We Now Return You to Your Regularly Scheduled Nicki

Everything is fine.

Really.

Well...

I'm not hysterical anymore.

Just kind of embarrassed.

Here's a picture of Kismet:

London on Fire

Today is not a good day. First of all, there is rioting in London, ostensibly about a police shooting of an unarmed man, but really more about the unappreciated lower classes finally rising up and screaming out their frustration in an unstoppable orgy of rage and looting.

I know how they feel.

The rioting started near Wood Green, where I lived for six months, and included several stores that I used to shop at. Today it spread down to Lewisham, which is the shopping center I did most of my grocery shopping at while I was going to school at Goldsmiths. I don't avow looting--it is a senseless waste of proletarian small businesses--but I am in favor of setting cars on fire, which is also occurring. Fancy cars, ones that have insurance, burning in the middle of the street away from private property. A beacon to the powers that be that this crap has got to stop.

I should probably mention that I have been listening to a lot of NPR lately. My attitude is probably due a lot to the focus of the programming lately. That, and a desperate creeping feeling of not having enough money to live on (probably due in part to the fact that the program I was managing was cancelled for lack of attendance), of being nearly thirty and not living up to my potential--or any reasonable facscimile of potential--of not having any sodding end in sight of this endless work, work, work, work, the fact that my hands have started to hurt full time with no respite in the evenings or on the weekends (even odds whether it's arthritis or carpal tunnel), the 401k I dumped all my savings into instead of a bank account has tanked substantially in the past week, weighing two hundred and fifty pounds, worrying constantly about the health of my family, having to choose between finding two hours for writing or doing the dishes (AGAIN), walking the dog...I can't do any more! I can't work any harder! And yet there is no respite! AND THIS CRAP HAS GOT TO STOP!!!

It's enough to make me want to set cars on fire. Fancy, well-loved cars with an insurance policy sitting in the front window, preferrably in a tony neighborhood of Washington DC. What else is there? Rage, rage, rage....I will bring the police screaming to my bonfire, screaming up with their sirens blaring, I'll be sitting right there in the middle of the street, waiting for someone else to make a move and take the decision out of my hands. I'll come quietly officer, if you'll just stick me in a cell and let me sleep for about six years.

Part two:

I'm also trying to go back to school. AGAIN. More applications. More tests, more student loans...and a request for a transcript from Goldsmiths College. My printer sucked up two pages, thinking it was a size A9 page, instead of our standard 8x11s, so now I have to tape the two pages together and mail it off. The sight of those pages morphed into the familiar-yet-foreign longish form was enough to make me tear up. I'm so sick of all this working and hurrying. I want to go back to that senseless lull where all that was important was making the next deadline, writing something that other people would think was clever. And going to art galleries on weekends. Spotting Nelson like he was a hidden Mickey. I marvel now at the amount of sleep I got in London. It felt like such a waste at the time, but now, how I wish I could have stored that up in a bottle.

And maybe I'd go out on a night like tonight and bask in the glow of a burning car.

Last Sunday I forgot that Benn's UMC was starting at 10 instead of 11, so I ended up going to Trinity UMC instead. The sermon was about Jesus walking on the water. How Simon Peter only fell in the water when he took his eyes off of Jesus. The parallel was clear: Keep your eye on Jesus, and not on the storm. That's great advice. That's exactly the advice I need right now. When I went up for communion, all I could pray was "Stay with me this week, Lord, stay right here by my side."

I'm not going to set anything on fire. (Got that, Homeland Security?) I'm going to meekly go about filling out my paperwork, go to work, register for tests, cook dinner, go to work, walk the dog...remember that we don't get to live in places like grad-school London.

hate pigeons so much

And the reason why this is funny is because the book has a map of the Tube on the back, so it's clearly a London pigeon...ugh, they are such filthy, filthy birds!!!

it's not going anywhere

Suddenly everyone seems to want to convince me to move to London. That would be a great idea if only I had money and I wouldn't be so far away from my friends and family and if their economy wasn't in the toidy and England suddenly had a great need for another unemployed playwright. I'm not moving to London. Let's stop talking about it.

But visiting! Ah, visiting, now that is another kettle of fish altogether. I just happen to have consulted the magic eight ball over at Travelocity and I discovered a fare out of Washington DC to London Heathrow (angelic chime!) for three hundred and fifty dollars. Allow me to use numerals: 3-5-0. Dollars ($). For next February.

Oh so tempting. Just a click...a single click and I have reservations, a few emails and I'd have floors all over the city I could crash on...decent tea and love for my favourite Turner only a few months away. I could finally visit the Transport Museum, what was closed the entire time I was studying there! I could take the Tube--to the Tube museum! London in February is a lovely time to visit. It's cold, rainy, snotty, no one likes to go. I'd have the Nelson Room all to myself at the NMM. Oh, all this possibility with only a click, a single TAP of my FINGER...

"aaaahlll you have to dooo is...moooove your little fingaaaaah...just a single little finger can...mmmm.....CHANGE THE WORLD."

(that of course being a quote from "assassins" about shooting a president. i just want to flyyyy)

Three fifty I could do. I'd live on tea and cheap soup, hit up Sainsburys for some PB and live on peanut butter sandwiches all week. Sleep on floors. Make my boyfriend take care of my dog. Screw the fact that I ain't got no vacation time saved up, I'll just eat the hours...say a thousand dollars. Yeah. I could do it for a thousand dollars...I have a thousand dollars...get my FIX...

...sigh.

I hate being a responsible adult.

I ought to be working right now...

I'm making muffins for breakfast, before I go to church. Happy Memorial Day weekend, everyone!

Last night I was storytelling. I was so tired that it was difficult to focus on the words--instead I found myself constantly on autopilot, which is not good. During one of my stories a face floated through my head and for the next five minutes I was trying to remember where I knew her from. I could see her sitting down in front of a cup of tea, laughing...then I remembered. Luckily, I didn't shout "Eureka!" in the middle of my story, as that would have been inappropriate. For some reason my tired brain had conjured up one of my dorm-mates from London, another woman who was living in my floor, but one I wasn't particularly close to. British. Friendly. Down to Earth. Had a boyfriend in Wales, if I remember correctly. After the story was over I was sitting "backstage", indulging in the minutiae of that Brockley kitchen. The two tiny refrigerators that were always overfull and full of food that no one could get at. Ditto the tiny cupboards with the towels hanging through the handles. The kettle, of course, and the crappy stoves with their crappy electric hobs. Only one hob really worked, so that one got worked all the time...and eventually stopped working so well. The basil plant I tried to keep alive. Then I moved on to grocery shopping, thinking about the Sainsbury's down in the Lewisham shopping center. Only buying what I could carry in my one great big blaze orange Sainsbury's bag. The little boxes of crushed and split tomatoes with olives or peppers inside. The sandwich spreads that were so much better than American ham spread. Never buying ice cream because it would melt on the bus. Or, for that matter, anything that involved preparation beyond my one pot and pan. Baking? Forget it. When I cooked Thanksgiving dinner, I bought a chicken simply because it came with its own pan, and I had to ask my invited guests to bring their own plates. Most of us only had one.

I don't know why I got sucked into thinking about that. Perhaps its because Alison--who I met in that very kitchen--just got back from London, and graciously bought me an "I (heart) London" t-shirt (which I asked for) and a flapjack (which I did not.) Oh, God, I love flapjacks. Of all the foody items I miss the most, flapjacks are at the top of my list. I haven't eaten it yet, but I'm sure once I do I'll be overcome with memories, because I used to eat those things all the damm time. On the underground, walking to class, walking to rehearsal, in rehearsal, in class, late at night coming home from the bars... Oh my.

Then there's my bag. If you've seen me outside or taken a picture of me in a place that requires a purse, you've seen my cream-coloured messenger bag, bought the day I went down to Portsmouth to drool over the Victory. A few days ago it went into the trash. I can darn and patch with the best of them, but if the very integrity of the fabric is wearing away, there's no hope. I bought a new bag, which is almost exactly like this one, except it's green, plastic, and not from Portsmouth. Also I had to take off my Nelson button--the one showing a seventeen year old Lieutenant beating a polar bear to death with a rifle and that's why they're going extinct--and I realised just how dented up and rusty this stupid thing is. It really is the oddest thing to make a button out of, which is why I bought it, but now it's...well, I guess the moment's passed.

I live in Virginia now. I drink sweet tea and I smile whenever I smell honeysuckle (which is all the time these days). I'm relieved that our apartment has emptied itself of college-age students (including one of my roommates) because they are noisy and annoying. I'm a lot happier and a lot more content, and I have a boyfriend and a dog, which are two of the things on my List, so well done for me. And when my boss teases me and asks when I'm going back to London, I just shrug and say--"well, London will always be there."

Kismet Is My Copilot

I want to put this on a bumper sticker on my car. You know. Make everyone think I'm beeing deep and philosophical and new age-y, when really, Kismet is my beagle. Ha.

anyway. I have so many scratches on my under-forearm right now it looks like I'm doing it on purpose. Lots of pins, all managing to scratch me as I twist another sleeve under my machine, trying to get it stitched in securely. I've been doing coats. An 80th of Foot redcoat, a couple silk coats, a linen coat. All of which have gone out the door posthaste, before I could think to get a picture of them. Which just means I'll have to grab my camera and do some interpreter stalking...what a way to meet my coworkers: "Hey, can I take a picture? I made that coat!"

Other than that, not much going on here. Nicole, Erin and I went shopping last Saturday for Nicole's wedding, and I managed to find a pair of ridiculously huge sunglasses, some nice smelly lotion from Bath and Body Works and shoes. Not shoes I could wear at a wedding, but, well, can never have too many shoes, really. So I've heard. We've got time, after all, wedding's not 'til December, but to hear her talk about it, we're only days away from driving to Florida. Did I mention it's a destination wedding? Oh yes. Florida in December sounds lovely. Of course, there's that other wedding I should probably start thinking about...Samio, would you mind terribly if I wore a petticoat and jacket? My sewing project list for my eighteenth century interpretation is out of control. But if I can manage to get a shift cut out this weekend...I could put it together in a couple hours.

And I'm working tomorrow night. Apparently the evening tours are booked up so fully they're having a bit of a staffing shortage, so I've been called in, even though I'm not cleared yet. I'll be going in early to work out any last minute kinks with the supervisor. Nervous? No. I'm too tired to be nervous. Although it feels sort of like the actor dream: "What are we waiting for?" "For you to get up there and perform the show!"

Then there's London. The question still looms. I had decided not to go, decided to take that money and make another dream come true and take some sailing lessons, but then...yet another friend mentioned she'd be in the city. And I'd probably be staying at a really nice hotel, thanks to a friend's dad's frequent flyer card. Oh so tempting. Did I mention I'm reading The Star of the Sea, which features a lengthy description of a wastrel earl leaving his home on Tite Street, wandring through Chelsea, down to Whitechapel and then Shoreditch? And then loving descriptions of the south bank, names so familiar and dear to me I could nearly walk them in my mind: Wapping, Greenwich, Deptford, Lewisham, Southwark. Southwark! Had to think how to spell that for a second...Suthuk would be better. Ay me. London, you siren.

Thinking fiscally

All right. Time for a serious debate. As most of my loyal readers know, I am a huge Anglophile. I want to go back to London worse than anything. Various reasons have prevented me going, mostly, money and time.

Suddenly the stars are aligning. Last night I was working on my taxes, and if TurboTax is to be believed, I will be getting over a thousand dollars back. Thank you, stimulus package, also actually working full time for a year for a change. Flights to London are dropping in price--I could go for under $500, including taxes. I have just about enough vacation time to take a week off. And--I just heard from not one but two friends that they'll be in London at the end of May. Arg.

The tradeoff, of course, is that I would not be going home to Wisconsin to see my family until October. And I really ought to act responsibly, put that tax return into my bank account and save it for a rainy day. With that money I could fly home to see everyone, and still have some left over for a really nice massage. Also, my computer has been dying a slow death, so there's that to worry about.

I have until April 15th to hand in my vacation requests. I really want to go to London. I really, really want to go. For once, though, I'm actually thinking something through. Maybe I'm growing up. I don't want people to think I'm choosing London over them, but...I really want to go. And I honestly don't know what I should do. Thoughts?

Lazy Evening

Huzzah for doggy daycare. Kismet has been crashed out ever since we got home three hours ago, leaving his mum to accomplish all those little mundane tasks that she's been putting off for weeks.

Oh, hells, I've been surfing the internet while waiting for the Daily Show to come on, all right?! But it feels nice to sit around and do nothing.

It's getting cold in Wmsbrg, which is probably why I'm feeling lethargic. Fall was a long time in coming, thank heavens, but it's creeping in now. We're trying to leave the heat off for as long as possible, which means extra layers and using the dog as a foot warmer, but if it stays below fifty for much longer, we might have to cave. Tonight I had butternut squash soup that my roommate made that was absolutely delicious. Good for winter too.

There's not much else I have to say. Life is pretty quiet and boring around here. Did you know that plane tickets to London are only $615 from Washington Dulles? Yeah. Like I said--it's pretty quiet around here.

Safe Territory

Remind me to relay the conversation about Nicki dating a Navy man some other time.

I just read a blog post over at The Radical Write, who's a friend of a friend, where she talks about associating certain items with friends and loved ones. I do that too--stupid little things, like the Mach 3 razor that's accompanied me for the past six years, purchased when my brother got sick of me stealing his, or the pen from the hotel in Salem where my parents stayed when they took me to Massachusetts for my internship. Things that have been with me for so long I take them for granted unless I stop and think about it.

Then there's the stuff that stops you dead in your tracks and conjures up a memory so vivid that it hurts, right about where your solar plexus is. This happened the other day when a well-meaning friend sent me a link to a website (www.britishdelights.com) that sells British food here in the US--not just McVitties or Cadbury's, but proper British food, like bangers and Bistro gravy. Which is on my list of things to buy when I get a kitchen, so I can have "real" bangers and mash.

But the thing that got me the most was the Robinson's squash. I blogged about squash, oh, years ago now, as one of the things I liked most about Britain. (also: note the reference to breeches and periwigs. sigh.) Basically it's condensed fruit juice: one liter of squash will make ten liters of juice. A splash in a glass will liven up any quick drink of water. There's no squash here in the US, of course, so instead I make Crystal Light instead. And it tastes good. But I'm not thinking about the taste--I'm thinking about walking through a Sainsbury's, giggling at the Aisle of Tea, trying to figure out what some of the products are by their description or the pictures on the packet, getting eggs off the unrefrigerated shelves and buying milk by the half-pint. I'm back in London, back in the most mundane, ordinary, boring parts of living in London, and those are the moments that drive me crazy. That make me have to stop, mentally turn myself away and refocus on the task at hand.

It's okay. London is still there. It's okay.

And when I move to my new place, I'm gonna shell out for the squash.

Last Call on the Underground

Recently, the new mayor of London announced that starting today, consuming alcoholic beverages on the Underground would be banned. This prompted a huge "last night of drinking on the Tube!" party, which got kinda out of hand from the sounds of things. Fighting, throwing up, strangers falling on top of each other...sounds like the morning commute to me.

I'll pause for a second as the realisation sits in that before today--drinking alcohol on the Tube was completely legal. I LOVE LONDON.

And I also LOVED eating and drinking on the Tube--not "drinking" drinking, but lots of times, the only way I was going to get a meal in if I was on my way from class to rehearsal or to work was if I snapped up a sandwich and an apple and chomped down on the Tube. If you're going to be commuting for an hour at a time, what better way to pass the time? And I know that this leads to a lot of the mess that people complain about on the Underground: I can see how a ban on booze is going to lead to a general bad on food consumption in general, because there will be less trash to pick up. (Chicago L to London Underground: Food bans don't work. Athens Metro to Chicago L: Yes it does. Chicago L and Athens Metro *fight*.)

So bye-bye to endless chances for continued unsobriety. Fare thee well, chavvy men with their cans of Carlsburg furtively clutched in paper bags. You will no longer be able to fool no one. But consider this: would you rather have all these people being annoying drunk jerks on the Tube, or being annoying drunk jerks in their cars, driving around in London? Presumably the Tube driver is sober, so I'll take the former. Besides, if you're on a Tube at two in the morning surrounded by sloshed people, chances are you're probably sloshed too. (Theoretically that is. I've never tested this theory, of course. Of course.)

Incidentally, smoking on the Tube was banned in the sixties or seventies, I believe. You're not supposed to smoke on the platforms either--but I did see a pair of Irishmen smoking in a Jubilee line carriage on St. Patrick's day once. I decided I'd rather suffer the smoke than tell a pair of Irishmen they needed to stop on St. Patty's and suffer the consequences.

Patching things up

I am currently chatting with a woman from TurboTax, who has been unable to explain why when I click on "print and save" on the TurboTax website I get "buy your state tax returns from us" instead of my 1040s. I'm pretty hot about it--what if I wanted to actually save a copy of my taxes instead of using the federal forms to fill out my state taxes so I could get my $79 back from the state of Illinois? Because, damme it, after crawling over unshoveled mountains of snow all winter, Illinois owes me something for my pains.

Meanwhile.

Happy Easter everyone! I went to two services yesterday--an Episcopalian service at St. Bruton's (dating from 1715) and a Methodist service at the UMC (dating from 1785). I liked the Episcopalian sermon better (and the REAL communion wine was unexpected!) but the Methodist church has a CHOIR. Also, we got to sing "The Hallelujah Chorus" which was fun. My favourite part of that song is the bit where it goes "KING OF KIIIIIINGS..." a bunch of times until you're feeling faint and then you swing out of it with "And LoooOORD of Loords--andheshallreign!!" which is always difficult because you're out of breath and that phrase is on a page turn. I am going to see about joining the Methodist church, to sing again and try joining one of their adult Sunday school classes. They have ten classes. It's a huge church.

After church I went to a restaurant called The Blue Talon which is a French restaurant. I had lamb (well...Easter) and eggs (I know, I know...I'm a bad vegetarian) and coffee, served by a bartender who looked weirdly like Crispin Glover, but less creepy. Then I strolled around the grounds, enjoying the sunshine. All in all, a very nice Easter.

I was thinking Friday about anniversaries...we have national anniversaries, of course, but there are also personal anniversaries that are important only to the one person involved. Like March 21st, the day I flew home from London. It's hard to believe it's been a year. I never thought I would be in Virginia a year ago, but here I am. Friday night I went out and had a pint of cask-style IPA called "St. George"--the man sitting next to me warned me it was "warm" and I almost laughed at him. Oddly, I didn't really mind it until today when I was sitting, patching up a pair of breeches, and listening to "Blood Brothers." A truly terrible musical, but it's full of lovely British accents, and references to chip shops and a Thatcherite way of life that provoked a wave of nostalgia for the chippy in Brockley and the train to London Bridge. Ah, well. I won't get too maudlin. If I'm going back to London, I'm going back to stay.

Today I want to go back to London

So I can make fun of tourists.



And visit Nelson's coat.



And eat flapjacks.



*sigh*

Only a Click Away!

Oh, dangerous internetz...I found airfare to London for $478...that's including taxes...one week in the most glorious city in the world. No! No! Must remain strong...but still...Thank God I don't have my credit card on me. Debate, debate...

I had a dream last night that I had been press-ganged into the British Navy. Not the cool Navy (c. 1805) but the lame one where sailing was actually a respectable profession. I was on a ship for nearly two years, and then when I came home (home meaning London) I dreamt that I walked around the warehouses on the south bank looking for something, wearing a blue canvas jacket, my hair neatly queued. What it was, I'll never know, because I woke up to the radio telling me that Hillary Clinton won in New Hampshire. Drrr. Oh well.

And I was just thinking too, last night as I put away clean dishes, how thoughts of "I bloody hate Chicago!" haven't flitted across my mind for, oh, days now. Which I take to mean the memories of London aren't as sharp as they once were, not that I've come to love Chicago. This, clearly, is unacceptable, so I do want to make plans to return. Sooner rather than later. How much it's going to cost is irrelevant...I just want to make sure I'm not buying tickets and a week later accepting a full-time job that'll put the kibbosh on any traveling.

Okay, okay, I'll be patient. Mrr.

veep on ice

I just read that Emma Clarke, the woman who does the famous "Mind the Gap!" warnings on the Tube has been sacked for posting, uh, "alternate" Tube announcements. My favourite one is "To our American, friends, you are most certainly talking too loudly." YES. Yes, you are. I can understand why London Underground had to let her go (I mean, she was riffing on the customers there), but on the other hand--it's nothing we haven't thought before.

In other news, CNN is telling me that veep Dick Cheney (aka Lord Doom) is undergoing heart surgery to install an electric shocker that will regulate his irregular heartbeat.

Now, I don't wish anyone dead. No. No, I do not, not even Dick Cheney, but I am a bad person, because my mind did briefly stray into a cinematic tableau, where VP Dick Cheney was out cold to the world, his chest open like a Christmas turkey, small black heart sluggishly pumping bile. And standing over him, swathed in white like an avenging Angel, a heart surgeon, his hands stained red, arms outstretched as he struggles with his inner conscience: should fullfill his oath as a Doctor or should he rid the world of evil, EVIL! Nurses standing around, breathless, their shining eyes on him as they await his decision, the only noise the faint hiss of the respirator and beep of the heart monitor. Beep...beep...beep...still they wait...beep...beep...beep...a single line of sweat forms...beep...it is as if eternity has slowed, all posterity is holding its breath...beep...beep...the lights dim...no one moves...dimmer now, greying at the edges...beep...beep...fade to black.

CNN tells me, however, that this will be an outpatient procedure, which means my disgusting little daydream will never happen. sigh. I am a bad person. Blame the imagination. And the fact that I've been watching LOTR for two days straight. Too much epic drama and you start seeing it everywhere.

Rule Britannia

While reading the Guardian Unlimited today, I happened across this article which features this picture:



That, friends, is what is commonly called a "yob" weeing into a delicate china teacup. Apparently a Belgium advertising firm feels that this is the best way to get Belgians onto the train to London. I thought this article was interesting because most of the people who commented on it "got" the photo. Yeah, it's slightly offensive, but you have to admit, that's what most people think of when they think of England. Not me, of course, I think of Nelson, but somehow I don't feel that would be appropriate. (Please, no one-handed jokes that is just...oh. Ooops.)

One of the commenters on the article--"LairdKeir"--was not happy though, asking, "Do the British have no self-respect anymore?" and offering a link to his blog, Imperial Flags. Well, I like flags, so I clicked on the link, which is nothing more than a bunch of pictures of this man's collection of flags from the British Empire's heyday. Okay, fine, everyone needs a hobby. What got my eyebrow raised was this picture at the bottom, apparently a feel-good poster from WWII:



"That's right, everyone together, except you darkies, you go in the back. What? You're getting dust in your face? Well, just close your eyes and think of England man!!"

Oh British Empire. How far you've come.

AND Helium

Attention British Airways: If you are going to have a sale, do NOT put "$207!!!!" in giant letters, with a tiny footnote that says "*and up!" and do not add the bloody taxes on at the end so that by the time I worm my way through your insidious and useless website instead of getting a "fabulous deal!!!" on airfare it turns out you're actually charging the SAME BLOODY PRICE to London as everyone else!


I am so bored with Chicago. I just want to leave.

Come again?

I woke up this morning—literally, because my alarm was set to NPR—to the news that Luciano Pavarotti has passed away from pancreatic cancer. I’m quite sad about this news, because Pavarotti has always been sort of a part of my life—dad likes him, and I used to get hauled out of bed late a night to watch the Three Tenors on PBS with the sound waaay up. Funny the things you remember.

But, meanwhile, it is hot and muggy down here, and I am cranky as hell. I know, I know—London wasn’t a bastion of perfect weather, but then again there was NEVER this much humidity. I am thisclose to chopping all my hair off. I am so sick of all the little curls and ringlets sproinging out of my ponytails, not to mention my FRINGE—good Lord, who thought THAT would be a good idea?!—that I’m sorely tempted to go way short. The only thing staying my hand is the fact that in a few weeks we will be knee-deep in snow, and then I will miss my hair.

Also, I guess it is football season. Not that I bleed gold and green* but it’s a little weird going around seeing ads that say “ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBALL?!!” and then seeing the Bears logo. I almost feel like I should run around with a Packers sticker and commit a few acts of vandalism. Not that that would do much good. On the other hand, there’s something comforting about the Changing of the Seasons that brings American football back around, instead of incessant footy matches between random teams I’ve never heard of.

I spent most of the afternoon in a coffeeshop writing, and then I went shopping for cheese and now I’m going to go paint a picture of a cat. My life is awesome.

PS: I put that poster of Sweeney Todd up on my desktop, and, after a closer look, I’m fairly certain it’s inaccurate—did Fleet Street in whatever the hell period that is have a clear shot of Big Ben? I don’t think so. Look, Tim Burton, you LIVE in London—don’t go throwing around images because you think Americans are too thick to get that we’re back in the cesspool of western civilization that is—was London. I’m watching you…



*On the contrary, I bleed red, white and blue and THESE COLOURS DON’T RUN, baby!

One slightly cool thing...

I enjoy riding the L when you can sit in the first car, because then you can look through the window and pretend you're driving the train. That's pretty cool. So. On the list of good things about Chicago, we have about, oh, five. Not a bad start, Chicago, but you're going to have to do better if you want to catch up to London, which has about five THOUSAND. hahaha. Speaking of the best city in the world, I have decided to go to London for Christmas. The firm where I'm working has the week off between Christmas and New Year's, so I am going to flee the country...temporarily. Unless plane tickets go sky-high (it's a joke, haha), I'll be flying out December 21st. Happy Birthday, me. I should be more concerned about my carbon footprint, but just thinking about being back in Trafalgar Square makes me happy. Am already planning on stocking up on tea, squash and Gola shoes. woo.

I handed in two proposals today, so my shoulders spent most of the day up around my ears. This working for a living is stressful--luckily I get to leave at five. Did laundry tonight so I will have my whole weekend free to Harry Potter it up with friends. I love friends. It's so nice to have people who need people. We're very lucky.

**update** This just in: Apparently the House of Representatives has passed a bill that says the troops should come home from Iraq. You go, House of Representatives. I'm so happy to hear you FINALLY GOT YOUR ACT TOGETHER...geez, took you long enough. Stop playing politics and dO THIS THING!!!

PS: Damn, Samn, I posted like three seconds ago...why don't you come to London with me?

I am Don Quixote! Lord of La Mancha!

I have discovered an online radio station (www.live365.com - Max Broadway Zero Hour) that plays nothing but showtunes. And not just the overplayed stuff they have for tourists, but old stuff, new stuff, off-Broadway and on, title songs and filler bits. I'm really enjoying hearing new songs mixed in with my old favourites. I've heard of Man of La Mancha, of course (thanks, Dad), but I've never listened to it. So when the title song came up, I was intrigued. Because lately, I've been thinking about getting a dog (stay with me here, this is actually a serious post), and naturally thinking about what to name it. Or, even more lately, I've been thinking about getting two dogs, and then they could keep each other company. One of the names I've come up with is Horatio, for Hamlet's best friend in Hamlet. Because a dog is man's best friend, geddit? Keeping with that theme, I was thinking about other theatrical best friends, like Antonio, Riff, Valentine, Sancho Panza--you see the train of thought? Then I was thinking of other things that were a girl's best friend, diamonds, gaff tape, so on. And eventually I started thinking maybe I should name them after my favourite Tube stations, just to be annoying. Although, I'm not sure, if I were a dog, if I would respond to "Covent Garden" and "Waterloo." "Waterloo" and "Trafalgar?" Perhaps not. I was just about of the opinion that "Piccadilly" might be a fun name for a dog when I heard that someone parked a car full of bombs in Haymarket Street--this is right next to Piccadilly Circus, right down the street from where Phantom of the Opera is playing. If you were me, and you were walking from the National Gallery to the Criteron Theatre to see, oh say, "The Complete Works of Shakespeare Abridged" you would go right past where this car was parked, full of gas, nails and (thank God) a defective detonator. I told you this was a serious post. I'm not talking about this to freak anyone out, but just to contemplate the fact that this stuff happens. I was just thinking about how lucky I was to live in a city where I could get on the train and go to work and not have to worry about getting blown up. (I try not to think about how easy it would be to park a car under one of the bridges--who puts a train up in the air anyway?!)I forgot where I was going with this. I guess this is the depot for the train of thoughts. Ha. Oy. I'm so mad that people are trying to blow up my city. And so sad that people feel the need to target London. Why? God, who knows. I'd rather think about dogs.

Isn't it good? (norwegian wood)

Last night, I added a new rule to the list of rules of theatre people: Never try to outdrink a man who's played Hamlet. Man. I went out after the show last night to meet with yet more theatre people--shake hands, hand out business cards, etc--and I ended up closing two bars. Mostly because I got into an argument with this guy about the interpretation of Hamlet. He was insisting that to understand it, you had to see it, I was resisting, saying that no interpretation could possibly live up to the poetry that is inherent in the words. I recalled Oliver's "To be or not to be" speech, he cited the Royal Shakespeare production in the early nineties. We became swift friends after agreeing that Horatio was our favourite character. After the actor's bar down the street closed, we went to the Green Mill, which is where Al Capone used to hang out--and promptly got into a fight because the jazz band playing featured a horn player on something that neither of us recognised, so he kept insisting this instrument did not exist. Finally I tapped the horn player on the arm during one of his breaks and asked him, "Excuse me, sir! What instrument is that?" and found out it was a bass trumpet. honestly. actors. The Green Mill is SO COOL--they have live jazz most nights, and the ambiance is definitely old-school bar, with heavy wood panelling, painted walls and a concrete statue of a Greek goddess in the corner. I'm definitely going back. Although next time I'm not going to stay until quarter to four.

I also started my new job yesterday. I am a proposal writer for a small engineering and architecture company, and so yesterday was learning how these proposals were put together, all the ducks that needed to be put in rows. My boss is an older gentleman named Mr. S, and he told me that he wanted to hire someone who was creative--but right now he really needs someone who is organised. I shall do my best. The office is very old-school, and the people that I work with are ok. I think that once I learn the role, and don't have to ask people for help every five minutes, it will be challenging but not difficult. I'll be working under my own direction a lot. I'm definitely looking forward to working steadily for a change. Putting a little money away. Making a dent in my student loans. Getting a desk--I realised after I published my wish list last week that DESK should have been item number numero uno, so I can write in my room. Then the Wii.


In other news, London has unveiled the logo for the 2012 games, the theme for which is apparently "80s Dance Party." Sigh. I've been feeling so good about living in Chicago lately that I haven't had time to be homesick, which is a good thing, but a strange feeling. Especially as I have discovered the stories about Horatio Hornblower, a fictional sailor in the late eighteenth century. They are full of brave men, daring the seas to stop the French invaders--but what makes Horatio such an interesting character is that his actions don't spring from an inherent well of bravery and courage, but rather a "If I don't do this everyone will think I'm afraid, and they won't follow my orders, so I better do this even though I'm fainting from fear." Also the stories feature lots of nautical lingo like "then Horatio slipped from the ratline and fell into the shrouds just as the mizzen topmast gave way and came to rest on the mainsail's royal yards." The hell you say. I love it. I may never learn how to sail a boat, but at least now I know what "fothering" means.

Gregory Peck stars as Hornblower in "Horatio Hornblower and the Hussy Wore a Dress Without Sleeves, the Hussy."