Cradle Me Like A Baby

The tiger hisses like a snake.
The city is blanketed in gray.
If you cradle me like a baby
I’ll fall sleep and dream I’m safe.

You sing so lovely, with that iron lung,
like the phantom without his mask on.
If you sing to me a tune of glee I fawn
like a Spring deer leaping across the lawn.

It’s nearly high noon and I haven’t shut up yet,
I haven’t talked to anybody and I haven’t wept.
The day is covered in oatmeal, lumpy and wet.
And outside smells like the vapor trail of a jet.

The riverbank is made of clay and bones.
The breathing city bitches and moans.
People existing in universes all their own,
never realizing their bodies are just on loan.

It’s legal tender, but it’s not tender.
It’s legal tender, but it’s not tender.
It’s legal tender, but it’s not gentle.

Cradle me like a baby
I’ll fall asleep and dream I’m safe

London: Day Six (It’s Over)

I woke for my last full day in London with a steady mind to stay in bed. I’d done so much already — it’s felt like I’ve been walking around the city for weeks, shows, shopping, art! — that I just didn’t have that push to jump out into the streets like I did the other days. It’s a big city but a tiny room and I was content to stay in it for a bit. There was plenty of instant coffee and biscuits to keep me entertained so I wrote for a spell while watching pigeons flutter to my open window to insult me and move on back to Regent’s Park. Big, fat, mean pigeons.

Eventually I made my way down to the Continental Breakfast where I learned that just because the cheese package says Easy To Open, it doesn’t mean they’re talking to you.

How boring it must be to work a continental breakfast setup everyday! Stacking the croissants into tiers. Picking up a thousand little saucers all the time. Checking on the orange juice. Setting out the cereal boxes. It would tire on my soul, I was thinking as a couple of older Scandinavian women walked in and stood there dumbly like some dust-collecting coat racks while they looked for a place to sit. There were no windows down there in the basement so I don’t know what caused their careful deliberation but from what I can tell they chose a spot with easy access to the cafe machine and a view of the kitchen. Maybe they thought there might be omelets coming out of there shortly, I don’t know.

It was odd. And so was I. Sitting there wondering about such things as stacking small plastic containers of cream when lovely, old London was waiting for me right outside my hotel.

Harrods was calling my name. Not to buy anything, I had already done some of that the day before on the way back from the Tate, but just to ride the escalator, gawk at all the fancy and expensive stuff and marvel at their food court with all the other yahoos.

Plethora…

On a Saturday afternoon you can count on it being busy, and it was booty to booty on the escalators, so it’s no curious feat that Harrod’s exhausted me in record-breaking fashion. Some people probably end up taking longer to cycle through a revolving door than the speed I went through that department store, still, I managed to check out the sports section which provided me the pleasure of standing there scratching my chin, wondering why one would go to the middle of London and ride five escalators to buy a mountain bike that has a sign on that says ‘do not touch’?

That seemed odd! How should one decide on which mountain bike to buy, in the middle of London, up five escalators, without being allowed to touch it? Needless to say, (and perhaps not so needless if I’m saying it) Harrods was not my cup of tea.

Yo Sushi!, (I didn’t put the exclamation there, by the way — they did) a sushi joint across the street from Harrods, but in some forgettable, nebulous way was part of Harrods, or at least inside some kind of annex, was more my speed. I took a seat next to the conveyor belt and watched the delicious pieces of fish twirl around the counter in circles. It was tempting to grab every colored-plate that passed but I held out for the good ones while sipping my Asahi and catching up on my food-induced drooling.

I don’t know why there aren’t more sushi conveyor belts in America. I don’t know why there’s not more food on conveyor belts, period. Pizza. Burgers. Nachos. Candy bars.

Spinning…

Next I wandered through Hyde Park and scared some ducks. I took pictures of my feet and then the sky began to spit on me ever so gently — like angelic baby spittle it was. I pulled up my hood and kept marching to the Tube, keeping up the happy sushi spirits headed homeward. And by homeward I mean to Oxford Circus, to do some shopping. It was close to my hotel and therefore I didn’t have too long to walk with bulky bags. I scooped up two pairs of shoes, because I know I have a lot of walking to do in this life of mine and don’t want to be unprepared — plus they have styles we don’t back in the States. I also got some jeans just because I got legs and they need to be covered.

I dumped the bags on the couch and turned away from an afternoon nap to to venture down Gough Street. looking for a suitable place to place before me a beer, fancying some suds to relieve the stressful day of shopping. Life really is tough sometimes. I charged it all anyway so I’m sure it’ll actually turn out to be way more than I estimated in the first place, and that was with the rounding down and a more favorable exchange rate in my head, or else the willingness at a certain place and time to suspend my ability to compute and purposely screw up the math.

So it goes. Money. Money. Money. Comes and goes…

Someone should write a song about it.

But back to the topic, which wasn’t economics, but traveling, and that usually doesn’t mix well with economics, while traveling the money goes only in one direction, right out the door usually. I picked a pub to plant the backside and hunker down with my palm under my chin and my gaze streetward. The point is,  London is a great city, its monuments and museums, its bars, its riverbank, it’s architecture, the people, the fasion, the crappy beds and all. It’s a great place to run around for a week, catch some shows, do some shopping, walk in a park.

Oh God! I just realized I had a total travel brochure vacation. The only thing that was missing was going to the theatre — spelled all fancy. Really, am I this kind of tourist? Then I remembered Tayyabs and Brick Lane, that was kind of offbeat and local — but how original was that? I found it on the Internet. Was I becoming a Bermuda short-wearing, camera strap strangling my neck all day, reading the tourist pamphlets, booking rooms online, tripadvisor, expedia, eating croissants in the basement, traveler?

I guess so…

Oh well. I ordered a hamburger to remind me of home, and another Stella to remind me of beer, and sat there flipping through my memories, thinking about what I would write about this trip, and then promptly forgetting it and moving on to different ruminations as time was measured by the banging of doors and rattling of plates. It was a pleasant time.

With my notebook stranded behind at the hotel I would forget half the stuff I pondered silently  about or else needlessly prattled to whoever was around me: the way life kicks its hind legs at you sometimes when you think you got it by the reigns, and how the world is so much more interesting and vast than we give it credit for when we’re in our own heads all the time, and how you think you might know the answers but then realize you weren’t even standing at the right chalkboard. I had all these thoughts and ideas and emotions but most of it went right through my like the third beer.

The burger came and it was marginal, edible at least, and so I ate it methodically and then patted my lips dry with indifference. It took me the remaining quarter of my beer trying to decide whether there should be a followup to this one, I’d already had four now and was wondering if I should make it a domino point before deciding ‘of course I’m going to have another one! I’m in London.’

The bar felt so cozy and timeless, how could I just leave after just four?

And so it was, my fifth beer of the night and last beer in London. Night was coming on quick. The city was coming alive.

I would walk out of the pub, leaving behind the warmth and laughter, before darkness draped the city. When the sky was peachy and pink. I wanted to walk back to the hotel with shifting colors in the sky and people venturing out to greet the night happy and upbeat. I wanted to leave town right then, right on the verge of Saturday night. When things were all beginning. What a romantic time to flee and capture a feeling of joyful society.

But of course, I didn’t. I went home and watched Eminem rap on some late night British talk show — it was awkward — and suffered through one more night on the lumpy, springy mattress from hell. I think Ben Stiller was on it too. The talk show, not the mattress. At eight in the morning I paid for my phone calls, bid adieu to Mr. Glumface behind the counter and dragged my bloated suitcase out of the hotel. I also skipped the breakfast.

It was six days later and leaving felt like Deja Vu, but in reverse and a lot achier. Hotel to the Tube to the other Tube to Heathrow. This time, though, I didn’t get lost or almost run over by a double-decker bus. You can teach an old dog new tricks.

Trampoline man…

London Day Five: (The Best Lamb I Ever Tasted)

Thanks to Yelp my taste buds were set on an Indian/Pakistani restaurant in East London. I had read nightmare warnings of lines up to an hour so I figured I’d get there right as they opened up at noon. The day was strange in that I could actually see splotches of blue sky up there amid the clouds. I gave myself some leeway to walk around the neighborhood a little and wandered up to the doors right at noon. I was the first and only one there.

The place was called Tayyabs and it was the best food I’ve ever tasted. I do not kid about these types of things.

I got off the tube and walked through East London, a much dirtier and grungier part of the city than I’ve seen so far, pass more veiled Muslim women than I’ve encountered in my 33 years living in L.A. It’s not that we don’t have our share of Muslims it’s just that you’re more likely to see one driving a Benz than hiding in a Burka. There was a mosque with separate Mens and Womens entrances, seeing that was a first for me in my young life. (Yes, 33 is young, dammit!) There was trash and urban detritus everywhere and now I know why Central London is so clean, because the wind must blow it all East.

I was seated in the corner while an army of waiters shared greetings and hugs and ignored me. There was a waiting pitcher of water, which I always appreciate, and tiny-tiny glasses so I was able to entertain myself with filling and refilling my glass after ever sip, but even that treasure chest of fun dulls and I quickly grew impatient waiting. I had looked forward to this meal for more than sixteen hours now and my stomach was throwing a mutiny over Captain Brain. It had seized control of the vessel and was yelling at the captain, “Goddamn it I don’t care if you find it impolite, flag one of those motherfuckers down and feed me!”

‘Yo motherfucker,’ I shouted.

Well not really. After sheepishly getting my waiter’s attention I apologized profusely, placed an order for two veggie samosas, a lamb-something, rice, naan, and a mango smoothie, and dazed there dreaming about my meal to come. They dropped a salad in front of me and I was off the races. I hoovered that up and then took notes about how excited I was and read my book and generally sat there reflecting on what a big wide world it is and how many people are out there spinning around aimlessly in its festooned delights and how much good food there is available for modern man to purge on and how the two things might not be so unrelated as at first glance, but probably are.

But I didn’t really have time to get all deep because right then the food came and the mutiny in my stomach was abruptly turned back and I had a moment of wide-eyed wonderment that reached down into the pit of my primitive being.

“Thank you so much. Man, it looks delicious,” I slobbered. “Thank you, oh thank you!”

I was hungry. And it looked good.

I bit into the samosa and immediately slowed my chewing down in order to linger and savor the taste of it. It was the softest, most lightly fried shell I ever placed in my mouth and the sweetest blend of vegetables and spices combined to create the most delicate of juxtapositions, it was truth wrapped in flaky pastry — there was something heavenly in its perfection — like a haiku of flavors. This was not a meal to be rushed through. It was sublime. The naan was doughy and delicious and when I bit into the lamb I nearly shouted ‘hallelujah.’ Which might have been somewhat inappropriate, so I merely shook my head in disbelief instead and pigged out with a smile on my face, a happy and engorging man.

With ten minutes of pure delight digesting in my stomach, I humbly forgave them for the small delay in ordering and wished I could go back to the beginning of the dish. I looked around sadly at my disappearing feast. I was half done when I remembered my mango smoothie and, not being much of either a mango or a smoothie fan, was surprised to discover it slid down the gullet like an exquisite narcotic and just instantly made me feel good. Tropical refreshments in the grim, soot-blackened East End? Believe it.

My taste buds had had their orgy and were now forgiving me for all the McDonald’s and other culinary castaways I threw down my human rubbish bin on this trip. ‘This was a festival of epicurean pleasures assembled by the kindest and wisest of hands. We have never been treated so well,’ my taste buds shouted. ‘Thank you, Captain Brain. You may now have the jerk pay the bill.’

That’s me, I’m the jerk. And I was strangely proud for having finished everything except for about a 1/4 of my naan and 274 pieces of rice. This meal was worth the 5,000 mile planetrip. This was one spoil of Colonialism I didn’t feel guilty about. I only wished my credit card was rejected so I could have been allowed to wash the dishes and eat others’ leftovers. Yum.

I then walked through Brick Lane and enjoyed the graffiti and sights of the colorful district, the retro clothing stores, the Bengali and Indian restaurants. The area was a little sleepy on a Friday afternoon and I ambled the the street with an urge to meander, but a bladder that said skedaddle.

I passed through a business district with tall glass skyscrapers that teemed with industry and men in suits and women in blouses  on my way to the Liverpool Tube stop before disappearing into the Never-where of the Underground where I stared at my shoes and the overgrown lots and bricked apartment rows of Wherever-we-were. I was a plump and satiated man in need of an afternoon siesta, as they say in the home country so I rode the Tube with a fading, drowsy interest.

After recovering from that stretch of noontime gluttony with a little time in front of the Mac, I headed across the Thames to the Tate Modern for a wad of afternoon culture. The Tate Modern is a huge boxy museum right across the Millennium Bridge from St. Paul’s Cathedral and it’s a remarkable bit of time warp to stand next to a surrealist painting by Picasso or Ernst and look out the window at the 400-plus year-old cathedral with an Ipod in your ear playing Kayne West. Weird stuff.

The Tate is somewhat hit-or-miss when it comes to the art. But it’s free so all those hits are nothing but pure, affordable joy. There’s some really amazing pieces and then there are some room-sized abstract stuff that quite literally made one girl say, “Modern art makes me so angry!” She was commenting on a facsimile palm tree laying on the floor with random palm-inspired collages behind it in glass. I can’t say it made me angry, but I certainly wasn’t experiencing enlightenment.

On the other hand you had Picassos and Dalis and a roomful of Soviet Propaganda posters that could give a hundred Shepard Fairlys a profitable career. It reminded me that I’ve been meaning to get another tattoo on my left leg for about 8 years now. Where does the time go? Christopher Wood was a succesful artist who at only 29 entered a paranoid state and fell under a train. I’m 33 and haven’t done a single thing worth falling under a train for.

I kept going, wandering through the rooms, analyzing the art with that slow up and down appraisle that means absolutely nothing, it’s just how you’re supposed to look at art I reckoned, a pretentious 10-pound cranium stride. I couldn’t keep up the esoteric posturing because I kept getting distracted by my fellow art patrons and ended up having a seat and scrolling what I thought would surely become a tour-de-force screed.

Instead I composed a poem that would prove to be scattered and piecemeal, a vague collection of thoughts…

People — themselves assembled. Hanging on walls.
Stuck to a place in time,
…
…
Framed by wood and hard metal.
…
…

We don’t have that luxury.
…
In the painting there is a head growing out of a
tree stalk which is itself a head.
It is not beautiful.

I watched a girl with long, curly blond hair, red boots, black stockings, a purple skirt, and slung over her shoulder a North Face messenger bag. She stood on one leg like a stork as she read the description to a Monet painting, some lilly pads or something. She was a swirl of color and design: a work of art. As was the older lady with seashells on the straps of her purse and a bright pink bonnet. And the man who stood on his tippy-toes to closer inspect the corner of Walpurgis Night, clicking his tongue to express approval. We are all projections, illuminated and self-referential. The clicking tongues, the inadvertent leg-lifting, the toe-stepper. We are all poems, paintings, songs…

The muses were calling. I had the urge to go to my hotel room and pull a Kerouac. Write religiously, feverishly and without stop until I had the great American novel tucked in my book bag then go take a picture in a forest, drink rot-gut wine, slick back my hair with brill cream(?)

This always happens when I’m inspired by art. I immediately want to rush out and type up some impassioned manifesto. That’s the true worth in preserving these pieces, I supposed, inspiring other megalomaniacs to put their worst/best into the pursuit, thus the ideas and passion proliferates so that the art lives on. It’s like a parasite in this way. When Karate Kid came out I practiced my crane kick all summer.

I kid, (Karate Kid) but it’s true. Good art should be exponential; the original creation and all subsequent ones formed in its wake. Good art should make you dream of grander things, so dreams are constantly growing. Good art is a hustler, motivating you to do something obsessively, for no other reason than because it is your obsession. Good art is an elegant racket, and should make you want to add your own voice to the beautiful fray, despite how out-of-tune and offensive it may sound, or precisely because of how out-of-tune and offensive it may sound.

Good art should make you… I don’t know, do something.

Bad art is another story.

London: Day Four (Coffee And Mummies)

I woke up before my wake-up call and foolishly figured it was a good sign for my trip across the channel to Paris. My foot still significantly hobbled me but I wasn’t going to let that keep me down, no sir, and after showering, loading up on instant coffee and picking out a suitable outfit for the day’s adventure I headed down to the lobby. I was just about to step foot onto the sidewalk when an impulsively wise desire to know just what sort of weather conditions I was headed into overtook me.

I returned to the lobby and asked the concierge if he could check the weather in Paris for me and after a few clicks on the mouse he lifted his head in my direction and provided me with a sympathetic shrug. “I’m sorry, sir. It looks like rain showers today.” He turned the computer screen towards me so I could see and, sure enough, there was nothing but clouds with dashes falling from them gracing the next three days on the calendar. Drat. “No, worries,” I told him and promptly returned to my room to unpack my day bag and figure out what I was going to do in London at 6:30 in the morning.

I guzzled more coffee, wrote a little, and waited impatiently for the continental breakfast to open downstairs. When you’re traveling you have to be prepared to have your plans ruin and come up with new ones, as oxymoronic as that sounds, and so I devised the idea to take my laptop to Camden Town and scout out some coffee shop in which to engage in my task – mainly, guzzling coffee and writing the post two below this one.

Thus London: Day Two (The Evolution Of Pigeons) was put to type in Costa Coffee, outside the Mornington Crescent Tube station – if you’re a stickler for those kind of details.

I found the very busy coffee shop after hauling around the area outside Camden Town Tube station and failing to find a caffeine dealer in the area. (I assure you that it wasn’t that I wasn’t able to find one but that one didn’t exist, for as much as my feet were killing me, believe me, I was hunting desperately. It may be the first time in my life I ever thought ‘gosh darn it! Just where is the Starbucks?’ And from here on out I’ll save you my whining and I won’t mention my pedi-troubles and belabor the point any further, just assume they were ever-present) The fruitless searching didn’t come without its endearing discovery, namely a building where the poet Dylan Thomas had once lived.

London is filled with these helpful historical markers. Two days before I had passed a place where Simon Bolivar had once combed his hair and took a piss. I wish L.A did this kind of thing but it would be full of annoying little tributes like ‘On This Street Hugh Grant Attempted To Pay A Hooker To Serve His Tea And Crumpets’ or ‘In This Apartment, ArtofStarving Flatulated And Burned Many A Piece Of Chicken’.

Well, maybe one day I’ll be worthy of just such a sign, one can dream. That’s what I do all the time, dream, and that’s what I was doing as I typed away on my MacBook and watched the commuters queue up for coffee and disperse down into the tube in quiet and orderly droves.

I idly spent the good part of the morning in this endeavor with a café latte so big it had two handles out of necessity. I couldn’t help noticing that there were an awful lot of girls in Camden Town and they seemed to have a penchant for traveling in packs of at least four to eight, with stockings and curls and book bags swinging from their shoulders. Each and every one of them I fell in love with, ever so briefly.

Besides the birds I watched a statue across the road – but it was far less mobile and entertaining – and it dawned on me that, although meant as a sign of respect, having your likeness bronzed and stuck in a square so drunks can piss on it and pigeons can shit on it is a rather ignominious honor.

There was only so much action one can gleam from staring at a statue before one becomes bored to pieces, and the jumbo-sized latte, along with earlier coffees at the hotel, had my heart beating like John Bonhom after an all-night coke-fest. I thought if I didn’t hit the streets I’d surely have a panic attack right then and there and would need to be hauled away to the funny farm – which is never funny – and so I put away my laptop and rode the Underground over to the British Museum.

If I thought that I was going to lose my mind at the coffee shop I definitely picked the wrong place to find respite. The British Museum is both fascinating and terribly, terribly depressing… and maddening. It’s nothing but war, graves, hoards, slaves, greed, death, pillaging, and destruction on a global scale. It’s as if the British took all of the world’s troubles throughout time and put them on display so that sensitive souls like mine could get a firsthand look at just how awful the history of mankind has been.

It started off pleasantly enough with a statue of the Buddha but then I turned a corner into the Egyptian wing and was confronted by mummy after mummy and large groups of tourists staring dumbly into their glass encasement. They definitely were a draw and I couldn’t help but notice how little people cared for the informational placards but just wanted to gawk at the bones. I can’t deny that there is a little thrill in seeing the remains of a peasant whose death preceded well before the birth of Jesus Christ, but just a little, and so I moved on to other wings in search of something a little more calming. I wasn’t in luck.

Most people can probably walk through the British Museum without a touch of melancholy. I am not one of those people. My mind is not built for such displayed brutality. Mankind’s history is an experiment in oppression and murder and theft, and I was feeling the horror deep in my soul. It didn’t help my unsettled mood that most of the items were acquired through brutal colonial oppression. Unsurprisingly there’s not an informational placard reminding us of this trivial fact. There’s even a little note in the Parthenon exhibit that credits Lord Whateverhisname for saving the looted pieces from decay and disrepair with a little explanation saying that the removal of the priceless artifacts was agreed to and signed on by the some person in charge of Greece at the time. Yeah, whatever!

The only room that contained a little optimism for me was the hall of clocks. It’s one of those things that you never really think about and probably take for granted: what did we do before time could accurately be tracked? How did two people arrange a time to meet for lunch? Once we could precisely follow the minutes and hours throughout the day a tremendous amount of invention, discovery and assembly followed. That’s what it said on the wall at least but I didn’t continue reading because frankly a room full of clocks was a little boring and I wanted to get back to the pillaged treasures of which the British have an amazing surfeit of. It was driving me bonkers, yet, like I said, it was also fascinating.

Oh but the crowds! Wherever you went there was a group of people in your way staring at the thing you wanted a closer peek at, jockeying for position in a polite but annoying manner. And there were hoards of schoolchildren yapping away in French, a beautiful language mind you, but whenever I don’t understand what people are saying I always imagine the worst thoughts and words are coming out of their mouths. Call me a pessimist. And what’s the big idea of these kids getting to go to London, to such a magnificent museum like this, when my big field trip at that age was a flight to Sacramento and two hours in a pathetic train museum!?

It hurt my brain – the displays, the size of the building, the clatter of French, marble, mummies – all of it. To think, I was supposed to be in Paris today! If I was to ever have a mental breakdown, this would be the time, this would be the place; but someone once told me that, clinically speaking, there is no such thing as a mental breakdown, according to psychologists it does not exist , so I figured I’d save it for a later date.

I eventually ended up in the Asian wing and was calmed by the impressive assortment of Buddhist statues. That is until I sat before a life-sized one and could feel its stare boring a hole through my forehead, reading my thoughts and my sins and calling me out for being a lousy human being and an even worst Buddhist — my longings, my failures, my pettiness, my fears, my dreams — he could see all of me. I started to sweat under the statue’s watchful glare. My head hurt. My body ached. I knew I was in desperate need of a drink. All this history really pushes the limits of one’s tolerance for sobriety.

I was about to plunge back into modern times when I noticed one last room, this one dedicated to Islam and practically empty. Now why would that be? I hurried through the displays of vases and tapestries and whatever else there was. (By this point I was in a hazy daze) After patting myself on the back for being open-minded enough to speed through the Islamic section of the museum, I pushed through the heavy doors and escaped back into cloudy, dismal London, 2009.

Lucky for me there was a bar nearby to take refuge in, a cozy little joint called The College Arms. I wanted to try a new beer and so I sat on a stool in the corner and collected myself over a warm pint of Fullers London’s Pride. I went back up to the bar where the bartender inquired, “Another Fullers?” I shook my head, shouted stiffly, “How about something less disgusting this time? London really should be ashamed!”

Of course I didn’t do this, it was just make-believe, I simply changed my drink to a Stella and returned to my private note-taking/brooding.

It was easy and relaxing spending the next few hours writing awful poetry and daydreaming about another kind of life. The music playing was an agreeable mix of Indie and Classic Rock and after three or four pints I was able to forget just how truly horrid we are to each other and even began to think there was some hope for this whole enterprise of ours. The bar slowly filled up with students and workers and a few other tourists as well. Friends meeting friends. Women kissing each other on the cheek. Jokes being told. Life isn’t all that bad after all. With that thought guiding me I stumbled out of there feeling 100% better than when I entered.

It didn’t last. It was just a doomed day from the start, I guess.

I decided to acquire some dinner in another bar, and some more beer to wash it down of course, and my choice of watering holes this time missed the mark completely. I entered the establishment — The Swindle and The Lark or something hideous like that — to the sounds of Wham’s Jitterbug and talentless women with thick makeup singing along, greeted by the smell of stale beer and wet wood. It was a sorry home away from home away from home.

I plunked down by the window and watched droplets of rain begin to splatter against the glass. The sandwich I ordered seemed curiously lacking in eponymous tuna fish and the DJ just kept spinning worse and worse songs. Nothing against Robbie Williams but I have nothing for him either. Some sort of electronic gambling machine blinked and made noises in the corner. After forcing the last bite of my so-called sandwich down I ended up walking back to my hotel in a steady drizzle feeling like a man that had recently crawled out of his sarcophagus.

London: Day Three (No, Rose, It’s A Bucket Of Chicken)

I woke after the continental breakfast was closed so I made my own coffee in the room and decided to catch up on some writing while being serenaded by the clacking of jackhammers and cockney shouts from the construction site next door. It was a wobbly day with the same shade of gray sky that presented itself to me for the last two days and I thought to myself, ‘it’s no wonder England produced an extraordinary amount of melancholic artists’. I felt right at home.

Eventually I pulled together the article I was writing, closed my laptop, and staggered to the underground. I had determined that today would be a day for shopping. After tracking down a store I had wanted to take a picture of, I strolled through Soho and the area around Convent Garden peeking in bookstores and clothing stores with a burning desire to part with some of my well-earned money. Unfortunately the ironic thing about shopping is that when you’re all ready to partake in some, with money partitioned out for such a purpose, it seems like nothing is ever good enough; the shirt is too small, or has a weird pocket in the front, or you’re interested in this art book but not for the price it’s offered at, or these pairs of shoes grab your attention but should any human being really be walking around in shoes that contain green, black, blue, and pink? I assure you, in Europe they do. So basically you spend a lot of time messing up the racks while the workers eye you with seething contempt.

After participating in this charade for an hour or two, and while my foot continued to worsen, I decided to have a seat and a bit of lunch to pass the time. I found a Japanese restaurant that specialized in meat on a skewer and plunked myself down at the counter directly in front of the spit so I could drool over the meal as it sizzled on the fire. I ordered my lunch and a pint of Asahi. The beer arrived and I was like a kid on Christmas, guzzling the head off of it before the waitress had even let go. It was cool and refreshing and I instantly forgot about the trouble with my foot.

Then something incredible happened. As much as my manners object, the voyeuristic side of me loves to eavesdrop, and now was no different as a man down the counter from me begin to tell his companion about the Mao Zedong book he was reading. “Absolutely fascinating. Jaw-dropping,” he raved. What’s this? People discussing books? In Public? “Did you know that Mao did not brush his teeth for 27 years?” “No, I didn’t,” his friend replied somewhat shamefully, as if it were some gross oversight of knowledge on his part. His friend breathlessly explained, “deathly afraid of being poisoned.”

I sat there feigning to read my book as they moved on from Mao Zedong to close relatives that had been part of the London evacuation of WW2, wretched childhood experiences. It dawned on me then and there that this is the first city I’ve ever been to that has been bombed, ever. Weird.

It just got better and better from there, though. Their descriptions and stories and choice of words was something out of a play almost, like it was scripted. Can you imagine? No stuttering, no yammering, pregnant pauses, the whole deal. It was a thoughtful and eventful conversation and I had nothing better to do but listen in.

When the subject turned to the death of Bea Arthur I was titillated. (Did I just use titillate and Bea Arthur in the same sentence? Gross. There must be some kind of award for that) By now I had deduced that these men, or at least the one doing most of the talking, was gay. Now I had the proof. He was relating details of his relationship with some other man and began the story by, “we both shared this big Golden Girls thing for awhile.” There’s not a lot to read between the lines there. He went on. “He text me that Bea Arthur had died and I replied that I knew. You see, we both liked this one scene with Rose and Dorothy… so he text me back, ‘No, Rose, it’s a bucket of chicken!’ They were eating pizza around the table and Rose comes in and asks ‘is that pizza?’ and Dorothy replied, ‘No, Rose, it’s a bucket of chicken.’”

I don’t know why I found this conversation so engaging, and that quote in particular, but I did. It was just so simple yet hysterical, like Rodney Dangerfield passing gas in Caddyshack hollering out, “who stepped on a duck?” I think from now on, should I begin to over-think the obvious, I’ll just recite to myself – like some kind of mantra – ‘no, Rose, it’s a bucket of chicken’. I immediately wrote the line down in the little notebook I carry for just this purpose, by now I’m sure they were on to me. Every time something memorable was said, my notebook flipped open and I’d write for ten seconds and then set it to the side. Although I tried to make it seem inconspicuous, I know I would make the world’s worst spy.

I finished my food, swallowed the last of my beer and emerged into the streets a much fatter and happier man then before. My foot even hurt a little less. This conversation had restored my faith that there are educated people out there in the world engaging in personal, interesting, David Mametian conversations. In America, you mostly overhear boring, self-centered, banal conversations. Things like, “Man, I got soooo wasted last night!”and the tedious, “They’re making me work late again! Eh…. I’m going to miss the Dancing With The Stars finale.” or “I should get a manicure. My nails are, like, gross.” Maybe I’m being too harsh on my fellow countrymen, and maybe not.

As I rode the subway, I tried to remember what my friends and I talk about, what highbrow shit we discuss, and unfortunately when I did remember our typical conversations I realized I didn’t cut my own mustard. I’m a rather drab and banal conversationalist too. That kind of self-realization was tiring. I headed home with a hung head. After retiring for a nap (these afternoon slumbers were starting to become a little unsettling and threaten to ruin my fragile reputation as a badass) I constructed a plan to take in Big Ben and Parliament, perhaps a little touring of the city before it got dark.

I felt a little foolish that I hadn’t seen Big Ben yet, I mean, it’s kind of a big deal and all. And I’m glad I did. There’s three sights I’ll always remember seeing for the first time. New York City, coming over the George Washington Bridge on a clear late Summer morning. The Sydney Opera House on a cloud-dappled Anitpodean Spring afternoon. And now Big Ben, on a cold, drizzly, dismal Spring evening.

There’s really not much to write about this leg of the journey, though. I looked at a clock and took pictures. It was a magnificent experience seeing it, sure, but aside from taking the snapshot, what’s left? On the middle of the bridge there was a man cooking sausages and onions and so I indulged in a bit of meat on a bun while watching other tourists doing what I commenced doing, mainly stare at a building and wait for something else to happen. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a gorgeous sight, but really, what can you say about it?

I was planning on taking off for Paris in the morrow and so, rather than face stimulation overload watching a second hand go in circles, I figured I’d head back to the room and kill twenty seconds flipping through the five-channels on the telly then call it a day. I’m sure tomorrow will be full of surprises.

There’s your full Big Ben experience…

London: Day Two (The Evolution Of Pigeons)

I must not have been adjusted to the time difference because I woke up way too early in the morning for someone who only had a short three-hour nap the night before, and saw a rock concert, and flew 5,200 miles in a jet plane. It was 6-something in the morning but I was wide-awake. Oh well, might as well get the party started. I made use of the in-suite hot water maker and the provided instant coffee, after struggling of course to figure out the operation of such, and then went downstairs and made use of the continental breakfast, munching on a croissant and slurping yogurt while drinking more coffee and reading a Bill Bryson novel. The room was brimming with my fellow Astor Court Hotel guests and I wondered for what act of treason they were being punished. Or was I the only lucky one to have a mattress that was a leftover prop from the movie Saw?

I struck out from my hotel and headed north into Regents Park because it just seemed like as good a place to start as any, and I like walking through parks. Yes, I really am that boring. It was a fine, gray London morning and I had the place to myself, except for the pigeons pecking about in the grass. It dawned on me there that London has the fattest, grossest pigeons I’ve just about seen anywhere. It makes sense. A pigeon’s only self-defense is being so unattractive and disgusting as to be seen as positively unappetizing — therefore unworthy of consuming — and evolution has made London home to the ugliest pigeon on planet Earth. Congratulations, guys.

The park was well designed, with walkways leading to fountains, gardens, even a little café nestled in the trees. It was quite an eye-opener to discover that not only do Londoners enjoy gardens they even find them worthy of dining in. In L.A, my local park has a hot dog stand and a man hauling a pushcart of fruit popsicles around. That’s if you go on the weekend. Call me Victorian, but I like the idea of dining in the park. I find it soothing. But I’m not much for picnicking. Paradox? Not really, I’m all for al fresco, it’s the eating on the ground that bothers me. I find it quite uncouth unless there’s a rug, hookah and a belly dancer involved — then it’s absolutely thrilling, divine even.

I eventually, after losing my way repeatedly, of course, found my way to a pond where I was attacked by some plump, black bird with bright yellow beak I didn’t recognize but didn’t like the looks of, and apparently he didn’t like the looks of me either because he charged out of the water and continued in a beeline for my feet. Imagine what the passersby thought at the sight of a grown man screaming in terror and fleeing from a tiny little bird; but I didn’t know what this foreign beast was capable of, whether it would suddenly fly in the air and attack my face or not, and I wasn’t about to have my trip, or my face, ruined from such a trivial thing like not wanting to look like a total wuss to strangers I’ll never see again. In Australia I fled from a common duck named Albert. I can assure you of it being a common duck and named Albert because when I asked an elderly couple who bemusedly watched the entire altercation what kind of bird it was, the lady replied, “Oh, that’s just Albert, a common duck. He’d eat his own foot if you chopped it off and fed it to him.” I just love that expression. Anyway, back to England. After catching my breath and assembling my wits I noticed a well-dressed gentlemen scattering birdseed about for the pigeons. He had a big bag of the stuff and was flinging it about randomly. It was only nine in the morning or so and I presumed this was some pre-work ritual, for he didn’t seem to take any joy in it but looked as if at some point in time he was assigned the task of feeding the birds and did his duties like a good Englishman, without complaint.

I exited the park and decided to head anywhere, to just let my feet carry me. (This would later prove to be a great mistake) I began walking down Baker Street looking for 221 Baker. (Wasn’t that the address?) I knew I was in the vicinity because every shop was named Sherlock this or that. There was certainly a lot of junk being sold in his name but I didn’t see the actual residence or take a tour of the museum in his honor either. If I want a Sherlock Holmes’s experience I’ll read the books, thank you.

Soon after I passed by Madame Tussaud’s and there were already people gathered outside to buy tickets, eager to be allowed entry to peruse the waxy likeness of celebrities and important historical people. Something about this mass of anonymous, average people, commoners if you will, spending good money to view the replicas of those that have broken free of the pack and have truly done something special with their lives made me feel a little sick for humanity. It depressed me, to be frank, and I swore to myself that I would make something of my life, or at the very least I would never pay legal tender to go into a wax museum.

Without any true destination or route you make constant snap decisions about where to head. “Oh look, that’s a pretty building, let’s take a closer look, shall we?” “Ooh, a greenbelt, that would be a lovely spot to walk through.” “My, what an attractive looking lady, maybe I’ll follow her for 16 blocks.” I’m kidding about the 16 blocks, of course, but must admit that I have had my travels dictated by beautiful women and the direction they were walking at least once or twice; and this is why: woman is the most beautiful gift God has ever bestowed on the human race – if you head out of your way to enjoy a lovely piece of architecture, why not a fetching girl? You see, it’s not an act of lechery, I don’t ogle or whistle or any such thing, I just stroll amiably along for a block or two until I’m bored and notice a building or a greenbelt and then change course. Plus, you know a gorgeous girl is never heading into the ghetto, and consequentially you can count on being shepherded to a fine piece of the city you otherwise wouldn’t have stumbled upon. For otherwise, given the choice between Chicville and Mugger’s Alley, I inevitably find myself strolling through the latter, to the delight of the resident thieves.

I must testify that London certainly has its proper share of stylish, becoming lassies. It is my assessment that there’s nothing more breathtaking than a fair English girl, with big blue eyes and a sweet smile, especially when they’re blessed with a dollop of melancholy. They look like the nicest girls on the planet, and being English, I’m sure they are.

Moving on. I wandered through Marylebone enjoying the morning and the rush of activity, the cafes filled with fresh bread, the fruit stacked outside small markets, the bustle of a city going to work. Marylebone was less cluttered with tourists and thus less kitsch, and for this I was grateful. I kept on walking, skipping my chances to take the tube because I figured I wanted to see the city, not ride beneath it, and so I pounded the pavement taking it all in.

Eventually I made my way down to Piccadilly Circus, named after the Piccadilly shirts that were woven there back in the day. (You learn something new everyday, huh?) I don’t know why they call these areas circuses, but I made myself a note to investigate the matter later on. I snapped some photos of the statue and one of myself inside a red phone booth, because it seemed a little obligatory, but didn’t stay too long. It’s basically a tiny Times Square, with giant digital adverts and a mountain of tourist junk being sold on the sidewalk, and being that Times Square does nothing for me, I moved on. By this point it was almost lunchtime and I began to hunt for a suitable place to feed my starving stomach.

I kept looking for that perfect place. You know, a pub with just the right amount of patrons, not full but not empty, an off-the-main-road location, but not grubby or cheap, yet cheap when it comes to the price, and hopefully with a typical English name that I would remember for the rest of my life, i.e. The Scraggly Stag and Horse Hound, or Shepplethorpe’s, or Finchy’s. Alas, there is no perfect thing. No perfect lunchtime eatery. No perfect woman. No perfect city. And so I found myself carried all the way to Convent Garden on an empty stomach.

Convent Garden isn’t really high on my list of impressive sights in London either; it’s somewhere down there with Piccadilly Circus. It reminds me of Quincy Market in Boston — full of those creepy street performers who cover themselves in silver spray paint and pretend to be a statue. I once road the bus down to Venice Beach with one of those guys and his girlfriend and they made out the whole way. It was truly gross; and believe me it was terribly difficult not to interrupt their tongue battle and ask her what the heck she was doing with the man, for she was quite fetching herself. Perhaps there is a segment of the female population that is into these human statues. My guess is they must overlap with the deranged demographic that’s into imprisoned serial killers.

At this point I realized that Chuck Taylor’s, however hip they are at the moment, was about the worst choice in footwear I could have made for this expedition. My feet were quite pissed at me for forcing them all about London in what basically amounts to sandals with a bit of cloth attached and were screaming at me to stop this madness right now. I agreed with them and descended down to the tube in order to catch some relief and a quick ride to St. Paul’s Cathedral.

I got there and this time decided to consult a map first before wandering in search of the darn thing. There was a throng of tourists battling for space in front of one such map and I went to the other side of it, which was completely void of people yet contained the exact same map. It’s funny how people will pile up in a queue (line) when they see other people doing the same, without investigating other, solitary options. Anyway, the map showed St. Paul’s Cathedral directly behind me and should the mob of tourists on the other side of the map simple lift their heads, they would have seen it as well.

I’m not much for churches. Sure, they’re beautiful to look at but how long can you really enjoy looking at an old building? But let me tell you, this is one beautiful looking building. If I remembered more from my high school Art History class, (God bless Ms. Shumate, she may have fancied too many mid-class cigarette breaks in the kiln, but my lack of remembering was no fault of hers) I’d tell you all about the columns, whether Greek or Doric, about the buttresses, and the use of materials and what style it represents and blah, blah, blah. I don’t remember and I don’t really care, all I know is it’s an impressive looking building filled with ornate details and conveying a sanctified air. And that’s just from outside. I snapped some photos, stood around gawking at the façade for fifteen minutes and then noticed a bridge over the Thames. “Ooh, look, a bridge.” And off I went.

I walked on the south bank of the Thames for awhile, past a re-creation of Shakespeare’s Globe Theater, and yeah, if I was a more cultured and interesting man I would have explored it but it’s not the real thing, just a re-creation, and these things always give me the willies, so instead I kept trudging down the footpath in spite of my feet’s growing complaints, heading for what I assumed was London bridge. I wrongly believed London Bridge was the iconic bridge with the two tall towers that you see in the postcards, but what I was actually aiming for was Tower Bridge, duh! I crossed back over to the north side of the river using London Bridge, which is just a plain old bridge, and then proceeded onto The Tower of London and the bridge by the same name.

Quick history lesson: The Tower of London is where the kings of old used to live, or have sex with their harems, or randomly accuse people of treason and politely stretch their necks for them then toss them from the bridge. So that’s pretty cool.

They were charging 20 pounds for a peek inside (not cool) so I opted to study the informational placards around the outside instead and save my twenty pounds for more important things like Stellas and a pair of better supporting shoes. Here is one of those things that really encapsulates the perfected modesty of the English: there was a sign for the St. Katherine docks that abuts the Tower Bridge that states it has been used as a trading dock since before the Romans were hanging out in London but, and get this, ONLY began being called St. Katherine’s docks around 1150. That’s about 500 years before Christopher Columbus even discovered the continent I’m from and yet they use a qualifier that makes it sound like a recent thing. I love that.

I sat for a spell and pondered my next move before deciding to torture my poor feet some more and go check out Trafalgar Square. I only really know its existence from a Blur song so I wanted to see what it was all about. Half the place names draw some connection to the Indie Rock songs I love. So much more makes sense now. Well, at least there is an image to go along with the lyrics, I can’t say I really understand the reference entirely, but when I hear Trafalgar Square I can picture the statue and the National Heritage Gallery and the people milling about….

My thoughts on the Heritage Gallery are quite tortured. It’s an endless building, room after room filled with paintings of Man being punished for his sins by God. Seriously. Turn here and there’s a sinner being dragged down to hell, look over there and a demon is gouging his nails into the side of a drunken fat man, enter another room and Mary Magdalen is weeping at Jesus’s feet. There’s only so much of this a mortal can take before he flees the room in abject terror. There’s probably a painting of just such a scene — me fleeing the museum in abject terror, realizing the futileness of my humanity — but I didn’t see it because it’s most likely in room #327 and I took off screaming when I got to room #22.

My feet were now significantly hobbled from my day of sightseeing and I figured it was best to take them back to the hotel before I shared a gait with Tiny Tim, but I still needed to eat and so on the way back I stopped at a pub called The George and ordered Fish & Chips and a Stella from the bartender and took a seat to jot down some notes and to hopefully eavesdrop on the folks around me, except the pen I brought for such a purpose had run out of ink and so I had to borrow one from the bartender. (That’s the kind of writer I am, perpetually ill-prepared for the task)

The fish & chips proved to be merely adequate and the eavesdropping even worse because it was a father and daughter who were speaking only French and thus didn’t provide me with much juicy conversation. I imagined they were gossiping about me the whole time.

This is what I love about traveling: the first person I really had a conversation with in England was the bartender who turned out to be an actor that resided in L.A. for the last two years and glowed about living in Hermosa Beach. A children’s show actor to boot. How about that? I traveled 5,200 miles around the world and the first person I meet is an actor from Hermosa Beach!

After two and a half pints I was properly tuckered out so I returned to my hotel room for a sound nap. I don’t normally nap but I also don’t normally walk on ankle-splitting cobblestone streets for five hours until my foot feels like it’s been clubbed by Kathy Bates and there’s a giant red bruise on the side of the arch. I was still jet-lagged too, I’m sure, and when I woke it was dark and I was at a lost of what to do with myself. After some thought, I limped down to Oxford Circus and purchased a take-away dinner of chow mien and spicy chicken. I took it back to the room to consume in solitude while watching the local news. There was a big row about a politician who had been using too much of the people’s well-earned taxes on the upkeep of his private garden. The bobbing talking heads were a-nutter about it. It seemed rather silly to me, but then again, when I think back to some of the pointless scandals that used to raise my ire and indignation I guess things aren’t so different here after all. I remember the days that politics used to fascinate me to no end and wonder if it’s just because Obama was elected that I no longer care so much, or if it’s because life is just way more fascinating now to me than the back and forth arguing between Democrats and Republicans.

After some writing and floundering around on the Internet I conceded that although it was only ten thirty it was time to turn in for the night. After such a long and eventful day even my cursed, springy bed didn’t prevent me from quickly ringing the doorbell at the house of nod. I was decidedly spent and fell into a coma in about two seconds that lasted for a hearty 12 hours.

London: Day One

Londoners are really nice people. I mean, imploringly, exceedingly, almost obnoxiously, polite and affable people. Upon arriving in the city I popped off the tube at Oxford Circus and, as I’m want to do, started walking in the direction I thought I was supposed to go, confident I had it right, but after a few blocks had to pull out my map and scratch my head and look around for a street sign. A man approached and practically begged me to allow him to show me the proper way. “Please, may I show you how to go? Let me see your map. I’m sorry, just stand over here one second; I’ll get you on your way. Thank you so much for your patience. Here we are, yes, go back the way you came and then head to the left. Again, I apologize. It’s not far. You’re right there,” he instructed, pointing at the map with an expression of concern and perhaps self-blame. “No problem,” I told him. “Thanks a bunch.” The man smiled at me and doffed his cap – well, not really but that’s how I picture it now – and as I walked back towards the tube station I could see he was really pleased to be of service.

Finally back on track, I proceeded across Oxford Street with a crowd of other people (politely, of course) and then kept going pass a small traffic island only to suddenly stop because out of my periphery everyone else had stopped and that’s when a double-decker bus going the opposite direction passed just two lifesaving feet in front of me, a breeze tussling my hair like a kindly grandfather, actually, more like a backhanded slap from Iceberg Slim. I hadn’t seen it coming at all and if I was just a little more hair-brained, or swift-afoot, than I am that would have concluded the shortest sightseeing trip to London ever!

Then there’s the sign I saw on the way to the Andrew Bird concert. It read POLITE NOTICE: No Parking Here. I wondered if someone parked there if they change the sign the next day to STERN NOTICE: Seriously, No Parking Here, please.

I’m getting ahead of myself, though. First I made it to my hotel room, showered, changed and headed out to get some food and beers. There’s one perfect way to always make yourself at home and that’s with a couple of cold beers. When I made it back to my hotel room with a couple of Stellas I was shocked and terribly saddened to discover that what I previously thought was a refrigerator was actually something called an electric trouser press. I don’t own any electric trousers so I had no need to press them and would have much preferred a cold storage for my libations. So be it, I’m in London, man!

Food side note: while out procuring my suds I indulged in my first European meal: a tuna fish and sweet corn sandwich, admirably assembled, and some crisps (chips).

I didn’t sleep much on the plane so the plan was to take a quick three-hour nap. (I guess I could have said a long three-hour nap and what would be the difference?) When I laid down in my bed I became concerned that perhaps my bed was a historical artifact and that there had been a mistake somewhere in time and through some egregious shipping snafu the item was misdirected here to room 23 of the Astor Court Hotel instead of the torture display at the Tower of London, for thus began quite a personal, and harrowing, week-long relationship with each and every spring in the mattress.

Amazingly, without an alarm clock or a wake-up call, (as the Astor Court Hotel and Torture Implements only gives wake-up calls in the morning) and being dead-dog tired, I still woke up in time to head out to the concert; but just barely, as I had about enough time to hop around on one foot trying to apply socks to my feet while simultaneously rummaging a hand through my hair in an attempt to levy it with something approximating a style before bursting out of my room like a madman and rushing for the tube.

Again, it would probably be wise to know where I was going before I head out in a strange city — but what’s the fun in that? I knew I was near the venue, but when I turned right on Uxbridge road and wound up across from a Westfield’s shopping center (a building that sadly would be perfectly at home in Sherman Oaks) I knew I was off-track. Luckily a bus map sorted it out for me and two minutes later I was buying a ticket from a tout (scalper) and entering the beautiful environs of Shepherd’s Bush Empire. It was an ornate theater with multiple seating levels packed full of rosy-cheeked, well-dressed Londoners. I found a decent place to stand after acquiring a Tuborg beer from the bar. I was a merrily contented man. Looking around, I even realized that most of the men at the show had just the sort of haphazard, cowlicked hairdo that presently graced my head, (I am a Woolsey after all) and feeling strangely at home I waited for the show to begin.

I love going to rock shows when traveling because no matter where in the world they are I know exactly what to do: drink beer, nod your head, and whistle at the end of a particular moving song. A new trick I picked up at my first London show was that, due to the tendency to acquire a ton of coins of various sizes throughout the day, you can slap your pockets to make an audible rattling sound should your hand be occupied by a frothy beverage resulting in an inability to clap. It’s not quite as boisterous as a good clap or catcall, but it does the job when you’re in a bind.

Let me just say this, Andrew Bird is perhaps the world’s greatest whistler, and maybe it was the second Tuborg talking but I chalked it up to the fact that his name is Bird after all and anything less would have probably been unseemly. It’s always nice, anyway, to see someone rock-out on the violin, a rare treat in my guitar-driven world. His classical background fit in nicely with my idea of London sophistication, a place where the public bathrooms are labeled Gents. (It’s my theory that they are assuming way to much from their populace, but so be it)

The show was a perfect adventure for my first night in town, he played all the songs I could have imagined wanting him to play, complete with an encore of that song where he sings “My Dewey-eyed Disney bride, what has tried/ swapping your blood with formaldehyde? Monsters.” You know that song. God, I love that song! Fake Palindromes, that’s its name! And I especially enjoyed it echoing in my noggin as I tramped through Shepherd’s Bush Green. (yes, I find the name slightly unsettling as well. There’s all sorts of sexual innuendos scattered through place names here. London might be the only town where a bar called The Cock doesn’t elicit howls of juvenile laughter but is quite serious in its title as evidence by the aristocratic rooster adorning its signage) After the show my fellow concertgoers and I herded ourselves, drunkenly and spiritedly, through the green and towards the tube. The wet grass underneath my feet, the sounds of lively London all around, I felt right then that life is a grand and exciting place of unlimited possibilities. Don’t let it pass you by!

That being said, I hate to admit that on the way back to my hotel room I passed up a bunch of interesting (well, at least interesting to me because they were foreign and I’ve never heard of them, although to London probably represent the drab, philistine side of life) take-away places by Shepherd’s Bush in order to head back to my neighborhood, which left me completely vulnerable to the, unfortunately, only open establishment around, a McDonald’s, and if that wasn’t bad enough they weren’t making new food but were kind enough to allow me to choose between the cold hamburgers they had remaining under the heating lamps. So my first diner in London was a double cheeseburger and fries from MickyD’s. Oh well, can’t win them all! Furthermore, I forgot to purchase a soda so I had to wash down my burger with the warm Stella Artois from before while watching an awful Jason Biggs movie on the telly. The combination is more than slightly nauseating.

Despite the culinary shortcomings (completely my own fault) it was a wonderful introductory day to jolly old England. I saw a show, rode the tube, slept on an authentically medieval mattress and, lest we forget, almost got obliterated by a double-decker bus. I’m checking off the boxes in a hurry!

But this, of course, is why I travel: to get lost, to discover new things, to stumble upon things, and over things, to escape your comfortably known existence; quite simply, to experience a different kind of life.

Londonbotomy: BRB

I am on a spiritual quest for the next week… I am traveling cobblestone streets.

I am walking alone in a foreign city.

I am shopping. Needlessly.

I am on a Transatlantic flight… I am soldiering on through the plaid night.

BRB…

Stay Away From Opened Windows

I was always overwhelmed by the idea that one spoonful of the sun would burn down 100 square miles of forest instantaneously should someone ever transport a spoonful of sun to a forest. How one would safely do that I don’t know, but that tidbit always fascinated me, until I got home tonight and felt a scorching blast of furnace-hot air billow forth from my apartment when I opened the door. I realized, looking down at my singed arm hair, that things can get awfully hot in a short period of time. Even with the sun a million billion, or whatever, miles away.

Have you ever wondered how you should live your life? Battling windmills, or staying away from opened windows? You can’t settle down if you’ve never flown with Icarus.

I don’t call it dancing, but I move around a lot in rhythmic motions to sound coming out of speakers. People ask me if I’m okay and I have to explain it to them. I can’t stay on beat but I give it all I got. It’s intentional. I’m having fun.

I can’t carry a tune but I can help you carry your books home.

If you’re going to be singing lullabies, will you save one for me?

The poetry section at my local Barnes & Nobles is missing a few elemental books by yours truly, unfortunately I’d have to chop off my head and leave my skull on the shelf in order to fill the absence. There are some people out there that would pay good money for that tome.

If you’re going to be planting roses, won’t you dig a hole for me?

I live in a place where weird is normal. I’ve been accused of living in my own head. At the coffee shop, people tap me on the shoulder and I jar back to reality and realize I’m next in line and the cashier is staring at me with an annoyed expression that says “would you hurry up, you asinine space cadet! I work at Starbucks, have some mercy.” And the person who tapped me on the shoulder is looking at their wristwatch with a similar dismayed expression. I apologize a bumbling excuse for my somnolent daze and then order my little cup of coffee with a sheepish grin and shy shrug, hoping no one holds it against me. What a pitiful, scared, little existence. So be it, it’s mine!

Is the story of your life going to be on a mile-long scroll or a postcard? And if it’s a postcard, from where?

I write this from far away. From the little space in my head where I keep going when people yell at me, when the conditions in this world become too much to handle, like hearing that song you hate playing in the hallway, or sipping from a cup of coffee when it’s too hot; from the place on this planet where nothing hurts, especially not you — pretty much any minor infraction can set me loose — so I write about my life and how it unravels when you yank the string. How easily my string is yanked!

I pull a beer out of the fridge and as it pours down my throat I wonder about my soul and if there is anything I can do to still save it. The seconds tick away and there is an argument about whether time is speeding up or slowing down. Someone said it had to do with what galaxy you lived in. Okay, what about this one then? I don’t know enough about the universe to put a speed limit on it, a map of its boulevards, or where to find a decent coffee shop. All I know is that I’m looking for a nice place to rest in the shade as the hours wiggle up and down my DNA helix, as the structure of my being slowly decays.

Two minutes in the microwave and out comes popcorn. Seven minutes in heaven and a boy becomes a man. Three minutes, thirty seconds and a pop song depletes itself of meaning. I’ve been hanging on to this life raft for a lifetime and I haven’t yet reached friendly shores. Each year my eyebrows get longer, each day my fingernails extend towards the withered page I’ve tried to scrawl this epitaph. It’s just life, I don’t know why I complain so much.

My back is arched and I hang my head low as I walk across the city. It’s not poor posture, it’s the weight of the world. As the houses on the hill coruscate and the phantasmagorical light of L.A swabs a low hanging sky, I drift off into that familiar, ephemeral mind-space of mine, dreaming of a world not so heavy, not so hardened. I type and type and starve for art. Fingers speak. Words fail. A philosopher with nothing to say, so instead I belch and hope you get the meaning. There is no meaning. With this much existential ennui pumping through my blood I’m all set for my Paris sojourn.

We’re all subject to the beauty queen’s whims. The king’s ill-temper. Is there a bomb shelter that I can rent, that I can squander away the rest of my days? Hopefully the hideaway is big enough to fit me and all my friends, and then I’ll be content enough to recite the poetry I should have put into books and hoisted onto Barnes & Noble’s shelves, instead of leaving my abandoned skull — sitting there dust-collecting, eye sockets home to gum wrappers, an artifact of my lonely existence to be vandalized and neglected and accidentally thrown away one night by an underpaid employee….

I should pursue my dreams instead of cowering to my fears. I should stand up straight, dance, sing, howl at the fucking moon. There is someone out there who will receive me and all my worries. An angel.

Where are you tonight?

Leaving your skull on poetry shelves?

In The Kitchen I’ll Keep A Penguin

It’s Cinco De Mayo….

Today is a reason for people who don’t have a good reason to to get drunk. Me, I can sit on a grassy hill and be inspired by the misshapen clouds to toss back a good 5 or 7 beers any old Tuesday or Thursday afternoon. And I’m not even a professional drunk, just a hobbyist. Days like Cinco De Mayo is when I stay away from watering holes like they’re filled with rank Yellowstone sulphur. The amateurism drives me bonkers, absolutely crackers! Vaporized personalities, clouds of polluted words billowing through the room. You need a gas mask just to enter.

There’s a certain collective, celebratory air that creates a cranky, cantankerous me.

There’s already fire in the hills, the news swarming over it like moths drawn to bug zappers. Summer is on its way and comes armed with heat. I don’t like summer. I like winter coats, scarves, and going to the mountains. I work all summer. There’s no vacation in the Bahamas. There’re no whimsical jaunts to the seaside. It’s just backsweat and overheated engines.

A tribe of Cinco De Mayo revelers just trundled past my apartment. There were hoots and hollers and diabolical laughter. I knew if I whoo-hooed someone would whoo-hoo back. That’s why I refrained.

I started to redecorate my apartment, but only in my mind. In actuality, I haven’t touched a thing, haven’t lifted a single object, but it looks great. I start by throwing away all the bills, tearing them up and leaving a can full of trash. I then finish the three beers in the fridge. I tear down the slap-art I’ve pissed out in random bouts of inspiration and derangement… it’s the same shit really. I take the TV and turn it upside down and fill it with fish and confetti. The couch gets redone into a canoe; with paddles by my side I’ll float downstream to port. In the kitchen I’ll keep a penguin.

As deep as you stick your foot in the ground,
you still can’t stop the Earth from going round.

Some of us try to be fence posts. We plant ourselves in a lovely patch of garden and pray against droughts, and tornadoes, and bugs, and lightning. We try to beat the odds by hunkering down. Like a 100-year old tortoise, alive but not going very far.

There’s nothing like an untethered flag, frivolously and un-symbolically flapping uncontrollably away from its place of containment. Unhitched from its pole, it dances on the air with gusto. Flags so rarely are set free, but live a life of fettered obedience. Once, maybe twice, a year they receive a brief salute, perhaps a poorly-sung, antiquated song. If I was a flag I’d have a lot to hang my head about.

I’m inside my apartment with the window opened listening to Wilco singing Woodie Guthry lyrics about my sky while a helicopter is flapping overhead, and I argue inside my mind whether or not to mention that fact. That the chopper was buzzing my apartment — just saying it makes it seem much less real. Now it’s gone. And so is Wilco, and like that we’re all spindling down some other moment in time, different than the other; like every star in the universe, a whole world is contained inside. I wait with baited breath for the next song to play, to take me to some other place, but I realize it’s the end of the Playlist. And silence is its own moment.

There’s no bed of California stars. I don’t know if anyone told Woodie or reminded Jeff Tweedy. There is a place where they sleep when no longer shinning on us. I think somewhere south of here. But it’s hardly classified as a bed, more like a wooden case. Sometimes, though, I admit I do find a bed of stars, camping somewhere far out in the desert, the night sky spilling over with them, like mints knocked out of their jar. I’ve kept a diary of their movements, blurring through the sky, a tableaux of worlds mesmerizing to these eyes. They dance in cursive loops over millions of years.

Here in L.A, we have but six or seven stars in the sky, choking on smog; and though the city-glow mostly obscures them all, I cherish the fleeting light, it’s like a passing brush with heaven’s majestic, dazzling coat.

Every now and then you can even see the Big Dipper, or is that the Little?