I find him on a park bench in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Sam’s idea, not mine. He lives just down the road in Holborn; a one bedroom flat he has been renting since his divorce. I wish we’d gone there. In the park, it’s way too cold, and despite my thick wool coat, lined boots and heavy scarf, I am shivering head to toe.
As I approach, he smiles and waves, and I can see the sliver of skin left uncovered by the thick glove that’s too small for his hand. “Hi Sam,” I say as I arrive in front of him. He stands and bends to a 90 degree angle to plant a kiss on each of my cheeks
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he exclaims, standing up straight and clasping his hands together. I examine his face, flushed red and partially covered by his curly brown mop of hair. He looks good, more self-assured than last time I saw him. He’s wearing a long brown cashmere coat that appears to be of good quality and his eyes are the same bright blue as always, contrasting with the gray of the buildings behind him.
“What’s new?” I ask, somewhat awkwardly, and he chuckles, which puts me slightly more at ease.
“Shall we sit?” he asks, gesturing at the bench behind him.
I consider the cold metal and shake my head. “I’m freezing. Let’s walk for a bit.”
We walk, and immediately, I’m straining to keep up with his long strides, running alongside him as he follows the curve of the large circular path around the park. Finally, he looks down at me and laughs . “Sorry,” he says, slowing considerably so that I can keep up. “Sometimes I forget my size.”
I laugh too, glad the ice was easily broken. We walk in comfortable silence for a minute, and then he turns to me. “So how are things?” he asks.
I shrug. “Pretty good, actually. Thanks for asking.”
“Is the blog going well?”
I sigh. “It’s sort of the bane of my existence. I feel obligated to write it and it’s agonizing, yet I always feel good when I do, even though I hate what I’ve written.” I laugh. “It’s a complex love-hate relationship.”
He nods, looking down at his worn brown shoes as he walks. “I can understand that.”
I’m silent as I craft a response, turning it over and over in my mind. Eventually I say, “Of course you can. You’re a musician.” The words hang in the air. They sound right. I’m pleased.
Sam raises an eyebrow and looks at me sideways. “That’s not my day job, though.” He says it with a slight intonation at the end, as if it could be a question.
“You’re right. It’s not,” I reply, gaining confidence. “You’re an accountant, but a musician is really what you really consider yourself to be.”
He roughly pulls the glove off his right hand and examines his callused fingers, worn from years of guitar playing. His face breaks into a huge grin. “Yeah, I do. I do consider myself a musician. If I could accommodate the lifestyle to which I’ve grown accustomed based entirely on the money I generate doing gigs, I would be a happier man.”
I nod, chuckling at his enthusiasm.
We reach a wooded portion of the park, and watch as several squirrels dart across our path. Even in the winter, when the trees are bare and the skies gray, London’s largest public square is majestic and beautiful. It’s no wonder Sam loves this place.
“I love this place,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply. “It reminds you of your mother.”
He stops walking and gazes across the park into a grassy clearing in the far left corner. I watch him. His face is pensive, concentrated, somewhat forlorn maybe.
I have an idea. “Why does it remind you of her?” I venture.
He’s quiet for a minute, and then he answers in a soft but confident voice. “Before, well,” he pauses, “before you know what.”
He casts me a meaningful glance. I do not, in fact, know what. “Before then, she used to bring me here. She’d sit over there, and I would play with my brothers while she read her books.
“Usually, I’d play for a short while, gradually get tired of their teasing, and then I’d go sit down next to her. She would read aloud to me.” He giggles softly, briefly covering his mouth with his hand like an embarrassed teenager. “She was always reading one of those romance novels. The really sordid ones. But she would skip over the juicy bits when she read to me. She thought I didn’t notice, but I was always perplexed by why the men seemed to be going about ripping bodices for no good reason.”
I imagine the scene he describes. I picture his mother, too young and too beautiful to have three sons in school, lying on a blanket in the sun. I envision her with her shoes off and her brown curls cascading over her shoulders, taking advantage of rare moments away from her controlling husband, losing herself in the impossible lives of fictional heroines.
Then I picture his brothers, Charles and Liam, long and lean but nowhere near as big as Sam. “Why did they tease you?” I ask. I am having a hard time picturing this enormous beast of a man as the subject of any sort of childish ridicule.
He shrugs. “I might have been the biggest,” he says. “But I was always the weakest. People always expected me to be an athlete,” he chuckled, “and sometimes I got away with it because of sheer brute force. But I was very slow and never very coordinated. Charlie and Liam took the piss every chance they got.”
I think of Sam’s propensity for girlish outbursts of clapping and giggling; I see their point.
He begins walking again, shuffling his feet through piles of leaves on the ground. He seems to lose himself in thought for a while, and consequently, I do too. I’m trying to get a step ahead of him, trying to decide who he is before he fills in the details, trying desperately to develop an interesting, multifaceted character.
He finally looks up and I’m surprised by his expression. Gone is the reliable joyful countenance I’ve come to expect from Sam. It seems his face has somehow aged in the past hour; the lines in his forehead have deepened and dark shadows have appeared under his eyes. “There’s quite a bit of sadness,” he says finally.
For a fleeting moment I feel guilty, but quickly I’m defiant. “Yes, but that’s life,” I say, somewhat impetuously.
He nods and continues shuffling his feet among the dry crackling leaves. I start to regret my harshness. Not everything has to be dark and gloomy. I throw him a bone. “Okay, listen Sam,” I say, trying to sound cheery as I struggle to keep up with his gait. “Things are good for you. You have your music…”I pause grabbing onto the sleeve of his coat, “…and you have Beth.” My voice is suggestive, almost teasing.
He looks at me, seemingly considering my offer. “You’re right,” he says finally, but still looking grim. “I do have Beth.”
I smile, relieved, and suddenly we’re back at the park bench where we began our walk. We stop and look at each other for a moment. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?” I ask him, trying to pretend I don’t notice his strained expression.
“Not sure,” he says, gesturing his head toward High Holborn. “I was thinking I might go and explore. Walk around a bit. I don’t know London very well.”
I’m confused. “But you’ve lived here your whole life.”
He looks at me strangely. “Yes, but you haven’t,” he responds. He puts a hand on my shoulder and looks down into my eyes. “Research,” he says, a grin pulling at his mouth. I’m still confused; I decide to ignore him.
“Okay, well have a good day Sam,” I say warmly.
“Goodbye, Alice,” he says. “Til next time.” Sam turns and walks toward the road, his shoulders hunched to the cold, his strides long and deliberate, until he disappears from view.
Part One
Part Two
Friday, December 12, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
2008 Gift Guide: The Expat Edition
Every year around Christmas, you search tirelessly for the perfect gift to give to that special Expat in your life. You reject American flag boxer shorts, football paraphernalia, and McDonalds vouchers, determined to find anything—anything!— uniquely American in this age of globalization.
Sound familiar? I thought so. Lucky for you, this year, the OckleShow has compiled a list of perfect presents for those of you Americans struggling with what to buy for the Expat Who Has Everything.
1. Giant bottles of drugs
No matter where your expat is living, it’s likely she/he has a headache. The reason for this twofold: 1) he/she lives somewhere where drug companies don’t peddle meds at every turn and therefore people don’t generally take them unless they have the Plague and 2) even when you do get painkillers, they come in this paltry little boxes of like, 6, which frankly wouldn’t get most Americans through the afternoon.
Do your expat a solid and hook a sister/brother up with one of those cheap-as-dirt super-bottles of Advil/Tylenol that simply don’t exist outside of the good old medicated U.S. of A. Bonus: Here’s your chance to get a glimpse at what it’s like to be an international drug trafficker….without having go through all of the swallowing a balloon unpleasantness.
2. Canned green chillies
Unless your expat is living in, say, Mexico, he/she is probably not getting his/her fix of Mexican food.* Sure, the foreigners try to capture the flavours we Americans so love from our south-of-the-border fare. Sadly, they only really manage to get as close as that crappy American chain with the weak margs and gloopy mole sauce that you only patronize where you’re really desperate. In fairness, a large part of the reason for their failures is likely the dearth of authentic Mexican ingredients abroad.
Here’s where you come in. Canned green chilis, corn tortillas, that great enchilada sauce that comes in a can, black beans, queso, Jose Cuervo Gold—all is fair game for under the expat Christmas tree. Ole!
*This also applies to all Southern food: grits, cornbread mix, etc. I would suggest okra too, but I don’t think you could get it past the Beagle Brigade.
3. Flat sheets
I can’t speak for all countries, but for some reason, Brits generally sleep under a comforter only. Finding a flat sheet to go in between your shivering cold body (because the heat is never warm enough) and the duvet can be like looking for a peanut butter M&M in a sea of Smarties (see next entry).
If you’d like to treat your expat to some good old-fashioned bed-making with a bit of a challenge, snag a flat sheet from your local Bed, Bath and Beyond. If you’re feeling generous, present it with an electric blanket and a UK plug adapter. Voila! Instant warm wishes from the homeland.
4. Anything with peanut butter
Here in the UK, peanut butter is relegated to a single shelf, and there’s usually only one variety—the natural kind. To add insult to injury, the candy shelf is conspicuously absent of peanut butter infused treats as well.
Fortunately, I do love me some natural PB, but every now and then I crave crunchy Jif and Skippy like a crack-addled street urchin. Sometimes, I would actually consider maiming someone for peanut butter M&Ms or Reese’s peanut butter cups. I’m sure your expat feels the same. Don’t be stingy—there will never be any shortage of PB&J in America!
5. Zip-loc bags
Remember when you were a kid (if you’re my age) and they came out with those fancy zip-loc bags that combined blue and yellow to make green? Remember how great that was and how amazed you were that once green, those handy little bags held your leftover chicken noodle soup no matter how much you sloshed it around in your bag?
Most of the world never experienced that phenomenon. Why? Because they don’t have anything by way of food storage that even remotely holds a candle to Zip-loc. Also because they are technically reusable, it truly is the gift that keeps on giving.
6. Crystal Light (or really anything with sugar substitute)
The Brits tend to be purists when it comes to sugar. Something about the fake stuff eating your insides and giving you cancer. All I know is that sometimes, you need some low-calorie, low-sugar treats to make you feel satisfied with less guilt (strictly in terms of saving calories, which, let’s face it, sometimes seems more important than the fact that your intestines are disintegrating).
My personal favourites are Crystal Light lemonade and iced tea and Nutter Butter 100-calorie packs, but really anything marked low-fat, low-sugar, low-calorie is hard to find outside of the States. Go nuts.
7. Whitening strips
We Americans didn’t get those pearly whites by drinking massive amounts of Diet Coke. Stinging gums be damned—we like to bleach our teeth. Other countries? Not so worried about that.
Go ahead: Pick up an extra set of Rembrandts at your local drug store, and give the expat in your life something to smile about.
8. American board games
It’s not like other nations don’t produce board games, but the American citizen living abroad has to be armed with his/her old reliables just in case. Just in case of what you ask? Well, I’m sad to report that our somewhat ethno-centric American education system has generally failed to teach us much by way of global trivia…plus the celebs (my usual strong suit) are different elsewhere.
Therefore, it’s best to distract our foreign counterparts with our own region unspecific favourites like Scattergories, Cranium and Taboo. Help your expats avoid embarrassing situations by sharing the board game wealth.
So there you have it, folks—a complete guide to Christmas shopping for your special expat. I’m sure that he/she would love to receive any mail from home, but the addition of any one of these items will make it even more exciting. That's not a hint at all. Happy shopping!
Sound familiar? I thought so. Lucky for you, this year, the OckleShow has compiled a list of perfect presents for those of you Americans struggling with what to buy for the Expat Who Has Everything.
1. Giant bottles of drugs
No matter where your expat is living, it’s likely she/he has a headache. The reason for this twofold: 1) he/she lives somewhere where drug companies don’t peddle meds at every turn and therefore people don’t generally take them unless they have the Plague and 2) even when you do get painkillers, they come in this paltry little boxes of like, 6, which frankly wouldn’t get most Americans through the afternoon.
Do your expat a solid and hook a sister/brother up with one of those cheap-as-dirt super-bottles of Advil/Tylenol that simply don’t exist outside of the good old medicated U.S. of A. Bonus: Here’s your chance to get a glimpse at what it’s like to be an international drug trafficker….without having go through all of the swallowing a balloon unpleasantness.
2. Canned green chillies
Unless your expat is living in, say, Mexico, he/she is probably not getting his/her fix of Mexican food.* Sure, the foreigners try to capture the flavours we Americans so love from our south-of-the-border fare. Sadly, they only really manage to get as close as that crappy American chain with the weak margs and gloopy mole sauce that you only patronize where you’re really desperate. In fairness, a large part of the reason for their failures is likely the dearth of authentic Mexican ingredients abroad.
Here’s where you come in. Canned green chilis, corn tortillas, that great enchilada sauce that comes in a can, black beans, queso, Jose Cuervo Gold—all is fair game for under the expat Christmas tree. Ole!
*This also applies to all Southern food: grits, cornbread mix, etc. I would suggest okra too, but I don’t think you could get it past the Beagle Brigade.
3. Flat sheets
I can’t speak for all countries, but for some reason, Brits generally sleep under a comforter only. Finding a flat sheet to go in between your shivering cold body (because the heat is never warm enough) and the duvet can be like looking for a peanut butter M&M in a sea of Smarties (see next entry).
If you’d like to treat your expat to some good old-fashioned bed-making with a bit of a challenge, snag a flat sheet from your local Bed, Bath and Beyond. If you’re feeling generous, present it with an electric blanket and a UK plug adapter. Voila! Instant warm wishes from the homeland.
4. Anything with peanut butter
Here in the UK, peanut butter is relegated to a single shelf, and there’s usually only one variety—the natural kind. To add insult to injury, the candy shelf is conspicuously absent of peanut butter infused treats as well.
Fortunately, I do love me some natural PB, but every now and then I crave crunchy Jif and Skippy like a crack-addled street urchin. Sometimes, I would actually consider maiming someone for peanut butter M&Ms or Reese’s peanut butter cups. I’m sure your expat feels the same. Don’t be stingy—there will never be any shortage of PB&J in America!
5. Zip-loc bags
Remember when you were a kid (if you’re my age) and they came out with those fancy zip-loc bags that combined blue and yellow to make green? Remember how great that was and how amazed you were that once green, those handy little bags held your leftover chicken noodle soup no matter how much you sloshed it around in your bag?
Most of the world never experienced that phenomenon. Why? Because they don’t have anything by way of food storage that even remotely holds a candle to Zip-loc. Also because they are technically reusable, it truly is the gift that keeps on giving.
6. Crystal Light (or really anything with sugar substitute)
The Brits tend to be purists when it comes to sugar. Something about the fake stuff eating your insides and giving you cancer. All I know is that sometimes, you need some low-calorie, low-sugar treats to make you feel satisfied with less guilt (strictly in terms of saving calories, which, let’s face it, sometimes seems more important than the fact that your intestines are disintegrating).
My personal favourites are Crystal Light lemonade and iced tea and Nutter Butter 100-calorie packs, but really anything marked low-fat, low-sugar, low-calorie is hard to find outside of the States. Go nuts.
7. Whitening strips
We Americans didn’t get those pearly whites by drinking massive amounts of Diet Coke. Stinging gums be damned—we like to bleach our teeth. Other countries? Not so worried about that.
Go ahead: Pick up an extra set of Rembrandts at your local drug store, and give the expat in your life something to smile about.
8. American board games
It’s not like other nations don’t produce board games, but the American citizen living abroad has to be armed with his/her old reliables just in case. Just in case of what you ask? Well, I’m sad to report that our somewhat ethno-centric American education system has generally failed to teach us much by way of global trivia…plus the celebs (my usual strong suit) are different elsewhere.
Therefore, it’s best to distract our foreign counterparts with our own region unspecific favourites like Scattergories, Cranium and Taboo. Help your expats avoid embarrassing situations by sharing the board game wealth.
So there you have it, folks—a complete guide to Christmas shopping for your special expat. I’m sure that he/she would love to receive any mail from home, but the addition of any one of these items will make it even more exciting. That's not a hint at all. Happy shopping!
Monday, December 1, 2008
The Questioning: Part 2. "Sam I Am"
“So how did it go?”
Sam is more engaged today. I can tell by the fact that he has bothered to leave his tie on for our meeting. Last time, it had been removed from his neck and stuffed haphazardly into his pocket.
“I think it went pretty well,” I say. We are seated across from each other again, the metal tabletop between us reflecting the glow of the room’s single light bulb. “Several people dropped me a note to say they enjoyed ‘The Questioning’ blog post.”
Sam claps his hands together gaily, which strikes me as an oddly childish action for such an imposing man. “Fantastic!” he booms, his deep voice reverberating around the small sparse room. “That is such great news.”
Then he pauses for a moment as his ruddy face flushes even redder. “And did they like…” he begins, then pauses shyly.
“Did they like you?” I offer.
Sam looks at me expectantly, even pleadingly.
“Yes,” I say, matter-of-factly. “They did.”
He grins and claps his hands again. “What did you tell them about me?”
I wince slightly and lean back in my chair. I hadn't planned on telling him this bit. “Very little,” I admit, “and I’m not sure I got it right. I told them you’d been raised by wolves and became a cop. I said you’d become a sort of gang czar on the force.” I blurt it all out, hoping to soften the blow.
Sam looks surprised for a moment, then his expression shifts to puzzlement. A minute passes as he stares thoughtfully at the wall behind me; I shift uncomfortably in my hard steel chair.
Finally, he looks at me beneath a furrowed brow. “Are those things true?” he asks softly, seemingly steeling himself against my answer.
Now it is my turn to be pensive. To be honest, I had filled in Sam’s background more for comedic effect than anything. Staring at him across the table, I'm not really sure he belongs here in this sparse room. Despite his size, he doesn't seem like a cop to me, or really any sort of authoritative professional. While I don't think he had much by way of a childhood, I wouldn’t call his family members “animals” per se.
“No, Sam,” I say kindly, reaching across the table to take his enormous hand. “I don’t think they are.”
He exhales loudly and a big smile breaks out across his face. “Oh, great. That is so great, Alice. Thanks so much. I just knew that wasn’t me.”
We smile at each other for a minute, my hand resting on his thick upturned palm. I wait for his inevitable question. Then suddenly it comes, more infused with expectation and longing than I’d thought it would be: “So do you think you might write me again?”
I tilt my head to one side and feign innocence. “Write you?”
“Write Sam,” he explains. “Make me a character.”
I draw my hand back slowly and look down at my lap. “How do I do that?” I ask softly.
Sam laughs. “You’re the writer,” he says. “You’re the reason I’m here. But right now, I only exist here with you in this room.” He motions wildly around the concrete walls, his eyes finally coming to a rest on the big steel door. “I don’t even know what’s on the other side of this room. All I know is that I’m big and beefy; I have piercing blue eyes; and sometimes I can’t be bothered to leave my tie on.”
“You also clap your hands like a little girl,” I add, hoping to remind him that I also have the power to make him quirky, even slightly effeminate, if I so desire.
His face only lights up more. He is obviously so enchanted by the idea of being written that he’ll take it warts and all. He reaches across the table to take my hand again. “That’s the sort of stuff I want to know,” he says earnestly.
I consider his proposition. It sounds like a lot of work, and frankly, I'm not sure if I am any good at this whole character development thing anyway. I waver for a moment, but his eyes are begging now. “Please, Alice,” he says. “Please write me.”
I sigh. I like Sam, and even I have to admit that I am curious about him. I take a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll write you, Sam, but I have a lot going on so you’ll have to be patient with me…”
Before I can even finish, Sam is on his feet and running around the room cheering and clapping in excitement. The table shakes with his every step. I can't help but smile. As it turns out, Sam is the sort of person whose enthusiasm is contagious.
Eventually, he stops in front of the large door to the room and considers it cautiously. Then he turns to me, his arm stretched toward the knob. “May I?” he asks.
I sigh, and leave my chair to stand behind him, his giant body dwarfing mine. “You may,” I say, and Sam flings open the door.
Sam is more engaged today. I can tell by the fact that he has bothered to leave his tie on for our meeting. Last time, it had been removed from his neck and stuffed haphazardly into his pocket.
“I think it went pretty well,” I say. We are seated across from each other again, the metal tabletop between us reflecting the glow of the room’s single light bulb. “Several people dropped me a note to say they enjoyed ‘The Questioning’ blog post.”
Sam claps his hands together gaily, which strikes me as an oddly childish action for such an imposing man. “Fantastic!” he booms, his deep voice reverberating around the small sparse room. “That is such great news.”
Then he pauses for a moment as his ruddy face flushes even redder. “And did they like…” he begins, then pauses shyly.
“Did they like you?” I offer.
Sam looks at me expectantly, even pleadingly.
“Yes,” I say, matter-of-factly. “They did.”
He grins and claps his hands again. “What did you tell them about me?”
I wince slightly and lean back in my chair. I hadn't planned on telling him this bit. “Very little,” I admit, “and I’m not sure I got it right. I told them you’d been raised by wolves and became a cop. I said you’d become a sort of gang czar on the force.” I blurt it all out, hoping to soften the blow.
Sam looks surprised for a moment, then his expression shifts to puzzlement. A minute passes as he stares thoughtfully at the wall behind me; I shift uncomfortably in my hard steel chair.
Finally, he looks at me beneath a furrowed brow. “Are those things true?” he asks softly, seemingly steeling himself against my answer.
Now it is my turn to be pensive. To be honest, I had filled in Sam’s background more for comedic effect than anything. Staring at him across the table, I'm not really sure he belongs here in this sparse room. Despite his size, he doesn't seem like a cop to me, or really any sort of authoritative professional. While I don't think he had much by way of a childhood, I wouldn’t call his family members “animals” per se.
“No, Sam,” I say kindly, reaching across the table to take his enormous hand. “I don’t think they are.”
He exhales loudly and a big smile breaks out across his face. “Oh, great. That is so great, Alice. Thanks so much. I just knew that wasn’t me.”
We smile at each other for a minute, my hand resting on his thick upturned palm. I wait for his inevitable question. Then suddenly it comes, more infused with expectation and longing than I’d thought it would be: “So do you think you might write me again?”
I tilt my head to one side and feign innocence. “Write you?”
“Write Sam,” he explains. “Make me a character.”
I draw my hand back slowly and look down at my lap. “How do I do that?” I ask softly.
Sam laughs. “You’re the writer,” he says. “You’re the reason I’m here. But right now, I only exist here with you in this room.” He motions wildly around the concrete walls, his eyes finally coming to a rest on the big steel door. “I don’t even know what’s on the other side of this room. All I know is that I’m big and beefy; I have piercing blue eyes; and sometimes I can’t be bothered to leave my tie on.”
“You also clap your hands like a little girl,” I add, hoping to remind him that I also have the power to make him quirky, even slightly effeminate, if I so desire.
His face only lights up more. He is obviously so enchanted by the idea of being written that he’ll take it warts and all. He reaches across the table to take my hand again. “That’s the sort of stuff I want to know,” he says earnestly.
I consider his proposition. It sounds like a lot of work, and frankly, I'm not sure if I am any good at this whole character development thing anyway. I waver for a moment, but his eyes are begging now. “Please, Alice,” he says. “Please write me.”
I sigh. I like Sam, and even I have to admit that I am curious about him. I take a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll write you, Sam, but I have a lot going on so you’ll have to be patient with me…”
Before I can even finish, Sam is on his feet and running around the room cheering and clapping in excitement. The table shakes with his every step. I can't help but smile. As it turns out, Sam is the sort of person whose enthusiasm is contagious.
Eventually, he stops in front of the large door to the room and considers it cautiously. Then he turns to me, his arm stretched toward the knob. “May I?” he asks.
I sigh, and leave my chair to stand behind him, his giant body dwarfing mine. “You may,” I say, and Sam flings open the door.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
The Questioning
Sam peers at me across the table. He looks bored already, which I decide to interpret as too many late nights. “So,” he says. “What is your blog going to be about this time?”
I scratch my head, thinking. “I don’t know, Sam,” I say. “I think I’m going to…”
“Wait,” he interrupts. “It’s not going to be all self-analytical, right? You’re not going to start with an unrelated subject, link it to your point in an agonizingly long and often forced explanation, and then finish it off with one line that attempts to tie it up in a cute little inspirational bow, are you?”
“Um, no, of course not,” I reply, mentally crossing off all of my options. “I’m, uh, going to try to do something different today.”
Sam sighs, casting a longing glance at the entrance to the room. I decide to interpret it as a door fetish. He looks back at me expectantly. “Okay, so what’s it going to be?”
I scan my brain, trying to pull some useful nuggets from recent events. “Well, my friends are here this week from America…,” I offer cautiously.
Sam nods brusquely, clasping his hands in front of him and leaning toward me. “Good, good,” he says encouragingly.
“But they don’t arrive until the morning, so…” I shrug, defeated.
Sam exhales, and drops his head so that it’s almost touching the table. I decide to interpret it as a weak neck. “Alright. Anything else?” he growls without lifting his head.
I stare up at the single light bulb hanging over the table and chew on the end of my pencil in a mock thinking pose. I know I have nothing, and for a brief moment, I consider explaining to Sam that I’m up against the Impossible 10-Post Challenge and have done nothing worth talking about this week other than sit at home and obsessively read the Twilight series.
Suddenly, a relevant nugget emerges in my mind. “Actually,” I declare excitedly. “I haven’t really talked about my writing class yet. I keep saying that I will, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
“YES!” he shouts, standing and slamming his big meaty hands on the table. “That will do just fine. What will you say?”
Buoyed by his enthusiasm, I consider the question for a moment. “Well, I discovered that I’m crap at dialogue,” I begin thoughtfully, “and it seems that every time I write about a character, it’s some big beefy guy named Sam.”
Sam furrows his brow. “Sounds interesting,” he says, crossing his arms across his chest and walking slowly around the table to stand beside me. He thinks for a moment and then places a big beefy hand on my shoulder.
“Here’s a thought,” he says, looking down on me with piercing blue eyes. “Because you’re crap at dialogue, you could use your blog as a way to practice getting better. Then, you could also take the opportunity to explore this Sam character more. Who is he? Why does he do the things he does?”
I nod joyfully, silently thanking Sam for being an orphan rescued by a gang of wolves who taught him the essential lessons about survival which he brought to the police academy where he became both feared and revered for his maverick approach to combating gangs. “I think that’s a great idea.”
I scratch my head, thinking. “I don’t know, Sam,” I say. “I think I’m going to…”
“Wait,” he interrupts. “It’s not going to be all self-analytical, right? You’re not going to start with an unrelated subject, link it to your point in an agonizingly long and often forced explanation, and then finish it off with one line that attempts to tie it up in a cute little inspirational bow, are you?”
“Um, no, of course not,” I reply, mentally crossing off all of my options. “I’m, uh, going to try to do something different today.”
Sam sighs, casting a longing glance at the entrance to the room. I decide to interpret it as a door fetish. He looks back at me expectantly. “Okay, so what’s it going to be?”
I scan my brain, trying to pull some useful nuggets from recent events. “Well, my friends are here this week from America…,” I offer cautiously.
Sam nods brusquely, clasping his hands in front of him and leaning toward me. “Good, good,” he says encouragingly.
“But they don’t arrive until the morning, so…” I shrug, defeated.
Sam exhales, and drops his head so that it’s almost touching the table. I decide to interpret it as a weak neck. “Alright. Anything else?” he growls without lifting his head.
I stare up at the single light bulb hanging over the table and chew on the end of my pencil in a mock thinking pose. I know I have nothing, and for a brief moment, I consider explaining to Sam that I’m up against the Impossible 10-Post Challenge and have done nothing worth talking about this week other than sit at home and obsessively read the Twilight series.
Suddenly, a relevant nugget emerges in my mind. “Actually,” I declare excitedly. “I haven’t really talked about my writing class yet. I keep saying that I will, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
“YES!” he shouts, standing and slamming his big meaty hands on the table. “That will do just fine. What will you say?”
Buoyed by his enthusiasm, I consider the question for a moment. “Well, I discovered that I’m crap at dialogue,” I begin thoughtfully, “and it seems that every time I write about a character, it’s some big beefy guy named Sam.”
Sam furrows his brow. “Sounds interesting,” he says, crossing his arms across his chest and walking slowly around the table to stand beside me. He thinks for a moment and then places a big beefy hand on my shoulder.
“Here’s a thought,” he says, looking down on me with piercing blue eyes. “Because you’re crap at dialogue, you could use your blog as a way to practice getting better. Then, you could also take the opportunity to explore this Sam character more. Who is he? Why does he do the things he does?”
I nod joyfully, silently thanking Sam for being an orphan rescued by a gang of wolves who taught him the essential lessons about survival which he brought to the police academy where he became both feared and revered for his maverick approach to combating gangs. “I think that’s a great idea.”
The inevitable overly-self-analytical-six-months-in-London post
Those of us lucky enough to be The Class of 2000 at Wake Forest University were also the first to take part in an innovative new program that as far as I know, still exists today. As freshmen entering the school in 1996, every single one of us was given a brand new IBM ThinkPad laptop computer.
Along with freedom from curfews and a rapid discovery of the academic limitations of binge drinking, it was fine way to be welcomed into the college experience.
But there was a catch.
What we members of the pioneering class (and those that followed) found out was that those ThinkPads were somehow geared to fail exactly one year after we graduated (probably providing a cushion for those 5-year slackers...yeah, you know who you are). They just ceased to function, and no amount of persuasion was going to bring them back to life.
For me, the biggest tragedy of this situation was not that I had to buy a new computer on the pittance of a salary I made when I was 23 years old. Nor was it that I had to depart with the Wake Forest licensed software that I’d um, removed from my computer upon graduation of course.
For me, it was about losing all the thousands of emails I’d sent to friends and my four-year college boyfriend during that time. (Back up? Me? Nooo….)
You know how you sometimes come across a old record of yourself—a note you wrote to your friend in high school, a card an ex-boyfriend/girlfriend gave you, etc—and you just don’t recognize yourself in that scenario? The things you said, who you must have been to receive such a card and so on?
Even at 22 (right before the ThinkPad Self-Destruction), I remember reading a handful of old emails to my ex-boyfriend from when I was 19 years old, and being simultaneously embarrassed, surprised and baffled by how foreign it all seemed.
I couldn’t believe that I thought those things, that I existed in that mindset, that I was sooo close and inextricably linked to someone who in a very short time had become such a distant memory.
Today, I’m sure those emails would be even more tangential to how I perceive myself now. Sometimes I even look at google chats (the system saves them all) of IM conversations Alex and I had a year ago, and even those look strange to me. I, we are just different now.
On a smaller scale, it’s like that with this blog (aaaannnndddd 10 paragraphs later, we arrive at my point). I took some time to read through some old posts for the first time yesterday, and already I don’t really recognize some of the Me of three, four, five months ago.
At the risk of sounding overly self-analytical and self-indulgent (way too late), it’s strange to think that I used to be constantly aware of living in a different country. It’s weird that I was so defensive of my American-ness—far more so than I should have been or needed to be in retrospect. It’s odd that I was so daunted by the things that didn’t make sense to me and so eager to cling to the things that did simply because I was accustomed to them.
Assuming yesterday's PORN-BOOBS experiment doesn’t blow up the internet, I’m glad I have a living record or my life again. Even though it’s agonizing to read sometimes (and no doubt this post will be too some day….possibly tomorrow), it seems important that the journey documented by the OckleShow remain intact for now.
You never know: Maybe when it ends, I'll know I've graduated.
Along with freedom from curfews and a rapid discovery of the academic limitations of binge drinking, it was fine way to be welcomed into the college experience.
But there was a catch.
What we members of the pioneering class (and those that followed) found out was that those ThinkPads were somehow geared to fail exactly one year after we graduated (probably providing a cushion for those 5-year slackers...yeah, you know who you are). They just ceased to function, and no amount of persuasion was going to bring them back to life.
For me, the biggest tragedy of this situation was not that I had to buy a new computer on the pittance of a salary I made when I was 23 years old. Nor was it that I had to depart with the Wake Forest licensed software that I’d um, removed from my computer upon graduation of course.
For me, it was about losing all the thousands of emails I’d sent to friends and my four-year college boyfriend during that time. (Back up? Me? Nooo….)
You know how you sometimes come across a old record of yourself—a note you wrote to your friend in high school, a card an ex-boyfriend/girlfriend gave you, etc—and you just don’t recognize yourself in that scenario? The things you said, who you must have been to receive such a card and so on?
Even at 22 (right before the ThinkPad Self-Destruction), I remember reading a handful of old emails to my ex-boyfriend from when I was 19 years old, and being simultaneously embarrassed, surprised and baffled by how foreign it all seemed.
I couldn’t believe that I thought those things, that I existed in that mindset, that I was sooo close and inextricably linked to someone who in a very short time had become such a distant memory.
Today, I’m sure those emails would be even more tangential to how I perceive myself now. Sometimes I even look at google chats (the system saves them all) of IM conversations Alex and I had a year ago, and even those look strange to me. I, we are just different now.
On a smaller scale, it’s like that with this blog (aaaannnndddd 10 paragraphs later, we arrive at my point). I took some time to read through some old posts for the first time yesterday, and already I don’t really recognize some of the Me of three, four, five months ago.
At the risk of sounding overly self-analytical and self-indulgent (way too late), it’s strange to think that I used to be constantly aware of living in a different country. It’s weird that I was so defensive of my American-ness—far more so than I should have been or needed to be in retrospect. It’s odd that I was so daunted by the things that didn’t make sense to me and so eager to cling to the things that did simply because I was accustomed to them.
Assuming yesterday's PORN-BOOBS experiment doesn’t blow up the internet, I’m glad I have a living record or my life again. Even though it’s agonizing to read sometimes (and no doubt this post will be too some day….possibly tomorrow), it seems important that the journey documented by the OckleShow remain intact for now.
You never know: Maybe when it ends, I'll know I've graduated.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Sullying the good OckleShow name
When I first began writing this blog, I figured out how to drop this little invisible tracker thing on my page that tells me who visits the site.
Before you get paranoid, fear not: I can’t tell who you are (all I get are ISP addresses…strings of numbers that are meaningless to me) or even really where you are beyond the city/region (it registers not where your computer is but rather, where your internet provider is). I can’t tell where you work or how often you pore over every word I write (ha) or anything like that.
All I really get is a general feel for how people access the information and where, more or less, they are doing it from.
Check me out:
This map represents people who have accessed my site in the past month. Over the life of the blog, I have actually had users from even more far-flung locations of the globe than are represented here.
Impressed? Well, I wish that this map meant that I had a following that spanned four continents (WTF Australia? No love from the home land?) and consisted of loyal pockets of OckleShow fanatics in places like Pakistan, Colombia and Kuwait. I wish I could say that my vast network of friends and friends of friends had somehow resulted in global saturation ranging from Estonian fishing villages to Thai resort towns.
Alas, tis not the case. Instead, I appear so globally popular for a far more sordid reason than my witty banter or literary style.
I am porn.
Don’t believe me? Fortunately, I have evidence in the form of the insightful folks at statcounter.com. Like I said, this handy device tells me how people access my site. Most of you come to it by simply typing in the URL; some of you get to it through my facebook page; some of you link through the blogs of some of my friends who have kindly put links to The OckleShow on their sidebars.
The others, including the people in The Philippines and Dubai and places where I don’t know anyone, come to the OckleShow because a Google search has picked up something from my blog. More often than not, that search is for large mammaries.
You might recall that several months ago, I wrote a post about the ridiculousness that is Big Brother in the UK. I titled it “(Big) Boob Tube.” I wrote another post about how I’d inadvertently been half-naked in public a number of times since I’d arrived in London. Now apparently, because I’ve used words like “nudity” and “boobs,” even in completely unrelated contexts, Google thinks I am peddling porn.
It should come as no surprise that the shocking number of people searching “big boob tube” who visit my site hoping to find…what? I don’t know, a big-breasted woman wearing a tube top?...spend an average of “0 seconds” on my page.
I almost feel bad that I’m such a global disappointment to the throngs of people who come to my site looking for a naked pic of a woman and instead get the opposite: a woman blabbing on and on about nothing.
In fact, I just realized that because I have just written an entire post using the words “boob” and “porn” repeatedly, I’m really just attracting more dirty-pic seekers to my site! It’s like life imitating art imitating…PORN! The more I say it, the more hits I’ll get! PORN BOOBS PORN BOOBS! There will be an www bottleneck as the entire world is siphoned to my blog. The internet will fail! Systems will crash! IT’LL BE GLOBAL ANARCHY! PORN BOOBS PORN BOOBS PORN BOOBS!
And that, ladies and gentlemen, brings us to #7 in the 10-Post Challenge.
Before you get paranoid, fear not: I can’t tell who you are (all I get are ISP addresses…strings of numbers that are meaningless to me) or even really where you are beyond the city/region (it registers not where your computer is but rather, where your internet provider is). I can’t tell where you work or how often you pore over every word I write (ha) or anything like that.
All I really get is a general feel for how people access the information and where, more or less, they are doing it from.
Check me out:
This map represents people who have accessed my site in the past month. Over the life of the blog, I have actually had users from even more far-flung locations of the globe than are represented here.Impressed? Well, I wish that this map meant that I had a following that spanned four continents (WTF Australia? No love from the home land?) and consisted of loyal pockets of OckleShow fanatics in places like Pakistan, Colombia and Kuwait. I wish I could say that my vast network of friends and friends of friends had somehow resulted in global saturation ranging from Estonian fishing villages to Thai resort towns.
Alas, tis not the case. Instead, I appear so globally popular for a far more sordid reason than my witty banter or literary style.
I am porn.
Don’t believe me? Fortunately, I have evidence in the form of the insightful folks at statcounter.com. Like I said, this handy device tells me how people access my site. Most of you come to it by simply typing in the URL; some of you get to it through my facebook page; some of you link through the blogs of some of my friends who have kindly put links to The OckleShow on their sidebars.
The others, including the people in The Philippines and Dubai and places where I don’t know anyone, come to the OckleShow because a Google search has picked up something from my blog. More often than not, that search is for large mammaries.
You might recall that several months ago, I wrote a post about the ridiculousness that is Big Brother in the UK. I titled it “(Big) Boob Tube.” I wrote another post about how I’d inadvertently been half-naked in public a number of times since I’d arrived in London. Now apparently, because I’ve used words like “nudity” and “boobs,” even in completely unrelated contexts, Google thinks I am peddling porn.
It should come as no surprise that the shocking number of people searching “big boob tube” who visit my site hoping to find…what? I don’t know, a big-breasted woman wearing a tube top?...spend an average of “0 seconds” on my page.
I almost feel bad that I’m such a global disappointment to the throngs of people who come to my site looking for a naked pic of a woman and instead get the opposite: a woman blabbing on and on about nothing.
In fact, I just realized that because I have just written an entire post using the words “boob” and “porn” repeatedly, I’m really just attracting more dirty-pic seekers to my site! It’s like life imitating art imitating…PORN! The more I say it, the more hits I’ll get! PORN BOOBS PORN BOOBS! There will be an www bottleneck as the entire world is siphoned to my blog. The internet will fail! Systems will crash! IT’LL BE GLOBAL ANARCHY! PORN BOOBS PORN BOOBS PORN BOOBS!
And that, ladies and gentlemen, brings us to #7 in the 10-Post Challenge.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Convalescent Chronicles Part 6
Math has never been my strong suit, so it’s no wonder that I might have over-promised with the whole November blog posting thing. By my calculations, I now owe you five posts in as many days, not counting the weekend. Not sure how exactly this happened, but as I am a woman of my word, I will do my best to follow through.
Things I love today:
1. The Twilight series. Some days, I fancy myself the next J.K. Rowling. I keep thinking I have the next big fantasy young adult series buried deep within me and it’s just dying to get out and make me rich.
But before I could get started on my first Barry Trotter book, someone named Stephenie Meyer beat me to the punch. Twilight is the story of a teenage girl named Isabella “Bella” Swan and Edward Cullen, the vampire she falls in love with. My friend Laura gave it to me when I was in the States a few months ago, but I hadn’t started reading it until last week.
Just to give you a little perspective on how much I loved it: Even though it was heinously cold this weekend and I was so sick with this ridiculous cold, I actually trudged a mile and a half in sweatpants and Uggs just to buy the sequel yesterday. I take that back…I bought ALL THREE SEQUELS yesterday. I’m already halfway through the second one. Love.
2. Thanksgiving in London. I know I don’t get any time off this week, and I know there will be no relaxing four days eating turkey leftovers and watching football, but there will still be thanking and giving, sohelpmegod. Meghann and Mike will be in town as of Thursday morning, and on Saturday, we will be cooking up a delicious Turkey Day feast.
I ordered a 15 lb. turkey from the only Whole Foods in town and I am assured by a “bitcher” with a Scottish accent that it will arrive in time for us to figure out how to cook it, and then do so. Also on the menu: mashed sweet potatoes, regular roast potatoes, squash casserole, green beans, and apple pie. Just like the pilgrims intended it (they were, for all intents and purposes, British after all).
3. Lemsip. Here in the UK, we have this lemony goodness that dissolves in hot water and when you drink it, it makes you feel better…as if it were served up by Mary Poppins herself. I don’t know what the hell is in this stuff, but if I couldn’t buy it in my local Boots, I might be tempted to score it down at the docks. That’s how much it’s like crack to my virus-addled body.
4. Alex being back in town. I’ll spare you the schmooptacularity of it all, but suffice it to say that being sick, sleeping excessively, eating copious amounts of Pho soup, walking to the bookstore to buy emergency young adult fiction….It’s all much better when he’s in town.
5. Visitors. There are no words to describe my joy at having Meghann and Mike in town this week. Bonus: Their visit will no doubt buy me at least a day’s worth of blog fodder this week.
Things I love today:
1. The Twilight series. Some days, I fancy myself the next J.K. Rowling. I keep thinking I have the next big fantasy young adult series buried deep within me and it’s just dying to get out and make me rich.
But before I could get started on my first Barry Trotter book, someone named Stephenie Meyer beat me to the punch. Twilight is the story of a teenage girl named Isabella “Bella” Swan and Edward Cullen, the vampire she falls in love with. My friend Laura gave it to me when I was in the States a few months ago, but I hadn’t started reading it until last week.
Just to give you a little perspective on how much I loved it: Even though it was heinously cold this weekend and I was so sick with this ridiculous cold, I actually trudged a mile and a half in sweatpants and Uggs just to buy the sequel yesterday. I take that back…I bought ALL THREE SEQUELS yesterday. I’m already halfway through the second one. Love.
2. Thanksgiving in London. I know I don’t get any time off this week, and I know there will be no relaxing four days eating turkey leftovers and watching football, but there will still be thanking and giving, sohelpmegod. Meghann and Mike will be in town as of Thursday morning, and on Saturday, we will be cooking up a delicious Turkey Day feast.
I ordered a 15 lb. turkey from the only Whole Foods in town and I am assured by a “bitcher” with a Scottish accent that it will arrive in time for us to figure out how to cook it, and then do so. Also on the menu: mashed sweet potatoes, regular roast potatoes, squash casserole, green beans, and apple pie. Just like the pilgrims intended it (they were, for all intents and purposes, British after all).
3. Lemsip. Here in the UK, we have this lemony goodness that dissolves in hot water and when you drink it, it makes you feel better…as if it were served up by Mary Poppins herself. I don’t know what the hell is in this stuff, but if I couldn’t buy it in my local Boots, I might be tempted to score it down at the docks. That’s how much it’s like crack to my virus-addled body.
4. Alex being back in town. I’ll spare you the schmooptacularity of it all, but suffice it to say that being sick, sleeping excessively, eating copious amounts of Pho soup, walking to the bookstore to buy emergency young adult fiction….It’s all much better when he’s in town.
5. Visitors. There are no words to describe my joy at having Meghann and Mike in town this week. Bonus: Their visit will no doubt buy me at least a day’s worth of blog fodder this week.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Don't write me offal
Magical things can happen when you leave a comment on my blog. Things like me taking whatever you have suggested as a post and using my powers of thinking and typing and blabbing incessantly to turn in into a real life blog entry.
After yesterday’s loooong-winded explanation of how I arrived in a state of subweatherdom, Blake, my dear friend from Chicago, queried me on the subject of offal. Since I don’t recall ever hearing this word until I moved to the UK (even though it was my chef friend in the US who first said it to me), I feel it might be worth shedding some light on the subject.
First, an official definition: Offal is the entrails and internal organs of a butchered animal (thank you, Wikipedia), cooked and served as food. I don’t recall coming across it much in the States, but here in the UK, we leave no stomach, scrotum, foot, intestine, brain, lung or nose uncooked, unsavored and undigested (I’m not entirely sure that’s true, but I’m sure it set PETA’s web policing lights a-blinkin’).
London just so happens to be home to one of the world’s most famous offal restaurants, St. John, which also just so happens to be down the street from my house. So, I thought, what better time to patronize such a vomit-inducing establishment than when my parents and aunt and uncle are in town? I figured we all needed a bit of adventure in our lives and made reservations there for Friday night.
Now, I’m pretty much game (pun intended) for anything food-wise, but something about this list in a description of St. John—“pigs' ears, ducks' hearts, trotters, pigs' tails, bone marrow and, when in season, squirrel”—made my typically steel-like stomach turn. I mean, squirrel? Tell me: When are they not in season, because I see the nasty little critters running around the park by my work year-round.
Sensing a slight hesitation on the part of my stomach, I decided the morning of the dinner that I would not fall victim to my mind’s attempts to mess with my appetite for the weird. My culinary growth would not be stymied by organs. Mine or theirs.
So later, when I was seated next to my uncle John and my flatmate Jason, I took one look at the menu and set out to make my selections for the wackiest, weirdest foods on there. While others chose very clearly defined things like marrow and grouse for their starters, I chose the one word I didn’t know: kohlrabi. I imagined this exotic delicacy as something akin to the small intestine of a goat or the thymus of a goose.
For my main course, I decided to forgo the pheasant and pig trotter (foot) pie and the ox heart for something far more interesting: Fennel and Hexmouth (it wasn’t actually that but it sounded like that), because I didn’t know what Hexmouth was and I was determined to eat it no matter what bizarre animal part it yielded. Lips of a seal, testicles of a lion, didn’t matter to me. I was a woman on a mission.
Everyone at the table was suitably wowed by my sense of adventure. I refused to know a thing about what I was ordering…I would just take it guts and all because that’s was just the sort of adventurous eater I am.
So then the first course came.
I looked around at all of the delightfully nasty bits and pieces on people’s plates and then took a deep breath and bravely looked down at my own. And there on the plate, staring up at me in all it’s glory was…
….cabbage. No brains, feet, eyeballs, no animal part of any kind. Just plain old, albeit German, cabbage.
My uncle laughed hysterically, but I was flabbergasted. In my effort to be the ultimate carnivore, I had somehow managed to choose the only vegetarian plate on the menu? I was devastated, but the kohlrabi cabbage was quite tasty and I made sure to try everyone else’s meals, so I felt ok. Plus there was the entrée to redeem me….
….But wait! Had I done the same with the entrée??? In a panic, I called over the waiter and demanded an explanation for Hexmouth. “Madam,” he said, in a posh British accent. “Hexmouth is a wonderful artisanal cheese.”
NOOO!! Fortunately, I was quick enough in realizing my mistake that they could change the main course order to duck, but still….I couldn’t help but wonder, had my offal adventure become an awful failure? (that’s your Carrie Bradshaw fix for the day).
Anyway, fortunately, I had my duck and sampled everything else and even took the leftover peasant and pig trotter pie home with me, so all was not lost. Still from now on, I think I might stick to raw fish as the pinnacle of my culinary adventures.
Blake, I hope you’re satisfied.
After yesterday’s loooong-winded explanation of how I arrived in a state of subweatherdom, Blake, my dear friend from Chicago, queried me on the subject of offal. Since I don’t recall ever hearing this word until I moved to the UK (even though it was my chef friend in the US who first said it to me), I feel it might be worth shedding some light on the subject.
First, an official definition: Offal is the entrails and internal organs of a butchered animal (thank you, Wikipedia), cooked and served as food. I don’t recall coming across it much in the States, but here in the UK, we leave no stomach, scrotum, foot, intestine, brain, lung or nose uncooked, unsavored and undigested (I’m not entirely sure that’s true, but I’m sure it set PETA’s web policing lights a-blinkin’).
London just so happens to be home to one of the world’s most famous offal restaurants, St. John, which also just so happens to be down the street from my house. So, I thought, what better time to patronize such a vomit-inducing establishment than when my parents and aunt and uncle are in town? I figured we all needed a bit of adventure in our lives and made reservations there for Friday night.
Now, I’m pretty much game (pun intended) for anything food-wise, but something about this list in a description of St. John—“pigs' ears, ducks' hearts, trotters, pigs' tails, bone marrow and, when in season, squirrel”—made my typically steel-like stomach turn. I mean, squirrel? Tell me: When are they not in season, because I see the nasty little critters running around the park by my work year-round.
Sensing a slight hesitation on the part of my stomach, I decided the morning of the dinner that I would not fall victim to my mind’s attempts to mess with my appetite for the weird. My culinary growth would not be stymied by organs. Mine or theirs.
So later, when I was seated next to my uncle John and my flatmate Jason, I took one look at the menu and set out to make my selections for the wackiest, weirdest foods on there. While others chose very clearly defined things like marrow and grouse for their starters, I chose the one word I didn’t know: kohlrabi. I imagined this exotic delicacy as something akin to the small intestine of a goat or the thymus of a goose.
For my main course, I decided to forgo the pheasant and pig trotter (foot) pie and the ox heart for something far more interesting: Fennel and Hexmouth (it wasn’t actually that but it sounded like that), because I didn’t know what Hexmouth was and I was determined to eat it no matter what bizarre animal part it yielded. Lips of a seal, testicles of a lion, didn’t matter to me. I was a woman on a mission.
Everyone at the table was suitably wowed by my sense of adventure. I refused to know a thing about what I was ordering…I would just take it guts and all because that’s was just the sort of adventurous eater I am.
So then the first course came.
I looked around at all of the delightfully nasty bits and pieces on people’s plates and then took a deep breath and bravely looked down at my own. And there on the plate, staring up at me in all it’s glory was…
….cabbage. No brains, feet, eyeballs, no animal part of any kind. Just plain old, albeit German, cabbage.
My uncle laughed hysterically, but I was flabbergasted. In my effort to be the ultimate carnivore, I had somehow managed to choose the only vegetarian plate on the menu? I was devastated, but the kohlrabi cabbage was quite tasty and I made sure to try everyone else’s meals, so I felt ok. Plus there was the entrée to redeem me….
….But wait! Had I done the same with the entrée??? In a panic, I called over the waiter and demanded an explanation for Hexmouth. “Madam,” he said, in a posh British accent. “Hexmouth is a wonderful artisanal cheese.”
NOOO!! Fortunately, I was quick enough in realizing my mistake that they could change the main course order to duck, but still….I couldn’t help but wonder, had my offal adventure become an awful failure? (that’s your Carrie Bradshaw fix for the day).
Anyway, fortunately, I had my duck and sampled everything else and even took the leftover peasant and pig trotter pie home with me, so all was not lost. Still from now on, I think I might stick to raw fish as the pinnacle of my culinary adventures.
Blake, I hope you’re satisfied.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
The 10-Post Challenge
So here's a little glimpse into the inner workings of The OckleShow. Look if you dare.
After I've written a post, I often go back and re-read it like four times after that. I don't know why. It's rather obsessive. I think I'm hoping to be wowed by my literary prowess. The problem is, I rarely am, so then I plummet into self-doubt mode, which usually results in my hating the OckleShow in general and never wanting to write on it ever again. But then when I do, I'm too discouraged and defeated by the fact that it will probably suck to put any time into it, and then in the ultimate act of self-fulfilling prophecy, it does indeed suck, and then I re-read and re-read exhaustively and well, the vicious cycle continues.
Anyhoo, I just noticed, during one of my re-readings (the verdict: It's a blog, Alice. Write shorter sentences!), that I wrote SEVENTEEN posts in July. SEVENTEEN! I can't even get over that! Was I blogging in my sleep? Was I chained to the computer like some sweat shop worker? Was I inadvertently ingesting massive amounts of speed? I don't understand how such productivity occurred!
So far in November? THREE. And two of them were half-assed "I should at least acknowledge this" posts about the election results.
I feel like I have grown up, peaked gloriously, and then begun a alarmingly rapid and dramatic descension into old age all in the course of five months.
Well, I will not stand for it. From this point until the end of November, you will not be able to get rid of me. I won't hit 17 but I think maybe, hmmm....a total of 10 could be doable? Don't you think? I will not be made inconsequential in the blogosphere.
Aaaannnndddd.....we're at 4. (I said nothing about quality)
After I've written a post, I often go back and re-read it like four times after that. I don't know why. It's rather obsessive. I think I'm hoping to be wowed by my literary prowess. The problem is, I rarely am, so then I plummet into self-doubt mode, which usually results in my hating the OckleShow in general and never wanting to write on it ever again. But then when I do, I'm too discouraged and defeated by the fact that it will probably suck to put any time into it, and then in the ultimate act of self-fulfilling prophecy, it does indeed suck, and then I re-read and re-read exhaustively and well, the vicious cycle continues.
Anyhoo, I just noticed, during one of my re-readings (the verdict: It's a blog, Alice. Write shorter sentences!), that I wrote SEVENTEEN posts in July. SEVENTEEN! I can't even get over that! Was I blogging in my sleep? Was I chained to the computer like some sweat shop worker? Was I inadvertently ingesting massive amounts of speed? I don't understand how such productivity occurred!
So far in November? THREE. And two of them were half-assed "I should at least acknowledge this" posts about the election results.
I feel like I have grown up, peaked gloriously, and then begun a alarmingly rapid and dramatic descension into old age all in the course of five months.
Well, I will not stand for it. From this point until the end of November, you will not be able to get rid of me. I won't hit 17 but I think maybe, hmmm....a total of 10 could be doable? Don't you think? I will not be made inconsequential in the blogosphere.
Aaaannnndddd.....we're at 4. (I said nothing about quality)
Moderation who?
I am sick with my first British strain of cold. Unsurprisingly, it bears the same symptoms of the American version (sore throat, cough, exhaustion, aches and pains) but is exacerbated by the rain, the rain, the never-ending ungodly rain. I attribute the sudden appearance of this heinousness to several factors which can be summed up with the following overarching condition: Corporal Confusion.
See, in addition to writing in excess for the past six weeks (aka my brain-related excuse for being a blog slacker), I have also put the old bod through quite the rigmarole. Case in point:
Exercise. So I went batsh*t and signed myself up for yet another round of boot camp, only this time I decided I’d throw in the October/November cold and the fact that instead of doing it in the evenings, I’d let some tireless trainer guy beat the hell out of me at 7:30 am. Then I’d haul my theoretically more taut arse to work, shower, change, and start my day off right.
This was fine except that it somehow had the adverse effect of making me ravenous come 10 am and I replaced all calories I’d burned off with the croissant that oh-my-god-I-can’t-resist-and-all-the-skinny-chicks-eat-them-so-I’ll-be-fine-plus-I-already-WORKED-OUT-today and so the whole doing push-ups on cold concrete in the dark was for naught.
Because I think I’d somehow managed to gain weight out of the process, once mid-November came, I opted out of the boot camp and decided to sign up for a gym instead. Excited about the prospect of doing classes like American Cheerleading and B*tch Boxing, I attended my introductory personal training session with the enthusiasm of a person whose muscles ought to be pretty strong from two months of intense work outs. Well. The formerly-obese-guy-turned –fitness-fanatic assigned to me somehow managed to hone on the few muscles that boot camp didn’t touch. That was on Monday, and I’m still having trouble breathing in because of the ab-brutality.
All of these moments of intensity followed by croissant eating have confused my poor bod. If my body is supposed to be a temple, then my mind is like a lapsed Jew. I only really patronize it on special occasions, and then I’m surprised when the congregation is judgmental and unwelcoming.
Food. Several events have been conspiring against my desire to eat healthy. For starters, I had a string of visitors whom I wanted to expose to London’s finest restaurants. First a few friends, then my parents and accompanying crowd of far-flung relatives.
As Social Coordinator of the Crew, I arranged every lunch and dinner over 6 days; as a result, I was both the lucky beneficiary of free food and the unfortunate consumer of countless fat grams. We weren’t unadventurous either. In the time my parents were here, I ate Thai, Vietnamese (yay, Pho!), Seafood, Indian, Dim Sum, Pizza, offal (yes, I had pig hoof pie), and traditional British Sunday lunch. By the time I was finished eating all of Britain and had officially descended into a shame spiral, I decided to go for broke (moderation be damned), and cut everything out of my diet but meat and green vegetables for two weeks. I am happy to report I have now successfully undone any damage caused by the Gorge Fest, however, my body, already baffled by various spurts of intense exercise in cold morning parks, has a frightening new grasp of the excesses of feast or famine…and it’s not taking it too well.
Alcohol. Ahh…hello, old friend. It’s important to note that one of two things happens when Alex is out of town. I either become a bit of a recluse, going home at 6, making a ridiculously healthy dinner, curling up into a ball and watching American TV on DVD. Or….I go out with a vengeance, determined to MAKE FRIENDS and HAVE FUN and BE A NORMAL INDEPENDENT PERSON WITH A LIFE OF HER OWN (admittedly in a way that probably comes across as slightly desperate and moderately annoying to those forced to witness it).
This usually results in, “let’s get another bottle of wine!” or “I could stay for ONE more beer.” You know the drill. Or maybe you don’t, in which case, don’t judge me. Anyway, while I spent last week doing the former, the weekend yielded far more of the latter. Before you think I’m about to go all Leaving Las Vegas on you (the drinking part, not the prostitution part), it too has contributed to my shame spiral.
So now you can see why my body has chosen now to state its case for a little more care and consideration. With every cough, wheeze and painful swallowing episode, I am reminded, “Feed me like I’m supposed to be fed. Stay off the sauce. Function like a normal human being. For god’s sake, girl, get your sh*t together.”
Fortunately, I have Alex, King of Moderation, to do his part for the equilibrium. He returns on Saturday. Hopefully, by then, my body and I will have made peace, and the Corporal Confusion will be put to bed….which is exactly where I intend to spend the next couple of days.
See, in addition to writing in excess for the past six weeks (aka my brain-related excuse for being a blog slacker), I have also put the old bod through quite the rigmarole. Case in point:
Exercise. So I went batsh*t and signed myself up for yet another round of boot camp, only this time I decided I’d throw in the October/November cold and the fact that instead of doing it in the evenings, I’d let some tireless trainer guy beat the hell out of me at 7:30 am. Then I’d haul my theoretically more taut arse to work, shower, change, and start my day off right.
This was fine except that it somehow had the adverse effect of making me ravenous come 10 am and I replaced all calories I’d burned off with the croissant that oh-my-god-I-can’t-resist-and-all-the-skinny-chicks-eat-them-so-I’ll-be-fine-plus-I-already-WORKED-OUT-today and so the whole doing push-ups on cold concrete in the dark was for naught.
Because I think I’d somehow managed to gain weight out of the process, once mid-November came, I opted out of the boot camp and decided to sign up for a gym instead. Excited about the prospect of doing classes like American Cheerleading and B*tch Boxing, I attended my introductory personal training session with the enthusiasm of a person whose muscles ought to be pretty strong from two months of intense work outs. Well. The formerly-obese-guy-turned –fitness-fanatic assigned to me somehow managed to hone on the few muscles that boot camp didn’t touch. That was on Monday, and I’m still having trouble breathing in because of the ab-brutality.
All of these moments of intensity followed by croissant eating have confused my poor bod. If my body is supposed to be a temple, then my mind is like a lapsed Jew. I only really patronize it on special occasions, and then I’m surprised when the congregation is judgmental and unwelcoming.
Food. Several events have been conspiring against my desire to eat healthy. For starters, I had a string of visitors whom I wanted to expose to London’s finest restaurants. First a few friends, then my parents and accompanying crowd of far-flung relatives.
As Social Coordinator of the Crew, I arranged every lunch and dinner over 6 days; as a result, I was both the lucky beneficiary of free food and the unfortunate consumer of countless fat grams. We weren’t unadventurous either. In the time my parents were here, I ate Thai, Vietnamese (yay, Pho!), Seafood, Indian, Dim Sum, Pizza, offal (yes, I had pig hoof pie), and traditional British Sunday lunch. By the time I was finished eating all of Britain and had officially descended into a shame spiral, I decided to go for broke (moderation be damned), and cut everything out of my diet but meat and green vegetables for two weeks. I am happy to report I have now successfully undone any damage caused by the Gorge Fest, however, my body, already baffled by various spurts of intense exercise in cold morning parks, has a frightening new grasp of the excesses of feast or famine…and it’s not taking it too well.
Alcohol. Ahh…hello, old friend. It’s important to note that one of two things happens when Alex is out of town. I either become a bit of a recluse, going home at 6, making a ridiculously healthy dinner, curling up into a ball and watching American TV on DVD. Or….I go out with a vengeance, determined to MAKE FRIENDS and HAVE FUN and BE A NORMAL INDEPENDENT PERSON WITH A LIFE OF HER OWN (admittedly in a way that probably comes across as slightly desperate and moderately annoying to those forced to witness it).
This usually results in, “let’s get another bottle of wine!” or “I could stay for ONE more beer.” You know the drill. Or maybe you don’t, in which case, don’t judge me. Anyway, while I spent last week doing the former, the weekend yielded far more of the latter. Before you think I’m about to go all Leaving Las Vegas on you (the drinking part, not the prostitution part), it too has contributed to my shame spiral.
So now you can see why my body has chosen now to state its case for a little more care and consideration. With every cough, wheeze and painful swallowing episode, I am reminded, “Feed me like I’m supposed to be fed. Stay off the sauce. Function like a normal human being. For god’s sake, girl, get your sh*t together.”
Fortunately, I have Alex, King of Moderation, to do his part for the equilibrium. He returns on Saturday. Hopefully, by then, my body and I will have made peace, and the Corporal Confusion will be put to bed….which is exactly where I intend to spend the next couple of days.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Good Morning Mr. President
There are about 1,000 things I could say about how ecstatic I was to wake up this morning and find out that Barack Obama is our new president, so I'll just leave it at this...
For the first time in eight years, I'm witnessing a nation that has voted based on hope rather than fear. No longer willing to be persuaded by the Karl Rovian policies of "you should be scared because..." that put Bush in office, today we have a new modern world leader (emphasis on the words 'world' and 'modern') who ran an incredible campaign on the fact that we as a nation can--and will--recapture the philosophical ideals of the country: tolerance, religious freedom, science and education, a desire to understand and respect other cultures and nations, unity, and most importantly, a thirst to question, challenge, and listen. As shown by the voters, Barack Obama appeals to the best of our humanity, rather than the worst. He has the power to take us into the future, and I, like the rest of the world, can't wait for him to get started.
What the Brits thought:
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Big day
I know I’ve been largely absent of late, but I promise I’ll re-commit to this whole blogging thing once my writing class is over. There’s only so much a writing a gal can you, ya know?
Today is an exciting day because a) my parents arrive for what promises to be 6 full days of eating our way through London and b) (and more importantly) today is the day that America gets a new president. For me, America, and the rest of the world, I hope with every fibre of my being that it is Barack Obama…but since some ridiculous portion of Texas still thinks he’s Muslim, I am staying cautiously optimistic.
Everyone go out and vote today regardless of how you’ll be casting yours. More soon, I promise!
Today is an exciting day because a) my parents arrive for what promises to be 6 full days of eating our way through London and b) (and more importantly) today is the day that America gets a new president. For me, America, and the rest of the world, I hope with every fibre of my being that it is Barack Obama…but since some ridiculous portion of Texas still thinks he’s Muslim, I am staying cautiously optimistic.
Everyone go out and vote today regardless of how you’ll be casting yours. More soon, I promise!
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Everybody's a comedienne
As you might have read, Sarah Silverman, an accomplished and very funny American comedienne currently enjoying quite a bit of popularity in the States, was critically panned following her UK debut here in London on Sunday night.
As one of the thousands of people who bought £45 tickets ($70ish) to attend the show, I am not particularly surprised for the following reasons:
As one of the thousands of people who bought £45 tickets ($70ish) to attend the show, I am not particularly surprised for the following reasons:
- Due to technical difficulties, the theatre held us mashed together in the atrium for an hour and a half before letting us in, a fact that made her paltry 40 minutes of stand-up seem particularly inadequate.
- When she left the stage abruptly, the audience refused to leave until she finally came back on in her slippers, told everyone to go home, and claimed she was out of material.
- When the audience still wouldn’t leave, she subjected us to a painful Q&A session that actually made me embarrassed for her and resulted in someone yelling, “you’re overhyped!” and another someone saying, “I want my 45 quid back!”
- British people don’t understand American Jews or Puerto Ricans or Mexicans, so even though that’s her shtick, using those jokes over and over again doesn’t really work here.
But still, I thought she was pretty darn funny. Yes it was too short; yes, she should have had new material more catered to her audience; yes, she should have been better organized and equipped with something—anything!—additional should the situation present itself, but still, she was funny. The reviews claiming she “bombed” seemed a bit unfair.
On the other hand, in Sarah’s defence, the Brits can have an odd sense of humour—perhaps not so much odd as utterly uneven. One minute they are creating masterpieces like Monty Python or the original The Office, and the next minute, they are laughing uproariously because someone said, “poo.” For a country that invented sarcasm, they seem to have a high tolerance for toilet jokes.
Anyway, all of this took me back to another comic bombing in jolly old England, only this time, the audience was a group of Alex’s friends I’d just met that night and the American comedienne was yours truly.
I was sitting in a pub, sipping some potent cider and someone had just brought up Arnold Schwarzenegger (as they do). I’m not sure why (possibly the aforementioned cider), but I started to go off on a bit of a tangent about him. You know, I said, he seems to be the only successful actor in Hollywood who has never been asked by a director or production company to change his accent. He’s just an Austrian (update: for those of you who read this before, I had a momentary nationality confusion with Van Damme) guy in every movie he’s in, whether it makes sense to the plot or not.
Sensing I was onto something, I started to cite examples: The man-made robot from the future sent to protect some kid in California says, “I’ll be back” with an Austrian accent; a cop who goes undercover as a kindergarten teacher says, “It’s not a tumour” with a Austrian accent; Danny Devito’s twin brother…I mean, in addition to looking not a thing like Danny DeVito and being totally different in age, he’s also inexplicably Austrian.
While Renee Zellweger and Russell Crowe are off with some voice coach 20 hours a week to prepare for a role, we are just supposed to accept that any one of your average, everyday American firefighters, scientists, FBI agents, barbarians, etc, could also be an Austrian bodybuilder. And I don’t know, I guess I thought that was kind of funny.
Alas, I was alone. I looked around the table mid-rant, realized that everyone looking back at me had blank, stony stares. It was my first comedic strike out in Britain—but considering the fact that in general, I cannot figure out the method to the comic madness here in the UK, it will likely not be my last.
That said, I suppose the Americans have hits and misses when it comes to comedy as well. After all, the U.S. made Talladega Nights a box office hit, but also created Seinfeld and Arrested Development (granted, no one watched the latter, but it was American-originated genius nonetheless). I don’t know, maybe the important lesson du jour here is that “funny” is not so much a British or American thing (and god knows it's not an Austrian thing), but a human thing. Ahh...the many lessons of the OckleShow*.
*This post is dedicated to my dad, who told me that I needed to "get back to the observations between British and American culture" and "stop writing a travel log." Since I'm currently attempting to write these posts while also nurturing a severe over-scheduling habit that consists of morning boot camps, weekend writing classes and evening drinks with anyone from America I've ever met who happens to be in London, the best I can offer is spurious comparisons and half-assed insight. But because it's my Dad, and I don't want to disappoint him, I'll try to be better from now on. Or at least funnier. Whatever that means (see prior blog post that you previously skimmed because it's stupid).
Friday, October 17, 2008
When the cat’s away
Lately, I have been over-scheduling myself like a Baby Boomer mom with her Gen Y kid. This urge to fill my calendar springs from an effort to assert my independence during Alex’s latest trip and carve out the elusive social life I so desperately (and impatiently) crave here in London town. The drawback, however, is twofold: First of all, I have been scheduling much of my time with people who are from the States and visiting (therefore negating the London social life aspect) and secondly, I’m so damn tired that the little space beneath my desk at work suddenly looks like a dern good place to take a nap.
Still, it has been a very fun week, and you know, all of this activity keeps me off the streets and whatnot, so I think it’s good.
We met up with Christy and Jason at the Frank Gehry pavilion at the Serpentine Gallery.
I was somewhat underwhelmed by the structure itself (it’s no Pritzker Pavilion), but the people-watching alone made for a lovely afternoon.
Tuesday: (I realize I just skipped a few days, but unless you want to hear about how Alex and I watched Minority Report for the umpteenth time or how I unwittingly guilted him into giving me his Wii Fit, be happy we’re skipping over the rest of Saturday through Monday.)
Megdon and I headed to The Old Vic (creative director: Kevin Spacey) to see Table Manners, part of The Norman Conquests, a trilogy of plays by Britain’s own national treasure, Alan Ayckbourn. The concept is that the three plays, comedies written in the 70s, all take place at the same time over the course of a weekend, but each focuses on a different room in a house. In other words, you see the action of the six characters in one room/play, which tells a complete story, but you don’t know the full story of what was happening when each character was off-stage until the see the other two.
The play was great (and we’re already booked in to see another one: Round and Round the Garden), but an even funnier aspect of the night was the action that took place afterwards. Megdon and I headed to a pub across the street for some late-night food and drinks. Let’s just say it was the first time I’ve been a wing man in London, and you’ll be happy to know that the whole my name-is-Jessica-and-this-is-Elizabeth-and-we’re-sisters thing totally translates across borders.
Wednesday:
My friend Chris from college came to town, and we enjoyed a few drinks at The Crown and Sceptre. It was so great to see him, but I might have scared him when I told him he was my third best friend in London, even though he was leaving in two days and I hadn’t seen him in 8 years.
Thursday:
Do you remember that show, Mystery Science Theater 3000? The one where the bad movies would be shown and comedians would make fun of it? Jason, Megdon and I went to the live-action version of that phenomenon last night, aptly named the Bad Film Club. Last night’s cinematic trainwreck was Congo, a jewel that managed to escape my attention when it was released, but now might replace Teen Wolf Too as the worst movie I have ever seen, ever. Even after seeing it and listening to two very funny comedians rip it to shreds throughout, I still have no idea what that ridiculous spectacle was about.
It starred Laura Linney, who was slumming it big time before her string of Oscar noms, Dylan Walsh (who would go on to be plastic-surgeon-and-family-man-turned-sociopath Sean McNamara in Nip/Tuck), Tim Curry (doing an appallingly bad Genericistan accent), and I kid you not, a man dressed as a talking gorilla called Amy. There was a rhinoceros attack, mass murdering of evil gorillas with a laser, and a scene where the black guy from Ghostbusters (here with a British accent, for some reason) jumped out of a plane with Amy the talking gorilla strapped to his chest. I mean, you can’t make this stuff up…and it provided ample fodder for the comedians to turn it into a very funny night.
(Also, we got gorilla masks to cut out. I made a Sarah Palin one complete with bangs and glasses. It’s now hanging in my living room…I’ll make sure I photograph it for future eps of the OckleShow).
Le weekend part deux:
This weekend another friend from home is in town; I have my second writing class; Saturday is out on the town night; and Sunday, Megdon and I are going to see Sarah Silverman live at the Hammersmith Apollo.
Should be fun, assuming I manage to work in some sleep during that time. Thanks for the well wishes to Alex during the hurricane scare (he’s fine, btw), and keep the comments coming! I do love them so.
Still, it has been a very fun week, and you know, all of this activity keeps me off the streets and whatnot, so I think it’s good.
Allow me to review...
Le weekend:
Before Alex took off on Sunday morning, we got to enjoy a beautiful 70-degree and sunny Indian summer day in the city. It began with my trip to my first Creative Writing Class, which was cool but somehow made me feel buoyed and defeated at the same time. More on that as it progresses.
Afterwards, we went to Hyde Park. Somehow, despite having been here for over four months now, I haven’t ventured too far into the wonder that is Hyde Park and the Serpentine. On such a beautiful day, it was pretty crowded because all of London felt the need to expose their startling pale skin to the sun for the first time all year, but was heartening to see the peeps out and about.
Le weekend:
Before Alex took off on Sunday morning, we got to enjoy a beautiful 70-degree and sunny Indian summer day in the city. It began with my trip to my first Creative Writing Class, which was cool but somehow made me feel buoyed and defeated at the same time. More on that as it progresses.
Afterwards, we went to Hyde Park. Somehow, despite having been here for over four months now, I haven’t ventured too far into the wonder that is Hyde Park and the Serpentine. On such a beautiful day, it was pretty crowded because all of London felt the need to expose their startling pale skin to the sun for the first time all year, but was heartening to see the peeps out and about.
We met up with Christy and Jason at the Frank Gehry pavilion at the Serpentine Gallery.I was somewhat underwhelmed by the structure itself (it’s no Pritzker Pavilion), but the people-watching alone made for a lovely afternoon.Tuesday: (I realize I just skipped a few days, but unless you want to hear about how Alex and I watched Minority Report for the umpteenth time or how I unwittingly guilted him into giving me his Wii Fit, be happy we’re skipping over the rest of Saturday through Monday.)
Megdon and I headed to The Old Vic (creative director: Kevin Spacey) to see Table Manners, part of The Norman Conquests, a trilogy of plays by Britain’s own national treasure, Alan Ayckbourn. The concept is that the three plays, comedies written in the 70s, all take place at the same time over the course of a weekend, but each focuses on a different room in a house. In other words, you see the action of the six characters in one room/play, which tells a complete story, but you don’t know the full story of what was happening when each character was off-stage until the see the other two.
The play was great (and we’re already booked in to see another one: Round and Round the Garden), but an even funnier aspect of the night was the action that took place afterwards. Megdon and I headed to a pub across the street for some late-night food and drinks. Let’s just say it was the first time I’ve been a wing man in London, and you’ll be happy to know that the whole my name-is-Jessica-and-this-is-Elizabeth-and-we’re-sisters thing totally translates across borders.
Wednesday:
My friend Chris from college came to town, and we enjoyed a few drinks at The Crown and Sceptre. It was so great to see him, but I might have scared him when I told him he was my third best friend in London, even though he was leaving in two days and I hadn’t seen him in 8 years.
Thursday:
Do you remember that show, Mystery Science Theater 3000? The one where the bad movies would be shown and comedians would make fun of it? Jason, Megdon and I went to the live-action version of that phenomenon last night, aptly named the Bad Film Club. Last night’s cinematic trainwreck was Congo, a jewel that managed to escape my attention when it was released, but now might replace Teen Wolf Too as the worst movie I have ever seen, ever. Even after seeing it and listening to two very funny comedians rip it to shreds throughout, I still have no idea what that ridiculous spectacle was about.
It starred Laura Linney, who was slumming it big time before her string of Oscar noms, Dylan Walsh (who would go on to be plastic-surgeon-and-family-man-turned-sociopath Sean McNamara in Nip/Tuck), Tim Curry (doing an appallingly bad Genericistan accent), and I kid you not, a man dressed as a talking gorilla called Amy. There was a rhinoceros attack, mass murdering of evil gorillas with a laser, and a scene where the black guy from Ghostbusters (here with a British accent, for some reason) jumped out of a plane with Amy the talking gorilla strapped to his chest. I mean, you can’t make this stuff up…and it provided ample fodder for the comedians to turn it into a very funny night.
(Also, we got gorilla masks to cut out. I made a Sarah Palin one complete with bangs and glasses. It’s now hanging in my living room…I’ll make sure I photograph it for future eps of the OckleShow).
Le weekend part deux:
This weekend another friend from home is in town; I have my second writing class; Saturday is out on the town night; and Sunday, Megdon and I are going to see Sarah Silverman live at the Hammersmith Apollo.
Should be fun, assuming I manage to work in some sleep during that time. Thanks for the well wishes to Alex during the hurricane scare (he’s fine, btw), and keep the comments coming! I do love them so.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Hurriceinous
See that red blob? That's where Alex is right now...right in the middle of the eye in St. Kitts. Contrary to what you might think, it is not the wrath of a woman left in a new country alone. That is a far more formidable force: Hurricane Omar.
Alex promises he has battened (is that a word?) down the hatches, but just because I'm not the gambling type, please think good thoughts.
Alex promises he has battened (is that a word?) down the hatches, but just because I'm not the gambling type, please think good thoughts.Friday, October 10, 2008
Home Again, Home Again Jiggity Jigg: Part 3
Of course no trip involving me and Alex in the States would be complete without a stop in Baltimore. Our friend David got married two weeks after Christy and Jason, so it was a fitting conclusion to our American tour.
The lovely Miss Laura and Miss Meghann put me up in their respective houses for the 10 action-packed days I was there. Not only that, but they actually DVR'd numerous episodes of Project Runway, the new 90210 and the like for my viewing pleasure. God bless em.
The wedding of Dave and Amanda took place at the new Maryland Institute College of Art building. It was meaningful to them because Dave was an architect on the design of the very cool building and Amanda graduated from MICA.
It was a beautiful event, and Amanda looked like a gorgeous 1950s film star.
Of course no wedding (or post wedding celebration) is complete without a bit of debauchery....and we brought it in spades. Enjoy!
Plus, we got to hang out with these people....
The lovely Miss Laura and Miss Meghann put me up in their respective houses for the 10 action-packed days I was there. Not only that, but they actually DVR'd numerous episodes of Project Runway, the new 90210 and the like for my viewing pleasure. God bless em.
Laura's very talented fiance Chef Michael Costa also extended his hospitality...and sacrificed his comfort when we were jammed in the back of a car on the way home from dinner.
The wedding of Dave and Amanda took place at the new Maryland Institute College of Art building. It was meaningful to them because Dave was an architect on the design of the very cool building and Amanda graduated from MICA.It was a beautiful event, and Amanda looked like a gorgeous 1950s film star.
Of course no wedding (or post wedding celebration) is complete without a bit of debauchery....and we brought it in spades. Enjoy!
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Home Again, Home Again Jiggity Jig: Part 2
Last time I took Alex to Chicago, he literally flew around the world to get there. It was January 2008. He left London to go to Melbourne for a few days for work, which, due to flight issues, was followed by a day and a half in Sydney. When it became apparent that he would have to be in Los Angeles shortly afterwards, he continued his eastward journey around the world from Sydney to LAX. After a few days doing seemingly nothing that remotely resembled work (unless staying on a yacht and partying with Victor Garber constitutes hard labour), he was set to head back to London, thereby completing this circumnavigation of the planet. On the way, however, he decided to meet me in Chicago.
Now, if this itinerary/decision-making process seems ridiculous, you have to understand how our relationship was at the time. Leveraging work travel to our advantage, impulsively spending exorbitant amounts of money on flights and meeting up in places where neither one of us lived was pretty much par for the course. It was tiring and at times, ludicrous, but it worked for us.
Anyway, I was very excited to show Alex my hometown city for the first time, despite the fact that I knew it would be extremely, if not brutally, cold when we were there. The temperature, however, was nothing he or even I could have prepared for. It was frost-bite-threatening sub-arctic, arguably the coldest couple of days in Chicago that I’d experienced since that time in grade school when school was cancelled. We’re talking negative 40 degrees F here—not exactly a great climate in which to explore the city and begin Stage 1 of my Plan to Convince Alex That Chicago is the Greatest Place to Live in the World.
After two weeks of summer in Australia and sunshine in L.A., the poor guy was rugged up in five layers of my dad’s coats, hats and scarves, with just a sliver of face skin showing, his eyelashes freezing before the wind-blown tears could fall from his eyes. It was pretty sad, and certainly not the impression I was hoping he’d get of my beloved Chi-town
So this time around, I was determined to make it count. I WILLED the weather to behave, and behave it did. When Jason, my flatmate, and Alex arrived, the sunshine emerged from the clouds and provided us with two uninterrupted days of pure sunshine, blue skies and warmth. We hung out with my friends, saw my parents, went to a gourmet food and wine festival, took the architectural boat tour, went to a birthday party, and took in the sights and sounds of the city.
It was a legendary weekend preceding an equally fun week/weekend in Baltimore (check out HAHA JJ: Part Three coming up tomorrow). As you can see from the pics Alex took below, I think Chicago finally made the impression I was hoping for...
Now, if this itinerary/decision-making process seems ridiculous, you have to understand how our relationship was at the time. Leveraging work travel to our advantage, impulsively spending exorbitant amounts of money on flights and meeting up in places where neither one of us lived was pretty much par for the course. It was tiring and at times, ludicrous, but it worked for us.
Anyway, I was very excited to show Alex my hometown city for the first time, despite the fact that I knew it would be extremely, if not brutally, cold when we were there. The temperature, however, was nothing he or even I could have prepared for. It was frost-bite-threatening sub-arctic, arguably the coldest couple of days in Chicago that I’d experienced since that time in grade school when school was cancelled. We’re talking negative 40 degrees F here—not exactly a great climate in which to explore the city and begin Stage 1 of my Plan to Convince Alex That Chicago is the Greatest Place to Live in the World.
After two weeks of summer in Australia and sunshine in L.A., the poor guy was rugged up in five layers of my dad’s coats, hats and scarves, with just a sliver of face skin showing, his eyelashes freezing before the wind-blown tears could fall from his eyes. It was pretty sad, and certainly not the impression I was hoping he’d get of my beloved Chi-town
So this time around, I was determined to make it count. I WILLED the weather to behave, and behave it did. When Jason, my flatmate, and Alex arrived, the sunshine emerged from the clouds and provided us with two uninterrupted days of pure sunshine, blue skies and warmth. We hung out with my friends, saw my parents, went to a gourmet food and wine festival, took the architectural boat tour, went to a birthday party, and took in the sights and sounds of the city.
It was a legendary weekend preceding an equally fun week/weekend in Baltimore (check out HAHA JJ: Part Three coming up tomorrow). As you can see from the pics Alex took below, I think Chicago finally made the impression I was hoping for...
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Home Again, Home Again Jiggity Jig: Part One
Due to circumstances largely beyond his control (a.k.a. yours truly), Alex has been to Baltimore close to 10 times. I imagine that’s about 9 to 10 more visits per lifetime than most DC residents take to their northerly neighbour, despite it being only 30 miles up I-95.
Although he is fairly significantly better travelled than most foreigners when it comes to the States (newsflash, World: there’s more to America than California and Manhattan), the fact that Alex has repeatedly and inadvertently invested his vacation time in the same three square miles in “Charm City” since he met me has more or less throttled his continuing U.S. education. And has left me feeling slightly guilty as a result.
After all, this is a guy who is supposed to gradually and subconsciously become convinced that he wants to move to the other side of the Atlantic some day (shh…don’t tell), and well, though it is near and dear to me in many ways, Baltimore does not exactly a persuasive argument for expatriation make.
So I’m happy that on this visit to the States, despite culminating in a trip to Baltimore, my deprived boyf was at least able to experience more of what America has to offer. Unfortunately, many of the destinations he hit up on his own time were also of questionable influence (ask him about his time spent in a Key Largo bar with a gang of recently released prisoners), but at least the occasions when we met up in between my stints at work represented some steps in the right direction.
We started in New Symrna Beach, Florida, a place chosen by Christy and Jason (both Americans living in London) as a wedding destination more for the venue and the geographical convenience to their respective families than the merits of the beach town itself.
The rehearsal dinner took place at J.B. Fish's Camp, an apparently very famous, fun, low-key river-side restaurant complete with delicious hush puppies and grits, cold Bud Light out of plastic cups, and a framed photograph of Sarah Palin smiling over a dead moose. Mmmm....God Bless America.
The next day, the wedding took place at the stunning Atlantic Center for the Arts, and Alex, despite his terrified expression in the pic below, did a helluva job with his Best Man speech. Though we were hot and sweaty in the balmy Florida heat, I (and Alex, in his first trip to Florida) were suitably charmed by the tropical environment and swimming in the Atlantic Ocean.
As you can see, the first three days spent in America's Southeast provided a fine introduction to two glorious weeks to follow in the States. Tomorrow (or Friday): Part Two of Home Again, Home Again Jiggity Jig and the next installment in The Continuing American Education of Alex. You won't want to miss it.
Although he is fairly significantly better travelled than most foreigners when it comes to the States (newsflash, World: there’s more to America than California and Manhattan), the fact that Alex has repeatedly and inadvertently invested his vacation time in the same three square miles in “Charm City” since he met me has more or less throttled his continuing U.S. education. And has left me feeling slightly guilty as a result.
After all, this is a guy who is supposed to gradually and subconsciously become convinced that he wants to move to the other side of the Atlantic some day (shh…don’t tell), and well, though it is near and dear to me in many ways, Baltimore does not exactly a persuasive argument for expatriation make.
So I’m happy that on this visit to the States, despite culminating in a trip to Baltimore, my deprived boyf was at least able to experience more of what America has to offer. Unfortunately, many of the destinations he hit up on his own time were also of questionable influence (ask him about his time spent in a Key Largo bar with a gang of recently released prisoners), but at least the occasions when we met up in between my stints at work represented some steps in the right direction.
We started in New Symrna Beach, Florida, a place chosen by Christy and Jason (both Americans living in London) as a wedding destination more for the venue and the geographical convenience to their respective families than the merits of the beach town itself.
The rehearsal dinner took place at J.B. Fish's Camp, an apparently very famous, fun, low-key river-side restaurant complete with delicious hush puppies and grits, cold Bud Light out of plastic cups, and a framed photograph of Sarah Palin smiling over a dead moose. Mmmm....God Bless America.
The next day, the wedding took place at the stunning Atlantic Center for the Arts, and Alex, despite his terrified expression in the pic below, did a helluva job with his Best Man speech. Though we were hot and sweaty in the balmy Florida heat, I (and Alex, in his first trip to Florida) were suitably charmed by the tropical environment and swimming in the Atlantic Ocean.
As you can see, the first three days spent in America's Southeast provided a fine introduction to two glorious weeks to follow in the States. Tomorrow (or Friday): Part Two of Home Again, Home Again Jiggity Jig and the next installment in The Continuing American Education of Alex. You won't want to miss it.
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