off island: ireland

Before I recount my tales of the land that is Ireland, let me tell you about the epiphany I had while returning to London. Ready? Okay: I live in London.

It's been two months and it's finally settled in. All these days of walking in downtown London in awe, the streets more like some movie set I've happened to walk on, maybe I finally get it. Back in the London Gatwick airport, I smoothly make my way to the train ticket window, where I calmly ask for a ticket to London Bridge via Thameslink. 'Do you need to use the Underground once you get there?' asks the ticket man. 'Why, no,' I may or may not have said, 'I have an Oyster card.' (This means I am a regular.) Then, I very knowledgeably and calmly caught all the right trains and as the final one pulled in next to Sainsbury's Grocery Store, I thought, 'It's nice to be home.' It's nice to be home! New Cross, London? Myhomethisis! (5 points if you thought of Yoda, because I just did.)

Of course, the negative result of being 'home,' so to speak, is the inevitable funk that comes with returning home after a trip.

This trip was to Cork, Ireland, to visit some Good Friends. Let me recount a few brief highlights because nobody likes to read paragraphs and since I've been writing an essay, I don't like to write them:
- The pub Sin E (which is of course pronounced Sheen-Ay) with its pear cider and Irish fiddle music.
- Cooking stuffed green peppers, cookies, curry, and kneading homemade dough for homemade pizzas.
- Getting caught in a rain storm in Blarney.
- Natanya pretending to be an archer at every single window in Blarney Castle. 'Oooh, look at my archer boots!' she would say.
- Kissing the wrong stone that was not the Blarney Stone and the guy yelling 'NEXT!'
- The Saturday trip to Kinsale.
- PUPS, the black lab puppy who became our friend for about 45 minutes on the hike towards Charles Fort.
- Irish people who pronounce their 'th's like 't's. Like instead of 'three' they say 'tree.' So it's like they have a backward lisps and you can make fun of them.
- Watching TV again, especially the Aussie soap 'Home & Away' and 'American Idol.'
- London clothing stores with prices that are in Euros instead of Pounds.
- Speaking to my roomie again at night and in the morning. Awwwwww.
So don't worry, these kids have got a pretty good little set up. Cork is a smallish city, but it has a real nice set up and city centre the surrounding little towns are lovely. The Other Americans leave a bit to be desired, but when have we not?

Now that I'm back, I've had a pint and a half of Strongbow and a major stress meltdown. Cheers!

the obvious follow-up: the 'As' of London.

So yesterday during my absurd post I said that there was no 'Best British Film' category at the BAFTA awards.

I was wrong.

Indeed, the 'Best British Film' award went to 'Wallace&Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit.' It beat out 'The Constant Gardener,' 'A Cock and Bull Story,' and 'Pride&Prejudice.' Which brings me to my 'A.' Animation. Not only was there a giant inflatable Gromit in Trafalgar Square today (to coincide with the release of the 'Were-Rabbit' DVD, and happily with the win and which I was in the wrong part of Central London to see), but I just found out there is going to be a 'PIXAR: 20 year of Animation' exhibit at the Science Museum in April. My eyes were drawn to a small flyer in the Museum of London of a little Sharpie sketch of an early Sulley and Mike. It was beautiful. I like London.

the 'Bs' and 'Cs' of London.

I was just going to do a post about the 'Bs' of London. The reason I started on this theme is because I had two items to talk about, both of which happened to start with the letter 'B.' Then, because '3' is a magic number, I decided I had to have a third 'B.' But then I decided I also wanted to talk about a 'C' and that just wouldn't work. So I had to think of another 'C' to make it worthwhile. But the 'Cs' are sort of on a theme so it just really doesn't work at all. Then I tried to think of 'As' so I could make it an 'ABCs' of London that wasn't really an 'ABC' of London like you would think, but I couldn't. Halfway through this, I probably will think or something. I could always do 'alcohol,' but I don't really want to talk about that.

So, today I indulged in some americana and went to the BAFTA Awards. I explain it as the British equivalent of the Oscars - although we might just call it the Oscars transported to Leicester Square, because the best movie nominees are practically the same as the Oscar nominees. Just recently I read a short article called, 'How British are the BAFTAs?' The answer is: they're not. They don't even have a 'Best British Film' category anymore. They do, however, have a 'Best Movie Not in English' category, which is very nice of them, but adds to the 'BAFTAs not being British' thing. Anyway, the Odeon theatre in Leicester Square was decked with screens and orange lights (due to the BAFTAs humongous sponsorship by the British mobile phone company, Orange), barriers, bright lights, temporary stages, and flags on the lamposts. Really, they go all out for these things. It's brilliant. So me and some of my very American cohorts headed down in the rain (it has rained maybe 4 days total since I've been here and of course, when the Americans are walking down the red carpet it's raining and they're holding umbrellas and just smiling cheekily at the cameras saying, 'oh, British weather!' and it's not funny) and tried to set ourselves up in the best viewing position possible. It was busy. We didn't know where to go. But I did get some clear views of actor heads: most notably Patrick Stewart, Pierce Brosnan, Roger Ebert, Sol Campbell, Sir Alex Ferguson, and Ron from Harry Potter. I mean, there were loads more famous people there but I started to get claustrophobic, my calfs has tightened up, and I was about a minute away from grabbing everybody's damn big umbrellas and poking their eyes out. Along with grabbing everybody's cell phone cameras and throwing them at... something.

Second B: BANKSY. This is a man. A man who stencils. A man who has published a book about the grandness of stencil/grafitti art. I was recently brought to the Banksy light by the A-Train (a lame Ben Garnett nickname) who purchased said book. So Banksy is this dude who goes all around London doing big ass stencil pieces in very prominent public places. They're all very political, but done incredibly well, with incredible creativity, using the environment around them. So one of my goals here is to search out Banksy stencils. Oh, actually, I've already found one. Apparently his stencils are usually gone within a week, but that deep entry I made a while back? About the 'this is not a photo opportunity' stencil? Yeah. That was Banksy. Say his name. BanksyBanksyBanksy. It's like the name for a butler. It's adorable. That's probably half the reason why I like him. Check out his website, it's awesome: http://www.banksy.co.uk

There's also B for books. Oh, duh, right? But there's something great about book culture in London. Sure, you've got your 'chick lit' and even 'dick lit' (a spine-tingling horrible term), but you've also got websites like this created by the city of London (and ANOTHER play off of Harry Beck's tube map!) and you find bookstores dedicated to crime novels on Charing Cross Road and also books on the Piccadilly line of the tube with postys on them saying 'EAT ME!' (just kidding, unless you were in Wonderland), saying 'READ ME! I'M NOT LOST!' and inside you can go to this website and track your book as it travels from person to person around the world. I found one in London that had been in Switzerland only days before, which I gave to Alex to bring to Tokyo. What book? Bill Bryson's 'Notes From a Small Island.' Rather fitting it should be right there on a tube train for me, since it's all about Britain. Of course I had already read it...

C is for Colin Meloy, the lead singer of the Decemberists, and London-nerd extraordinarie. I've been listening to a lot of his solo stuff (including a fabulous 'Sings Morrissey EP' and a live track in which he sings to his pregnant girlfriend and says 'it's weird and it's wonderful, dear.') I've done even more listening to his band prior to the Decemberists, Tarkio. It's much more of a folksy (banksy!) outing, and it's also REALLY REALLY LONDON NERD CENTRAL. He talks of crossing the Strand, of, oh, I can't remember the exact references, but they're kind of amazing. Colin Meloy, I wish your last name was Banksy. Or better yet, Banksy Meloy. The other 'C' is for Matt Costa, who does this really sunshiney folky pop. It's quite enjoyable.

picture: Gardner-Toren, Katelynne. 'kristina looks for celebrities', digital media, 2006.

bagel/beigel?

I have been, as recently as yesterday, unconvinced of my driving motives in life. What am I doing, studying art, walking around in underpants in my flat downloading music obsessively and continually checking out books that 'look neat' and have neat pictures that relate to my subject and never reading them? Today I realized, even though I should have realized before, that my goal to know London, is pushed forward by my studying art. There are over 200 art galleries in the Greater London area and I am, as a student of 'Arts in Contemporary Society,' museum and curating division, ideally supposed to visit as many as I can.

Today I went to the White Cube galleries and more all around the East London area, around Old Street and continuing, unknowingly when I started, down towards Brick Lane (shady old haunting grounds of Jack the Ripper type killers undeniably sketchy filled with curry houses and arabic businesses). The White Cube gallery is fairly well known, occupying a nice-looking building around Hoxton Sq. The rest, however, were quite a surprise. Housed in buildings with no windows, with only a doorbell and sloppily painted numbers to know where they are. Buildings with wood floors that smell like it. I couldn't even find three of the galleries I was looking for. I entered the slowly arising ghettos of East London. It was a blast. What turned from a rather gloomy day, the first hour of my waking spent on my newly acquired computer simulation game (THE MOVIES), and almost literally dragging my but out the door, turned into one of learning and pleasant 'beigel' eating and strolling.

So, this past week, one certain Alex was here. We ate out about 85 times, got drunk about 12, and saw 3 musicals. No, really, that musical number at the end there is correct. Here is a photo essay:
1. We went to Hyde Park and saw the 5.2million pound Princess Diana of Wales Memorial Fountain. As you can see, it is a piece of shit. Alex wasn't impressed.
2. We saw a matinee of Les Miserables on Wednesday afternoon and saw We Will Rock You (the Queen musical) on Wednesday evening. Maybe needless to say, I still love Les Miserables 50x more than anythiny in my LIFE.
3. We went to some pubs. We like pubs. Brits like pubs. Even Macalester kids like Ben Garnett like pubs.
4. The Museum Foundation (this doesn't exist, actually) of Britain really likes to use the same museum architect in all their museums. How can I tell? Because they all use this little space-expanding trick using mirrors and video screens.

off-track: writing.

I got lost in the Thames River. It was just one of those things, a turn here, a turn there, but a turn too early threw it all off. We think we're big enough, we think we know which way the current flows, the feel of the water, the taste in and out of the Atlantic, but we don't. We get lost, like anything would, in our heads, the most dangerous place to be alone.

I started to panic when the smell got all wrong. The water didn't feel right - the organisms, the color, the smell. The passageway started to narrow. Embankments formed on either side of me and soon I realized I could not turn around. My stomach touched a sharp rock bottom, then scraped it, then it tore me. I stopped, the smell of my own blood unfailingly halting me. Bright lights shined down on me. Loud sounds were above me. People were all around me.

And I could not move. Fear, physicality, no matter how I tried, I could not move. I was lifted into open air paralyzed with fear. Something or someone decided I was no longer suited for the water. And only when I looked around me and heard the whir of this big dry city and saw the bleak colorless shapes did I realize the extent to which I had gone so horribly wrong.

For whatever reason, I ended up here with a body too big and skin too soft. I'm leaking through myself, back into the water. I feel all of me will continue to leak through my stomach until in some form, I am all back in the water again.

That will be good, but will they know that, will they know how good it will be that it happened this way when they write the headline 'tragic ending for lost whale in London.'

sidenote: oops, i'm at school?

Unfortunately, reality came crashing down on me today. After spending the last two days doing nothing but homework (and some vino rosso-age) I finally realized, after looking at my calendar, that I have about 4 weeks to write 4 essays. Four research essays. Four essays that are my grade. How did this happen? How did my days of bragging about no work and 4-day weekends flaunting about turn into this sudden seizure of stress that has overtaken me? Hello, sunny days in the library. Hello, days in my room consuming ridiculous amounts of Diet Coke. And damn, friendly honorary flatmates. And damn, the general feel of nobody doing any work around here. And goodbye, London. I'll see you again in the springtime. Wouldn't it just be rich if I failed every single class here?

i'll use a pop song to clear my name.

London is both lovely and grey today. What I saw: soldiers practicing being soldiers, complete with orders yelled and drums banged, rigid movements and tall furry black hats at the Chelsea barracks; two garishly painted bridges; dozens of small schoolboys in bright red sweatshirts and sweatpants running around fields in Battersea Park; dogs running all over the green, all getting along and the happiest creatures alive; girls giggling in long grey toggle coats and black tights on the Circle line; the periwinkle flat where George Orwell used to live on Portobello Rd.; shores of the Thames that felt more San Francisco marsh than London city riverbank, complete with a blue heron; 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.'

Despite these things, personal matters have taken a downward turn. I fling myself into trying to handle this as maturely as possible. Don't know if I've ever been good at knowing how to be mature. I don't want things like this in London. I've still got this idealized version of it. Thank goodness I have Jenny Lewis right here by my side.

Much love.

item: short.

Why I love the London Underground and Harry Beck who designed the London Underground map: Because the writers of the London-obsessed Guardian create things like this: 20th Century Music History as a Map.

It's just so damn cute.
Press release: here.