This is the most intense seatbelt advert of all time. They show it every time I go to the movies and it scares the poop out of me.
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=rq9OLd-XtHE
They are pretty hardcore here in Scotland when it comes to wearing your seatbelt.
Later days,
Monday, December 15, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Finals Week's
It's finals time. Sorry for the lack of posting; but here is an excerpt from an essay I wrote which is kind of amusing.
The state was free to decide how it wanted to view the world and the outcome does not change the fact that the state held a different belief than that of the hegemonic power. Imagine a man who is a devout follower of pantheistic religion. The man dies, goes to heaven, and discovers that not only does a single all-powerful god exist; but He is a spaghetti monster. The existence of the spaghetti monster god does not change the fact that the man was once believed that there wasn’t a single god. The fact that a state which held a non-realist view of international politics is conquered by a hegemonic power does not change the fact that there was a point in time when the two states had differing interpretations and views of international politics. The reality that one state conquered another does not change the fact that two different view points can exist.
Later days,
The state was free to decide how it wanted to view the world and the outcome does not change the fact that the state held a different belief than that of the hegemonic power. Imagine a man who is a devout follower of pantheistic religion. The man dies, goes to heaven, and discovers that not only does a single all-powerful god exist; but He is a spaghetti monster. The existence of the spaghetti monster god does not change the fact that the man was once believed that there wasn’t a single god. The fact that a state which held a non-realist view of international politics is conquered by a hegemonic power does not change the fact that there was a point in time when the two states had differing interpretations and views of international politics. The reality that one state conquered another does not change the fact that two different view points can exist.
Later days,
Friday, December 5, 2008
The English Don't Speak English
Except for those 3 weeks when I spoke in tongues, I have been speaking English for my entire life. I know English when I hear it and English people do not speak English. I would like to share an email with you that I received from my London friend, George. This is the email:
Hello Evan,
Are you coming along to the postgraduate reception this afternoon? My phone is still playing silly buggers annoyingly.
Sincerely,
George
Now, I would like you to read that again, to make sure you read it correctly: My phone is still playing silly buggers annoyingly. What can George possibly mean by that? My phone is still playing silly buggers annoyingly. It is a conundrum. And I would like to solve it. Let’s examine George’s possible meanings:
1. Perhaps this is this some kind of new cell phone game- a version of the timeless snake game remade for the 21nd century? Is Silly Buggers a game where you try to have a silly bugger grow whilst hovering above a fly trap? If so, what’s annoying about it? Is the game broken? Can he not play in a non-annoying way?
2. Maybe ‘Silly Buggers’ is George’s ring tone and he is telling me that there is something wrong and the phone is not playing it correctly or it is playing it correctly, but it is playing it really loudly and that is annoying. But, as I am unfamiliar with a ring tone called ‘silly buggers’, the tone might just as easily be called ‘silly buggers annoyingly’. I have no reason to think otherwise. The phone itself might not be acting in an annoying way at all. It fact, maybe it is doing exactly what it is suppose to do. Maybe he is simply informing me that his phone is still playing the ‘silly buggers annoyingly’ ring tone and he wants me to call him so I can hear it. I bet it makes a buzzing sound when it vibrates.
3. Maybe he means ‘playing’ as a transitive verb and he means ‘to assume the role of’, so in this case, the phone has assumed the role of silly buggers, which, as you can imagine, is quite annoying. I wonder if something like that is covered in the warrantee.
4. Of course, if we are talking about ‘playing’ as a transitive verb he could just as easily be using it as it relates to sport. He might mean ‘playing’ as in an attempt to keep or gain possession or control of, like: no foul was called because he was playing the silly bugger annoyingly. That would make sense because I know George is fond of football (soccer).
5. Speaking of sport, play can also mean to put a bet on. Is his phone playing the races? Could Silly Buggers be a horse’s name? Maybe the phone is playing 50 quid on Silly Buggers to place. Maybe his phone is a compulsive gambler. That would be annoying.
6. Fishing is a sport too. When you hook a fish you might play it to exhaust the hooked fish by allowing said fish to pull on the line. Maybe the phone is doing the same thing to the silly buggers and its annoying because George just wants the phone to reel it in so he can eat.
7. Maybe he is talking about the reception his phone receives. I mean, Sarah Palin’s speeches did not play well with feminist audiences. Maybe Georges’s phone is playing annoyingly to the silly buggers.
8. Is Silly Buggers a place? Maybe his phone is on tour and its going to play Silly Buggers after it plays Sheffield.
9. You can also play one enemy against another. Could George’s phone be trying to use or manipulate silly buggers for its own interest? I can see how a moral person like George would find that sort of action to play annoyingly on his conscience.
10. Now, I don’t want to get carried away here; but do you think it’s possible that George might be using ‘playing’ as an intransitive verb? In this case, maybe George means that his phone is discharging uninterruptedly. Could the phone be discharging silly buggers? What exactly is a bugger? We would need to understand that in order to grasp the issues at hand if his phone is, indeed, discharging them. I asked my staff to do some research and they found the following image on google images when ‘silly bugger’ was entered into the search bar:
Is this a silly bugger? It kinda looks like a cat with its face stuck in a glass. How could cats be discharging uninterruptedly from George's phone.
The English language, in the hands of the English, is indecipherable. It's like Stephen Spielberg and George Lucas doing re-releases of Star Wars. It’s awesome that they came up with something cool; but they should not be allowed to change it once it was made because they will invariably mess it up. I have absolutely no idea what George is talking about. I’m sorry that I couldn’t figure it out; but don’t think that this was a waste of your time. I had a really good time playing with words here, and that’s important too. In fact, my playing around is all that should matter, so don’t you dare think this was a waste of time.
Ps. When my staff was conducting a google image search for silly bugger, the following entry was found on Urban Dictionary:
Silly Buggers
British origin.
Evolving from the term of abuse bugger, meaning a sodomite or irritating person. To play 'silly buggers' is to generally act the fool, lark about, waste time or generally mess things up. As illustrated by English band The Bus Station Loonies song "Playing Silly Buggers" (1995).
"They were too busy playing silly buggers to get the job completed in time".
I suppose this makes this entire post irrelevant. Sorry about that. Maybe this was a waste of time.
Pps. Click here: http://www.sillybuggers.org.uk/
Later days,
Hello Evan,
Are you coming along to the postgraduate reception this afternoon? My phone is still playing silly buggers annoyingly.
Sincerely,
George
Now, I would like you to read that again, to make sure you read it correctly: My phone is still playing silly buggers annoyingly. What can George possibly mean by that? My phone is still playing silly buggers annoyingly. It is a conundrum. And I would like to solve it. Let’s examine George’s possible meanings:
1. Perhaps this is this some kind of new cell phone game- a version of the timeless snake game remade for the 21nd century? Is Silly Buggers a game where you try to have a silly bugger grow whilst hovering above a fly trap? If so, what’s annoying about it? Is the game broken? Can he not play in a non-annoying way?
2. Maybe ‘Silly Buggers’ is George’s ring tone and he is telling me that there is something wrong and the phone is not playing it correctly or it is playing it correctly, but it is playing it really loudly and that is annoying. But, as I am unfamiliar with a ring tone called ‘silly buggers’, the tone might just as easily be called ‘silly buggers annoyingly’. I have no reason to think otherwise. The phone itself might not be acting in an annoying way at all. It fact, maybe it is doing exactly what it is suppose to do. Maybe he is simply informing me that his phone is still playing the ‘silly buggers annoyingly’ ring tone and he wants me to call him so I can hear it. I bet it makes a buzzing sound when it vibrates.
3. Maybe he means ‘playing’ as a transitive verb and he means ‘to assume the role of’, so in this case, the phone has assumed the role of silly buggers, which, as you can imagine, is quite annoying. I wonder if something like that is covered in the warrantee.
4. Of course, if we are talking about ‘playing’ as a transitive verb he could just as easily be using it as it relates to sport. He might mean ‘playing’ as in an attempt to keep or gain possession or control of, like: no foul was called because he was playing the silly bugger annoyingly. That would make sense because I know George is fond of football (soccer).
5. Speaking of sport, play can also mean to put a bet on. Is his phone playing the races? Could Silly Buggers be a horse’s name? Maybe the phone is playing 50 quid on Silly Buggers to place. Maybe his phone is a compulsive gambler. That would be annoying.
6. Fishing is a sport too. When you hook a fish you might play it to exhaust the hooked fish by allowing said fish to pull on the line. Maybe the phone is doing the same thing to the silly buggers and its annoying because George just wants the phone to reel it in so he can eat.
7. Maybe he is talking about the reception his phone receives. I mean, Sarah Palin’s speeches did not play well with feminist audiences. Maybe Georges’s phone is playing annoyingly to the silly buggers.
8. Is Silly Buggers a place? Maybe his phone is on tour and its going to play Silly Buggers after it plays Sheffield.
9. You can also play one enemy against another. Could George’s phone be trying to use or manipulate silly buggers for its own interest? I can see how a moral person like George would find that sort of action to play annoyingly on his conscience.
10. Now, I don’t want to get carried away here; but do you think it’s possible that George might be using ‘playing’ as an intransitive verb? In this case, maybe George means that his phone is discharging uninterruptedly. Could the phone be discharging silly buggers? What exactly is a bugger? We would need to understand that in order to grasp the issues at hand if his phone is, indeed, discharging them. I asked my staff to do some research and they found the following image on google images when ‘silly bugger’ was entered into the search bar:
Is this a silly bugger? It kinda looks like a cat with its face stuck in a glass. How could cats be discharging uninterruptedly from George's phone.
The English language, in the hands of the English, is indecipherable. It's like Stephen Spielberg and George Lucas doing re-releases of Star Wars. It’s awesome that they came up with something cool; but they should not be allowed to change it once it was made because they will invariably mess it up. I have absolutely no idea what George is talking about. I’m sorry that I couldn’t figure it out; but don’t think that this was a waste of your time. I had a really good time playing with words here, and that’s important too. In fact, my playing around is all that should matter, so don’t you dare think this was a waste of time.
Ps. When my staff was conducting a google image search for silly bugger, the following entry was found on Urban Dictionary:
Silly Buggers
British origin.
Evolving from the term of abuse bugger, meaning a sodomite or irritating person. To play 'silly buggers' is to generally act the fool, lark about, waste time or generally mess things up. As illustrated by English band The Bus Station Loonies song "Playing Silly Buggers" (1995).
"They were too busy playing silly buggers to get the job completed in time".
I suppose this makes this entire post irrelevant. Sorry about that. Maybe this was a waste of time.
Pps. Click here: http://www.sillybuggers.org.uk/
Later days,
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Christmas is Cancelled
Hey remember that episode of The Office where Michael’s heart is broken and he tries to take Christmas way from every one? It was all funny and stuff; but no one is laughing now.
(click here if you are unformiliar with this episode or just want to watch it again because The Office is awesome)
Please read the email below:
Risk Management Partners
Christmas Social – 19/21 December 2008
Newcastle
This year we are going to Newcastle.
Accommodation
This has been booked at the Hilton Hotel, Gateshead for the Friday and Saturday nights, with dinner on the Friday night and bed and breakfast on the Saturday and Sunday mornings. Dinner is to be taken informally on the Friday night, when you feel like it. We don’t need to all sit down together.
Saturday
We are off to Newcastle Races. A bus will pick us up at the hotel at 11.00 and take us to the racecourse where we will have a private room overlooking the racing. The format for the day is as follows :
11.30 Bucks Fizz reception
11.45 Buffet lunch
12.10 First race
15.00 Afternoon tea
15.25 Last race
16.30 Bar closes
16.45 Bus takes us back to the hotel
There is a strict dress code at the Premier Enclosure. Guys are requested to wear dress trousers and collared shirts. No denims, trainers, or informal attire is permitted.
There is nothing arranged for the Saturday evening. Once we are back at the hotel, everyone will be left to their own devices. People can go to the various dens of iniquity in Newcastle they so choose.
Costs
As you will be aware, due to the expenses and tax liability implications, the costs have to be considered very carefully. It has been decided that RMP will pick up the dinner and accommodation costs at the Hilton and the package costs for the racecourse. Any travel costs should be claimed back through expenses form.
Yeah, sounds awesome, right? Ok, now read this email:
I took part in Pat Gallagher's monthly Senior Managers conference call on Wednesday which quite frankly was not a pleasant experience. I say that from the point of view that Company results, particularly October's, were a disaster. Pat actually described them as a train wreck !
Given the above, the current economic outlook and the way things are stacking up for 2009 some fairly tough decisions have had to be made regarding expenses claims. With immediate effect the following measures will be introduced ;
1) All airfare travel expenses must be approved by me prior to travel and bookings can only be made through Expedia. Failure to comply with this instruction will result in expenses not being reimbursed.
2) All Christmas Parties are cancelled The Company will not reimburse any expenses for holiday get togethers for employees. This includes lunches, drinks,breakfast ect. Our pre Christmas get together in Newcastle will have to be cancelled and I am genuinely sorry but this is not a situation that allows me to negotiate exemptions for RMP. If you are committed to Christmas entertainment with Brokers or Customers please let me know before going ahead who is involved, likely cost and what the business justification is. At this stage I am not saying that they will have to be cancelled, but I need to be satisfied that there is some justification for going ahead with them. Again without prior clearance I will be unable to authorise payment.
3) Please, absolutely no gifts, gift vouchers and the like to anybody .
That’s right, J. Patrick Gallagher has cancelled Christmas. J. Patrick Gallagher, your heart is like 3 sizes too small. Who’s disappointed? This guy. And it’s the little people who suffer always suffer. Do you have any idea how incredibly drunk I would have gotten at the race tracks? The race tracks are filled with bad memories for me. I did a lot of things down there that I shouldn’t discuss in a family blog. The whole financial crisis is fine until it effects someone you love: namely me. Mine is the sum total of all financial suffering.
Later days,
(click here if you are unformiliar with this episode or just want to watch it again because The Office is awesome)
Please read the email below:
Risk Management Partners
Christmas Social – 19/21 December 2008
Newcastle
This year we are going to Newcastle.
Accommodation
This has been booked at the Hilton Hotel, Gateshead for the Friday and Saturday nights, with dinner on the Friday night and bed and breakfast on the Saturday and Sunday mornings. Dinner is to be taken informally on the Friday night, when you feel like it. We don’t need to all sit down together.
Saturday
We are off to Newcastle Races. A bus will pick us up at the hotel at 11.00 and take us to the racecourse where we will have a private room overlooking the racing. The format for the day is as follows :
11.30 Bucks Fizz reception
11.45 Buffet lunch
12.10 First race
15.00 Afternoon tea
15.25 Last race
16.30 Bar closes
16.45 Bus takes us back to the hotel
There is a strict dress code at the Premier Enclosure. Guys are requested to wear dress trousers and collared shirts. No denims, trainers, or informal attire is permitted.
There is nothing arranged for the Saturday evening. Once we are back at the hotel, everyone will be left to their own devices. People can go to the various dens of iniquity in Newcastle they so choose.
Costs
As you will be aware, due to the expenses and tax liability implications, the costs have to be considered very carefully. It has been decided that RMP will pick up the dinner and accommodation costs at the Hilton and the package costs for the racecourse. Any travel costs should be claimed back through expenses form.
Yeah, sounds awesome, right? Ok, now read this email:
I took part in Pat Gallagher's monthly Senior Managers conference call on Wednesday which quite frankly was not a pleasant experience. I say that from the point of view that Company results, particularly October's, were a disaster. Pat actually described them as a train wreck !
Given the above, the current economic outlook and the way things are stacking up for 2009 some fairly tough decisions have had to be made regarding expenses claims. With immediate effect the following measures will be introduced ;
1) All airfare travel expenses must be approved by me prior to travel and bookings can only be made through Expedia. Failure to comply with this instruction will result in expenses not being reimbursed.
2) All Christmas Parties are cancelled The Company will not reimburse any expenses for holiday get togethers for employees. This includes lunches, drinks,breakfast ect. Our pre Christmas get together in Newcastle will have to be cancelled and I am genuinely sorry but this is not a situation that allows me to negotiate exemptions for RMP. If you are committed to Christmas entertainment with Brokers or Customers please let me know before going ahead who is involved, likely cost and what the business justification is. At this stage I am not saying that they will have to be cancelled, but I need to be satisfied that there is some justification for going ahead with them. Again without prior clearance I will be unable to authorise payment.
3) Please, absolutely no gifts, gift vouchers and the like to anybody .
That’s right, J. Patrick Gallagher has cancelled Christmas. J. Patrick Gallagher, your heart is like 3 sizes too small. Who’s disappointed? This guy. And it’s the little people who suffer always suffer. Do you have any idea how incredibly drunk I would have gotten at the race tracks? The race tracks are filled with bad memories for me. I did a lot of things down there that I shouldn’t discuss in a family blog. The whole financial crisis is fine until it effects someone you love: namely me. Mine is the sum total of all financial suffering.
Later days,
Sunday, November 30, 2008
12.30 - 13.00 Mission Beach USA
The following description, which I swear I am not making up, is for a TV show that airs every two weeks on BBC 2:
Youth reality-tv
Eight British teenagers tackle sun, sea and survival in the real life O.C. Eight UK teenagers arrive in
Everything that you inferred from description is correct: 8 people, who are either 16 or 17-years-old, come to the ‘real life O.C.’ to do the San Diego Junior Guards summer camp. It’s a little sad, really.
Later days,
Thursday, November 27, 2008
The Wee Scotsman
I have come a long way in understanding the Scottish language. When I first got here, I was completely and utterly clueless. I was like Alicia Silverstone in that one movie where she was without a clue. Now, I am like Reese Witherspoon in that movie where she was legally blonde: I am sassy and fully of spunk ready to take on the world and converse with people on their level.
I have had the ultimate test. Yesterday I was sitting on a bench when I saw a wee Scotsmen. ‘Wee’, for those of you who don’t know, is a word that the Scottish like a lot. It means small or short; but they say it all the time and it is used in a strange context. For example, when I went to have an interview for my national insurance number, the man asked me if I wouldn’t mind taking a wee seat while I waited for my appointment. I asked if he wouldn’t mind my taking a regular seat, my arse being rather rotund, and he just gave me a funny look. Although I am pretty sure he was checking out my backside when I walked away, you can see how ‘wee’ is an often utilised word.
Anyway, all of this wee talk has been to explain what I mean when I say that I met a wee Scotsman. What I mean is that I met a Scottish midget. I was sitting, minding my own business, when I saw a tiny little man in a kilt walk by. It turns out he wasn’t actually wearing a kilt, he just had his shirt untucked, but he was still clearly of Scottish ancestry. He was even ginger.* So, this ginger midget sat down next to me and started talking to me. Now not only did he have a high pitched squeaky midget voice, much like that of Andy Rooney**, but he also had a Scottish accent, much like that of the woman who does my dry-cleaning. And guess what? I totally understood him like! Yeah, I’m getting pretty good at the whole Scottish thing.
I think that I am ready for what will surly be one of the greatest challenges of my life. When I get back in the US I am going to watch Trainspotting – without subtitles. I know, it is a lofty goal indeed; but I think I’m up to it.
*Yes, Britta, I met a Scottish ginger midget: are you happy now? The world is so cruel.
** yes, I mean Andy and not Mickey Rooney. Do not question my analogies.
Later days,
I have had the ultimate test. Yesterday I was sitting on a bench when I saw a wee Scotsmen. ‘Wee’, for those of you who don’t know, is a word that the Scottish like a lot. It means small or short; but they say it all the time and it is used in a strange context. For example, when I went to have an interview for my national insurance number, the man asked me if I wouldn’t mind taking a wee seat while I waited for my appointment. I asked if he wouldn’t mind my taking a regular seat, my arse being rather rotund, and he just gave me a funny look. Although I am pretty sure he was checking out my backside when I walked away, you can see how ‘wee’ is an often utilised word.
Anyway, all of this wee talk has been to explain what I mean when I say that I met a wee Scotsman. What I mean is that I met a Scottish midget. I was sitting, minding my own business, when I saw a tiny little man in a kilt walk by. It turns out he wasn’t actually wearing a kilt, he just had his shirt untucked, but he was still clearly of Scottish ancestry. He was even ginger.* So, this ginger midget sat down next to me and started talking to me. Now not only did he have a high pitched squeaky midget voice, much like that of Andy Rooney**, but he also had a Scottish accent, much like that of the woman who does my dry-cleaning. And guess what? I totally understood him like! Yeah, I’m getting pretty good at the whole Scottish thing.
I think that I am ready for what will surly be one of the greatest challenges of my life. When I get back in the US I am going to watch Trainspotting – without subtitles. I know, it is a lofty goal indeed; but I think I’m up to it.
*Yes, Britta, I met a Scottish ginger midget: are you happy now? The world is so cruel.
** yes, I mean Andy and not Mickey Rooney. Do not question my analogies.
Later days,
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
The Lord of the Tubes (London, Part II)
I would like to start off by saying I have already written these words. Well, not these words- these are new- but the words that follow are old. I wrote them yesterday and then I left for class and my computer ate them and now I have to re-write them. Computers suck.
Ok, so, obviously when I got to London it was too late to do anything except to walk briskly down the street to my hotel. As I walked, I kept looking over my shoulder out of fear that a cloaken man would mistake me for a prostitute, which happens to me more often than I would like, and slit my throat and do horrible things to my internal organs; as my readings about London have lead me to believe happen there. Thankfully, I made it to my hotel without being accosted, molested or murdered; but I was repeatedly asked for spare change.
When I arrived at the hotel, the door was locked. I rang the buzzer and a tiny Arab man answered the door. I told him that I had a reservation and he looked puzzled. I got the impression that they do not get many guests and I felt horrible for being such an imposition on the staff. I should explain that there were two factors that influenced my decision to stay in this hotel. First, I wanted a place that was close to the British Museum because I’m a nerd and second, because my company was only paying for the other nights and this place was inexpensive and I’m a cheap.
As I walked to my room through the concentric concrete corridors I couldn’t help but notice the dripping sound of water as it leaked from the exposed piping and onto the uncarpeted floor. Above my head the halogen lights made a hissing sound and turned on and off sporadically as I progressed to my bedroom. I don’t want you to think that I am a racist so I won’t tell you that I was terrified I would be grabbed from behind, dragged into a room, gagged and subjected to testicular electrocution. I won’t mention any of that because I don’t want you to thank any less of me.
I arrived in my room and it was about the same size and had the same aroma as an elephant’s rectum. It even had a small black and white TV, which research as shown, is often to be found in the anus of larger mammals. Because of my long journey from Glasgow, I only had to stay in the room for a few hours so I curled up into a small ball and went to sleep. At least the room was warm.
The next day I went to the British Museum and for those of you who don’t know I have wanted to go there since I was like 10-years-old. I love Egyptology and remember reading books when I was in elementary school and all of the photo credits were from the British Museum. I spent about 5 and a half hours there and it was fantastic. I even saw this cool print on the wall of the cafeteria and thought, ‘hey is that an Albrecht Dürer?’ and I was like totally right. Now anyone that knows anything about art history can tell you that identifying an Albrecht Dürer print is about as impressive as reading a poem and saying, ‘hey, I bet Dr. Seuss wrote this’ but shut up, I felt really cool and smart.
I left the museum and arrived at the hotel my company had arranged for me and it was pretty much the nicest place I have ever been. It was absolutely awesome. My room was so grand I could have easily set up an entire croquet course if I had only remembered by wickets. They are always the things I forget to pack. The room was so awesome that I felt unworthy of being in side it; so I thought I should take a shower. I walked into the epic bathroom, which was so cool I would not at all be surprised if it had inspired ballads, and saw what was surely the single most amazing shower to have ever doused a person with water. Seriously, this shower looked like the one from Flashdance. Thank God I did remember to pack my high heels and my folding metal chair. Needless to say, I had enjoyed good nights in the hotel room.
On my first day I woke up early to get ready. I took a flashdance-like shower and went to get dressed. Now, remember in my last entry when I said I stooped at TK Maxx to get a dress shirt? Well if you don’t, I did and if you do then you’re an awesome reader. When I got my shirt I had a bit of a problem because, you see, they have different sizes in the UK than they do anywhere else in the world. I have purchased clothes in the US and in Germany; but never in the UK and I had no idea what size I would be. I was trying to choose between the arbitrary size 15 and the capricious size 16 and decided to go with the larger size thinking that it would be better to have a shirt that was a little too big than once that was too small. This proved to be an error in judgement. The 16 fit me like a moo-moo; honestly, I looked like Rosanne Bar but with a better hair cut. I thought, ‘ok, I’ll be fine once I put on my coat and my tie no one will be able to notice’; but the coat and tie did not help the situation. Not only did I have to fold up the cuffs to keep them from falling over my hands, my tie looked like a necklace that dangled around my nipples. Yeah, I was a model of professionalism: a true businessboy. I guess it served my right for buying a dress-shirt.
On the final day of the meetings they kept me there a little but too long and I really had to dash if I wanted to make my train. Here is the rundown, I left my office at 5:25 and my train left at 6:08. It was possible for any person with normal intelligence to make the train, but was it possible for me? By this time, I am sure you all know the answer to that question. Remember, I’m retarded.
Now, what I should have done was taken a taxi to Euston station and then causally strolled into the station and walked onto the train like Dagny Taggart. But what I decided that the prudent thing to do was to walk to the train station around the corner, take that train to the train station across the street from Euston, walk to Euston, find which platform the train was leaving from and miss the train by 4 minutes. That’s right. I got there at 6:15. Now, intellectually, I know that I should not have been any more upset about missing the train by four minutes than I should have been if I had missed the train by forty-five minutes; but I am not always a particularly cerebral person. I was pretty upset about missing the train by four lousy minutes although, I should say that looking back on it, it might not have been the four minutes I was late that made me so upset as it was the five and a half hours I would need to wait to get on the next train. Yeah, actually that was really what it was: the 5.5 hour wait that was so aggravating.
But, I made the best of it. I ate at this great English delicatessen called ‘the Olde Burger King’ and sucked down chai teas like, well, like how Julia Roberts just plain sucks. I staked out a really nice couch and just read for what seemed like hours upon end. I didn’t even notice that by about 10:00pm Euston train station becomes really sketchy. At about 10:45 some guy who looked about my age interrupted my reading marathon asked if he could sit next to me and I said I didn’t mind. He told me that he had done about 3 laps around the train station trying to find someone to sit next to who didn’t look like they would rob and/or molest him. I told him that I was glad he sat next to me because I had been watching him and seductively put my hand on his thigh whist making my sexy, come hither, face. It was the beginning of a good friendship.
The guy is called ‘Charlie’ in the real world; but ‘charlieissocoollike’ in the youtube world. It turns out that charlieissocoollike is the most popular person on youtube.* I never really thought about the people who post videos on youtube, I sort of figured they got there magically and that when I needed them they were there for all of my procrastination needs. Apparently there is a ‘youtube community’ of ‘people’ who ‘vblog’ about their ‘lives’ and charlieissocoollike, having over 95,000 subscribers, is their God. Honestly, it was a little lost on me. I can’t imagine recoding videos about my life and wanting people to watch them, that would be like writing everything down – and – posting it on a website – and expecting people to read it – but even worse because no one likes to read - I think I might need to re-examine my ‘life’ now. Hum.
Charlieissocoollike and I had a fun talk before I got on my train I left for Glasgow. I totally slept the whole way. It was amazing and in the end, it took longer to go from that London train station to Glasgow than it did to fly from LAX to Heathrow. Yeah, that’s not depressing.
If you are bored enough to read my blog, you should check out Charlie’s youtube page:http://uk.youtube.com/user/charlieissocoollike The song that he just put up, in the absence of Christmas, is actually reall really cool.
* Charlieissocoollike has corrected me: he is actually only the third most popular person of all time on youtube. He is behind panacea81 and a person ahead of BBCWorldwide.
Later days,
Ok, so, obviously when I got to London it was too late to do anything except to walk briskly down the street to my hotel. As I walked, I kept looking over my shoulder out of fear that a cloaken man would mistake me for a prostitute, which happens to me more often than I would like, and slit my throat and do horrible things to my internal organs; as my readings about London have lead me to believe happen there. Thankfully, I made it to my hotel without being accosted, molested or murdered; but I was repeatedly asked for spare change.
When I arrived at the hotel, the door was locked. I rang the buzzer and a tiny Arab man answered the door. I told him that I had a reservation and he looked puzzled. I got the impression that they do not get many guests and I felt horrible for being such an imposition on the staff. I should explain that there were two factors that influenced my decision to stay in this hotel. First, I wanted a place that was close to the British Museum because I’m a nerd and second, because my company was only paying for the other nights and this place was inexpensive and I’m a cheap.
As I walked to my room through the concentric concrete corridors I couldn’t help but notice the dripping sound of water as it leaked from the exposed piping and onto the uncarpeted floor. Above my head the halogen lights made a hissing sound and turned on and off sporadically as I progressed to my bedroom. I don’t want you to think that I am a racist so I won’t tell you that I was terrified I would be grabbed from behind, dragged into a room, gagged and subjected to testicular electrocution. I won’t mention any of that because I don’t want you to thank any less of me.
I arrived in my room and it was about the same size and had the same aroma as an elephant’s rectum. It even had a small black and white TV, which research as shown, is often to be found in the anus of larger mammals. Because of my long journey from Glasgow, I only had to stay in the room for a few hours so I curled up into a small ball and went to sleep. At least the room was warm.
The next day I went to the British Museum and for those of you who don’t know I have wanted to go there since I was like 10-years-old. I love Egyptology and remember reading books when I was in elementary school and all of the photo credits were from the British Museum. I spent about 5 and a half hours there and it was fantastic. I even saw this cool print on the wall of the cafeteria and thought, ‘hey is that an Albrecht Dürer?’ and I was like totally right. Now anyone that knows anything about art history can tell you that identifying an Albrecht Dürer print is about as impressive as reading a poem and saying, ‘hey, I bet Dr. Seuss wrote this’ but shut up, I felt really cool and smart.
I left the museum and arrived at the hotel my company had arranged for me and it was pretty much the nicest place I have ever been. It was absolutely awesome. My room was so grand I could have easily set up an entire croquet course if I had only remembered by wickets. They are always the things I forget to pack. The room was so awesome that I felt unworthy of being in side it; so I thought I should take a shower. I walked into the epic bathroom, which was so cool I would not at all be surprised if it had inspired ballads, and saw what was surely the single most amazing shower to have ever doused a person with water. Seriously, this shower looked like the one from Flashdance. Thank God I did remember to pack my high heels and my folding metal chair. Needless to say, I had enjoyed good nights in the hotel room.
On my first day I woke up early to get ready. I took a flashdance-like shower and went to get dressed. Now, remember in my last entry when I said I stooped at TK Maxx to get a dress shirt? Well if you don’t, I did and if you do then you’re an awesome reader. When I got my shirt I had a bit of a problem because, you see, they have different sizes in the UK than they do anywhere else in the world. I have purchased clothes in the US and in Germany; but never in the UK and I had no idea what size I would be. I was trying to choose between the arbitrary size 15 and the capricious size 16 and decided to go with the larger size thinking that it would be better to have a shirt that was a little too big than once that was too small. This proved to be an error in judgement. The 16 fit me like a moo-moo; honestly, I looked like Rosanne Bar but with a better hair cut. I thought, ‘ok, I’ll be fine once I put on my coat and my tie no one will be able to notice’; but the coat and tie did not help the situation. Not only did I have to fold up the cuffs to keep them from falling over my hands, my tie looked like a necklace that dangled around my nipples. Yeah, I was a model of professionalism: a true businessboy. I guess it served my right for buying a dress-shirt.
On the final day of the meetings they kept me there a little but too long and I really had to dash if I wanted to make my train. Here is the rundown, I left my office at 5:25 and my train left at 6:08. It was possible for any person with normal intelligence to make the train, but was it possible for me? By this time, I am sure you all know the answer to that question. Remember, I’m retarded.
Now, what I should have done was taken a taxi to Euston station and then causally strolled into the station and walked onto the train like Dagny Taggart. But what I decided that the prudent thing to do was to walk to the train station around the corner, take that train to the train station across the street from Euston, walk to Euston, find which platform the train was leaving from and miss the train by 4 minutes. That’s right. I got there at 6:15. Now, intellectually, I know that I should not have been any more upset about missing the train by four minutes than I should have been if I had missed the train by forty-five minutes; but I am not always a particularly cerebral person. I was pretty upset about missing the train by four lousy minutes although, I should say that looking back on it, it might not have been the four minutes I was late that made me so upset as it was the five and a half hours I would need to wait to get on the next train. Yeah, actually that was really what it was: the 5.5 hour wait that was so aggravating.
But, I made the best of it. I ate at this great English delicatessen called ‘the Olde Burger King’ and sucked down chai teas like, well, like how Julia Roberts just plain sucks. I staked out a really nice couch and just read for what seemed like hours upon end. I didn’t even notice that by about 10:00pm Euston train station becomes really sketchy. At about 10:45 some guy who looked about my age interrupted my reading marathon asked if he could sit next to me and I said I didn’t mind. He told me that he had done about 3 laps around the train station trying to find someone to sit next to who didn’t look like they would rob and/or molest him. I told him that I was glad he sat next to me because I had been watching him and seductively put my hand on his thigh whist making my sexy, come hither, face. It was the beginning of a good friendship.
The guy is called ‘Charlie’ in the real world; but ‘charlieissocoollike’ in the youtube world. It turns out that charlieissocoollike is the most popular person on youtube.* I never really thought about the people who post videos on youtube, I sort of figured they got there magically and that when I needed them they were there for all of my procrastination needs. Apparently there is a ‘youtube community’ of ‘people’ who ‘vblog’ about their ‘lives’ and charlieissocoollike, having over 95,000 subscribers, is their God. Honestly, it was a little lost on me. I can’t imagine recoding videos about my life and wanting people to watch them, that would be like writing everything down – and – posting it on a website – and expecting people to read it – but even worse because no one likes to read - I think I might need to re-examine my ‘life’ now. Hum.
Charlieissocoollike and I had a fun talk before I got on my train I left for Glasgow. I totally slept the whole way. It was amazing and in the end, it took longer to go from that London train station to Glasgow than it did to fly from LAX to Heathrow. Yeah, that’s not depressing.
If you are bored enough to read my blog, you should check out Charlie’s youtube page:http://uk.youtube.com/user/charlieissocoollike The song that he just put up, in the absence of Christmas, is actually reall really cool.
* Charlieissocoollike has corrected me: he is actually only the third most popular person of all time on youtube. He is behind panacea81 and a person ahead of BBCWorldwide.
Later days,
Sunday, November 16, 2008
The Businessboy, or There and Back Again (London, Part I)
Being the professional businessboy that I am, I went on a business trip to London last weekend. These are the sorts of things that as a highly paid business administrator, I am prone to do. I had to go in for a meeting on Monday and I figured that since I was heading down to Olde London Towne, I should make a weekend of it. What I forgot to take into account, however, is that I am prone to bad luck. By prone by bad luck; what I really should say is that I am retarded. So, let me rephrase: I went on a business trip last weekend and forgot to take into account the fact that I am retarded.
I left in the early afternoon on Saturday. I decided to take the train. I wish I could say that I choose that particular mode or transport because I am a romantic and wanted to experience the joys of the English countryside whist smoking a cigar and drinking whiskey; but the only reason I took a train and didn’t fly was because I was too lazy to go online and get a plane ticket. So, I decided to take the train and my journey began.
I walked the mile and a half to the city centre, stopping in TK Maxx (yes, the discount clothiers here is called TK Maxx) to buy a dress shirt, before arriving at Glasgow Central Street Station. After arriving at the station and looked at the sign and had a sudden epiphany: Glasgow has two train stations and I was at the wrong one. To anyone watching me as I turned on my heals and hurriedly walked way from the train station, I must have looked like homosexual middle schooler who was confidently walking up to the cinema to see High School Musical 3; but then wimped out and the last minute and walked away before any of his friends could seen him.*
And so I found myself, again, at a train station. I bought my ticket and planned my route. I would go to Edinburgh (1.5 hours) and then non-stop to King’s Cross (5 hours). I didn’t think it would be too bad and I had recently been given a collection of sort stories from the Ender Series** and I was keen to read them. I got on the train and started reading. I was slightly perturbed when a smelly Scotsmen decided to sit next to me rather than take a seat in any of the empty rows further up the train and decided to just focus on my reading and listen to my iPod. This decision turned out to be my undoing, and the blame surly is partly shared by the smelly Scotsmen. I was so engrossed in my Ender readings that I didn’t notice that I was the only person sitting on the train and, in fact, the train was no longer moving. We had arrived in Edinburgh and I had absolutely no idea how long I had been sitting on the train by myself reading my book. I felt a bit foolish and rushed off the train fearing that it would soon leave the station.
I had 15 minutes until my next train and was waiting at the platform when I realised that in my haste I had left my bag on the train from Glasgow. I rushed back just in time to see it leave the station. (this is the part where I first remembered that I am retarded). I went to the station manager and told her that I had left my bag on the train and she phoned Glasgow to have them put it in the lost baggage area. Now, part of me just wanted to go on to London without my bag; but then I remembered that my suit and shoes were in that bag and I didn’t fancy buying another suit to wear to my meeting.
Now, Of course I did not have a return ticket; but being the resourceful person that I am I, snuck on another train that was bound for Glasgow. When it arrived I hid behind a woman with abnormally large hair to sneak past the gate guards and into the station. I was able to retrieve my bag from the lost property desk and sneak back on the train, this time by hiding behind a man selling balloons.
When I got to Edinburgh there was only one option for going Kings Cross. This journey involved not one, but two, trains and a bus. I got into London about a quarter past midnight. Yeah, I’m retarded; but the return trip was an even greater debacle.
* You all know that my thing about gay marriage was facetious right? I have gotten some strange comments from people.
** Fuck you, Orson.
Later days,
I left in the early afternoon on Saturday. I decided to take the train. I wish I could say that I choose that particular mode or transport because I am a romantic and wanted to experience the joys of the English countryside whist smoking a cigar and drinking whiskey; but the only reason I took a train and didn’t fly was because I was too lazy to go online and get a plane ticket. So, I decided to take the train and my journey began.
I walked the mile and a half to the city centre, stopping in TK Maxx (yes, the discount clothiers here is called TK Maxx) to buy a dress shirt, before arriving at Glasgow Central Street Station. After arriving at the station and looked at the sign and had a sudden epiphany: Glasgow has two train stations and I was at the wrong one. To anyone watching me as I turned on my heals and hurriedly walked way from the train station, I must have looked like homosexual middle schooler who was confidently walking up to the cinema to see High School Musical 3; but then wimped out and the last minute and walked away before any of his friends could seen him.*
And so I found myself, again, at a train station. I bought my ticket and planned my route. I would go to Edinburgh (1.5 hours) and then non-stop to King’s Cross (5 hours). I didn’t think it would be too bad and I had recently been given a collection of sort stories from the Ender Series** and I was keen to read them. I got on the train and started reading. I was slightly perturbed when a smelly Scotsmen decided to sit next to me rather than take a seat in any of the empty rows further up the train and decided to just focus on my reading and listen to my iPod. This decision turned out to be my undoing, and the blame surly is partly shared by the smelly Scotsmen. I was so engrossed in my Ender readings that I didn’t notice that I was the only person sitting on the train and, in fact, the train was no longer moving. We had arrived in Edinburgh and I had absolutely no idea how long I had been sitting on the train by myself reading my book. I felt a bit foolish and rushed off the train fearing that it would soon leave the station.
I had 15 minutes until my next train and was waiting at the platform when I realised that in my haste I had left my bag on the train from Glasgow. I rushed back just in time to see it leave the station. (this is the part where I first remembered that I am retarded). I went to the station manager and told her that I had left my bag on the train and she phoned Glasgow to have them put it in the lost baggage area. Now, part of me just wanted to go on to London without my bag; but then I remembered that my suit and shoes were in that bag and I didn’t fancy buying another suit to wear to my meeting.
Now, Of course I did not have a return ticket; but being the resourceful person that I am I, snuck on another train that was bound for Glasgow. When it arrived I hid behind a woman with abnormally large hair to sneak past the gate guards and into the station. I was able to retrieve my bag from the lost property desk and sneak back on the train, this time by hiding behind a man selling balloons.
When I got to Edinburgh there was only one option for going Kings Cross. This journey involved not one, but two, trains and a bus. I got into London about a quarter past midnight. Yeah, I’m retarded; but the return trip was an even greater debacle.
* You all know that my thing about gay marriage was facetious right? I have gotten some strange comments from people.
** Fuck you, Orson.
Later days,
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Kids Say the Darndest Things
International Law Professor: There are three ways to do international politics: The right way, the wrong way and the Karl Marx way
Me: Isn’t that the wrong way?
International Law Professor: What do you mean?
Me: Sorry, I thought you were alluding to The Simpsons.
International Law Professor: I wasn’t.
Me: Oh.
Me: Isn’t that the wrong way?
International Law Professor: What do you mean?
Me: Sorry, I thought you were alluding to The Simpsons.
International Law Professor: I wasn’t.
Me: Oh.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Halloween
As some of you know, I got to see the new James Bond movie a week before you all did. I know; I’m just that awesome. It came out on Halloween, and so naturally I felt as though my costume sound be along that theme. The problem is that in my day to day life; I am, pretty much, a less emo version of James Bond. It seemed silly to go as him, so I went on an adventure to the Salvation Army where I found a rather frumpy-looking black dress and knee high boots. I went to Staples and bought a small thing of glue and some glue sticks. I was a bond girl … get it? I know: I’m so droll.
My friends and I went to ‘a fancy dress’ party that was going on in my building to start off the night (Fancy dress, for those who don’t know is British for costume party). I had no idea who the people where who where actually throwing the party; but when you look as fabulous as I did, you as welcome at any party. I am sure it will not come to surprise any of you that with my knee high books and short skirt, I was the belle of the ball.*
At some point during the party, between being asked to take photos with random people, I found myself by the refreshment table eating what I believed at the time to be the greatest cupcakes ever made when a witch came up to me and told me that she had made the cupcakes that I was now enjoying. I called her a witch because she was dressed as such. As I was in the witch’s house and eating her cupcakes; I thought it was only appropriate to try and make conversation seeing as I had never actually met her before. We talked for a while and judging from the amount of whiskey that she kept putting into my drink, it seemed as though she fancied me. We got onto the topic of music and it came out that the witch was BFF with Jenny Lewis. I guess Jenny is dating a Scottish guy and somehow the witch and her met and became friends. She told me that she had some pictures of the two of them together and we went to her room where she showed them to me.
I’m not sure how exactly it came up; but as always the case with Europeans, we started talking about American politics. It turns out that the witch is a rabid socialist who decided that it was her mission to convince me that capitalism had failed and that Marxism was therefore right. Her logic was specious to say the very least.
I don’t quite understand how it is that so many Europeans actually believe in Socialism. Everywhere I look and around every corner I turn, there is either a socialist society poster or a person handing out a socialist newspaper called, aptly, the Socialist Worker. These people have meetings every week and the posters are all over the city like. Oddly enough, the Socialist Organizations seem to be extremely well funded as their posters are always quite fetching. The thing is, these people who seem completely normal and sometimes even intelligent actually believe in Socialism. They were, at one time, card carrying members of the party; but somewhere along the line they had to cut up their cards and give them to new members. It would have been wrong for some people to have had cards while others did not.
Talking to a Socialist is like having a conversation with someone whose life experience is limited to having lived with a pack of wildebeests in a cave cut off from human civilisation. There is simply not a common background to even frame a conversation. It’s like trying to talk to someone about astrophysics if their only point of reference is Euclidean geometry. Their minds are too narrow to fully understand the universe. They can only live in a world where the sum of the angles of a triangle equal 180 and the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. There is not enough knowledge base to understand the world because their construction of it is too limited.** For this reason, it is absolutely impossible for me to have a conversation with a Socialist.
I needed to escape from the Red Witch; but I didn’t know how to make a clean break. My friends wanted to go to a club; but I know that because the Red Witch fancied me, I would have no way to escape from her grasp. Then I had a brilliant idea. I decided to chance the subject in such a way that I would be able to join my friends without her following me, in fact, without her ever speaking to me again. I started to talk about her costume and said: ‘You know you must be really good with makeup. I have been wondering all night, how did you manage to put that hideous looking mole on your face?’ The mole was clearly not part of the costume.
I made my escape to the club where I imbibed in calibration.
The next day, Saturday, a friend that I made from the Rotary Weekend in Birmingham came to visit me and stay for the first part of the week. After living in Ghana and Indonesia and working on water projects, she is studying development at the University of Manchester this year. She and I really hit it off during the weekend and had been talking via the facebook for a while. She had a reading week and we decided that she should come and stay with me for a few days. We had a great time doing the tourist stuff around Glasgow that I had been way too cool to do when I first got here.
* You may wish to refer to the Facebook for photos; but I will tell you must of the good ones were bared from the public domain.
** This is the single greatest analogy I have ever come up with in my entire life. Shut up.
Later days,
My friends and I went to ‘a fancy dress’ party that was going on in my building to start off the night (Fancy dress, for those who don’t know is British for costume party). I had no idea who the people where who where actually throwing the party; but when you look as fabulous as I did, you as welcome at any party. I am sure it will not come to surprise any of you that with my knee high books and short skirt, I was the belle of the ball.*
At some point during the party, between being asked to take photos with random people, I found myself by the refreshment table eating what I believed at the time to be the greatest cupcakes ever made when a witch came up to me and told me that she had made the cupcakes that I was now enjoying. I called her a witch because she was dressed as such. As I was in the witch’s house and eating her cupcakes; I thought it was only appropriate to try and make conversation seeing as I had never actually met her before. We talked for a while and judging from the amount of whiskey that she kept putting into my drink, it seemed as though she fancied me. We got onto the topic of music and it came out that the witch was BFF with Jenny Lewis. I guess Jenny is dating a Scottish guy and somehow the witch and her met and became friends. She told me that she had some pictures of the two of them together and we went to her room where she showed them to me.
I’m not sure how exactly it came up; but as always the case with Europeans, we started talking about American politics. It turns out that the witch is a rabid socialist who decided that it was her mission to convince me that capitalism had failed and that Marxism was therefore right. Her logic was specious to say the very least.
I don’t quite understand how it is that so many Europeans actually believe in Socialism. Everywhere I look and around every corner I turn, there is either a socialist society poster or a person handing out a socialist newspaper called, aptly, the Socialist Worker. These people have meetings every week and the posters are all over the city like. Oddly enough, the Socialist Organizations seem to be extremely well funded as their posters are always quite fetching. The thing is, these people who seem completely normal and sometimes even intelligent actually believe in Socialism. They were, at one time, card carrying members of the party; but somewhere along the line they had to cut up their cards and give them to new members. It would have been wrong for some people to have had cards while others did not.
Talking to a Socialist is like having a conversation with someone whose life experience is limited to having lived with a pack of wildebeests in a cave cut off from human civilisation. There is simply not a common background to even frame a conversation. It’s like trying to talk to someone about astrophysics if their only point of reference is Euclidean geometry. Their minds are too narrow to fully understand the universe. They can only live in a world where the sum of the angles of a triangle equal 180 and the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. There is not enough knowledge base to understand the world because their construction of it is too limited.** For this reason, it is absolutely impossible for me to have a conversation with a Socialist.
I needed to escape from the Red Witch; but I didn’t know how to make a clean break. My friends wanted to go to a club; but I know that because the Red Witch fancied me, I would have no way to escape from her grasp. Then I had a brilliant idea. I decided to chance the subject in such a way that I would be able to join my friends without her following me, in fact, without her ever speaking to me again. I started to talk about her costume and said: ‘You know you must be really good with makeup. I have been wondering all night, how did you manage to put that hideous looking mole on your face?’ The mole was clearly not part of the costume.
I made my escape to the club where I imbibed in calibration.
The next day, Saturday, a friend that I made from the Rotary Weekend in Birmingham came to visit me and stay for the first part of the week. After living in Ghana and Indonesia and working on water projects, she is studying development at the University of Manchester this year. She and I really hit it off during the weekend and had been talking via the facebook for a while. She had a reading week and we decided that she should come and stay with me for a few days. We had a great time doing the tourist stuff around Glasgow that I had been way too cool to do when I first got here.
* You may wish to refer to the Facebook for photos; but I will tell you must of the good ones were bared from the public domain.
** This is the single greatest analogy I have ever come up with in my entire life. Shut up.
Later days,
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Why I am Against Gay Marriage.
So, it is early in the afternoon here in Scotland and we have a kewl president whose biggest weakness is that he is a little too awesome. This is all fine and dandy; but I can’t concentrate on my work because I keep hitting refresh on my computer to see what the results are for California’s Prop. 8. If this passes, there will be a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage and for the first time in history a constitution will be used to limit the rights of a people rather than expand them. Frankly, I say it is about time and I can’t do my reading until I know for sure what is happening with the gays back home in California. So I decided to write this blog entry explaining why I am against gay marriage and why I hope Prop 8 passes without any issues from those damned liberals.
I think that my favourite author of all time, Orson Scott Card*, said it best when he explained that same-sex marriage is not necessary to ensure equal rights, since ‘any homosexual man who can persuade a woman to take him as her husband can avail himself of all the rights of husbandhood under the law.’ Amen to that, sir! I know that that pretty much says it all; but I want to go into more detail about why I am personally against allowing the gays to enjoy the rights of husbandhood.
1. If we let gays get married it will encourage other people to be gay. I mean I know that when I hangout with tall people, I get taller.
2. It is a slippery slope because if you let gays get married you will have to let anyone marry anything. I mean I am living in the UK and we have Welsh people here. Everyone knows that they shag sheep. If we let gays get married some people will want to marry sheep, and what’s to stop that from happening? I mean animals and inanimate objects have the same protection under the law as people do. Our legal system allows sheep to enter into legal contracts, so if we let gays get married we will have to let people marry sheep too.**
3. We have never changed marriage before, why should be change it now? Women are still considered to be the property of their husbands and I expect to get a pretty sweet dowry when I take a woman to wife. Plus we still don’t let people from different ethnic backgrounds get married. I mean it’s illegal for a white person to marry a black person (Chinese people fall into the second objection to gay marriage). Plus divorce is illegal and I know there are some people who tried to get that changed. Thank God we have always had the same definition of marriage throughout time.
4. Gay marriage is not supported by religion. When you live in a theocracy like the United States, the values of one religion are placed over the ideals of another and if you don’t agree with the majority, frankly it doesn’t matter. Thank God we have a government which has adapted the values and morals of a single religion. Think of how crazy things would be if there was some kind of separation between church and state.
5. Straight marriage is more valid because they can procreate. What’s the point of getting married if you can’t have children and raise a family? This is why infertile people and old people don’t get married. Why would they even bother if they can’t have children?
6. If we have gay marriages and they adopted children they would raise them to be gays. I mean straight parents only raise straight children. Why do we want to have more gays in the world?
7. Children will only succeed if they have a male and a female role model. This is why we don’t allow children to be raised by a single parent. It is just impossible for children, in that circumstance, to develop into normal and mentally healthy adults.
8. Gay marriage is not natural and part of being an American is rejecting everything that is unnatural. That’s why we don’t have synthetic fabrics or 80-year-old men taking pills to get hard-ons. That’s just not what God intended when He created the world.
I hope that this list has shown you why I am so fervently against gay marriage and why I can’t concentrate until I know what is happening in California with Prop 8. Come on California, show me the kind of moral character that I know you have.
* et tu, Ender?
** This same election also had a proposition to expand the rights of farm animals. This proposition passed. It's so rewarding to live in a democracy that has the power to expand rights as well as take them away.
Ps. I will now return to my regularly scheduled blog. Sorry for the last few random posts. I will return to talking about my crazy Scottish adventures.
Later days,
I think that my favourite author of all time, Orson Scott Card*, said it best when he explained that same-sex marriage is not necessary to ensure equal rights, since ‘any homosexual man who can persuade a woman to take him as her husband can avail himself of all the rights of husbandhood under the law.’ Amen to that, sir! I know that that pretty much says it all; but I want to go into more detail about why I am personally against allowing the gays to enjoy the rights of husbandhood.
1. If we let gays get married it will encourage other people to be gay. I mean I know that when I hangout with tall people, I get taller.
2. It is a slippery slope because if you let gays get married you will have to let anyone marry anything. I mean I am living in the UK and we have Welsh people here. Everyone knows that they shag sheep. If we let gays get married some people will want to marry sheep, and what’s to stop that from happening? I mean animals and inanimate objects have the same protection under the law as people do. Our legal system allows sheep to enter into legal contracts, so if we let gays get married we will have to let people marry sheep too.**
3. We have never changed marriage before, why should be change it now? Women are still considered to be the property of their husbands and I expect to get a pretty sweet dowry when I take a woman to wife. Plus we still don’t let people from different ethnic backgrounds get married. I mean it’s illegal for a white person to marry a black person (Chinese people fall into the second objection to gay marriage). Plus divorce is illegal and I know there are some people who tried to get that changed. Thank God we have always had the same definition of marriage throughout time.
4. Gay marriage is not supported by religion. When you live in a theocracy like the United States, the values of one religion are placed over the ideals of another and if you don’t agree with the majority, frankly it doesn’t matter. Thank God we have a government which has adapted the values and morals of a single religion. Think of how crazy things would be if there was some kind of separation between church and state.
5. Straight marriage is more valid because they can procreate. What’s the point of getting married if you can’t have children and raise a family? This is why infertile people and old people don’t get married. Why would they even bother if they can’t have children?
6. If we have gay marriages and they adopted children they would raise them to be gays. I mean straight parents only raise straight children. Why do we want to have more gays in the world?
7. Children will only succeed if they have a male and a female role model. This is why we don’t allow children to be raised by a single parent. It is just impossible for children, in that circumstance, to develop into normal and mentally healthy adults.
8. Gay marriage is not natural and part of being an American is rejecting everything that is unnatural. That’s why we don’t have synthetic fabrics or 80-year-old men taking pills to get hard-ons. That’s just not what God intended when He created the world.
I hope that this list has shown you why I am so fervently against gay marriage and why I can’t concentrate until I know what is happening in California with Prop 8. Come on California, show me the kind of moral character that I know you have.
* et tu, Ender?
** This same election also had a proposition to expand the rights of farm animals. This proposition passed. It's so rewarding to live in a democracy that has the power to expand rights as well as take them away.
Ps. I will now return to my regularly scheduled blog. Sorry for the last few random posts. I will return to talking about my crazy Scottish adventures.
Later days,
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Belt up, Canadian
Some of my American friends and I were sitting in class today and got reamed by a Canadian. She came up to us and said: ‘hey, will you guys be at the Student Union watching the election?’ We all gave a responded with a resounding ‘no’. We told her that the last place in the world a bunch of Americans would want to be during an election is with a bunch of drunk European people. We also explained to her that the earliest polls do not close until midnight here. This means that the absolute earliest time we can get results is 1.00 in the morning. Why wouldn’t we just wake up early and get the results instead, we asked. The Canadian then proceeded to say how horrible we are for not caring about the election and that we arrogant Americans should be ashamed of ourselves. She told us how pathetic is it that Europeans (and Canadians) are more concerned with the American election that we are.
I’m sorry, I just wanted to share this story because it makes me really frustrated and I don’t think I have really articulated that. What makes me mad is that for some reason Europeans seem to think they are better than Americans and that they are more cosmopolitan than we are. Anyway, Canada should just settle down and go back to being our hat and Europe should stop feeling inadequate. It’s not our fault.
Ps. What’s the deal with robocalls?
Later days,
I’m sorry, I just wanted to share this story because it makes me really frustrated and I don’t think I have really articulated that. What makes me mad is that for some reason Europeans seem to think they are better than Americans and that they are more cosmopolitan than we are. Anyway, Canada should just settle down and go back to being our hat and Europe should stop feeling inadequate. It’s not our fault.
Ps. What’s the deal with robocalls?
Later days,
It’s Erection Day!
Well, it is for me because politics is hot. I have my sweet Kiss My Democrat shirt on and I am ready to go. It is just really confusing to listen to CNNTV radio when you are in the future and they keep talking about how early it is.
Later days,
Later days,
Friday, October 31, 2008
The American's Election
The American: Oh, there he is!
Condescending Asshole: Hi. How are you?
The American: I’m good, except for the assignment we have due next week.
Condescending Asshole: Well, at least it is not due until next Friday.
The American: Yes, except that next week is the busiest week I have had since getting here.
Condescending Asshole: Oh, why’s that?
The American: There’s an election next week.
Condescending Asshole: What election? (thinking it was something that personally affected him and would be a hindrance to him completing his assignment for Friday)
The American: The Election.
Condescending Asshole: The SRC [student representative council] election?
The American: No, the election back home.
Condescending Asshole: Oh, do you have like a city council election?
The American: No, the big election.
Condescending Asshole: a school board election?
The American (getting a little agitated): No, the American election.
Condescending Asshole: American idol?
The American: No, the American Presidential Election!
Condescending Asshole: Is that next week?
The American: Yes!
Condescending Asshole: I have heard some people talking about that before. It’s kind of a big deal right?
The American: Yes!
Condescending Asshole: Hum, so that’s this month?
The American: No, it’s next month. It’s the 4th of November. It’s always on the fourth of November every four years!
Condescending Asshole: Oh. Well, that is interesting.
The American: ...
Condescending Asshole: To be honest with you, I am aware of the forthcoming US Presidential election. I was joking, just now when I pretended not to know what you were talking about.
The American: …
Ok, I will level with you. The 'condescending asshole' described in this dialog might have been me. I don’t know why; but sometimes I am a total jackass. By the way, a Scotish friend of mine told me than when he asked the American which state he was from the American said: ‘I’m a raving Republican from West Virginia.’
Later days,
Condescending Asshole: Hi. How are you?
The American: I’m good, except for the assignment we have due next week.
Condescending Asshole: Well, at least it is not due until next Friday.
The American: Yes, except that next week is the busiest week I have had since getting here.
Condescending Asshole: Oh, why’s that?
The American: There’s an election next week.
Condescending Asshole: What election? (thinking it was something that personally affected him and would be a hindrance to him completing his assignment for Friday)
The American: The Election.
Condescending Asshole: The SRC [student representative council] election?
The American: No, the election back home.
Condescending Asshole: Oh, do you have like a city council election?
The American: No, the big election.
Condescending Asshole: a school board election?
The American (getting a little agitated): No, the American election.
Condescending Asshole: American idol?
The American: No, the American Presidential Election!
Condescending Asshole: Is that next week?
The American: Yes!
Condescending Asshole: I have heard some people talking about that before. It’s kind of a big deal right?
The American: Yes!
Condescending Asshole: Hum, so that’s this month?
The American: No, it’s next month. It’s the 4th of November. It’s always on the fourth of November every four years!
Condescending Asshole: Oh. Well, that is interesting.
The American: ...
Condescending Asshole: To be honest with you, I am aware of the forthcoming US Presidential election. I was joking, just now when I pretended not to know what you were talking about.
The American: …
Ok, I will level with you. The 'condescending asshole' described in this dialog might have been me. I don’t know why; but sometimes I am a total jackass. By the way, a Scotish friend of mine told me than when he asked the American which state he was from the American said: ‘I’m a raving Republican from West Virginia.’
Later days,
Saturday, October 25, 2008
A Nigerian Reason why NOT to vote for Obama
This conversation, which I swear I am not making up, took place between myself and my Nigerian flatmate. Please keep in mind the fact that my Niergian flatmate is a medical doctor.
Nigerian Flatmate: So, how is the American election going?
Me: The most recent polls show that Obama has a pretty substantial lead. It looks like he is going to win.
Nigerian Flatmate: Oh, that is not good at all.
Me (racially profiling): You don’t support Obama?
Nigerian Flatmate: No, I do not and I do not know how anyone who thinks about it logically could.
Me: Really? Why’s that?
Nigerian Flatmate: Well, you know that Obama is an African, yes?
Me: Well, his father was African. Obama was born in Hawaii.
Nigerian Flatmate: No, no, that does not matter. We see him as an African.
Me: Ok.
Nigerian Flatmate: He and I are brothers, you see. He is African; do you understand?
Me: Yeah, ok.
Nigerian Flatmate: Specially, he is a Kenyan. Do you understand?
Me: Yes
Nigerian Flatmate: Now what you must understand is that Kenya and Zimbabwe were both conquered by Rhodesia. People from these two places are very similar and think in similar ways. Do you know who Robert Mugabe is?
Me: Yes.
Nigerian Flatmate: Good. Now you see Mugabe and Obama are brothers. They are both from Rhodesia, yes?
Me: Um, yes?
Nigerian Flatmate: Now you know what Mugabe did to the economy of Zimbabwe? Well it is of course logical to think that if Mugabe and Obama are brothers they will think in the same way. Obama will do to the American economy exactly what Mugabe did to the Zimbabwean economy because they are the same. They are brothers. The American economy will be destroyed and that will be bad for the entire world. Do you see?
Me: …
Nigerian Flatmate: You must agree that having a person who thinks like Robert Mugabe will be bad for the American Economy, yes?
Me: well, yeah?
Nigerian Flatmate: Yes, it is so logical. I have written letters to the leaders of the Democratic Party; but they just do not seem to understand this. I am very worried to have Mugabe as president of the United States.
Me: … I would be too?
FACT CHECK:
As this is a very serious allegation, I asked my staff to do some research into my Nigerian flatmate’s claims. My staff found that before 1964 the name ‘Rhodesia’ referred to the territory of modern Zambia and Zimbabwe. The pliminary research indicates that Zambia and Kenya are different countries and seems to suggest that my Nigerian flatmate might be factually incorrect. My staff also located a map of Africa and it appears as though Kenya and Zimbabwe are pretty kinda far appart. I did, however, doctor the following photograph and it seems to be some pretty damming evidence. You be the judge.
Before we vote, we need to understand the details about the relationship between Barack Obama and Robert Mugabe. This sounds like a job for Bill O’Reilly.
Later days,
Nigerian Flatmate: So, how is the American election going?
Me: The most recent polls show that Obama has a pretty substantial lead. It looks like he is going to win.
Nigerian Flatmate: Oh, that is not good at all.
Me (racially profiling): You don’t support Obama?
Nigerian Flatmate: No, I do not and I do not know how anyone who thinks about it logically could.
Me: Really? Why’s that?
Nigerian Flatmate: Well, you know that Obama is an African, yes?
Me: Well, his father was African. Obama was born in Hawaii.
Nigerian Flatmate: No, no, that does not matter. We see him as an African.
Me: Ok.
Nigerian Flatmate: He and I are brothers, you see. He is African; do you understand?
Me: Yeah, ok.
Nigerian Flatmate: Specially, he is a Kenyan. Do you understand?
Me: Yes
Nigerian Flatmate: Now what you must understand is that Kenya and Zimbabwe were both conquered by Rhodesia. People from these two places are very similar and think in similar ways. Do you know who Robert Mugabe is?
Me: Yes.
Nigerian Flatmate: Good. Now you see Mugabe and Obama are brothers. They are both from Rhodesia, yes?
Me: Um, yes?
Nigerian Flatmate: Now you know what Mugabe did to the economy of Zimbabwe? Well it is of course logical to think that if Mugabe and Obama are brothers they will think in the same way. Obama will do to the American economy exactly what Mugabe did to the Zimbabwean economy because they are the same. They are brothers. The American economy will be destroyed and that will be bad for the entire world. Do you see?
Me: …
Nigerian Flatmate: You must agree that having a person who thinks like Robert Mugabe will be bad for the American Economy, yes?
Me: well, yeah?
Nigerian Flatmate: Yes, it is so logical. I have written letters to the leaders of the Democratic Party; but they just do not seem to understand this. I am very worried to have Mugabe as president of the United States.
Me: … I would be too?
FACT CHECK:
As this is a very serious allegation, I asked my staff to do some research into my Nigerian flatmate’s claims. My staff found that before 1964 the name ‘Rhodesia’ referred to the territory of modern Zambia and Zimbabwe. The pliminary research indicates that Zambia and Kenya are different countries and seems to suggest that my Nigerian flatmate might be factually incorrect. My staff also located a map of Africa and it appears as though Kenya and Zimbabwe are pretty kinda far appart. I did, however, doctor the following photograph and it seems to be some pretty damming evidence. You be the judge.
Before we vote, we need to understand the details about the relationship between Barack Obama and Robert Mugabe. This sounds like a job for Bill O’Reilly.
Later days,
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Let us do some maths
I have received a few emails about my last post in regards to my Canadian Mrs. Robinson. This surprised me for two reasons: first, because it would seem that people are actually reading this and second because you all seem to be bad at maths. Now if you recall, she is a middle school maths teacher. Let’s do some subtraction:
I was born in 1986 and Mrs. Robinson was born in 1971. I think that a 5 to 7 year age difference is not a big deal at all and I think that the 8-10 year gap is sort of in a grey zone (no pun intended). Now, Mrs. Robinson is 15 years older than me. If you think about it logically, this means:
She could have changed my diapers
She actually remembers the ‘80s
She could drive a car before I could walk
She had her own breasts when I was breast feeding
She graduated from high school before I started pre-school
She could read before I was born
She wrote her master’s dissertation before I could colour inside the lines
She spoke two languages before I could speak in sentences
She understood the nuances of a parliamentary democracy before I could eat solid foods
She knew that the beaver was the national animal of Canada before I made my first beaver attempt
She was living in an igloo before I was allowed to have ice in my drinks
She knew how to make maple syrup before I could use a toilet
She was saved by Dudley Do-right before I could grow a Snidely Whiplash moustache
She was a lumberjack leaping from tree to tree, as she floated down the mighty rivers of British Columbia before I could spell lumberjack
She can point to Alberta on a map and I still can't do that
Do you see what I’m getting at here?
Later days,
I was born in 1986 and Mrs. Robinson was born in 1971. I think that a 5 to 7 year age difference is not a big deal at all and I think that the 8-10 year gap is sort of in a grey zone (no pun intended). Now, Mrs. Robinson is 15 years older than me. If you think about it logically, this means:
She could have changed my diapers
She actually remembers the ‘80s
She could drive a car before I could walk
She had her own breasts when I was breast feeding
She graduated from high school before I started pre-school
She could read before I was born
She wrote her master’s dissertation before I could colour inside the lines
She spoke two languages before I could speak in sentences
She understood the nuances of a parliamentary democracy before I could eat solid foods
She knew that the beaver was the national animal of Canada before I made my first beaver attempt
She was living in an igloo before I was allowed to have ice in my drinks
She knew how to make maple syrup before I could use a toilet
She was saved by Dudley Do-right before I could grow a Snidely Whiplash moustache
She was a lumberjack leaping from tree to tree, as she floated down the mighty rivers of British Columbia before I could spell lumberjack
She can point to Alberta on a map and I still can't do that
Do you see what I’m getting at here?
Later days,
Monday, October 20, 2008
Perth, Part the Second
And so the conference continued. As previously noted, it was beyond dull. It was stupendously dull. It was Home Improvement after Tim Allen stopped using the nose candy dull. It was listening to the audio version of The Audacity of Hope as read by John McCain dull. I could go on; but I don’t want to bore you. Like all things Rotary, this conference as well came to an auspicious and strange end. The district governor, a woman whose arse was so large and wobbled so fiercely that even Hillary Clinton would say ‘dude, get a Stairmaster’, gave her concluding remarks.
She decided to close the conference by talking about the children. She talked about what a difference Rotary can make and went on to say all of the programmes Rotary must be involved with to improve the lives of children so that their future can be a little brighter. And then, and I am not making this up, there was an image that flashed briefly on the huge screen behind her. It could not have been there for more than 5 seconds; and at first glace it appeared as though when she said we need to make a better future for the children there was an image of a huge steaming pile of cow dung sweltering in the African heat; but on closer examination this was not a pile of poop: it was in fact a dead African baby. To be perfectly honest, I can’t think of an image that better highlights her point that we can make like lives of children a litter brighter and give them a better future than showing a picture dead baby. Oh, actually, come to think of it; anything would have been better. Who shows a picture of a dead baby to an auditorium full of people and does not even acknowledge it? She just kept talking, as if there was not a dead baby projected on a 7 meter screen behind her. It would have been better to have shown a clown making phallic balloon sculptures than to just be all like ‘hey, FYI there is a picture of a dead baby back there; but I’m not going to say anything about it, or why it’s there I’m just going to keep talking. It has sure been a good conference, huh? Now, who wants some tea?’ It was disturbing and I didn’t really have an appetite for the lunch the followed. Oddly enough, they did not have a vegetarian option at the meal. They only served dark meat.
Of course, the district conference was not all apocalyptic toilets and pictures of dead babies rotting under the African sun, there was a lot of drinking too. For some reason when I drink of Rotarians, they seem to make it a personal mission to get me smashed beyond rational thought. I’m not sure why they do that exactly, I guess they are just nice; it’s not like I have anything to offer them in exchange for the continuous and constant flow of fluids. We had two nights of drinking and a drinking outing. The first night was a rather informal affair and I don’t really remember too much about it, except that I must have seemed stressed because Rotarians kept coming over to me to rub my shoulders. It was a vicious cycle because the more they rubbed my shoulders, the more stressed I seemed to became. I am going to be honest with you, it is strange and not particularly soothing to have a several sloshed Scotchmen seductively stroking your neck. But then again, they were buying me loads of drinks; so it’s not like I was a cheap date or anything.
The second night was black tie, and I am not going to lie, when I wear a tux; I pretty much get eye raped. I don’t know what it is; but old people just seem to stare at me and undress me with their eyes. By stare, I mean there is excessive gazing involved; but mostly they just touch me. My arse literally felt like a pincushion. Like seriously, 10 old ladies pinched me in my nether region. It was … yeah. One walked out of a door and just placed her hands on my hips, said excuse me and walked away. I don’t know what I was attracting so much attention. The Rotary men were all decked out in Kilts and had various kinds of Rotary bling. They all had crazy Rotary gold necklaces and medallions. I’m pretty sure I saw a few crowns and at least 4 diamond encrusted Rotary grills. Their power was hypnotic. I couldn’t look away from the bright shiny bling. Of course, this might have just been because of the absurd number of kilts. I have a pretty serious problem when it comes to kilts because I don’t know where I am meant to look. I find myself staring at their hairy knees and wondering if they are wearing underwear. I don’t mean to be rude; but I just can’t help it. It’s like talking to a big breasted woman: you know you should be looking them in the eyes; but you just can’t bring yourself to do it. A cèilidh* is to me what a wet tee-shirt contest is to a normal guy. I can’t help it; love me for who I am.
As previously noted, there was a lot of drinking involved this night. The night ended with me talking to a 37-year-old Spanish and maths teacher from
I will end this entry as a sort of choose your own adventure. You can decide if I stayed with the Gaelic Magician or if I went to her.
* traditional Scottish dance: read ‘kilt central’
Later days,
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Johnnyland
I was in class yesterday and came to realise that the UK looks like Johnny Bravo.
Oh Microsoft Paint, is there anything you can't do?
Later days,
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Perth, Part The First
Last weekend I went to Perth for my district conference. Perth is such an exciting and well known vacation destination that when I told my Scottish friends that I was going there for the weekend they were all really surprised that I was going all the way to Australia. That’s right; Scottish people are more likely to fly to Australia for the weekend than they are to drive an hour up the duel carriageway (which is what Scottish people call divided highways) to go to friggin’ Perth. So, as you can imagine Perth is not exactly a hopping place. In fact, the tourism board has a sign out front that says ‘closed due to lack of interest’.
I arrived at the hotel with the American who was still trying desperately to cleave to me. I felt a bit like Luke Skywalker with Yoda holding onto my back. In fact, the American sounds a bit like Yoda when he speaks, only the American sounds a bit more pretentious. The American had been assigned to a nice double room and I was down the hall in a broom closet. I felt like Harry Potter, the analogy only intensified when I discovered that the heat in my closet didn’t work. When the American came into my room, because he does not seem to be able to stay away from me for more then 10 minuets, he told me that my room was really cold (because I had not noticed) and he offered to let me sleep in his double room because he didn’t have a roommate. As you can imagine, this sent a shiver down my spine.
Now, for those non-Rotary people out there, allow me to explain what a district conference entails. Representatives from all of the Rotary clubs in the district (between 300 and 600 of them) descend upon one small town to discuss their plans for the year. Saturday and Sunday consist of two ‘plenary sessions’ each morning. I made this mistake of thinking that these were some sort of plenary sessions wherein qualified members of the group would come together to plan the year. This assumption proved to be incorrect. These sessions were not about making plans, or looking into the future; these sessions were literally about nothing. I am not exaggerating. There were 12 speakers in total and none of them actually said anything. They were basically a the gibbering pack of tree apes that said nothing, nothing, nothing, and said it loud, loud, loud.
I have come to expect this sort of behaviour from Rotarians and for me, the real surprise came in the bathroom whist I was urinating in the urinal. I have done this many times before. As many of you know, I am a frequenter of public toilets and when I am not on my knees; I am often using the urinal. But this urinal was unlike any I had ever seen before; this was an apocalyptic urinal of the future. Above the urine receptacle was a flat screen TV and I am not making this up: on the screen was the computer generated image of an overweight black man wearing jeans and a wife-beater waking around a barren desert wasteland. He didn’t seem to have any real goal; he was just walking around towards nothing. I found myself entranced, fondling my penis in an attempt to make it appear as though I was stilling making pee pee so that any Rotarians who happened upon me wouldn’t think I was strange. In retrospect, might have appeared odd; but I was transfixed by the TV and I could not imagine what it was doing in the convention’s toilet. After a few minutes of my mock urination (mock urination, by the way, would be a really cool name for a rock band) the man reached a cliff where he stopped and looked out over the abyss. He looked like a fat black Hank Rearden. When the future had nothing left to tell me, I zipped up my trousers and left the toilet. It was a vision of the future I will not soon forget.
Later days,
I arrived at the hotel with the American who was still trying desperately to cleave to me. I felt a bit like Luke Skywalker with Yoda holding onto my back. In fact, the American sounds a bit like Yoda when he speaks, only the American sounds a bit more pretentious. The American had been assigned to a nice double room and I was down the hall in a broom closet. I felt like Harry Potter, the analogy only intensified when I discovered that the heat in my closet didn’t work. When the American came into my room, because he does not seem to be able to stay away from me for more then 10 minuets, he told me that my room was really cold (because I had not noticed) and he offered to let me sleep in his double room because he didn’t have a roommate. As you can imagine, this sent a shiver down my spine.
Now, for those non-Rotary people out there, allow me to explain what a district conference entails. Representatives from all of the Rotary clubs in the district (between 300 and 600 of them) descend upon one small town to discuss their plans for the year. Saturday and Sunday consist of two ‘plenary sessions’ each morning. I made this mistake of thinking that these were some sort of plenary sessions wherein qualified members of the group would come together to plan the year. This assumption proved to be incorrect. These sessions were not about making plans, or looking into the future; these sessions were literally about nothing. I am not exaggerating. There were 12 speakers in total and none of them actually said anything. They were basically a the gibbering pack of tree apes that said nothing, nothing, nothing, and said it loud, loud, loud.
I have come to expect this sort of behaviour from Rotarians and for me, the real surprise came in the bathroom whist I was urinating in the urinal. I have done this many times before. As many of you know, I am a frequenter of public toilets and when I am not on my knees; I am often using the urinal. But this urinal was unlike any I had ever seen before; this was an apocalyptic urinal of the future. Above the urine receptacle was a flat screen TV and I am not making this up: on the screen was the computer generated image of an overweight black man wearing jeans and a wife-beater waking around a barren desert wasteland. He didn’t seem to have any real goal; he was just walking around towards nothing. I found myself entranced, fondling my penis in an attempt to make it appear as though I was stilling making pee pee so that any Rotarians who happened upon me wouldn’t think I was strange. In retrospect, might have appeared odd; but I was transfixed by the TV and I could not imagine what it was doing in the convention’s toilet. After a few minutes of my mock urination (mock urination, by the way, would be a really cool name for a rock band) the man reached a cliff where he stopped and looked out over the abyss. He looked like a fat black Hank Rearden. When the future had nothing left to tell me, I zipped up my trousers and left the toilet. It was a vision of the future I will not soon forget.
Later days,
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Meeting The American
You know when you meet someone whose voice is so annoying that it sounds like Dick Chaney gargling a bucket full of nails and then spiting them at your face? Well, I met such a person last week. We were in a group of politics students discussing a presentation we had watched. We had twenty minutes to put together a response and present it to all of the postgrad politics students and the faculty. Before we started our discussion we introduced ourselves to the group and told everyone where we were born. The nail gargler said he was ‘from America, specifically, the United States’. He went on to explain that he does not like it when people say they are from America when they mean to say that they are from the United States because ‘America’ could mean Canada, Mexico or even Latin America. I am wanking off like 4 imaginary penises right now. Don’t ask me why (or how to explain the mechanics of it); but it just feels like the appropriate gesture. Seriously, who says that? Would a Canadian ever say: ‘I'm an American from Canada’? Ok, that might be a bad example; but a Mexican would never say: 'Hola, I am an American'. Well, maybe they would; but someone from Chile would never say: 'I'm American'. People from Chile would say they were cold. I know where the guy is coming from and it makes sense; but if that is an arrogent thing to say, the only thing I can think of that would be more arrogant than an American saying they are from America would be an American pointing out how arrogant it is to say that they are from America. I feel pretty secure in saying that this guy is a douche: a douche from America, an American douche if you will.
Now you might be asking yourself, why am I wasting your valuable time talking about some American douche from one of my classes? Well, first off reading my blog is not at all a waste of time* and second this is not just any American douche; this is a Rotary douche. You can all imagine my surprise last week when I turned around at the Birmingham Link weekend to find the douche I thought I had left in Glasgow standing behind me. That’s right, he too is an Ambassadorial Scholar and as such, he has decided that he and I will be BFF.
Together, American Douche and I went to Perth (Scotland, not Australia) this weekend for our district conference and you can only imagine how much I enjoyed myself. I will describe the district conference in my next posting which will include, and not be limited to:
1) Geriatric molestation and Mrs. Robinson
2) Aborted African babies
3) Apocalyptic urinals
4) Armoured chickens
*That is not true.
Later days,
Now you might be asking yourself, why am I wasting your valuable time talking about some American douche from one of my classes? Well, first off reading my blog is not at all a waste of time* and second this is not just any American douche; this is a Rotary douche. You can all imagine my surprise last week when I turned around at the Birmingham Link weekend to find the douche I thought I had left in Glasgow standing behind me. That’s right, he too is an Ambassadorial Scholar and as such, he has decided that he and I will be BFF.
Together, American Douche and I went to Perth (Scotland, not Australia) this weekend for our district conference and you can only imagine how much I enjoyed myself. I will describe the district conference in my next posting which will include, and not be limited to:
1) Geriatric molestation and Mrs. Robinson
2) Aborted African babies
3) Apocalyptic urinals
4) Armoured chickens
*That is not true.
Later days,
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
LINKing Sleeping Policemen and the Conservative Convention in Birmingham
I went to Birmingham, England for the LINK Rotary weekend. Essentially, this is a weekend where all of the Rotary Scholars for all over the UK come together to worship Rotary. It’s a collective guilt trip, really. All of the Rotarians stand up and say how amazing Rotary is and describe the philanthropic activities they do and how, for some ungodly reason, they have chosen to give us a tonne of money instead of using it to, say, cure AIDS.
They go through a long list of what the money could have been spent on: like they could have bought 500,000 mosquito nets, given an African village access to clean water, or inoculated 10,000 children against various diseases; but instead gave the money to me so that I can chill in Scotland and complain about the weather. Basically, they make you feel like a horrible human being who has literally taken food out of the mouths of starving children and eaten it in front of them. Fortunately, I am extremely self-centred and know that it was much better to have spent the money on me so that I can gallivant around the UK and complain about the Rotary Club rather than giving an African farmer 3 mules so that he could afford to feed his family. I did, however, meet several asses at the conference and it really would have made sense to have given them to an African farmer so he could use them feed his family than send them to be educated in Europe.*
While in Birmingham, where they all sound about as intelligent as people from Alabama, I strayed in the home of a woman from India. When I walked into her house I was almost knocked down by the overpowering smell of curry. It was as if the smell lodged itself in my nostrils and refused to leave; much like Welliott’s nasal hair. I can not begin to describe how powerful this smell was. There could have been four decaying human corpses in the living room and I would never have known. If Scott Perterson had packed Laci in a bathtub full of curry, no one ever would have found the body. They would have simply walked up to use the facilities and decided it was best to hold it, even at the expense of their kidneys exploding under the pressure, than be in a bathroom that reeked or yellow curry. It would have been the perfect crime.
Despite what seems to be the latent left-leaning undertones of this blog, I was in Birmingham during the Tory Convention. The Tory Convention is very much like the Republican convention except that it is a much more lavish affair where the conservative politicians make impossible promises and vow to lower taxes for the upper classes and abolish the inheritance tax, or what they call ‘the death tax’. Unlike the American Conservative Party, which is the party of maverick forward thinkers, the Tories get together to collectively morn the loss of their last great politician, Margaret Thatcher, and say how their current leaders are just like her and will revitalize her spirit. Unfortunately, Lady Thatcher was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a few years after leaving office in 1989. Oh, wait, no she is a member of the House of Lords. I don’t know who I was thinking of. Sorry, that’s weird.
Because of the convention, the police were on high alert; which is to say they were standing around without even trying to look busy. It is hard to really describe the police here in the UK. I would say that they look a bit like bioluminescent jellyfish because of the bright green vests they wear and their gelatinous appearance; but it is not really a true analogy and is slightly unfair to jellyfish because jellyfish have a means to adequately defend themselves whereas police in the UK only have little sticks which they use to fend off any small children that may seem threatening to them. In addition to their reflective green vests, the police have helmets that are precariously perched on their heads. There is not a strap to keep them fastened to them if they were to chase after someone; I can only imagine that they must be meant to throw the helmet at an escaping fugitive in the hope that it might cause a few second’s delay. Of course, this is not the primary job of a policeman. They are here, as I was told, for our protection. It is not the job of a policeman to catch criminals, that is really only inadvertent. Their primary task, and I am not making this up, is to be viable in order to provide assistance.
This is a true story. When I was in Birmingham I went up to a particularly useless-looking police officer, which I have been told to do, and asked for directions. The officer didn’t know how to get to where I was going so he used a lifeline and phoned a friend. He got on his police radio and asked if anyone know how to get to the street I needed. Another police officer, no doubt one working for my protection, responded and gave directions; but no sooner had he finished than another officer who had been listening to the conversation while walking his beat came on the radio and suggested an alternate route. With this kind of crack force, one always feels safe in the dangerous cities. The British version of Law and Order, called Law and Order: Special British Intent, consists of four police officers sitting around a table drinking Ice T** and complaining about the number of hours they have to work.
The word in British for speed bump is ‘sleeping policeman’. I thought this was a strange phrase for those little curbs in the middle of the road that make motorists slow down so I had my staff do a little research on the etymology of the phrase and found that it dates back to a Sergeant Lloyns, who, whist taking his afternoon nap became the first British police officer to pre-emptively stop a crime. Sergent Lloyns is remembered every November 23rd.
* Note: this is my second reference to cannibalism in this blog. I must be really hungry.
** Third.
Later days,
They go through a long list of what the money could have been spent on: like they could have bought 500,000 mosquito nets, given an African village access to clean water, or inoculated 10,000 children against various diseases; but instead gave the money to me so that I can chill in Scotland and complain about the weather. Basically, they make you feel like a horrible human being who has literally taken food out of the mouths of starving children and eaten it in front of them. Fortunately, I am extremely self-centred and know that it was much better to have spent the money on me so that I can gallivant around the UK and complain about the Rotary Club rather than giving an African farmer 3 mules so that he could afford to feed his family. I did, however, meet several asses at the conference and it really would have made sense to have given them to an African farmer so he could use them feed his family than send them to be educated in Europe.*
While in Birmingham, where they all sound about as intelligent as people from Alabama, I strayed in the home of a woman from India. When I walked into her house I was almost knocked down by the overpowering smell of curry. It was as if the smell lodged itself in my nostrils and refused to leave; much like Welliott’s nasal hair. I can not begin to describe how powerful this smell was. There could have been four decaying human corpses in the living room and I would never have known. If Scott Perterson had packed Laci in a bathtub full of curry, no one ever would have found the body. They would have simply walked up to use the facilities and decided it was best to hold it, even at the expense of their kidneys exploding under the pressure, than be in a bathroom that reeked or yellow curry. It would have been the perfect crime.
Despite what seems to be the latent left-leaning undertones of this blog, I was in Birmingham during the Tory Convention. The Tory Convention is very much like the Republican convention except that it is a much more lavish affair where the conservative politicians make impossible promises and vow to lower taxes for the upper classes and abolish the inheritance tax, or what they call ‘the death tax’. Unlike the American Conservative Party, which is the party of maverick forward thinkers, the Tories get together to collectively morn the loss of their last great politician, Margaret Thatcher, and say how their current leaders are just like her and will revitalize her spirit. Unfortunately, Lady Thatcher was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a few years after leaving office in 1989. Oh, wait, no she is a member of the House of Lords. I don’t know who I was thinking of. Sorry, that’s weird.
Because of the convention, the police were on high alert; which is to say they were standing around without even trying to look busy. It is hard to really describe the police here in the UK. I would say that they look a bit like bioluminescent jellyfish because of the bright green vests they wear and their gelatinous appearance; but it is not really a true analogy and is slightly unfair to jellyfish because jellyfish have a means to adequately defend themselves whereas police in the UK only have little sticks which they use to fend off any small children that may seem threatening to them. In addition to their reflective green vests, the police have helmets that are precariously perched on their heads. There is not a strap to keep them fastened to them if they were to chase after someone; I can only imagine that they must be meant to throw the helmet at an escaping fugitive in the hope that it might cause a few second’s delay. Of course, this is not the primary job of a policeman. They are here, as I was told, for our protection. It is not the job of a policeman to catch criminals, that is really only inadvertent. Their primary task, and I am not making this up, is to be viable in order to provide assistance.
This is a true story. When I was in Birmingham I went up to a particularly useless-looking police officer, which I have been told to do, and asked for directions. The officer didn’t know how to get to where I was going so he used a lifeline and phoned a friend. He got on his police radio and asked if anyone know how to get to the street I needed. Another police officer, no doubt one working for my protection, responded and gave directions; but no sooner had he finished than another officer who had been listening to the conversation while walking his beat came on the radio and suggested an alternate route. With this kind of crack force, one always feels safe in the dangerous cities. The British version of Law and Order, called Law and Order: Special British Intent, consists of four police officers sitting around a table drinking Ice T** and complaining about the number of hours they have to work.
The word in British for speed bump is ‘sleeping policeman’. I thought this was a strange phrase for those little curbs in the middle of the road that make motorists slow down so I had my staff do a little research on the etymology of the phrase and found that it dates back to a Sergeant Lloyns, who, whist taking his afternoon nap became the first British police officer to pre-emptively stop a crime. Sergent Lloyns is remembered every November 23rd.
* Note: this is my second reference to cannibalism in this blog. I must be really hungry.
** Third.
Later days,
Monday, September 29, 2008
Sleeping Beauty
I think that the people I live with might be crazy. Please consider the following exchange:
Flatmate: You’re trip to Birmingham was good?
Me: Yeah, it was alright
Flatmate: It must have made you very tired.
Me: Not really.
Flatmate: Well, we knocked on your door last night to see if you wanted to have dinner. We knocked really loud; but you slept through it. Then we called the phone in your room and it rang very loud but you did not answer. You are very heavy sleeper.
Me: Oh, actually, I was not there last night. I went out to a pub.
Flatmate: Oh, really?
Now, my first thought was: why didn’t they realize that I was not there after banging on my door; but then I thought, what in the world is wrong with them? If they really thought I was asleep after coming back from England, what would possess them to continue to try and wake me up and call my phone to see if I wanted to have dinner? Did they think they would make me up and that I would stagger to the door and say, ‘oh great, I was asleep but what I really want to do is how dinner with you guys instead’. This does not bode well.
Later days,
Flatmate: You’re trip to Birmingham was good?
Me: Yeah, it was alright
Flatmate: It must have made you very tired.
Me: Not really.
Flatmate: Well, we knocked on your door last night to see if you wanted to have dinner. We knocked really loud; but you slept through it. Then we called the phone in your room and it rang very loud but you did not answer. You are very heavy sleeper.
Me: Oh, actually, I was not there last night. I went out to a pub.
Flatmate: Oh, really?
Now, my first thought was: why didn’t they realize that I was not there after banging on my door; but then I thought, what in the world is wrong with them? If they really thought I was asleep after coming back from England, what would possess them to continue to try and wake me up and call my phone to see if I wanted to have dinner? Did they think they would make me up and that I would stagger to the door and say, ‘oh great, I was asleep but what I really want to do is how dinner with you guys instead’. This does not bode well.
Later days,
Thursday, September 25, 2008
SocialAir
In the United States we have this crazy idea that if you pay more for something, you get something better. Let’s just take a random example and say someone was trying to sell a blue 1999 Jeep Cherokee that made a heinous noise when the air-conditioning was left on and would only let the driver roll the windows down. This might be a perfectly good car; but a person, despite the celebrity of the Jeep’s previous owner, might not think it was worth as much money as a car that allowed the passengers to roll down their own windows. People can be picky about these sorts of things. A person could buy the perfectly good Jeep Cherokee with the celebrity status if having once belonged to one of the greatest provocateurs the world has ever seen, or they might spend a little more money and get a Lamborghini. While in this hypothetical example the 1999 Jeep Cherokee was greatly undervalued and sold for way less than it was worth given the prominence of the owner, the principal hold true: if you pay more for something, you get something better. This is the American way.
More money gets a person a better car. Logic follows that paying more into a national healthcare system through higher taxes gets the payer an additional liver or maybe a bigger heart. Additionally a person who buys a first class plane ticket gets a better seat than everyone else. In Europe it does not seem to work like that. In Europe everyone gets the same thing; even if they pay more. I believe there is a word for it; but I can’t seem to put my finger on it. No where is this point better illustrated than with the European aeroplane builder Airbus.
If you have ever flown on an Airbus surely you have noticed that the first class seats are cordoned off from the economy seats; as they should be. Rich people are better than the rest of us and they should be segregated so that they can enjoy their champagne in peace without having to worry about the rest of us asking for money. The first class seats on good old American planes are much more splendid than the regular plebian seats because the rich person’s ass is suppler so that it is not raw or chapped when it is kissed. On Airbus, however, the first class seats look exactly the same as the regular seats. It boggles the mind. Why would a person pay more money to sit in the front of the plane, where they will die sooner in the event of a crash, if their bum is not supported by the extra sweat and tears of Chinese labourers? This is why the tenants of Socialism elude me.
As you may have guessed I am leaving on an aeroplane tomorrow. I’m going to Birmingham for a Rotary thing and as you can guess I will be sitting in economy, and I will surly die seconds after the rich who sit in the same kind of seats that I do; but in the rows preceding me.
Later days,
More money gets a person a better car. Logic follows that paying more into a national healthcare system through higher taxes gets the payer an additional liver or maybe a bigger heart. Additionally a person who buys a first class plane ticket gets a better seat than everyone else. In Europe it does not seem to work like that. In Europe everyone gets the same thing; even if they pay more. I believe there is a word for it; but I can’t seem to put my finger on it. No where is this point better illustrated than with the European aeroplane builder Airbus.
If you have ever flown on an Airbus surely you have noticed that the first class seats are cordoned off from the economy seats; as they should be. Rich people are better than the rest of us and they should be segregated so that they can enjoy their champagne in peace without having to worry about the rest of us asking for money. The first class seats on good old American planes are much more splendid than the regular plebian seats because the rich person’s ass is suppler so that it is not raw or chapped when it is kissed. On Airbus, however, the first class seats look exactly the same as the regular seats. It boggles the mind. Why would a person pay more money to sit in the front of the plane, where they will die sooner in the event of a crash, if their bum is not supported by the extra sweat and tears of Chinese labourers? This is why the tenants of Socialism elude me.
As you may have guessed I am leaving on an aeroplane tomorrow. I’m going to Birmingham for a Rotary thing and as you can guess I will be sitting in economy, and I will surly die seconds after the rich who sit in the same kind of seats that I do; but in the rows preceding me.
Later days,
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Simon says
I am not making this up. The following conversation actually took place.
Me: Hi, I’m Evan
Simon: I’m Simon
Me: Nice to meet you, Simon.
Simon: It is pronounced “Sea-Mon”.
Me: Oh, I’m sorry.
Simon: All I want is for people from America to say my name correctly. “Sea-Mon”, can you just give me that?
Me: … I’ll try, but it’s kind of early in the morning.
For the record everyone says my name “Ēvān” and I don’t complain about it. Actually, I do. Sorry Simon.
Me: Hi, I’m Evan
Simon: I’m Simon
Me: Nice to meet you, Simon.
Simon: It is pronounced “Sea-Mon”.
Me: Oh, I’m sorry.
Simon: All I want is for people from America to say my name correctly. “Sea-Mon”, can you just give me that?
Me: … I’ll try, but it’s kind of early in the morning.
For the record everyone says my name “Ēvān” and I don’t complain about it. Actually, I do. Sorry Simon.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
I wouldn't tell a lie
I met with my Rotary Host counselor in person. I had spoken with him on the phone before I left – because he does not know how to use email – and this was the first time I actually met him face to face. I should clarify, when I say that I spoke with him earlier I mean that I spoke and he responded with a series of ambiguous grunts. I couldn’t understand a word that he said. It was so bad that I found myself unable to talk to him because I didn’t know what he was saying. I suggested that I just send him an email to spare us both the unpleasantness of speaking on the phone. I was worried that when I met him I would be unable to communicate with him, so I brought a notepad just incase.
He met me downstairs. He looked a bit like Pinocchio. I don’t mean to say that he was wearing a green vest and was made of wood - although he did have a vest and I think he would probably float – but that is not why I draw the comparison. You know how when Pinocchio tells a lie his nose grows and Jiminy Cricket stands on the tip? Yeah, he looked like that. I have never met a man who had more hair on the tip of his nose than Rosie O’Donnell has on her back; but there you go. Seriously, I didn’t know it was possible to grow hair on the outside of your nose. I know there are many men, and I’m sure some women too, who have issues with nose hair. Ward Elliott is an excellent example. I have often found myself distracted by the movement of his nasal hair as the wind slowly tussles through it; but even Welliott’s hair is contained in the charming chasm of his nose. This guy, however, has hair outside his nose and on the tip no less. It is a sad affliction.
The car ride over to his castle – yes, he appears to live in some kind of mini-castle – was parlous. As I am sure many of you know they drive on the other side of the road here in Olde Blighty. I knew this as well; but there is a difference between knowing something and understanding the full ramifications of that knowledge. For example, I know that drinking a gallon of milk will make me sick to my stomach; but it is a different kind of knowledge when I try to drink more milk than Charlie Mitchell in an hour and there is exorcist-style projectile vomit plastered against the walls. Keeping projectile vomit in mind, I will return us to the car where I was sitting in the passenger seat with my hands grasped tightly around my seatbelt. We were traveling about 70 kilometers an hour – which is about 143 miles per hour - and from my vantage point, we were doing so while careening down the wrong side of the road into oncoming traffic with Pinoccio trying to talk to me whilst I was able to decipher every 8th word while clutching onto the sides of the car for dear life. Thankfully, we arrived at the castle in one piece; albeit a discombobulated piece.
Pinocchio took me inside to meet his wife, The Fairy with Turquoise Hair. We settled down for dinner where we ate some kind of food. I am not sure what the food was called exactly; but it looked a bit like penguin vomit. I felt a bit like a chick, eating partially digested food from my mother’s mouth except I was using a knife and fork and trying to make polite conversation. There was some kind of meat mixed in with the vomit and a fruit called a courgette. A courgette is a large green, penis shaped squash that was sliced, or circum-cut, into small squishy pieces. It was surprisingly delicious.
After dinner, Pinocchio drove me home and I learned that he the captain of not one but two curling teams. There will be more to follow on the curling front; just try not to double over in anticipation.
Later day,
E
He met me downstairs. He looked a bit like Pinocchio. I don’t mean to say that he was wearing a green vest and was made of wood - although he did have a vest and I think he would probably float – but that is not why I draw the comparison. You know how when Pinocchio tells a lie his nose grows and Jiminy Cricket stands on the tip? Yeah, he looked like that. I have never met a man who had more hair on the tip of his nose than Rosie O’Donnell has on her back; but there you go. Seriously, I didn’t know it was possible to grow hair on the outside of your nose. I know there are many men, and I’m sure some women too, who have issues with nose hair. Ward Elliott is an excellent example. I have often found myself distracted by the movement of his nasal hair as the wind slowly tussles through it; but even Welliott’s hair is contained in the charming chasm of his nose. This guy, however, has hair outside his nose and on the tip no less. It is a sad affliction.
The car ride over to his castle – yes, he appears to live in some kind of mini-castle – was parlous. As I am sure many of you know they drive on the other side of the road here in Olde Blighty. I knew this as well; but there is a difference between knowing something and understanding the full ramifications of that knowledge. For example, I know that drinking a gallon of milk will make me sick to my stomach; but it is a different kind of knowledge when I try to drink more milk than Charlie Mitchell in an hour and there is exorcist-style projectile vomit plastered against the walls. Keeping projectile vomit in mind, I will return us to the car where I was sitting in the passenger seat with my hands grasped tightly around my seatbelt. We were traveling about 70 kilometers an hour – which is about 143 miles per hour - and from my vantage point, we were doing so while careening down the wrong side of the road into oncoming traffic with Pinoccio trying to talk to me whilst I was able to decipher every 8th word while clutching onto the sides of the car for dear life. Thankfully, we arrived at the castle in one piece; albeit a discombobulated piece.
Pinocchio took me inside to meet his wife, The Fairy with Turquoise Hair. We settled down for dinner where we ate some kind of food. I am not sure what the food was called exactly; but it looked a bit like penguin vomit. I felt a bit like a chick, eating partially digested food from my mother’s mouth except I was using a knife and fork and trying to make polite conversation. There was some kind of meat mixed in with the vomit and a fruit called a courgette. A courgette is a large green, penis shaped squash that was sliced, or circum-cut, into small squishy pieces. It was surprisingly delicious.
After dinner, Pinocchio drove me home and I learned that he the captain of not one but two curling teams. There will be more to follow on the curling front; just try not to double over in anticipation.
Later day,
E
Thursday, September 18, 2008
The First Walk and a Way to Solve the Poverty Problem in Scotland
I left LA at 2:30 pm on Monday and arrived in
Now when I say that the school is castle-like, I should really be more specific: I go to school in a castle. Not like the metaphoric ‘
I found myself walking over a garden terrace for about 45 minutes before finding a structure that had the potential to be my university. I walked down into a labyrinth of a park as the sun began to set behind me. I traversed the tar covered trails and found the sign I was looking for ‘University that way’. It was almost heavenly. Having come up the back end, like any good European man, I arrived at the castle. I was however, a bit hungry, having not eaten any real food for a good 17 hours. As it was pretty dark and I wanted to eat so I forwent the tour of the university and decided to walk back to my flat. Now, the logical thing to do would be to have turned around and gone back the way I came; but I am not a person known for my logic. I though that it much better idea to go back the way my taxi had gone when it took me originally. I don’t know why I thought I knew the way; but I was convinced that I knew how to get back.
It soon became apparent that I had no clue how to get back. I asked people for directions; but no one knew how to get there and even if they had, I probably would not have been able o understand them because I don’t speak Scotch. As I continued along my way, a woman with curly hair and a leather jacket approached me and asked for a cigarette. I told here I didn’t have one; but having done her a favor in answering her question, albeit in the negative, I seized upon the opportunity to ask her if she knew how to get to my accommodation. She said she did, which was terrific and she said she would tell me; but she wanted to talk to me first. Now, being the silly country boy that I am, that sounded fine and I agreed provided she told me how to get to my flat after she had said her piece. She then asked me to sit on a poorly lit staircase on the side of a building.
Now this might seem strange to you now, but at the time it seemed totally acceptable to sit in this scarcely lit alleyway with a woman I did not know and the man stooping behind the rubbish bins waiting to pounce, take my money and sodomize me in the butt with his bagpipes (perhaps not in that order). So I sat with the woman in the torn leather jacket and she explained her problems to me. Unfortunately, she seemed to be from
I found a police woman and asked her for directions. She told me to take the bus and ask the driver to drop me off. This seemed like a completely acceptable proposition; but the lady in the torn leather jacket was already at the bus stop. I did not want to be made out as a liar, having told her I did not have money for the bus, I continued o walk down the stree. After stopping in a pub to discover that they stopped serving food at 8:00, I was given directions to my flat where I went straight to bed. The next day, I bought a map.
E
The First Post
For those of you who don’t know, my name is Evan and I am living in
I don’t know how many people will actually read this; but that does not seem to stop the good people at the Miami Harold, so a lack of readership shouldn’t be an excuse for me. That said I don’t really know if I will be able to maintain this blog because I am exceptionally lazy and easily distracted. We’ll see how it goes. If I get a good reaction, I will try to keep it up, if not, I will let it fall by the wayside like all of my other personal and professional hopes and dreams which have included, but were not limited to, geologist, astronaut, doctor, movie voice-over guy, host of the game show Up Stairs, Down Stairs (a show focused on curing cerebral palsy through laughter and lunacy), and finding a pill to cure shortsightedness.
So I will start off by writing a few of my stories from the last week. Tell me what you think and I will continue to write more. Or tell me what you really think and I will stop, abruptly.
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