The Liam McEneaney Experience

I've put up a Nerve.com personal ad.

A friend of mine suggested I try Craig's List. I don't know. I don't think I should look for a girlfriend the same place I'm looking for a free typewriter.

I see many, many ads on Craig's List, looking for guys with wash-board abs and physically fit and a love for the outdoors. But it's Craig's List. It's a site haunted by guys in their apartments on a Friday night, taking a break from a 26 hour Halo 2 megathon to check the "Missed Connections" ads and see if the nrrd-grrl in glasses and Modest Mouse shirt was returning his shy glances on the L train. The nhe goes back to bong hits and furious masturbation.

I'm not saying your Mr. Right isn't on Craig's List. Oh wait, yes I am. That's exactly what I'm saying.

Some of the women there are looking for a "long-term relationship." You realize, ladies, that you're posting your ad for free. You have to make a choice; you either want a husband or a bargain.
You won't find the Armani suit of your dreams on the Wal-Mart "Men's Casual" rack, either.

There's a lady who bet that she could find a kidney donor on Craig's List faster than she could find a suitable boyfriend. I mean literally, she's looking for an organ donor for her boyfriend through a Craig's List ad.
Which makes sense. According to women I know who've placed Craig's List ads, the get a LOT of pictures of guys' organs.
And by organs, I mean "penises." Hey, if you're going to send a picture of your dick, why be so subtle? Why not just sit in her living room and throw your poo at her?

Dating in New York is plenty hard enough.
I was at a friend's going-away party last weekend, talking to a lady who was a friend of a friend. She was a 31 year-old attorney from the Upper East Side, and if you're not from New York; I just said, "She was a wolf raised by sharks, and their prey is 'husband material'."

So we're talking, and she asks me what I do for a living. Now, the reason I don't tell anyone what I do for a living is not because I'm ashamed of it. I mean, I am, but I don't care. It's just that I find it horribly depressing (more on that tomorrow), and I really don't like to talk about it unless I absolutely have to.

So I tell her politely that I'd rather not say. What then ensues is a, no lie, twenty minute conversation which consists of her asking me over and over and over what I do for a living. In fact, at one point she goes off to retrieve her coat from a booth where strangers have taken up camp, comes back, and proceeds to ask me seriously, what do you do? No, seriously. Come on, you can tell me. What, do you clean toilets?
Finally, I can't take it any more, so I tell her that right now I'm doing market-research full time as a day job.

After a few more minutes of polite and suddenly-colder conversation, she says, and God strike me dead if this isn't a direct quote, "Do you know anyone else here? Because feel free to go talk to them. I'm probably going to go soon."
Which she did, two hours later.

Which is fine. I know that I'm "husband material" the way cast-iron steel is "swimwear material."
I have a lot of strengths, but the parents of a 31 year-old JAP lawyer would rather see her bring home a poo-flinging primate with his dick out than a 28 year-old comedian/market researcher.

Anyway, that's the deeper end of the dating pool in New York City. And then comedians make it big, and it becomes, "Where do they get such a hostile view towards women, anyway?"

THE NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUM OF LONDON


From the NatHistMus' website

I'm not a big fan of natural history museums, to be 100% honest with you. The stuffed animals are always sad to me; "This is the way this lion would have looked if we hadn't hired some guy to find it and kill it."

Imagine a mausoleum where the inhabitants, instead of being safely encrypted away from sight, are stuffed prominently displayed in a diorama of their living rooms; posed in their favorite armchair cheerily waving at you.

And then they have the nerve to preach conservation and "preserving the species." Maybe these species wouldn't be going extinct if all the natural history museums stopped killing them for display and left them alone.

So, although a Natural History Museum would not be my first choice as an exotic vacation escape (New York's is fairly famous for being more than adequate), I was wandering through Knightsbridge late one night and came across the building, standing incongrously in the middle of these "mansions" and pedestrian buildings, like a knight in armor in the middle of busy traffic.

Throngs of tourists were leaving, and I just stood inside the large wrought-iron gate (the English love their large fancy gates. They have these weird free-standing highly-ornamented gates in the middle of parks, keeping no-one in or out. It's almost like an entire nation has become a quarrelous old man at the end of a bar saying, "Dammit, I used to be the heavyweight champion of the world! Joe Louis himself refused to fight me out of fear!" But I digress) staring up at it. Lit in spotlight, it almost seemed like something out of a dream.

The NatHistMus is a huge Fortress of Knowledge in the German Romanesque style. You approach it through its gates, and are immediately impressed with its huge entrance, of overlapped arches standing atop columns like the many legs of a scholarly Colossus.
"Look upon my works ye mighty and despair," indeed.


From www.medlem.spray.se

Inside lies an entrance hall to rival those of any of the Great Northern Kings of lore.
In fact, I was surprised that I was not standing inside an old castle; I could clearly see in my mind's eye the large entrance being used to house a victory banquet, large stags being served to foreign dignitaries and valiant knights whose banners hung from the rafters.

Instead, it was built in the Victorian age. Like many works, it was the result of a design contest won by a relatively unkown architect. All is done in bricks of brown and grey that suggest a temple carved into the cave of a sea-cliff, with the top of the building in bare steel girders and glass. The official website says the architect wanted the viewer to experience the beauty of building materials. I say that someone just got lazy and wanted to finish in time to sit on the couch, drink a beer, and watch some serious futbol.


Man, I wish I could tell you what website this comes from. (Methinks I have to find a new picture. *SIGH*)

Also note the arched stained-glass windows. Not pictured: ceiling panels that depict all kinds of plant life. The whole effect is a giant Cathedral where the God of worship is Nature, rather than Jehovah or Jupiter.

Things Of Note at the Museum
* I always like when a curator clearly has a sense of humor. If you visit the reptile exhibit and look for the (I believe this is the name, as my hand writing is pretty terrible) Mutimata Turtle, you'll find that someone has arranged this tiny tiny animal with a huge, cartoonishly huge grin on its face. There's always a chance that it died happy, of course. Perhaps it found that one of its hatchlings had just been accepted into the Glasgow School of Oceanic Science as an elite specimen.

* In an exhibit on primates, there's pictures of monkeys displaying different kinds of emotions, with three different photos that light up when you press three different buttons.
The first is "Threatening." It features a Macaque monkey threatening the camera.
The second is "Touch me," and it features a chimp touching another chimp.
The third is "Triumph." This features, um, a black male Olympic athlete raising his fist in a Black Power salute after winning something.
Okaaay. Maybe next to the Primate department, we can build a Sensitivity Department, because it looks like the NatHistMuseum has some work to do there.

* Without warning, at one point you will turn a corner and surprise! you've entered a small black room that contains a six-foot model of a 7 month-old fetus. The room pulses with the recording of the interior of the mother's uterus. If it wasn't so disturbing, it would be incredibly soothing.
I understand that a few years ago, the museum tried to throw the exhibit out, but Billy Graham went over there and led a huge Crusade to save it.

* You can check out the museum's ant farm here.

* Definitely take a tour of the Darwin Center. It's free, and they make you wear a lab coat as you walk through, so you feel like a real-life scientist. I like to think it's a way of camouflaging yourself as you walk through. Scientists are gentle creatures, but timid and easily frightened. If you look too much like their natural enemies (high-school bullies, attractive members of the opposite sex, scientific grant administrators), they may panic and stampede.

They also assign actual working scientists to be the tour guides, which is both the best idea ever in that we were assigned a guide both enthusiastic and knowledgeable about the work going on there, and the worst idea ever in that his sense of humor could be charitably described as "narrowly focused."

Our guide was Dr. Stephen Roberts, a sort of younger shorter Tim Robbins with an ill-advised pony-tail. I'm not bagging on the guy, by the way. He was genuinely enthusiastic about explaining everything, and genuinely disappointed that my little group didn't have more questions.
He was from Glasgow, had studied marine biology there, and was excited by the prospect that there were other people in the world interested in the same. He was as adorable as a puppy with a wet nose; if I had a single younger sister, I would want to set her up with this guy (ATTENTION LADIES!).

Basically, the Darwin Center has been set up to study every form of life on Earth that can be bagged, pickled, and stuffed into a tiny jar, and we were led through store rooms where they were contained. It was like the science equivalent of that warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, where the millions of secret dangerous artifacts are stored.
First we went through the refrigerated room that held shelves. Most of them were set up with blank white walls so you couldn't see the shelves, but I guess in a gesture of goodwill towards the casual tourist they put some glass walls, where dead organisms are on display like Precious Moments (TM) figurines in a double-wide.
As far as I could tell, they all seemed to actually be filled with identical little ferns in cherry licquer, but if the British Scientific Establishment wants to pretend that these are all important specimens, then who am I to argue?

Then we were led into a large vacuum room. I mean, it wasn't literally a vacuum, because I didn't die of oxygen deprivation. But it was a huge sterile room, maybe thirty feet. Ringed with shelves of jars with animals (at eye level to your left as you enter, a large pickled possum, which is a trifle unsettling), in the center are huge metal tanks covered and sealed tightly. Each has a large cylander set into its lid. Above each tank is a large blue vacuum tube with a oddly-shaped mouth.

Our guide told us the reason for the odd set-up; each large tank holds a large specimen that wouldn't fit into a jar; sharks, swordfish, etc. The blue vacuum tubes pump the alcohol preservatives into the tank. Another story of interest:
The reason why all the labels for the specimens are inside the jars is this. During World War II, the Germans bombed London nightly in what was called The Blitz. In order to preserve this collection of specimens, the ontire collection was shipped off to a deep cave. But in the damp of the caverns, the labels started peeling from the outside of the jars.
Man, thos crazy jerries, eh? While I was in London, the Queen was on her Homecoming Tour of Germany. Yes, Liz is the Homecoming Queen, although I'm not sure if she had anyone to take the First Dance with.
(Sorry I missed ya, Liz! Next time!)
Anyway, Liz was in Germany to apologize for the British bombing of Germany. This was a slightly controversial move among her subjects.
A comedian I met there (and honestly, if I knew his name I would give him full credit. Funny guy, tho) said he hoped that she would then say, "Is there something you'd like to say, Germany?"

* People are the same the world over: Visit the dinosaur exhibit only if you're a fan of little boys and their running-around-and-speaking-loudly antics.

Last night, went over to my family's for Thanksgiving. We had Turducken.

For those of you who don't know, Turducken is the invention of a chef named Paul Prudhomme; a legendary culinary master who weighs somewhere in the neighborhood of eight hundred pounds.
After eating Turducken, you'll know why.

The way you make a Turducken is, you debone a chicken. Then you roll it up and stuff it into a deboned duck. You then roll that up and stuff it into a deboned turkey. Then you cook it at 100 degrees for twelve hours.

This is why the rest of the world hates America. So many Third World countries have nothing, and we're just saying, "Man, I can not cram enough food into my mouth! If only there was a way I could eat three birds at the same time! Because I am just not fat enough!"

In this one instance, I really could care less.

I was going to give a list here of things I'm thankful for, but I couldn't think of anything funny (not that that's ever stopped me before - LOL!) and I didn't feel like being sincere.

Instead, here's another story about being in London. One afternoon, it was sunny and pleasant (for London in early November), and I ended up taking a walk across the Thames, across the Jubilee Bridge I think it's called. If I can find my notebook where I took all my notes, I'll come back here and edit this, but I'm pretty sure that's what it's called because it leads right to the Jubilee Gardens.

The Jubilee Gardens is, as near as I could see, a large lawn ringed by buskers (more on those in a second). In front of the Jubilee Garden is the London Eye. The London Eye is a gigantic Ferris Wheel. That's pretty much it. You get a good view, seeing as it's pretty tall and the rest of London is pretty flat, and so there was a huge line.

On one side of the Jubilee is an old government building. Back in the day, it was where the city's government used to meet, and it's edifice reflects this grand purpose; imposing stone and statuary lets you know that there's important work behind these walls. Thick and fortress-like walls, impervious to cannon-fire, suitable for deciding the fate of hundreds of thousands of citizens in the capital of England, the center of an Intercontinental Empire.

It is now the home of a large McDonald's, as well as an exhibit of the artwork of Salvadore Dali; a man as overrated as he was completely bonkers.

If you've ever wondered what ever happened to all the mimes you used to see, they're still out there; but they've changed their game. Gone are the white-faced Mumenschantzers who would pull on imaginary ropes and suffocate in invisible boxes. Now they paint themselves silver or white and imitate statues; standing perfectly stock-still for hours.
There are folks who are genuinely impressed by this. They can't get over it - an ordinary man - standing completely still! Good lord! That must take literally zero hours of practice!
And these people, who at home would walk by a homeless man begging for change to buy some food, can't throw their money at these folks fast enough.

I mean, I understand we all gotta eat, but just because you wasted four years of your life taking theatre instead of accounting doesn't mean the world owes you a living.

These weird statue-mimes scare me a little, I don't mind admitting. You want to see one of them move, try taking their hatfull of change. You don't want to be on the fist-end of a guy who spends his entire day controlling his muscles and body. They're in better shape than you, is what I'm saying.

There was a couple I did give some money to, I will admit. They were spray-painted silver and dressed in fancy "historical" outfits; he in fancy troubadour hat and doublet, she kneeling in an outfit that combined the look of Queen Elizabeth and one of her cooks. I dropped all the change in my pockets that wasn't pound notes; several pennies and - in a douche move - American quarters. I walked on quickly and looked back, completely horrified to discover that the man was bending low. I was convinced that he was going to see how I'd basically given him something completely worthless and was going to confront me about it. Instead, he slowly stood back up. Then I saw a woman step forward and drop some money in. The man started bowing low again. I got it; your money activated the bowing.

I chastised myself for being so paranoid. Buskers wouldn't confront you about how much money they got, right? they'd just be grateful they got anything at all, right?
I was to be proven wrong a few minutes later.

He was dressed as a toy soldier; bright red coat, tall woolly hat. Cheeks painted with two bright red spots. In his back, a giant golden key. He was a ruddy middle-aged man. Two girls were walking away, and he said, "Ladies, I just performed for you. Where's me curtsey?"

They giggled and kept walking. That's when he got weird and confrontational:
"No, I'm serious. Where's me curtsey? It's only polite!"

I took in his cardboard booth. Pictures of the toy soldier with a couple of cute kids, under a sign that said, "PICTURES ONE POUND, IF THEY ARE OF GOOD QUALITY!"
Another sign advertising that he is activated by money, but with the warning "I AM ALLERGIC TO COPPER" with representative penny and tuppence pieces taped to it.
Another sign that said, "NO FOREIGN COINS!"
And even more signs tucked into a pocket. I've never seen a man so enamored of signs before. I think he had more signs than your average antiwar protest rally.

I was to see him pull one of the signs out of its pocket, soon. An Italian fella was vieotaping him, without havign paid first (there was a sign about that), and the soldier pulled a sign out that said "I WON'T TELL YOUR FRIENDS YOU HAVEN'T PAID ME" that he held up to the camera. The Italian fella grinned and kept taping. This made the soldier madder and he started emphatically holding the sign up to the camera. The Italian backed away. Finally the soldier could hold his tongue no longer, and he bagan telling the Italian off. "Sod off! Sod off!" while making rude gestures with his fingers. The Italian fella laughed and kept taping; this was a much better show than one he would have paid for.

I realized what the guy playing the soldier reminded me of; sixty years ago, he would have been the sort of ruddy, stocky middle-aged man who would have played the skeptical sergeant of Scotland Yard in every Shelock Holmes movie ever made.

As illustrated in this page from the screenplay for Sherlock Holmes and the Terror of Godzilla:

Skeptical Sergeant: 'Ere now, Mr. 'Olmes. Do you really expect the Yard to believe that a giant lizard 'as arisen from of the sea and come to destroy the 'ole of London?

Sherlock Holmes: That is precisely what I wish you to believe, Sergeant Caternines. It is of the utmost importance this giant lizard be found, tried, and placed in irons.

Skeptical Sergeant: The honly thing that his of the hutmost himportance is that you leaves the detectoring to them what's professional policemen.

Sherlock Holmes: As you wish, Sergeant. But know this - someone has crushed all of Southwark, set fire to Big Ben, ripped the roof off of Lady Chesterdraw's summer cottage and made off with the Cresto-Presto Diamond, and of the three criminal masterminds in the world fiendish enough to pull off such an attack, one had met his fate over the Reichenbach Falls, one is serving eighty-three consecutive life sentences, and only Godzilla remains free.

Skeptical Sergeant: For your information, Mr. 'Olmes, we has already called the O'Reilly Gang in for questioning.

Sherlock Holmes: I concede that although the O'Reilly Gang is Irish enough to be guilty of such a crime, they are also Irish enough to not be smart enough to get away with it.

Skeptical Sergeant: And so on and so forth...

"Oh hey, I don't have any change. I guess I'll have to take it out of the tip jar."

I think I'm supposed to say, "Oh no, please. Keep it. Take a two dollar tip on an eight dollar cup of coffee. Because if I'm paying eight dollars for a cup of coffee, then I clearly don't deserve money. Hell, I'll probably spend it on an eighty-three dollar donut anyway."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I saw a guy in Starbuck's using his laptop computer to do a crossword puzzle.

Hey asshole, you don't need a laptop.
You need a smack in the back of the head.
Laptops are like fifteen hundred dollars. Crossword puzzle books are five.
We get it, you're in Starbuck's, you like to waste your money.

I mean, I mean, I mean - there's a Federal program that our President undoubtedly wants to cut called "Food Stamps," where poor families get money every month to buy groceries so they don't die.

There should be another federal program that once a week, poor people get a free shot to punch this guy in the stomach.

Only, knowing yuppie assholes, he probably wouldn't want to be punched in the stomach for free.
He'd have to sign up for a program to get a Tai Kwan Do master to punch him every week for fifty bucks.
And I could see him talking to his friends at a party; "Yeah, I have a guy who comes over and punches me in the gut. Sure it's pricey, but it's worth a little extra to get it done right.
Hey, you can use the Food Stamp Gut-Punch program if you don't care about quality."

In London, I was walking to Trafalgar Square. I had just purchased a night watchman's bell at a souvenir kiosk nearby (see my story about the Royal Courts of Justice below).

I was heading past a church (it's probably super-famous, it's right across the street from the National Gallery, but for the life of me I honestly never bothere to get the name).
There were some young ruffians hanging out on the steps of the Church. A couple more were banging on the window of a bus, challenging a middle-aged black woman sitting at the window:
"You want to come out here and say that? Come on out!" etc.

I don't know what it it was she'd said to them, but it was clearly insulting enough for them to overcome their paralysing fear of being beaten up by a dumpy woman at least twice their age.

She was nodding, "Yes," she did want to come out and say that. And at the same time, she was not making a move to do so. This infuriated them further and they ran after the bus as it pulled away. And it reminded me of an incident from my younger days:

I was sixteen, seventeen or so, waiting for a friend in Queens near my high school. A group of young black kids were hanging out near me, just shooting the shit, doing nothing in particular.

A city bus pulled up in front of them, held in traffic. A white kid, looked like a preppy, was in a white shirt and short haircut, is sitting in a window directly in front of this group of kids. He waits until he makes eye contact with one of the black kids and starts making monkey motions at him. He then mouths the word "nigger" at him and laughs.

We all looked at the black kid to see what he would do. He took a deep breath, said nothing, and walked five feet down to the bus stop and waited for the bus to pull up to it. The white kid watches him and his face - oh, it was a thing of joy to see. I can only describe it as - imagine the Mask of Comedy melting into the Mask of Tragedy. Imagine watching the blood in someone's face realize that someone's about to forcibly evict it, and rush away inwards into the body where it can never be found.

So the bus pulls up, and the black kid cuts the line and jumps in. We all, having followed him that five feet to watch him beat the shit out of this kid, see him talk to the bus driver. Then a few seconds later emerges:

BLACK KID: Yo son, I forgot my bus pass.

HIS FRIEND: Yo nigga, you stupid.

I wish there was a moral to this story, but the preppy kid, on seeing that God had saved his miserable hide, laughed and gave the black kid the finger as the bus pulled away.

In mid-2001, I decided that I wanted to write a screenplay.
I had just found out that I'd been booked to appear on Premium Blend that August, and I figured that would be a good appearance to leverage into something like an agent or manager or something.

I decided that I would write a completely over-the-top mid-80s style action/comedy/adventure, with a heavy emphasis on the comedy. To me, there's nothing more fun than watching a guy like Schwarzenegger or Stallone delivering some incomprehensible "joke" while shooting a huge machine gun at Commies and the kind of damned pinko liberals who actually make the movies that people who hate them enjoy.

So I came up with an outline, based on a couple of ideas I'd fooled around with the year before.
Basically, the story was that there was a white supremacist terror group that wanted to bring the USA into a new era of isolationism. So they used a truck bomb on the FDR Drive in NYC to bring the UN crashing into the sea (the UN is right on the East River. The FDR runs pretty much right under it).

Since the leader of the Aryan terrorist group is a bit of a wussy mama's boy, and the best time to commit this act is at 3am when security would be lax, the only people who would actually die would be the cleaning people and security guards. There was some dark humour about how over-the-top the news would be, with salutes to the bravery of those who mopped the stairs that lead to international peace.

Then an Islamic Extremist Terrorist group would take credit for the bombing, enraging the Aryan terrorist group. Then two bumbling bank robbers would accidentally get credited with the bombing, making everyone including the FBI angry at them.

Hilarity would ensue, leading to a climactic bombing that would leave the Statue of Liberty bent yet intact. A big dumb action movie that was also a sly smart satire. Dark, dumb, the kind of movie a studio executive would buy but never actually make. Easy money.

I started writing this the first week of September, 2001.
By the end of the second week of September 2001, I had scrapped this idea entirely.

To be honest, I'm now entirely frightened to write my alien invasion/time travel western.

Al Qaeda has a lot to answer for.

It's like the fourth or fifth draft. I'm not done with it, but it's finally getting into a shape I can live with:


The first prison is the heart
From whose fast rooms
And from whose glass bars
Men may gain no escape.

One.

And they slip, these silken shadows slip,
For there is no brave or shining dawn.
Nor knight on horse as white as Northern winters.
None but the solid splinters
Of a doomed and ghostly ship,
Tearing the purple velvet curtain of mist.

There will be no dew-speckled petal
Opening to greet the day, to be sun-kissed
To grasp for a warmth beyond earthly reach.
Just the cries of gulls above the waves
That bellow with a lion's roar
And break upon the rocky shore.

Last I saw her, fingers slender
Tips of fingers, tips of fingers.
The touch of her – tips of fingers
The touch of her lips – fingertips.
Tracing along her arms, my arms
The scent of roses
And the brush of a stranger's lips -
- tips of fingers -
- across my cheek -
Soft and cool.

And what have they done with my memories?
My feet alive under the brown leaves of autumn
Dancing in the western wind,
Scorpions scuttling under dead and dying trees.

The face of the sun in the noontime sky
Tiny spark descending
From the dark pupil of the eye
Of night unending.

In the dark curtain of dust, a shape uncoiling,
The desert phoenix ruffles its pure white feathers,
Claws of diamond digging into inches of coal,
Black broken nest and ruby eyes boiling.

And she stands. And she stands,
Rivers of moonlight
Running through her hands,
Eyes two islands of white
Pure untouched sands.

And should we run, if we should run
Our bodies tracing circles
In the distant desert sun.
And if we should fly, if we should fly
Into the silver sheets of sadness
Of a pale and snowy sky.
A sad and sourceless glow reflected
In a ruby-crusted eye.

Two.

I received a letter today of unusual weight
From the past - that dark and distant land
Edged by a bottomless sorrowful sea
In whose depths lie the timber-rotted remains
These rich and proud Spanish galleons of memory
Now lightless husks and home to sightless squid
All abandoned to a careless fate.

This letter from my torn, sad past
Post-marked Shawnee Mission, Kansas.

A photograph, beaming, her face mirrored
In the small blond cherub held
As I once was
In her warm and loving arms.
Arms that now press thin,
Skin tight over bone
Pale pale silk draped over bone

And a letter slips from an unsteady hand
Falling gently to the floor
To float, to land,
To take root in my mind like a poison spoor.
One word, six letters to receive no answer
A claw ripping through the sea,
a deadly, a deadly -

Brittle leaves of Autumn
Ride a bitter November breeze
Settling 'neath the branches
Of dead, unbending trees.

Three.

And where is this Death of flaming sword
Atop a milk-white steed of regal dignity?
And who is this coward who would steal into
A hospital room in the dark of night
And rob a woman while she sleeps?

As thin as air, as long as eight and eighty yards;
Heavy as a drunkard's eyes, and yet not quite
As tragic as the ragged beggar who staggers
Through the peaceful still of midnight.
Clouds slumber, drifting overhead
As the city holds its breath.
Body black and draped in silk, he slips through these streets
Cutting through dark walls like silken sheets,
Cutting through dark doors with sharp daggers
Fashioned from the moonlight's silver shards.
.
Four.

The night spreads across the sky on black bat wings
In the distance, the cities of the past
- home to dread, nameless things
contained in cages of tinted glass -
Shining like a jewel
And in the darkness calls
With a siren's lure, to King and Fool
Diamonds shining in shadow walls.

Love erodes as do Dover's cliffs,
Slipping through the giant fingers of God's hand,
Black rock crumbling into fine white sand.
White as the walls of those cities
Built upon cherished memories
Of a bright and blameless past.
A distant desert mirage so cruel
A distant shining precious jewel
That seen close-to, is worthless glass.

Now the moon is a pale and bone-white hearse,
Pulled by eight fine horses afire
A hot white flame that may never purge.
And the wind that whistles through the reeds to the lonely shore,
Join the screaming of the gulls and the ocean's deathly roar
And song of the sparrow, and the crickets' choir
Blend into an ancient dirge
A canticle of solemn verse.

With these wings to graze
The skins of the Earth.
With these wings to trace
Patterns in the sky.

Who shall weep for me when I'm gone?
Who shall burn my ship in the Northern dawn?
And send it drifting on forever more?
To crash upon a distant, rocky shore?

In a dark apartment
Among the stick furniture –
Fossils buried in eras of dust;
A man as bleached as dinosaur bone
Dying slowly and alone.

And I peer through the dust of a dying apartment
In a streaked and starry window
A reflection of an old man's eye
Bloodshot and afraid to die.

This is not a good thing, especially if you're trying to get an answer to a question:
"What's the weather like?"
"What's the weather like? What's the weather like? It's like the day me poor sister was married. Oh, a dear little thing she was, only sixteen. Well..."
And you're off.

And you know you're in for a looong story when it involves a prop:
"What time is it?"
"You see this watch? It was me grandfather's watch. He left it for me the day he died, saying..."
At the end of the story, you find yourself saying: "Great, now what time was it three hours ago when you started this fucking story?"

In fact, the only way to get an Irishman to not tell you a story is to specifically ask him for one:
"Tell me about the time a crocodile ate your foot."
"Oh no, you don't want to hear that."
"Look, I just spent five hours listening to a story about the best potato you ever ate. Give me ten minutes of something worth listening to."

are scary-aggressive.
And this is coming from a guy from Queens NY, where all the worst drivers from all over the world come to live. A guy who has lived his entire life a block away from Queens Boulevard, which the NY tabloids nicknamed "The Boulevard of Death."

This is true: a few weeks ago, I noticed that Sunnyside Queens declared itself a "traffic Safety Zone." That means that Queens government officials have given up and said, "Shit, you can drive on the sidewalks on the rest of Queens, but watch it on the streets of Sunnyside."

And so I'm saying, London drivers are scary. The last time I saw a group of people that allergic to the brake pedal, they were going for the gold in the Winston 500.

And they say Italian drivers are worse. I don't see how, unless they actually drive around with a machine gun mounted to the roof of their cars.

They have a fantastic solution to population control; they've taken the bike lane and the bus lane, and made it the same lane.
Nothing weeds out the slow and the elderly faster.

I think this is a fantastic idea. I think they should continue, and maybe put all of the nursing homes right on the train tracks.
Put all the playgrounds on the steam-roller testing sites.

To be fair, if the London bike activists are anything like the New York bike activists, I don't blame 'em. NYC has this group called "Critical Mass," and what they do is every month they all get together - about thirty of 'em - and they bike in a small knot down the middle of a busy intersection.

I guess this is to show that bikes can be just as selfish and dangerous as cars.

Well, after being caught in a couple of these "demonstrations," I want to see these guys go under a large bus' tires.

I got into several violent scrapes in London; there was the woman who took me home after a long, long night of drunken bar-hopping and warned me not to wake her flat-mate. The thing she didn't tell me was that her "flat-mate" was also her live-in boyfriend. I came very close to having a telephone permanently embedded in my skull.

Then there was the poncey college kid who decided to pick a fight with me on the street. I became very aware that there was a group of young Britain's finest watching an American taking on a college kid, and decided it would be in my best interests to let him take the first swing. Something he kept threatening to do (at one point he put up his dukes, which almost made me burst out laughing - instead I said, in my best Queens tough-guy voice, "Who you, the Marquis de Queersberry?"), but instead he started shoving me (?) and saying, "Do you want to me to hit you again?"

When I pointed out that he had - in fact - not hit me, but rather shoved me in a manner reminiscent of a baby girl, he kicked me in the shin. This surprised me. I faked a kick at his ankle, and he jumped back and aimed another kick at me. This time I was waiting for it. I caught his leg and spun him around. At this point, I should have picked his leg up furhter while using my other arm to shove his back so he'd fall over and then I could sit on his back and start punching him in the back of his head. Instead, not having a true taste for the kill, I shoved his leg forward so he would trip. The fight kind of fell apart shortly after that.

The third time i got into a scrape, well, let me tell you about living in a hostel.

LIFE IN "THE ENGINE ROOM"
First off, The Engine Room is not the real name of the hostel. Nor do I use anyone's real names, except for when I talk about The Other Guy Named Liam.

See, I was not only staying at a youth hostel, I was staying in the cheapest room I could afford there. About ten pounds a night, it was a fourteen bed dorm room; seven bunk beds ringing a semi-circular room. Cheap, easily broken wooden lockers were what you were given to keep your stuff safe (padlocks for sale, only four pounds at the Travel Store).

This room was in the basement, ideally located under the bar, which meant you privy to loud conversations, late night furniture rearrangement sessions, and what sounded like a 4am Synchronized Jumping Competition.

There are two kinds of people staying in this room. The majority are transients like myself; in a for a few days, a week, a couple weeks, or a night. There are some who come into town regularly to work, and then thee are those living at the Hostel. Ususally when you're a resident at a Hostel, you're given a semi-private room. You pay 85 pounds a month and you get to stay in a room that sleeps four or six.

But a few of my roommates didn't like that arrangement, and "pulled strings" to stay in a dorm that sleeps more people, but isn't as cramped.

One was Frank. Frank is an English lad of Southern Italian descent; he has the dark Mediterranean complexion and dark curly hair. Another is my upper bunkmate, Liam. Of all the times I was a child wishing I even knew another Liam so that I wouldn't feel like I had such a freaky name, little did I know I'd be sharing my bed with one.

Another was Gina, directly from Italy. With a thick Italian accent and limited English vocabulary, she is sexy in that short, balanced-like-two-basketballs-on-top-of-each-other kind of way.
I realize that makes not as much sense in writing as it does in my head. Ah, well.

The transients are an interesting bunch. One is a fellow with a thick African accent who I was later to learn was from Dublin. His name is Tino, and we were destined to have a long talk about how he had been a computer programmer in Dublin, and then he got laid off and ended up a bricklayer in London. He has a four-year contract with the construction company, but he wanted to know if he could use fifty thousand dollars to start a business here in the States. I told him what I tell anyone who comes to me with a request for business advice; why are you asking me? Do I dress like my last name is Carnegie?

Another fellow I was doomed to make conversation with is Sanjay Patel, a cockey Bangladeshi whose name I will never ever forget. His real name, either, because when he came into the room I was busy writing up my adventures for the day (I kept a journal. You think I have amazing total recall or something?), and he felt compelled to tell me, among other things, that he was going to be a great novelist as soon as he learned how to read and write. Then he made me repeat his name so I'd remember it when he had a major international beststeller.

He also told me that he has a major Indian furniture business (to which I thought, but didn't say, "It must be doing well if you're doing business out of a youth hostel"), that writing for a living "is a stupid profession," and that he actually had a private room, but had stayed in my room before and was still using the lockers to keep his stuff in. In fact, he had about three lockers.

At that point Gina, who had been on her bunk napping, walked out of the room. When she left, Sanjay turned to me and said, "What a bitch. But," pointing to my bed, "she seems to like people who sleep in that bunk, don't ask me why."

I snorted in deisbelief at him then, but was to think about his words later that night when I was awoken by a loudly whispered, "Hey Liam!" in a breathless Italian accent from Gina's bed across the room.

I paused - was this to be a foriegn romantic adventure full of passion, mystery, and the clap?
"What?" I said.
"No you - other Liam!"
"Oh."
"Liam, I can't sleep!"

But Other Liam couldn't hear her; DiscMan was on, and he was sleeping to some dance music.
A few minutes later, she climbs out bed, pads over to our bunk, and - standing on my mattress, leans over Other Liam's bed.

I paused again - was this to be a foreign disgusting adventure, full of loud noises, disturbing smells, and the fear of imminent upper bunk collapse.
"Liam, Too much noise. I can't sleep."
He apologizes and turns his Discman down.

That wasn't the story I wanted to tell you.

BOY WAS I EXHAUSTED
I'd had a couple of nights of staying out late drinking, followed by days of sightseeing.
I was ready to hit the hay early. So I was in bed, in a shirt and underwear, talking to Tino as he got ready to go out for the evening. One of our roommates came in - a slight Spanish guy, whose name I never got and whom I never talked to really - followed by three drunken Australians.

One looked kind of like Fagin, from Dickens' classic novel Oliver Twist, stooped, beaklike nose, hair shaved to almost-baldness. The second was a woman whose tight black dress emphasized her huge belly. She had a face like a fish-wife. The third was a short, stocky blond buzz-cut kid. He wa the most aggressive:
"Where's Gina?"

Tino was confused, "I don't know any Gina."
"Yes you do, mate. Come on, where's Gina?"
"I never met any Gina."
I spoke up, "Gina's not here."
"Where is she?"
"I don't know."
"I need to talk to Gina."
The Tino said, "She's not here, so you should go."

Then The Fishwife said to me, "Are you going to bed?"
"Yes."
"We should go."
Very weird exchange, that.

The Short Blond was having none of it, and started getting in Tino's face: "Mate, we want to talk to Gina."
"I tell you, she isn't here."
The more the Short Blond pushed himself against Tino, the more Tino just got limp and didn't do anything back. This infuriated the Short Blond, and I had to get up diplomatically escort everyone out. Luckily, I was using my secret weapon; my unattractively flabby and pale thighs which are used by the NYPD to break up riots.

After we close the door behind them, we ask the Spanish kid who they were. He says they just pushed their way in behind them. There comes now a persistent knocking on the door. I put on my pants (the first look is free, the rest you gotta pay for, sorry ladies), and answer the door. The Fishwife is outside.

Fishwife: May we speak to your colored fellow for a minute, please?
Me: taken aback by the fact that someone has actually used the phrase "your colored felow"): What?
Fishwife: May we speak to your colored fellow, please?
Me: Why?
Fishwife: It's personal.
Me (looking at Tino): I don't think he wants to come out.

Fishwife: Could you send your colored fellow out here, please? It's personal.
Me: I don't think -
Tino: Come in here.

And so on, until I close the door in her face.
Then Tino looks at me and says, "Do you want to go out for a drink?"
Yes, I do. I do very much.

So we leave the room, and the three of them start following us down the hallway, ringing Tino and completley ignoring me:
"Where's Gina? Where's Gina?"
"I don't know any Gina."
"She has something of mine. A key."
"Well, you have to get it."
Me: We're not letting you into our room to look through our roommate's stuff."
Tino: "You have to go to reception. I'll go with you right now."

And then the poor chump stops to wait for the elevator. I'm already heading for the stairs, and turn around to see the three of them look at each other. The elevator's pretty small, and once you've got someone cornered in there, you can pretty much pull the emergency brake and murder him.

Short Blond: "All right, we'll go to reception with you."
Me: "Hey, let's take the stairs."
Tino looks around him, sees the elevator open, and says, "Oh yeah, right," and follows me down the hall.

Now the Australians are mad, although - and this is odd - still 100% focused on Tino, not at all on me.
"Let us in, mate. I just need my key."
"We'll go to reception."
"Forget reception mate, I just want my key."

Now we're on the stairs, and Short Blond is getting desperate. he starts throwing his body at Tino.
"Come on, mate. Beat me up. I want you to. I want you to."
At this point, I realize we're never going to get anywhere. So I go up to the Security desk. The Security Officer starts sorting everyone out, and Tino and I head into the night.

Tino: "You have a bar you like?"
Me: "Not really?"
Tino: "I have a bar. You know Tottenham Court Road?"
Me: "Yeah."
Tino: "It's there. You like Salsa music?"
Me: "Sure."

And so we end up at London's biggest salsa club, called SALSA!
Now I've grown up in Queens, I've been to several Salsa! clubs, and this was the least Hispanic club I'd been to. But, even though I'm the worst dancer on the North American continent, for the next two and a half hours I Salsa!ed my troubles away.

But that's a story for another time.
Good night children, everywhere.

The Royal Courts of Justice is one of my favorite buildings in London. Huge, imposing, in the Victorian Gothic style; as someone raised on Tim Burton movies, this is my image of the Ultimate Court of Judgment. This building was designed to send one message and one message only:
"You, my friend, are Fucked with a capital F. If you walk through these doors and you ain't a lawyer, you ain't walking back out. We own you, and don't you ever forget it."

-

Now, earlier in the day I'd been at one of those souvenir stands near Trafalgar Square, and for some reason - and don't ask me why because I don't have any good reason - I'd bought a night watchman's bell. Yes, a big bell with a handle on it for swinging as you walk through the streets at night shouting "Three O'Clock and ALL'S WELL!"

I don't know a single neighborhood on Earth where - if you rang a bell at three in the morning screaming the time - all would be well for you. But what the hell; it was a shiny thing and it caught my eye and that's all there is to it.

-

At the security desk on my way in, I had to walk through a metal detector, put all metal objects in a tray so they wouldn't set the detector off. As I'm putting my keys and change in my pocket, one of the guards stops me and says, "'Ere. Is that a ... bell?"

"Yes," I reply, because even though it's wrapped in paper, it's still distinctly bell-shaped, and let's off a bell-like ringing. I consider lying; "No, it's a miniature antique musket." But I somehow think that will go worse for me.

"You're going to have to leave that here."

I'm not sure why the Royal Courts of Justice has such a strong anti-bell policy. But who am I to argue with an armed guard. I sign a sheet of paper and leave my bell at the security desk to pick up later.

Inside, the Royal Courts of Justice building is quite incredible; grey and brown, with arched doorways and windows done in a church-like style, wooden doors, lending the whole thing a Cathedral to the Gods of Justice air. I pick the first spiral staircase up - broad and wide, it's like something out of Alice in Wonderland; for a few seconds, it seems like this spiral staircase just goes on forever.

When I get out on the First Floor, I walk down a hallway ith marble floors done in a checkerboard style. I walk past the doorway for Court 4 - The Court of the Lord Chief of Justice For England and Wales (with Justice McCombe and Justice David Clarke). I figure, you can't pick a courtroom with a judge higher than that, so I walk into the courtroom and take a seat.

The overall decorating motif of the courtrom is wood and red velvet trim. The very back of the room is a row of black plastic seats - for spectators. Then three more rows of pews in front of those, also for spectators. Then another row of pews for the barristers. Three judges sit on the bench, high above the rest of the court, in front of the Royal Crest. On the right-hand side of the room, far away from everyone is else, is a cage with thick iron bars in which sits the defendant.
The entire room is lines with book-cases, in which sit either law books or The Collected Adventures of Nancy Drew. ("Your Honor, I would like to refer you to the 1968 ruling in 'The Hardy Boys v. The Ghost of Smugglers' Cove.'")

As I walk in, the defense barrister (the barristers and the judges are wearing white powdered wigs; my question is, do you have to wear a wig in that braided style, or can you show up in, say, a Freddy Mercury wig?) is making his case and stuttering and stumbling badly. Indeed, my first thought as I sit down is - "the defendant is either going to walk or is going to die, depending on whether this guy's arguing for or against him."

Then, and this is something you don't see in US courts, the judges started cross-examining him. And, I might add, being as sarcastic as possible about it:
Judge 1: So what you're saying is, either John had a fault on his phone that deleted all calls from that number, or Customs deleted five entries, which leaves the question of what happened to those five blank entries on his phone.
Defense Lawyer:Well - I wouldn't advance that argument.
Judge 2: I wouldn't touch that argument with a ten-foot barge pole.

It's like watching someone get grilled by a particularly cruel college professor:
Judge 1: Wer you practicing during the hayday of the Metropolitan Police Department?
Judge 2: You seem much too young.
Lawyer (probably thinking, "Hey asshole, what does this have to do with anything?"):Well, uh, m'lord... when was...?
Judge 1: Oh, the 1970s I should think.
Lawyer: I think I am too young, m'lord. It was a bit before my time...
Judge 1: Well, they knew their way around a question like that. If you'd asked a Metroploitan Police Officer a question like that, he'd lean back, cross his arms, and say 'Do you really want me to answer that question?' By the time they were done with you, you'd have no case.

Needless to say, judgment did not go this guy's way.

-

I walked back out, stopped at Security to pick up my bell, and no one could find it.
I talked to a very nice Security Guard who obviously had seniority, as he ordered another ssecurity guard to go down to the Control Room to see if it had been brought there. Meanwhile he chatted with me about how much he loves going to America (with the pund-to-dollar exchange rate, he should); he's going to New York this month, and going to Florida for a week in February.

The Royal Courts security guards are some of the nicest people I met in Londond; but if I had a job that let me take weeks off to go all over the place, I'd be super nice too.

Long story short; the can't find the bell, tell me to come back the next day.

I come back the next day, and it turns out that with my crazy New York accent, the thought my belt had been confiscated on my way in.
As Peter the Security Guard put it, "We were all wondering why he took your belt on your way in."

Ah, well. I hope you enjoyed this story. I doubt you read all the way down to this sentence.

The most original observation on the planet:
Their food? Not so good.
First of all, I applaud London; they take the foods that mesh well together the least and put them all in one restaurant:

"Hmmm, a menu for an Indian/Thai/Chinese Vegetarian Kebab restaurant with Italian coffee and sushi appetizers? That sounds like the kind of place where they make everything terribly. What do all those cultures have in common? Oh yeah, they all hate each other.
C'mon English people - pick one thing to be bad at.

* * * * * *

I got handed a menu while walking down Baker Street; it said (and I quote): "All you can eat buffet 5 pounds. DOES NOT APPLY TO TAKE AWAY!"
(NOTE: "Take away" = "To go.")

Whoa. Was this a big problem for them? Were people really coming in, saying, "Hey I'm Charlie. Remember I ordered your all-you-can-eat buffet last week? Well, I still haven't had all I can eat. That's why I've been back every four hours for the last eight days. Sorry man, you should've been more specific in your menu. Now give me another eight pounds of curried spring roll lo mein on a kebab."

**************

The next time you hear Europeans sneer at how unhealthily Americans eat, spring these four words on them:
"Bacon-flavored potato chips." (They call potato chips "crisps.")

I kid you not. It's such an unhealthy snack, I'm surprised it wasn't invented in the USA.
It really should be the biggest thing in America after The Sopranos.
Because it is as delicious as it is bad for you.

But what are the commercials for Bacon-Flavored Potato Chips like?

INT. KITCHEN - AFTERNOON
CHARLIE, a man in his 30s with a huge gut is sitting dejectedly at a table, shoving potato chips into his mouth.
TIM, his neighbor enters.

TIM: Hey Charlie, why so glum?

CHARLIE: I don't know Tim. I guess I'm so busy shoving these here potato chips - I mean "crisps" - into my mouth, I don't have any room for this thirty pounds of bacon Helen cooked for me.
(He holds up a plate with thirty pounds of bacon on it.)

TIM: Thirty pounds of bacon? Is she trying to kill you?

CHARLIE: Probably.

TIM: Well Charlie, have you tried Walker's Bacon-Flavoured Potato Chi - I mean, "Crisps?"
(He holds up a bag.)

CHARLIE: No TIm, because that kind of sounds like the most disgusting fucking thing I've ever heard of.

TIM: Not as disgusting as how you let yourself go. Come on man, we once conquered the African continent. You can try conquering a god damn potato chip - I mean "crisp."

CHARLIE: Okay.
(He eats a crisp reluctantly. Then he smiles a big smile.)
CHARLIE: That's bloody delicious!
(He grabs his heart, and dies of a massaive coronary.)

TIM: Then you won't mind if I sleep with Helen, old chap? She won't notice the difference except for the improvement.
(To the camera).
TIM: Walkers Bacon Flavored Potato - I mean "Crisps." Because you might be able to eat the pain away.

ANNOUNCER: Not a substitute for a happy childhood.

First of al, a big thanks to Josh Comers for filling in for me while I was gone.
And a big "I'm sorry" to all the Josh Comers fans who are disappointed that I'm back.
And speaking of "I'm back..."

Wow, I'm back from England, and all I can say is - wow. I feel like a time traveller:
"I'm from the far distant past, where Kerry is about to be elected President and the Red Sox have never won a World Series. I know not your iPod! I know not your Magic Sound Machines! Look, this is my pet dinosaur! Aaggghhh! Electric Light! Devil Magik!"

The British public, by the way, is very concerned about American politics. Every person I met, before and after the elections, when they found out I was an American, would ask me the same thing: "Who are (were) you voting for, if you don't mind my asking?" And when I said "Kerry," they would invariably let out a little sigh of relief, like i was going to go nuts:
"BUSH! You better be Christian or I'll burn you as a witch! Your body is mine!"

After the last election, I don't even consider myself an American so much as a New Yorker.
It was a distinction I had to make more than once; they ain't in love with us over there no more.
In fact, I was talking to a Canadian guy, and he suggested I sew a Canadian flag to my backpack next time I travel. He said, "You can always take it off when you get home.
I said, "No one would be mad where I'm from. In fact, they'd probably say, 'Cool flag, Liam. Where'd you go? Ireland? Sweden? San Francisco?'"
Hell, I might have to tattoo that flag to my forearm.

There's lots to do in England; The Museum of Science, the history of science with an emphasis on British achievements (exhibits on The Invention of Damp and Functional Alcoholism: A Look Back); The Tower of England - the world's only two-story tower; The London Zoo - see the Rude French in Their Own Habitat!; and lots more. I'll be telling a lot of stories and stuff in the days to come.

So stay tuned to this blog!

My computer is fucked. My hard drive just threw up binary code on my shoe. The keyboard gets migraines, so I have to type very lightly and pressing down two keys at once (i.e., Shift + A) makes it whimper. Every time I have to reboot, which is often, my computer releases carbon monoxide so no matter what season it is, shutting my window is not an option. On top of all this, I just found out that my MS Word has Alzheimer, so saving is useless.

***

Why is “moody” a mood? Or why does “being moody” mean being in a “bad mood”? Couldn’t saying “He’s moody today” mean so many different things? You’re always in a “mood”, therefore, you’re always “moody”.

It’s like stating, “He’s awfully humany” today.

I have a sinking feeling that George Carlin has already covered this matter.

***

Liam’s coming home today and this blog is a fucking mess. Chicken bones stuffed behind every link and some prick urinated on his photo page (not cool).

I’ve got tons of cleaning to do. If anyone who was at Saturday’s blow out wants to come by and pitch in, that’d be swell. Somehow, the keg’s not kicked.

Never again.

***

Like I said, Liam’s coming back, so this post could be my last.

I do hope you considered what we briefly discussed yesterday. You know. We should tell him. Think about it.

All the best.

“Sunday Night Television”. Is there any words in the English language that flow together more beautifully? “World Peace and Harmony”. Eh. Kind of clunky.

I wish there was something that gave me more comfort and joy than watching television on Sunday night; the scent of woman, the squeaky laugh of a toddler. These things are nice any other night of the week, but on Sundays, keep your smell to yourselves, ladies, and put a sock in it, babies. Desperate Housewives is on.

***

Was in Central Park and caught a little of the NYC Marathon. As I watched the runners trudge through the final strectch, I noticed many of the runners had their names displayed prominently on their shirts or written on their bodies with marker. I soon realized that this was done so that spectators could cheer for them by name as they went by. It seemed to work.

“Go Rachel!”

“Almost there Wallace”.

“Whooo Alex. Make Estonia Proud.”

“You’re the Man, Crystal!”

“Keep going Barry, keep going”

“There’s a man with a pick axe three feet behind you and gaining ground, Meridith!”

“Chris, you’ve never finished anything in your life, you really think you’re going to turn things around today? You’re such a joke man. Such a freakin joke.”

“You’re number 5,497, Gabe!”

Some cheers worked better than others.

***

I think Liam is coming back this week.

Don't you think we should tell him the truth about us.

Look, it's not like we planned this.

I don’t know how things got so. . . complicated.

Awkward moment the gym today. A woman working out was wearing the same shirt as me. It was a shirt my friends got me as a gift for catsitting (cat-sitting?) when they vacationed in Canada. The shirt says Canada on it. Has patches on the sleeves that also mention something about Canada. Not as bad as it sounds.

She wasn’t wearing it the whole time. But when she got off the machine that you do stuff on for long periods of time to lose weight and improve cardio health, she put it on. I was on the treadmill and saw the shirt in the mirror. There it was, in bright red letters, “adanaC”. I decided that would have to be my last activity of the day at the gym.

I couldn’t bear the thought of coming face to face with the girl in the gym working out unmistakably in the same shirt as me. I’m not saying I would’ve stayed at the gym had it been a dude wearing the same shirt as me. If it were a dude, I probably would have taken the shirt off right then and there and walked topless straight to the locker room.

What if I stayed and we wound up working out right next to each other? Say we’re both doing curls next to each other. We’re doing our curls, but out of sync. As she lifts up, I let down. Would one of us attempt to sync up? It would have been just too distracting for words, really.

She was kind of cute, so you can’t say I didn’t have an opening. You know, like, “hey, nice shirt”. Or “Fuck America, am I right?”

Maybe this is the perfect time and situation to take advantage of Craig’s list Missed Encounters section. Let’s see:

You- at Bally’s wearing a “Canada” shirt.
Me- at Bally’s wearing same “Canada” shirt drenched in back sweat.

Let’s spot each other again soon. I said, let’s SPOT each other again soon.

Me- Awesome sense of humor.
You- not into lame word play.

Yea. Maybe that shirt needs some time out of the rotation.

Due to connection and election issues, I’ve missed a few days of blogging. Is this acceptable? Does blogging have to be an everyday thing? Maybe there’s a Cal Ripken of blogging out there, but not here.

Besides the above legitimate excuses, please understand, it’s difficult for me to stick to anything consistently. I get psyched about doing something, make many promises to myself and others, then the premiere of The OC comes on and all is lost.

No more excuses. I promise you all (3, 4 people?), I will write vigorously every day until Liam comes back or my cable does, whichever comes first.

***

One thing I have been doing over the past few days is Bush victory party-hopping. Say what you will about them, but Republican parties Rock!

They’re really into games. My favorite Republican party game was Pin the Tailspin on the Donkey.

Another classic party game that's seeing a resurgance at these gatherings is Spin The Clothes Hanger. I won’t go into details about why you don't want the hanger pointing to you when it stops.

I think I ruffled a few feathers at one party when I spilt out some Heinz Ketchup on the host's carpet for our homies that didn’t make it. Know what I’m sayin?

***

I wonder how many people died of a result of not voting? I imagine since I haven’t heard a figure yet, there’s still counting the bodies. We can’t say Puffy didn’t warn us.

***

I hope Liam is having a nice to time in England. I imagine he’s going out of his way to convince everyone he meets he’s not one of the dumb ones. I can’t figure out whether this is a good time to be out of the country, or bad time to be an American in a foreign land, albeit another member of the, ahem, Coalition of the Willing.

Are we fucked?

Is Greta Van Suntren a good kisser?

Could Bush, one on one, no cameras, no press, no pressure, explain the electoral college to me?

Can you believe Liam had the nerve to post on my Blog? He totally abadoned you guys and thinks he can just come back like that?

Why won't they let Larry King take a nap?

How many people read this? Why?

Will Liam have an English accent when he comes back?

Would voting with a simple show of hands in Floridia be more reliable?

As you read this, are you sad for our country?

Hey, It's Liam, of The Liam McEneaney Experience. Don't mean to interrupt Josh's flow here (especially when he's averaging about fifteen percent more hits on this blog than I do. Ummm, he may have to permanently blog to this site, as he's clearly the people's choice).

England is fun. You know, you hear a lot of stereotypes about certain people, and when you actually get to meet them, you find out they're absolutely true.

In this case, I'm talking about The French, who are as rude as advertised.

Indeed, I no longer fear being sent to Hell, because I know that if I do, I will not be able to get in, as a crowd of ten million Frenchmen will be standing in front of the gates, smoking cigarettes, blocking the way, and mocking my attempts at getting through.

However, and let me be clear, this does not make the old TV show 'Allo 'Allo in any way funny.

I will have lots to say about England when I get back.

TTFN!

I plan on voting tomorrow, but I'm still undecided about what I'm going to wear.

They're saying rain, but we've heard that before. Remember Clinton vs. Bush Sr? Oh, they said it was going to pour, so I wear my heavy cumbersome rain boots, and nothing.

Maybe I should play it safe with jeans and my light gray sweatshirt, but part of me is tired of the status quo. Part of me wants something different, like my orange striped polo and the brown khakis.

I wonder if other people in different parts of the country are going through the same inner turmoil I'm going through this Election Eve?

The polls at a local grade school, so I hardly think I need to over do it. Then again, I'm going to work right after, so I can't totally slum it. Plus, I may run into my ex there. I wonder what she'll be wearing? I remember we had a big fight Election Day 2000 because I didn’t agree with her choice in blouses. Looking back, she made the right call.

Damn it. Every four years it's the same thing. I just don't want to make the wrong choice and have to live with it for the rest of the day.

But, I guess with freedom comes choices and taking responsibility for those choices.




Flannel?