Time for your loofah, Lizzie

I dreamt I was taking a bath last night.

Who else was in the bathtub? Queen Elisabeth. Yup, she was wearing her crown.

Uncomfortable with all the royal nudity, I kept on scrunching up to one corner because I didn't want to touch her old lady bum with my feet.

Clincher being, she was arguing with Prince William who was fully clothed and standing in the ebathroom. Oh yes, I dreamt of Prince William fully clothed.

Furthermore, and perhaps most painfully, the bathroom was Richard's apartment in Paris. A select few of you know the special relationship I have with that bathtub (Kristen, I'm talking to you).

Seirously, 10 bucks to anyone who can figure that out. I'm not kidding.

Do I have some sort of bizarre regiphilic tendencies? Does the shame of The Richard's Party Red Wine Incident haunt my dreams...literally? (meh, probably not)

Stay tuned, people.

My 20-old birthday party

So I went to New York recently...to have a birthday party, which was sheer brilliance.
For a write up that is, understandably, one from one noble man's perspective, but amazing anyways:

(Keith's nickname for me shall be changed to 'Francesca' for this story)

By Keith:

So I met up with Francesca, Jojo (who, in an odd break from normal, I call by his rael name, not the nickname used here) and Bekah to celebrate Francesca''s birthday. Met some of Francesca's friends. One in particular decided against the typical "hello" style of greeting. She opted for,

"Hey! You know Neil!"

to which I stared blankly at her for a second. Quite simply I don't really know a Neil. I do know a Knile. So that was fun.

Dinner was fascinating. Let me introduce you to the cast of that charade:
Bekah: Has worked for MTV for several years. I've known Bekah since grade school.
Olli: Francesca's british boyfriend. Of the men she has dated, Olli is one of my two favorites. He's your standard charming brit, but with more personality.
Leigh: Majors in classical archeaology, smiles a lot and has known Tom for a very long time.
Jojo: Friend since high school, I run into Joseph about once a year. He's incredibly well educated, and hilariously funny...especially if you speak several languages and are well read in at least 3. He's lived in more than 5 countries over the past 5 years.
Danika: Attractive british girl, has known Olli since grade school.
Tom: Larger than life personality. Uses the word "cunt" a lot, has an amusing story about being run over by a truck. Also, he's a neurobiologist.
Francesca: Has been mentioned previously.

There were times that joseph and Leigh would start on a series of jokes that went right over my head, so Bekah and i started talking about Paris Hilton instead. There was a math joke that was actually funny, because it was true.

Then we were heading to a bar. but we forgot Leigh. We got to said bar and over the course of the night no less than 50 people came through to celebrate with Francesca. Seriously, how many people can throw a successful party in a city that they have never lived in, in a country they haven't lived in for 2 years? Their were Brits, Alpha Phis, high school friends, hopkins people - it was entertaining.

I spent a lot of time talking to Danika and Debbie about things like www.jdate.com. And how christian women suck in bed because of original sin. She spoke so freaking fast that i had to stop her every 20 minutes or so just to give my brain a minute to catch up to the last few sentences. But I couldn't stop laughing. Francesca's friends are fantastic.



I agree most especially with the last bit, darling. Now, repeat after me: "awwwwww"

Her Majesty's Sartorial Reform Initiative: Dance, Fat Man!

Whether you call them sneakers or "trainers," evil, thy name is athletic shoe. The frustration I felt this time last year in Paris has only doubled since arriving in London. I've got exams, it's warm and sticky, and urban, and on top of it all, I am barraged with fat tourists who crowd the sidewalks. Specifically, my compatriotes. Now, the genuine warmhearted, overexcited American tourist abroad isn't really *that* bad. There's something nice about hearing, "Oh Harry, look, dah-ble deckah busses!"

But ultimately, it's the attire that makes me feel homicidal. The white sneakers, the ski jacket donned for an April rainstorm, the ubiquitous grey fleece whose brand-we-shall-not-name. There are no mountains in London. Why are you wearing a ski jacket? Judging from your pudge, you haven't gone running in years. Why are you wearing sneakers?

The only remedy, as I see it, is to enforce mandatory predation upon sportily dressed tourists. You came here dressed for sport, you asked for it. It shall be named, 'Her Majesty's Sartorial Reform Initiative," known in common parlance as 'Dance, fat boy, dance!" While I would never advocate increased gun ownership, resident Londoners will henceforth be equipped with large, impressive looking toy guns and have the right to bear them while kamikaze-screaming and running toward unsuspecting, sportily dressed tourists. Oh, you'll run alright, fat man, you'll run.

United in action for a prettier kingdom, in the service of her majesty the queen.
Thank you.

In appreciation of...

After almost 8 months of residence in London, I don't find the people difficult, grating, or generally strange, much unlike Paris. This makes for a generally less interesting, if more harmonious existence.

This said, I can't say as I mind being generally awash with pleasantness. It's the softer corners of London that make it a more liveable place. (Although this may make a potentially a less interesting blog)

Just how soft are these corners? It's not that London's not edgy, but it just doesn't have that New York bitterness. I do resent the idea that Londoners, and Brits in general, sort of fop around and stutter, (The Hugh Grant Theory), but there is a certain overpoliteness that permeates every aspect of life.

Take for example, my part-time job. I work in a converted 19th century shop, one of 3/4 employees that can fit in the store at any given point. We do sandwiches at lunch time, and I am essentially, as my super fabulous gay boss put it, "The Sandwich Queen."

I manage the 25 or so bankers/magic circle lawyers that queue patiently outside our storefront.
Now, enter the overpoliteness.

Imagine this scenario. James X comes in, and immediately looks to the 10 people standing in the queue in the store, as if he's affronted them just by entering. I almost expect a sincere, "Oh so sorry, am I breathing the same air? Ever so sorry."

He looks to the menu. Now, this is a man who has most likely gone to Oxbridge for his degree, been fast-tracked into one of London's most lucrative careers, but spends a solid 10 minute staring at the menu in complete confusion. Finally, he looks up.

I make eye contact, suggesting, subtly, that he may like to order. He looks around again, just to confirm that uttering the phrase "Ham and Chutney on granary bread, please" won't send anyone else into a crisis of nerves.

"I'm sorry, we're out of ham," I offer, with a pitying look. "Oh, um...right. Right," he mutters, spiralling back into confusion. I then volley back the apologies, just to make absolutely certain he's not disappointed AND offended. "Yes, I'm very sorry, we've had [aliens take away the ham slicer/a severe European pig shortage/a case of flying ham] this morning."

Now, god help us if two identical orders come up in short succession. I've only studied Arbitration Law briefly, but from what I can tell, the deliberation between two lawyers over a sandwich is far more intense. Both hands, equipped with family crest rings, go forward, men uttering in call-and-response style:

"Right, well, sure it's...oh, right....surely it's yours...yes, right. Cheers, thank you...cheers..."

All this said, we do have a few jerks who stride in and bark their sandwich orders, regardless of who may be standing in line, or who may faint from impoliteness.

They're all French.
You can't make this stuff up.

Latvian humour

Imagine this pathway of websites, if you will.
I'm desperate to go on holiday. (In defense of my use of the word "holiday", I say that Madonna's "Holiday" trumps the Go-Go's "Vacation," no question)

Step 1: www.skyscanner.net allows you to search the cheapest destinations for your departure city. Latvia tops the list for London in June.

Step 2: Latvia? Current knowledge limited to Post-soviet Baltic State and a Seinfeld episode. www.wikipedia.org.

Step 3: Under "Latvia" article, is a link to "Latvian Humour."

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Latvian_humour

(imagine it being read in a very very slavic old man's voice, I'm thinkin' Billy Crystal as Miracle Max in Princess Bride)

Latvian humour
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Latvian humour often has jokes from different places around the world, as well as some influence from Russian humour and some jokes shared with Estonia and Lithuania. People from Latgale are often the target of Latvian jokes.

Some Latvian jokes play on the high numbers of Russians living in Latvia.

An old Latvian is walking down the street, sees a person that has just been killed by a falling brick and complains "Pity that a Latvian dies when there are so few Latvians." A bystander tells him that it is a Russian, not a Latvian, and the old man complains "Damn! There are so many Russians here so that there is not enough room for a brick to hit the ground."


Hilarious in ways I'm sure the authors never intended. Oh man. I need to stop laughing long enough to actually plan this holiday.

The Worst Time To...

Clever NYT forum...

While the following post is pretty heart-wrenching, the response says it all...



Best thing to do last Saturday night, 24 March at 1830:
Help out your friend up at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center who is comforting his son’s best friend who just lost both of his legs in Iraq.
Be with him as his son’s buddy keeps waking up from the drugs, realizing he has lost his legs, drifts to sleep, then wakes up 3 hours later to learn they are missing yet again.
Be with him as they have to cut away more of the dead material, realizing that there will be just about nothing left to which a prosthetic can be attached.
Be with him as he writes his son’s buddy’s mom about what is going on - how strong and hopeful and brave her son is. How amazing our faith is, whatever the religion.
Be with him as his son’s buddy calls his callsign out in his dreams, and the names of his mates in the humvee, all five of whom died on the scene.
America, this is happening every day.

— Posted by Jake




Worst place to post a heartbreaking Iraq story, probably ‘dramatized’: In a forum about eating out and buying cars.

— Posted by Candy

The best of The off-facebook photo series

Flotsam and jetsam from the past long while.

Hungarian houses of parliament, awesome old trams:



Parisian garbage men:



Milton. The Fiercest cat around.



The Old Course. St. Andrew's.














Dubrovnik, Croatia.


Covered Market, Barcelona.