King's College Student Union

STRONGBOW FOR 2 QUID @ THE KING'S COLLEGE STUDENT UNION. FUCK. YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!

OH YER, THESE TWO SCHMUCKS WHOM WE HUNG OUT WITH ALL NIGHT WERE HILARIOUS. (IN THE WAY THE BRITISH VERSION OF THE OFFICE IS FUNNY, NAH MEAN?)

The kid on the right looks exactly like the lanky dope from Trainspotting. He also happens to be a Junior Police Officer. WTFAMIRITE?

Terribly foul-mouthed. Fucking great sports. I loved them. They capped our night by serenading us with a rendition of "God Save the Queen" atop the water fountain in the center of Piccadilly Circus.

On to the Next One

The fact that I'm starting this entry at 10PM is a good indication that today was fairly eventful.

Or . . . that I'm a big re-tard that has become a homebody while abroad in a new and exciting country.

Feel free to draw your own conclusions.

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We began the day with a 4-hour coach tour of the whole swath of scenic, touristy photo-hot-spots in London -- a castle and moat (of which I've forgotten the name of, you can't blame me though, right?), the River Thames, Westminster Abbey, Parliament, and Buckingham Palace. It wasn't meant to be all that comprehensive but rather a brief overview of what to look for in our future treks to these sites. As much as I'd like to elaborate on these places, I really can't offer much insight when only given 15-20 minutes at each site to essentially freeze my hot dog into a popsicle while taking contrived photos such as this one:

Me, glum as an L.A. bum, in front of Westminster Abbey.

Our guide for today's tour as well as for the rest of the semester's London excursions is a charmingly pithy granny named Angie. Frankly, she looks and sounds like she's done one too many semesters of catering to inattentive American college students. But I appreciate her candor and wit; little lady has a whole lot of spunk. I'd like to sit down with her and have her give me the real nitty gritty on Londontown, but every time I glance her a caring smile - one that attempts to communicate, "I like what you have to say! I'm listening, Angie!" she, in her perpetual state of malaise, offers only a jaded grin.

Poor Angie at the helm.

I returned from the coach ride to our flat sore from the cold, a cold which penetrates deep into the bones of my body and which nips the tip of my nose and cheeks. Once you open the door to our flat, a huge backdraft of warm air hits you in the face, reminding you to shed your layers of clothes. For lunch, I shared a delectable cardboard-textured Sainsbury's pizza with my roommate Mike B. and drank a paltry glass of British milk. Satiated, I took a brief nap curled up next to the radiator positioned, fortunately for me, right beside my bed. I had a couple of weird R.E.M. dreams about former acquaintances and then we were off again to explore London some more.

The fine ladies from 19 Bedford Pl. accompanied us and suggested we could do some excellent window shopping at Harrod's, the British emporium that claims to sell everything under the sun (for a price, of course). In the 80s, the old-Hollywood actress Ingrid Bergman commissioned Harrod's to plan her funeral. Supposedly the service was as lavish as she was. As I strolled past the ancient Egyptian facades and ornaments, I wondered if this was the store that Michael Jackson had famously asked to purchase the Elephant Man's bones. Then I wondered if I could purchase Michael Jackson's bones. Anyway, I digress.

The mad house is fucked-up ridiculous. It makes Hannah B.'s dearly beloved Nordstrom look like the Crenshaw Swap Meet. It is a 7-story building featuring 9-foot Swarovski crystal chandeliers, an entire room for selling gourmet chocolates, rare gems and rocks, a pool table previously owned by the Beatles, antique furniture, modern furniture, elephants and monkeys, clothing from every reputable designer in the world... A whole lot of dumb shit for people who are stupidly rich... I mean the hyperbole simply sees no end in sight.

Harrod's

£5,000 cupcake

Swavroski Crystal Chandelier

We bought some stupid chocolates and finally left the labyrinth just in time to hit up a pub. When we first arrived in London, we mistakenly assumed that pubs in England operated similar to bars in L.A. In reality, most of them close by 11PM. We checked out this pub called Devonshire Arms in Piccadilly Circus around 6PM and were finally able to have our lips taste English beer since arriving 4 days ago.

I had a pint of London's Pride. Smooth and malty -- honestly nothing special. We sat around and shot the shit, not surprisingly, about a bunch of shit: Pete Carroll demoting himself to the Seahawks, our career prospects, how fucking expensive this city is, and plans for traveling Europe.

Those last two topics are actually one and and the same. It's become a common point of discussion among us kids -- we must live in near abject poverty in order to travel as much as we can in the forthcoming weeks and months. Mike and I, both of us with humble budgets, are taking this point to heart. For dinner I ate rubbery spaghetti noodles topped with Chili slop. Tomorrow, I may have the same. But soon!!!... I will be traveling all across the European continent, making new friends along the way.

Consider that as an American I've been eating bastardized Italian food all my life and now, for the first time, I get an opportunity to gorge on authentic pastas and gelato in Florence. Tonight, a visit to Dublin, Ireland for St. Patty's Day and an Amsterdam trip materialized. Shit, bring on the slop and the precipitous weight-loss. I don't give a damn. It's on!

Settling In

My feet fuckin' ache. Yowza.

For the past two days I've been walking the streets around my London flat in a fresh pair of Redwing boots and my toes feel worse than those of a mid-19th century Chinese foot-bound concubine. Back in the States I was told by my shoe store's Al Bundy that in order to have the leather mold to the contours of my big ugly feet, I've got to cinch up the laces extremely tight and wear thick acrylic socks. There's a Cantonese proverb that speaks to this folly: Embrace your fashion and you reject your health. I hope these boots break in before society rejects me for having horrifically deformed feet.

Here's a short story that corroborates the old cliche about how terrible English food is. The night we arrived, the people from ACCENT (the London institution that runs the study abroad program) took us to a local pub for some finger foods and soft drinks. In retrospect, I would've rather eaten actual fingers than eat what lay on the party platters that night. The g'damn in-flight dinner I had the night before was better. Ugh, thinking about the minced meat pie I half-ate makes me shudder. I hate to sound ungrateful to my hosts, but c'mon, you managed to disappoint a very forgiving and unbiased palette. However, the plate of Fish and Chips I had earlier in the day was superb. We ate at a nice overpriced diner called Munchkin's across the street from the British Museum. The heavily accented Russian waitress had an annoying habit of asking each group of patrons what their nationality was. She smiled sarcastically as we replied that we were Americans. What fucking difference does it make? Does decent service hinge on correctly answering, "Are you English?" But she played nice thereafter so I forgive her. The F&C was nice. The fries were cut thick and the fish was prepared well: crispy on the exterior and flaky inside. Everything was cheery until I had to pay the £9 tab. Which brings to my concluding point: money.

Holy. Fuck. England is expensive. I exchanged $90USD yesterday and today I've got just about 2£. Er? With that money I've purchased the following items: the aforementioned plate of Fish and Chips, a dinky LG mobile phone, some toiletries, groceries for half a week, and booze.

My granny's going to flip her shit when I call her in mid-March begging her to wire another grand or two.

I'm going to soak my feet in warm water sans the salt (it just costs too damn much).

Best,

C

In the life of this man, too, as well as in all things else in the world, daily use and the accepted and common knowledge seemed sometimes to have no other aim than to be arrested now and again for an instant, and broken through, in order to yield the place of honor to the exceptional and miraculous. Now whether these short and occasional hours of happiness balanced and alleviated the lot of the Steppenwolf in such a fashion that in the upshot happiness and suffering held the scales even, or whether perhaps the short but intense happiness of those few hours outweighed all suffering and left a balance over is again a question over which idle persons may meditate to their hearts' content. Even the wolf brooded often over this, and those were his idle and unprofitable days.

In this connection one thing more must be said. There are a good many people of the same kind as Harry. Many artists are of his kind. These persons all have two souls, two beings within them. There is God and the devil in them; the mother's blood and the father's; the capacity for happiness and the capacity for suffering; and in just such a state of enmity and entanglement towards and within each other as were the wolf and man in Harry. And these men, for whom life has no repose, live at times in their rare moments of happiness with such strength and indescribable beauty, the spray of their moment's happiness is flung so high and dazzlingly over the wide sea of suffering, that the light of it, spreading its radiance, touches others too with its enchantment. Thus, like a precious, fleeting foam over the sea of suffering arise all those works of art, in which a single individual lifts himself for an hour so high above his personal destiny that his happiness shines like a star and appears to all who see it as something eternal and as a happiness of their own. All these men, whatever their deeds and works may be, have really no life; that is to say, their lives are not their own and have no form.

They are not heroes, artists or thinkers in the same way that other men are judges, doctors, shoemakers, or schoolmasters. Their life consists of a perpetual tide, unhappy and torn with pain, terrible and meaningless, unless one is ready to see its meaning in just those rare experiences, acts, thoughts and works that shine out above the chaos of such a life. To such men the desperate and horrible thought has come that perhaps the whole of human life is but a bad joke, a violent and ill-fated abortion of the primal mother, a savage and dismal catastrophe of nature. To them, too, however, the other thought has come that man is perhaps not merely a half-rational animal but a child of the gods and destined to immortality.

- Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf

MAMA SE MAMA SA MAMA COOSA

It's a bitch to watch famous people die. By famous I'm not referring to some limp dicked reality T.V. asshole or Andy Dick (one and the same, really). I'm talking about the kind of famous where little Hmong children who've never heard music from a radio still knows your name. Ostensibly, that level of fame can only be attributed to one dude: Michael Jackson. It would be much more accurate for me to lament that, "It's a bitch to watch Michael Jackson die." Cause, you know, it has been. Last Thursday, I was happy as fuck eating FroYo when the news blindsided me like a cartoon grand piano from the sky. Ever since, I've been a miserable fuck, with an existential breakdown waiting to debilitate me at any time. Why is it that the death of a demigod, such as Michael Jackson, thrusts our pathetic obsession with celebrities into full throttle? I crucify my female friends any chance I get for wasting so much of their goddamn time getting wet over inane celebrity gossip. A week after the death of Michael Jackson, I sit here confessing my shameful hypocrisy. I'm hooked. I check CNN, WWTDD, TMZ, and even that fat turd Perez Hilton's blog two, three times a day. It's like 9/11 all over again! Footage of Palestinian women cheering and the Twin Towers being speared by jumbo jets are replaced with aerial shots of Neverland Ranch. And for the first time in years, MTV started playing music videos again. During this weeklong binge one thing became clear to me: The entire post mortem ordeal really irks me. In the morning, you're in a posh mansion in the Hollywood Hills being injected with surgical-strength pain killers. By the next, you've been gutted and your brain's being freeze-dried for laboratory examination. Your father's cheerily plugging his record label during interviews and the treacherous media who tarred and feathered, drawn and quartered you and made fortunes in the process, are now singing your praises. He-He!

I went through this phase of pathetic fanaticism during middle school when I discovered Cobain and Nirvana. I'm hoping I can salvage some shred of dignity by purging myself of all this hyper intensive media coverage as soon as possible.

Real motherfucking talk

Once upon a time, your shit was fresh and exciting. Alas, it could not endure time, repetition, and your short attention-span. Shit got old. It became part of the vicious cyclical monotony that you call your gig. When your shit is played out, staler than month-old saltines, the logical thing to do is to move on to newer shit. But you don't and won't want to. You're fatalistic and are satisfied with that which soothes your obsessive-compulsive desire to maintain normalcy. Day in, day out you're exhausting your shit's ability to entertain you. You are the idiot who doesn't have an e-mail address because you believe the internet is a conspiracy. The idiot who doesn't believe in global warming or believes that there are forces that govern our universe donning halos and wings. It's pretentious to say but I know this and you may not. I have self-awareness and you are a buffoon.

The first of each month

Summer, as of late, has given me some insight into how the 40 year-old fat dude living in his parent's basement spends his god awful day. Some call this a self-fulfilling prophecy, I say it's introspection. Whatever, fags. A moment before starting this post I was lying like a gelatinous blob on the couch, counting clusters of stucco on the ceiling with only a towel wrapped around my nether regions. Just a moment before that, I was pan frying dumplings. Shirtless. (Take it from me, as fun as it sounds, don't do this. You're going to look like you were sentenced to death by a kiddie firing squad strapped with airsoft rifles.)

You're allotted certain liberties when you're home alone during summer vacation: walking around the apartment in the buff and anxiety-free masturbation just to name a few. (Note to self: Self-deprecation is losing steam; it's no longer funny, just self-deprecating.) Moving in with my dad has been both a blessing and a curse, sort of like fucking Heidi Montag. I'm given a lot of freedom here at my dad's. I can come and leave as I please, sleep in until noon, park my car on the street without getting a fucking citation, the list goes on. But as with the houses and apartments we've lived at before, we get shafted with a shitty landlord. Each landlord more obsessive-compulsive, neurotic, and tyrannical than the one before. Apparently ours isn't well versed in housing laws or aware of her tenant's personal freedoms as guaranteed by the U.S. constitution. For brevity's sake I'll list her grievances:

1) She chided my dad for not throwing away his newspapers in the recyclables bin. I'LL SHIT IN MY TRASHCAN IF I DAMN PLEASE. Recycling is a personal choice. I will reduce refuse at my own pace. Frankly, I think Mother Nature's been a bitch with all this June Gloom bullshit lately. Fuck her.

2) She wouldn't allow me to park in the space behind our garage. "This is listed in the contract your father signed. I never agreed to let you park here." BUT WHY NOT? This one's borderline retarded but we complied like suckers and bought a parking permit. The Man with a capital M: 1 Tenants with a lowercase penis: 0.

3) She harassed me and Kat whenever we'd enter through the front gate. She'd say something to the effect of, "WHY ARE YOU TAKING THAT WOMAN INTO MY APARTMENT? WHAT KINDS OF SHENANIGANS ARE YOU TWO UP TO." She was obviously implying that we were going upstairs to my apartment to fuck our brains out all over her shitty wood panel floor. Landlord Nazi, you cannot seriously believe you can impose your Old World values onto a pair of Post-eBay-Google-Generation X-ers. MY PRESIDENT IS BLACK. MY LAMBO IS BLUE. Honestly, though. Bitch, I will accidentally hang myself via auto-erotic asphyxiation if I want. My father pays the rent, he leaves the sexually deviant behavior up to me. 

4) This may be the most egregious. The worst thing a landlord could do, short of massacring my whole family while tripping on PCP. The bitch had the audacity to complain about our water usage. WERE THE NEO-CONS CORRECT WHEN THEY SAID ELECTING A BLACK GUY WOULD RESULT IN COMMUNISM? First, we totally ignored the bitch because there's no way you're telling me I'm not allowed to take an hour long shower. I will fucking raise tadpoles in my bathtub if I want! 

Those of you who still live at home, consider yourself lucky. Unless, your parents happen to be fucked up landlords.