kites and trampolines and existentialism. a daydream.

A perfect spring day:

Wake up, eat some cereal. Sugary, Captain Crunchey, tooth decay inducing, varnish covered kids cereal with whole milk.  Cereal is just flat out splendid, man. In fact, have two bowls. 

Get on your bike. Ideally you would call up the bike gang, but your bike gang is a bunch of cheeky bastards so it's just you, but that's ok. 

Actually i think in order for the day to be genuinely perfect, it would be best to share it with someone. Preferably someone hot with curly hair, but we can meet up later. 

OK, so bike ride to Little City for coffee. Because I love Little City still. Meet up with witty, curly haired boy who speaks French, plays drums, grows his own food, wears scarves and is the leader of an anti-capitalism, non-violent resistance team and also marches for abortion rights, trains homeless people for jobs and likes to dress up in costumes and kiss a lot. He is also a professional accountant and librarian. 

Drink French grade organic coffee and smoke non-cancer inducing Galoises cigarettes. Discuss Nietzsche, the Roman Empire, Noam Chomsky, gardening in your underpants, the female body, powertools, GMOs, Indonesia, and even though it's evil, how maybe when the current population of senior citizens die off, progressive politics, compromise, conservation and honesty will create a free and open society.   Discuss creme brulee, Kool-Aid, Chia pets, Motley Crue, Tesla - the band and the inventor -  and how Rush Limbaugh is an evil pig fucker. Feel the love butterflies hatching in your heart hole.

Ride bikes to imaginary friend's house with trampoline. Bounce a lot and giggle. Blow bubbles. Do the laughing. Flips are also a good idea. Take turns doing that thing where one person bounces the other person up really high and it's all scary and exhilarating. Then get off and while still barefoot spin around and around and around in the grass until you fall down laughing. Get it together and get back on bikes and drive to that Casey's New Orleans snowcone joint. Order a rainbow. Jesus man, snowcones are brilliant. You know what is even more brilliant? Kites and snowcones. Seriously if I could be riding a bike while flying a kite and eating a snowcone, I might die of pure ecstasy.  O bliss!

So, then fly a kite. Like with the running and do some tricks. be creative, really get into it. Kites are fun. Smile. Flirt! kiss! Then spontaneously drop the kite, strip off clothes and jump into Barton Springs pool. Because of course you are flying kites at Zilker Park like any normal red blooded American. You know what would also be fun is kite flying on top of a tall building. Like the Frost Tower. rad. Ok, so what is it afternoon by now, and you haven't had any lunch? Possible grilled cheese on baguette!  

And then I woke up and realized I was at work.  But Spring is coming, I can hear her...

obsession of the week

this song rules my synapses. 



anti-writing bubble burst.  i pop you and you die. 

where the wild things are - a review of the film

Most of us who have read Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak remember its haunting loneliness, its unadulterated childlike imagination, and its underlying anger verging on violence.  Spike Jonze’s Where the Wild Things Are is not a childrens’ film, rather a film about the exquisite loneliness and angry defiance of childhood.  The aching that each of us has felt for some direction, some sense of belonging to something, to someone, the deep need for an absent or distracted parent’s affection. 

Shot mostly on handheld cameras, Jonze creates a vision of this classic, dark story straight from the eyes of a child trying to find his way in the world. The look of the film creates an aura of danger, the feeling that Max could get hurt, or even die, at any time.  We worry about and for him, yet simultaneously revel in his ability to dive headfirst into his dream world with the Wild Things where they are his subjects and he their King. 

The film opens with a shot of Max, perfectly played by Max Records, on a rampage through the house, wearing his signature wolf pajamas, chasing, terrifying, even abusing the family dog.  Screaming, wrestling, and growling, as the Max Wolf tears down the stairs after the poor pooch, his anger and restlessness as a character is palpable if not frightening.

With co-writer Dave Eggers, Jonze expertly expanded the back story in the adaptation, letting us in on little details of Max’s inner life and his relationship with his family.   We see Max as a lonely, angry kid with a vibrant imagination. Throughout the film, he frequently creates forts out of snow and ice, blankets and sheets, and eventually a pile of smelly, furry monsters, where he is enclosed, alone, and safe, yet once inside, yearns for the company and attention of others.  He starts a fight with his older sister and her friends, only to rush to her room and smash a gift he made her after she humiliates him in front of her friends.  His desperate need for his mother is made more and more apparent as he acts out by jumping on the dinner table while she has a date over, screaming “Feed Me Woman!  I will EAT YOU UP!”  Before biting her and running out the door and into his imagination.  People as food is a recurring theme throughout the book and the film, and is made ever more real when Max meets the Wild Things.   

The sense of danger is constantly present, but truly illustrates not only Max’s need to express his anger and frustration at the world but the alienation he feels trying to find his place in it.   He discovers himself in a whole new world, full of Wild Things, of freedom, of liberation, yet he is always slightly on edge.  Carol, KW and the rest of the gang are a ragtag bunch of Wild Things, voiced by actors to match such as Lauren Ambrose and Catherine O’Hara, and brought to life on screen as dazzling creations by The Jim Henson Company.  The combination of the humanity of these Wild Things, these seeming adults who are hungry and dirty and big and out of sync, with the animalistic urges of Max letting himself go totally makes the world he creates seem as if it could exist here on Earth, just out of sight over the horizon somewhere, waiting for us to come find it.

Max’s time in the place Where the Wild Things Are is short, but while there, he builds a family where he is the center.  He gets a little something he needs from each of the Wild Things, a friend.  And is able especially to fulfill his own need to become a Wild Thing himself and be with those who understand him.  But the place Where the Wild Things Are is not a place one goes to live forever, and Max ultimately misses his other life and heartbreakingly decides to go back to his real family, and his real place as a kid in the world. Much like The Labyrinth and The Wizard of Oz before it, Where the Wild Things Are really exists to show us something about ourselves:  that there truly is no place like home.

the day london rained pure magical bliss down upon me, part two

Friday, September 11, 2009 -- London TOWN!  -- The Tate & Borough Market

I remember distinctly, I was the antithesis of incognito, wearing my red hat that I got in Scotland at Armstrongs.  Erin picked it out actually, me having said, after I saw a girl on the street the day before wearing an Ameila Earheart sort of Red Baron hat, that I wanted one. It was red and black and zipperey, I had to have it.

Minus the zippy flap:

The Scottish Hat will make its local debut shortly, as the weather becomes less tropical.  As I was saying, I remember distinctly that I was wearing the red hat while I roamed around the Tate alone, experiencing simultaneous internal philosophical, spiritual, and emotional awakenings.   I was in my own world.  A group of teenage girls walked past me and started laughing uncontrollably, and I nearly burst into tears.  It fascinated me that I felt so vulnerable as if mortally wounded in the heart by these girls.  Strangers.  Were they laughing at my clothes?  At my hat?  Why did I care?  They may not have been laughing at me at all.

This incident led me on another tangent of thought as to my personal issues with giving a shit about what people think.  On the occasions where I am able to achive a sense of inner poise and outward confidence as to truly existing in the realm where the statement "I don't give a fuck what you think!" is true, it is the single most liberating feeling in the world.  Alas, just like the times I have reached the "place" in meditation where everything disappears and I am truly in the moment, it seems to evaporate once I discover I am there.  Why does consciousness have to include self-consciousness?  Why are we so concerned with what everyone else thinks of us?  Do our own opinions of ourselves not matter?  Are we not all living in a constant state of fear, self-loathing, doubt, and shame?

And then I got it.

No one can see through me.  People are critical because we are socialized to take the attention off our own flaws by pointing out flaws in others.  It's easier to relate to someone who is more fucked up than we are.  You can say to yourself, "Well, I'm better than she is."  A result of capitalism surely, the constant need for more, to look better, be thinner, have nicer things.  It's the ruler by which we all measure ourselves.  See the popularity of tabloid magazines and celebrity culture for additional evidence of this.  We build people up so we can tear them down. Usually if someone is hateful about something, it is the very thing they themselves are insecure about. So, I decided that the teenagers were not only jealous that I had obviously discovered and become the owner of the most perfect red hat in existence, but they also wished they were cool enough to walk around a museum with a red Sharpie, a Moleskine notebook knockoff, and my perfect sense of self-absorbed oblivion. 

After confirming that I indeed do not give a fuck, my thoughts turned immediately to tattoos.  Specifically the imagery I am interested in getting permanently affixed to my body through a series of incredibly painful sessions where a person with a loud needle stabs me with it a few thousand times until I bleed and ask for more.  I like the idea of an anatomical heart on the sleeve, an owl, mushrooms, forests of bendy, achey trees, and possibly some type of Russian or Cuban poster art inspired design.  Although I was warned when talking about this that maybe it's not the best idea to get a bunch of Commie tattoos.  To that, I say please see the paragraph above.  I find myself thinking a lot about tattoos when my feelings are hurt over something to do with my appearance.  I don't like to think that it's that I want to hide myself, but that is a possibility.  After getting my most recent tattoo done twice, I have a new found respect for people who are tattooed.  It hurts.  A lot.  It is permanent.  It is a major statement about who you are as a person, at least at the time.  It is still considered a major taboo in many places.  I adore tattoos and I want many more.  Say it with me:  "I don't give a fuck what people think!" I define my own worth, and tattoos are beautiful and magical and sacred.  Not to mention incredibly hot.  And a pretty awesome way to carry art with you.

Back to the art:

Francis Bacon was an Irish painter who lived mostly in Paris and London during his time as a prolific artist.  His work is surrealist in nature, very dark, mainly focusing on themes of sexuality, violence, homoeroticism, confinement, and crucifixion imagery.  There were a few of his paintings in the gallery, and one struck me particularly, Study for Portrait on a Folding Bed.  In delving deeper into his life and background, it has become even more intriguing.  Bacon was certainly one of my favorite artists at the Tate and I was bummed I didn't get to catch the retrospective they had up earlier in the year.  It was showing at the MOMA in NYC up until August 16th. 

"We are born with a scream; we come into life with a scream, and maybe love is a mosquito net between the fear of living and the fear of death." - Francis Bacon

As if I wasn't smitten enough, I went next to the ARTIST ROOMS exhibit where Robert Therrien's Red Room was showing.  Anyone who has known me for five minutes is usually at least peripherally aware of my obsession with all things red, and this was just the pretty red ribbon on the present that was my day at the Tate Modern.   

 Just...  Jesus, man.  Thrilling. 

After I bought 80 pounds of books in the gift shop, Erin and I headed over to Borough Market. Stopping off at Vinopolis on the way, a giant wine warehouse where I promptly lost my shit in a tizzy of delight.  Wine in London was cheap and fucking quality.  I bought three really nice bottles (£19 - about $30) to take to our dinner party later that evening, and only slightly regretted it later when my hands were turning into claws from carrying that and the bag of books all afternoon.  Possible retire to be an expat wino in London? Yes please.

London's oldest food market, Borough Market is akin to the Garden of Eden, but with beer and cheese and curry and the best bread ever made.  It is foodie heaven and was so much fun.  Not to mention delicious.  Photos better describe.

Beermonger where Erin found Innis & Gunn and I got Tim 'Beers of the World' magazine, yet ironically, no beer.  No room! Too many books!

Vat of delicious curry.  For you, Anthony Bourdain.

Detail of Anthony Bourdain's Street Curry That Went Into My Face:

Erin's new favorite thing of life (I did not love it.) - Turkish Delight:

Italian Cheesemongers.  Cheese Made and Sold By Real Italians.  FUCKING DELICIOUS CHEESE EVERYWHERE!

Today would mark the beginning of my obsession with European dogs.  English pooches have curly coats and keep their noses to the ground in Borough Market.  Smart.

The Ginger Pig, a butchery where you can watch the workers cut up entire animals right before your eyes.

I think what I loved so much about Borough Market is the obvious care with which food is treated.  The Slow Food movement is alive and well here.  Animals are not hidden away from the public, but honored as they are made ready for consumption.  Butchery is an art. These animals live their lives in small groups on healthy farm meadows with sunshine, clean water, and good food, are humanely and quickly killed and then carved by The Butcher.  I like that you can see where your food comes from, that it is an Animal that was Alive and not some disambiguated fleshy parts that came from a factory farm through a slaughterhouse and then wrapped away in styrofoam and plastic.  It is close, you know what you are eating, and it tastes so different and amazing because there's Love in it instead of Pain. 

On our way out, we got some cheese straws from this bakery that made my toes curl.  Cheese straw =  Well played, London, well played. Also, proper English muffins that were three inches tall, and of course baguette.  And more cheese and Spanish meats.  Oh dear God, the cheese.

While Erin used her Captain EO navigational prowess to get us to the right Tube station:

I watched the scenery:

 Maybe it has something to do with English Football and Rugby and Cricket, but I really wish American boys would embrace the whole "Roaming Excitedly in Large Gangs Whilst Wearing Posh Sport Coats and Looking for American Girls to Drink With" philosophy.  Seriously, UK boys, when you come to Austin for SXSW next year, make yourselves at home.  Roam as freely as hooligans in the night will.  We like it.

The Underground is Ace.

I am The Bag Lady:

We went home to get dressed for our dinner at Paul's flat in Islington.  Paul was also in The Needles with John and stayed with Erin during SXSW a few years ago.  It was in the same general area as Peter and Kate's, but in a kind of fancy part overlooking the canal.  Here's the view from the rooftop terrace where we had dinner.

The Homemade Bangers and Mash that was possibly the best thing I ate the entire trip.  Well played, Paul.

So Paul and his girlfriend Anna live with another couple, Nic and Alex, who is American.  Their flat is three stories plus the rooftop and they all share one bathroom. It's very snug but lovely and they seem to all have plenty of room.  It's amazing what you can get used to doing without when you don't have unlimited space.  I am accustomed to small spaces, myself living in a 400SF apartment.  But my refrigerator is four times the size of theirs.  It's just a culture of popping into the shop down the street every day or two to get food rather than buying all your food at huge markets and then keeping it for weeks.  Much more efficient, well done UK.  I think that exists in bigger cities in the US as well, just not in Texas.  Sigh.  Here are some photos of their lovely flat.

Alex, Paul and Anna on the Rooftop.

 

Teeny English sink shared by FOUR people.

Me in one of my awesome outfits, feather courtesy of Alex.

Of course they have a music room.  Priorities, yo.

Anna and Paul

Stairway to the kitchen on the third floor.

Paul used to do DJ gigs, so there was a lot of vinyl action as the night wore on.

Nic.  Adheres to a regimented tea schedule, also pictured below.  Pretty much the best thing anyone wrote in my book the whole trip.

In case you're wondering, a Heteropolitan is apparently somewhat of a synonym for Metrosexual.  A chap who likes to look dashing, use products, wear nice clothing, and yet likes vaginas.  Linguistic win.

We continued getting drunk on black russians, wine, and conversation until the wee hours whilst listening to Rick Springfield on vinyl.  This is Paul's Rick Springfield stiff wrist impression.

Tea time is real serious around here.

The mess we made.

 

And that, my friends, is how you tear it up in London.  BEST DAY EVER!  Also, we got slightly lost on the way home and developed our new "throw money at the problem" philosophy which netted us a 6 block ride in a Blackie.  Oh yeah.

the day london rained pure magical bliss down upon me, part one

Friday, September 11, 2009 -- London TOWN!  -- The Tate & Borough Market

We awoke and got out pretty early on the first day in London.  Kate and Peter had to go to work, so we planned to get out into the city on our own.  Erin is THE Mistress of Public Transit with a compass embedded in her brain.  She sent me off to the Tate Modern with my own set of directions while she went to the British Museum.  Public transit is so easy, even for a directionally challenged moron like me, what with a killer bus system in addition to the Underground.  It’s a bit hectic at peak hours, but overall very easy and painless to use.  There is a lot of walking, but it is a city best explored on foot, and after a couple of days in Europe, the walking was a cinch.  In fact, now being back, I feel incredibly lazy.  Boo.
 
I walked across Millennium Bridge toward the Tate and just tried to savor the moment of really being in London.

From London Town, UK 2009

From London Town, UK 2009

It is a beautiful, diverse place filled with people from every corner of the world.  It makes America seem somewhat homogenous.  There’s just not any blatant racism or culturalism,  although it is quite competitive in every possible way.  The best thing to do is just psyche yourself up to go with it and suddenly everything is easy and perfect.

From

The Tate Modern is the most brilliant modern art museum I have ever been in and quite possibly in the world.   It was by far my most favorite experience of the trip and I could have easily spent two days there alone.

Art is probably the most important thing humans have to give themselves and each other, and here it is revered, nearly worshiped, rather than treated as a waste of time or silly hobby like in the States.  I had a lot of mind blowing realizations while there about art and philosophy and life in general.  Mostly about possibilities for how my life could be and that making art is something I have to do for myself if I truly want to live a fulfilled life.  I thought a lot about what it would be like to live overseas, in a place that seems to have things a bit more worked out than we do.  When I travel, I feel totally alive, more so than any other time and I realized that it should be my number one priority.  Work as hard as I can so I can travel as hard as I can.   The Tate is a GIFT, I could have spent days there and could go back again and again and again. And never get enough.

“I can burn your face.” 

The first thing I saw upon entering was an exhibit by Jill Magid called AUTHORITY TO REMOVE.  Jill Magid is an American artist who was commissioned by the Dutch secret service, the AIVD (De Algemene Inlichtingen en Veiligheiddsdienst) to do a state ordered art project in conjunction with a post-9/11 increase in spending on surveillance and security.   Her objective as stated by AIVD was to "find the human face of the organisation."  She was instructed only to work with agents who had volunteered for the project and was not allowed to use any type of recording devices other than her own memory and handwritten notes.  Becoming increasingly interested in 'The Secret' at the heart of 'The Organization,' Magid requested to become vetted.  In studying and becoming part of the AIVD, she intended to write a novel of her experiences and present this as the work itself.

After completion, it was heavily censored by the Dutch government and forbidden to be released in its original form to the public.  Wanting to see how much of herself she could really lose to this world of secrets and lies, she agreed to comply with the orders and the Tate installation is the one time showing of this work, after which it will be returned to the Dutch government and either destroyed or locked away forever.

The installation consists of excerpts from the novel done in bright red neon in the artist’s handwriting.

 

There is also a room with large hanging pages which she created by hand in pen and ink.  The novel, Becoming Tarden, is itself now under glass, in a box, the cover removed and ripped off.  A sculpture.  It will never be read, even the author will never see it again.  The secret will never be known.

30 minutes inside = Mind blown COMPLETELY apart.

Next came the exhibit of propaganda posters from the Soviet Union, dating from pre-Russian Revolution all the way to the early 90s when the country essentially ceased to exist.  The art itself is so creative and edgy, some of the best graphic design work ever done, especially early on.   Not only do I love the style, but the messages were so powerful and intimidating and invoke a not only a sense of hope, optimism, and nationalism, but a deep and lasting paranoia that we are only beginning to understand now.  Presenting these ideas and ideals to a people who in the end had no power, no food, no heat, and no life in such a way really affected me.  It was truly a 1984 moment for me in that room.  The state was an epic failure in the end, but these earlier posters represent the promise of a better society.  A better world where people get it right, where young workers unite for a greater good,  but then crumble into a Stalinist desert regime of bland, bleak hopelessness.   

Some of my favorite translations:
“Universal education is the decisive step for the cultural revolution.”
“It is a small step from gossip to treason.”
“Everyone sign up for a shock work.”
“In the countries of capitalism, this is the Path of Talent.  In the countries of Socialism, all paths are open to talent. “ (I believe this one was Viktor Koretsky)

During my viewing of this exhibition, I began to have a slight panic attack.  My mind was consumed by thoughts of all the regular people who had designed these beautiful pieces of art.  By the fearlessness of Jill Magid.  By the power that art has over me and that I need to be exposed to it, to make it, to see it, touch it, live inside of it, and breathe it.  Not just today.  But everyday.  It was really a "What are you doing with your life?" kind of panic attack.  I'm sure you can pick out the exact moment of the attack by looking at my notes:

From London Town, UK 2009

I bought Maria Lafont's Soviet Posters - Sergio Grigorian Collection at the Tate bookstore. There's a great historical article about the exhibit and some of the artists here: http://www.wsws.org/articles/2005/nov2005/post-n14.shtml

I roamed the Tate for over two hours and made notes as I went.  Gangs of English schoolchildren in their uniforms were all over the place.  People were writing, talking quietly, sketching, and interacting with the art.  It was spectacular.  I want to live and die in the Tate Modern.

Observations and Realizations:
Mark Rothko is highly overrated.  Philip says I shouldn't judge him out of context, but out of context is the only way I ever see him.  I stand by my statement.  Boring.

Ed Ruscha’s “The Final End”, 1992  - A lot of the art I like is about death and /or very dark and fucked up.  This wasn't particularly mind blowing as a piece, but I looked at it for a long time thinking of death.  I enjoy the use of typography and text in artwork.   

Jean Dubuffet’s “Theater of Fluids” - "This looks how I feel.”

Jackson Pollock’s “Untitled Number 14” - black paint on canvas done in 1951

Jackson Pollock is one of my all time favorite painters ever, and this feeling is enhanced each time I see one of his works in person.  The reproductions just don't do him justice at all.  I feel like his paintings try to eat my energy when I look at them.  Like chaos and math and fractal geometry and god are inside waiting for people who 'get it' to get too close and then snatch them up into the ninth dimension.  This painting looked at me and wanted to eat me. 

Next I moved on to a room that had an explicit advisory on the outside.  Viennese Actionism.  Wow.

I came first upon Herman Nitsch, a performance artist and photographer.  His work consists of photographs of his live art performances, which are ritual in concept and heavily filled with blood, brutality,  mutilation of organs, and overtones of sexuality and religious oppression.  Many of the photos I saw were in black and white, but almost even more disturbing due to knowing inherently, even in black and white, that he was using real blood.  Blood is blood, no matter what color it is.  You just know it as a human.

Other notable Austrian performance artists of this movement included:

VALIE EXPORT - Aktionshose: Genitalpanik (Action Pants: Genital Panic)

Otto Muehl, Arnulf Rainer, and Rudolf Schwarzkogler, who worked in performance pieces featuring extreme bondage, mutilation, castration, lobotomy, and sexual humiliation.  The images are so graphic, I can't post them here.  Be warned, it's not for the weak, particularly Schwarzkogler.  Those Austrians were hardcore to the max.  But it was fascinating to see that kind of serious perversion and degradation in art being done in the 60s.  WWII really fucked people up.  You almost get the idea that they might be afraid no one is watching them, the shock value is that high.  (See current Japanese and German pornography and horror films for additional evidence of this phenomenon.) 

As I continued through the Surrealism wing, I continued the brain pulsations in my notes.
  
 "Do not rely on technology.  Surrealism and Marxism intertwine. We are obsessed with history.  Yet no other population that has ever lived has experienced this mechanized, compartmentalized, specialized, electronic life, so far removed from anything real and organic, the speed with which we live and learn has put the entire planet on the verge of mental and physical collapse."

From London Town, UK 2009

Stay tuned for more Tate and Borough Market, Part Two tomorrow.

rally for london town

Thursday, September 10, 2009 - Edinburgh, Scotland -- Travel Day to London


Traveling by train is the best.  America needs to pull itself together and invest in the infrastructure to build a national rail system for us.  “Seriously.  Stop sucking America!”  has been a frequent train of thought (pun intended) since I got to Europe.  For real.  They do work here.  And by work, I mean absolutely everything is totally fucking brilliant.  In the food way, in the people way, in the getting around way.  In the pants way.  Oh yes. We love you Edinburgh.  See you soon.

We left Edinburgh on the National East Coast Express train bound for London around noon.  I was feeling pretty rough from having gone on a “Last night in Scotland” drinking and dancing bender and gotten no sleep, but somehow managed to get out of the hotel and to the station with all my gear. BC Powder + Coffee + 2 liters of water + Ciggies = Rally!    After a snafu with Erin’s seat being oversold, we were moved to First Class for our train ride.  Win!

Erin took some video of the countryside that I will post when I get it.  Trains rule at life.

There was a concession car on board and the man working it was the single hottest man I have ever seen.  In my life.  WANT.

From Edinburgh, Scotland 2009

Working class + Scottish accent + brilliant smile and quite polite and helpful + flirting with me = The most worked up I have ever been in the pants way since I was 16.  It was all I could do not to throw him down behind the bar.   He was called David and it took me several hours to get myself in order afterward, it was ridiculous.  I was like a boy crazy 13 year old.  EO was not pleased with my social retardedness on top of having to deal with the very cranky old man sitting across from us talking non-stop about how much he hates America(ns) and offering to kill George Bush for money.   Thrilling.  You can guarantee that every time I go back to Scotland, and there will be many trips, that I will be on that train to London.  Sigh.

Things learned by Train:
Having a large suitcase on the trains is a Royal Pain in the Ass.  There’s often not much room for bags and it isn’t a very nice way to start the journey having had to argue with people who won’t get themselves or their teeny bags of your way.   Suitcase Tetris becomes a highly valuable skill, often practiced with the hindrance of a well meaning Japanese tourist who, again, won't get out of the way so the American girls can do work on the suitcase rack.  We're from Texas, we know how to make big shit fit in small places (see SUVs and parking for examples of this.) Luckily our David kept EO’s bag near the bar for us.  This was the first time we realized that we had brought too much stuff.  It would get worse once we hit the streets of London. 

We got off at London’s King Cross station, got ourselves to the surface and BAM!POW!  We  were immediately assaulted by London Town.  Holy FUCK.


The pace is beyond hectic, the people move fast, and there are a lot of them.  Everywhere at all times.  We had to pull off to the side and just get our bearings.  I had never been in a city that size before, and it was definitely a change from the easy pace of Edinburgh.  Many times over the next couple of weeks I would really wish I had brought less crap.  Especially if I had known how badass and outrageously affordable the vintage shopping would be.  I think it’s something learned only by going and finding out what you are like and can do without in that environment.  

Let me just say that I LOVE LONDON.  A lot.  I asked more than one American we knew there how they moved there.  Something I had previously thought pretty difficult if not impossible.   So not impossible.  Not even that difficult.  Oh London.  Possible expat.  London is the BEAT.

After a cig, we decided to cross the street, which took at least a half hour.  EO compared it to playing Frogger, us being the frog.  Rightly so.  I got some American Dollars changed out in a little place on the street and a nice lady gave us directions to Camino  where we had a seat to wait for Kate.  It was a bit of a posh (London vocab wins) pub, but not a bad place to wait in Kings Cross and very easy to find.  Here's a photo of our first meal in London at Camino.  Tapas!  That chorizo was the jam.

Kate is Kelly West’s younger sister who smartly married herself an Englishman and now lives in a lovely flat in Islington near Emirates Stadium where the Arsenal football club plays.  Kate and Peter graciously let us stay in their spare room and it was wonderful to hang out with them and get a different experience of the city from people who live there.  Peter carried my bags all through the underground and took us to a lovely pub called King Charles I which featured Bar Billiards, a rare pub game that not many people actually know how to play, but attempts are made anyway. 

From London Town, UK 2009

At King Charles I with Kate and Peter:

Erin continued her beer tour with Brodie's Special and I jumped on the wine train, color Red.  The wine in Europe is really cheap and really delicious.  Hello London, nice to meet you.