Remember when you were a kid, you’d sit on the floor and scratch the back of the person in front of you while he was scratching the back of the person in front of him; and so on and so forth in a big blissful circle of socialist back-scratching harmony?
Yeah, me too. Those were the days. In fact, just last night, I was lamenting to Alex the fact that you can pay for a massage but not for a luxurious back-scratching, which in my opinion, is almost equally sensational. Untapped market if you ask me.
Instead of actually setting up my own shop (besides, I have a list of about 20 other Credit-Crunch Careers that don’t involve potentially touching gross people’s bodies), I’m going to flash my poetic licence and approach the matter in the more metaphorical sense.
I began this whole back-scratching conceit with the expectation that it would lead me to a discussion of the Seven-Month Itch. In case you’re unfamiliar with it, this is the phenomena that your average expat experiences in between The Arriving-in-a-New-Country Excitement Stage and The Holy-Sh*t-I-Actually-Have-to-Live-Here-Now Acceptance Stage.
Buuuuttt…..then I decided I wasn’t up for over-analysis on this fine Thursday eve. So, in an astounding demonstration of the versatility of my metaphorical skillz, I am going to instead make this a post about bloggers….and how, in my limited experience of them, they seem to have a whole you-scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch-yours approach to getting the word out about their stuff.
Some of the people I know who blog have already put a link to the OckleShow on their sites, and so now it’s my turn to return the favor. Plus, dear readers, you get the added benefit of finding new ways to waste your work day and tempt the gods of redundancy with your unwavering commitment to procrastination.
A quick note: Some of these sites are from friends of mine, and might not interest you if you’re not particularly curious about seeing the daily goings on of their 3-year-old children. Others are just general blogs that I follow because I’m a Millennial-Gen Y cusp baby who needs information like I need oxygen, man.
News: I tend to be a bit of a newshound, so I check these sites regularly. They are just informative enough to keep me up-to-date and just fluffy enough to appeal to my short attention span and even shorter short-term memory.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/: Ariana Huffington is a genius for keeping this composite of all things news, from Barak and Michelle to Brad and Angie. It’s a one-stop shop of digestible nuggets of just slightly over-sensationalized news with lively bloggers who help you sound smart at dinner parties. Also, Republicans, it’s not for the faint-hearted, so you’d best be a card-carrying ACLU member to attend this party.
http://www.politico.com/: This is what I read when I want to feel smart. It’s totally aspirational in that I’m-a-person-who-reads-politico kind of way. I check it every day, but some days, I only log about 2 minutes because inevitably, in the middle of some article on the GOP’s rocky road back, my mind starts wandering and I begin to wonder what Maddox and Shiloh are up to.
http://www.salon.com/: I discovered this in grad school and I still read it regularly. It’s good journalism prettied up for the smart kids.
http://www.slate.com/: Good journalism prettied up for the cool kids.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/: An institution. You can’t argue with greatness.
Celebs: I considered putting all things celeb in the news section, cuz, you know, it is news, but I reconsidered. Before I begin, consider that my daily digest of tabloids has been cut back sharply with my move. Judge me not for what I do but for how far I’ve come.
http://www.perezhilton.com/: Nuff said. It’s like crack to my American-celebrity-deprived brain.
http://www.gofugyourself.com/: I want to lobotomize the women who keep this site and transplant their brains into mine. They are wittiness incarnate, even though they are just talking about fashion.
Friends: These are the aforementioned sites kept by a sampling of my worldwide poss. These people are not just my friends, but are also endlessly entertaining both on “site” and off.
Swiss Family Mac: My former co-worker Meghan and her lovely husband Brian moved from Baltimore to Switzerland around the same time I moved to London. Meghan’s often funny, always touching accounts of raising a 2-year-old and being pregnant in a country where she can’t speak the language are a great read. Her sister, Colleen, a fellow Londoner, also keeps a blog formerly called Design This.
Rich and Creamy: This endlessly entertaining blog from my Irish Londoner friend JJ is a daily digest of the best of the blogosphere. It’s where you go when you don’t want to do your own scan, but still want to keep up on the day’s funny, thought-provoking or downright ridiculous cyber-happenings.
Aside: I realize I’ve slipped into promotional copy mode. My apologies.
Finndustry: Another former co-worker and friend, Derek keeps this very cool design and design industry blog.
Amalah: Okay so she’s not my friend (I don’t know her) and I’m not a mommy (it’s sort of a mommy blog), but this is one of the most reliably funny things I read on a regular basis. Plus, she’s my hero for making blogging a full-time paid job.
Not on the Moon Yet: My good friend Blake rarely updates his blog (the cheek of it!) but when he does, he’s damn funny.
I'm sure there are more, but those are the standouts. Feel free to post a comment if you have some other ideas or if you are a secret blogger yourself (geek!). And for those of you whose blogs got shout-outs today, consider your backs scratched, courtsey of the O Show.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
The BarackleShow
Every time someone shows up on the rocky shores of Great Britain (having surrendered the comforts of her far-off land to pursue a better way of life, or her boyfriend, or a cure for her rampant anglophilia), she makes a promise. She swears to her family back home or her new colleagues or anyone who will listen really that she will NOT fall into the trap that has claimed so many of her predecessors.
She will NOT quickly join a community of people of her own nationality.
She will NOT frequent only bars that cater specifically her nationality.
She will NOT live in the neighbourhood known as the one where all of the expats from her country live.
Generally, she will NOT recreate the country she came from within her newly adopted city.
Instead, using her powers of open-mindedness and tolerance, along with the special novel brand of charm found only in the place she came from, she will gather a vast menagerie of friends so rich in cultures and nations that that it would make the UN jealous. She will truly experience life in a global city.
Months after her arrival, however, she’ll look around whatever schlocky bar has her country’s flag hanging proudly from every available wall, take a sip of some familiar beer that was crappy in her own country even before it travelled miles from its source, and say to her look-alike friends in their shared native tongue/accent, “How the hell did this happen?”
This, ladies and gents, is the destiny of the expat in a big city. Try as you might to spread your proverbial wings and immerse yourself in the local culture, you ultimately end up gravitating toward your own kind. Why does this happen, you ask?
Here’s a theory for you. New friendships require the presence of two aspects:
1. Something (the more the better) in common. [aka MUTUALITY]
2. The shared desire for new friendships. [aka MOTIVATION]
For me, your average(ish) American, who do you think are the people that most often meet those criteria? Right. Other Americans. It’s very rare that I meet a Brit whom I have enough in common with (work, mutual friends, etc) who doesn’t have 8,000 friends already; or alternately, some new Parisian import might be looking for friends but because say, she doesn’t know who Brenda Walsh is (even when she pretended to be French for that one summer while living in Paris with “Reek”), we probably don’t have anything in common.
Then I come across some American chick fresh off the boat who ohmigod knows so-and-so who was friends with whats-her-face in high school and BAM, instant buds. Easy peasy, no effort.
Not that I’m complaining. In fact, out of fatigue or need (probably both), I have succumbed to the inevitable my-pals-will-mostly-be-Americans thang. So when my San Fran-originated friend Amanda asked me to accompany her to an American Ex-pats in London meetup group event last night for the inauguration, I not only agreed, but was actually excited to meet some other imports [MOTIVATION] gathering to celebrate our shared history in the making [MUTUALITY].
There was one problem, however. When we arrived, we discovered that the whole place was full of people NOT from America. Instead, it was chock-a-block with single men from Pakistan, New Zealand, Canada (okay, it SORT of counts), Germany, England, you name it, who seemingly signed up for this Americans-only event and paid their 10 quid to get in, JUST TO PICK UP CHICKS.
Apparently these guys felt the need to amend my List of Requirements for a New Friendship with the following:
3. One party exploiting the other's proud political day for his own purposes [aka MANIPULATION]
4. One party believing that by virtue of the other's usually open and friendly nationality, that she will take kindly to his creepy advances [aka MISINFORMATION]
4. One party believing that that by virtue of the other's oft-depicted-in-movies slutty nationality, she is easy [aka MASTURBATION]
Suffice it to say, it was not a giant success in the friends department, although Amanda and I did socre a date with a new potential girl friend next week. Not only that, but we had a great time at the expense of the foreign imposters. After all, who better to do that with than your fellow Americans?
She will NOT quickly join a community of people of her own nationality.
She will NOT frequent only bars that cater specifically her nationality.
She will NOT live in the neighbourhood known as the one where all of the expats from her country live.
Generally, she will NOT recreate the country she came from within her newly adopted city.
Instead, using her powers of open-mindedness and tolerance, along with the special novel brand of charm found only in the place she came from, she will gather a vast menagerie of friends so rich in cultures and nations that that it would make the UN jealous. She will truly experience life in a global city.
Months after her arrival, however, she’ll look around whatever schlocky bar has her country’s flag hanging proudly from every available wall, take a sip of some familiar beer that was crappy in her own country even before it travelled miles from its source, and say to her look-alike friends in their shared native tongue/accent, “How the hell did this happen?”
This, ladies and gents, is the destiny of the expat in a big city. Try as you might to spread your proverbial wings and immerse yourself in the local culture, you ultimately end up gravitating toward your own kind. Why does this happen, you ask?
Here’s a theory for you. New friendships require the presence of two aspects:
1. Something (the more the better) in common. [aka MUTUALITY]
2. The shared desire for new friendships. [aka MOTIVATION]
For me, your average(ish) American, who do you think are the people that most often meet those criteria? Right. Other Americans. It’s very rare that I meet a Brit whom I have enough in common with (work, mutual friends, etc) who doesn’t have 8,000 friends already; or alternately, some new Parisian import might be looking for friends but because say, she doesn’t know who Brenda Walsh is (even when she pretended to be French for that one summer while living in Paris with “Reek”), we probably don’t have anything in common.
Then I come across some American chick fresh off the boat who ohmigod knows so-and-so who was friends with whats-her-face in high school and BAM, instant buds. Easy peasy, no effort.
Not that I’m complaining. In fact, out of fatigue or need (probably both), I have succumbed to the inevitable my-pals-will-mostly-be-Americans thang. So when my San Fran-originated friend Amanda asked me to accompany her to an American Ex-pats in London meetup group event last night for the inauguration, I not only agreed, but was actually excited to meet some other imports [MOTIVATION] gathering to celebrate our shared history in the making [MUTUALITY].
There was one problem, however. When we arrived, we discovered that the whole place was full of people NOT from America. Instead, it was chock-a-block with single men from Pakistan, New Zealand, Canada (okay, it SORT of counts), Germany, England, you name it, who seemingly signed up for this Americans-only event and paid their 10 quid to get in, JUST TO PICK UP CHICKS.
Apparently these guys felt the need to amend my List of Requirements for a New Friendship with the following:
3. One party exploiting the other's proud political day for his own purposes [aka MANIPULATION]
4. One party believing that by virtue of the other's usually open and friendly nationality, that she will take kindly to his creepy advances [aka MISINFORMATION]
4. One party believing that that by virtue of the other's oft-depicted-in-movies slutty nationality, she is easy [aka MASTURBATION]
Suffice it to say, it was not a giant success in the friends department, although Amanda and I did socre a date with a new potential girl friend next week. Not only that, but we had a great time at the expense of the foreign imposters. After all, who better to do that with than your fellow Americans?
Friday, January 9, 2009
Sam I Am: Part 4
In his element, Sam is sublime. Perched on a diminutive wooden stool, acoustic guitar resting on his thick right thigh, a single dull spotlight casting eerie shadows beneath his lowered eyes, he sings with the soulful baritone of a Chicago blues singer.
He doesn’t know I’m here. I’ve stopped by a small Holborn pub on my way home. A sign, scrawled in permanent marker, sits in the window and reads, simply, “On stage tonight: Sam Minor.” The scene inside is typical—wooden walls, cracked tiled floors, pale-faced men and women in scarves and dark jumpers sipping pints around dimly lit tables. In the far corner of the pub sits Sam and his guitar. His voice is striking—deep and urgent and strangely haunting.
As I enter, he is finishing a song. Then he clears his throat, looks shyly out at the crowd and mutters into the microphone: “This next one’s called Blue Became Scarlet.”
He sings:
Eliza Doza
Dazed in Ibiza
Chasing tropical hazes
The blind never raises
Major Minor
Croons in a diner
He only finds her
Buried in liners
They held hands in the fire
The ghost is a liar
The day lambs became harlots
The day blue became scarlet
M’am with a plan
A kaleidoscope damned
Seeking colors and light
Finding just black and white
Jack of all trades
With fury in spades
He was the sun in her weather
She was just wax and feathers
They held hands in the fire
The ghost is a liar
The day lambs became harlots
The day blue became scarlet
As he finishes the song, striking a final melancholic chord on his guitar, Sam raises his head and looks out at the crowd. His eyes focus on a single spot, and his face suggests a shared knowingness. I scan the crowd, searching for the recipient of his soulful gaze. When I see her, her slight frame strikes me as being as ghost-like and unimposing as Sam’s giant form is large and concrete. If I hadn’t been searching, I might not have noticed her at all.
Elizabeth Mendoza. Eliza Doza, I think wryly. Her impossibly straight blonde hair hangs half-way down her back; on her face, it's cut in a severe line that comes close to obscuring her dark brown eyes—the only remaining physical evidence of her Spanish ancestry. Her pale skin is translucent, a feature that is exaggerated by her simple pink shift dress and the long cream cardigan she wears belted over it.
Detecting my gaze, she turns and looks at me. She raises a small, pale hand and waves, offering a wan smile. I wave back, forming a single word on my lips. “Beth,” I mouth. She nods once so slightly it’s almost imperceptible, and turns her attention back to Sam.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
He doesn’t know I’m here. I’ve stopped by a small Holborn pub on my way home. A sign, scrawled in permanent marker, sits in the window and reads, simply, “On stage tonight: Sam Minor.” The scene inside is typical—wooden walls, cracked tiled floors, pale-faced men and women in scarves and dark jumpers sipping pints around dimly lit tables. In the far corner of the pub sits Sam and his guitar. His voice is striking—deep and urgent and strangely haunting.
As I enter, he is finishing a song. Then he clears his throat, looks shyly out at the crowd and mutters into the microphone: “This next one’s called Blue Became Scarlet.”
He sings:
Eliza Doza
Dazed in Ibiza
Chasing tropical hazes
The blind never raises
Major Minor
Croons in a diner
He only finds her
Buried in liners
They held hands in the fire
The ghost is a liar
The day lambs became harlots
The day blue became scarlet
M’am with a plan
A kaleidoscope damned
Seeking colors and light
Finding just black and white
Jack of all trades
With fury in spades
He was the sun in her weather
She was just wax and feathers
They held hands in the fire
The ghost is a liar
The day lambs became harlots
The day blue became scarlet
As he finishes the song, striking a final melancholic chord on his guitar, Sam raises his head and looks out at the crowd. His eyes focus on a single spot, and his face suggests a shared knowingness. I scan the crowd, searching for the recipient of his soulful gaze. When I see her, her slight frame strikes me as being as ghost-like and unimposing as Sam’s giant form is large and concrete. If I hadn’t been searching, I might not have noticed her at all.
Elizabeth Mendoza. Eliza Doza, I think wryly. Her impossibly straight blonde hair hangs half-way down her back; on her face, it's cut in a severe line that comes close to obscuring her dark brown eyes—the only remaining physical evidence of her Spanish ancestry. Her pale skin is translucent, a feature that is exaggerated by her simple pink shift dress and the long cream cardigan she wears belted over it.
Detecting my gaze, she turns and looks at me. She raises a small, pale hand and waves, offering a wan smile. I wave back, forming a single word on my lips. “Beth,” I mouth. She nods once so slightly it’s almost imperceptible, and turns her attention back to Sam.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
2009
Happy New Year! If you’re thinking it has been an unacceptably long period of time since my last post, well, then, fair enough. In my defence, however, I have a) been abroad in Australia, thereby completing the circle on my quest to use all three of my passports in a single year (shh….don’t tell the INS) and b) managed to contract The Never-Ending Virus, which has manifested itself in three colds, a horrific two-week long sore throat, a sinus infection and conjunctivitis over the course of a month and a half.
Even now, I sit here at my desk with a new sore throat/headache combo. This is after having taken a round of oral and eye-drop-administered antibiotics last week and countless packages of sinus/decongestant/cold medicine over two weeks. I have slept and slept. I’ve eaten well. I’ve cut back on the booze. WHAT DOES IT WANT FROM ME??? If anyone has any suggestions about what to feed the new-to-london beast that resides in my head, please let me know. I’m at my wit’s end.
Anyway, apart from the plague, I had a delightful holiday season. After a crazy 2008, full of many changes and adjustments, I’m looking forward to a slightly calmer 2009, (though if the economy has anything to do with it, we all might be in for a slightly more interesting year than we’d hoped).
Here are my goals for 2009 (in no particular order):
1. Write a novel
2. Get in shape
3. Read more books
4. Sleep more
5. Travel
6. See my friends and family as much as humanly possible
7. Establish a less transient, more home-like presence in London
8. Stop The Virus from killing me in my sleep
9. Write frequent and entertaining blog posts
I’ll get started on #9 soon, I promise. Um, just not today. More soon. Happy 2009!
Even now, I sit here at my desk with a new sore throat/headache combo. This is after having taken a round of oral and eye-drop-administered antibiotics last week and countless packages of sinus/decongestant/cold medicine over two weeks. I have slept and slept. I’ve eaten well. I’ve cut back on the booze. WHAT DOES IT WANT FROM ME??? If anyone has any suggestions about what to feed the new-to-london beast that resides in my head, please let me know. I’m at my wit’s end.
Anyway, apart from the plague, I had a delightful holiday season. After a crazy 2008, full of many changes and adjustments, I’m looking forward to a slightly calmer 2009, (though if the economy has anything to do with it, we all might be in for a slightly more interesting year than we’d hoped).
Here are my goals for 2009 (in no particular order):
1. Write a novel
2. Get in shape
3. Read more books
4. Sleep more
5. Travel
6. See my friends and family as much as humanly possible
7. Establish a less transient, more home-like presence in London
8. Stop The Virus from killing me in my sleep
9. Write frequent and entertaining blog posts
I’ll get started on #9 soon, I promise. Um, just not today. More soon. Happy 2009!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)