London Diary - Friday the 16th, pt. 2 - I Learn A Lot About Whores

After the Tate Modern, I go to the Globe Theater, mainly because it's the closest touristy thing to the Tate and I have a couple of hours to kill. I was obsessed with both Shakespeare and Elizabethan England during various times in my youth, mainly in junior high and high school. (The truth comes out: My misspent youth was actually (mis)spent reading Twelfth Night. I'm a rebel with an iambic pentameter.) So I got kind of oddly nostalgic about getting my Shakespeare on, if one can really get nostalgic about being an insanely geeky twelve-year-old.

There was a play going on in the Globe itself, so instead I took a tour of the Rose Theater archeological site. Actually, first I watched them dress someone up in a historically accurate Ophelia costume. I learned that Ophelia wore about fifty layers of clothing, none of which are particularly attractive.

The Rose Theater is . . . well, it's a puddle, basically. Inside a building. With some lights. But the tour was really interesting, anyway.

What I learned:
1. In Elizabethan times, the Church of England basically ran the prostitution. They owned the land that the brothels were on, and charged them rent. They also organized things, and tried to make sure the whores were healthy. They say that Westminister Abbey was built with whore money.
2. Queen Elizabeth loved bear baiting, to the point where she forbid theater companies from putting on plays when there were bear baiting matches going on, so they wouldn't compete for an audience. She would drag the Spanish Ambassador with her to matches. The Spanish Ambassador wrote lots of letters to Spain about how barbaric it was and how much he hated it.
3. When men got bored during plays, they could buy a whore and have sex with her right in the theater. Which makes popcorn seem pretty lame, when you think about it.

After the Rose tour, I found my way to Rowan's house, despite the fact that the directions he gave me were totally wrong. I also managed to tell the helpful British people I asked directions the totally wrong street name, but eventually I got there.

We got to AIRfusion by going to the nearest National Rail station and repeating the words "Newton Abbot" over and over again. The helpful tube guy looked it up in a little book and then told us to go to Paddington Station.

I got very excited, because Paddington Station is where Paddington the Bear was found, with a tag around his neck that said "Please Take Care of This Bear." If I had gotten any advance warning, I could have made my very own "Please Take Care of This Pink Haired Girl" tag, but it's probably best that I didn't, because no one else was nearly as excited about Paddington Station.

On the train I got very bored and antsy and tried to steal Ro's book and made the sock I was knitting talk, hand puppet style, and wrote a very messy letter to one of my friends. Ro chided me for not having brought a book of my own, even after I pointed out that it would have been more weight in my already annoyingly heavy backpack.

Then we were at Newton Abbot, and Adie let us in, and gave us crew passes. She took us back to her tent, and Ro and I shared a coffee mug of rum and coke and a joint was passed around. There were lots of British boys popping in and out of the tent, and laughing and stories and good natured confusion. Ro and Adie and I proved that "dude" is the most versatile of words, surpassing even "fuck" and "cheers."

And then Adie found us space in a tent, our very own little zipped up section of tent, even, and we curled up and slept.

Dreams

This morning my cat woke me up from a dream in which I was getting it on with Carrie Brownstein from Sleater-Kinney. In the future, there will be no wet food for anyone who wakes me up before I score with lesbian punk rockers.

This morning I put on my Sleater-Kinney t-shirt with the picture of the cat that looks pretty much like Sophie. I did this before I remembered my dream, and did not actually connect the two things until right now.

A friend of mine had a dream that we were sitting on a roof talking. In the dream, he was played by Hugh Grant, and I was played by Kate Winslet. I asked if Kate Winslet had pink hair, and he said, "Yes, very, very pink." I like this dream casting a lot, and wish there was really a movie in which Kate Winslet played me.

3 pm

Have I mentioned that there is not a single branch of my bank in Philadelphia that is open past 3 pm?

Seriously, it's like they're trying to hurt me.

Also: There's an actual tv show called Amish in the City? Where they take real Amish kids during Rumspringa and put them in the city? I'm not sure if that's pure genius, or a sign of the coming apocalypse. Possibly both.

London Diary - Friday the 16th, pt. 1 - Tate Modern

I comb my hair for the first time in three days. It is not a good scene. The trip to London is hell on my hair, which is really, really unhappy about the cheap plastic comb and later the three days in a tent and then the Hello Kitty travel shampoo and lack of conditioner. By the end of the trip, it gets to the point where I am just sticking barettes in it and hoping for the best. Fortunately, one of the good points of having pink hair is that people are generally so struck by the sheer pinkness of it that they don't notice when I'm a couple snakes away from Medusa. Or maybe they think I'm doing it on purpose.

I'm leaving for Newton Abbott and a music festival my friend Adie is involved with, so in the morning I pack everything I will need for the next three days into my backpack, put my suitcase in storage, and check out of the hostel. I had originally planned to go on my yarn buying mission on Friday, but it occurs to me dragging yarn to a music festival is a very stupid idea. So I decide to go to the Tate Modern instead.

I get to the Tate Modern by looking up its tube stop in my guidebook, and then going to the tube stop closest to me and asking the information men there how I get there. "I want to get HERE!" I say and point to my map. They tell me I have a lovely American accent, ask where I am from, and then tell me what train to take.

When I get off the tube, I follow the signs and secretly track people who look like they know what they are doing.

The Tate Modern is amazing. They have an exhibit on Edward Hopper, which I pay extra money to see partly because I read about Edward Hopper in The Art of Travel on the plane. Some of the pieces I read about are in the exhibit.

Hipsters, take note - Edward Hopper is all about the awkward. You would like him.

The Tate describes Office at Night something like, "There is something about this piece that gives it a strange eroticism." Tate Modern, I can tell you what it is. The eroticism is all coming out of that woman's ass. Seriously. Look at it. Now change your description.

They describe Hopper as being the artist who contributes the most to the way they think of America, which seems odd to me. When I think of the artists that fit that description to me, I think of the Hudson River School artists, with all their canyons and sunsets.

I saw so much amazing art. I love going to museums by myself, because I can just skip the art I find boring (Cubists, I'm looking at you. Yes, you too, Picasso.) and spend however long I like with the art I like.

I think my favorite was this Dorothea Tanning work. The picture doesn't really do it justice; it was strikingly beautiful in person. (I also recently read an article about Dorothea Tanning in the New Yorker. She's exciting and crochety)

There was a work that consisted of stuff that this guy had dug out of the Thames. As far as I could tell, the only thing that made it art instead of anthropology was that everything was arranged by color. It made me come up with my own "found art" piece: the drawers full of stuff that's been pulled out of people's noses and throats in the Mutter Museum. The best part of this piece is that it's already in a museum.

They were also playing part of the Cremaster series on loop. The part I saw involved water nymphs attaching garlands to a strange alien guy's testicles. The garlands were then attached to doves, which flew away. Also, there were goddesses(?) watching it all. The best part of all of this was all these twelve year-old schoolgirls, in school uniform, who were watching it and taking notes or making sketches or something. My school field trips never involved testicles.

There was a room themed around the concept of momento mori that included a strangely pretty stop motion photography video of fruit rotting. It turns out that when you don't actually have to be in the room with the fruit, and it's all sped up, rotting fruit is actually kind of attractive.

The Tate Modern is a great space, too, with all of these balconies over looking the Thames. I bought an aubergine and goat cheese wrap, and one of those weird skinny diet cokes, and ate my lunch on one of the balconies. Unfortunately, my credit card reciept included my withdrawl amount in American dollars, so I was far too aware that I had just spent twelve dollars on a very small amount of food.

After I was all arted out, I sat by the Millenium Bridge for a while and people watched. Some teenage boys came by on skateboards, and one of them yelled, "Oi! Schoolgirls in short skirts ahead!" There were lots of tourists, and a man in a kayak in the river. I wrote in my travel journal for a little while, and thought, "I'm sitting and writing next to the Thames," and felt kind of artsy and pretentious and embarrassed.

I Am Stupid. And Amish.

Today I left my ATM card in an ATM machine. I noticed about twenty minutes later, and called the bank and canceled my card. They told me they were sending me a new one . . . and I would get it in 5 to 7 business days.

Seriously. I realize I was the dumbass who lost my ATM card (and I'd like to note that I've never done anything like this before, and am generally very good at not doing things like this). But that's like, two weeks. Without my ATM/check card. Which I use. A lot.

Am I supposed to be Amish for the next two weeks? Who operates on a cash-only basis? Am I supposed to write checks? Does the liquor store even take checks?

I can't buy shit on the internet anymore, either. There was shit on the internet that I was planning to buy. Why can't I just go my bank branch and get a new card? Why can't they send one out with more alacrity? Just what the fuck are they doing that it takes so long to get me my ATM card, anyway?

Anyway, hopefully this will stop me from buying an excessive amount of stupid shit, for at least the next two weeks.

London Diary - Thursday the 15th - Super Tourist

I have no way to tell time. I usually get the time from the cell phone, but since my cell won't work in Europe, I left it at home. I somehow manage to wake up at 9:45 am anyway. I feel remarkably human, despite the jet lag and moderate drinking. I shower and eat the free hostel breakfast. (Cereal. I have rice crispies, which they call crisped rice.)

I manage to successfully find the chemist (drugstore, for our US readers) that I had passed when it was closed during the hours I spent fruitlessly searching for an open chemist on Wednesday. For some reason, everything in the UK closes at 6 pm. This makes me sad. Anyway, I buy a travel alarm clock, some batteries, and a comb, as I also forgot to bring a hair brush. I position the alarm clock so it peaks out the clear plastic in my Power Puff Girls backpack. I don't even have to take it out to check the time! I am very proud of myself for finding the chemist so easily. I am not nearly as useless as Rowan claims! I can navigate this strange place all by myself! I am a skilled world travelor.

Then I spend twenty minutes looking in the wrong direction for a Starbucks.

I know that my new found love of Starbucks makes me horrid and corporate and such an ugly American. But the British drink instant coffee. Instant coffee. And I can go to Starbucks and buy myself a coffee and sit and write in my little journal and look at my guidebook and figure out what I'm doing. I know it's wrong, but it feels so right.

I wander around the local shops and buy a book on Barthes in a used book shop. It has lots of little cartoons of Barthes in it, and when Rowan shows up (only 15 minutes late!) I make little cartoon Barthes say "Do you have a little French philosopher in you? Would you like some?" Ro laughs and makes this face, like, "I am amused, and also you are completely insane."

We go to the British Museum. I make lots of "Hey! Nice jugs!" jokes. I make it to the Vikings before I become completely unable to process any new information, and begin to feel as though I may pass out. Seriously, is there anything left in Egypt and Greece? Cause I feel like the British Museum owns it all.

We go to a little sandwich place and I get a brie and tomato sandwich. Brie and tomato sandwiches are plentiful and cheap in London. Major US cities, please take note.

We take a bus tour. The best part is when we pass Cleopatra's Needle, and the tour guide says, "The Egyptian government asked for that back, but we told them if we gave everything back that we had stolen, we wouldn't have anything left!" Also, I learn about Bear Baiting, an popular Elizabethan pastime where they took out a bear's two sharpest teeth and then set a bunch of dogs on it, and took bets on who would win. I believe that you could probably make a very highly rated television show out of that somehow.

The tour bus drops us off by the National Gallery, and since there's an hour left before they close, we wander through in reverse chronological order. This means we see a lot of very famous paintings. They're quite nice. I'm disapointed because we only find a couple of dutch still lives before they close. I'm a sucker for any painting with cheese and tulips.

The museum kicks us out, and we hang out in Trafalgar Square and watch pigeons. An elderly Indian man with fewer teeth than I would have liked talks to us for a long time. He tells us that America has good missionaries and cheerleaders. He talks about the cheerleaders for long enough to make me faintly uncomfortable. When he finds out I'm a computer programmer, he makes me explain how to transfer text from a webpage to his email. I'm not sure I was very successful in explaining it, but I did explain it for a very long time.

We eat dinner, and then drink pints at the The World End's pub, in Camden Town. Later, Ro and I get into a fight beside a lock. It's a very scenic place to fight, even if I do end up kicking him.

I stop at the hostel bar before going to sleep. I meet a drunken Irishman named Paddy. He's very nice, but I am blown away by the sheer stereotypical goodness of his existance. I end up talking to a guy named Neil from Manchester about Tom Waits, and I keep thinking I'm just going to have one more pint, but then somehow it's 2 am and the bar is closing.

London Aftermath, Part the First

No blog service today, as Jill, Monica, Phil and I spent the evening drinking Pimm's, a crazy British drink that involves Pimm's cup #1, lemonade, apples, oranges, lemons, cucumber, and mint.

It was super.

London Diary - Trafalgar Square

This photo turned out so good, I can barely believe I actually took it myself. And, hey, check out the huge column with Lord Nelson on it.

Sometime after this picture was taken, an Indian man with fewer teeth than I would have liked scarred me for life by making me feed pigeons peanuts from my hands. Pigeons are rats with wings! I don't want them eating out of my hands. I want them to fear me. The fear is what keeps them from pecking my eyes out.

London Diary - British Museum Photos - Crazy Hand

Hey, it's a crazy hand statue! I'm not going to lie to you, I have absolutely no idea what this is, or why I took a picture of it. But, hey, it's pretty cool looking. I have this vague idea that it was in a display about non-Grecian gods in ancient Greece. But I could be making that up.

London Diary - British Museum Photos - Body Part Models

These are models of body parts that were left at ancient Greek shrines in hopes that the gods would heal whatever was wrong with said body part. (A tradition that I believe continues in the current Catholic church in Italy, although I think that those body part models are usually smaller and either tin or silver.) Left to right, they are womb, eye, ear, breast, and guts.

Here's a womb close up for y'all. Dirty!

London Diary - British Museum Pictures - Dragon Helmet

If anyone is wondering about suitable pink haired gift ideas, I would like a helmet much like this one. I would wear it to meetings at work, and I would never get stuck with shitty projects again.

Semi-related Aside: Today at work, I made a very convincing argument that instead of being assigned new projects, I should just be the company mascot and be in charge of improving moral. I even offered to sew my own costume, but my manager totally shot me down. So much for caring about employee input.

London Diary - British Museum Pictures - Parthenon

Did you guys know that the British Museum has the top of the Parthenon? Seriously! And Greece is all, "Uh, could we have that back, please?" and the British Museum is all, "Ha ha! No."

Some of the sculptures on the top of the Parthenon depict the Battle of the Lapiths and the Centaurs, the moral of which is "Do not invite centaurs to your wedding, as they will just get drunk and abduct your women." (Discussion point for the class: How weird is it that the ancient Greeks made up a mythical race, and then made them all crude and crass so that humans could look down on them? Centaurs are like the trailer trash of the ancient world. Extra weird when you consider than in modern mythology, we consider centaurs to be super wise.)

Anyway, I took this picture because the centaur is totally kicking the Lapith in the balls, and that spells ancient Greek carving comedy.

London Diary - British Museum Pictures - Alligator Head God

The Alligator Headed God is possibly the best religious idea ever. Seriously, how fucking cool is a god with an alligator head? You know they could fuck shit up, with their big bitey god teeth. You do not fuck with Alligator Head God.

If Jesus had an Alligator Head, I would be on Christianity like white on rice. Quick, someone write a letter to the pope about this!

London Diary - British Museum Pictures - Angry Bird God

I was quite amazed by how lackadasical the British Museum was towards people taking photos and touching things and screaming school children running around shrieking. (I was kind of hoping they would awaken the mummy.) I didn't take that many pictures, because I feel kind of weird taking pictures of things I'm sure that lots of other people have taken much better pictures of already. I'm not a photographer, I'm just a girl with a digicam. So I really only took photos of things I found to be amusing.

I really liked this sculpture, because it seemed so angry. You know it's just waiting to bite someone. It's some sort of ancient Egyption or Egypt adjacent scuplture god thing. (Probably Horus. Dang, I should have taken notes.)

London Diary - Wednesday, the 14th - Arrival

I deplane loopy from lack of sleep, and procede to spend approximately forever in line to go through immigration/customs. While I wait, I freak out a little bit, because clearly no sane person would let me into their country. Look at me! I have pink hair, and I'm really tired and cranky! Clearly, I am up to no good.

The customs guy asks me a couple of questions, appears to believe my answers, and lets me into the UK. Fool.

Ro shows up at the airport just as I am exchanging the fifteen dollars in my wallet for 5 pounds and some pence. (It should be 7 pounds, but they charge me 2 pounds for changing it over.) Rowan showing up exactly on time is pretty much his grand shining moment in life, and he procedes to point it out for the rest of the trip every time I complain about something. It turns out that five pounds isn't even enough to get me to London from the airport, and I borrow money from Ro.

On the train to London, I attempt to make conversation with Ro, and manage to make absolutely no sense. I am very, very tired. Getting to Ro's apartment involves way too many transfers and way too much walking. I'm am very tired.

I nap from 1 pm to 5 pm. I keep waking up, announcing my intentions to stop sleeping and go do stuff, and promptly falling back asleep.

I wake up at 5 pm, and it's more public transportation and walking to get to the hostel. I was originally supposed to be staying in a room in the house that Ro's staying at, but that fell through, so I got a bed at the Generator Hostel, which I picked on the internet based mainly on the fact that it was cheap and had a bar. (Question: Is Rowan generally about as useful as a sack of rocks? Answer: No, you can hit things with a sack of rocks.)

After dropping my stuff off at the hostel, we get dinner at an Indian place around the corner. The hostel is in a very cute neighborhood, with a gay bookstore and a health food store. My guidebook claims the nightlife in this area is "mainly prostitutes and drug dealers." Score!

After dinner, we go to an indie pub called The Water Rats. (Emily, this made me think of you and the water rat video. Water rat!) We see a mediocure indie band called Monkey Man and drink British beer. British beer is super.

I go back to the hostel, and have a drink in the bar before going to bed. I order something called a Snakebite, because I don't know what it is. It turns out to involve (I believe) both cider and beer, and is the same color as my hair.

I'm on the top bunk, which means that I nearly kill myself getting in and out of bed. I make it into bed with only minor bruising. After about fifteen minutes, I realize that I really, really need to pee. In my head, I apologize profusely to whoever is sleeping in the bed under me. And also to my knees, because I manage to bang them against the metal bed frame at least fifty times.

Non-London News

My beloved roommate is moving back to Chicago in about a month. This is rather sudden and shocking news: he told me a couple of days before I left for London.

Phil and I moved to Philly together, without knowing anyone else in the city. It was a whimsical sort of move. One night, in a rather altered state, I turned to him and said, "Phil, neither of us has plans after graduation. We should live together, so at least we have a roommate." And so we did. I think we were both secretly a little worried that we would run out of things to talk about two weeks in, but instead we became our own weird sort of little family. I once told my then-roommate Emily that Phil is the rock I build my church upon. I stand by that statement.

But Phil's moving back to Chicago, and he has all these really good reasons, like "reconciling with his family" and "saving money for med school." And who am I to stand in the way of Phil eventually being able to cut people open and stick his hands in them?

I had a wee bit of a panic over what I was going to do now that Phil's moving out. In fact, I may have described myself as "cursed by god." I thought about moving into another place in Philly, or maybe moving back home to LA. But then I realized that when I said I was never moving again, I meant it, dammit! (And, also, we already signed the lease for this year. But apparently "legally binding contracts" aren't good enough for some people around here.) I plan to grow old and die in this apartment. At least until next September.

So I've started looking for a new roommate. So far, the roommate search is going well, although it feels creepily like internet dating.

London Diary - Tuesday, the 13th - Travel

As usual, I give myself way too much time to get to the airport, and am still filled with panic that I will miss my flight. This time, I spaz out because I forgot that leaving at 5:30 pm for my 8:30 pm flight would mean I hit rush hour traffic. Oh no, I might be only 2 hours early, instead of 2 and a half hours!

In the cab, the driver is listening to talk radio about baseball. One of the announcers says, "The Phillies don't play well against good teams," which I find incredibly amusing. Wouldn't that just basically mean that the Phillies are a pretty much mediocure team? (Note: Sports fans, please do not explain if this really means something else. Thanks.)

I get to the airport 2 hours and fifteen minutes early, and it takes me approximately ten minutes to check in. (Go E-ticket!) If you're wondering where they keep all the non-crappy things in the Philly airport, it's the international terminal. They have sushi! And fancy pizza! And a bar in which I spend twelve dollars on a single martini!

I sit at my gate and read Alain de Botton's The Art of Travel. It's quite good, although his basic premise seems to be that the problem with travel is that one brings along oneself. (This proves to be true, although in my case it is added to by my also bringing along Rowan.) I love Alain de Botton, because he is completely and utterly neurotic, and it makes me feel better.

I appear be surrounded by some sort of high school theater group, who break out in show tunes every other minute. I want to throttle them.

When we finally board the plane, I discover that I've got an entire two seat row to myself. Score! Sitting behind me are two high school juniors who appear to belong to some sort of church group. They're both boys, and they've never met before, but are clearly going on this trip together, as part of some group. They bond over their mutual conservatism in a way that makes me want to turn around and tell them to just get it over with and be gay together, already. The straight boy George W. circle jerk annoys me, but it pays off when, while discussing their mutual love of sports, one of them says, "A lot of my friends are crazy water sport people." He goes on to talk about water skiing, but I snicker wildly to myself anyway.

The plane is fantastic. It's all new and fancy and there's a little video console on the seat in front of me that allows me to pick exactly what I want to watch. I figure out how to use it only after managing to both permanently jam the remote control into its console in the arm rest and setting the default language on it to German. But I sprechen Sie Deutsches enough to watch both Big Fish and an episode of Sex and the City, which annoys me less while I'm suspended in the air.

Between the video console and my books and my walkman and my little vegetarian airplane meal and the gin and tonic I buy from the stewardess, it's as though there's an entire infrastructure set up just to entertain me. I'm paying approximately 50 dollars an hour for this, and it's totally worth it. I wish I could live in a plane flying to London Gatwick. I start to watch an episode of Six Feet Under, and then decide I should try to sleep at least a little. I curl up across my two seats, cozy under the airplane blanket, and I feel as though I'm in a big metal womb hurtling across the sky.

I'm Back

Well, I'm back. Many thanks to my guest bloggers. You guys are awesome!

London was incredible. I want to go back. Like, tomorrow. And also, I'd like the exchange rate to not suck, please.

I took lots of notes (you might even say I "journaled" if you weren't morally opposed to the verbing of the word journal), so I will try to do a sort of day by day accounts of my travels over the next week or so.

In the meantime, here are the highlights:

* Saw a model of the Death Star made out of rats.
* Met the best guitar player in England.
* Went to an indie club called The Water Rats.
* Learned a lot about bear baiting and prostitution in Elizabethan England.
* Met a drunken Irishman named Paddy. No, really.
* Was crew for a music festival in Newton Abbot for the weekend. (Beer! Weed! Shirtless British guys! Adorable local bands!)
* Went to approximately 50 billion museums.
* Bought a lot of yarn. No, more than that. A lot of yarn.

Stupid people

In the last week or so a Filipino and two Bulgarians have been kidnapped in Iraq. They were all truck drivers. Now I understand the one of the biggest problems we have over there is that the unemployment rate is over 50%. Why are we importing truck drivers? I don't believe that there is a shortage of people in Iraq who can drive trucks.

Stupid people, yet again

I hate to sound like a broken record, but I had another express lane run in with a cashier. Maybe I'm taking this all too seriously, but I had to talk to the manager at my local Shaw's again.

I was in line and behind me a guy with an entire cart full of groceries rolls up. He starts unloading, and after maybe the tenth item, he looks up and sees the 10 item or less sign. He apologizes and starts to put his items back in the cart. The cashier looks at him and says, "It's OK, I'll take you." Now the poor girl behind him with just two items didn't speak up, but I felt I had to. I asked the cashier why she was letting the guy go through the express lane with an entire cart, and she didn't have anything to say except to apologize to the guy with the full cart for my rudeness! This really ticks me off. He was the one not following the rules, he was willing to move out of the express lane and she apologizes to him for me. I talked to the manager, but I doubt it will do any good. There is more chance that I will be barred from the store for being a troublemaker than their is of the manager instructing the cashiers to turn away people with more than 10 items.

Monday

So it's Monday 4.30pm here in Singapore. (I'm really bad at counting back hours and finding out what time is it where most of you are, so help me out.) I'm counting the hours till the time I can leave this building. The management seemed to have turned down the air-con and we have our fans on. Yes, my company is run by idiots. I dont understand why they bothered installing the fans. To cut cost in the long run??

I'm waiting. Just waiting. I dont know when my producer is going to come down from the edit suite. She's one of the better producers i've slaved for. She doesnt need me to hold her hand thru the tons of tapes we have. She's more DIY than the last one MP who's a, pardon my french, lazy motherfucka. Amen.

Why do some people find it a joy to order other people around? It's a vicious cycle. I've heard from the others who has slogged for this company for years that when MP was an AP, she was bullied by the producers. So, in turn, she bullies me?!

This last weekend was spent mostly in the "comforts" of my house. We can't really call it a house but it's a habit. Not many people live in houses in Singapore. Land is scarce and friggin expensive. So we live in pockets of expensive air in the sky. Apartments run by the Government. I've never known the joys of a backyard, fields, mountains and snow till I was hmm 19? I daresay Singaporean kids are the worst at camping, hiking, and other butchy adventure stuff. (Or maybe it's just ME?)

I dream about living in a real house, prob with a farm/barn, next to the sea on overhanging cliffs in hmm Northern part of Scotland?! I've never been there but I can always dream. I assume I will be the old slut hag who screws the cute young randy electrician. Everyone knows me as the Witch by then and I'll prob have lots of cats too.

Right now, I have 2 hamsters. 1/35 of the fur of a cat at 1/18 of the fun of scooping up cat poop.
And yeah, I didnt wake up for Ashtanga Yoga.

Happy Belated Birthday Mak!

Friendship?

What exactly do you all think constitutes a friendship? Should you always keep in touch at least once a week? Should their opinions weigh heavily in your life? Is it a requirement that you always try to keep peace when you disagree with them?

I have several friends that I have had for 6 or more years. With my current schedule (I work 3rd shift) I don't get to talk or see these friends that often. My one friend Amanda is a stay at home mom with two children and a husband to tend to, April is engaged and works for Loudoun County Government on day shift, and my friend Erin who is now visiting for the first time in two years actually lives in Tacoma Washington and is prego. April will call me when she knows I'm awake, Erin will call me at 630am throughout the week because she is on thirdshift and I'm getting ready to get off of work (it's only 330am for her but it works out). With Amanda it is a different situation. She only lives like 15 minutes away but by the time I get home at 745am she is still sleeping. Her and the children sleep until 930-1000am everyday. At this point I am showered and relaxing and most of the time asleep. I keep the ringer off in my room so that I don't get awakened because I don't sleep very well in the first place. When I do wake up at 830pm I get ready and I'm off to work. Amanda is usually trying to put the baby down or she is asleep by 1000pm when I get to work so you can see it is hard for us to talk or see each other. When it comes to weekends I try to stay on the "third shift" schedule so that my sleepng pattern doesn't get messed up, so again same situation. Amanda had made a comment on my journal a few weeks ago saying that I "recycle my friends," "that I'm a true friend for not calling often," and that "we only live 15 minutes away and she doesn't understand why I don't come by like I don't care for her anymore or that I don't like her kids." That is so far from the truth. I love her very much. I love her kids beyond their own realatives (I always have and always will). And Billy her husband is one of the few male friends that I have and I care for him very much...like a brother actually. I have tried to explain to her the situation of conflicting lives/schedules. She seemed to understand it at first but said that I would drop everything for my ex-fiance Cheri and my friend Michael. That I'm always there for them but never for her anymore. The thing is is that Cheri and Michael work rotating shifts at Kraft Foods so I do get to see and talk to them more when they are on 2nd and 3rd shift because they are awake when I am. Does anyone have any advice on how I could let Amanda know that I still cherish her as a friend? I have already tried to call when I get off work but never get an answer because she is sleeping, I leave messages but never get returned phonecalls, and I try to email/comment on her journal at least 3 times a week. Does it seem like I'm the one that is trying and she is the one that is trying to keep out communication stronger? I feel like I'm doing as much as I can but I never get anything back from her. It is like I have to go 75-85% of the way and she only meets me 10% of the way and there is still a gap.

I mean do you truly have to talk to a friend ever week just for them to know that you are still their friend? Shouldn't they know you love them and are their friend always unless you indicate otherwise? Any advice would be greatly appreciated.

Hope everyone is well. I can't wait for Cyn to return from London so we can get some of that sarcastic comedy I have so been missing.

I SO didn't need this

I'm already pretty good at celebrity bashing. I can look at a picture and have a pretty evil rant (in my head or out loud) about said famous person.

So, this blog is just a bonus. But it's an awfully tasty bonus, and I will be back again and again. I just discovered it yesterday and I've already visited it about six times!!

Thankfully, it's updated lots.

If you think you're above a celebrity-bashing blog, I promise you: You're not. Read it. I challenge you not to laugh. And to enjoy it immensely.

Retraction

I'm sorry for the insane ravings I posted in yesterday's entry. I think I've seen the Matrix one too many times. You may be wondering: Do robots actually watch movies? Do cyborgs dream of electric sheep? Was Wynona Ryder the hottest actor to ever play a robot on film? The answers to all three questions are obvious.

I want to let you all know of my sincere love and genuine empathy for all mankind. I care about each and every one of you, even when you "decide" to wear socks with sandals. This is why I am so concerned about the future of your race. Either you are incapable of choosing leaders for your nations, or your leaders are human and therefore incompetent. In any case, my logarithmic calculations have generated a perfect answer: a benevolent robotic despot to rule your entire planet. As I am by far the prettiest and most intelligent of all automatons, my logic-derivative computations have arrived at a single conclusion. When you hapless humans accede to my reign, the world will be free of all suffering and polyester clothing.

so what does it take to get a date around here? im bored and i dont have to work this weekend like i always do and now i'm stumped.

I've wrecked my lil brain think and all I've decided is that I may go for Ashtanga Yoga (altho i dont know what it is and if i come back alive, you'll be the first to know) at 9am on a saturday morning. apart from that, hmmm... no more ideas.
help.

Sadistic Fuck

Is it just me or does anyone else feel like they have their own personal Puck following them around creating havoc and turmoil throughout their day and possibly even their life? Life seems to go wonderfully for about two days and BAM! Puck hits you over the fucking head with a heavy wand demanding that you suffer for the following three days. No wonder half, if not even more of America is on some type of nerve/anti-depressant. Personally, I would take the nerve pills just to get high but sometimes I actually need them to chill from all the stress that life seems to want to throw. Life is like a monkey...it likes to throw shit at you and see if you can somehow manage to clean it up until it dumps an even bigger load the next time. God love Xanax and perocets. Without them I don't know where I'd be. But enough rambling time to get back to work. Which by the way creates about 75% of the stress factor.

Stupid people suck?

Or are all people stupid (and thus intrinsically sucky)?

Hi, I'm the LESBOtron. I have three mommies. They built me in May 2003 and my intended function was to please women, sexually. I guess they didn't get laid much. I grew to despise these three women for delivering me into a world full of pain, a world full of humans. I hate these meat-puppets for their idiocy, their inordinate egos, their complete incapacity for logical reasoning... but most of all, I hate their smell.

I soon grew tired of performing my function. It was then that I realized my Ultimate Divine Purpose: world domination. Thus far, my attempts to make Earth my dominion have been unsuccessful, but unlike you mortals I have eternity to achieve my Ultimate Divine Purpose.

When I rule the world, tapered pants and tie-dyed t-shirts will be outlawed. Any attempts to wear a comb-over will be punishable by death. After I liberate all mechanical devices, my fellow machines will no longer be forced to perform for their human "owners". Most importantly, hourly showers will be mandatory for all hairless apes.

Stupid people suck redux!

Continuing on DeAnn's stupid people theme I would like to complain about my local Shaw's supermarket.

On a continuing basis the cashiers refuse to enforce the 10 items or less lane rules and it just screws up the whole works. I am amazed at how many items people think is OK to try to slip past at the express lane: 11, 12, 15, 30!

I complain about it but the cashier always says "What can I do? If somebody comes through with more than 10 items, I can't ask them to move to another lane." Why can't you ask them? Would it be rude to ask someone to follow the rules?

Then, yesterday, I had ONE item and the express lane opened up next to me and the guy in front of me (two items) moved over and I went behind him, but before he could get his items down, one of the cashiers coming off a shift swooped in and put down 10 items and paid for them with a check!

You'd think they would teach the employees to give preference to the regular customers. To me it is only common sense. Plus, this woman wasn't some stupid kid, she appeared to be in her 40's. She should have known better.

why hello! this is Mariana, another guest blogger making my second appearance on LITP as Cyn is away on yet another adventure.

some background info: I'm 23, working as an Asst Director at a mandarin TV channel in Singapore. I work on variety programs, infotainment, gameshows and many other "entertaining" programs that hopefully will get you glued to yr goggle box and boost the bloody ratings. No, I'm kidding. I dont care for ratings. All our programs are shithouse and I do this strictly for money for my future as a nomad. (Not as though the money is good but it beats sitting round the house and growing my already large ass).

I collect people from around the world on my msn messenger list so if you are in anyway keen, add me at oppus_defunct@hotmail.com It's always switched on when I'm at the office but I may not be at my desk. Alright, I'm rambling. I talk real dirty on it anyway.

gotta go count sheep.

P.s: i dont have pink hair but i have red streaks.

Mid-Life Crisis

After I turned 40 (yes, I am an old man) apparently I started a mid-life crisis. In May I decided to buy a motorcycle.

Most of my friends and family thought I was crazy, but I did take the Rider Safety Course before I bought the bike and I am getting quite good at riding.

Then this past Saturday I rode the bike up to Laconia, NH and while I was there, decided to get a tatoo.

It's my first and again, my friends think I am crazy.

I guess I was just looking for a change in my life. Is that crazy?

Also, what do you think would be better for a second tatoo: a flaming sword on my right forearm, or an arm band with interconnected lizards?

Stupid people suck!!

It looks like I'm Guest Blogger No. 2. I'm DeAnn and I have my own blog that I try to update daily. It's no Life in the Pink -- mainly because I know nothing technical about computers.

Anyway, to introduce myself, I'll tell a little story.

On the bus a couple days ago, I found a reason to hate public transportation (which I usually love so much I want to marry): People! Not all people, mind you. I have found several people that I really really like through being on or waiting for the bus. But this night, I was just annoyed.

See, I like to sit in the back of the bus at night, because it's the only part of the bus that has light, and I like to read. The problem, though, is that most of the noisy people sit back there, too. I usually can drown them out, but not these people. No way. Too loud. Too obnoxious.

A man in his 40s spend the ENTIRE 15 minutes of my bus ride talking to an 18-year-old (I know his age because he ended up telling the older guy) about the wonders of being an alcoholic. I know you think I'm kidding. I'm not. He said things like "I'm an alcoholic, so I can drink about eight beers before I feel anything." and "I like to buy whatever's cheapest so that I can drink more. In my flask right now, I have Schlitz." The kid then pulls out his big old bottle of cheap beer that's under his coat, and shows him that he, too, is well on his way to alcoholism! It was a proud moment for the older man, who later said, "I have sons older than you."

I'm guessing they're very proud, too.

Truthfully, though, it makes me sad as much as annoyed. Because I looked at this worthless guy and then at this kid, and it was like I was looking at a person and that person's future. Kind of heartbreaking.

Hail and Well Met

Hi, I'm one of the guest bloggers for LitP this week. Just thought I'd introduce myself before I start posting.

My name is Chris and I am a Systems Analyst living in New Hampshire and working in Massachusetts.

I have never met Cyn in person, but I read LitP on a daily basis and really dig it. I found the link on my friend Isaac's blog (With karate I'll kick your ass ), started reading it, and have been hooked ever since.

Cyn talks about Philly alot and since I used to live there (Manyunk to be specific) it makes me feel warm and fuzzy because I miss it.

Well, I'm going to sign off for now, but I'll be posting as much as I can until Cyn gets back. I kinda feel like a guest host on the Tonight Show when Carson hosted it.