Blogger got back

For those of you familiar with today's urban lingo, I'm of course not claiming to have a desirably large butt. (I mostly just have the tops of both legs.) I just mean I returned to London this morning.

The trip to Va. was great. Got to see all my favorite people not surnamed Reinford. Weather was fantastically hot and sunny. And everything was half price!

I was a groomsman in a wedding and learned my lesson: I need to exercise my smiling muscles more vigorously. Even with the photo session occurring in a very casual setting and lasting only a very short time, my face was straight up sore. I tried to remember the tape we heard at the rehearsal dinner of the groom at age 9 rapping Bel Biv Devoe a capella, but even that wasn't working.

But it all worked out - Luke made cufflinks out of paperclips, the groom's brother wore a tie for the first time in his life, and no one dropped the bride or groom during Hava Nagila/the chair dance.

Happy to be back though. Should be a fun summer.

P.S. Did everyone know that in the UK we have TJ Maxx only it's called TK Maxx? I was just starting to grasp Hardees = Carl's Junior so you can imagine how my head is spinning with this development.

P.S.S. So is your mom.

My sister is 30

For the first 3 years of her life I was nonexistent (just a sparkle in Glenn's eye).

For the next 5 years I transitioned from being indifferent about having a sister to waxing reverence.

For the next 10 years, I basically terrorized her and did my best to make her miserable and fear me by throwing some really impressive temper tantrums and just being rude and cruel whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Then she went to college (3 years).
Then I went to the same college (1 year overlap).

During that year of college I saw her in a whole new light, or maybe I just grew up. This isn't to say that we were best friends, but I was glad she was there. She made me food and gave me some good advice. And she was a decorated musician, which made me proud.

This isn't to say I was nice to her.

In the 5 years since college (now I feel old), a bit of that 80s reverence has returned. We live very different lives and have different goals, but our values are the same. And seeing her succeed in her career and be a great mom keeps me grounded and facing in the right direction.

I'm not going to let her completely off the hook -- she did buy me probably the worst Christmas present of all time: a miniature pool table (I was 21). But even in that moment of indiscretion there are bits of redeeming grace. What was she imagining while purchasing that gift? Standing in the checkout line, she probably pictured me with my friends, gathered around the table, shooting miniature pool balls into miniature pockets, laughing and smiling. She probably pictured my friends gazing at me with admiration. She thought it would make me popular and improve my quality of life.

So despite the fact that none of that happened, I've received lesser gifts (like when she promised to knit me a hat and scarf in 1995, a gift that remains undelivered).

Happy Birthday Monica. From your adoring younger brother.

(P.S. I will be traveling to the U.S. to star in my friend Brad Miller's wedding. So that means no new posts until next week when I get back. Fill the void by learning a new language or otherwise bettering yourself during your newfound downtime.)

Footie ball

There's a big European soccer/football match taking place this week, and after watching yesterday's awful FA Cup final, we can all thank our lucky stars that neither team in the Champion's League final is named Chelsea or Manchester United.

No, the game matches up Liverpool and AC Milan.

As preparation, I thought I'd provide lyrics to some of Liverpool's cheers.

For Pepe Reina (Liverpool's Spanish goalkeeper, to the tune of "He's got the whole world"):

We've got a big Spaniard in our goal,
we've got a big, big Spaniard in our goal.
We've got a big Spaniard in our goal,
we've got a big Spaniard in our goal.

For Steven Gerrard (Liverpool's talisman captain, to the tune of "Que sera, sera"):

Steve Gerrard, Gerrard,
he'll pass the ball forty yards,
he's scouse and he's f**king hard,
Steve Gerrard, Gerrard.

And for the awkwardly tall Peter Crouch (6'7" striker):

He's big, he's red, his boots stick out of bed.
He's tall, he's lean, he's a freaky goal machine.

I haven't heard any Milan cheers, but they're probably all racist anyway. The English are so much more civil -- the worst they do is poking fun at the Holocaust and things like that.

Punching someone in the face is better than war

So I randomly picked this town for a segment of the story/screenplay I'm writing: Cochabamba, Bolivia (picked for its South American location, strong indigenous culture, and similarity to the name of another city in another part of the world). One fun thing about writing this has been researching the settings and incorporating interesting stuff about the locales (French Lick, Indiana is the other main setting) into the story.

Yesterday in the newspaper here in London there was a picture of two indigenous middle-aged Bolivian women PUNCHING EACH OTHER IN THE FACE.

Turns out that Southern Bolivia (Cochabamba is more central, so incorporating this meant: road trip), there are annual fighting festivals. All the folks from the mountainside dress up and drink up and wander down the mountains. In the neutral settings of the valley they eat and drink and dance and play music and FIGHT.

The fighting is watched over by police, and most times it's just a couple of amateurs throwing haymakers and one guy falls down and has a bloody nose and that's that. But people do die and get hurt pretty bad as well. And women fight. And kids. Two at a time by the looks of it.

As bad as it all sounds (and if you watch the Al Jazeera video of the event on YouTube -- the visuals are admittedly more disturbing than the description), it's still got to be more reasonable than war. So much more.

It's a fair fight by two groups that don't get along for one reason or another (in this case it's usually peasants v mestizos). They use their fists. Everyone is accountable for what happens and everything stays out in the open. And no one fights on your behalf -- if you want to fight, you fight. There are no Oval Offices or red phones. There are no civilian casualties and no friendly fire.

And at the end of the day, everyone goes back up the mountain and sobers up.

Crazy like a fox

There are foxes all over London. Apparently they hang out in little parks and anywhere else there is green grass and a few bushes, although I'm yet to see one.

And apparently the most you'll hear of them is during mating season when they make some really awful and painful sounding screaming noises.

But other than eating the occassional cat (and some, like me, would argue that this is a positive thing), they don't really do much harm -- no spreading of disease or anything like a rat or an armadillo. (I just found out that armadillos roam the streets of Texas and can give you... LEPROSY...!) Goodness.

Happy Friday.

Mac.co.uk

They use two different dudes in the ads here.

I think both of them are actors in a pretty successful show here called Peep Show. Until a few days ago, I thought "PC" was a magician.

Apparently the ads aren't very successful here (actually they're the opposite) because everyone thinks "Mac" is kind of a dick, and many non-Mac users think of Mac users as being a little pretentious and self-righteous. Which, in some cases, we are.

This looks Icelandic: dsfjkl;asfjdskla;

Bjork -- did you guys know I met her?

In the Oakland airport the day after Kyle and I saw her play on Pier 42 in San Francisco a few years ago. First opening band was amazing: The Transiberian Orchestra. Prob 25 or so members... full strings/horns... DJs. Next came Bonnie Prince Billy, which could've been great except that on this particular night he was determined to play 15 identically sounding songs on his omnichord. Bjork fans were less than enthusiastic. Then came the little Icelanic powderpuff herself who danced and entertained while never missing a note. Fantastic show. And there were massive fireworks during a few songs.

... But yeah I met her at the airport and she was tiny and frightened of me.

Other famous people I've met: Rik Smits, Chris Martin, that ugly guy from Counting Crows who somehow dates only the most beautiful women, Jerry Springer, DJ Danger Mouse, Auntie Anne, John Grisham, Damien Rice, the mayor of Aalsmeer, Wayne Coyne from The Flaming Lips.

I have no idea why I wrote this post.

Oh wait, I just remembered. It's because I really want to go to Iceland but apparently the food there is unbelievably expensive. Like double London. Which is double New York. Which is double most cities in the U.S.

And apparently everyone there is upper-middle-class, which seems kind of impossible since middle class is a term describing a median standard of living.

And Bjork's mom apparently dresses like an Eskimo and wanders the streets saying strange things.

Dear everyone here...

Attention all the peoples of the United Kingdom, this is an important message:

Abercrombie & Fitch is not cool. Despite what you may be imagining, it is worn almost exclusively by teens and pre-teens in the United States. I repeat: no one over the age of 17, with the exception of a few of my friends from college who should know better by now, wear Abercrombie & Fitch. Please do not change your daily routine based on the opening of the store here, and don't be fooled by the high prices and prime location.

It's mostly just cotton.

And as a general rule, you should always avoid clothing lines that feature their brand name prominently on 90% of their wares. Unless you're being paid by American Eagle or Old Navy, the free promotion you're giving them is more than a little silly.

Also -- could more adults just please dress like adults? I know you like those tracky bottoms and colorful little tops your sons and daughters are wearing, but it's kind of disturbing to see you dressing interchangeably.

If it would be helpful, I could come up with some sort of equation whereas you take your age over the age of 17, and it becomes a multiple which calculates how lame you are if you're rocking A&F or otherwise dressing like you still live with your parents (if you live in Spain you're exempt as everyone there lives with their parents until they get married, even extremely fashionable and desirable girls that I have no mind to offend).

This is all for the best, believe me.

Thanks!
er/uk

So, my place is actually pretty nice

Paying a mint for it so it better be. Take advantage of the free London accomodations. All you have to do is buy me some groceries and take it easy on the hot water (an early warning to Brad Hoffman).

To the gallery...

For sitting and reading back issues of The New Yorker.



For eating muffins and granola squares, and for typing future motion pictures and transposing pages of the dictionary.



For ... sleeping to this point.



Guest bedroom configuration.




















The wood/plastic wardrobe that I bought from IKEA and subsequently assembled; my patriotic and also temperature-controlled towel rack (thanks to one of my friend's mom's for the embroidered towel); and, because Brad Miller enjoys things like this, my loo.

Mums day, part 2

If you've been a reader since the beginning, you'll remember that England celebrated Mother's Day back in March. So today I'll refer back to that post and also reiterate that I still very much love my mother. Probably more than you love yours. How could I not? Her most recent act of love was to send me an old accordian so that I can learn to play. My neighbors are going to love her too!

Slow news day

Last night I went to this Meetup group thing. For those of you who haven't heard of these, they're just these general interest groups that exist in big cities. Last month I went along to one made up of Ex-New Yorkers living in London. Yesterday I went to the meetup for May. It's mostly just a bunch of Americans hanging out.

Had a funny conversation with this guy that went like this:

--So how long have you been over here? (me)
--Just a month. (strange meetup group guy)
--You liking it? I moved over in March.
--I do yeah.
--What do you do?
--Um... It's --uh. Well... Biology.
--Oh alright. Who do you work for?
--One of the big guys. Multinational player.
--Are you not allowed to say where?
--No I can say where.
--Ok.
--They're enormous. You've definitely heard of them.
--Um... Eli Lilly? Glaxo-Smith Kline? Merck-
--Merck? No, Merck's small time. They're based in New Jersey.
--Pfizer-
--Pfizer? Pfizer's European headquarters are in Frankfurt.
--Yeah I mean, I don't really know much about pharmaceuticals... so you're not going to tell me where you work?
--You said it.
--I said the name? Which one?
--You said it.
--Um, Pfizer?
--[looks insulted]
--Glaxo Smith-Kline?
--[awkward glance to the side]
--Glaxo Smith-Kline, huh? I've heard good things. Well hey it was nice meeting you. I'm going to go get another drink.

Weird.

I finally really live here

Returning to my flat from last weekend's trip made me feel like I'm finally a true resident. The other thing that tipped me off was my lists. If you know me well you know that I make and maintain multiple lists. For the past months my lists have consisted of items like:

1. Wire transfer
2. Get WiFi
3. Buy a coffee table. And lots of other things at IKEA.
4. Find out what "alight" means
5. Write an insulting letter to Foxtons, my lettings agency

But these days, my lists are more like:

1. Get a haircut. You really need one.
2. Do laundry. You're going to have to learn how to use the washer/dryer at some point.
3. Pay utilities
4. Juice/granola bars/muffins
5. Drink more water

True, I still don't have a spoon, bowl or plate, and there are still little details I need to iron out and things I need to buy, but when your mindset changes from the overwhelming "find a place to live and move all your stuff there" to the less stressful "brush teeth, clip fingernails, eat 3x daily, shave, do laundry", it shows that you're somewhere stable. Feels good too.

The games we play

Hi Eric!
The one of the long court and with one wall to throw the ball to is called "Frontón",this one you can play with tennis raquets, and the other that has walls around the court,is smaller and can be outdoor or indoor is called "Padel".If you need any more information just tell me.
Best wishes,
Leti

(All referring to yesterday's post.)

"Get a grip on racquet sports."
- er/uk (that was for you dad)

Oh and another thing about Valencia

Racquet sports.

They love them in Spain.

So much so that they made up a couple of them that no one else in THE WORLD knows about.

On Saturday I went to this marina/country club thing with my friend Ashok and this Valencian family he randomly knows. It was there that we were introduced to two of them.

There's this one (below), where it looks like a tennis court but -- oh wait -- are those glass walls right around the edge of the court? Yes, they are. Not sure what this one is called. I guess you can hit it off the walls.

And then there's this one (below), which seemed a bit like racquetball at first, only the court is really long and you only hit it against one wall and apparently you have to be old and not wearing a shirt to participate. Sorry that the guys who were playing aren't in the picture. But actually you should be thankful for their exclusion.

What other racquet sports are there that I haven't heard of? Here's the short list:

• Ball Badminton
• Frontenis
• Lotball
• Matkot
• Pelota
• Pington
• Platform tennis
• Racketlon
• Racquets
• Real tennis
• Soft tennis
• Speed-o-Ball
• Squash tennis
• Stické
• Tennis Polo
• Xare

So... next up

Istanbul? Moscow? Reykjavik? Copenhagen? Dubrovnik?

No. It's bloody Harrisonburg. For a wedding.

At least I don't have to wear a tie. I'm going to take Brad Miller rollerskating for his bachelor party.

Valencia, revisited

The Spanish hangover has me speaking slowly and loudly to people here in London, having not yet realized that English is spoken here, mostly as a first language.

I'm also redetermined to learn Spanish again after yet another trip spent butchering the few words/phrases I do know. I want to learn the Central/South American variety though: Valenthians and Barthelonans (yeah I realize they speak Catalan) and folks from Theville are just too lithpy thounding.

Here's what I enjoyed:

1. Agua de Valencia (Water of Valencia). For someone who loves fruit juice as much as I do, visiting the world's greatest orange juice factory was a real treat. And if your city's official drink is fresh-squeezed orange juice mixed with champagne, gin and vodka, you'll have a hard time getting me to leave.

2. The America's Cup. Massive sailing race that's based in Valencia this summer. This 3-month event has basically revitalized the port with new restaurants and hotels. Pretty cool race as well -- history, format, participants, the fact that it basically takes place whenever anyone challenges for it instead of on a set schedule... I won't claim to understand it all but it's basically a round-robin of regatta events with teams at the bottom of the table falling out as the event gets into later stages. And then the team that wins gets the cup, which was first won by a boat named America.

3. Staying in a hostel. I know, I know. Some of my readers would never stay at one, and I've certainly had some bad experiences, but sometimes they're just the best thing ever. Like this time I paid €20/night and the hostel was fantastic -- right in the heart of the city. I also have new friends (for life) in Holland, Montreal and Wales. If you stay in a hotel you pay a lot and you never meet people. Or you meet people who like staying in hotels and doing the tourist stuff. Hostels are the best way to find out about interesting non-touristy things to do (like watching horses dance) and places to go (best Paella in town). Plus at 3am there's no better place to get scolded by someone for climbing over a wall and buying crisps and candy from the snack machine in the kitchen, which closes at 22:00.

Seriously the Paella was fantastic. Oh and the sangria. And tapas are so cheap -- it honestly makes me sick to my stomach to realize that I shared sangria and 8 plates of tapas with 5 people and spent a total of £8 ($12). Contrast that to London where I once spent $12 on 4 bottles of water.

Valenthia

Going on my first holiday tomorrow so I'll be taking my first hiatus from the blog since I've arrived. Back on Monday -- enjoy your weekends. I'll be enjoying mine on the Spanish coast; might do a little island hopping to Ibiza. We'll see.

Schmandon

Got a haircut last night. I like it. Afterwards I said that maybe next time I'll get a faux hawk. The woman didn't know what a faux hawk was so I explained it. She said "Oh, a fin."

(My friends and I were going to make a shirt once that said "Faux Hawk" on it under a picture of a hen.)

Later that night I found out that the full British name for a faux hawk is "Hoxton Fin", which was a coincidence because when I learned that I was eating in Hoxton Square. Later on I learned a name for another haircut: "The Disconnect". It's when they cut it really unevenly especially across the back and front.

They also call hair gel "wax".

Hosted my first guests at the 191 (my flat). The reviews were excellent. They're sure to be even better once I have things like (a) silverware and dishes; (b) another towel or two, maybe a washcloth; (c) a couple of chairs for outside on the patio and maybe a little grill.

Watching the second cold war right now on the tele. Russia v USA. Bloody Russians better not win it this time around. (Chelsea/Chelski is owned by a Russian billionaire and Liverpool was just purchased by two American dudes.)