It's wicked to mock the afflicted

I dream funny

2011-01-12T19:54:00.002Z

I had a dream. Across the street from me three homeless men were shouting at the passing traffic. A black car drove past with two small children in the backseat.
The men shouted, “Hey kids!”
“You can’t even read,” one man yelled, then they all chorused, “You looooooose.”
I laughed so much I woke myself up.

Maybe of the Century

2010-10-28T19:30:00.001Z

I am in the tub, splashing about in the misery, having the time of my life, toaster held aloft, and my wife comes in and ruins the best pity party of the year.

Bus Life

2010-06-23T08:31:00.000Z

MONDAY The C2 toward Soho. The woman across from me is holding her broken heel. She is putting it in place, willing it to affix itself. She takes out her phone from her bag. Peeking from the zipper mouth is a pregnancy testing kit.

TUESDAY The C2 toward Kentish Town. The bus in front of us clips a pedestrian. He’s down. He isn’t moving. I don’t see blood. Ambulances are already screaming their approach. A businesswoman beside me is in a huff, because the bus driver won’t open the doors to let us out. He does 30 seconds later.

You know that guy dancing with the pigeons at Trafalgar? We need to be more like him.

2010-04-01T07:21:00.000Z

Crowds depress me. They demonstrate how uninterestingly same people are. It's sad that only the insane stand out from the mass. Surely there is a better way to be an individual?

What to Do with Your Dead Mom

2010-02-05T10:26:00.000Z

Since childhood a common discussion with my mother has been her funeral and what to do with her remains. She's firmly in the burn-me-up camp. She has nightmares of being buried alive. Burned alive doesn't seem to concern her as much.

Since I seem determined (her words, not mine) to disappoint her grandchildren ambitions, I have since suggested an alternative. As she'll be long gone (again, her words) by the time I get around to making dribbling crying copies of myself, I've told her that my plan differs from her own. She'll be stuffed in a Bela Lugosi pose.

Of course, her eyes will be replaced with flashing red LEDs as is tradition.

The idea being is that even in death she can participate in the rearing of her descendants, as a disciplinary measure. If you don’t clean your room, you're going into the closet with grandmother.

I think ole' Momo is coming around to the idea.

The Dreams of My Younger Self

2009-10-29T13:27:00.003Z

I'm depressed today. I found a crumpled note in the back of my filing cabinet written by my younger self, aged ten. The little Jarred was full of ambition and idealism. Somehow in the course of growing up and becoming responsible, I've lost sight of the dreams that the ten year old Jarred with a red crayon and a goal decided to capture in a simple, maybe naive, to-do list. I am impressed that at that young age, I had the foresight to establish my ultimate goal and devise the necessary preceding steps to achieve it. So, today, in honour of that precocious child, I pledge to no longer neglect the dreams of my younger self. I've tacked above my desk little Jarred's simple list of things to achieve and I'm going to do him proud: 1. Get Rich, 2. Become Above the Law, 3. Raise Private Army and 4.(my goal) Hunt Man for Sport.

The Emperor's New Season

2009-10-25T11:02:00.001Z

I happened to be in Paris during their fashion week. I highly recommend it, but not for the reasons you might think. We spent the afternoon sitting outside the Café Ruc. As our bottles emptied, our laughter got louder and our pointing became less discrete. There was of course a share of truly beautiful and well-dressed individuals, but they were a rarity. More often it looked like the circus was in town and the clowns had gotten hold of fake tan and Botox. The flow of fashionista wannabes tended to totter up the Rue Saint Honoré. Out of the hope they were massing in one place like neon-colored ladybugs with eating disorders, we followed. Our hopes were fulfilled at a shop called Colette. S_ went inside. I stayed out.
A large black Mercedes docked at the curb side. The driver got out and opened the back door. A well-heeled gentleman stepped from the car and disappeared into the shop in a swish of camel hair.
A man in a bicycle courier's outfit put his nose against the glass and searched the interior of the car, examining the occupants. He did the same to the passengers in the backseat then back to the front. He did this over and over. They stared forward and pretended that he didn't exist. The lips of the woman in the front seat pursed like an asshole under her perfect quaff.
"Anybody interesting?" I asked the courier.
"No. Just piles of shit in a car," he responded and led his bike away.

Jump to the Left, Put Your Hands on Your Hips, And...

2009-10-18T09:26:00.002Z

I was ten the first time I saw Rocky Horror Picture Show live. I know now that I have a genetic pre-disposition to deviance and weirdness but that night, although I didn't understand most of what was happening, I knew what I witnessed in the theater aisles and on the screen were right and good.
My best friend at the time ruled his mother with a bratty whine and temper tantrums that pierced the ear. She bought us near-beer and gained a promise that I wouldn't tell my mother as a comprise when he started in on his dad's supply of Milwaukee's Best. Somehow he had heard about the Rocky Horror Picture Show and decided that it was something he also wanted.
Back then (am I really old enough to use that phrase), Rocky Horror was only shown in shabby dollar movie theaters at midnight.
Dutifully she drove us to the theater, bought us tickets and popcorn and sat down with us for the show. His mom was a southern Belle of the genteel persuasion. Her perfect coif was shipped directly from the fifties. She spoke in the most polite and honeyed southern tones.
The show started and I had found my world. I leaned forward eyes wide, darting to and fro the costumed people in the audience throwing hot dogs, doing the time warp, trying to fuck the narrator's butt chin. Beside me my friend greedily chomped at his popcorn and chuckled at the tits on screen. The mom didn't move. She tried to entreat her son to leave but he silenced her with a 'shut up, Mom'. She gripped the theater seat and squeezed her eyes shut the entire time. On the occasions she opened them, there would be a huff and an 'oh my god'. I tried to feel guilty but the pull of weirdness was too much for my ten year old soul.
As I got older I became more refined in my tastes for the odd but that first Rocky Horror, like a first love, will never be forgotten.
When the lights went up and we dusted the rice and confetti from our laps, the crowd began to leave and one of the audience members dressed as Frank-N-Furter pointed us out and yelled, “Holy shit, this lady brought her kids.” They all laughed. The mom was horrified. I felt like the baddest ass ten year old in the world.

Accion Mutante!

2009-09-13T13:22:00.004Z

The other night I was out with the Japanese heart throb known as Lone-u Wolf-u, aka S_. Beside us sat a group of disability rights activists. A nice bunch with their hearts in the right place, but they declined my suggestions at using direct action tactics. I outlined a plan for blowing up the staircases in prominent buildings around London. I thought the wheat pasting of a sign saying "If we can't leave the ground floor, neither can you" on the targeted buildings was a nice touch but they said they'll stick with drafting a strongly worded petition. I think they are missing a trick there.

Comprend-ay, amigo?

2009-09-10T17:41:00.002Z

Human communication is a sophisticated and sublime thing. The other day I was driving and a motorcyclist with a toot of his horn, a point to his turn signal and a rude gesture communicated his displeasure at my lane changing technique.

horn toot + point point + rude gesture = "Excuse me, may I have your attention, I feel that you did not sufficiently use your turn signal, you wanker."

Incredible, no? And with a gentle tap of my bumper to his back tire I made my rebuttal that we both tacitly agreed ended the discussion.

Boo Hoo. Noone Understands Me.

2009-08-21T08:23:00.003Z

Writers are a bunch a whining ingrates. Only at this moment in the history of mankind can we entertain the possibility that sitting in front of a machine, which costs more money than what the majority of people on the planet need to stay alive, to make up stories is justified. Two favourite moans of writers is that it is lonely (boo hoo) and really hard work (ah, you're breaking my heart now).
Let's clarify things.
Lonely is solitary confinement in prison. When you are writing you are alone. That's it. When you are done, you go to the pub or you kiss your wife on the cheek. Writing being lonely is not even close to being true. The modest things I have achieved thus far with my writing is because I have surrounded myself with talented people with whom I share my work and discuss the process of writing and celebrate our shared passion for these squiggling black lines that, better than any other art form, explain what it means to be human.
As for writing being hard work, hard work is being ten and sorting coal in a mine. Writing is about getting things right, being meticulous. And it's a privilege that my life has accumulated enough comfort to afford the hours wasted doing so.
Since I count myself as a writer and therefore by definition a whining ingrate, I will share with you my greatest complaint. I am exhausted by people confusing their desire to be an author as one desires to be a doctor or politician rather than desiring to write. You're an idiot if you think writing is a career choice.

Dear Neda, I'm Sorry

2009-06-24T08:28:00.003Z

If you find online the video of the murder of Neda, "The Angel of Iran", you will see death; worse, you will see dying; worse still, you will see and hear humans witnessing one of their young dying. There is a moment when those around her understand, from a sign unseen, that the motionless figure beneath them has ceased being a living human being. From them a keening rises, a sound unique to the witnessing of dying becoming death, which will haunt me for weeks.

I am naïve about politics, and I am completely ignorant about politics in Iran. I don't know if Mousavi will be as bat shit crazy as the last guy. For all I know he will continue to squander a young nation's greatest resource, it's people.

However, I know tyranny when I see it. It's easy to spot. It's predictable and unimaginative. It's men with power and hunger but no vision. Power and hunger, no better than a beast. Ahmadinejad and the Supreme Leader (the hint is in the name) have little more than that, never mind the ideology they drape over themselves.

So for that reason alone, let us pray that these disturbing videos like the one of Neda's murder will become artefacts of a historical moment in time.

Let the tyrants fall and come what may.

Beautiful London Moment #472

2009-06-10T10:24:00.003Z

The lead-coloured skies over Victoria Station whispered rain. Waiting for the "green man" light, a drift¹ of suits stood in their blacks, greys and dark business-blues. At the centre of the monochrome massing on the pavement, a beaming gentleman stood: a shining-white grin, grass green fuzzy Kanga cap, matching Adidas track suit and shoes. -Beautiful London Moment #472

¹Yes, 'drift' is the correct collective noun for a group of business men.

Gesundheit, Swinefikker

2009-05-07T10:10:00.003Z

I forget sometimes my humour is an acquired taste. On the tube yesterday I sneezed. I excused myself by saying, "Sorry, swine flu." A few people smirked but a few more moved carriages at the next stop.

God is found in many places

2009-04-08T18:28:00.008Z

Look at ole' Terry in the first picture and then look at the two boys on the right in the second.

Ecstasy of St. Theresa by Bernini

Big Jay McNeely by Bob Willoughby

I am appalled at English's lack of words for this experience. The closest I could find was Theosis. Theosis kind of means "oneness with god". All them foreigners have great ones like Wajd. C'mon people, help me out. We have to have a good one.

Ah, London Mornings

2009-04-08T08:23:00.002Z

See the glimmer of a low sun against the Kensington landmarks, Natural History Museum, V&A, Harrod's.
Park in the shadow of Westminster Cathedral where children are being dropped off for school.
Take a shot of the best Italian coffee in Victoria made by a barista from Kosovo.
Walk under a window and hear Otis Redding slide out of a flat window as somebody with soul gets ready for work.
Ah, London mornings.

One potato peeler, Two potato peeler.

2009-03-27T14:39:00.001Z

The nice thing about living in London is being close to several international airports which sundry friends and relatives can utilise to visit us. This is always welcome, even the occasional mad person that I have befriended during the course of my life.

The phone rang late one night, not late enough to think it was an emergency but late enough for me not to answer it. The voice message I received was J_'s calm middle-aged female voice filtered through her Catalan accent. She was in search of her potato peeler that she felt she might have left at our house during her last visit.

She did, in fact, bring her own potato peeler as she felt it necessary for the preparation of a "thank you for the room and board" meal. However, I didn't recall seeing the implement and considered searching for it low on my priority list. I did not respond, nor did I to the second voice message or the email.

When I received the third phone call that first made conjectures about my untimely death then asked if I had found her peeler, I immediately sent an email saying I had indeed found her peelers. Peelers plural.

The next day I bought ten identical peelers. I knew where to find them because one of her phone calls specified the shop and price (IKEA £1). I posted them without a note and waited for the response.

It came, "Which one is my peeler?"

"It is a little known fact that potato peelers are one of the few kitchen utensils that are capable of asexual reproduction," was my reply.

The Queen doing the School run

2009-03-11T21:31:00.002Z

On this island they speak a language similar to my own and sometimes I forget that I'm the one with the accent. It's for those reasons and more that I sometime forget I am a foreigner. Then like a bug into an open mouth, I am reminded.

The other day I was late for a hair cut, because the hereditary head of state had to go from one palace to another by a horse-drawn entourage. Ah, London.

People who don't live in glasshouses should throw stones

2009-03-10T10:10:00.004Z

Scientists are excited because it shows apes are capable of planning. I'm excited because it proves even chimps know that some people deserve to have rocks thrown at them.
Planning of the Apes: Zoo Chimp Plots Rock Attacks on Visitors

To Henry

2009-03-09T07:27:00.003Z

I'm a strong proponent of the maxim, "Never meet your heroes". It's happened to me twice and it was a bitter experience each time. Bukowski died a couple years after I discovered him. So I was never in danger of breaking the rule with him. It's a good thing too, because by all accounts he was a truly horrible person. It amazes me that a man who understood so much could be such a wife-beating asshole. Regardless of the man, his work taught a teenage me a thousand lessons that I still hold to my heart.

So, in a tradition that started a long time ago, I went to the riverside with a flask of whisky (any intoxicant is acceptable), a good friend who has the understanding and a fist full of Bukowski poems (Kerouac is acceptable as well as his birth date is the 12th of March). We sat at the Southbank and we talked of writing, of life and eulogized our heroes - long may we never meet. Upon the conclusion of our meeting, I read this poem¹ over the Thames as group of waddling and dumb-struck tourists listened and, as we left, I passed the teenagers watching the skaters zip past the graffitied cement. I recognised one of them. It was me over a decade ago.
"Do you know who Bukowski is?" I asked.
"No," he said.
I handed him the poem and left, hoping, like in the parable of the sower, the message had found fertile ground.

Charles Bukowski (August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994) - The History Of One Tough Motherfucker¹

he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and
terrorized
a white cross-eyed tailless cat
I took him in and fed him and he stayed
grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway
and ran him over
I took what was left to a vet who said,"not much
chance...give him these pills...his backbone
is crushed, but is was crushed before and somehow
mended, if he lives he'll never walk, look at
these x-rays, he's been shot, look here, the pellets
are still there...also, he once had a tail, somebody
cut it off..."
I took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the
hottest in decades, I put him on the bathroom
floor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn't eat, he
wouldn't touch the water, I dipped my finger into it
and wet his mouth and I talked to him, I didn't go any-
where, I put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to
him and gently touched him and he looked back at
me with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went
by he made his first move
dragging himself forward by his front legs
(the rear ones wouldn't work)
he made it to the litter box
crawled over and in,
it was like the trumpet of possible victory
blowing in that bathroom and into the city, I
related to that cat-I'd had it bad, not that
bad but bad enough
one morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and
just looked at me.
"you can make it," I said to him.
he kept trying, getting up falling down, finally
he walked a few steps, he was like a drunk, the
rear legs just didn't want to do it and he fell again, rested,
then got up.
you know the rest: now he's better than ever, cross-eyed
almost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in
his eyes never left...
and now sometimes I'm interviewed, they want to hear about
life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,
shot, runover de-tailed cat and I say,"look, look
at this!"
but they don't understand, they say something like,"you
say you've been influenced by Celine?"
"no," I hold the cat up,"by what happens, by
things like this, by this, by this!"
I shake the cat, hold him up in
the smoky and drunken light, he's relaxed he knows...
it's then that the interviews end
although I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures
later and there I am and there is the cat and we are photo-
graphed together.
he too knows it's bullshit but that somehow it all helps.

The Fountain

2009-02-28T12:00:00.006Z

Somewhere, a long time ago, in a foreign city, the sign was saying something important. That much I knew. Cut into the stone in sharp serious letters, Arcing over a fountain bubbling fresh water from the mountains, the words, undecipherable to me, were revealing an essential truth. Or maybe the phrase's ellipsis was prompting me for a response. I stared for a long time, waiting for the characters to dance and reorder themselves to make their meaning clear. They never did and, when a passing group of school children broke the spell, I stepped forward and drank from my cupped hand. Someday I'll return to see if those words make sense to me now.

2009-01-24T10:08:00.002Z

I don't have a home anymore. I mean a home like Dali's Figueras or Woody Allen's New York. There is no place on this earth whose landscapes begs me to return. There is no patch of earth that I can point to and say this was my father's and his father's before him.

Home for me exists wherever my wife and I happen to be. However, there was an exception. There is a small town in Scotland, now incorporated by the larger city of Edinburgh. The place is Leith. It was a place I longed for and I was happy to have a chance to return recently. I was all smiles and pleasure to see the familiar places of that town, but it came with a sad recognition. I realized that I pined not only for a place but that place in time. Although I returned, I could not revisit the moments I had occupied there. It saddens me that I can no longer claim -- however tenuous that claim was to start with -- that a port town on the East coast of Scotland was home.

2009-01-08T23:55:00.003Z

reasons to be cheerful

summer thunderstorms.
autumn winds fluttering leaves before my car.
S_ laughing at corny jokes.
perfect sentences.
elderly couples holding hands.
the chatter of foreign children in a playground.
cackle of a group of old women.
girls wearing fake moustaches.
cities at sunrise, at night, at rest, buzzing.

Add your own below...

2009-01-07T10:19:00.003Z

Here's a trend that needs to die, calling 'buying crap you don't need as an investment'. Buying a fucking food dehydrator is not an investment, it's a waste of fucking money. I drove past Selfridge's to see it plastered with signs about 'investment' opportunities. Yesterday the phrase had snuck into newspapers. My knuckles have been rubbed raw by punching people in the forehead for using the phrase, "Retail Therapy". I am afraid this new linguistic abortion requires an escalation of violence. I am sure you will all agree that I am entirely justified in setting fire to the person or advert that uses this phrase. In the immortal words of W. G. Grace, "9 out of 10 men would do the same under provocation".

2009-01-02T23:42:00.001Z

This is the exact noise that I make whenever I see a reality TV show.

2008-12-09T12:53:00.003Z

I so jealous of a friend. He looks just like Nero, and has the marble busts to prove it. I'm too much of an American mutt to have any distinctive ethnic features. Except my eyebrows. I got doosies. Groucho Marx eat your heart out. And, there is one European ethnic group who also have their trumps in eyebrows. The Greeks. And recently one Greek I know suggested that I will look like Constantine P. Cavafy when I get older. 'Who is he?', I ask google. A Greek Homosexual Poet as it turns out. A devient and an artist. Two great tastes that go together! So folks, what do you think? It's not quite the mad fiddler of Rome, but it's not bad. Is this me at fifty?

2008-11-25T11:17:00.001Z

Great writing is great writing.

2008-11-24T14:27:00.002Z

Being Foreign Suits Me

Having just gotten back from the US I have been asked one question the most: What is the biggest change since I left? Lo-flo toilets. Never mind the hulking beasts of SUVs still stalking every fucking road in the country, but that is a different complaint. The greatest changes have happened within myself. Nationalism is a 19th century idea and it is one to which I do not subscribe. However, I am and will always be identified as an American and I feel regret to know that I view the country of my birth with the eyes of a foreigner. I enjoy its pleasures and am amused by its peccadilloes in equal measure. Although I am more at home in Europe, I know it will never be my home. So, I my identity must drift somewhere off shore between the two. So be it.

2008-11-06T14:05:00.000Z

A legacy inherited? God Bless you Mr. Washington.

2008-11-05T10:06:00.003Z

I have been amazed at the Europeans around me and their the level of interest in the American elections and its results. Good news, my friends. You too can become American. We have our own shahadah. Repeat this phrase sincerely before an American and you will come into grace. Then, in four years you can vote for his re-election.

"I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands: One nation, indivisible, With liberty and justice for all."

2008-10-31T14:38:00.002Z

There are few things more abhorrent in our little isolated bubble of privilege and excess as advertising industry. But they have money and I want some. So, here are a couple pitches.

Pitch number one. We do a photo series inspired by the corpse piles from the photographs of the liberation of Dachau using only the best and most vacuous of today's super models. Because, let's face it if those girls weren't murdered by racist Nazi fucks, they would have been fabulous. I mean, just look at those figures. Ribs and sex appeal. Curves are for the fat girl catalogues.
We can pay homage to those fabulous but forgotten by recreating those images as a photo shot for Manolo Blahnik. Picture the bodies of models like Kate, Agyness, Giselle, etc. Their emaciated but perfectly groomed bodies cast upon each other, limbs akimbo, like a pile of human kindling, wearing only the finest examples of fall season oh eight. We can do a Spielberg and have it shot on grainy black and white stock except for the shoes are full super saturated colour. Gorgeous. Maybe a nice tag line like 'they died so that Manolo might live' or 'I'd rather die than leave my Blahniks'. I don't know; I am open to suggestions.

Pitch number two. This one is pretty versatile. It'll sell anything. And sex sells anything, so I hear. You flip through any kind of magazine and you have pre-pubescent girls pouting their lips and arching their backs to sell anything from clothes to bacon. It always confuses me why the seconds-long exposure of a grown woman's areola is taboo but it is okay to have a 17 year-old pop star grind her spangled clad groin against a pole for three minutes. But, rules are rules and, by god, I know if you want to flog some crap you can't be breaking rules. So, my original idea of having a 29 second close up of the coitus of two white heterosexual and married couple followed by one second black back-grounded logo shot and a deep-voiced reading of the company's tag line. But, imagine how the cases of Budweiser would fly off the shelves after the unwashed masses got a load of fuck fuck fuck then bam - "Budweiser. King of Beers" read by the guy who does the "ready to rumble" spiel. So, yes that one is out. Instead we get all Hitchcock on the people. I'm talking visual allegory baby! We film a tight shot of the business ends of pigs humping like the mad mammals they are, cleaned up and sparkling pink, mind you. 28 seconds of that. 1 second of a zoom out to reveal it's pigs rather than people and so we can say to the censors 'it's just nature, man, taking its course', then before the blood rushes away from the viewers' genitals – "Budweiser. King of Beers".

Please make checks payable to, wickedtomocktheafflicted marketing consultancy.

2008-10-20T10:14:00.001Z

I learned a new word at work the other day. Monetize. Then I realized that I already had a word to describe that action. Whoring.

2008-10-14T08:02:00.002Z

I promise I practice every day but cynicism doesn't come naturally to me. This is obvious when I watch a video like this and it thrills me with its possibilities and its hopefulness.

Let it be true.

2008-10-10T13:21:00.003Z

Mana Mana

With their mother, two beautiful children, brother and sister, dressed in their school uniforms, were sat beside me on the tube. They made it the best commute I ever had when they broke into this song.

The girl doing the 'do do do'. The boy doing the 'mana mana' part.

Then on the commute home I had the thought, "wouldn't it be nice to ride the bus home and not have to smell businessmen's farts."

2008-10-02T10:17:00.001Z

I went to see Seasick Steve last night. He's one of the few living blues players I can stomach, never mind enjoy. He absolves the sins of SRV.

It's been a long time since I've been to a show that wasn't in the back room of a bar. I forgot you should never show up early. It's a lot of waiting and doing nothing. It was even worse because it was at the Royal Albert hall. Great venue, but not for this kind of music. No drinking? It's the blues, goddamnit. Plus, it looked like many seats went to corporations who filled the seats with suited cultural philistines.

However I was glad I caught the opening act, Amy LaVere. Think bluesy-honkeytonk Mazzy Star.

Now removed from musicians and arty-fartys, I tend to find new music in a random and uncontextual manner. This is good because I listen to the music rather than the hype. A consequence is I have no idea how popular a musician is or their demographic of listeners. I sometimes think I found a little treasure of all my own only to find out he's been on the tele. Oh well, nevermind.

2008-09-30T08:17:00.004Z

Fail out 2008 (in pictures)

I don't have your money; it's in his golden parachute and hers.

Looks like I picked the wrong day to fund my 401k pension scheme.

It's raining suits, hallelujah.

2008-09-17T14:42:00.000Z

In my ongoing sociological investigations of this island's native inhabitants, I attended what is known in the local dialect as a banger race. See figure 1 for an example.

Figure 1: A video demonstrating the subgenre of banger races called caravan racing.

It was a pleasurable experience and my inner 10 year smiled with glee as transmission fluid and tire rubber flew into my face. Above the simple pleasure of crashing metal and speeding vehicles, I loved watching the woman counting the laps, waving the flags and directing the race. As the leading cars sped past her she would point and signal their position: first, second, third etc. She did it with flicks and twists of the wrist as eloquent as a belly dancer's. Every movement she made as she juggled the thousand tasks of her position was done with a grace that seemed out of place amongst the raw growling power of the cars zipping past.

2008-09-11T17:30:00.003Z

Shhh! Pay attention. Brother Holden is going to preach some truth.

--copied from "The Catcher in the Rye" by J. D. Salinger--

Somebody'd written "Fuck you" on the wall. It drove me damn near crazy. I thought how Phoebe and all the other little kids would see it, and how they'd wonder what the hell it meant, and then finally some dirty kid would tell them--all cockeyed, naturally--what it meant, and how they'd all think about it and maybe even worry about it for a couple of days. I kept wanting to kill whoever'd written it.

…

I went down by a different staircase, and I saw another "Fuck you" on the wall. I tried to rub it off with my hand again, but this one was scratched on, with a knife or
something. It wouldn't come off. It's hopeless, anyway. If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even half the "Fuck you" signs in the world. It's impossible.

…

Then, all of a sudden, you'd never guess what I saw on the wall. Another "Fuck you." It was written with a red crayon or something, right under the glass part of the wall, under the stones.
That's the whole trouble. You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write "Fuck you" right under your nose. Try it sometime. I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it'll say "Holden Caulfield" on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it'll say "Fuck you." I'm positive, in fact.

Amen.

2008-09-09T15:54:00.000Z

At work, I was chatting with a Yorkshire man that pronounced project as in 'the software project' like the Wu-tang, PRO-ject. If he had said sword and pronounced the 'W', I would have been the happiest man in the IT department.

2008-08-23T07:36:00.003Z

This pleases my soul in many ways. It is just pure, unadulterated joy. See two other humans enjoying the pleasure of living. Every detail is amusing: the two kids, their kitchen in the background and the one on the right's little belly folds and half shirt. Watch it and not grin and you are dead on the inside.

P.S. Their 'Volere' is worth the price of admission as well. It includes fake mustaches and a dancing mom in the background.

2008-08-18T13:34:00.002Z

We drove past the Cernas Abbas Giant.

We stood in front of the tourist information board reading about the history of this chalk figure. A man and his toddling daughter stood beside us. He pointed out the giant on the opposite hill and the little girl cheered, "I see him".
He pointed again and said, "Do you see his big--"
S_ and I turned expectantly.
"--stick", he continued.

2008-08-14T08:49:00.004Z

Waiting for S_ at Waterloo, I overheard a no-neck American fratboy cum businessman tell his British colleagues, "Cheers, dude". His awkward attempt at assimilation was simultaneously obnoxious and endearing.

2008-08-03T12:04:00.000Z

I had thought that the didgeridoo was invented for hippies to annoy others at parties. Then I heard a professional perform a song about a dingo chasing an emu.

The instrument's music/anti-musical sound moved me beyond any piece of avant-garde piano banging.

I never fathomed that a tube of bark that usually rests in the corner of a co-op beside unused guitars and cobwebbed dream catchers could simultaneously produce the depth and complexity of sound I experienced. The song itself communicated a simple narrative of dog versus bird. Amazing.

Here's something close but still not sufficient.

2008-07-28T11:06:00.001Z

2008-07-24T12:21:00.001Z

I worry about a lot of things. I worry how I will handle fame and wealth. This might seem arrogant or presumptuous, but I also worry about zombie attack and have contingency plans for that eventuality as well. Most of all, I worry whether I am a good man.

Recently I attended a wedding for two of the good'uns, beautiful people in every sense. I also had a birthday around the same time. Both events made me take notice of the people with whom I have surrounded myself and call friends.

If a man's friends are any mark to the quality of his soul, then I can worry a little less about whether I am a good person. Cheers to you all.

2008-07-03T10:57:00.000Z

Amen.

2008-06-07T11:00:00.001Z

Shh. Just look. A thousand words isn't enough to tell this photo's story.

2008-05-30T08:25:00.000Z

Here's how I resigned from my job.

2008-05-23T08:47:00.002Z

I just listened to a world service interview with Canon Andrew White. He is the definition of a righteous man. It heartens my heathen heart to know there are men like that in a world like this.

2008-05-20T11:21:00.001Z

The liars' league of London published the short story of some guy you may or may not have heard of

2008-05-19T22:37:00.001Z

I haven't had much to say lately, because I am finding others who have already said it so much better.

2008-05-16T12:23:00.002Z

"Time again to show the vines of the galleries have withered in the darkness, poisoned by cash, and those in the open, free spaces are bearing the fruit."

MUTO a wall-painted animation by BLU from blu on Vimeo.

2008-05-12T11:07:00.001Z

2008-05-10T13:54:00.002Z

I am starting to enjoy this May fayre tradition. I was taking a walk and stumbled upon it this year. The hot, hazy day convinced me that I should seek out the beer tombola stand I enjoyed last year. With my two pounds I won a bottle of export and a bottle of lime cordial. Near the May pole I found the same group of shirtless bikers that I blogged about. At least I think it was the same group. One sunburned and tattooed cockney biker looks very much the same as the next one, with the exception of the one with Downs syndrome. He was something unique. I don’t know why I was surprised to see a disabled man with a tattoo on his shoulder. A mental handicap should not exclude one from having the words 'strike furious' beneath a hissing cobra inked upon your flesh. He and his buddies slammed down their tombola winnings and enthused about the May pole dancers. Mr. Strike-Furious eyes crinkled with mirth as he marvelled at the intricate braids the girls were making as they skipped in their twisting circles. At the end of each song, the bikers clapped and cheered. Everyone in the crowd smiled at their unabashed, albeit intoxicated, joy. They repeated this for every song the girls danced. The laughed, made appreciative comments on the dancers' abilities and clapped in time with the music, to which others joined in.

It was one of those moments of perfection we all seek, some knowingly, most not, where everything is right and good in that moment and place you happen to be occupying.

2008-04-30T12:42:00.000Z

I'm not nationalistic in any sense. Nationalism was a 19th century bad idea thought up by Kings and Prime Ministers to convince the poor and lesser nobility to die for the pointless, unending wars they needed to maintain an erection long enough to spew their syphilitic seed onto the widows and daughters of men with more honour than themselves.¹

Despite my abhorrence for flag waving nonsense, I have found an exception. I have found something that makes a little red, white and blue tear gently fall across my heavenward gazing face. It's BBQ sauce. God bless, America! I haven't given my old country a thought until a fellow ex-pat (thanks, Sam) brought back a bottle of "Sweet Baby Ray's", the dark red, smoky-flavoured blood of Christ himself.

S_ and I have been drowning everything in this stuff. We've had burgers three times this week for the excuse of dipping the already slathered burgers into the extra dollop on our plates. As soon as that furtive English sun reappears, there will be a sacrifice of fatten hen anointed in this liquor from west Chicago. Now if it was only possible to get the old style Shiner Bock, we could make proper libations to the gods of grilled meats.

¹ Too much?

2008-04-29T08:46:00.000Z

I feel like a winner today!

2008-04-20T16:46:00.001Z

2008-04-12T15:05:00.002Z

Any time you find yourself a 'them' amongst their 'us', a curious side effect is their presumption that you are an expert on what it is that makes you not one of them. So no, I don't know who is going to win the election.

"I still do(love America), though that feeling has changed in the face of it. I think that it is a spiritual disaster to pretend that one doesn't love one's country. You may disapprove of it, you may be forced to leave it, you may live your whole life as a battle, yet I don't think you can escape it. There isn't any other place to go--you don't pull up your roots and put them down someplace else. At least not in a single life-time, or, if you do, you'll be aware of precisely what it means, knowing that your real roots are always elsewhere. If you try to pretend you don't see the immediate reality that formed you I think you'll go blind." --James Baldwin

2008-04-11T11:03:00.001Z

Let's talk about why it is impossible to be down when listening to 2tone records.

2008-04-09T10:42:00.001Z

'That's not my Pirate' has to be the greatest book title I have seen in awhile. Four words that promise so much. So much story packed in four words. Amazing.
1) It's about Pirates. Outlaws and pirates are always interesting subject material.
2) The story is about someone who owns a pirate. That's an interesting idea. What do you mean your pirate?
3) This person who owns a pirate has lost him. Holy shit! How do you lose a pirate!? That's drama. You already had me when I thought the story was just about having a pirate but now you tell me you've lost him. Double holy shit! Do tell!
4) The plot thickens. Someone has proffered a pirate and it turns out that it is not the pirate being sought. That's narrative.

All that for the price of four words. This is why I adore writing and language. Imagine what could be achieved in a 100 word poem or an 85,000 word novel. Fucking dynamite baby.

2008-04-05T19:54:00.000Z

This quote should be shared

Art should be approached with the care and respect due dynamite and if you don’t the last thing you should see before you die amongst fiery violence is your dick flying past your face.

2008-04-05T09:37:00.000Z

quotes are like buses

"Philosophers -- except the few who are my friends -- drink beer and watch football games and defeat their wives and children by the fraudulent tyranny of logic." -John Gardner

2008-04-01T19:20:00.003Z

There is something pathetic about people with coffees to go. I don't know if it is my irrational intolerance for my fellow middle-class honkies or just an understanding that a coffee to go is a metaphor for that sad state of almost-living that could easily be my fate.
When I was a teenager and had made a firm plan to do nothing with my life, I cleaned banks. I reconsidered this non-plan of mine, when my boss told me to go to the fourth floor toilets and bring gloves. My non-plan had kept me firmly fucked-up, happy and sated until this point. The ominous suggestion 'to bring gloves' cut straight through the haze of my irresponsible bliss.
Someone on the fourth floor had shit themselves and hid the crap filled drawers in the cistern. Each flush refilled the bowl with ominous weak-tea colored water. During the execution of this crime, the perpetrator managed to flick specks of poo-goo and make shit constellations all over the stall's walls. After that shift, I determined to do something with my life.

The day I am too busy to sit down and enjoy a cup of coffee I will reconsider just what that something has become.

2008-03-18T10:45:00.002Z

project #294 (making the war on terror more fun)

Place suspicious looking packages filled with confetti all over London. So, when the authorities do the controlled explosion, it's much more fun for everyone. Maybe the confetti can be glittery stars and crescent moons.

2008-03-12T12:39:00.002Z

"all I heard--mañana, a lovely word and one that probably means heaven." --jack kerouac from 'on the road'

Today is his birthday. Go drink some wine and experience the beauty that has been scattered around for those who know where to look.

2008-03-05T09:36:00.003Z

It's the day after the 4th of March 2008.

2008-02-25T16:33:00.000Z

Is it stranger to be homesick for a port town in Scotland in which you only lived two years or to ameliorate the condition with a puerile, but entertaining, book about junkies? I do miss my Saturday morning full Scottish at the community centre.

2008-02-22T15:41:00.003Z

The likeness is uncanny and I do happen to have jars of pickled cabbage and vitriol near my desk.

2008-02-21T12:47:00.003Z

My three rules of life:

1) Whatever it is, don't put it up your ass¹. You'd be surprised how many people do not follow this simple rule. I guarantee if you do a search in Google news for the word rectum, you will see someone dealing with the consequences of not respecting this simple rule.

2) It is always easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. This rule guides most of my professional activities and is most helpful when dealing with jobworths².

3) You should always have three rules.

¹I got this one from S_ who is an endless fount of wisdom.

²Most useful British-English word ever.

2008-02-10T14:22:00.000Z

Liao Yiwu

Read him.

2008-02-09T14:16:00.000Z

Observations of pets as I went to the vet

I took my cat to the vet the other day. I happily strolled beneath the clear blue sky of a London winter day carrying Cat in his plastic grey carrier. He silently watched and sniffed at the new surroundings beyond its wire door.

I became very excited to see a Border Collie driving a car, but then remembered the steering wheel is on the starboard side in this country.

I also noticed that there is one street corner where someone leaves their dog's bags of shit. That's the 'burbs for you. They don't want to be seen not picking up the shit of their animals—keeping up appearances and all that. So, they scoop that little hot turd into their plastic baggied hand and carry it off, but they still don't give a fuck about anyone. So, they look over both shoulders and drop it on the pavement to squelch beneath the £300 shoes of a jogger or wheel of a Bugaboo pram.

I get to the vet. Cat gets his check up. Cat is mellow. He's not fussed by much. Then it's thermometer time. The vet holds him. Cat is not amused but is abiding. Then temperature is taken. The cats eyes go wide. The ears go up. Then, I swear, he gets a beaten, humiliated look on his face. He looks disgusted. He can't believe his little cat ass and cat dignity had been violated. I apologised profusely when we left, but I fear his cat retribution will be swift and smell of ammonia.

2008-01-13T10:28:00.001Z

2008-01-11T11:39:00.000Z

The devil is here to stay. So says the tramp who smells of piss and eats our neighbour's lavender plants. I agree and leave him to investigate our bins and give their contents value again. The A316 is a parking lot full of fat men in pink shirts driving important cars. Zooming past them on the pavement are children on scooters flanked by gossiping mothers pushing prams laden like caravan camels. A church bell rings to call the faithful but no one seems to notice.

2008-01-06T10:56:00.000Z

I pine for the salt mines of Canada, because I heard a reporter on the radio describe its beauty. Cathedrals of salt carved for decades upon decades below the great lakes. I pine for Missoula, Montana because there's a good pub there and it's in a state I know nothing about. I pine for the Muslim Hajj to make the circumambulations of the Kaaba, because I want to know that sense of universal brotherhood. I want to speak a thousand languages and I want to meet a thousand people who speak those languages. I want wring from heaven and that Stingy creator at least as many lives a cat has been given. There is too much to do, to see, to be, to feel, to know, to understand, to express, to experience, to love, to have and I don't want to miss a thing. That is why life is suffering because it is never enough. We are limited to one experience and that measly but infinite gift is pinned to a single point in time. We only have the experience of now and fading ribbons of memory. To waste one tiny speck of allotted time panics my soul and I frantically search for some experience to devour.

2007-12-14T17:15:00.000Z

Winning and losing all depends on what game you are playing at.

2007-12-11T09:33:00.000Z

The goosebumps are instant. The sadness quickly follows.
Thanks S., for the link. I'll be haunted today by this and I'll watch it again tonight.

2007-12-05T21:07:00.000Z

All you need to know about living can be learned from this man.

2007-10-10T20:49:00.000Z

It didn’t start well and it has been downhill since. First impressions did not look favourable for sharing the office with Yaya Boudica. That’s not her real name. I can’t recall her real name because when we first introduced ourselves she mocked the way I pronounced her birth name which was Chinese; a language with linguistic hills, valleys, oceans and deserts I find impossible to traverse with my flat footed American tongue. Since she responded with derision to my friendly and multiple attempts get her name correct, I rechristened her Yaya Boudica. She then proceeded to correct my English. This would have been almost acceptable except she was wrong. My error was her misunderstanding and I assured her of this, and insisted this against her repeated arguments to the contrary. Rather than continue this dialogue, I decided it was time for a cup of tea.
“Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“Yes. Have you eaten?” I thought this was an invitation to go to lunch and despite my misgivings, my gregarious nature won over.
“No. I haven’t. Would you like to get some lunch at the canteen?”
“No. Just the tea.”
“Okay.” I said confused and walked out trying to parse the confusing interaction, trying to decide if there was a cultural disconnect occurring or if I now had a jack ass for an office mate? I soon found out it was something else. I had for an office mate, a mad woman.

This became clear later in the day when she came into the office in a panic. She was near tears over the loss of a jade ring. She interrogated me about the other office mate, a quiet Belgian with whom my interactions with were limited to him leaning over from behind his monitor to smile his morning greeting.
"Can he be trusted?"
"Yes. I think so. I am sure he wouldn't steal your ring." She did not question me about the other office mate, a Chinese man whose name plate was on the other desk but whom I had never actually seen in the building.
"It's my guardian." She explained of her ring.
"Okay. Where did you have it last?"
"In this office, I took it off. What about the cleaning man? Or maybe someone else came in here and took it."
"Was this an expensive ring?"
"No. I got it in China. But it is my guardian."
"I think a thief would probably take one of these computers or your laptop if they were going to take anything." I continued to try and help her, assuring her that it was lost, not stolen.
"I am going to call my mother. She will send me a new ring." I cannot fairly describe the conversation that followed after she dialled the incantation to raise her mother to a telephone on the other side of the globe. I have no sensitivity to the nuances of spoken Chinese. I can tell you that the first time I had heard such noises was when I used to live in a neighbourhood that had too many tom cats and their night battles took place under my window. Except tom cats don't cry and blow their nose. When she ran out of the room trailing sobs, the Belgian leaned over, looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.
"Well put," I said. The next day, as she sniffled and repeated the importance of her guardian ring, she was going through a folder from which dropped the missing ring. I feigned excitement at such a fortuitous conclusion to this drama. What a fool I was. Loud crying bubbled up and burst forth anew. This as she explained meant she will lose face. She would have to explain to her mother that the ring was not stolen. I asked what would happen if she was given a new ring instead. She shrugged her shoulders. I asked for her ring and then left the room. I returned immediately and said, “Yaya. I got you a new guardian ring to replace your lost one.” To which, she smiled and laughed and thanked me. I said, “No problem” and wrote on my to-do list, ask boss if I can work from home three days a week. I have come to know that these panics and tempests are a weekly occurrence but not before I had given her my mobile phone. On the upside, the Belgian has started to talk but it’s mainly to trade theories on the particular mental malady that afflicts our office mate.

2007-10-08T14:29:00.000Z

The village fete

An English village fete must be experienced. There is a pleasant home-made feel that is absent from the professional fun fairs that occupy neighbourhood greens with their rides covered in airbrush celebrity faces and blaring Radio 1 pop songs. Village fetes, like the fun fairs, have game booths. There are booths where for 50p you can throw balls to try and break charity shop china. Your reward for success? Throwing balls at and breaking cheap china is its own reward. What do you want for 50p? One of my favourite games is tombola. You buy a ticket and that ticket has a number and that number gets you a prize. The best prizes are always hooch. Usually you get a fish spatula. I have three. At this village fete, amongst the bric-a-brac sellers and charity tents, I found a tombola stand whose only prizes were alcohol. This ingenious loophole through the village green's drinks ban must be encouraged and supported. So, though steeply priced at a pound, I bought a ticket. The fish spatula equivalent in the booze tombola was export lager. The top prize was a bottle of port. I won a pint of Guinness and it went well with my hamburger made by smoke choked sea cadets. I drank my beer, ate my burger and eavesdropped on a circle of cockney bikers who were regularly testing their luck with the booze tombola. One was talking about his run in with a group of hippies. Every time he said 'dirty hippy', I grinned. Something about the way a cockney says dirty hippy that will cheer you up whatever the mood. They began trading 'dirty hippy' anecdotes. By the time I left the fete, my cheer had risen to bleary-eyed joy but that might also have something to do with the four tombola tickets crumbled in my pocket.

2007-08-14T14:58:00.000Z

a propos rien

The French will tell you that your French is good but I suspect it is the same way people tell children, "My, how big you are getting". Everyone knows kids are freakishly small humans but it wouldn't be cricket to point it out to them and everyone else.

2007-08-14T14:56:00.000Z

In Lille, France, there is a postman that looks exactly like Dick Cheney. When I passed him I mused about what the world would be like if that anti-human's machinations were confined to a few blocks of this provincial Northern town. It is true that those on his route would suffer greatly. Children would receive Christmas cards with the money taken and his scrawling handwriting telling them their parents are liars and there is no Santa. People would find their elderly relatives on the ground howling with pain after he had kicked them in the shins and thrown their mail in their faces. I suppose people would also tire of taping together the letters after mailman Cheney had once again ripped in half their mail before shoving through into the neighbor's box. But, they would be the martyrs for mankind. If it meant a better world, I would selflessly endure once more that hemmoroid I had that looked like the head of Karl Rove.

2007-08-07T10:32:00.000Z

On the tube again. Just can't wait to get on the tube again

The man beside me on the train poured into his lap two handfuls of cigarette butts. He pinched their contents into a plastic tobacco pouch and, with pickpocket deftness, placed the emptied paper and filter husks into the coat pockets of the business man that stood in front of us. The man gave a nod of acknowledgement to the two snickering teenage boys across from us.

2007-07-31T08:30:00.001Z

Language is cool and stuff.

2007-07-05T07:58:00.000Z

Aneurin Bevan, who as Secretary of State for Health was responsible for setting up the new service in 1948.

2007-07-04T16:08:00.000Z

Today's hero is this man.

2007-07-04T15:41:00.000Z

The weirder you are going to behave, the more normal you should look.
---P. J. O'Rourke

I still think O'Rourke is a jackass.

2007-07-03T17:01:00.000Z

I told Jimmy about my theory of wearing suits. The theory is that people trust, rightly and wrongly, men in suits. It was one of the countless nonsense bullshits that two men exchange when only separated by two pints and heterosexuality. At the time, the discussion arrived and left unremarkably as we drank at the Tam O'Shanter. I didn't think anymore about it until I saw Jimmy a few days later.
"It fucking works a treat, pal" He said in a wide grin. He was wearing a grey suit that looked tailored despite him, as he told me later, stealing it from a grocery bag of clothes left outside Oxfam's. "Dinnie know I was fucking millionaire? Eh pal?" The only hint that Jimmy wasn’t a natural suit-wearer came when he put his foot on the bench I was sitting on.
"Where's your socks?" I pointed.
"Ah, for fuck's sake." He put his cigarette in his mouth and pulled up his trouser leg. A worn and dirty sock hung from his calf. The toe of the sock ended in a blackened, dirty hole like a cartoon exploding cigar. He pulled the sock down over his heel and returned his shoe. "Had a tyre burst."
"Where did you get that suit?"
"I nicked it," he said. "Let me tell you. You were right. You can do anything. I've been getting free drinks, chatting up the girls. Look." He dramatically jumped over and stood on the pavement like superman – wide stance, fists on his hips – and shouted to a woman trying to parallel park. He motioned to her to keep backing up. She shouted, "cheers", and started backing up. He kept motioning; she hesitated.
"You got miles, dear." She looked unsure, but started reversing again. Her head jerked and she frowned when she hit the other car.
"Perfect." He said and gave her a thumbs up as she shouted, "you cunt" at him. When he rushed past me, he said, "See. Brilliant. See you later." He mimed drinking a pint and winked at me.

2007-06-28T16:26:00.000Z

There’s a little coffee house on the Ile de St. Louis. If I am ever in Paris, I make a pilgrimage. The shop is made tinier by the clutter of hats, puppets and incongruously woven baskets. Lots of woven baskets. The walls are covered in masks and homemade art. Any other space is taken by chocolate moulds and books on astronomy. There is only enough room for a half dozen little round tables but, for each table, there is a big buttocked old lady in the kitchen. They chatter and cackle unseen, which are two of my favourite sounds. They are in back mixing and banging pots and pans. Occasionally one appears to serve coffee or cakes or hot chocolate. Hot chocolate served on a tin tray from a pot into a Japanese tea cup beside a small decanter and shot glass of water. It’s a hot chocolate that confirms that there is right and good in the world. It is as thick and pure joy. Dark chocolate sweetened with honey, Amen. A steady stream of visitors present relatives to the proprietor. She receives them like a queen.

As a nomad, there is no one place that is home to me. Instead there are locations or certain situations with certain people that give that same homey comfort that the more stationary pine for when away. Charlotte de L’isle is one of those places.

2007-06-26T09:15:00.000Z

I have the social complexity of a puppy. I have my default weary, guarded, friend-or-foe phase and my tail wagging eager-to-please phase. It takes little more than the exchange of first names before I am in your lap. The problem is some people are not quite ready for that enthusiasm, and this openness sometimes catches people unprepared. People who have known me can put some of my outbursts into context (i.e. I am full of shit) and know how to handle them (i.e. with a grain of salt). I am missing that gland in your brain that tells you not to tell new acquaintances that the only reason you want to be rich is so that you can hunt man for sport, the only game worth hunting I say. This has included my professional contacts. We meet, we have dinner, we have a few drinks and I’ll tell you the aristocrats joke. Or recruit your assistance on my plan to bring down Western Civilisation by assassinating celebrities. I think it's too late to learn circumspection. Oh well.

2007-06-22T09:08:00.000Z

I took refuge from a thunderstorm in Notre Dame. If that wasn’t good enough, I watched a guy having trouble lighting his devotional candle and thought that was God’s way of saying he was sick of his shit and if he wanted a new car, he should bloody well get it himself.

2007-06-17T20:53:00.000Z

Watch him transform when he begins singing. Quite amazing and beautiful. It was nice to watch something impervious to cynicism.

2007-06-05T10:38:00.000Z

There were once righteous men amongst us.

2007-06-03T10:26:00.000Z

Recently I started reading two books both of which I could not finish. The first is one of the Flashman series. The other is a new biography about Mao. I stopped reading them because both are rubbish. One is a romance novel for men who usually prefer watch F1 racing and documentaries about war. It's about a ne'er do well coward who bullies, womanizes and connives his way to glory. That one is fiction. The other is non-fiction and it's about a ne'er do well coward who bullies, womanizes and connives his way to glory. Except in the non-fiction one tens of millions of chinese die. Funny that.

2007-06-02T10:24:00.000Z

I know the feeling

2007-05-26T22:02:00.000Z

I saw the tramp¹ sitting on the bin beside the penguin crossing. He looked worn and exhausted from drink. He gave me a smile and a nod and I smiled and nodded back. As if that was our pre-determined signal he jumped into traffic. London traffic. Chelsea Traffic. A4 Cromwell road traffic. He held his arms and legs out as if to catch any SUV or fat silver Mercedes that might fail to heed his shouts. Pointing to one, he shouted, "Don't be a cunt. Stay!" He looked over his shoulder and nodded to me. Not wanting to disappoint his unexpected hospitality, I stepped from the pavement and marched forward with pedestrian lemmings following. A middle-aged Asian man with whom I shared a tube carriage and a lift smiled at me, amused as we all were.
"I've got friends in low places," I said. This sort of thing happens more often than you would think.

1) "Oi Vey! Enough with the tramp stories" I hear my large jewish grandmother readership say.

2007-05-24T18:27:00.000Z

In the taxonomy of the homeless, I believe, since he is stationary, he is a bum, not a tramp. Anyway, good on him. Too bad this windfall will call up all kinds of attention and criminality upon him and destroy any piece of mind he had. Here's to me being wrong.

Upon further study, the specimen appears to be a cross, tramp x hermit.

2007-05-23T22:00:00.000Z

I think my librarian is a murderer. The library building itself is sinister. I am certain it was built upon the bones of ancient pagans buried by evil and forgotten rites. It’s an old building and could almost be charming in its dilapidation like the mad aunt who farts at the dinner table and drinks too much vanilla extract, making her kisses to your cheek sloppy and smelling of ice cream. But it’s not; its architecture is the forgotten Grandpa who has locked himself in his bed sit to scream obscenities at game shows. I go in anyway and am reassured. The inside is fresh and newly painted. There are orderly shelves of neat books lining the edges of the sun lit room. In the corner, in the children’s section, there are toys stacked and ready. For 50 p you can have a coffee, tea or hot chocolate depending on what back lit button you push on the machine. There are exciting little tables with collages made from magazine cut outs enticing you to “Visit Wonderful New Worlds” (travel books) or “Make Exciting New Friends” (biographies). Before I could acquaint myself with these wonderful worlds and exciting people, I had to get my ticket. The library card would be my ticket. However, I only wanted a book by Carson McCullers which is neither travelogue nor biography.
I stepped up to the empty desk and rang the little brass bell tied to an incredible length of fuzzy red yarn. After I rang the bell and returned it to its station upon the desk, I followed the bell’s red tail. It traversed the desk several times, over stacks of books, across scattered papers, into a drawer, out of a drawer, disappearing amongst a web of computer cables, reappearing from under the desk and finally running toward and up the wall to its termination. Near the light switch, the end of the thick red string was stapled several times. As I was staring at the yarn’s cottony, frayed termination, spider like fingers inched around the edge and felt at yarn as if it was testing for prey.

I could have sworn he crawled in. Long, lanky limbs on a torso and head too small. Jerky, unsure movements and eyes that flitted to the corners of the room and seemed to expect destruction at any moment.
“Hello. Yes?” I felt the first drizzle of spittle that would become a torrent by our conversation’s end. Although it was clear he was addressing me, his eyes rested on me for only a moment. His question was more an accusation rather than an interrogative.
“I would like a library card.”
“Yes? Yes. Of course,” his demeanour changed slightly. His movements became more excited. The fine control of his motions seemed affected by palsy. He patted at and picked up the thread, moving it and then replacing it. I thought that he might be trying to find the right silk to call up another spidery librarian, the one who specialised in the registering of new library cards or sucking the life from would-be patrons. But there were no other spidery librarian, he was about to inform me. “You will need to fill out this form. Do you have a proof of address and photo identification.”
“I do.”
“Very Good,” he handed me the form and began hunting for a pen. When one was captured, I dutifully began putting my details into the appropriate boxes. As I did this, he jerked and twitched his way toward a shelf filled with stacks of glossy paper and folders. He began talking to the shelf about the facilities of the library. I was not really listening. Then I believe his confession began. “We have an excellent reference section.” I continued to fill in my email and previous postal address. All his extraneous movements stopped. He began rigid. He returned to the desk, presented me with the pamphlets, and said, “You should talk to the reference librarian. Except, she’s on holiday right now,” He paused, “Yes, Holiday.” The unease I felt upon entering the building returned. He made his way to my side of the desk. “I’ll show you around the library.” The lipless smile stretched across his bony face, exposing perfect white teeth. Then a drop of spit hit me perfectly in the eye. “Follow me,” he said. Recovering my sight, I obeyed.
He gave me the tour point at this and that, never giving me the opportunity to say, “Thank you but I really just want this one book. Here look, I have the title and the author written right here.”
We finally arrived at the last section and he began once again talking about the reference librarian and how nice she was and that she was on holiday. He made sure I understood she was on holiday. That is when I noticed the blood on his sleeve. He caught my glance and held his sleeve in his hand. He gave me a nervous smile and asked me if I wanted to check a book out. I gave him my slip of paper with the books details.
"Ah, this isn't a reference book. Follow me." We returned to the fiction section, he pulled the book I wanted and I checked it out. When I took the book from him, he smiled, "You have until the 16th, you won't be late with it I hope. The penalties can be quite stiff." I was very proud of myself that I was able to leave the building without wetting myself. That was more than a month ago. It is now past the 16th. I pass the building everyday. I know he's in there waiting for me, sucking on the bones of that poor reference librarian.

2007-05-22T21:42:00.000Z

I realise I am out of touch with what is important to most people in this world. After watching a commercial for a garbage (rubbish) bin deodoriser, I am convinced that this is a blessing.

2007-04-23T20:30:00.000Z

Everyone knows the whole two nations separated by a common language and the differences between elevators and lifts or suspenders and braces. But it is only after a few years do you discover other subtle differences between Americanese and English.
To the British this is a wife beater.

But in America you would be referring to this.

2007-04-19T07:58:00.000Z

An observation on ageing. I had to go to a seminar in Bloomsbury. It used to be that any event I attended that had free hooch was indeed an event worth attending. These days I get just as excited when they have tea and biscuits.

Also, if in your life you can take a short cut through the British Museum, you've done something right somewhere.
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