Chronicles of a Trip Untold: Le Paradis England

Rummaging through my computer for pics to upload to the web, I stumbled across a smorgassboard of photos from my trip to London a few years back. Having never written about it, I'd be remiss if I gave up the juicy opportunity to bore you to death about our relatives across the Atlantic (relatives for all you white people out there).

As you may or may not know, England is a lovely little island with rolling green hills, vats of Guinness (admittedly Irish, but wildly popular in the pubs) and lots of white and brown people with funny accents that Americans have deemed "incredibly sexy." Familiar with only the latter aspect of English culture, I eagerly parted with more than a semester's worth of college tuition for a one-month stint of booze in lofty Cathedrals (the British, bless their hearts, are largely agnostic), cluttered museums filled with plundered relics from third-world colonies, and one exhibit filled with 7,559,452 specimens of dead dissected animals (I had the rare fortune of seeing a diseased penis preserved in formaldehyde. Not a pretty sight, but damn interesting).

But before I regale you with those stories, we shall start at the beginning. For an entire 30 days, I lived and breathed the Tube, which is the American equivalent of the metro but much, much classier. As a bold demonstration of their advanced sophistication, the British have abandoned dingy industrial rail cars in favor of those designed by Gymboree. Yes, there may be a lack of ventilation in the summer, but as one train official informed me, one can always take comfort in the GLORIOUS COLORS! (I suspected pot use).

Inspiring daycare centers worldwide

One station particularly near and dear to my heart was Baker's Street Station. You might think that I lived there, but in fact I lived across from Regent's Park, shown below:

The Gates of Heaven and the Garden of Eden... if I could bloody afford to live there.

(For those who are over-analytical, there was actually a tube stop called "Regent's Park," but in a cruel twist of humor intended to spite those "Bush wankers" (read: Americans), it was further away from our lodgings than Baker's Street).

One curious thing about the British is their subtle nationalistic bent. Do not be fooled by their blasé self-deprecating remarks about their pseudo-socialist government. They love themselves. In fact, the only thing they love more than themselves are their fictional storybook characters. Somehow, the British got to writing books about crazy detective mothafuckahs (excuse my French) and the next thing you know, Sherlock Holmes is more popular than the Queen! So popular that he has a statue unto himself. At an imaginary address that doesn't even exist. God I love the Brits.



"Tell me, my dear Watson, why am I an ugly, cast-iron figure canonized outside of a random tube station?"







There are few things in life that impress me, and having the opportunity to see this man's imperturbable face each and every day was a true delight. How could I stand to marvel at such a brilliant achievement for an entire month? The master said it best:


"It's elementary, my dear Watson."



Actually, some pot would have helped.

Conversations With My Father: part III

Dinnertime has always been a heart-warming activity for my family. As dusk falls around our cozy little home-in-the-'burbs, we descend into a comfortable evening chat about our respective days. Typically, me and my mom have pretty ordinary tales punctuated by the occasional irritant co-worker or difficult customer, but my father clearly works with individuals who have lives as colorful as his own imagination.

background: "FBI-Ma" is a fellow co-worker of my dad's and long-time acquaintance of my mom's.

Dad: Did you know that FBI-Ma's son is in the FBI?
Mom: Really?
Dad: Yeah. They investigate everyone you come into contact with. Even your girlfriends.
Mom: How do you know?
Dad: Well, FBI-Ma was telling us all about it today. She said that ever since her son started working there, he's become a lot more quiet and doesn't talk about his job with her. He had to marry a fellow FBI worker because they won't let him associate with just anyone.
Me: I don't think they control who you marry. They probably just make sure you aren't involved with a spy.
Dad: No. These government people, they know everything about you, but they don't say anything. Her son can only tell people that he works with "computers," not the FBI.
Me: Then why did her mom tell all her co-workers about her son's real job?
Dad: Well, now she tells people that her son is in "computers."
Me: Isn't it a little late?
Dad: I don't know. She says she can't talk about her son's activities. Who knows what he's doing? I bet he's involved in some pretty shady business. You know the FBI has a hand in the crumbling economy and the political elections.
Me: .....
Mom: Talk less and finish your hamburger.

Conversations With My Father: part II

Not a day goes by that I don't wonder how my dad chose the wrong vocation in life. Rather than being a boring government worker, he should have become a serial novelist or editor of the National Enquirer. With an uncanny knack for devising hopelessly irrational conspiracy theories about the government (all this despite being a faithful employee for some twenty-odd years), it is easy to see why I became an English major. It runs in the family. Except he's a lot better at it than me.

Let me illustrate with a true story.

Sitting on my bed one evening just reading myself to sleep, my dad suddenly bursts into my room.

Dad: Can you look at this? (it's a permission slip for my brother's chorus trip) I shouldn't sign it right?
Me: reads the sheet. The school wants you to sign and verify that your child isn't bringing any illegal weapons on the trip. If you sign it, then the teacher doesn't need to search his belongings.
Dad: But why should I sign? Doing so means they have the right to rummage through your stuff! There's no privacy! I think it's ridiculous to be searched.
Me: But that's why you sign. So they won't search.
Dad: No. We shouldn't sign. I heard on the news that the government can just come to your house and search you for no reason!
Me: ....
Dad: You could sign your life away and not even know it!
Me: You're right, dad. Everyone is out to get you.
Dad: Yes, always be careful about what you sign.

postscript: my dad did eventually sign the permission slip

Conversations With My Father: part I

disclaimer: the following views expressed in this post are most decidedly NOT PC and are in no way intended to offend. I would not write about it if not for the fact that my dad's just so ridiculous it's funny.

Waking up one rainy Thursday morning, I walk into the kitchen to pack my lunch for the day. Typically my mom is already up, having cooked breakfast for my brother and seen him off to school, and my dad too--usually for lack of anything better to do (like sleep). So, when I see him bolt into the kitchen like a madman with that wild gleam in his eyes, I know it's going to be one of "those" days.

Dad: "Did you hear? Islamics are now lending money to people at zero interest!"
Me: "I know dad. Islamic law prohibits usury. It's been around since the 8th century."
Dad: (clearly not listening) "But now they're lending money to non-Islamics! Where do they get such money? The Federal Treasury doesn't back them. I wonder where they get all that money to lend people."
Me: "....."
Dad: "You should take out a loan from them. It's available for everyone now."
Me: "Where did you read this?"
Dad: "It was in the news .(it could have come from a monkey on the street and he would still say it was from the "news")"
Me: (facetiously) "Well, they probably do it so they can eventually force you to convert to their religion and take over the world."
Dad: "Yeah. I bet they brainwash you with their money."
Me: "Mmmhmm. The only smart investment is to painstakingly save your money penny-by-penny in a low-interest savings account that won't even compensate for inflation."
Mom: "That's right! Never be greedy. Nothing good can come from easy money."

Robert Allen is My Boy!

800-267-4152. Called 3 times in a 3-hour time span.

Now, either someone really wanted to reach me or it was just another telemarketer wreaking havoc on the world. Wary of 800 numbers (do you see a trend here? I'm really not this paranoid in real life), I envisioned an overweight, slightly unshaven pothead sitting on the other side of the line trying to convince me to sell my soul to The Man for the low, low price of $64,000/year. Too late, dude.

Reluctant to call the offender, I decided to do the next best thing--Google it! Curious to see what evils lay behind that esoteric combination of 10 numbers, my search eventually pulled up a long list of complaints about what turned out to be Robert Allen's "Enlightened Millionaire's Institute," or EMI, as it is affectionately called.

I don't know Robert Allen personally, but judging by other people's comments ("Apparently the service they provide is so useless that nobody wants it, and so they go out and harass people into taking their seminar"), he is not a universally-loved character. However, despite his unpopularity (or perhaps because of it), I found the whole idea intriguing and not altogether random. Someone wants to create wealth? For me? Could it be that they caught wind of my impending descent into the bottomless pit of usury whose trip holds no promise of return?

Periodically my mother will ask me: "are you sure you want to go to med school?" when she really means: "do you really want to be enslaved for 10+ years of your life while your beauty wastes away and you end up as an embittered old spinster conked out on crack?" Tired of fighting such rhetorical questions, I sometimes answer: "yeah. Maybe I should just become a writer and make millions." To which she replies: "you will never succeed in life without hard work. Don't worry, someone will give you money for school."

I can't help but think she misses the point.

Anyway, the greater point is that I could call the 800 number and ask to be taken off their phone list, but why would I want to do that? If what my mom says is true, then this Robert Allen could be the key to a wildly successful medical career.

Until that day comes, I'm putting 800-267-4152 on speed dial.

O Vino, How I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways...

Next to getting laid (if I were a man) and winning the lottery (if I were a money whore), wine is the greatest thing that man has ever invented. A delicate tease, the golden acidic aroma of promised debauchery is enough to drive the most abstemious ascetic wild with passion. It is, in so many words, the liquid of love. I often marvel at how progressive the Europeans are in this respect. They embrace the lowly grape as a valued member of society. Most assuredly, wine is welcomed like a long-lost uncle whose unannounced return promises abundant self-expression and unbridled personal liberty. It is reason to celebrate in the Bacchanalian style--with no rules, just right.

Therefore, I'm sure that everyone can relate to my sudden urge to get tipsy in the middle of the week. Like a thirsty sailor, I fell easy prey to the siren call of EtOH, longing to rid myself of balance sheets and ridiculously convoluted state income tax returns (I understand now why there are so many alcoholics). Unwilling to pollute such a precious experience with dive-bar douche bags and cretins, I chose to imbibe with none other than Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential.

Kitchen Confidential is a rags-to-riches tale about an inebriated, coke-sniffing, weed junkie who doesn't deserve fame but is so ridiculously bad-ass that one cannot help but fork over millions to watch him eat raw meat in Cambodia on the Travel Channel. However, to each his own, and since I did not pay for the book or even check it out from my local library (that would be public support, you understand), I have no moral qualms about indulging in such shameless self-aggrandizement (all things considered, I need to take lessons).

It is a novel mildly amusing at times but really just exhausting as every other chapter is about humping on flour sacks, illegal drugs, ass molesting, and extortion. If you thought your toilet was dirty, you sure as hell don't want to eat at any restaurant in the USA after reading his book.

But ultimately, this post is not about Bourdain's book. It is about wine, and what wine does to people. In a sad attempt to be creative, I brought along a notebook to record my thoughts with Tony and Chardonnay. This is just a little excerpt, in sober retrospect:

"Oh, alcohol, that lovely nectar of the gods. You are exactly what I need to get through a particularly difficult week! You are the solution to my unlimited boredom, beset as I am with debt that I will never be able to pay off in 10 lifetimes! Overly dramatic, you say? Hardly. I cannot be responsible for any actions under this pixie liquid that courses through every fiber of my being. Isn't that amazing? To relinquish all personal responsibility in favor of some absolution is my ultimate goal! @#%$ my job. Accounting is as boring as a pig trying to gain admission into a pony show! (I have no idea where the hell that came from) It simply cannot happen! Hopefully someone will see through the shit that is living a life horrendously boring. I stand corrected. There is nothing to salvage. I am lost. I am broken."

That excerpt would be poetic were it not for the fact that all of my English professors would have epileptic fits over my nonsensical turns of phrase and general incompetence in the thought department. I'm not even going to try to understand that garbage.

It's the wine, my friends. Live it, love it, drink it.

No Thanks, Mate

As a newly christened post-grad--one of the lucky few catapulted into society without any useful skills--the learning curve of life has been a steep one. It isn't so much paying the rent (I live at home), scouring for 99 cent deals on groceries (my mom, bless her heart, still cooks), or even foregoing cable television to buy a car (I've had one since college) that's difficult. It's the social aspect. Namely, guys.

Some of you might have heard the adage: "Men are dogs." This is entirely true. No, they're not the loyal, slobbering-but-endearing type that bring a smile to your face after a long day in the trenches, but rather the dry-humping, pee-all-over-the-carpet kind that you can't seem to get rid of fast enough. Armed with a bank account and unctuous Armani shirts from the discount section, these creatures are unleashed en masse upon the world with a singular thought in mind: Get laid at all costs.

Let me illustrate with a true story.

I was at a happy hour mingling with people interested in improving their language skills. As I chatted with a bubbly Japanese woman on my left, I barely noticed the unassuming Australian guy on my right. Barely noticed, that is, until he introduced himself to me as "D-bag" (pseudonymed for privacy) and innocently inquired about my background. Giving him very little to go on, we had a surprisingly intellectual conversation and for all intents and purposes, he appeared to be a "good guy."

So we went out to dinner, a movie...even lunch. I asked if he dated often, to which he replied "not really" and indicated that he had just moved to the area and was not in any sort of relationship. Having been accused of being intensely cynical (can you blame me?), I decided to try on the optimist's hat. Who says that you can't meet a nice guy randomly?

So one day, D-bag calls me and asks: "Would you like to accompany me to a work function next weekend? I'm going to Guyana on business, but will be back before Friday."

I tentatively agreed. He said he'd call before Friday.

So a week goes by and no call. One of my friends wanted to go out and since I am a stickler for promises, I call him to see what's up. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I can't make it to the event because I won't be back from Guyana. Let's get lunch on Saturday instead." Sure. Unforseen circumstances. I understand.

Two days later, I get this email:

"hi honey,

i'm making dinner right now. i know aren't u surprised? i wanted to tell you that you presented yourself very nicely at my work function. you were very beautiful and im glad you could come.

also, im' sorry for making u cry...im not good at saying what i think but we are a good combination. our problems are not as bad as other couples and i hope you will forgive me. i hate to see you cry. anyway i want to see you again so don't think too hard about things ok? they will work out. i love you.

-D-bag"

then I get another one: "please delete previous email."

In addition to his frightening inability to follow proper writing convention, D-bag was a sleazy, yellow-dog cheater. And an idiot to boot. There is no excuse for being unfaithful, but a male who cannot send emails to the right woman is just downright sad. I wrote back to the effect of: "you have serious issues to work out so don't ever contact me again," and since I haven't heard from him, I'd venture to guess he probably got the message.

In sum, I will leave you with a funny Andy Rooney quote imparted to me by a female friend:

"For all those men who say, "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?", here's an update for you. Nowadays 80% of women are against marriage. Why? Because women realize it's not worth buying an entire pig just to get a little sausage!"

Exactly.