Blogosphere, say "whatup" to Bloggin' Granny.
Only like five posts in, and she's already threatening the Supreme Court with eternal damnation. This could get interesting.
She said I never could be serious and it took me 'till ten seconds ago to realize that that was bullshit.
I'm sorry, forgive me. It wasn't bullshit. She was half-right. I never can be serious. Correctamundo. She was wrong to make me think that's a bad thing.
I told her I wanted to write a play about infidelity. She thought that was cool because infidelity, that's something people actually do. Fuck around behind each other's backs, that is. It's serious. It's real. It's an issue.
Yea, I said, There's a married couple and the guy gets a kidney transplant from his wife, so whenever she gets sick she has to go to a hotel so he won't catch whatever it is (a girl in my second hour knows a couple like this, I guess it actually happens) and while she's there she gets seduced, by a fellow hotel person, by the Mexican son of the hotel owner, I haven't decided yet... and she said I always needed a gimmick like that. It couldn't just be about cheating. It had to be kidney cheating transplants and cheating.
So I didn't even bother to tell her was that the real reason she did it, the wife that is, is that she was egged on by her one remaining kidney, who, while it would really be representative of her internal desires and frustrations and things, would be played by an actual person on stage. In a kidney costume? I don't know. Hadn't decided yet.
Why couldn't I, she wanted to know, just write a play about cheating?
And at the time I didn't have an answer, but I do now, and that answer is, because anyone can do that. Any two-bit wannabe Mamet can right a play about pretty people screwing each other and wearing sweaters, making pithy pop culture references and before you know it Catherine Keener's in it, and it's just a whole mess. I could do that. But it would have been done to death already and really what's the point.
Why do I have to be funny? Why don't I just play it straight? Because life doesn't play it straight. Life is not deathly serious. Well, it is. But that's partly why it's so wonderfully fucking hilarious. Those theatre masks? Those are comedy and tragedy, and if we're going to accurately imitate life, we're going to have to incorporate both.
I could write a third-rate somebody else play, or a first-rate DC Pierson play. And DC Pierson plays have talking kidneys in them.
So deal with it.
Oh, and the husband's cheating too. Of course. And I can be serious. I just have this way of saving it 'till I need to make a point or need making out with.
Dude, Susan Mernit is way too kind.
I heart blogging so much. An egomaniac couldn't ask for a better hobby. I had a sixty-year old grandma e-mail me to tell me she loved my stuff and ask how to start a blog.
And when she does, she'll be at the top of my links.
If you're here for naked Michael Moore, and fuck, who isn't, he's right here. My permalinks weren't working when everybody linked to me. Bullocks.
How was your week?
Did you win a freestyle rap competition at school?
Did your improv troupe raise over $130 for Operation Uplink?
Did you get linked by some of your favorite bloggers for making what amounts to a pixelated fat joke?
Because if not, I'm totally making you look like a slacker right now, friend.
The handsome Puma headgear, 100% old school hip-hop, which I'm sporting at right, I won for being the bestest battle rapper in all of fifth-hour lunch. I wouldn't say I rocked the mic, but the mic might tell you differently, and the crowd might as well, since they picked me as the winner. In a duel of derisive rhyming, I vanquished the following:
- Black kid who was WAY better than me
- Asian kid who was also WAY better than me, but screwed up
- Trevor, who is sort of like a Run DMC for the twenty-first century, only ripped as hell, white, and one dude instead of three
- Wade, the previous champion, fellow Anglo-American who bites all his rhymes from 8 mile
...and long story short, thanks to a couple humorous couplets about how so-and-so likes guys, I have a cool headband, and I wear it like Baumer, with the hair on the INSIDE.
And then last night we had an improv show, all in all probably our best one of the year. People gave us $136 for the effort, which we're donating to Operation Uplink. All this despite the fact that the lights were jerry-rigged and Kenzie physically had to PULL the plug from the wall every time we signaled for a black-out, leaving these long dark stretches between scenes while she fumbled to find the plug again. Oh, and some eigth-grader, who was apparently drunk off his ass, threw up in back in the middle of the show, although we had no idea someone had left a big pile of rum-smelling vomit in back 'till the end.
Then we went to Sonic. Pretty good day, all told.
Today, thanks to Instapundit and Jeff Jarvis and many, many other idols of mine, I got twenty times my usual amount of traffic. If you're wandering around in here as a result of their link providence, I won't beg you to stay. I'll just let this quote speak for itself:
If you read only one blog written by a high school senior who does theater, writes plays, has half-baked libertarian political ideals, invented rock and roll and would like to grow up to be James Lileks some day, make it this one!
- Fictional P. Guy, Editor, "Overenthusiastic Jacket-Quotes Quarterly"
I couldn't have said it better myself, if I hadn't just said it right there, using a hilarious alias.
Have a good weekend, kids. I plan to.
Yesterday I was whining about the Dixie Chicks being called "brave" just for whining. I would never, ever whine about the nudity, though.
After all, it could be much worse. Observe:
Full Disclosure: I'm pretty sure this was not my idea. I think I read somewhere in the blogosphere about being glad Moore wasn't doing what the Chicks were, but it was second hour this morning and I've forgotten where it was. If you're the orignator or know who was, please let me know so credit can be given where it's due.
Further Disclosure: I do Photoshop like Moore tells the truth, that is, sloppily at best and not at all most of the time. But I never let a lack of talent get in the way of making a cheap fat joke, that's my motto.
I think I was fairly generous with the proportions of the obese torso, don't you?
UPDATE: It appears Mindles H. Dreck may have been the pointman on this one.
UPDATE v. 2 Scrappleface also gets a hat tip. Or should I say, a share of the blame.
Thanks for the link, Outside The Beltway
We are so, so lucky to live in a time where all you have to do to be considered "brave" is insult a wartime president. We're incredibly lucky to live in a society so safe, so stable, so sensible that dissent is less a necessary check on an actual oppressive government and more a fashion statement, fuel for sputtering careers that have always thrived on the trendiest controversy. Be grateful we live in a time where the "revolutionaries" carry microphones instead of AKs.
I'm starting to think that when Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence and severed our ties with England, it wasn't because he'd had it up to his powdered wig with British tyranny. It may just have been because his latest pamphlet wasn't selling.
Ha. Revolutionary-War-inflammatory-literature jokes. They kill at history teacher conferences.
I'm participating in a freestyle battle at school tommorrow. The funny thing is me and T-money have already pretty much established that we're better than every black kid in the building. Not to brag.
D to the C,
makes your girl scream louder
first on the mike
still whiter than clam chowder
make you wanna drizzle my rhymes
and lick 'em off like honey
but The Pony called Big L
could give me a run for my money
step to me, G, I'll have you
runnin' off, screaming curses
kinda sad, it took me ten minutes
to write three verses
Clearly the black kids at our school aren't very good.
Dude, 3rd Leg...did you die or something?
The deed is done.
The emo-hair deed, that is.
Results are at left. I tried to look souful and emo-y and I just ended up looking pissed off. Oh well. I'm not really feeling the deep girlfriend-left-me vibe right now, I just dig the look. Although it needs to grow out a little more, and I have to train it to have that unkempt look. Too bad sweater weather just left us.
Hair-blogging. Weeping Jesus. Pathetic.
In Why-I'm-The-Coolest-Cat-Ever news, I already ordered my tux for Prom, I went to the gym tonight for the first time in two or three weeks tonight (T-Square and I are starting in on a program given to us by an Army Ranger guy, aw hells yes), tommorrow's a half day, and to make sure I actually go to bed tonight, about a half an hour ago I took two Diphedryl and I can already feel...the...effects...zzzzzzzzzzz
But first I'm going to read The Bleat and eat a Cadbury Creme Egg. It's good to be the king.
No Achewood this week. Bummer.
I invented rock and roll.
I didn't want to mention it, because once I reveal it, people don't want to talk about anything else.
You really invented rock and roll?
Yea, yea I did. So you were saying about your cousin--
Like, the whole musical genre?
No, not the music. I'm not a musical kind of guy. Not in the bars-and-bass-clefs sense, anyway. There were guitars before I was around. But not the attitude. And it's the attitude that matters, wouldn't you say?
Before me, nobody rocked the leather. People wore it. But nobody rocked it.
Oh, yea, they wore it, like I said. Cowboys are kind of rock and roll. But they had the wrong music. It was all twang twang twang. I took their guitars from them and said shhh...listen... And we sat their in silence for several minutes, their eyes closed, listening to the desert wind whistle through plateaus and mesas.
I see. And that was Rock?
Hell no. I used that time to steal their six shooters and their bags of cowboy loot and be halfway to the Rio Grande by the time they opened their eyes and realized I pulled one over on them.
And that...that was Rock?
No, it was petty theft. When I shot an indian for looking at me shifty-eyed...then...THEN it was Rock.
But it didn't come around until the Fifties, right?
I didn't think America was ready to give it birth. Imagine if the Confederacy had gotten a hold of the two-minute guitar solo and used it at Gettysburg. We might be living under a very different flag.
Wait, how old are you?
Like all people who truly have the Rock inside of them, I'm ageless.
With the possible exception of Kurt Cobain, Joey Ramone, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Joe Strummer, Elvis...
Yea. Except them. Tom Jones is going strong, though.
Like I said, I didn't want to tell anyone. They just ask too many questions, and if you have to explain, it ain't Rock.
It's not my fault I never update, I'm a product of my environment.
The environment where my dad's computer, the hub of the whole house network, the conduit through which all Internet-ly goodness flows, is getting replaced with a newer, faster computer he's assembling like a third-rate Frankenstein in the upstairs office. That means no blogosphere and no Instant Messenger until he's done. But it'll be worth the wait. The glorious new Internet hub will have a CD burner that works, and there's people that need mix CDs. Badly.
Until then, I'll just have to rely on The People's Computers at school. Like I am now.
Hi, People's Computer.
Good morning, Comrade.
Did you have a good weekend? I did.
I'm tired, but not tired-tired, I'm just had four (five, maybe? Why am I asking you?) diet Vanilla Cokes at Matt's tired. You know, that kind of tired. Like propping up a dead guy and putting sunglasses on him and a drink in his hand. You know deep down you're tired, but you have all the appearances of being bright-eyed and bushy tailed.
I'm going to go take an off-brand antihistamine (Diphedryl, anyone?) and drink a bunch of milk, then come back and finish this.
In my secret heart of hearts, I desperately want emo-hair. I was just up in the bathroom, and often in front of the mirror, I'll brush it forwards with my hands just to see how it'd look. It's long enough now that I can do that. I don't know, I think I wash my hair too often for it to work, if I leave it like that for an extended period of time it settles in and then I look like a fucking Von Trapp child rather than a deep, soulful screechy-voiced guy.
But I AM wearing a sweater, and for just a second, I turned away, turned back, and it looked kinda tight. If I had thick glasses, it would be ON. I don't have any glasses on hand, though. I tried doing the Junior-Birdman thing with my hands. It doesn't really have the same effect.
I either need to get a damn haircut or start wearing it like this all the time, 'cause the in-between look is killing me. KILLING me with sticks and leaving me in a ditch.
Mel is staring at me from the preview Blogger window underneath the space where I'm writing this post. Stop distracting me. Stupid model. (By the way, thanks much to Tony for sending folks my way to help her get elected Mayor of Hometown-Honeyville.)
High school's end is rushing up all too fast for my taste, and it's going to be a busy last three or four weeks. Two improv shows, the senior show, writing that second one-act I've never started for Advanced Studies, doing a ten-minute video for Humanities, trying to secure a more lucrative job for summer, Prom...Frantic, but I wouldn't have it any other way, now would I?
No, no I wouldn't.
I taped a note to a girl's locker today, because how much longer am I going to be able to do that? And then I came out to the parking lot after rehearsal and she'd taped a note to my car, and yes, she will go to Prom with me. And tommorrow I'm going to ask her to go see Ghostbusters with me at Madstone and I bet you she'll say yes even if she hates Bill Murray and Harold Ramis beat up her dad, because she so totally digs me.
One year later, back in the saddle. 'Bout damn time.
You tell me you're blue
you're just confused
it's that you haven't been this happy in minutes
- Hey Mercedes, "Haven't Been This Happy"
There comes a time in every boy's life when he must use his web-jounaling device for something greater than himself.
This is that time. And that something, or more accurately, someone, is pictured at left.
I know I've mentioned her on here before, but to refresh your memory, Mel is the one of the best model/actresses I've ever had the privilege of going to high school with for two years. She's somehow found herself in the running for FHM (2nd rate Maxim)Magazine's Hometown Honeys contest, where their website visitors vote for their favorite...umm...honey, and then the winning girl gets...I don't know, I'm not exactly clear on the details, but I do know that if you're greatful for everything this site has done for you (remember that time my blog helped you move 'cause you threw out your back?) you owe it to me, to Mel, and yourself, really, to go over there and vote for her. There's a big matrix of thumbnail model-faces, she's five from left and five down.
It's about time smart, funny, well-read French-speaking models got their due, 'cause lord knows they've gone virtually unappreciated up until this point. Come on, kids. Get out there and rock the vote.
The Nerdy Friends of Hot Girls community thanks you.
There's been a couple times when I've speculated on the nature of Hell.
But tonight, I stared it right in its fiery maw. Speculation over: Hell is a high-school district board meeting. Now I know why I can never go into business, or education, or politics, because if I have to sit through one more PowerPoint presentation or hear anyone use the phrase "M&O" (which I still don't understand) I will tie a rope and swing myself from the rafters, neck first.
I guess that's the game you have to play, though, if you want to make impassioned speeches to rile up overprivileged "gifted" kids.
So I played the stupid game, and now I'm going to bed.
There are times in my life where I say do this or you'll regret it.
And always when that something involves a stage and hot lights and a crowded auditorium, I do it, and I do it pretty well, so they keep asking me to do it again.
And usually when that something involves a girl, I let opportunity slip right through my fingers and consign myself to another lonely evening.
And this weekend, both opportunities swam by and I didn't just seize them, I grabbed them by their tails and swung them 'round my head and flung them off into the next county and watched the dust clouds of their impact drift over the horizon seconds later.
This weekend was the musical, How To Succeed.... The last mainstage production of my Senior year, meaning my last chance to fill that auditorium with my voice, the voice I hate so much when it's coming out of my big ol' skull in social situations but I for some reason love to hear echoing back pretending to be someone it's not. It wasn't last time I'll act, or even the last time I'll act at MPHS (there's still the senior show, which will go up in the much smaller Drama Room), but, as unimportant as it seems to the uninitiated, it was the last time I'll act beneath that proscenium, on those hallowed planks repainted black so many times.
There are things you do over and over knowing there'll be a time you never get to do them again. But the knowledge doesn't make it any easier when that time comes.
So I said Let's not think about it. And I tried not to. But it was like a conversation with a terminally ill guy where you're trying to pretend everything's normal and just the way it was. Only with more singing and dancing and stuff.
I'm coming off morose, but I'm not. I loved every glorious second of this show, every rehearsal, every show night, every wonderful scene made me remember just how lucky I was to be here, every time the lights went out and they pulled me on my rolling platform offstage I giggled with glee because it was just so damn much fun.
I could feel history rushing around me. Not history, George-Washington-cherry-tree history. My history. A thousand joyous moments rushing around me, reconvening as I realized the factory where those memories were produced was shutting its doors, boarding up its windows. Well, not really. I was just being transferred out of the factory. Time to go to another town and build a new one. The smokestacks will keep puffing, God bless 'em. There's a picture of me up on the wall somewhere in there. Promise you won't forget, because I won't.
It was very sad. I won't lie to you.
That other opportunity. The time when I usually say nothing at all, this time I said "You wanna?" and she said "I'd love to" and it was great.
Her smile kills me. Somebody file a police report. Fit me for a toe tag. I'm dead.
Asking is better than not asking. Teachers are always say they'll never punish you for asking a question. Two girls in the past month or so have seemed to live by that same philosophy. Remind me of this sometime.
I apologize for the incoherence, I used up all my cogent sentences on this Ayn Rand essay I finished only a third of, which has to be postmarked on Tuesday. Like my taxes, which I have finished but still have to send.
Ty says it better than I did anyway.
I had a pretty good day, all told, it was long and tiring and we ran the show twice, but it opens tommorrow so I guess that can be forgiven.
These people had a better day.
When 5 million people simultaneously have the best day of their lives, I bet it sends so many good karmaic vibes out into the universe people up on the International Space Station can see them flaring out into space, big multicolored waves of sheer human elation.
I was going to use this entry to make some big point, but I think the point is made pretty nicely by itself.
One thing though...If we would have given the inspectors more time, the statue would still stand. There would still be manacles on the wrists of 100 kids. Oil-for-food dollars would still be going to keep rapists and torture artists on the payroll.
I'm not saying if you're anti-war, you're Hitler, or that you hate kids. There are many well-intentioned people with objections to the actions we've taken. I just want you to realize what condition several million people would be in had we taken your advice.
There would be no cheering in Baghdad. Maybe it would sound like cheering, from several blocks away, but only because it would originating from basements, underground. And it wouldn't becoming from crowds, but from individuals. Individuals who had questioned the will of a mustachioed man who would still be very much in power.
Now he's the one quite likely underground, and everybody else is up on the street, hollering their lungs out into air that's free for the first time in decades.
And if that doesn't make you happy in the least, I'm afraid I don't want anything to do with you.
Thanks to Sheila of Redheaded Ramblings for one of the best and most thoroughly complimentary plugs HFT's ever gotten, and thanks to Tony for leading her here
UPDATE: More of this type of stuff. Absolutely wonderful.
Strained Metaphor Time, Grapes Of Wrath Edition
The prarie wind blew through the squeaky, clattering screen door, rustling the pages of a gas station calendar fastened to the wall with a tack. He couldn't believe it. Coming up on a year, 365 days. 365 squares on the gas station calendar. 365 times the sun had shown brightly through a clear sky and hit the wall of his one-room sharecropper's shack, then traced a path along the plywood walls and the dirt floor. And if one day it didn't shine quite so glaringly, he'd know the wait was over. Rain would fall. Things would grow. But that square of light had made that mocking journey 365 times without a cloud or a curtain to obstruct its path. The old radio played swing tunes only half-received from an AM station counties away as he stared out the window, eyes stinging with silt.
Funny thing, as his hunger got sharper his memories got better. The more defined his ribs, the more defined his mental snapshots of the glory days. Of long hours hoeing dirt so rich he barely had to plant any seeds. Of grey thunderheads looming like the chassises of old Fords over the windswept valley, nearly bursting with lifegiving rain. Of the way, with a good harvest behind him, life seemed full of prosperity and peace of mind.
He got so wrapped up in the memories, staring out that one square window, for a moment he was back there. He inhaled deeply, like a man for whom breathing was a joy and not a chore, and instead of the expected scent of glorious damp life sweeping in off of his majestic fields, all he got was a couple lungfuls of dust.
The song on the radio finished up, and the announcer came on with the long-term forecast. "Clear and breezy on through tommorrow," the announcer said, "and you'll be darn lucky to see a drop of rain the rest of this week." In the middle of his coughing fit, he could've sworn he heard "for the rest of your life." But his ears were dusty too.
He was starting to forget what he promised himself, that he'd only plant on land that he'd loved and tendered and cared for. Now he was about willing to throw down seeds wherever the rain would fall.
Congressman Hayworth says, Come! Learn about me, and through me, the entire legislative process! Document the committees I have served on! Find out when my newsletter is published! This and other factoids are at your fingertips! Then, when you're done, be sure to do the same for my Arizonal congressional associates, Jon Kyl and John McCain, and then turn all of these facts in for a one hundred point project in your government class!
And I wave my college acceptance letter in his face and say, Uhhm....no.
And he gets pissed.
But fuck 'im.
Day 3 of London.
At this point, Day 3 of London happened two weeks ago and change, and I'm still recapping and it's taking forever, but I figure hey, people still write about the Civil War, and that happened way more than two weeks ago. So here goes.
Day 3 of London was Official History Day. For days we'd watched history pass us by through a bus window. Now it was time to get our hands all dirty and dusty and historical.
The morning was free, and all the girls in our group wanted to go shopping. The fellas opted for a tourist trap called the London Dungeon, because it was bound to involve way more blood and people's intestines being eaten by rats than, say, Harrod's. We were not disappointed, although I was disappointed that my camera crapped out of batteries just before we got inside. You'll have to go without visual aids for this part. Just imagine a lot of dummies covered in red tempra paint, their computerized voice boxes screeching at regular intervals. Also imagine a bunch of theatrical types who, for whatever reason, can't get a gig in one of London's ten thousand play houses so they spend their days demonstrating ancient instruments of torture (an inordinate number of which seemed to focus on the testicles) on well-paying tourists. You'll have a pretty good idea of how we spent our morning.
That afternoon, we looked up History in the phone book, and we went and hit it up where it lives. The British Museum. I assure you, it was home with all the lights on.
I was still out of batteries, having had no real chance to recharge back at the hotel. But Ashley was nice enough to loan me her spare, because Alecia, Ashley and I all have the same camera (Brian does now, too). There are benefits to being in the cult of the Canon S200. The new battery was just in time, too, because slumping reluctantly towards the front gate, waving bloody placards, followed by a gaggle of museum security and police, were a bunch of real-live authentic...
I almost ran faster than I did after Martha Stewart to greet these brave voices of dissent. I swear I was giggling, which is I think why the bearded fellow is giving me that look. I was excited, these pictures are going in the scrapbook so I can say, Look, kids, there was a time when all the great idiocies of the world (radical Islam, oil paranoia, record store employees) congealed into one great mass and converged on the British Museum wearing bloody sheets! And your father was there to capture the whole thing!
I do like the font on that sign, though. Kind of reminds me of Thriller.
No, the guy holding one end of the official "Stop The War" bedsheet isn't Ralph Macchio, the Karate Kid, don't let the headwear fool ya. I was just as disappointed as you are. The young lady taking a bold stance on "Wars of Mass Destruction," despite the fact that this has been, so far, one of the least destructive conflicts in history to the civilian population (although granted, this was a couple days before the war started, and there was no way of knowing if Bush and Blair were just gonna go Wild Bunch on the motherfucker, YEE-HAW), is carrying a blanket. I later found out why. Apparently all these lone voices of reason in had gone and lied down in the Assyrian exhibit, near the museum entrance. Assyria, being, of course, where Iraq is today. They were supposed to be the civilian casualties we will no doubt inflict in our unilateralist oil thirst. Why they haven't been lying down in the Assyrian exhibit to protest the purposeful killing of 275,000 Iraqi citizens from the modern-day Assyrian emperor is beyond me, but hey, let's not talk politics here. What I love is that she brought her blankie. I want to show my solidarity for the helpless Iraqi people crushed beneath the wheels of imperialism, I want to feel their pain. But museum floors are so cold and Mummy says I must have proper lumbar support.'
I like the fact that if you "show solidarity" for imaginary Iraqis by laying down on a quilt and then getting nicely asked to leave by the cops, you're brave, but if you put your life on the line to feed, clothe, and free real Iraqis, you're a murderous bully.
But there I go again. Politics.
After the oppressed truth-speakers dispersed, we met up with our tour guide. She gestured with her hands A LOT. And when you have to have words to accompany your gestures, so as you may imagine she talked A LOT. But who can blame her. When you have to recap all of history in two hours for a bunch of teenagers, half of whom couldn't care less and just wanted to go back to the hotel and take a nap, you have to make those words count.
Saw a lot of this. The guide would charge through the crowds, duck in and out of a bunch of huge rooms, each containing things we wanted to see but didn't have time for, then would thrust this hand up in the air and wait for every last straggling unneccesary picture taking one of us to trickle in before she'd start talking.
Above: Fast-talking tour guide with frieze of The Parthenon. She explained the whole story, all etched in stone that stretched around one of mankind's greatest architectural achievements. I don't remember any of it now, but I'm reasonably certain it involved horses.
What they don't teach you in Art History: A good deal of Greek architecture was adorned with the upper torsos of older Korean ladies. Strange but true, kids. Strange but true.
After the Parthenon, guide lady let us free in the Egyptian section. It was big. You'd think these guys made irreplacable contributions to the world as we know it, or something.
This was a continuation of the surreality of the whole London experience. Here we were, inches away from the kind of history you usually only read about. Gold-plated sarcophagi. The Rosetta Stone. Objects the eyes of Antony and Cleopatra may have glanced over. Stuff that makes you seem temporary, or makes you want to make things worth putting behind glass and keeping for all time. Makes you wonder how people can devote their lives to this stuff, the whole time looking backwards when to you all these things say, look forward, go out, do. But then you're glad there are people who devote their lives to these things, who put them on pedestals and behind triple-thick glass, because what happened yesterday matters.
And then you realize the tour guide and your travel companions are three rooms ahead of you while you're still gaping at a bust of Marcus Aurilieus. And you start looking for that hand.
Also makes you thank Ra for proper dental care. Did I mention that?
I could've wandered around for hours, but others were less enthusiastic. Jack, Tim, Alecia, and Ashley split early and went back to the hotel. Then we went into another room, the guide babbled about a chest full of gold for five minutes, and said, that's the tour, see you later. So after a brief stop at the gift shop, we said goodbye to the British Museum and pretty much all the important objects mankind's produced, ever.
And the museum was like, See ya.
And the objects were all, Don't be a stranger.
And we were out.
That night, while my camera rested deservedly in the hotel room, we went across town for some stereotypical Brit food: Fish and chips! It was disturbing, not just because it wasn't very good, but because the place reminded me of an old-timey ice cream parlor and it just throws you for a loop when you're thinking ice cream and you're tasting mediocre fried whitefish.
Then we did what everybody back home kind of assumed was the whole purpose of the trip because we're, you know, theatre kids: We saw a play. My Fair Lady, to be exact. The parts I was awake for were stupendous. A highlight, (I don't know if it was ad-lib or in the original script, and it's been two weeks, so I'm paraphrasing): I told you not to go to those fancy French places. Why didn't you go to a nice English shop? At least there you can be certain everyone's on our side!
Uproarious applause, from everyone except the hot French girls sitting behind us. I was going to bust my extensive francais at intermission, but I didn't think they'd want to know where my baguette was in relation to the Eiffel Tower, or that I had a big fish. Oh well.
Not to backtrack, but at dinner, Kenzie took the only good picture of me in existence.
From right to left: Matt, Jack, SUAVEST MOTHERFUCKER ALIVE LOOKIN' ALL GQ AND SHIT, Tim.
I'd do me.
We saw a lot that third day. But the best of all the artifacts was sported by an Indian guy handing out flyers on Oxford Street. Not to generalize based on a small sample, but the Indian people in England rock. First Sanjay, greatest waiter alive, then this guy, rocking this hat:
Really kinda says it all, doesn't it?
One thing they oughta have is significant-other detox.
Get in a bad breakup and can't get that girl out of your head? Wouldn't you like it if you could go to a pleasantly furnished, sterile environment, pay a small fee, and they'd lock you in a room for, oh, I don't know, a week or so. It would be awful, of course, those initial hours. I don't know how withdrawl came to be known as "cold turkey," because I love cold turkey, but no one would love this. There'd be crying, of course, but you'd be all alone so you wouldn't mind letting it out. Then every eight hours or so nurses would come by and give you drugs, and surprisingly good food, and say nice things about your hair and how sexy you look, so you'd think there was a future beyond that significant other, maybe even with these nurses. Then after 48 hours, you'd pee into a cup, and they'd put in a couple of drops of blue liquid, swirl it around, and if it turned, I don't know, let's say puce (the official color of heartbreak), they'd say, see you in another 48. But if it turned clear, they'd know she was out of your system. You wouldn't know what was in those drugs, but really, would you care? Then they'd send you back into the world, ten pounds lighter just for having dropped off all that emotional baggage. Ready to get your game on.
I'm not saying they'd make you forget. I'm just saying they'd take all the hurt out of remembering.
Hot nurses are a plus, too.
Another thing that they need, well, it's not really something that you could invent. It's more something they missed out on adding when they, whoever they are, were building the universe and putting humanity into it. When we spit words into the air, they shouldn't just hit the ears of whoever and whatever's in listening range and then be dead to the rest of the world. Bad move, universe-creators. All spoken word, however trivial, should float up and get trapped, like a helium balloon in your living room. Every ceiling ever built should be covered thin invisible layer of every syllable ever uttered under it. Then before you moved you'd pay guys to come in and vaccuum them off, run them through a decompressor in their van and burn them to a CD. None of us would want our own CDs, though. I think, numero uno, half the things I said would be painfully dumb in retrospect, and two, I hate hearing my recorded voice, I think I sound like a bumbling cartoon walrus. But we'd also get to hear everything ever said under that roof before we lived there. Instant history.
Oh, and we might want to put a net around the Earth, since some of history's greatest lines were uttered outdoors, like the Gettysburg Address, or most of what Jesus said, Buddha as well, probably, and on a more personal note, maybe your dad asking your mom to marry him on a hillside where they'd set up a picnic back in Spring 1978. People bitch about recycling but no one bothers to think of all the auditory gold we send drifting off into space.
Aliens have probably figured out how to do this already, and they're sitting on the dark side of Pluto with headphones on, giggling at the fact that we can't even stick to the rules of grammar we all agreed on.
They're also wondering who this "DC Pierson" character is all the female voices of Earth keep speaking about in such reverent tones.
Right here, guys.