt Plug. Chocolate Santa, sure, eat it. Butt plugs, sure, the name is mostly self-evident. So, if any of my dear readers can help me on this, and you know which one’s you are, please, educate me. Oh, and if you’re really curious, they are 76% cacao and sell as objets des arts for $100, see link above for details

While we’re on the subject of butt plugs: the other story of note today is that US evangelical groups, before having seen the film, are calling for a boycott of some movie called Golden Compass, to be released on Dec. 5th. I don’t know what the film is about nor the books that inspired it. However, apparently the right wing blogo-world has their panties in twist because the books and film are said to inspire atheism—though as someone on the London Times Points out, they really can’t inspire atheism because the central plot is deicide. Any hoo, here is what Bill Donahue of the Catholic League has to say:

“‘This is pernicious,’…’this is selling atheism to kids, and it's doing it in a backdoor fashion.’ In a press release, the Catholic League president accuses the film's producers of conducting a "deceitful stealth campaign" to push the anti-Christian books.”’ (Times Film Review)

To counter, Philip Pullman (author of the books that inspired the film) says this to Al Roker on the ‘Today Show:’

‘Well, you know I always mistrust people who tell us how we should understand something. They know better than we do what the book means or what this means and how we should read it and whether we should read it or not. I don’t think that’s democratic. I prefer to trust the reader. I prefer to trust what I call the democracy of reading. When everybody has the right to form their own opinion and read what they like and come to their own conclusion about it. So I trust the reader.’

On his own website Pullman says mostly the same thing:

‘As a passionate believer in the democracy of reading, I don't think it's the task of the author of a book to tell the reader what it means. The meaning of a story emerges in the meeting between the words on the page and the thoughts in the reader's mind. So when people ask me what I meant by this story, or what was the message I was trying to convey in that one, I have to explain that I'm not going to explain. Anyway, I'm not in the message business; I'm in the “Once upon a time” business.’ (http://www.philip-pullman.com/about_the_books.asp)

He actually refuses to comment on his books preferring them to speak for themselves.

What becomes clear, in this entire unfolding narrative, is that while Pullman is not in the business of generating meanings, preferring to generate thoughts on meaning instead (epistemology if you will), is that Bill Donahue is interested in mediating thoughts on meaning, stepping in to control how his followers, and by extension how he thinks the rest of the book reading, film going public should act—a question of ontology. Donahue, the mouthpiece of The Catholic League, ‘for Religious and Civil Rights,’ is quick to cry ‘foul’ when confronted with the secularization of public space: schools, government buildings, civic centers, calling ‘Christmas Censors’ the ‘political correctness police.’ And quicker when secularization becomes popular—even though there is a cleverly worded document supporting the foundation of US republican democracy that maintains certain rights (freedoms if you will) about which Congress can and cannot make laws about.

What concerns me is the misrepresentation of ideals. By criticizing those who want to maintain secularity of public entities (government) as the pc-police, he is of course making overt references to Orwellian control—‘Big Brother,’ ‘the Thought Police’ and the dangers of allowing libertarianism to erode—effectively labeling critics ‘fascist.’ Fascism, however, will always remain fascism, regardless of how it is (re)branded. Taking Pullman to task for promoting ‘democracy through words’ only illustrates that Donahue, himself, is guilty of the same thing that he purportedly fights against by attempting to maintain control over how people think and simultaneously polarizing what they may think into rights or wrongs.

Perhaps even more worrying, is his word usage: ‘backdoor atheism’ juxtaposed with backdoor fascism. Openly critiquing two competing processes by labeling them ‘atheistic’ conflates their individual meanings into a singular catchall phrase for immorality, setting the stage for moral-absolutism and opening the front door to overt control whilst we’re watching the back. Last time I checked, there was no great ‘liberal’ conspiracy to erase God from the US. 74% of us believe in Judeo-Christianity, implying, perhaps, that the right to not believe is actually threatened, and I have yet to find the foundations for this paranoia of anti-religiosity that is has somehow infected the nation. Troublingly is that the power of the Christian Right has increased in my short time on Earth, and though I could probably make a few good arguments tying this rise and the devastating effects of predatory Capitalism together into a historical-materialist narrative, I won’t—except to say that on one side disillusionment and loss of control are progenitors for desperation that could lead to religious zealotry and on the other, legitimized self-righteousness that follows moral absolutism could be used to rationalize particular socio-economic agendas.

Most worrying of all, and the final point of this blog is that before accusing ‘atheists’ of the mortal sin of trying to get people to think about how they view the world and their cosmology, labeling them as ‘operating a stealth campaign to promote atheism in a backdoor fashion’ perhaps Bill Donahue should step back and consider the backdoor actions that his organization fronts. Indeed, ‘backdoor atheism’ certainly has to be better than the brand of backdoor Catholicism that surfaces from time to time; I’ve yet to hear anyone genuinely apologize for the actions of a growing number of ‘wayward’ clergy who use ‘backdoor tactics’ to get what they want--whatever the motivation, at least those who buy Chocolate Santa Buttplugs have a choice.

A Brief Encounter

2007-11-05T12:50:00.000Z

After the long contemplation that can only be understood after two years abroad, I have concluded that the most unpleasant experiences of my life as an expatriot is coming running into others from my homeland. Given the current political climate, I have, with rare exception, catagorized Americans into two divisions. Hawkish right wingers who are, as stereotypes dictate, American and the apologetic left. And, after considering this matter deeply, whilst emmersed in my own brand of neo-liberal, yet somehow marxian politics, the most disagreeable are the apologetic left--though this could be primarily because the university setting in which I find myself emmersed on most days precludes this condition, thus bringing me to the scenario that I view with utmost disdain, fear and loathing: sympathizing and later justifying with those for whom I have not sympathy nor desire to justify.

In the coffee line today, I came across a girl, typically American, and more importantly, typically American College Girl Abroad: somewhat intellegent, somewhat fat--not the usual kind of fat that has done the US proud--rather, nascent fat; very left wing.

"Oh, are you from Kansas?" She asks in that whiney midwest college girl accent.
"What?! no!" >>>who are you, why are you talking in the the coffee line, don't you know this is Londond? Fuck-off<<< (arrows denote thougt-speech).
"Oh, I just, like, saw your sweatshirt..."
To which I responded witht the look that has come to characterize my own ego-centric world--raised eye brow, slight nodd--that anyone who knows me knows I'm thinking >>>so, I don't give a shit, why are you still talking, or, maybe, why am I still standing here, btw, you didn't 'like see my sweatshirt'. you either did or didn't. Get to the fucking point<<<
"...I'm from Arizona." she continues.
"really." >>>ooo that was a mistake, because she's going to take it as a question 'really?' instead of a statement like I meant it. why doesn't this queue move faster?<<<
"Oh, but I'm not one of those Americans."
>>>those Americans? What like those from Arizona? the Southwest? ...oh THOSE Americans...here it comes<<<
"those Americans?" I ask.
"Yeah, you know people in this country think we are all for the war and stuff,"
>>>really, who, everyone I know has never thought that of me. and why are you telling me this? you have no idea of my political ambivilence."
"Yeah, well, the US's track record isn't particulirly good, and 52% of "us" did vote for Bush."
"I know, but I hate be stereotyped"
"yes, that's problematic" >>>sigh, but honey you are, and here's why...wait, you're about to tell me.<<<
"How long have you been here. Does this happen to you." >>>what?! are we stil talking?<<<
"Not really, but then again, most people who know me don't want to know my politics" >>>they're scary enough without me having to wave them around like a flag.<<<
"How do you find it? I mean defending yourself against those who think you are for the war or are like one of those tourists?"
(author's note. I think other European Tourists are way more unpleasant than the Americans; not the Americans of stereotype, but those honest to God American tourists whom I have met and spoken with.)
I snap.
"It's funny actually. I've never had those issues, but I think that's partly my perspective. I don't so much have a problem with the hawkish Republicans. They mean what they say and do what they meant" >>>an elephant's faithful 100%<<< "the problems I've encountered living here are the American academic left. I find them, in general, to be apologetic to the point of atrophy and ineffectivness and to be overly whiny; and for that matter typically 'American' because they are so inwardly focused. It's best to get over it."

Stoney silence >>>wa hahahahah!!! that'll teach you to interrupt my coffee and meditation<<<

The above excerpt is more or less a conversation I had this morning--however ineloquent. My problems with and therefor the source of disdain I have with the US is, believe it or not, the regime based on deciet, lies and that funny balance between immorality and amorality. Hating the Republicans in that context is like hating the Dallas Cowboys of the 90's because they won so often by redefining the rules of the game. What I do hate, however, is the left who has done nothing in the past 7 years except winge that they should be in power and apologize for the actions of a regime bwhose power is based in mendacity when they should have been overthrowing it. And worse, now that they are in power, however tenuous, there is the overwhelming surity that they will win in the next set of elections despite two fundamental flaws in their approach: the first is that they will flock to and rally around two candidates who cannot possibly win, and the second is that despite the grandstanding, and the hard won desparate mandate from 'the people,' there has been no tactical or rhetorical shift. In other words, same shit new year. Unfortunately, this mandate won't last once the right wing machine gets rolling unless the left wings gear up an equally vicious machine of their own and start making some rules instead of taking them. Unfortunately, this is a paradox. The left will not win because it is good, and we all know that in the end, 'good is dumb.' That is why it is good.

and to add closure to the short conversation I had with this poor, deluded girl, she broke her stoney silence.

"what do you mean? I'm not like that."

But by this time, I was at the front of the queue had coffee in hand and was no longer listening--"take it easy" >>>chew on that with your latte<<<

As I was sipping my quadrupple espresso and gearing up for another day sat in front of the keyboard, I came to one other conclusion. I miss America. Not in the homesick sort of way that makes me want to move back, and not because I am intelectually or academically intrigued by all of the odd contradictions; the United Kingdom has enough of those plus 20 ounce pints. What I really miss is all of the shit you can buy in America that you can't here.

To explain this; I need to explain an incident that occured whilst I was sipping my huge coffee. I over heard another American girl (see description above) on her phone talking about her new house/flat. Apparantly she loves it, but needs to get some "Drano".

And, therein lies the beauty behind what makes America great. Drano, and not just in single use, carefully portion controlled bottles, but huge fuck off vats of it, for sale to the general public without any sort of vetting process. Gallons of sodium hydroxide available in one go at Home Depot--I'm about to start singing 'America the Beautiful' in the library it's so fucking cool.. We have entire industries set up to brand, market and sell the waste of other entirly different industries--and a consumer market that not only wants and is told they need it, but that can ask for it by name: Drano.

My mind racing, I began to think of other things that I can buy in the U.S.A that I can't get here. The gazillion pack of Ibuprophen I bought at Walgreen's 4 years ago that I gifted to Adam before I left. Where else in the world can an average joe off the street buy 10,000 Ibuprophen pills in one go? With not even a raised eyebrow, or back ground check. If my memory serves me, this was not the largest bottle I could buy, and Walgreen's sells Drano too! Think about that. Drano and Ibuprophen, and a shitload of both under one roof next to the cheap perfume and squirtguns.

Before I get too wound up in this celebration of what makes America great, and what makes our wars worth fighting; I feel like I should make my point--and one that is only visible from the outside looking in, a neo-autoethnography of the collective self. All sides of the US political spectrum, and by extension, all people in the US, are predicated on the same expectations and sense of entitlement, however skewed and however leaning--all of which points to the central contradiction of ourselves; left or right; we are all basically the same person. The American President is the that small child in all of us who wants and wants and wants. He is the same person inside me that provides the motivation for me to buy a ton of pills, or wind my car up to 120mph on a back road--he, and us, are the same, and we act through the best and worst of all possible reasons; we can.

stay tuned; I plan on embarking in a extension of the prvious post: a collection of vignette short stories about what makes Lawrence, KS what it is.

Hotel Lawrence

2007-08-29T15:01:00.001+01:00

Stoke Newington, London, Foul Year of Our Lord, 2007.

It’s hard to keep a place in perspective when you’re freebooting your way through it; you loose all analytical rigor, and until you can manage to escape, all proper reason is spiked with terminal hysterics. It takes time and distance to reform the necessary gaze to capture the place, but even then, it is never possible to fully understand and comprehend the subtle nuances that make the place alive and thereby do justice to it. Deadlines creep up, and selling out the rotten bastards who made up a significant and important part of your life seems like less of a problem when the Man desperately grabs your throat and squeezes your eyeballs. Time, as the cliché reads, heals all wounds, but more importantly it ferments a healthy sense of righteous vengeance: no quarter asked, and none given.

Lawrence, Kansas was a special place in the late 90’s when her energy focused the perpetual myth of the American dream into her own consequence free movement. Her atavism even hemorrhaged into the first part of this decade before the awful realities of the Unelected took hold and a rotting corpse behind the white picket fence finally bled out into the awful muck we find ourselves standing in. A queer grocer runs the council, but it is mob rule in the streets. Students descend from the Hill to pour 2-dollar liters of Bud Light all over their bodies and compete at sexual Olympics in the bathrooms. Driving drunk is a hobby, and the worst thing about passing out in the street is that someone else takes responsibility. At this time, Lawrence is one of the few places in American where the 3-Stooges is not only an acceptable PhD topic, but also noble, as is the reward of a part-time barista job upon completion. 10-year undergraduates bask in the eternal bliss of cheap tuition and a hand-to-mouth lifestyle that is unquestionable as long as there is a bar with a band for a 1-dollar cover, and dollar-fifty long-island ice teas until 2 am. Couches on sagging porches and window-unit air-conditioners are the only plausible stipulations of tenancy contract that force denizens into binding legal agreements. Even then, a lost deposit is only a few hundred dollars while the image of rolling an empty beer-keg down the stairs and through the locked front door will enrapture a lifetime of audiences as they gather to share war stories and reminisce about the glory of their college days.

It is hard to say when Lawrence changed. Perhaps the lifestyle got too big too quickly, and the coke-heads that owned the place, and preached its irresponsible decadence, started losing their grip and felt the pressures of bigger interest creeping into their slumbering village to package and sell its inherent lifestyle. Perhaps it’s the soft realization that the kind of existence of a college town is only meant for the privileged youths of America and that its glory fades. A sociological perspective yields that a shifting demographic along with a transient population has no intrinsic stability, while others of the same bent argue that, citing ancient Rome and all other great world empires, growth itself leads to its own decline. Yet another angle is that individual perspective changes, and the place itself looses luster only to the individual whose perspective has changed. A pluralist says it’s a combination of all of the above. Realistically, however, the decline of Lawrence comes out of the undeniable fact that aging hipsters who perpetuate their own mythology are pathetic and that their lifestyle was doomed from the beginning, and those who don’t get out are doomed to the life cycle of the big suck, a vacuous existence in the Heart of America.

Dog Days

2007-08-19T17:34:00.001+01:00

It's a been a long time since I posted survival rules for London. Hell, it's been a long time since I posted anything--though the last one about tossing Don Mitchell out of the 47th floor of the San Francisco Hilton looked pretty funny. I hate fascists. Any how, on to the survival rules: an updated list.

1. Don't ever leave London!!

I can't stress this one enough. Except for the odd foray to the seaside, or other closely selected locales, do not, under any circumstances leave the M25--preferably it's best just to stay within Zone 2. Everything you need is there. Cinemas, pubs, bars, restaurants, probably the best wine shop in the world. Why leave? On each occasion I've left London, lured by a the thought of a quiet weekend in the countryside, I've only encountered weird village folk and returned the next day with a headache and fatigue that still rears its head a week later. Again, don't ever fucking leave London. It's not worth it.

2. Mind your shoes. I've mentioned this one before I think, but it was really in a more literal reference to you shoes. This time it's metaphorical and can be translated as watch your ass; this is a big (BIG) city.

Last Tuesday evening, after having settled down to some nice braised pork chops and a James Bond movie, we were distracted by a noise outside. Shouting, gibberish, more shouting. Typical for the Hackney slum I now call home. Believe me, there is an edgy romance to taking part in the cutting wave of gentrification. My fourth floor flat, locked away behind numerous double bolted garages, entryways, video phone lock mechanisms, over looks the former Kings Crescent Estate. My windows over look 4 other stories of blocked in windows of derilect flats, that hide one of the larger populated council estates in Greater London. It's notorious for drugs and prostitution. I dodge used condoms on the way home (a literal take on minding your shoes), that despite the disturbing social relations that underlie condoms on the ground near Brownswood road, is a testament to the safer sex campaigns of the 90's. Now, if only the prostitutes and pimps would not use the alley way... But I digress. One of the off shoots of living at the cutting edge of trendiness is that the great, modernist project of social housing, that is housing the poor in massive tenement blocks, is that the problem that would normally be isolated to the estates often spill out, meaning that the rules of geographic autocorrelation dictate that their problems soon become my problems.

Back to Tuesday. After the shouting and gibberish had ended, we were treated to a police investigation. I mean there were cops, cop tape, bobbies, tit heads, the whole force seemed to have descended onto the niegborhood streets. Missing were the hoards of normal street dwellers, deciding that it was probably best not to have to talk to the coppers. More and more arrived, and the streets got quieter and quieter. I didn't have anything to wing at them since the last eggs were consumed at lunch, but I did have the opportunity to watch the proceedings. I even, almost felt bad once the sky started to fuck down an uncanny amount water--almost. But I still hate cops. I've read enough social theory to know that the difference between coppers and the quarry is generally about 70 years of discourse. Pigs. Anyway. The amusing part of the night was the second after the filth packed up the tape, the cars, and the mobile police lab, disguise and fingerprint kit. The night air was filled with whistling, and within a few more minutes, the streets were filled with the usuals as if nothing had happened. It was like the kids in the favellas had started flying kites again.

Fortunately, in London, most the violence is isolated to social networks. Drug dealers usually only kill other drug dealers or their associates. There is little actual random violence except at the hands of the marauding gangs of youths that the daily mail would have me believe roam the streets outside of Mayfair. Even so, it's best to walk fast and stare at the ground 10meters in front of you. There is really no reason to know what your nieghbors are up to.

Stay tuned. I know i promise more soon and leave it, but I am writing heavily right now so you'll probably find me posting again, late tonight as the the empty house, and probably more accurately empty bottle take hold and force me to spout words that won't quite fit into the 100,000 word thesis i'm tackling at the moment.

Old Friends

2007-04-17T19:27:00.000+01:00

Robert Moses: "To operate in heavily populated urban environments, you have to hack your way through with a meat axe."

Long time; Atavistic endeavor; birth, death, rebirth--of the cool;

Dark times on the edge of reality, the phrase that first popped into my head at the beginning of this post. I don't know what it means or why it's in my head, but it's there, so it must be real.

Greetings to my few remaining readers--the rest long gone after a season of alienation, disrespect and in some cases utter contempt. What's new with me? What's new with you is the better question. In these days, it's best to circle the wagons and take stock; the introspective turn before projecting judgment.

I'm in San Francisco; I'm at a geography conference doing a bit of cheeky research from inside the monkey house, and the only thing that makes me nervous is succumbing and going native, which will probably happen within the hour after I fling some feces and smear it on the window. But, I digress. It's all actually a continuation of a project I started a few years ago in Denver--The Academic Conference: an Ethnographic Approach. In my own peculiar brand where I seek to get into the nerve-wire of the whole thing to find out what really makes it tick. It almost killed me last time, but I'm rebuilt, better, stronger, faster and more cynical. I've gotten beyond that intial research phase where everything is exciting and new and have slipped into the second bitter self-loathing phase, and now I'm watching a lot of academic geographers with fat asses walk buy as I'm typing, the scorn barely masked on their faces becuase they know that i know that they can see through my polite demeanor to a sneer of contempt. I've still got the biggest pair in ther room, they know that, and they percieve that I will not hesitate to stomp any pretentious, twitchy prick that stands between me and my beer, or more recently, the pool. So stay tuned for a periodic update of to the minute ovservations--a pod-cast without the pod and assuming I know what a pod-cast is...I don't.

At the moment, my biggest pet peeve is trendy academics with equally trendy facial heir and dutch architect glasses Two of the three is fine, but combined, they equal a death brew riveled only by caster oil and strictnyne--which, now that I think about it, won't kill you, and I just got stared down by the former for checking out his wife to which I responded with a gaze of utter disdain only to watch his man-hood shrink with dispair.

All in due time.

In the theme of gentle self-reflection, I'm going to level with you all--I don't think I'm long for this world of ill fitting shirts and pleated, cuffed cotton trousers; of sagging bellies, fleece, and sharp hair cuts, or of t-shirts with trendy slogans. It's hard to be a Marxest from the 42nd floor executive lounge of the San Francisco Hilton, and if I hear one mor prick talk about social justice and the "homeless problem," implying that the evil forces of the city are conspring against these poor marginalized people, I'm going to throw them out the fucking window and hopefully not hit a bum when they splatter on the pavement. Heavy handed cynicism for a Tuesday only vindicated by the man running up the street carrying a 27inch tv on his shoulder on Mondday--he was barefoot, and in an adventure like Kane, in Kung Fu, but he was still just a bum. This whole environment is another horrible vision of sentimentality--disaffected moderns fetishizing the rustic past, made worse by self-indulgent money grubbing and the filty mendacity that surrounds it: academics meeting, engaging in critical discourse that is not actual discourse, nor is it critical; and networking--code word for figuring out how to better one's own lot. There is no such thing as purity of knowledg, just dirty self-preservation and self-perpetuation of a simultaneousy corrupt system and self--but the times are even darker because the Church of Reason now longer believes its own lies--but I'll let that thought hang, I must introduce myself to Don Mitchell who's seated at the window--talking about social justic and the city to a brood of moon-eyed disciples.

Stay tuned dear friends for more notes from the wasteland.

Lawyers, guns and money

2007-01-18T19:31:00.000Z

It was all a dehumanized nightmare...and
these raddled cretins have the gall to complain about my deadlines

19:38 a bathroom cubicle somewhere in the heart of it all:

Well, I reckon I've been burried too far in the bunker to say much, but my God, has anyone poked their head out the door recently? A tearful, apologetic president; a seemingly anti-semetic former president (though I haven't read his book yet, so I won't comment too much), and now, just in on the wire, we're five minutes to midnight http://www.thebulletin.org/ . It's enough to give a tea totaler the shakes---good thing I have some high powered speed to smooth the bumps.

I've reached a new pinnicle, though I'll leave it up to history to decide if it's the top or bottom; we just got back from France, a mission to Lyon where the beers are served in three sizes: petit, medio and le serieux (for the English), and later in Paris where the drains still smell the same after all those years, and all of the stone walls have an eroded facade about waste high. Ahhh, there is nothing I love more than a good wall peeing, except maybe through the front door of Urban Outfitters--I wonder if they've fixed that. Now, I'm stuck in my office during a windstorm at 19:39 on a Thursday night trying to construct the vague semblance of coherant work to get back on my misguided sense of time. Talk about a doomsday clock; only mine's the Pendulum.

So what do we have going? I'm too far out of the loop to offer any insightful political critique; judging by the last time I checked this page, the democrats just 'won' an election, even though it would take a supremely blind, yet somewhat optomistic fool to actually believe the US will turn around in two years. I saw a photo of the president in the paper a few days ago teary over the death of a marine whom he awarded the medal of honor. I'm not sure what to think about that. How moving does a speech have to be to make that man cry? Or, better yet, how hard does a photographer have to be to take the picture. May even give the mainline cynics reason to pause...before buying another beer and betting on next week's death toll. Christ, they tried to impeach Nixon for less and did impeach Clinton for nothing more than a blow job. Besides, I still blame Ford for the aweful mess we're in now. His old team; his failure speak out. The fact that he still pardoned Nixon. Believe me; it's hard to trust anyone who commited such a filthy sin. Apparantly they also lynched Hussain. Again mixed emotions. One more dead tyrant? Yes. A new world order? Probably not. Is the US still pouring buckets of shit onto its collective heads? Definately. Remember, the "government" is YOU, blame it; blame yourself. Hmmmm, what was I talking about?

I could give a writeup of my extraordinarly cool recent trip, but that' a lot like showing off holiday slides of your trip to Tuscan or home movies of the neighbor kid's 9th birthday--interesting only for those involved, and there's something vaguely voyeristic about relating intimate details onto the web for 10's of people to read---probably the numbersleft of my audience. Though someone did post a link to something about hydrocodone and acetaminophen; sounds good to me. I just dissolved three asprin into my Red Bull, so in about four minutes I'll be invisible. I did pay my respects to Napoleon and visited his tomb in Paris. A giant marble monument and church built to display and reflect one very short tubby man's ego and sense of miserable self worth. Wonder what Dubya's will look like? I can only imagin the contents of his presidential library. A few Curious George books, a copy of My Pet Goat for posterity, How To Make Friends and Influence People, and Yes I Can by Sammy Davis Jr. That about sums it up. Then a few photographs and statues each depicting the man wearing an enormous cod piece. Which more or less makes me extra depressed since I've resorted to making knob jokes about the president. When all else fails, make fun of his junk.

And, here I am; blathering away with enough streaming nonesense to make me wish I was wearing Wellies instead of fashionable European shoes. Per shame. Any nimrod with a computer can do the same thing. I'll sign off for now; but I won't be returning to the bunker. I've decided to manage the foriegn affairs desk here in London to report on Death Watch '08.

new world order

2006-11-08T09:34:00.000Z

The War Room: 0928

It would seem the shit rain is blowing anew for the Republicans, though that could just be the rain seeping in that one sooted encrusted window adorning my bunker. Nights are long this high in the world, but it was an ugly, ugly dark for the GOP: corpses, maimings, lambs to the slaughter only it would seem the hapless Democrats finally manged wrest a bit of control away from those filthy bastards--despite that nimrod Kerry. Holy Jesus! someone stuff him with a ball gag and lock him away for the next 4 years, long enough to render him into soft tallow, primed as a sacrificial carcass in '08. My money still says this is the worse thing that can happen for the US. Things can't get that much worse with the GOP at the helm, but it will get no better. Unfortunately, the way this one worked gives them an excuse; "we were on our way to victory in the war on terror, but those filthy liberal freedom hater terrorist mongers tied the President's hands," (Karl Rove, campagin trail early 2008). Any break in the clouds might be good, but the pressure's on.

The big story of the night is Lieberman. Remember him, the guy who helped lead Gore to shameful defeat in 2000 (by defeat, I mean not winning by enough of a margine, but lets not forget Nader on that one and all of those losers who wanted to make a statement about third party politics--Nader the crusader, Nader the spoiler, Nader the secret GOP shill)? As the story goes, Lieberman couldn't win the Democratic primary in CT, so he turns around and wins as an independant. I guess you have to admire that kind of where-with-all, but despise the hateful-deceit that drives a man to worship at the knob of power. I hope he prays good.

Clinton's on the war path again-- that's a good thing. It's old news now that he was taken to task on Fox news; that is to say, he was ranted against but those poor bastards gave him room to retort. I gues the lesson to learn is that Bill Clinton is smarter than almost everyone else on the planet and knows how to communicate it too. I'd still vote for him. And, I might consider voting for his wife for a variety of reasons--if only she weren't a contaminated Washington insider. So who does that leave us? Richardson? Obama? What about Gore--though the thought of that boring of a man leading this great nation makes my bowels clench in anticipation. I see a left-field democrate emerge.

Okay my own vile spew is boring me. The sea of bourbon churning in my stomach is doing little to staunch what will become a hate filled rant. I might lock the doors for another year to gather the reserves needed...kill the body and the head will die.

questions and answers (to why Thom Yorke and Radiohead are really not that good)

2006-09-05T21:51:00.000+01:00

What do you get when you cross whiney indie rock, with over hyped--alterna-pop and mix it together at an awards show?

Thom Yorke. My god, I wanto to hit that prick with a ball-pean hammer. Well maybe not so drastic, but riddle me this: why is he and his band so popular? Now, I'm not one to critique anyone taste in music--my own are so varied, random and eclectic that I can claim nothing to judge; with all of that exposed, RADIO HEAD BLOWS!!!. They are boring. Thom Yorke in his solo effort is worse. Avante Garde you say. Bollocks says I--try Phil Glas or John Cage. Experimental Jazz? Miles...end of story. Inovators, both. Looking for edgy emo-core? Uh, Smashing Pumpkins, Sonic Youth, anything from Seattle in the early 90's. These guys practically ripped off Pearl Jam's second album (the one after 10). Holy Jesus, I sound old.

These guys, represent the epitome of selling out. I only mention this, because, after all that is every musicician's goal, Radio Head and Yorke are so anti-corporate music that every one of their shows is sold out by Ticketmaster--not to mention the level of corporate capital behind their distribution, both obviously through production and also through the hip 'underground' music grapevine.

So, Thom Yorke is playing the Mercury Prize, an English "cutting edge" music award show. In five bars, I lost interest. His complex archepelgios (sp?) well, sort of wanky. His emotional ballad voice, well and act, also sort of wanky. The walking base scale, oooo clever, its a penatonic scale played on minor chords. My flat mates were so impressed that I had to show them how to do it on the spare guitare laying around my flat. Yawn. It's all kind of funny.

Okay that's all for now. I just wanted to clear the air. Life rocks! At least mine does except when I'm laying on the couch after a hard workout day and am forced to watch this swill on the TV. I'm thinking about growing a scraggy beard, shaving my head to look sensitive and writing crap ballads for the piano on the coat tails of my band's mind boggling success.

I'm angry now, and am diving to the freezer for some icecream before bed. blimy, leave me to my classic rock!!

One from the vault

2006-09-03T23:19:00.000+01:00

London buses are a meditative repast of the modern world, a publicly private place to sort out the macro and microcosmic details of banal living with the decadence of a terraced café. These rolling balconies are a place to think, to listen and hopefully elude the demons plaguing the subconscious if not providing an arena to confront them outright. And with a head full of shochu, a twisted weekend behind leading to an outright depraved week ahead, and Virgil as my guide, I plunged into the nine-ringed circus to rattle the skeletons and hopefully find the source of the nightmares that have kept me on short-shift sleep for a month.

The American Dream:

The American Dream doesn’t translate to Britain, and why would it? So deeply engrained into the collective US psychosis is the territorial notion that not too long ago, we were carving our homes out of the great expansive wilderness under the hardscrabble mantra of Manifest Destiny. Though that concept, ultimately a ploy by the empowered to get some one else to do the dirty work of clearing the occupied territories, cutting down the big trees and setting plow to bullet proof sod and denuded clay before reclaiming property through corporation—the true raison d’etre for allowing the poor, tired and meekly huddled masses access to the great expanse of resources that were yet to be counted—has ultimately been challenged; its enduring mark has levied itself as the true progeny of the Land of Nod. Why else do we so tirelessly cling to the notion of a house and yard, family and car? Is the picket fence nothing more than an outdated symbol for keeping the savages out of the corn? And, perhaps more to the point, why am I writing about the British translation of the American Dream when I have my own albatross worthy Damoclean sword looming over my forehead swinging wildly across the vast span of the abyss?

It’s because in the midst of meditation I have concluded there really is no one at the helm except a odd array of crazy rabid and somewhat frightened monkeys. For the paranoid geeks of a warped millennia, rest assured; no one person, place or thing is out to get them except the manic thoughts of many deranged minds. We are all out to get each other and ourselves, and calamity only comes when we fail to recognize our own greedy self-interest. Why else do we hire a bunch of jackbooted-blue-shirts to protect what we fought so hard to take from what others righteously stole? And though the head of our current administration is a brainless nimrod surrounded by a bunch of criminals, hate-mongers and at least one closet pedophile, not only is there nothing we can do about it, and because we really are not willing to give what it takes to do something about it—we are stuck with it, and frankly, more and more I believe we are stuck because it is what we deserve. If the American dream is founded on the worst kind of deceit and rampantly maniacal manipulation and pilferage, what better way to celebrate it than by electing and refusing to depose the outward political expression of ourselves?

Carter while still governor of Georgia said in a speech one time that (excuse me, some brainless wonder is running a 18 inch worm-drive stone grinder outside my office window), citing Tolstoy in War and Peace, that history is not made by the powerful Tsars and Emporers, or in modern times corporate or political giants but by passionate everyday people on the ground acting out their everyday lives with their own everyday dramas, and if that can happen in Imperial France or Russia then think about what can happen when a government is instituted of the people for the people and by the people?

So what happens when ‘the people’ are a bunch of hapless brain dead morons more concerned with staking out their piece of turf than taking responsibility for their government? Look out the window right now and see—crumbling streets, houses with bars on the windows, probably a homeless man begging for change on the corner—these are the institutions of the new millennia and the results of a mis-guided attempt at self-rule. Raise your hand if you’re happy right now at this moment in time. I’m not naïve enough to believe in utopia, and I’m certainly as complicit as you writing from my comfortable chair in the reified air high above the streets of London in what is quite literally an ivory, though somewhat stained, white stone tower, but I also know that happiness at least once in a while, not the fake phantasmal veil of pleasure that comes with buying extra shit at Ikea or that comes with slurping down a case of beer during the Super Bowl in the pop music sense, true genuinely serendipitous joy, is worth dying for.

And these are the pseudo-philosophical conclusions I stumbled across while fist deep in ancient Japanese mystery liquor called Shochu at a bar on the thresholds to SOHO at 1 am Monday morning and cemented on the upper level of a bus driven by a fascist facsimile Michael Schumacher through the cramped quarters of South London 6 and half hours later. Not even the bloody snot smeared on the window fazed me in my conclusions that the problem with the American Dream is the entire concept, and in the end, we all get precisely what we deserve. The cosmos, supreme dealer of karma, knows the score, and if we continue to believe our contented and complacent lies, then I envision the shit-rain seeping through the storm windows.

A former acquaintance of mine, a Marine OCS student, during a heated argument fueled viscously by a handle of Kentucky’s finest and a cap of black acid that I forgot to tell him about, once told me to ‘love it or leave it.’ And brooding from my perch, exiled in Elba, high above the hub of the world, I extend that to ‘or change it.’ Though perhaps I shouldn’t take his name in too much vain either since last time I heard his flying machine is a charred greasy stain on the floor of the Iraqi desert.

With that, I need to draw the shutters, because it’s raining inside again—this climate is forsaken by God (or the gods)—and buckle down on the floor to get that other thing written. I just heard a ratcheting clunk, and the whooshing sound from above telling me the end is nye.

Smoke 'em while you got 'em

2006-08-11T23:41:00.000+01:00

Guess what! Guess what! Guess what! Guess what! Breaking old news from the world of cycling: Tyler Hamilton’s a cheat—but at least he can go up Mount Washington pretty fast. I know, I know, for all the optimists in the world, it was probably his evil, dead twin from when he was a fetus spent 44 grand on drugs and blood transfusions…

Okay, seriously, does anyone really care about this stuff anymore? I knew guys juicing in the States at the amateur level, though probably not with EPO and blood transfusions—why? Because they are a bunch of hapless losers who seem to think winning the local Tuesday night crit before going to the strip club is their path to glory. I’m just mentioning this to bring in a bit of perspective. On the plus side there’s a cease fire between Israel and Lebanon, and its so effective that when Liverpool played Maccaibi Haifa it had to set at a neutral ground because there is no goddamn way Liverpool management is going to fly their multi-hundereds-of-million pound squad to a war zone. Ho! I love chaos! There’s something about the impeding shit-rain into which this world is falling that brings out a certain type of smile into this paranoid junkie’s afternoon.

A quick scan of the headlines today really doesn’t bring much ire to my evening, and after a week’s hiatus for the Big Brother finale, the Simpsons are back on, so I’m going to have to focus back on the minutia that makes life interesting:

I think I saw Henry Rollins at Starbucks today sucking down a venti-mocha with whipped cream. Big Guy, glasses and tats, kinda loud but smart; it really could be no other—despite the quite obvious contradiction of Henry Rollins actually going to Starbucks. Actually, the image is pretty funny, a hard-core political activist/ex punk rocker sipping down a liquid candy bar in the maw of the fasted growing corporation in the world? Kinda hits you in the cockles of the heart.

Christ, not much else is new on this end; and judging by the last time I posted, not much new has happened, which is not entirely an accurate statement. I’ve been traveling a bit, working a little, having a lot of fun, but not doing much that elicits the type of venom that this blog requires. Fact is, I haven’t been horribly wrecked enough in a long time, and since the University of London finally evicted those phony protester-activist people, I don’t even have anything to smash my hand into after all night writing/boozing jags. It’s hard summoning rage when you’re not burned out, not overly tired and when everything is going well with your job. Shit, everyone should try it.

Okay, fear not faithful readers (if any are left), there is an odd smell in my flat that just started, a mixture of cigar smoke and Raid, that I should go investigate, and I’m off to Whitechapel tonight to pay a visit to some mates, one of whom owes me money, so maybe I’ll yet have a tale to spin before this day draws nigh (which means that I’ve been reading too much Nerd of the Rings…)

Yeah, I’m definitely out. This is gibberish, and not even all that funny: But fear not--I searched the archives and here's one that didn't get posted. It would seem to be an ode to George Carlin written sometime after the most recent bomb plot.

Well, it's taken me a Cotes de Bayne and now I'm on a Cote Du Rhone by 'Matilda,' and still can't shake that feeling of fear and loathing lingering somewhere in the recess of my intuition. The house is empty now so I might have to switch to the rum next and put 'Guns of Brixton' on infinite repeat, loud enough to make my ears bleed until they do actually kick in my front door. What can I say? I'm naked on my couch watching a four hour Kurisawa (sp?) film at 11:57 on a Friday night. Every word, or somewhat coherant sentence that dribbles from my mouth must be inflected by some of my favorite words: shit, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, piss, tits; it's the only way I can describe my feelings about the hapless losers that got us into this mess.

After enjoying a day on the south east coast with a lovely companion, I found myself in quiet English backwater scrambling for a newspaper that would tell me exactly what the fuck was going on in the world of terror--and what I found was some maxi-pad published by World Com or whatever the fuck Rupert Murdoch calls his coorporation now--you got to hand it to amorality. Jesus, two 'fucks' in the same sentence, I must be losing my perspicacity...holy jesus. It's been quite a while since I've been able to convince myself that we were completely and irevocably up shit creek, and not only do we not have paddles, we actually have to dive in head first to free the raft from the fecal infected mire. Now I've done it, broken the primary rule of good, or decent, or perhaps even quasi-readable writing--used way to0 many adjectives, allusion, metaphor, etc. In short, I've shafted you, my dear reader, and for that, I apologise. Why, I'm not sure, maybe it's the fact that my government--those cocksuckers for which I did not vote, but have to respect because that's what this God-cursed thing called democracy demands--is perpetuating, if not actively pursing, a project of terror that threatens the very soul of the world. It makes me wonder if anyone has bothered to ask the 'terrorists' (that is if 'they' exist) why they are so angry anyway. It's not because they hate freedom, or America, or any of that shit the benevolant chairman crams down the throat of the feed lot cattle motherfuckers that make up at least 52 if not more percent of the electorate. The terrorists, in fact, are regular people who have become quite tired of being shit on. Either by the US or UK or Isreal, or anyone else in this world who thinks they have an implicit right to live over anyone else. Makes me think it's time to emply my safe-deposite box of its contents, and head to the hills with a few good mates and a case or 20 of Wild Turkey, get drunk, and welcome in the dawn of a new, apocalypse, almost. I'm naked right now, been drinking for several hours, seething, stewing in my own self-rightous diatribe, and even in my own gifted sense of reasoning and ability to know the score can only conclude that without a doubt, we are all fucked. But, at least, we can thank our department of homeland security for saving the day in the knick of time, again--coincidentally when the occupiers are down in the polls and the resistance is securing a bit of a chance. At least hair gel is banned on the airplane now. Christ, I can't even think about this anymore.

Grab your weapon, head for the hills.

Seething

2006-06-27T09:37:00.000+01:00

The Bunker--London--9:34 am Tuesday, 27 June:

Glancing quickly at the headlines for every major news paper, news magazine, sporting news, online or not, during my morning meal has left me in such a state of fear and loathing--to borrow a phrase--that I am acutally questioning leaving the confiines of my fortress high above the docklands. I have supplies: food, water, wine and enough high powered alcohol to go long and deep into the new year while hopping this rotten era will end soon but not too soon that criminals in charge aren't held accountable for their sins--to be punished under the mantra of the Old Testament eye for an eye episteme. So quickly run down the list of what's set me off on an otherwise lovely, yet chilly summer morning.

3 armoured divisions are ammassed on the Gaza strip because that's where the Isreali army thinks one of their boys is being held. I don't condone kidknapping, or terrorism--however potentially justified--, but it seems to me that the nation with a legendary secret inteligence service called Massaad, whose capacity for inflicting massive yet efficient violence anywhere in the world is renowned, could get one hapless gunner caught with his proverbially dick in the wind out of the hands of a few amature at best 'freedom hating jihadists.' From my vantage point there are two options. Either the Isreali military is actually patheticlly inept and all of those stories you hear late at night in the Frontline Club are the fictitious ramblings of a bunch of boucholic cynical war junky hack journalists or the concerns over one Gilad Shalit are the furthest thing from the minds of a government who's been itching to finish the job they started in 70's by rolling the tanks through the last bit of occupied beach front property before they turn their gaze east. Frankly, I'd be surprised if Shalit exits.

Bush, and adminsitration, is upseat about journalist leakage of DHS finance monitoring scheme calling the New York times "disgraceful" and at risk of endangering the lives and security "of millions of freedom loving americans," while Peter King says, "The New York Times is putting its own arrogant, elitist, left-wing agenda before the interests of the American people." This is not a political blog, so let's just wonder whose interests the benevolant chairman is concerned with.

Finally, to the cycling news. The faracas in Spain is leading to all sorts of wild eyed accusations proving once again that the best way to catch a thief is to fling poo everywhere and see where it sticks. Greg Lemond is continuing his hate campaign against Armstrong--not that I particularily care about Lance--,but is is somewhat pathetic that Lemond can't hide his jealousy better and merely accept the fact that after his brother in law accidently gave him two barrels in the back that his cycling career was effectivelly over.

Armstong yesterday on ESPN used the word "apoplectic" to descibe his feelings, and after looking it up in the OED, that's my opinion of this whole vile shit-rain that seems to be leaking through the storm windows.

warm beer and cold meat

2006-06-25T11:11:00.000+01:00

Undisclosed London Location: 8;41 AM (Sunday 25 June 2006)

Somewhere in the depths of my depraved reality I found my self drinking mai tais in the basement bar of the Savoy Hotel on a random Tuesday morning near the end of June after cashing in on a room I didn’t pay for and in a vain attempt burn this cash cow for all it was worth. This all would have made the lead of a great story; far better, in fact, than the awful truth that finds me slumped on my sofa at 8 am Sunday morning with a vicious headache and stone dry—except for three cans of warm Kronenbourge and some mystery liquor someone brought back from Andorra, a cross between Absinthe and Gin something I wouldn’t touch unless I was a raving alcoholic lunatic and Britain was in the throes of heinous bout of prohibition, which isn’t exactly so unlikely that I would count it out completely, and I will get back to you on that after tonight’s England/Ecuador game. Also, this is not to imply that I haven’t had cocktails at 10:30 in the basement bar of the Savoy on a Tuesday, but that was for a completely different and somewhat professional reason, and this essay is about the god-awful truth of my life, and there is nothing truthful about my professional life. There, I’ve said it; a maniac reveals the mendacious reality of the Academy on Sunday morning. But I digress.

Right now, my life is far, far away from luxuriating in the Savoy. I’m wound like a top with an ever-impending deadline, and 10000 more words to go before I sleep—or to be more accurate, hop a Lufthansa charter to Budapest via Munich. My face still hurts from that base degenerate’s sucker punch, and though I’m pretty sure I didn’t crack a bone in my hand as it tore through his face, it feels like it and right now, between disjointed sentences it is currently resting in my ice bucket that normally utilizes its cooling power for rum—but I finished that on Friday. So it is for all these reasons I found myself at a barbeque last night somewhere in the far south of London full of a bunch of Kiwis, Aussies and the odd German girl who would have loved to go back to my suits over looking the Aldwych Strand—and probably would have settled for a quick hump on Tooting Bec Common. But last time I went in for that sort of thing, I ended up lost in Balham, and it took me 3 months to convince the cop that she and I had completely and diametrically oppositional world views and probably couldn’t come up with something that resembled a convivial relationship. Though, last time I heard, she met a nice bloke with the same episteme who’s also currently being implicated in that terrorist scandal on the East End where some kid was plugged because he was suspected of being a terrorist, accused by someone who had heard, from someone who’s brother knew a guy that heard in a bar that the owner’s kid bet that the guy who was actually shot might be a terrorist—or through some other faulty cop logic. My God, digressions all over the place; we’ll see how the score works out in the end; I just got word from my mobile communications unit (MCU--not to be confused with MPU which is mobile party unit, AKA a coat with many, many pockets utilized for the smuggling and or transport of malt beverages to places where said materials are prohibited) that the German girl will be at today’s BBQ, and she’s ‘l-king f-wrd to c-ing me,’ so there will be plenty of time for freaky Olympics later.

So, let see; BBQ last night:

It was a nice event and a proper celebration of meat on the grill with a good mix of booze and people typical of any housewarming gathering in high summer. I took my usual position in the doorway dividing the patio from the kitchen—or in more technical terms between the hot meat from the cold beer, taking a page out of Harper’s book where, to meet people in a foreign environment, he stresses the importance of being in the way. From my vantage point, perched between the high stress of the hardcore drinkers (mainly the Aussies) and lazy curls of cannabis from the Kiwis, I was able to see the division of nationalism. And, since I only knew two people there, who think of my social ‘abilities’ as legendary, the others regarded me with the awed deference reserved for high-powered acolytes and seriously deranged felons, characteristics that raise one’s pulling power to new heights—hence German girls named Nichol who now track my movements like I was an endangered African rhino.

Holy Jesus, even I don’t understand what I’ve just written making me skeptical that anyone in the ether would have any clue. And here I was trying to make sense of the odd socio-political scene that has ensnared us all, but for that I’d have to start over again, and that’s way beyond my powers today—since I have another BBQ in the afternoon with some drinks at the Waldorf in the evening before I hit the hard one this week to finish so I can finally and assuredly go on vacation.

Bringing me back to my original point—that I don’t have one. Which, in it self, may be the true point that there is none. Not on the sub-atomic or grand-universal level, but it’s funny to think about the levels in between the really big and the really small where our own private realities converge into something that may intimate meaning. But I’m jangled right now and not thinking in terms of meanings or even complete sentences, and frankly that mystery liquid in my kitchen is looking better and better, so I’ll sign off before I embarrass myself even more by this uncontrollable drivel.

Jesus with a Machine Gun

2006-06-23T12:07:00.000+01:00

Russell Square, London: 12:03 PM

Principles take their toll after 17 hours writing and fifth of Mount Gay 'Anejo' (also ten limes and a bucket of ice) as I found myself trudging accross the garden of Russel Square at 11:20 in the morning to the beat of drums and shouting, most of which was not in my head. I'd been up all night polishing off a rewrite for a review--after scrapping 15,000 words at 1:40 the previous afternoon, and needless to say, the rum and frantic typing has left me a little ragged at the edges and in no mood for delay. Boosted by only a pre-coffee espresso, I was a veritable time bomb as one eye was seeing square and the other round.

The incessant drumming, reminiscent of the 'War Drum' scene at the end of She Wore a Yellow Ribbon--where John Wayne is talking disapointedly to the old Apache chief, was getting louder as I approached my building. Coupled with shouts and cheers. Marijuana smoke was heavy in the air as the entire scene was undelain by a loud techno groove from enormous speakers. I'd left my home office (dining room) and stumbled onto a heady block party. As I got closer, and began to peer through the haze, I realized I was in no mere celebration but a protest, an 'occupation' of a 'derelect' building by student activists taking a stance against the University charging them money for their apartments. Marxist slogans wafted through the air from glassy eyed hipsters with dreadlocks. I stopped dead in my tracks and retreated to Starbucks for reinforcements because I knew where I was going to be in 5 minutes.

"Corrupt cops and crack rocks!" a chorus from the speakers--was that Rage Against Machine? Returning to the jaws of the animal crowd with a giant paper Starbucks cup, my hand burning because I'd accidently dropped that cardboard sleeve thingy, my attention was earnistly seeking the leader of this thing (it would turn out that my coffee would be my undoing, for reasons that are probably already obvious).

The flags said 'peace', at least the one next to the Anarchy black and the Sandinista crimson/black banner but I knew that free love and world harmony was not on the minds of these student freedom fighters--rebels with no clue bourgeousie whites from Essex and Surrey--they were into the drugs, the scene, the noise and the prospect of spending their parents' rent checks on Lager during Sunday's England match that squatting would afford them. There was a fire breather and a juggler too: all the components of a resistance movement. And, obligatory for every movement, this one had a name: Tragic Farce (in one act), brought to you by the London Anarchists.

I fought my way through the crowd, careful not to spill my coffee on my shirt and mindful that my flipfloped toes might get trod on by the barefooted brethren. Buses rumble through the noise, whilst deisel fumes and taxis circle the park. The world goes on around and through the gathering. The din rises to a full blooded fever, orgiastic and complacent in the fact that a few blocks away, the shear movement of world capital and finance would obliterate this place if it bothered to care--a testament to the futility of angry white middle class protesters--I thought about scoring some LSD, but the bloke selling the little capsuls looked kinda dodgy, like even he didn't buy what was going on and was only in it to off load his old product before the next batch came in for the weekend's raves, clubs and rock festivals.

The thobbing mass getting ugly at my stumbling and elbowing for coffee room was soon greeted by 'the leader' a grungy dreadlocked Westender, who before standing to the crowd pulled a ski mask around his face--a hushed crowd, drums stop, techno turned down to a manageable level--the masked man arms spread like a martyr elicits a loud cheer--and then silence. Birds chirping--he's getting ready to speak,

"Revolution! Freedom! Existence is Resistence!" cheers again from the crowd as he hushed them again.

I've wormed my way to the front row, right at the foot of the podium, "Chingada maracone...Hola! Commondante Marcos?" Holy Shit, did I just say that out-loud--paranoid, who here speaks my brand of gutteral Mexican Spanish? The crowd turns mean, they don't know what I said, but my short hair and shaved face, brandishing my sign of imperialism in the form 20 ounces of liquid happiness was enough.

The grumbling of the crowd increased, "pig!" "narc!" I decided to beat a fast one to the safety of my office. Fighting and shoving my way out, a wild eyed, black soled, dreadlocked, self-rightous vegan barred my exit--pushing me back, "hey man" he challanged "what's your problem?" "just curious" the caffiene and alcohol are finnally mixing in a death brew on my frontal lobe--sparks are closing in from my periphery, taste of blood at the back of my mouth.

"it's protest man, against people like you"

composing myself, note book out "how so?" no answer, "what I thought, excuse me" taking the easy out "I need to get to work", as I start enroaching on his space. The crowd has once again gone back to the guy dressed like Marcos, leaving me and my friend to settle our differences in the reletive obscurity of the mob. He pushes me back--"what's your problem?" he enquires again.

The rest is hazy, I aimed for the back of his skull, and before the melee ensued I was accross the quad into the mob of onlookers and other cynical naysayers. But i'm left perplexed, also a swelling face and severly bruised right hand.

Where did it go wrong? And perhaps more broadly, where and how can a group of white upper middle class men get the idea to demonstrate that they are not happy that the university evicted them for not paying rent. And perhaps more troubling, why was no one hip to talking about it, instead hiding behind slogans ripped off from a Mountain Dew advertisement or from Taco bell- quisero chalupa?. The protest was cut short because of rain--perhaps the ultimate commentary about convictions--flying flags of revolution, until the elements might damage i-pods and mobile phones--one kid was on a blackberry, even protesters need to keep up on email. Perhaps what is most disturbing was the lack of diversity in the crowd--mainly one of white 19-23 y/o males, protesting against forces they both completely embody and cannot fully comprehend. How many threw away their i-pods when it was proven that Chinese slaves made them? Or their phones? It's the scene; branded represention of social lives--protesting because it's hip and in the end they have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Defeat takes them back to mom in Surrey countryside--or into a 12 month tenancy agreement for a Camdon flat; victory equals free London rent. Where were their convictions in Elephant and Castle when the Latino population commemorated the death of some poor Brazilian student because he 'looked Asian' and was was wearing an unseasonable coat--before being gunned down (six to the head by most accounts) by the Met in Kennington. Or the poor bastard who was shot in his parent's house, suspected of terrorism in Bethnal Green, only to find out that the police were acting on fourth party hearsay intelegence? How far would these convictions fly if the police were to come burn them out. Think 'Marcos'' mask would protect him from the CS gas or the trudgeons that London Cops are so fond of using?

Perhaps my own perspective is mistaken now. Maybe I'm too old for this. And it could be that my own situation put me into the maw of beast that I wasn't prepared to handle today--pushing just a little too hard in my own surely self-rightousness.

I'm out

About time

2006-06-15T21:35:00.000+01:00

Not that I ever believe in prefacing what I have to say with apologies, but as Grounds Keeper Willie puts it, "I don't wanna pick fight, but the lad's have been drinkin all day." So, for all of the pundits of law enforcement agencies or members of law enforcement who read my blog, my apologies, pigs; i don't like you; I don't respect you, your way of life, nor do I respect your world view. Frankly, I envision a world that doesn't need, want or support cops and that views cops for what they are: selfish jack-booted criminals without the stones to do their jobs an who require an interior sense of self-gratification manifestted as legitimization by the state.

I had a viscious scree sketched out about how G W Bush was a melonomous carbuncle on the knob of humanity, and how I cannot believe that that dimwited nimrod still has the huevos to call himself "President", but frankly, why? Instead, I come home after a hard day of social criticism to open the LJworld site where the headline is Lawrence Police Department under investigation for impersonating the FBI. Keeping in mind, that my opinion of cops extends to Feds, all I have to say is how typical. A small town police force, that is a bunch of rednecked filth feels the need to boost themselves in order to intimidate players in what amounts to a shut case by posing as FBI. I can just imagine the scene: bad polyester, Jimmy Houston aviators and ubiquitous 'staches. It's a bad parody of Dragnet or Crime Story. It's like that Beastie Boys video, only in real life. I bet J E Hoover's dress is bunching up in his grave over this, which is sad.

Now keeping in mind that my history with Lawrence's finest runs long and deep, from the incident of the 'dim' tail light to the out right intrevention in a civil rights violation of a non-english speaking dark skinned latino and all acts of civil and not so civil disobedience in between, lets consider my relationship with them is not on par with that of a contented citizen. Even so, I hope someone ends up in Levenworth over this one. And they wonder why we call 'em pigs?

Okay, enough; even I can't hold a grudge long enough for this one. It's been a busy few weeks since I got back to London, so a lot has happened. In my jetlagged state, I managed to find myself at a cultural geography conference amidst the gibberish of a bunch of junior academics trying to sound smart to senior academics. I found a quiet corner, read some gonzo journalism about LSD and prepared myself for the after party.

Fear and Loathing at the Pizza Express:

When a bunch of over acheiving academics decide to have a bit of a party, it gets ugly fast. Whilst I was still trying to find the keys to the boiler room door, I discovered that it was already open, but no one was falling in. Two bottles of wine later, my bullshit-o-meter's going off like a gieger counter in a uranium mine when the girl I'm talking to starts rambling on about her catharthic experience while reading Foucault. Ah that name again. I see two scenarios. Either it was inpenertrable gibberish to her and she wants to sound cool, or she actually had some sort of reaction--either way, I'm out.

Edinburgh:

The marathon, my leg at least, was hard. I've never done an easy race, and this was no exception. 8 miles in 53 minutes, no record but still hard, and it was hot. I put 12 minutes on my competitor, and my team came in fourth over all, but I was in a world of hurt that no ammount of haggis or scotch could fix not for lack of trying. Edinburgh an amazing city. Beautiful, hilly, with a true mtn top fortress. It's no London, but then again, what is?

World Cup:

It's here; it's huge; enough said.

Okay, even I'm not making sense now, and I haven't even started drinkin yet, so I'll sign off.

Thanks for reading and keep it weird

Ben

trip to garden grove

2006-06-02T17:38:00.000+01:00

"I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me." The late Dr (Gonzo) HST

Que pasa?

So I'm back on my side of the world, it's Friday afternoon on a 'balmy' late spring day and I feel like I've just smoked the biggest spliff in the world. A two week bender, God knows how much wine (though I imagine a certain wife of a certain good friend has a much closer accounting on that accord), and some torn up gonzo action on the streets of Larry capped my vacation in such fine style that I had to send my flatmate to the store this morning for a crate of grapefruit and 2 quarts of Wild Turkey so I could write this one out. Oh, and I'm jatlagged too. Don't know if it's the time change or the free Northwest airline booze that's given me this headache--not that I wanted to drink on the flight, I'd prefer to sleep actually, but some 19 y/o chick next to me who's meeting her fiance for the 2nd time (it was an internet thing) wanted to assure me of her fear of flying (for 12 hours), so I made it my mission not only to document this trainwreck for posterity but to test the limits of the flight crew's conscience at 41,000 feet to serve alcohol to someone reading Catcher in the Rye (I bought at the gift shop). I broke them an hour before landing during 'breakfast' when I asked for a double bloody mary with a JD chaser. On the down side, I still think Salinger was a punked out momma's boy who should have quit the business long before he hit the Apple.

Now, I'm sitting in my flip flops with Sublime up loud enough for me to question whether the pounding I hear is my frontal lobe or the police on my front door wanting me to kindly turn down the stereo while trying to figure out if that funny smell wafting from the balcony is some sort of funky grilled/smoked Turbot or an ounce of schwagg on a brazer--it's actually a dreadlocked mate of mine working his own grim version of the commodity trade via pager and mobile.

But enough of this. I want to thank everyone for showing me a good time in Lawrence and for helping me prove, once and for all, that it is a totally consequence free environment. Where else can you trade punches at 1:30 am and then walk to the King for some fine quality Lingua tacos and hippy baiting. And, that's just the tip of it; the spiral had only down to go after that, so when I found myself wandering across town 24 hours later after a day's worth of reshuffling the wine cellar and 'pulling' on Mass, all I could do was sigh--forget about it, it's Lawrence.

My current situation is very bleak. I'm in a universal shitstorm with the shutters wide open and broken latches on the windows wondering how I'm going manage my career, side job, dt's and training, and since there's only a week until the World Cup I'm searching for a solution to the 'speedball' problem. In a week's time, my flatmates B-day, and you all know what happens to me at B-day parties--for those of you who don't, think cops, bad cops, naughty, dirty, twisted cops of the best and worst kind. Then its an 8hr train to Edinburgh, followed by a 26.3 mile jaunt around the beautiful Scottish capital, some more celebration entailing 2 world cup matches. Somewhere in there as my soul slowly subsumes itself in its own decadence, I have an article to get out, a cirriculum to establish and probably an AA meeting--just to establish a baseline not to mention a trip to the Jura, Dijon and all points Burgundian to plan, and since I'm taking up stone carving (to relax) I should probably look at some sculpture.

so my friends, as I'm about to panic my way into a second bottle of wine, thank you all for reading and try to keep in mind that fear is just another word for ignorance.

out
Ben

Bike Racer Comming Through

2006-05-13T10:24:00.000+01:00

"Bicycle racers are a superior race of human beings." --even retired ones

After 8 months off bikes, I was invited by a friend to the country side south of London for a 'bit of a cycle.' Having not ever been to the English country side, I immediately jumped at the chance for no other reason than it was sunny, and it would be a good way to see a part of Britain that I normally would never get to see. So armed with a borrowed bike, a Joss with 8 gears, heavy 32 spoke wheels and cow horns for handle bars (weighing in at a 'stable' 23 lbs), I set off with my mate and his friends for what turned into 90 miles of fun in Sussex.

All I can say is that club level 'racers' in Brittain are pussies. Granted, I have been running a fair amount, but by all rights, I should have been dropped by the fast riders because despite my reletive fitness, I'm still fat, and there is no possible way I'm even remotely with any semblence of the words 'bike fit.' But, I am cocky, and perhaps more importantly, I how to truly suffer, when to make efforts and apply my cumulative years of bike perspective of what is hard and what is fast. When I was told by one of the racers they'd probably drop me on the first hill, I shrugged--not really giving a shit since it was nice day (at the time), but there was no way in hell a former stuedent of the Tilford-Schneider-Topeka school of riding (e.g. "The Cult") was going to get dropped by a bunch of nancy Surry boys, even if my bike weighed at least six pounds more. With that said, however, the ride hurt, and I'm ashamed to say it took me almost 6 hours to ride 90 miles...even though it was like riding in Arkansas with some longer hills and a cross wind.

Here's how it broke down:

I was very cogniscent that I had to judge my efforts well just to finish, and I'd need to probably eat a granola bar with my morning coffee, but since it wasn't too hot, I was able to get by on half a big bottle. The ride started like every other Sunday club ride in the world. Fast, annoyingly fast but not fast or hard enough to damage. I was still able to drink coffee for the first 20 miles. Then the 'attacks' started comming because the American wasn't getting dropped with simple tempo riding--it's 'cause i no how ta draft. Did I mention there was a cross wind? So after about 25 more miles of 'spirited' riding, the pace slacked off a bit as people recovered for the hills. These were the most worrysome for me because there is no cheating in the mountains, and armed only with an 8 spd set of gears, 45 in the front and an 11-21 in back, I was just a little nervous. 20 miles of rolling hills later, and after about a million surges, hard efforts, my knees were screaming, yet, I wasn't dropped.

Oh but friends, the day was about to get bad, and turn to my favor. After the last pass, there was approximately 10 miles of winding descent and rolling flats, and it was starting to rain. Most of you know my retirement riding rules, the chief one being I will not ride before 10 am (actually that one was more or less always intact except for 'Muffin Rides' and sweltering death days--which I still prefered to do in the awake hours of afternoon). Slightly less important as the 10 am rule is the rain rule. I refuse to have a wet ass if I can at all help it, and I will suffer to my last breath to avoid getting wet--I love the rain, but any more, I hate being cold and wet. So with the ominous clouds forming and enough drizzle to make the roads greasy, it's my turn to go to the front. After about 25 minutes of pulling, my mate rides up and says that the group was getting pissed off, and I either had to slow down or sit in. I love descending in the drizzle. I respond of course, "but then I might get wet."

Fortunately for the sake conviviality the clouds clear, and I can go sit in. I saved us from a torrential rain storm it later came out. I was then told that the part of the ride was going to be fast (yeah, I'm confused here too, but hey, fuck those guys right?) with the sprint into the town limits deciding who would have some pints stood up after words (again, typical ride stuff). Normally, at this point, I really would be concerned, but I was fine, and my legs were finally opening up. I had another favorable weather event too: there would be a pure cross wind (about 15mph) all the way. And, though I knew I couldn't win the sprint based on gears, I could certainly lead it out for my mate, and we could split the beer. After a final sip of my red bull, I found a comfortable spot in the echelon and bided my time as those guys tried to gutter ride me.

The funny thing about the gutter is that there's the gutter, and then there's the real gutter. Most of the readers know that I spent at least 5 years essentially training in the gutter, so that when it was time to gutter-ride, I'd be ready. Needless to say, those guys left about 2 feet of tarmac between the last guy in the echelon and me, and yes, they were riding hardish (very hard by their reckoning) to drop me. So, with about 4.5 to go, I decide that I should do a little work to whittle down the sprint to a manageable number--from 12 to say, 3 (including me). I also chose this distance because the terrain was still rolling a bit, and with the wind, it would take me a while to get on top of my biggest gear (which still isn't a sprinting gear, especially in the damp, on cow horns with no drops). I also figured, 3 was the magic number because I could put it in the proper gutter with enough room for my mate, and the inevitable extra person who claws his way onto the back.

I jump, surge really on a little rise and slam into the 'big gear' going over the top and drop it as far left as I can on the road (it's the wrong side here). And, I tell my mate to just sit on in my draft. Where he does for a while. Now, with all the talk about how hard these riders were, I figured I'd have to keep doing that move for a while to break them. Herein lies a crucial error on my part. My stunt opened 20 seconds in no time. But, I didn't think I could maintain the pace so the three of us started taking rotating with me pulling double for my mate to win the sprint. When the road sign said 2 km to go, I start winding up the pace as hard as I can go relying on the curvey road, wind and pimply bumps to do the rest. At last look, it was us three, my mate, myself and the lucky bastard who was in the right place to cling on had about 25 seconds, but the group was finally organised enough to chase. I close my eyes and start going harder; finally after almost 90 miles I get on top of my gears and through the narrowing tunnel of my vision, I can see the town limit sign. I also look down to see the score, and I'm alone and confused. I'm practially pumpking shaped right now. My draft must be miles wide, and to be honest, I wasn't THAT far into the gutter or even going THAT hard.

But not being one to question a good thing, I punch it a little just to make sure and look back only to 11 little mushroom clouds at various points along the finish.

Long story short, I take the 'sprint' on a bike that isn't mine after 8 months of not riding (and frankly more like a year or more since I did any real bicycle training). When the pieces were finally collected, I was regarded with both deference and fear (keep in mind, I'm not fit, and frankly only residually hard--and the cumulated effort of the day hurt--alot). But, oddly enough, no one save my mate said "good ride" to me, and they were all a little confrontational (completely unwarranted because frankly I could give a shit about a sprint on a club ride--even with 'the racers' and was more enthralled with riding through some very beautiful country side...again, think Arkansas, only more pastoral with English cottages, hillside villages and manor houses/farms).

I did allow my self a small amount of ego, so when someone finally mentioned to me that the lead into town when I was pulling/'atacking' was really fast and harder than they'd ever gone, I said, "yeah, sorry 'bout that, I had to poo."

Ahh, perspective is really relative isn't it? The funniest part of the story, is I'm heading back there tommorrow for some more riding, but my mate said it wouldn't be a group ride--seems the club doesn't like racing afterall.

oh well, I'm out. For you tech geek numbers people, My max HR was 187, my min was 42 (taken when I strapped the thing on after coffee at the house) and the average was 131. Weird. My knees, for the record are still screaming.

I'm out, thanks for reading.

Ben

Sex, lies and the death of meaning

2006-04-10T23:06:00.000+01:00

Mendacity hangs in the air like rotting flesh or Sunday's news. The line's in, and you didn't make the turn; your horse didn't even make it out of the start house, cut down with a hatchet by some very motivated professionals. Now it's time to pay off the vig. Never play a game before learning the rules, and not just any rules, their rules. Too many people in London think their chips weigh in enough for a hand, but no one bothered to tell them that this table uses 53 cards and they'd be better off playing pub bingo in their pink shirts and pin striped suits. This is precisely what I told some city fucker before I stomped him on the steps of the 188 for trying to edge me out of the queue. Not that he deserved the full fury of my wrath, but I gave up cynicism for lent; and something had to give. As far as I know, he's still laying on the curb holding his manhood cheap because some 68 kilo white boy from the states taught him a very simple lesson: no one cares. Now, he'll think twice about shouting into his mobile about the big deal he signed or the millions of pound he counts each day because in the end he still knows that he's a first class looser who got five accross the face before losing his girl friend to someone whose nihlistic self-indulgence knows no bounds.

One of the subtleties of my personality is that I am motivated only by amusement. Armed with this tidbit and the knowledge that the modern world provides a near 24-7 Simpson's mainline, I'm dangerous and about as motivated to endure stupidity as I am to be vegan-though, for the record, I made a small wager with my flatmates that I could go 30 days vegan as long as I was allowed to maintain my usual flow of booze. They agreed; now I have 150 extra pounds, and they learned that I never gamble. Apparantly they never noticed that I practically subsist on rice and beans. I always have, and I always will; I like them.

Because of my pension for taking money from the uninitiated, coupled with my utter brain-melt brought on by countless words writing, countless miles training and my weakened nutritional state, I've been too exausted to enjoy the finer points of London's night life lately. Take away the odd trip to Fabric or the random wine tasting, and I've been Poindexter. So, when peresented with the opportunity to go pub crawling in Notting Hill, I all but lept at the opportunity to see how the other half live for no other reason that it would be amusing. And when I found myself fending off two train-wreck scousers while my mates occupied themselves with the best and only British tradition of getting completely assholed on lager and Sambuca, I could only thank the good lord for the strength to push it to the abosulute measure of chaos.

I will not bore you all with the gory details of the English courting ritual, but it has about the same amount of finesse as a 1000-ton shithammer. Combine the forward nature of British women--especially those from the north, with my Saturday's the day I cut loose intoxication and add a double measure of my insanly good looks...well you get the idea what kind of cocktail comes of that. Before I know it, I'm being accosted into a booth and left to fend for my honor. The first one's telling me about how much she hates London and wants to go back up North--I don't care, and good, leave. The second one's not interested so much in my ability to form words as she is my Ben Shermans--or rather what's in them. Having TW from Friday night, all I'm intersted in is putting as much distance between my self and these two slags as possible, and to do this required a plan of such cunning deviance that those who regale in evil would be proud. First part of the plan was to get out of the booth--no problem, we needed more booze anyway. The second part was to slip away undetected--problem, the table was by the door. Part three, make it look like nothing was happening--easy peasy, 'cause I'm a genius.

Before securing drinks, I texted my mates accross the bar to meet me at the next pub down the street, but be cool and make it seem that I'm in it for the ladies. They catch on, give me the wink--that the ladies take to mean they'll be hearing from me after breakfast--shudder. Next, I slip out of the booth, refasten by belt and strut to the bar for a bottle of wine--a cheap rose, why, because in about 5 minutes 2 women of indiscriminating tastes are going to be drinking it, and I was only willing to drop like 6 quid--here's the smart bit, I come back with three glasses along with the 'wine' and make a production of pouring it and excuse myself to the gentleman's room to avail myself of this establishment's facilities--and to think of a plan. As I'm turning to leave, the second one (who fancies my pants) presses a 2 pound coin in my hand and does the licky lips thing like on late night soft core tv, while the first is still moaning about London. Why two pounds you ask? Because every toilette in England has a condom machine on the wall, and most of them charge 2 quid for 3. Classy.

This particular rest room at Murphey's Irish Pub and Oyster Bar, besides the usual plumbing fixtures and the Durex machine by the door is also equiped with an open window, a large open window, a man sized window...and it's only about 4 feet to the alley below...Now comes the moral dilema, and evoking some immortal words of Joe Strummer, I stood, perplexed with choice. No not really, I zipped up, pocketed the 'rubber money' and slipped out the window, making it to the next pub in time for the first round and having been received with a round of applause did not even have to buy a drink the rest of the night. Heroic, it was called by some; I prefer funny and am still probably going to burn my pants.

Oh but dear friends, I will pay for this night I'm sure. Karma does not let us off so easily. But it's late, I need rest.

The gods of geography demand blood.

thanks for reading

Old Friends

2006-03-14T07:52:00.000Z

Pain and suffering are part and parcel to being an athlete, and as much as I've tried to 'de-tune' myself from cycling, I've found it to be too miserable of a prospect whilst the thought of regaining fitness is equally dire. Since retirement, I have carried on and have attempted several times to become fat and lazy; after about a week, I'm usually so disgusted with myself that I train extra hard to make up for the sloth--the two extremes take an equal toll on my general health. Over time, I've just decided to not become fat and lazy and always mainatain some level of activity.

So, when I woke up yesterday morning after a 71 mile week on the roads with that sore/numb feeling in my legs and racing heart, all I could do was ponder how much it sucked to wallk from the train station up the hill to campus and consider how cool it is to be hard.

Not much is going on here. I'm working loads of hours on my research and lecturing both of which leave me mentally exausted and irritable--those of you who know me probably couldn't tell the difference too easily. My flatmates, however, still live in an awed fear when I come home after a hard day at the office, silently pull a quad shot from the shiney Saecco, don my kit and run, only to return 2 hours later to eat a pound of pasta and pull another espresso.

The United Kingdom would be a miserable place to be a bike racer. 35 degrees and raining is the norm for this time of year. It's nice weather in which to run, and when the cold northerly, drizzly wind hits me in the face all I can really do is think about going north into the hills alone; the response elicited by each gust that pushes me sideways is merely "get some! get some!." My trainiing partners think I'm insane, especially when I attack into the gutter on cobbles or puke during a sprint.

I have a variety of options when leaving my house. There's the Tour de History--an 8 mile jaunt up the river, over the Tower Bridge, Around the Tower of London proper, further up river to Milenium Bridge and through the old Southwark "Borough" home. An optional 4 miles comes when adding St Pauls Cathedral with another 5 on top of that for Waterloo Station, the Eye, Parliament, Westminster and the Tate Modern.

There's the Hemisphere run where I cross back and forth over the Prime Meridian at Greenwhich, around the Royal Observatory and down to the Thames Barrier--a brilliant piece of engineering designed for London to cheat death for another day. This one's cool because I get to run through the tourists and old people at Greenwhich park singing "America, Fuck Yeah!" before I circle the Milenium Dome and mourne the loss of a wayward whale.

Perhaps my favorite is the Vuelta de Mundo Tres--a happy slog through Peckham Rye, Camberwell, Brixton, the Oval and back up through Elephant and Castle. This one is about 16 miles round trip and a good comination of hills, agility dodging syringes and crack addicted squirils, speed-work as I sprint through the gang wars and gun battles of the Favelas--otherwise known as socialised estate housing and finally a long cool down through the yuppie infested dockland wharehouse conversions.

But now, all I can really think about is keeping my feet up and trying to remember where I put my beer. Life's not all fun and games, though. Last weekend, I ended up at London club institution Fabric with 4 Italian student/supermodels and my friend Ian. Thinking through the math on this, one would think that I couldn't go wrong--and they'd be right.

Now there is a little known fact about how I go through my day. I like mornings. Really. In Lawrence on balmy spring summer days, I'd wake up early and pedal the river trail in pre-dawn to see the sun come up over the Kaw. The misty, heavy air would cast brilliant colours and make the second cup of coffee that much nicer when I made it back to my house--to sleep 'till it was time to train. When I saw the red/orange sun rise over the Thames on London Bridge casting its spectrum of colour through the early morning sky I was beset with saudade, and since I was in the back of a cab on the way home from the club, with Elliana and Laura asleep, cuddled on either side, all I could manage through my fatigue was "bella" (while my inner monolog was thinking "damn it feels good to be a gangsta." I love morning.

Well that's it for now; once again it's saturday, and I'm willing the motivation to go out in the cold for yet another session. Edinburgh's only a few months away, and I've been elected to do the lonely middle section of the race--8 miles through the hills north of the city--what's with north, hills and lonleyness? I hope it's windy too, so I can run in the gutter.

thanks for reading

Ben

Sunny Days

2006-02-09T16:47:00.000Z

Buenas Dias Amigos,

I've decided to shift from the profound to the poignent; it was a sunny day today, and after a hellish 2 weeks of work, teaching, more work and no benders, I took the day off, tested out my shiny new espresso maker (given the ungodly quantity of coffee consumed by yours truly, I figured that even with the expense of coffee, it will pay for itself in 20 days) and layed around in my sun filled lounge overlooking the docklands. And, for those of you wondering, yes, you can get sunburned through a window, even in England...cool. The best part about tanning inside with all the flatmates at work is that tan-lines are a non-existant threat, but despite my nudity, I still have indelible burns from my years on the bike--that's pretty cool too.

Not much to report really. I've read everyone's email and am working through it slowly, mainly because my train ride is the email period, and since my move, it's only about an hour total. Though, buy me a crackberry, and I might respond faster.

I've managed to make vast in-roads both in the research part of my work in that I'm actually doing field work and also in the theoretical bit. I won't bore anyone with that nonesense; I'm convinced that socio-geographic theory is written inaccessably as a mechanism to maintain the regimented power-relations of the academea. As far as research goes, I met the head sommelier for a large wine firm (a french dude with a geography degree, go figure), and besides him getting me some kick ass wine, he's been invaluable in the contact department for that segement of one of my projects--again, I won't go into detail: ask, and I'll email my proposal or something. Oh and I've also cracked Foucault's code in his writting...it's all gibberish, and he's still a paranoid sado-masochist but with cool hair. If I'm ever a renowned social critique, I'm shaving my head too, though bondage still probably won't interest me that much.

Let's see, what else. I've been asked to develope a masters level course for GIS instruction. No big deal really, but it quadruples my hourly rate from PhD student pittence to lecturer bling bling (damn it feels good to be a gangsta). Once I develope the curricula, I'm going to Nice. It may not be the Keys (Adam), but the effect will be the same, and I promise I will match and exceed your vacation-training numbers.

Oh, I cooked a dinner party on Saturday. That was fun; I even managed to make it vegetarian for those of non-meat eating cretans--it's okay though, I had fois gras on Sunday for lunch to make up for it. The best part about having mad skills in a kitchen is what it does for your social life, not only being asked to cook at other parties, but once it's known you can cook well in this country, you might as well be rolling a 64 impala, making the ass drop, smoking the indo, sipping on gin and juice, etc.

Well, I should go. This gibberish is just as incoherant in my head as it is on the screen. hope all's well in North America. Caught the state of the union talk...the US is addicted to foriegn oil? Go figure. Anyway, that's a whole new rant.

take it easy, thank for reading (if anyone still does) and keep it high and hard,

Ben

Kansas

2006-01-22T11:12:00.000Z

Before I begin: check out my new blog. It's meant as a more academic discussion of what I'm thinking about with respect to work, geography and all that stuff that probably does not fit the loose confines of this site. The address is http://londonggeography.bloggspot.com and should be linked on the side above Jed.

The more time I spend in this country, the more I'm struck by the implicit differences. To echo Pulp Fiction, 'they have the same shit over there that we have here...it's just a little different...'

In many cases, this is more than true in terms of things, popular and material culture: yes we have those damn furry boots too and the latest fashion trend for women--dress shorts. ?? just wait. If they're not on the streets of Anytown USA, they will be there soon.

The difference to which I'm referring is as systematic within in the culture as it is in the landscape, and in many respects, the two are mutually construitive. My flatmates and I, after a particularily debauched evening, spent a Sunday afternoon watching some neo-western movie on the television, and though they all had been to US, none were able to apreciate its general openness. By openness, I am not referring to tolorance, or acceptance but rather the physical environment and how much distance there is between places. Last week, flying to Nantes, it took about an hour. In such time in the plane, I had crossed the entirety of London and South West England, the English Channel, Norman Beaches and finnally landed in the French countryside. It actually took longer by train to get from my house to the airport than it did to transcend two national borders, and in that regard, there were more official interior controls to my movement in Britain than there were leaving the country and entering another.

Remember that all of Great Britain is roughly the size of Kansas, and movement is impeded by population density rather than spatial proximity. That is why watching this film, I was struck by the miles and miles open alfalfa fields, something I'd causually observed from the back of my bicycle in the past but never apreciated at a deeper level. For me, this realisation was akin to the first time I saw the Pacific Ocean and pondered its significance, standing from my spot on the beach at Carmel and remarking 'my God, there is only ocean between here and Japan!"

This compression and expansion of distance is expressed within the culture as well. My experience in the US has led me to believe we will travel great distances to participate in a particular activity, whether it's drive to Iowa for a bike race accross town for boozing. Here, the thought of going all the way accross London to go drinking is almost a novelty, an experience that should be savoured. Out of this sentiment arises the concept of the 'local' not in esoteric terms but in the sense of the pub. The 'local' refers the nearest public house where friends and neighbors alike meet for food and drink. Ours is about 50 feet from my front door and called the "Moby Dick." The 'Dick is as equally crappy as the name may suggest. So, more often than not, we go the 'other local,' called the Ship and Whale, a proper pub with good food and awesome beer. For those who have this question on their minds, yes, most of the pubs in my neighborhood do have a maritime theme, probably having something to do with my location in the Docklands and proximity to a 10 century long tradition of shipping.

What the 'local' provides the community is just that: community. This tradition is rapidly dying in Britain with the commodification of experience, but the roots will probably always remain, though I guess there is also a convienence factor...
In this sense the stereotype of the English does live up to its expectations; the English loves their drink but hates doing it alone. The name 'pub' suggests this trait; short for 'public house,' the concept of the pub allows people to come together in sociable circumstances in a completely egalitarian system where the only gentrifying factor is the ablity to buy the round when it comes up, and more often than not, if a patron finds himself light one Friday, someone will extend him credit until the next--expecting of course to have the favor returned when circumstances are reversed. The pub is the great equalizer; I've now drank in some of the seediest places in the city with what would amount to some of the hardest criminals of the past and present, and despite the inherent differences between us, we are all equal(ish) in the free house, subjected only by the bar man who controls the flow of booze. I might add that gender differences evaporate in the pub, and an East End lady can easilty out drink, smoke, swear and fight most anyone I know who did not grow up in under the bells of Bow. In the context of the pub, however, all are welcomed as friends as long as their funding holds, and in the context of the local, the welcome often extends way beyond the social and economic.

My train of though is derailed as I slip into the unfortunate academic habit of adding unnecessary articles infront of adjectives transforming them into nouns, so I'm off to ponder the distance between my couch and the nearest cup of coffee.

take it easy, thanks for reading
Ben

Le Doper!

2006-01-14T20:38:00.000Z

Hello all; so it's confirmed, Heras has to go to the Spanish courts to defend himself. I don't really care about dopers in cycling or any of that; I just choose to use it as a segue because I read it in L'equipe while sipping a coffee in some boulangiere in Nantes, and let me just say one thing about France: it rules. Despite what people say about snobbering and being rude to Americans (they are generally are both snobs and rude to Americans) the people whom I met were very nice, very sociable, helpful and friendly. Because of these things, I return from my holiday relaxed, happy and once again in sorts with my world.

So, why do the French have such a bad reputation? I spent a lot of time in cafes and bars sorting this one out, amongst other activities that do not bare discussion as they are only of interest to other degenerates like myself. My conclusion is pride. The French people are very proud of the culture and heritage, and this is reflected in strict adherance to language and food. In this respect, they are a lot like Texans. Immensly proud, head strong, etc, but the French don't feel the need to boast about their superiority because they implicitly know they are better than anyone else and do not make it necessary to prove their worth by the size of their trucks or how loudly they talk (and for you Texans reading between the lines, yes, the French are better than you, and any Texan who takes issue with this is welcome to show up to my neighborhood where I will be happy to oblige by stomping the shit out of you...go get fatter, burn some more oil in your penis compensating trucks, eat some bbq--and fuck off).

The implicit pride, though in some ways it may materialise itself as rudeness, is really a desire to share with others the things they as a people love: food, wine, fellowship. My last evening, I was dining at a restaurant recomended to me by my landlord, and once it was made clear that I was dining alone, I was invited to join the table next to me...an american sharing a meal with 'freedom hating surrender monkies'--where we dined for several hours over many courses of food and drink. For this culture, food and drink are so important not for their inherant value as tasty things to swig down but because they are gateways to social relations--fellowship, friendship. Keep in mind, this was all made easier because I actually do speak the language, both French and that of wine and food, but even if I didn't, the fact that I was willing to make the effort as a foreigner to not be so foreign opend doors. Yes, we made fun of the president, but I was pretty drunk by that point and am not sure if it was dubya or chirac that was getting most of the venon: probably both.

Either way, the point is what I saw in France was something that America and Britain seem to lack, and it goes beyond manners. All conversations begin with Bonjour/soir Monseur/Madame, regardless of situation. Upon only a second meeting, and often the first, there is a handshake between men, and kisses between women or women and men; I was quite taken aback when the landlord shook my hand after I came in for the evening on my first night and when his assistant kissed me the the next morning. These little things, however, make society more civil, and congenial.

But, enough about manners. The city itself was very cool and everything that one would expect a really old European city to be. Cathedrals, a Chateau, cobbled streets, built on a hill, winding paths, plastered stone buildings, etc. Once I get unpacked, I'll be posting some photos. The apartment I rented was in the middle of the old part of the city, adjacent to the Marche de Talensac (a medival market still in operation) and next to a really old church. The room itself was a bit austere, but I since I wasn't there to sit and watch TV, that didn't matter. I spent the days eating, drinking and exploring a part of the world about which I'd only read about. Truly seeing a gothic cathedral for the first time is amazing. I snapped some photos, but I'm sure they won't do the experience justice. Perhaps the most interesting part of the trip were the all famous cafes. My favorite dated from the 19th century and was something out of a LeTrec painting. Tiled floors, spotless bar and amazing table service. No one seemed to mind that I spent an afternoon reading and writing. Though it was always politely implied that one should order another drink (coffee or other wise) or pay and leave.

That, I think is the message I got from the my trip. Whatever one does, do it with manners, not for the sake of being polite, but for the sake of commeraderie. Because it is the right thing to do.

On that vein, I'm in danger of bable, so I'm going to quit. For any Texans who are offended, please, after the stomping, I'll take you to the pub and get you pissed (the british version).

take it easy, thanks for reading, and keep an eye out for photos,

Ben

Digi-1

2006-01-03T15:25:00.000Z

Greetings Sports Fans!

After a few days, I'm finally back to normal and have a lot to report.

First, I finally got around to buying a digital camera; therefore, there will be some photos on this site now. That's right, I'm finally entering the 'modern' world.

Second, I am heading to France next week for a well deserved vacation. What's this you say? "Haven't you been on vacation," you might ask? Well, actually, "no". This is my first time out of the UK since comming to the UK, and after getting a draft of an article, my revised proposal and a presentation together, I've decided to get out of dodge for a while and see the continent. Besides, I'm going to Nantes which is known for its mussels and steely dry Loire Valley whites. MMMM mouelles et vin.

That's more or less it for now; I've put on a photo of the view from my balcony for the sake of practice. What you are seeing is Finland Dock. Off to the left, if you squint, is the River Thames; the hazy greyness is the air, since today's a bit drizzly, and one of the boats is a floating bar. And, for you fisher folk, especially those who have nymphs and cadus flies tattoos, I've not seen anything jump, but there a quite a few old guys who fish the dock anyway.

I've gotta run. Thanks for reading

Ben

knock down drag out

2006-01-01T23:47:00.000Z

You haven't lived until you've spent the evening in a pub with a few Brits, a few Kiwis and the odd Aussie, and that night happens to be New Year's Eve. I don't know the score, but there's a big hole in my brain right now, and as details come in, I'll share--but as all stories of epic happenings, there may be a touch of a morality tale tied onto the back.

The day started inocously enough. Woke up at around 11 after a evening spent in the local. My flat mates and I had a nice meal and afforded the opportunity to sample the local stout. I then went on a long run before I took my meal and then spent the afternoon working on Viv's computer trying to figure out how to make it connect to the internet. Failing at that, Pete and I decided it was time to head south, having to first stop off at his place in Camberwell for a pre-dinner drink; I believe they call them aperterifs. Assuming, wrongly, that we would be sipping a Vermouth or other dry spirit, Pete proceeds to pour me the largest glass of Jamison that I have ever seen. Score after the first round: evening 1, me 0.

We'd all been invited to a meal before the pub where I was to be the guest of honor. Aparantly, holidng up the American end the other night in Balham did wonders for my social calendar. So, after a long bus ride on which to regain sobriety, we found ourselves in Stratham (it's next to Brixton) at a wine ship bringing our contributions. I selected a nice Navarra blend (red) and a bottle of bubling Pino Gris, and upon arriving at the dinner party, we were all warmly welcomed. Score: 1, 1.

After the meal, a vegetarian curry that was halfway standup, despite the vegetarian nature, and all glowing from the wine, we managed to get ourselves to the pub for New Years. From this point, it get's hazy and with a few pints on top of the Whiskey and wine with a midnight tequila shot, the room took on a violent tilt, and as I traded futures on my verticality between belts of Auld Lang Syne, I began to understand that this game was starting to go very wrong. Seeking encouragement for my mates, I noted that they too were questioning how this one was going to end. Next thing I know, I'm up on the bus, Viv and Pete are passed out to my left and right, and I'm deperately trying to figure what langauge the bus driver is speaking when he's explaining that he can't take us to Waterloo because we're there. Score: 3, 1 (I allowed 2 more points).

Wondering around Waterloo Station is one of my favorite London activities: the people, the hustle, it's intense to say the least. Stumbling through it at 3 in the morning hoping to God that the tube is still running because there is no way I can handle another hour home on the bus, and Pete's staring at the wall. Fortunately, my nap on the bus helped clear my head, and we were able negotiate the elevators to the subway and a few twists, turns and miscelaneous ramblings and rants we made it back home. Score: 4,2 (I get a point for making it home, gave up one for not getting some late night food--something that will haunt me later).

So now, it's midnight again. I've finally managed to keep some food down and have made only one resolution, which you can probably guess. I've been taken to task some hydrocarbons, reaffirming my dislike for the wickedness of the Agave and have a new apreciation for the warmth and comfort of my bathroom floor tiles. Remembering that I am the worst kind of atheist, today, I prayed. So horrible I felt, that I was wondering if I've been drugged. going as far as checking my wallet and phone, which were intact. Comming down from most the drugs I've done feels better than this.

On that note, hope your New Year's was as happy as mine. Good company, good food, plenty of drink and religious expereince at the end.

thanks for reading, oh and if anyone can recomend a good Thai and/or Indian cook book, drop me a note. It's high time that I get out of my haute cuisine rut and explore another part of the world's cuisine--probably influenced by not being able to find the remote and couldn't be bothered to get off the couch--except to evacuate my system.

Ben

fuck

2005-12-30T23:20:00.000Z

fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

When my head stops hurting, I'll tell you why I say "fuck." That's all for me right now. Tomorow's New Year's eve, the biggest waste of a holiday, and hopefully I don't have to beat the shit out of someone for spilling rum and coke on my shoes like last year.

Either way, I've done some pre-drinking and am now getting stoked for some mayaham. I'm heading back south for the night, at the request of a few people with whom I've made an impression from Pete's party (see the post about "The Story"). We'll see what happens.

I'm out. Have a Happy New Years.

Ben

Silent Night

2005-12-25T01:22:00.000Z

One of the best parts about being a hack writer is the relative liberty I have in using stock cliches for stock situations.

Tonight is Christmas Eve, always a peacful evening, even in the City of no sleep. I've finally succeeded in reversing my clock, so I'm up and it's fairly late; also, I have some Gorillaz cooling in the background as I over look a perfectly still, cold evening on the docks. It's like Charles Dickens out there in the streets, and I have my night-cap and my lap-top and am able to see the City's lights reflecting in the water.

Going through my notes for the week, it would seem that there is a lot to write, yet now, as I sit and reflect on the calm, there's no point in rehashing it. Instead, look to this as moment of meditation, to contemplate the univerise and our significance in it. Even as a nihlist, I recognise a good thing and will groove with it for a while.

On that note, once again, Merry Christmas, Happy New Years!

thanks for reading

Ben

50 Cups of Coffee and You Know it's On!

2005-12-12T19:00:00.000Z

“For every moment of triumph, for every instant of beauty, many souls must be trampled.” Mongolian adage.

There is a point at every party after the mayhem has orgasmed and lies flaccid in the corner amidst the cigarette butts and spilled booze when reality sets back in and we each look at each other with half-embarrassed smiles and wonder what’s next. This is a moment of absolute beauty, pure savage humanity when the bubble’s broken and the myth’s uncovered just a split second before it is re-glossed into a bitter version of its former self. And, it is for this one instant of honesty that makes it special.

At least this is what I told myself as I tried to figure how the fuck I was going to get back to my house from somewhere in Balham, South London at 8:30 am Sunday morning. For those of you wondering why I was near Brixton at such an ungodly time, don’t ask, for that story will only be revealed upon my death, when you’ll be able to find an envelope containing yellowed pages of A4 with the simple, discrete yet scandalous title The Story. Just know that it was worth it and it lives up to singular magnificence of a great ‘moment.’ As I sit here with some Modest Mouse cranked to drown out the ringing in my ears and drinking bourbon by the pint-glass along with a grapefruit to counter act the toxicity that well G&T’s always brings, I am left pondering only at what point in my evening that started out as mundane discussion over the virtues of single malt Scotland Whisky compared with good quality Kentucky Bourbon transform itself into night of chaos, with some fear and loathing thrown in just to keep it weird. Once the shoe dropped and the gear changed, however, I followed my ingrained instinct to follow it into its raw and bloody end.

The night started out with a birthday party near Clapham Junction (south London)…that I couldn’t find for two hours. Finally, after getting on the “wrong” right bus twice, I was rescued from my fate in a Westminster pub filled with drunk MPs and coppers by my new flat mate, Viv who graciously encouraged me to give it another go and who temporarily left the party to met me at the subway just to ensure my eventual arrival at a club whose existence I doubted. As a penalty for my inability to find the bar, even though I argued that I hate buses and never drink down south, I was forced to finish the tray of shots that remained from happy hour; my recollection is that this feat equated to 2 Sambucas with which I was able to amaze my new best friends by lighting them on fire and drinking the flames off the palm of my and others’ hands, 2 tequilas and something called a “Flat Line” that is a mixture of Sambuca & Tequila separated with a layer of Tobasco Sauce, after which I decided I needed to work on a bit of sobriety and ordered a Rolling Rock from the bar, horrified to discover that they didn’t have it, refused to have some Fed-Exed and that I was going to either drink beer of some sort or the infamous well gin and tonic that they only pour in doubles. After explaining to the aussie bar tender that I really needed Rolling Rock, else I’d be too ‘ass-holed’ to be held accountable for my actions on account of me not eating after my run and drinking 5 shots in less minutes he replied that “eating is cheating in Britain” and that if I failed here, I’d be “a disgrace to America, and if you need food, I can pour Red Bull into your Gin.” Remembering what happened last time I drank Red Bull drinks at a birthday party, that is, me setting out to find the car in a thunderstorm and upon not being able to find it decided I probably shouldn’t drive, Josh breaking his ankle after thinking he should go jog, a 40 dollar cab ride in Lawrence, Jed falling asleep in a bike box (I have the photo somewhere) and in the morning discovering that together we spent more than 40 dollars on 2 dollar Red Bull and Vodkas, I opted for the Gin with no Red Bull.

Keep in mind, I did this all to keep up the American end in fact the entire night was perpetrated in order to keep up the American end. I couldn’t have our great nation branded as a bunch of “mancy faggots” by an Aussie bartender on account of me not being able to hold my liquor.

The rest of what ensues is transcribed from my field notes hastily scribbled in the back of the cab I took to Belham.

Roger: “Ben!! We’re glad you’re here!”
Ben (not sure why this really tall man is shouting at me): “Fuck it was a bloody nightmare, this is why I never come south of the river”
Viv: “Boo!! You live south of the river”
Ben: “right, forgot, where’s Pete (why are they always called
Pete?”
Viv (Pete’s gf): “he’s dancing on the table”
Ben: “Fair enough.”
Haley (After a big grope) “Ben, glad you made it… very glad… why and how the fuck did you end up in Vauxhall?”

author’s note: In Britain, ‘fuck’ does not have the same meaning as in the States; rather it does, but we use it more frequently. I was once congratulated on my ability to swear from a friend who said “most Americans just sound funny when they swear, you, however, have learned well”
also, groping upon meeting is quite common, as is shagging, snogging, and otherwise rampant casual sex. It’s actually a wonder why this place doesn’t have way more VD and a population crises…though, that does it explain the penicillian in the fridge…

As I was continuing my conversation and being lectured about the finer points of London’s geography, the DJ started spinning some old school daft punk

Roger: “we need to bounce” and then proceeded to instruct us all in how to bounce, by
shouting “okay, and 1, 2, 3, 4 and bounce and bounce and bounce,” and like the
sheep we were, low and behold, we bounced, pogo style for about 2 minutes at
which point Robert started wielding a phallic shaped balloon and we all
immediately scrambled to find more women to talk to—Roger henceforth was
banished and spent his time either instructing others in the art of bouncing or
poking people in the ear with his dick shaped balloon. Good Times.

The next line in my notes came from the next morning after stumbling to find the high street, “Balham? Why in fuck’s name am I in Balham? Taxi!!). I guess the shots and G&T’s kicked in. I blame the lack of Rolling Rock. I’ll fill you in with details as they arrive.

Viv and I were talking one day about London and what it’s like to move here, either from the provincial cornfields of back-water Kansas (yes, I’ve been reading the Journal World and Kansas is slipping further and further back into the water from what was once a promising place in the ecclesiastical food chain) or from back water sheep pastures of Northern Wales. Her conclusion is that you can get anything you want in London, money, power, sex, a great flat and good food, but you have to go get it yourself because London is a cruel bitch (her words) to the complacent. I thought that was such a great description of this city that I had to share. It’s like Alice’s Restaurant with punk clubs and cocaine—well, more cocaine. The context of this conversation harkens back to the search for places to live, a dreadfully hard process in such a big city with so much diversity choice and opportunity. On a metaphysical level, however, London is one large opportunity: to do what you want, to be who you want to be and achieve what you want to achieve. Buried in the warrens is every possible thing imaginable. Great opportunity, however does also means great risk, temptation, and that dear friends is the price of London. We often joke that one spends half of their time here learning about all of the things they missed while living the other half—thus leading to one of my favorite mis-quotations of Johnny Cash, “To touch and taste and feel as much as a man can before he repents.”

Christmas season is upon us here as well; meaning that this is now a time of office parties, house parties and generalized opportunities for merriment that are otherwise oppressed throughout the year; so for those of you I miss in the Christmas card flurry, Merry Christmas, Happy New Years, and for the less socio-religious, Happy Winter Drinking Season or maybe even have a nice Festivus or just good day.

Well, this post is now ridiculously long, so I’ll say, things are good, so so long and as always thanks for reading.
Ben

Bowling

2005-11-26T21:08:00.000Z

All's I can say is how 'bout dem Hawks?

Dreamed a Dream by the Old Canal

2005-11-25T21:46:00.000Z

Que pasa amigos!

Came home this evening from the gym and found myself walking into a bitter wind--almost a Kansas wind. Brrr! Winter has finally arrived, prompting me to write about perhaps the funniest thing I've seen in London to date. London has a pretty big tourist industry centered on city tours--especially by old-timey looking double decker buses. The tourist rigs, for ease of sight-seeing, however, have the tops cut off. We all know where this is going now. I saw a bus load of gawking gapers driving around all of the famous sites perched on top of one of these things, huddled on top of each other for warmth. Keep in mind, that today's wind chill was well below 0. I was freezing my tads off running from cafe to cafe and can only imagine how cold it must have been on top of that bus. I was tempted to flag them down and offer to show 'em a 'real' london spot--like the bar where Ronnie Kray shot George Cornell in the face for calling him a "fat poof." An over-reaction really given that Ronnie was pretty large (glandular disorder complicated by mental illnes-perhaps explaining the tantrum) and quite homosexual. But I digress. Instead of offering my insight into London for the frozen hapless souls, I ran for the nearest chestnut roaster to huddle by the fire before stepping to the pub for a quick pint of bitter before going home.

I had a completely new experience today and did something I never thought I would, but not that I have, I will again. I bought coffee from a machine. Earlier in the year, I was initially tempted by the prospect of a coffee for a quid but was frightened away by the mechanized way it was to be dispensed, so I ran. Today, however, I only had a quid and was faced with either machine coffee or no coffee. We all know what happens when i had no coffee (and I had to negotiate with a bank manager later), so I grabed my rocks and ponied up to this strange and wonderous device.

It looked a lot like one of those chic new Automatic Saecco espresso makers, and on closer inspection, it was pretty much the same thing. The digital menu offered black coffee-same thing as an Americano in the states, espresso, lattes and cappuccinnos. Skeptical of automated espresso, and seriously craving 20 ounces of hot liquid, I placed my cup under the spout and I pushed the 'coffee' button; sweet jesus what happened next was amazing! Out came espresso to a perfect crema and then hot water, and it was good. It was the best cup of coffee I've had in England barring the Starbucks I had to patronize because I was seriously jonesing. So yes friends, I can now get coffee in the am without having to growl my order to a pimply teen who will mess it up anyway or question why I want a 'six shot' with no sugar, creme or milk (too many calories for that stuff).

This experience, however, has inevitably set me up for doom because now, I want one. Some of you may remember the time I was bidding on that four head commercial model for my one room flat above the gallery in Lawrence only to be beaten at the last minute by only like 20 dollars and how thankful, in hindsight, I was that I was not the proud new owner of an industrial espresso machine. Well fuck. I'm getting one for my new house when I can scrounge together the requisite 2000 unecessary pounds it will cost me. Doing the benifit cost analysis on that, though, means that it would pay for itself in a little less than three years (2 double espressos a day for 3 years at 1 pound apiece); I'd be stupid not to get one. Anyone looking for a Christmas gift ideas for their junky friend in London...

Lamentably, I will probably have to wait until I get a straight job. Speaking of straight jobs and coffee, my friend Jed-featured as "Ghetto Bike Racing at its Finest" just to the right reports that he was on the internet, apparently googling himself (this relates to straight jobs and coffee because Jed is coffee extrordinaire with Jittery Joes in Geogrgia, so the segue works). He found some funny geographic connections to his name which got him excited--as the internet does for a lot of us, and he continued with his wife's name.

The reason I bring this up is one time he sent me some "Dopers Suck" blend of coffee, COD, but we won't get into that--yes, I have enemies in the coffee world from my thesis who still give me free coffee. And indeed, dopers do suck. It's confirmed Heras cheated, netting me 50 quid, but I'm not happy about it and will probably give it to a drug treatment charity, maybe in his name. fucker. I know what you're thinking, maybe both tests are flawed or that someone switched the samples or when fetal, he assymilated an unrealised twin and that's why there's extra cancer drug EPO in his blood, but I for one am not going to be optomistic. He cheated; he got caught; he sucks. Next!.

Tommorow I get the keys to the new flat. I'm sharing it with some young professionals; a cool seeming banking software guy (always good to know a computer person), a social worker (bet some uplifting dinner conversations will come out of that) and another to be named later. I'm hopping for a right wing, fascist, football thug or a fashion model. Good times will ensue I'm sure.

I've caught a sniffle, so I'm going to have a tea, check ebay for coffee makers and go bed.

until later,

thanks for reading
Ben

Triumph of Banality

2005-11-23T21:35:00.000Z

Greetings again from the land of fog and wind and two layered buses, where the air is sweet with roasting chestnuts and the streets are packed with revelers. Happy Thanksgiving.

Tommorrow is a day of thanksgiving of sorts as well, and it has nothing to do with the religious economy of the 1600's, on the surface. Thursday 24 November, 2005 is the day that Parilament, in an attempt to curb the alcohol problem of Britain have made it possible for a pub, club, bar, off liscence liqour shop and supermarkets to retail alcohol 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Proponents argue this will cut down on last minute binge drinking; opponents of course say "but now alcohol is available anytime." Beverage companies say "Ka Ching!" The arguments are all good.

To understand the root of this issue requires an in depth understanding of British drink culture, something about which I've made my own deep, ethnographic survey. Brits booze like no other. Not even the Irish can say they drink harder than the 'ol boys on the End.' But drink is common, and perceptions of it are quite a bit different than the Puritanical views of the US. Using Guardian stats, taken from Monday's paper and based on the National Health Service, I am a low to moderate drinker. Keep in mind, I am now drinking more than I ever have except maybe with the exception of my time in Breckenridge or my first year in college. What does light to moderate mean? Well, this is from 0 - 21 units of booze per week. 21 units is equal to 12 pints of beer. Roughly 2 pints a day barring the Sabbath. Now, if I drink 2 pints a day for 6 days, I will have a holy day on the 7th and be completely "assholed" in bed because of it. But, of course my 150 pound 5% body fat self is not the ordinary Brit. On average, Brits themsleves consume 10 liters of alcohol a year (200 proof) per person.

So when asked if the English have a drink problem? No, it's plentiful, cheap and now available 24 hours a day. On the bright side of the violence and abuse that will come when certain stereotypes drink a slab of stella while watching their team loose and being able to go get out and get some tasty white cider to finish off the spouse, is that Great Britain has 1 traffic death because of alcohol for every 100 million miles. See, the shoppes and pubs are prevelent to be near houses. Drinking blind is alright, but driving is completely out of the public consciousness.

This whole discussion started because MPs were afraid that pub goers were drinking too much in the last 15 minutes of a bar being open (most close at 11 or 12), resulting in drunks spilling on the streets and causing mayham. The obvious solution is to not close the pubs. No closing means no drunks on the street?...

Speaking of violence and drink, Frodo is in movie about the fans of my football club West Ham United (Claret and Blue). While in practice it's complete crap, there are some elements to truth about it. I'll go watch it because it's about my neighborhood here on the End; check it out, you can see some of East London. I've had beers in a few of those pubs on game day (aparantly). Though if you want real insight into Hooliganery, check out The Firm directed by Allan Clarke for the BBC (Gary Oldman has the lead too).

Not much is new really. I'm moving Saturday into a new place in the Docklands (over looking the Thames...). I'll still be an "Ender" technally (as much as I ever was), but I'll also be living in a nicer place with better transport links and a huge tv with all of the Simpson's channels (and more room for vistors). Docklands are a cool area rebuilt after being leveled in WWII. It's also pretty historic to London, and most of you know I really love water and sea, so the prospect of living close to it is always appealing. Besides, this now means KFC and TGI Mac Scratchies is 10 minutes away; I wonder if I can get one of those deep fried sandwhiches there...mmmm lipids

And on this note, I'm going to stop. The boring details of my recent life are not remarkable, though I did have my first proper curry Monday. I work, sleep, fulfill my quota of alcohol; such is Britain.

thanks for reading
Ben

and then there was depression

2005-11-10T22:06:00.000Z

Greetings sports fans; I hope you're not all keeping score because it's not looking good. In my daily perusal of the newspapers, web news, phone down loadable news and everything else, I could not find one piece of pleasant up-lifting reporting. So please, please, if anyone has anything that is genuinely decent. Send it on. In fact, I am now holding a contest; the best piece of news that gets sent to me wins something. I don't know what it is yet, but it will be cool. On top of this, or rather because of this, I have decided to make my own news. More on that later.

I'm not one prone to discussing sports unless I have a vested interest in the outcome; which given my enjoyment of sports gambling, is actually more often than you think. But goddamn! Now Roberto Heras is a doper too. Common, he was so cool, always the faithful soldier to Armstrong's despotism, the leutenant who kept the front under control before The Man put the stomp down, and always with a smile; he never complained that Armstrong not once pushed a pedal in anger for him. Instead, Roberto rode faithfully beside to give Lance the opportunities to win, settling for the sloppy seconds of a not so important race.

Heras was just too cool. Always quiet, always making his mark on HIS race. Who can forget British puss-star...er pop-star drug fiend Davie Millar when he quit and cried in Spain because "it was just too hard..." Fairy!! Heras beat him by like 6 minutes on the day. Milar time this (this would be where I make an inapropriate jesture, you should all do the same).

This is why it breaks my heart to hear that he is accused of taking EPO on his quest to win that not so important race in Spain. I know what you're all thinking. "But Ben, all of your other cycling heros were, are or are accused of doping"

True, once again my imagniary dialog friend, but Johan or Ludo, they were hardmen, racing in hard times, in hard races. What's a little pot belge between friends when you're battling it out on cart paths in the north country in spring when the winds have made the echelons hellish and field's strung out in the gutter doing 35 in the mud. You ride aluminium, I take drugs, I see no difference.

But Heras, he was different; he was nice. Which brings me to my next question. Manolo Saiz bought his Vuelta bike for 26000 euros as a charity event. Does this means it devalues?

Back to my original postulate. I don't care unless I have a vested interest; well, sadly I do. I bet 50 quid before all this started that Heras was on drugs during the Tour of Spain. What's this world comming to. I'm not betting on the outcome of events anymore. I'm betting on whether someone will be caught cheating in them. I might as well gamble on baseball or NFL, but that really isn't gambling; I know those guys are doping, fucking Congress knows they're doping, and if the US Congress knows something, besides that being remarkable, then, eh nevermind.

A collegue of mine asked "what about hockey?" Who cares really. You don't bet on the outcome of that game either, just whether or not someone will be taken out on assult with intent charges. Besides, the only worth while bet there is mullet ratio: 80/20, 60/40 or the coveted 90/10 (this is where we all think of our own funny names for mullets...mine is "canadian passport.")

Well, that tirade's over. I feel strangly numb. Anyway, what am I doing to change all of this? I'm going to make some good news. As of last monday, I began training for a marathon (running not drinking), and have decided to make it a charity event. Don't know the details yet. The cause? Probably something to do with inner-city hunger in Tower Hamlets (the borough in which I live--hunger is a problem, a serious problem here). My method, well I'll do it without drugs except caffeine, because we all know what happens when I don't get caffeine. Oh, I also havent' decided which race; it won't be the London Marathon or anything; it may not even be a sanctioned event, I might circumvent the Man, and just run, a la Tom Hanks when he played that guy. So, if anyone has any ideas about how to make it a charity event, also let me know.

That's about it for now. Things are going well here in the big city. I saw a cute dog on the subway today; It managed to wipe the sneers off many a hard boiled commuter; I even saw one bloke smile, and it wasn't even sunny. Yikes, maybe it's not the "end of days".

gotta go, thanks for reading,

Ben

Halloween Night

2005-11-04T22:15:00.000Z

Oh I forgot to mention Halloween: three words: Fear and Loathing.

This is what Raol Duke and Dr Gonzon took to Las Vegas
We had two bags of grass, seventy-
five pellets of mescaline, five
sheets of high powered blotter
acid, a salt shaker half full of
cocaine, a whole galaxy of multi-
colored uppers, downers, screamers,
laughers... Also a quart of tequila,
a quart of rum, a case of beer, a
pint of raw ether and two dozen
amyls.

This was Duke's Comment

not that we needed all of that, but once you get locked into a really serious drug collection, the tendancy is to push it as far as you can...

Well for Halloween... mine was worse.

I showed up for a conference the next day in the same suite I had on the night before. "Holy Jesus" my boss exclaimed "Did you sleep in your clothes?"

yeah you wish, there's no sleeping anymore. I just rode the night buses until it turned to the day bus, and I could take the train. You don't want to meet the night bus people. Scary people, mummies, ghouls, junior attornies. Coupled with the sheet of acid I ate and the 5 dozen red bulls. lights out (really on, too on, many blinking lights moving really fast).

Actually, Halloween was quite nice. Went out to the gentleman's club and discussed Bauldelere over some cocktails, you know,, usual classy London intellectual stuff...

anyway, there's some bats in my room I need to handle; let you know how that goes,

thanks for reading,
Ben

Murder Ball

2005-11-04T21:08:00.000Z

Some of you, after reading the jibberish that I spew on line, have asked me privately if I'm all right; the answer: of course I am.

Anyone who has known me for more than 48 hours knows perfectly well that I am the sanest person on the planet; it's just that everyone else is...er...mad. Not angry mad; rather, the sort of maddness reserved for milliners. Also, as of last post, I just found out that you all can write your own comments, so now I've been entertaining myself trying to figure out whose who; the moral of the story, include a name; that way, I know.

Finally, most of you who also send private emails comment about "infamous commute." 'What's it really like?' 'It can't be that hectic.' etc. So today's version of London Living is dedicated to the train warriors of London.

Let's start with the first question, 'what's it really like,' so that we don't really have to answer the second. MMM let's see...how would I describe the daily battle to get into and out of the city??? Well, picture a category 5 field sprint, in a 15 corner criterium with several thousand dollars at stake (hell a pro-crit with that kinda money) and combine that with some Romance-style gladiator competition; the result is something that resembles my commute. Really. The key to surviving each day is to look about six people in front of you and anticipate the motions of the field...er crowd, and always be moving forward through it. Many days I purely rely on my bike racing instinct; it is almost remarkable to consider how many times I 'take the inside,' 'chop corners' or 'stack people into the wall.' Frankly my day is not complete unless I find my head burried in the rib cage of my competitor pushing him (or her) into the guard rail. I throw elbows, bump shoulders and do my best to stay up right. It's awesome.

Couple all of the bike racing analogies with my 20 kilos worth of back pack, and now enter the realm of blood sport. There are a sub-breed mutant London office-commando who seem to think that they own the rights to walk and that the rest of us peons should bow out. Usually these are Lloyds type investor bankers who fancy themselves as the 'Big Swinging Dicks' (BSDs) of the financial world; unfortunately, in the public sphere, they're just another obstacle between me and my train, like a spilled coffee or chewing gum. Needless to say, collisions are ugly, and given that my 70 kilos (90 with luggage) is mainly muscle and bone (and books) while their's tends to by sqishy and British...well, you get the idea. Some days it pays to be an American (ironically enough, this reminds me of a House of Pain-ironic since they claimed 'Irish roots'-lyric about putting on some cowboy boots--( http://www.seeklyrics.com/lyrics/HOUSE-OF-PAIN/Put-On-Your-Shit-Kickers.html )

Once you get beyond the violence, embrace the humor. Many of the tube stations have musicians trying to make it big...and move above ground. This in itself doesn't bother me. It's great to perform; practice makes perfect, and frankly, there are some talented folks down there--I heard a violinist perform the ciaccona from Bach's violin partita no 2 (a piece he dedicated to his late wife) almost to perfection until her fingers were cut to ribbons by those 128th notes.. Today, however, I was greeted with the sounds of some experimental vocale arrangements by woman whose voice was a melodic mix of Ani DeFranco, Alanis Morrisette and Tori Amos, combined with a high pitched warble and a synthesizer. Grand Opera it was not. In fact, it brought tears to my eyes and CSF out my ears. I was lucky though, some poor rube out-of-towner found himself in the wrong part of the echoing tunnel where the sound waves magnified against the tile. Last I heard Transport Police were scraping bits of scalp off the 1123 to West Ruslip...life in a big city I guess; lead, follow or get out of the way.

So there you have it. Commuting, the daily struggle. At least I don't have to take a car. One of my collegues who lives about 15 miles from Egham was stuck in traffic for almost three hours on his way into the office. All I had to do was push two people down the stairs, stomp an old lady and go 15 rounds wielding a trident i against a stock broker in the Pit-of-Death, and I had time for a latte.

well, it's Friday night. Decided not to go out and instead save up for Guy Fawkes Day tomorrow. Given this town's love for burning effigies and the memories of 7/7 fresh on everyone's mind, I wonder who's going up at Trafalger...should be a riot, and I want a front row seat.

take it easy and thanks for reading,
Ben

Highball on the Edge of the Wasteland

2005-11-02T10:44:00.000Z

My chair is poised on a balcony above the main floor of Waterloo station; I’m between trains, and on the brink of the afternoon 5years 11 months and exactly 12hrs into the third millennia, jacked into the network. Between juggling text messages on my mobile, emails on my computer and filtering the miscelaneous conductor messages of the loudspeaker, all while sipping a Texas sized espresso, I sit here watching the crowd surge and pulse from place to place, oblivious to the fact that they are no longer in charge of their own destiny, if indeed they ever were.

Modernity critics often liken the experience to a high speed train that will never slow down and only get faster or like Thompson who contends that it “not a train, but a plane, and in the past we all wondered who was flying it, but now we know, no one.” Little did that poor bastard who pushed the starter button and then mashed the throttle into floor realize or care that what he started will eventually spell our doom. You see sports fans, quantum physics demands that as a body increases in velocity towards the speed of light, its mass follows suite but at higher rate, so once velocity terminal, mass equals infinity; now picture what happens if that body suddenly slams to a stop. Einstein wrote this out as

E = mc2

And when Robert Oppenheimer tested this theory, he was reduced into reciting ancient Hindu poetry about becoming death, shatterer of worlds. And if I were to gamble (and I have 50 quid on the Mayans in 2012—any takers?), I’d call long odds of this ending in a mass of twisted burning steel writhing at the bottom of the abyss.

London is a culture of speed. I don’t mean in the metaphorical sense that we are always on our cellies and crackberries (we are) moving quickly through a highly urban, sophisticated environment; we’re on the chop that shit up on the dinner table and snort it through a slurpy straw kind…and this is okay for a culture unless you push it too hard for too long, until the neurons start popping like frogs on a hot plate. Then all that’s left is a meaningless wasteland of signs pointing to signs or in the Baudrillardian sense, simulacra of simulacra and jello for a brain and conscious. It’s already bad for us junkies who get our fix not by plugging, but free-jacking into a better faster day; adrenaline sluts whose heart palipitates each time jump the gate into the network. Slowing down is not an option, only faster, harder until the images fly by leaving sparks in their con-trails. But dear readers this anti-socialist escape is really the vanguard. Raise your hand if you used your i-pod today—

Some call this post-modern, others hyper-modern, me, pre-apocalypse, and if you want to know what its like to get off, pull the breaks in the middle of the morning rush try it. You get stomped, and I’ll be the first in line to step on your throat. And neither your neighbors nor modernity itself cares enough to not help. I was talking to a bloke in the bar yester morning while waiting for the trains and asked him how he coped: “Easy, take two aspirins with your coffee each morning” and handed me a vile of Bayer. He knew the score.

Last night was Halloween, making today the days of the dead, which is about right, but instead of celebrating our ancestors, lets mourn our-selves; culture wars are never good; the lower denominators won’t be that way for long, and they’re getting ready to swing an epic meat bat, and just like the bond traders of the 80’s the goal is to be the BSD. Gotta love the game of chic cultural cool.

The pace of the station is now a frenetic buzz, and I’ve switched from coffee to a can of Stella that handed to me by someone else who smuggled a case into the bar; I don’t think management is going to say a word though, I feared declining this beer from this townie, but am thankful, it’s helping me compensate for the motion below.

I fear I’ve gone off course here, so let me return to normalcy. My position in all of this is purely a subjective view of reality, for no other reason than its funny, and I will go to great lengths to ensure participating in something funny. We have no choice in matter anyway so we might as well ride this one to the bitter bloody end and then pull up chair and have a cocktail to watch them sort through the wreckage of the 21 century—any takers on this bet?

And as final note, if any of you can sort through this jibberish then I’ll give you 5 to 1—Mayans 2012—(though I’ll double down and bet spread with enough points) this ought to keep “Bored in Athens” busy for at least an hour

Thanks for reading
Ben.

Shaky (January 2005-October 2005)

2005-10-23T23:07:00.000+01:00

After a flurry of emails and a particularily derrisive comment I must confess my amazment at your (my loyal readers') concern over my caffeine well being. Though, it should be considered that the most ardent well-wishers are also heavily invested in the coffee industry, but I'm sure their motivation is purely personal. Just to reasure everyone, I'm back up to my quad shot in the morning with a bit of afternoon double for a bit of a pick-me-up.

I must report some bad news, I fear; I go into the gym on friday for a light workout and find my favorite treadmill, Shaky, broken. It was acting (mainly smelling) sort of funny Thursday after kilometer 16, but I just assumed it was finnally warmed up and broken-in. Turns out, I was wrong. The moral of the story: when you all have a drink today, poor a bit out for the fallen holmes. On the plus side, I pulled, possibly tore, my quadricept on Friday's run. Now, most of you who know me, know my aversion to cold mornings and racing bikes in them. And, many of you can think back to a particular cold bike race were Uncle Steve and myself "accidently" attacked and exploded the field on the first lap of a ridiculous circut race, and those with exquisite memories will recall that my compadres on the team went on to glorious placings while I was left with debilitating injury--yeah same leg, what are you gonna do. Now I'm sitting on my bed typing this blog and finishing a block of cheese.

Either or. Upon visting the Tower of London last week, I am convinced now of at least two things. London is really old, and American tourists are roughly similar in size, apearance and behaviour to cattle. Anyone who has even heard of London knows that the weather 98% of the time is crap (actually that's an exageration, the weather in Kansas is 98% crap. The Lawrence Journal World online reports 37 degrees right now...my window's open 'cause here its balmy...lovely). With its reputation for crap weather, one would think that when spending any apreciable time in it one would have the proper gear--stout shoes, a leather jacket, newspaper, book, photo-id card...you know the proper gear. And, if you were caught out lacking a key element from the kit, then it was your own fault. Here's a snippet of conversation between two middle america tourists I heard during a "freak" rain shower--keep in mind this is london, it rains a lot, there are no freak rain showers. Note, my responses are in brackets.

"I can't believe it's raining" [uh, it's London]
"It was sunny when we left" [uh, it's London]
"Does this happen a lot" [uh, it's London]
"Do you know where we can get an umbrella" [uh it's London].

With my umbrella, I was pretty much unaffected by the rain, but it seemed to pose quite a problem for others.

The tower of London is actually quite cool (despite the 11 pound fee). Composed of many towers, it is, among other things, a really old group of buildings, home to the crown jewels, a former prison, medieval palace, armoury (more on that later), store room and haunted. It's main building was built by William I (aka the Conquerer) around the last time England was successfully invaded (more on that too) around 1066, and from there it has under gone various improvements and up-grades into the fortress it is today. It is also immensely haunted and frankly quite spooky to tour. While walking around some of the rooms alone I got a very real sense of morbidity and dread, not to mention chills, etc. It is said that many, many, of the people executed there have remained: included are the un-favorite wives of Henry VIII, Walter Raleigh, Thomas a Becket (though I can't figure out why he haunts the tower because I seem to recall him being murdered somewhere else...) two princes killed by Richard III (the "my kingdom for a horse" guy) and many more. My favorite is that of Lady Salisbury. She was being executed for harboring ill thoughts towards Henry VIII and during her beheading, she very ungraciously decided to flee the axman who chased her around the lawn and eventually hacked her to bits. LIke I said, it's London.

The Tower also houses the famous ravens. Prophecy states that if the ravens ever leave the Tower, the British Empire (what's left of it) will fall. If you look closely in a lot of pictures, you can actually see birds circling the White Tower (from William I's time). This is because ravens have developed an attachment to the place, and the raven "master" clips one of their wings so they can only fly in circles around the White Tower. The Brits are nothing else if not practicle.

Whilst touring the armoury, I received some very real chills near Henry VIII's armour--don't know but that dude gives off some bad vibes. It was also inthe armoury where I was touched with a bit of old-fashioned god-bless America patriotism. The Brits are big on capturing and displaying artilery guns from their imperialist conflicts. There are many prizes from the Napleonic wars, Crimeia, etc. Not to mention famous Brittish guns--one of which has "God's Hammer" stamped into it (yes they are all named and dated). Most of these are period pieces and remarkable in their craftmenship while exuding cool history stuff. Indeed, they are displayed in chronological order with dates and reigning monarch. Conspicuously missing are weapons from the George III's era dating from about 1775-1800ish. While standing there, I couldn't for the life of me figure out why there was such an obvious gap in military history, especially for a nation so obsessed with its military history; I was so perplexed I even started walking towards the docent to ask what's up. Then, it hit me. I shouldn't go to the Tower of London to see weapons of Britan's late 18th century exploits; I should go to the Smithsonian 'cause we have 'em all...a tear or two crept into my eyes--I felt like Homer at the US embassy in Austrailia--"oh beautiful" (ironically America the Beautiful is sung to God Save the Queen).

Which brings me to Friday. Since I also have a cold, I've sort of been laying low and not tearing up the clubs. So on Friday, I celebrated the 200th Aniversery of Trafalger. I'm not going to recount the history on that one (google it), but I can think of few men (or women) whose cojones can measure up to Horatio Nelson's. Read about him and you will understand why he is more celebrated than the monarchs. His ghost also appears from time to time at a pub a few blocks from my house...cool.

Anyway. Sort of mellow right now, but halloween's comming up, and since it's my favorite holiday and this place is really old, I'm convinced something rad will happen.

thanks for reading,
Ben

Somewhere around Barstow...

2005-10-18T22:39:00.000+01:00

You knew it had to come to this. With all of the discussion of celebraties getting caught with caught in the snow storm (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/magazine/4318898.stm), I've decided to have my own confession: I am addicted to caffeine. Now most of you will respond to this revelation with something along the lines of "no shit". But, to be honest, this is kind of news to me. Yeah, I'm grumpy if I don't get coffee right away, but before I left the states, I made a vow to myself that I would quit taking the drug except for recreationally. Granted, in my hurry to experience 'all things British' I have attempted to take up tea, but I've burned through dozens of tea spoons and still can't get that shit to melt?

Today, however was a revelation. I stupidly thought I was truly master of my domain and left the house without coffee (my mug was downstairs when I made breakfast, and I didn't want to go all the way back down there to get it; of course using one of the million other cups in the house is out of the question) thinking I'm in control, this is great. Well, 2 minutes into my day, I find myself impatient for my train downtown to arrive, so I decide to take the "alternate". Long story short, I got lost. Ever try to read a map of the london underground (http://www.afn.org/~alplatt/tube.html)? Try doing it tommorrow with out coffee. I kept looking at that thing, looking around, looking back, and I couldn't make heads or tails of it. It was just a big jumble of lines and words. I tried asking for help, but my mouth wouldn't find the words, and I couldn't understand the transit assistance anyway. I was forced to dig through the trash, sucking the remains of lattes from card board starbucks cups and was finnally reduced to a raving, long haired, wild-eyed lunatic camping out on the steps of the subway next to they guy with no shoes with my own sign: Need coffee please help, god bless. Finnally a social services worker brought me in from the cold, and took me back to her office so I could fill out the appropriate forms for assistance, and get a photo-id card. It was then, when her back was turned, I was able sneak a few sips of her coffee and slip out the window to get my own quad-shot. Once I was chalked-up to normal levels, everything was copacetic. I was back on top, in the groove, able to read the map and make it to my lecture with 20 minutes to spare. Life was once again good.

I had the shear pleasure to attend a talk given by an important academic on the relavance of the resurrgance of French Surrealists in post-modern urban spaces. I don't know what happened really; maybe it was the the second round of espressos (I actually forgot the first coffee of the day), or the beer I had in the elevator, but 15 minutes into the talk my jangled neurons were as effective as tofu while I tried to decipher what this person was saying. Perhaps its my own adherance to the Gonzo school of intelectual pontification, but I have real difficulties when people give public lectures under the assumption that theire audience is as well versed in the minutia of their subject matter as they are. The rub of enduring this intelectual circle jerk is not only did I have to sit through it, but I had to listen to comments such as "I find your work so enlightening and so relevent to my daily experience in modernity" and "truly fascinating, but have you considered how the post-modernists reacted to the egalitarian almost socialist constructs that arose in post-De Gual Paris?" Once the Vaseline got passed around, I made a speedy exit back to normalcy; the dazed expressions and the John Wayne limps of my collegues the next told me I was the lucky one.

Call it my youth or American Bravado, but I have a difficult time with people who define their world views based one of three 60's era french academics. I was once asked whether my work was informed by Foucault, Derrida or Baudrillard---hmmm lets see, the paranoid sado-masochist, the author of a 300,00 word polemic on why text is meaningless, or someone who believed reality doesn't exist. The only time Baudrillard ever made sense was after I put a half ounce of psilocybin fungus into my cherios. When I responded Gonzo, he just turned into a big freaking lizard and scuttled off. Serves him right; when he comes crawling back to the surface in 2 years the big world of post-modern urban---blahblah is comming back at him swinging a 1000 pound shithammer. I'd almost want to watch, but since I've yet to be paid, I really cannot afford new shoes.

I'm actually on half-strike right now since the University hasn't seen fit to release half of my pay cheque yet; while they're waiting for the EU to come up with a proper form I'm waiting to see how long my jar of Nutella will hold out. I'm down to my last 5 Power Bars that (thanks to certain Power Bar sponsered athletes and coaches) have kept me alive enough to spew this mindless drivel on to the page. Talk about mental masturbation. I really should be working, but being a professional, I do have my principles.

There is a sizeable young-street drug culture in London. Yesterday i saw a young girl going through the pains of heroin withdrawl on the side walk: tearing at her eyes, scratching at the concrete, a werewolf sounding a bit like Linda Blair; I mean really, she was in bad shape. Probably the worst part about it, is most walkers by probably didn't notice, much less give her a second thought, but being new, I paused wondering if I should call an ambulance or something. I was quickly admonished by this poor soul and now anxiously await the next full moon while soaking my leg in a bucket of H202.

This got me to wondering though. How far are we really from the bum on the street? A few bad years and couldn't we all find ourselves singing on the stairs to the subway? I passed another kid last sunday, a male this time, with a look of terror on his face knowing what he was about to experience as he came down. At first glance, the differences between us are night and day. On one hand there was an adict sitting on the street living the day to day between scores and on the other, a successful reasearch professional. Now factor how incapable of action I was before drinking four espressos, or the fact that I was drunk at the time, and I'm not too far from sitting down next to him and asking what he thought about Foucault.

What really disturbs me is perhaps we have missed the wave and that the high water mark is still just barely visible as we get sucked back into the depths--or maybe I should switch to Sanka---the horrors the horrors,

thanks for reading,
Ben

What aint no country i ever heard of. Do they speak English in what?

2005-10-16T18:52:00.000+01:00

I'm not trying to emulate drunkcyclist.com here, but I did drink two bottles of wine before this. I promised the truth of my day to day existance, and yes faithful readers, I am going to give you the blood and gutz truth.

I sat in the shadow of the Tower Bridge today, reflecting on my day and the way I'ved lived my life thus far that has led me into situations where I can drink all afternoon along the banks of the Thames. Amidst my thoughts was a question that has been asked to me over and over again and manages to plaugue my waking days: "with all of the good universities in America, why give up your life and come here?" I usually respond with something along the lines that the there are key personel within the University of London system that will allow me to pursue my research aspirations within geography...but anyone who really knows me knows that I'm in it for the story. Yes, with no arrogance, I can say that I earned the opportunity to come here, and no, I will not say that I completely slacked and lucked out with my chances (I will say there are a lot of people who have worked way harder the I have...etc), but the fact of the matter is, I moved to London becausue it sounded so fucking cool. Therein lies the root of my entire world view: as a critical realist (google it, I'm tired of doing your research), I do not have an inate sense of complacency, nor do I have the faith that leads me to believe that there is more than one shot to life. If there is, kick ass, but I'll hedge my bets that you only go around once. Therefore, if you're a given a chance to do something, take it, and if no chance presents itself to you, make one.

My collegues have asked me about the personal sacrifice I made, and I will not lie. It was/is tremendous. I question this decision every day a new hassel presents itself, and I miss each and everyone of you a great deal. At about 4pm, I longed for nothing else than for someone I know to have shown up and gotten drunk with me. At the same time, I would not have traded my chair for anywhere else. WIth the cold wind comming up the river turning the collar of my coat up into my neck, and in the depths of my culture-shock onset depression (they make all international post-grads speak to a counsler sort of person), I actually felt very happy to be precisely where I was at that moment. And that is what it's all about. You only go around once.

I have been working a lot, tons of writing really: some for this website where I do put a lot of thought into the words I choose to expose for the public; more for work, about 2000 words a day--most of which gets discarded on Fridays as rubbish, and also quite a bit for my own journal/notes...thoughts and words that no-one will ever read unless I become famous, and they publish "my letters" post-humously--at which point I could care less. Last night, though, someone asked me about that, why do I write so much? To which I responded by stating it's my way of coping. If I didnt write each day, either work related or blog related or in my secret file, I would crack...loose it on the subway and be carted off to Bermondsey Prison. We all have a breaking point and one or two holes in the armour.

But, I ramble. My life's not all drinking alone and quiete contemplation. Last night was quite a different experience, one that rattles me to the very core.

Who would have thought that when a little more than ten years ago when I first pushed a pedal in anger I'd be initated into a cult that makes scientology look like the Salvation Army. As a young lad of 14 who only wanted to become a stronger downhill skier, I unwittingly made the decision to ride bikes and become marked and cursed to always be a convict of the roads (also in that process, I've spent many years of my life with too little oxygen to my brain and too much time on my hands). That is why, last night, I found myself at the John Peel (a famous BBC deejay who among others first launched the Beatles) benifit show, hosted by, none-other than bicycle couriers, a sub-breed of mutant humanoid who among other things has a pension for pills and a crazed sense of community. They also like hip-hop. I really don't know how I got there really, but next thing I new I was listening to some house/trance and hearing some out rageous chemical induced lies about riding bikes. It was like the Blue Moose, but with cheaper beer--and when beer is cheaper than the 'Moose, especially in London, it's danger.

To top it all off, I was in a pleasant part of London called Hackney. I taked to my roommate on the phone about midnight because he spins records and was interested in showing up, but when I told him I where I was, he got real quiet. To put it in perspective, Whitechapel, where I live, is very similar to KCK, same vibe, not quite safe, but not quite dangerous. Hackney on the other hand makes KCK look like Boulder, and Albuquerque look like 90210. In fact, those who invited me to this party were amazed that I actually managed to find the bar, burried in a post-industrial wasteland, let alone use public transport to get there. Ignorance is sometimes bliss. Needless to say, I was forbidden to walk, or bus home, and even a Taxi was discouraged, and I ended up, once again on the West End and in one of the famous London nightclubs, getting jiggy with it.

Goes to show you never know where the day takes you. I guess that's about it for now. I'm in culture shock, like I should be. I question my own existence, like most of us do from time to time, and I'm boldly trashed, something we should all achieve from time to time (this style of writing is called paralellism; Tolstoy uses it alot in War and Peace, of which I'm about 45 pages into and something like 1750 away from finishing...did I mention the quews?).

until next time, and always thanks for reading,

Ben

Smile, you might confuse someone.

2005-10-10T18:00:00.000+01:00

I write often about London and its assholes. I'm an asshole, and if you're thinking about moving here, you should probably be an asshole too. We're pushy, rude, impatient and self-absorbed into our I-Pods and cell phones while slogging our way to the city center to go to work in the morning or sloggin our way home at night. In shit weather, with polluted air and wet dirty shoes, the climate is reflected by the people--life sucks get a helmet. Go to other towns and villages and the locals immediately peg you as an American, French or a Londoner--. We are vampires in this city. Going to work in the morning fog, living most of our lives in the Underground and then comming home later in the evening fog, Londoners only surface at lunchtime, to feed, before scurrying back into our holes. Unless, the sun's out, then all bets are off.

On a day like today, probably the last good day of the year when it's about 20 degrees (75ish) with a bright blue sky and warm sun, the undead go on holiday to the park and invade every scrap of grass in the city, laughing at the merriment and having the audacity to smile, randomly at strangers. On a day like today even the most bitter, indifferent cyninc has to actually work to maintain his sneer. Businessmen frolic barefoot in the grass; lovers stroll shoeless along the sandy banks of the Thames--not caring about which combination of hepatitis they get from walking through London's 1000 year's worth of sewage; even bankers, yes bankers, dance naked in the fountains, possibly still on their cell phones forclosing on their mum's ancesteral home, but naked none-the-less. With so many beautiful people trapsing about, I reconsidered growing a goatee and wished I had indeed purchased some sheep skins at Ikea last weekend...

The media is often refering to the notion of the globalised city. And, even though I don't see how any city isn't "globalised" I understand their point. I was working at a cafe this afternoon, and realised that I was the only person who wan't speaking italian or with an italian accent. As I had my espressos and crescente, I pondered the fact that I could be almost anywhere in the world. I recall fondly the French expat in Puerto Viejo who hated Americans ruining the scenery, then even more fondly when I ordered breakfast and asked directions in en Francais: Je Voudrais...Ou est-que...Voulez vous couchez a moi? Bitch! The world's a beatiful place; hopping a jet to anywhere in the world is as easy as, well, hopping a jet to anywhere in the world. In a city of 12 million people, however, it's very easy to loose yourself in very small parts of it or worst, get beaten down by the shear enormity of it all. But at the very worst of it, when the vampires suck down your soul and have you one Wesley Snipes techno-pop thriller away from giving in and feeding too, do as the lovely girl in the pink shirt suggests "Smile, you might confuse someone."

Don't you love when the last line of prose is the same as the title? kind of brings a Gothic sense of closure to it all. Part, Bronte, part Austin, mainly cheap parlour trick of crappy constipated essaying.

anyway, I need to go charge my I-Pod so, as always thanks for reading,

Ben

East End Revisited

2005-10-09T18:54:00.000+01:00

Well I woke up Sunday morning,
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes,
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
An' I shaved my face and combed my hair,
An' stumbled down the stairs to meet the day. (Kris Kristofferson--Sunday Morning Comming Down)

Maybe it's the homesickness, possibly its the hangover, maybe it's the gind of commuting, and likely it's the pressure of producing 2000 words a day, but I've been here three weeks and hit a funk. So after hitting the sunday markets for some fresh berries and a new, certainly not stolen 3 pound copy of War and Peace (did you read about the quews?), I found myself pounding on the pub door at 1055 hoping that just this once, they'd open the door 5 minutes early so a bloke could get a drink.

The crazy thing about east end pubs (maybe others but I'm not there in the mornings) is that you can be the first guy to walk in and still manage to stand in line for a beer. I don't know what to say ("Forget about it Jake, it's Chinatown"). Once I get my beer (a slightly off brown ale but still good) I managed to choke out a few words of academic merit on my paper when I'm greeted with a Loretta Lynn classic from the jukebox. Call it some sort of hyper-post modernity induced mania (or remeberence of Jake and Elwood singing the very same song at Bob's Country Bunker), but I start lauging histerically. Why, in the world does depression always occur with country music? Next up was some Johnny Cash, and I'm pretty sure Hank WIlliams III followed. I'm in a filty east london bar worried about the tear in my beer (also the dead fly on the glass), when in fact, I'm listening to a Tear in My Beer. Poetic Justice.

Besides work, the last three days are fuzzy. I've put my stamp on a new tread mill at the gym and hope to have it broken by Guy Fox Day (I really have no idea when that is, maybe around Halloween), and on Saturday night, I found myself at the lamest houseparty (7 dudes 1 chick) drinking some sort of mystrey liqour (it was the equivilant of grain alcohol but distilled from grape seeds--grappa?) that after the first sip gave a local aneasthetic quality to the roof of my mouth. It was quite good, and kinda fun--the drink; my mouht's never been numb like that except with novacain. It's never a good party when the sausage ratio goes up by 75% with your arival and the total party attendance 60%. Needless to say I left pretty quickly and went to East London's equivalant of the Hawk, and proceeded to discover exactly how much beer it would take to make the night better (6 pints).

I think I've lived here long enough for both the bewilderment and novelty to wear off and am able to see the truly seamy side of London. The open drug deals, they guy selling a complete car stereo system four blocks away from another guy filing a police report about someone breaking into his car and swiping his system, the fact that I can score some rock, a hooker and make an off liscence better easier than it takes for me to run down to the newstand for some beer (and I can see the news stand from my window). Don't take this as a rant; I set out to learn the bloody bare knuckle truth about London, and this is about as real as it gets, all the grit of the Big Easy, without the swamp (oddly enough the city is more or less located on the flood plane of the Thames, and much of the surrounding lands are quite boggy--they call 'em "heaths" here).

Funny bit of local news, squirrels in Brixton (you know You can crush us, you can bruise us, but you'll have to answer to, oh oh, the guns of Brixton), are found to be addicted to crack. Aprarantly, they are getting into drug deallers' stashes hidden in parks. Ahh, London.

Survival Guide

2005-10-06T20:40:00.000+01:00

A collegue of mine asked me today, "Ben, besides testicular fortitude, what does it take to survive on the gritty streets of London, especially as an American?".

This set the rusty cogs inside my head in motion; "well," I thought, "what does it take?" So, I decided to make a list. Call it a Survial Kit for Living in London, things not to be left at home.

1. Stout shoes--if anyone was paying attention to an earlier post, God knows what's on the streets and for how many centuries it's been accumulating. I'd be lost without my Docs. They're black and shiny for formal occaisions, and they're chemical proof for negotiating alleys and pub bathrooms.

2. Black Leather Jacket--I choose black because it matches my shoes, but nothing says get the fuck out of my way I'm in hurry better than a piece of dead cow on your back.

3. A book--quews are pretty boring without one

4. A pen--for the application that you have to fill out at the end of the quew.

5. A stack of passport photos--to be submitted with the application. An entire industry has sprouted because of the UK's obsession with identity cards. Seriously, there are photo-machines on every corner and in every shop, curiously, not in the pubs, but given my own pensions for self-penile photography while drunk, this actuallly sort of makes sense.

6. A good quality newspaper, I prefere the Guardian. The key here is that it has to have several sections and a lot of pages. The printed bits are handy for when you forgot your book and am in the quew or on the train. It's also useful when rolled tightely for swatting off chavs who think they're gangsa-lean. The flimsy tabloids simply don't have enough ooomph!!, but the Guardian or Financial Times when wielded properly smash a nose quiete handley

7. Pocket Change. for the odd late night bus ride home/pint/newspaper

8. An umbrella--uh it's London.

9. Sunscreen --hope springs eternal.

10. Infinite Omnipresent Patience.---see above.

I had a half way funny exprience today organising my bank account. Beyond the ninety forms of id, address verification for the last decade, application, passport sized photo, etc, not to mention adequate funds to open the account, I received a call informing me that my name was not correct. "That's funny," I said, "I'm pretty sure I know how to spell my name." Fortunatley, I was going to Egham today anyway so I stopped by my branch (in the UK as a student, you must open an account at the nearest bank to your college, regardless that my good friends at Barclays are one of the biggest banks in the world with countless branches everywhere (they even sponser a bike race in San Francisco, where they don't actually have a branch). Eitherway, all business has to be handled at 'your home branch'.

So, I arrive, spend some time in the quew and finnally talk to a personal banker. He said the problem with my application is my name. See, for those who know me well, know that I do not have a middle name. I have a middle initial, F (with not period!!). As much as I've wanted it to stand for things, it doesn't. It is simply "F" . Well, this is not acceptable to UK bankers. If I have an initial, it must stand for something. I know what you are all thinking, "make something up, Ben. It's not like you've never fraudulentlly filled out documents before..." Good point, my imaginary dialog friend, but it's MY NAME!!

I don't know what happened to me next, maybe I finnally hit my breaking point; perhaps the train ride was a little noisier than I like, or it's possible that I am finally fed up with smug, prissy Brits in marginal entry-level posistions, but I refused to budge. It might just be me, but it would seem like if one has a customer who is about to deposit 10,000 pounds into a bank, and promises to do this several times for the next few years, perhaps a little more consideration would be given (maybe even some head, but I'm getting ahead of myself).

I snapped. I am ashamed to admit it, but I lost my temper and brok into the nastiest, crudest, French cockney tirade I could summon. Phrases like "vous ete un wankersh toss pot, allez sod yer mum, ya cock!!" and the like. Finnally, I calmed down and politely said that if you would like verification on my name, please call my father. Keep in mind, my dad is an angry person when he's woken (worse than me before 10am), and he's 8hrs behind London Time, and he will reach through the phone and start cracking skulls.

A few twists and turns aside, I should receive my shiny new Barclays Visa with unfathomable line of credit on Monday.

All I had to do was ask.

post-script to this story is I may have to appear before the Egham magistrate for the use of inapropriate language in public. Don' know where they learned French...pricks.

I gotta run; Thursday's my drinken day. Stay tuned for a play by play of my adventure to SOHO tonigh, and until later, as always, thanks for reading

Ben

Adventures of the Mundane

2005-10-05T19:50:00.000+01:00

This is the first true post about my life abroad. So please, give me comments about content you'd like to see; London Information, tour guide stuff, etc. I'm prone to ranting and trailing off, so tell me about that too. The aim of this whole thing is to share my insider tourist perspectives. You probably won't get a review of the The Queen's bed chamber, unless I completely violate the 10 year rule...yeah you can thank me later (www.horny-grannysex.com), and I probably won't offer my opinion of Lord Neslson's statue in Trafalger (it's actually kinda cool http://www.camvista.com/england/london/trafsq.php3) or even Big Ben (he's doing fine). This will be about the gritty everyday booze inflected world in which I live and make my career. So, I'll probably talk about pissin in the Thames and buying groceries with an expired ID more than I will Tony Blaire and his botching of world affairs. So please, read on dear friends. (actually there are many great articles and books about Tony Blaire's government and the dissatisfaction and disintegration of the Labour Party. To read more...nevermind).

So, Its been a while since I've actually written about this place, and it's been a whirlwind of meetings, train rides, shoving and fighting to get a pint during the football match, etc.

What can say? I'm starting to catch the beat here, where the novelty is beginning to wear off into routine; up at six to catch the subway to the train station to Egam and back. Slogging through the inevitable quew while trying not to spill my espresso on my tie and wondering if I have time to grab a paper before the train carriage fills forcing me to stand the 35 minutes to the office. Then I remember fuck that; I'm not one of the inumerable shlubs on their way to Lloyds to carve out a bleak sub-middle management existance making money for a bunch of guys who don't even bother with work, so it's off to the park if its sunny (we do have those) or the library/pub/cafe (depending on the hour) where I can get few hours pursuing activities that I choose and enjoy while figuring out if I'm going north this weekend or checking the Tate (it's the modern art museum...) But I see these miserable bastards each day, lives dictated by lines painted on the floor in the tube station guiding people from route to route, just to do it all again in reverse 8hrs later. I wonder if the commuters I see actually live their lives in a two dimensional sort of underground way based entirely on the maps for the London Underground (title of a great new book by Douglas Rose, about all the things that happens under London). Oddly enough, it takes some serious mental gymnastics to figure out exactly where the hell you would be if you were walking, some sort of metaphysical uni-dimensional conflation of rhetorical space (I don't know either, don't ask). What allways boggles my mind that whole thing about birds, crazy. But enough ranting.

I joined the student gym today with mixed reviews. On the plus side, the treadmills are all in kilometers, so I'm running more than double what I was in the US. The down side is I can only bench 50kg, way less than the 110+lbs I usually do (hey, I have a weak shoulder). I have mixed opinions about all of this. I also went duvee cover shopping today in the bedding district. London has all sorts of retail districts, so to find a suite I go to the garmet district, shoes--the shoe district, leather jacket, well you get the idea. The funny bit of it all is that these districts all have kichy designer shops, with themes. So to buy a bed spread, I'm forced with the proposistion of establishing my room theme: retro, modern, retro modern, post modern, asian post-script-rustic, etc, and there are advisors to help with these descisions, and also to point out the matching curtains, coffee mugs and the way to the toilette--all for something that covers my bed with most of my interactions with it being in the dark. Just as I was weighing the options between chic Persian (or just throwing down a few sheepskins and gettin to bidness), I found my stones and bought a whitish one--to the chegrin of the bloke who was steering me towards an art-deco-Austin Powers theme.

I also met with one of the other new adventures of British Life: pocket change. GIve someone a 20 for a 5pound item, they're apt to give your money back in coinage. By the end of the day, one's out of bills and has like 50quid worth of 1 and 2 pound coins. Not a bad thing necessarily, but as someone who is prone to forget about pocket change or use it to buy a pint on the way home, this is a dangerous thing;.

The weekend was good. My flatmate and I went to a few University bars downtown for cheap beer (a world wide universal standard I might add is poximity to college = cheap beer) and drank our fill of Stella--the meister chow of Britain (aka "wifebeater" due to its high alcohol content and popularity amongst the chavs)--before stumbling to the west end to see what was going on there. This is the routine of london life. Fill up on cheap beer early, get a good buzz, and then go to the high clubs for red bull and vodka, and club dancing. Now, most of you know of my dancing prowess, but you should see it at 3am with a speedball in my veins. Then its on to the afterparties, and all of the sudden it's time to go to work on monday. C'est la vie I guess.

On the funnier, yet more tragic side of things. I awoke to the sounds of helicopters on Sunday, circling the East End and North London. I assumed it was another protest: we have a lot of those, but it was more of a riot, Sunday's the big premiership day, and my day to go to a few pubs, eat some pub food and watch football (so far fish and chips are overrated but steak and ale pie is awesome). Arsenal beat B'ham, while West Ham tied. Being sworn now to West Ham, because of my neighborhood, I have mixed feelings about all of this. I found myself drinking in an Arsenal bar, and normally, I'd say North Londoners are a bit soft (Arsenal 'fairies' and all), but I do only weigh about 150 pounds (don't know what that is in kilos, but not a lot), so I didn't like my chances. Rather, I kept quiet and sulked on my way home. There is a great pub culture here, though. It's perfectly acceptable to have a pint at 11am and drink all day, but then again, its social, and a great way to learn cockney, have some fun and be the less posh side of British. A culture, regardless of what anyone says, that is still horribly tied to its class based discrimination (not like the good ole' Merika where its race and gender). I poke fun at this at times (chavs are funny), but these issues speak to a rather dismal undercurrent facing UK society. whoa, must of had a bad commute, I feel sort of preachy.

This weekend's set to be huge. I'm doing the full on super-tourist thing on Saturday: The Tower, The Palace, The Eye, The Tate, Hunter Thompson style, call it research.
A funny story about the sameness between cultures. I found myself peeing in an alley Saturday Night with about 50 of my closest bar mates (pay toilets are like 50p), and I couldn't help but laugh and be reminded of all of the places on Mass Street where I've peed: the alleys, through the doors of most of the trendy clothes stores, Bill's garage door etc. The only real difference I guess is here I was outside on of the oldest pubs in London (est 1695), so they've been peeing in this alley for at least 3 centuries where as Lawrence only 1. Sort of makes you think twice about that funny smell next to St Bartolphs; that is probably 7 hundred years accumulated, filtered ale...cool.

thanks for reading.
Ben

Finally Up

2005-10-05T17:40:00.000+01:00

No comments about the title; it...ahem...has been a long (really long) week.

So this is the much publicised finally realised blog of my life in london: like the description says, and it finally allows me not to do mass emails and all that. So, stay tuned for my exciting, allways relevent commentary about london life.

cheers,
Ben