Breaking News Update!

Okay... not really...

We had an earthquake last night! I had literally just pressed "Publish Post" for the post below and then ::wobble wobble wobble:: I think "Hmm... what was that..." then two of the other bedroom doors in the flat open. Jamie and Maria stick their heads out and say "WHAT WAS THAT?!"

Scientific mumbojumbo about The Weekly Brit's first earthquake!

CNN talks about The Weekly Brit's first earthquake!

I'm only this excited because I've never felt one before.

Also! Check out the previous post, Live from the Laundrette! It's new and exciting!

Live from the Launderette!

Just sitting here, reading on my laptop, minding my own business and then a girl comes along, sits down, places a can of orange soda in between the two of us and before I have time to finish the thought “That’s going to spill,” it does. No apology. She just picks it up, leans over my laptop and tosses the can in the direction of the garbage.

Ah yes, my butt is wet and sticky. This gives literal meaning to the phrase: “Dave has a sweet ass!”

First things first! #10 on the UEA Bluesox was taken, so I am officially #33!

This past weekend I went into London again - this time with my Arizona-friend Teri. It was a different experience than going and staying with someone who already lived there. Going with another tourist as a tourist certainly leads to seeing and doing more. So now in my two trips I’ve seen what London is like for a local college student, and seen it as a tourist.

This weekend we saw Portobello Road, which, according to Wikipedia the worlds largest antiques marketplace. According to Dave, it was an outdoor Walmart selling everything from “1800’s leather boxing equipment” for $10 and WWII Rolex watches stolen off the wrist of Adolph Hitler himself for only $5! Nothing like authentic jewelry. They also had a nice selection of “I Heart London” shirts, soccer jerseys, and boom boxes playing American rap music. (Nothing says antiques marketplace like “I’m Slim Shady, the real Slim Shady…”!)

After Portobello Road we made our way over to Buckingham Palace and watched the changing of the guard. I got a metric ton of good pictures all courtesy of my background in journalism. (Rule of thumb: If you do something you absolutely know you’re not suppose to get a good picture, and stop the second a police officer tells you to, and plead ignorance, MOST OF THE TIME you won’t get arrested.) Done and done!

People were pushing their way up to the big gate surrounding the palace during the ceremony. Pushing became over rated and people started pulling themselves up ONTO the gate and taking pictures through it. When I say “people” I mean, probably 25 people were already up on the gate prior to me deciding to do this. Cops and guards were everywhere. No one had been extracted or yelled at, yet so I figured I’d hop up.

Clearly, this happens every time and they have a set point in the ceremony where this is no longer allowed, because all at once (about 5 minutes before the end) the cops started telling everyone to get down… and we did. (Well, I did at least. A few didn’t, and they were not shot at which I was somewhat disappointed about…)

After that we headed to a restaurant called Wagamama’s. Teri had heard about it and seemed really excited about going, and despite the fact that it was a Japanese noodle restaurant, and I assumed there wouldn’t be anything I could eat there that I wouldn’t have an allergic reaction, I decided to be a good sport and go. Last time I made this decision, I ended up getting free dinner at “Tucson’s Authentic Japanese Cuisine” called something like Itchyballsaq who informed me not only that there was both MSG and Soy in EVERYTHING ON THE MENU, but that they also pre cooked all of their food a few days in advance and the kitchen closes when the restaurant opens. They re opened the kitchen and put some chicken in a frying pan and fed me for free, because no one likes a kid with food allergies and hunger related angst!

Anyway, unless there are some extraordinary circumstances before I leave, Wagamama’s will win The Weekly Brit’s Travel Award for Most Allergy Friendly Restaurant Ever! I meekly said “I have an allergy to soy and MSG… is there anything you can prepare without those?” Our waitress pats my shoulder and says “Hold on, I’ll be right back.” (This is usually the precursor to “No.”) Instead, she went and fetched me a menu specifically for my people! A whole menu just for people allergic to Soy and MSG!!! I was very excited. That must have been how Moses felt after wandering through the desert for 40 years and then matzo fell from the sky. (Or something like that.)

21 years in a world of MSG and Soy in everything from Ice Cream to Turkey and finally, my day has come! My people are recognized!

After wonderful food with wonderful service and no allergic reaction, we headed off to The National Gallery. I’m not much of an art nut, and though I enjoyed it I fear I’ll sound less and less intelligent the more I say about it… but there was a bunch of stuff by Da Vinci , and Monet.

After this we took pictures of ourselves on the big lion statues in Trafalgar square. 900 small children had no problem pulling themselves up onto the lions back, but a full grown adult (yeah… me…) could barley hump my way past it’s tail. Instead I pulled myself up into its paws and got pictures there. (They’re below. Lottsa pictures in this post.)

Finishing Trafalgar Square, we headed back to Teri’s aunts house where we both immediately dozed off on the two couches in the living room. After nap time, we played a rousing game of “Life,” and then had dinner.

Sunday we got up early again and headed out to The Tate Modern (museum of art). I was bumbed that the National Gallery had nothing by Renee Magritte, and Teri was determined to find me some. (Unfortunately, they didn’t either, those bastards!) but it was still a cool museum. Her guidebook said for BOTH The Tate and the National Gallery to allow yourself TWO FULL DAYS DEDICATED TO THE MUSEUMS. We did both in record time. The National Gallery in under 2 hours and the Tate in under 1.

After The Tate we saw The Globe Theater. By “saw” I mean we walked past and acknowledged it was there. Here’s why. It’s not the real Globe. It’s not in the same location as the real Globe. It’s not even CLOSE to it. And, even without seeing a show, it cost $25 to go inside. Done and done!

And then it was time to go to Hogwarts… or at least try our hardest! To Kings Cross Station! Platform 9 ¾!!!

So, I’ve been to platform 9 ¾. Don’t make a trip to England just for that, for God’s sake. Apparently a bunch of stupid kids kept slamming carts into the wall between the real platform’s 9 and 10 and did something like $140,000 in damage, so Kings Cross station now has a separate little area (with a cart cemented into the wall) for you to take your picture.

Some Harry Potter facts: Harry Potter 1 was actually titled “Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone” over here in England. They changed the name before taking it to America. Also, according to the family we were staying with, the scenes in the Harry Potter movies were actually filmed in London Paddington Station, rather than at Kings Cross.

After Kings Cross, it was off to Hamleys: the greatest toy store in the world. I’ve never been in the FAO Schwarz in New York, but I get the feeling these two stores would get into a fist fight if they were any closer. (And seeing as FAO has gone bankrupt twice in the last 6 years, I’m assuming Hamleys would win.)

Anyway, it was wicked cool. I don’t care how old I get: an entire room dedicated to Thomas the Tank Engine will always get the same reaction out of me - pure, unadulterated joy. I didn’t buy a Thomas tank engine, but I did come damn close.

In this day and age where the Power Rangers are in outer space and Garfield and Friends is no longer aired, I was glad to see that Thomas has remained relatively unchanged. They’ve ditched the name “Shining Time Station” and are just calling it “Thomas the Tank Engine.” It also appears in the last 14 years while I have not been paying attention, Thomas has made friends with both an airplane and a helicopter. It also appears that Sir Topham Hatt has disappeared, but come on… does that really surprise anyone? Who wore a top hat 24/7 in 1989?

After Hamleys it was time for lunch, and then time for going home.

I took the train from London Liverpool Street to Ipswich, and then boarded a bus from Ipswich to Norwich.

I was sitting reading when a man sat down next to me. It only took a few minutes before he started talking to me. He seemed nice enough. He gave me a piece of chewing gum and told me about his family. I was bored too and probably would have been the one to start a conversation had I not had a book with me. I thought nothing of it… yet…

I tell him about my weekend in London. I don’t mention Teri specifically but refer frequently to “we.” He says “are you with the other Americans on this bus?” he asks.

“No, I was with a friend. She doesn’t have class till Thursday but I’ve got to be back tomorrow.”

“So you’re alone?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“How are you getting back to the University?”

“I have a bus pass.”

“Oh, don’t take the bus. I can give you a ride home if you’d like.”

This offer surprised me, however, I’ve made the same offers before. I’ve seen drunk girls wandering around my apartment complex, walking in circles and bumping into cars at 3 in the morning when I’ve been driving in. My logic is that if they’re drunk enough to not realize getting into a strangers car is a terrible idea, then I’m saving them a lot of agony by taking advantage of their judgment only to make sure they get where they’re going safely. (Only once have I given one a ride back. Every other time they’ve been sober enough to tell me no.) Back to the action!

“That’s very nice of you, but I really don’t mind taking the bus,” I tell him.

“I’m not trying to rob you or nothing,” he says, and I’m officially creeped out.

“It’s really alright, I already paid the 130 pounds for it, I might as well get my moneys worth, right?” I say, trying to match his jovial tone of “I’m not trying to rob you!”

My hope that this is just a kind fellow like myself trying to help a stranger disappears completely. He doesn’t let it go. I keep my cool the entire time, deciding that if this guy really is dangerous that offending him will serve me no purpose. I continue kindly refusing.

But he keeps pushing. He keeps asking. He even starts asking me what my reason for not wanting him to give me a ride home is. I continue telling him I’ve already paid for my pass, I’d like to use it so I get my moneys worth.

We start to pull into the station and he tells me he needs to call “the ride” and see when they’ll be there to pick “us” up.

Very slowly, I reach into the bottom of my camera bag, feel for my knife, push it into my sleeve so he can’t see it, then drop it into my side pocket so it’s easier to get to if I need it. He watches my hand the entire time. I’m sure he’s seen the knife and fleetingly feel bad that I’ve offended this extra-friendly super-creepy man. However, being extra-friendly myself, I know that if I saw someone reach for a knife in response to my kindness, I’d back the hell off.

“Look how hard it’s raining, let me give you a ride.”

“No thank you sir,” I say as I start to get off the bus. I’m walking quickly, he’s following faster.

“I can get your luggage for you, which bag is yours?” he asks as we get to the luggage thing below the bus. I grab my backpack, throw it over my shoulder and mutter “this one,” as I walk away. I go sit down at the #25 bus stop. (It’s well lighted, has benches, is covered from the rain, and there’s about 5 other people there.)

A few minutes go by and he leaves me alone. I assume he’s left. I’m sitting reading when he walks back up to me.

“David, the car is here. Let’s go,” he says forcefully.

“Sir, no thank you. I’d rather take the bus,” I say without looking up from my book.

“But it’s cold and raining. I’ll worry you’ll catch a cold. I’d feel better if you let me give you a ride home,” he says, though his kind sounding voice has gotten creepier and sounds meaner.

“No thank you. This jacket is very warm,” still gazing at the book.

“Look at the schedule! You’ll have to wait another 22 minutes before the bus even gets here. You’d be home in that time if you let me give you a ride.”

“No thank you,” now watching his feet.

He pauses.

“Alright. David? The car is leaving. Now, let’s go.”

“NO!” I respond much more forcefully as I’m now looking at his face.

We glare at each other for a second. He takes a step towards me. I stand up quickly. Left hand out, right hand in pocket gripping the handle of the knife. He looks puzzled, and makes another motion towards me. Before I wait to figure out what this motion is I take a step towards him, grab and shake his left hand with mine and say “Thank you for your offer. Goodbye.”

He goes away at this point.

Finally I get on the bus and realize something. I didn’t actually see where he went. He could have just gone back into the parking lot and waited for me to get on the bus. There’s only 1 bus to the university every half hour at that time on Sunday. There are only 3 stops I could be getting off at. Shit.

I call three of my friends, none of whom could meet me at the stop for various reasons. I don’t have campus security’s number in my phone, and don’t want to call 999 (their equivalent of 911) so I just quickly, in the best, scariest posture I can muster walk back to my dorm, still holding the knife handle in my pocket.

Thankfully, this is the kind of story that is exciting to read because of the story, not the surprise ending. Nothing happened on my way home, and nothing has happened since… though much to my surprise, my flat mates who I thought would tease me about getting so freaked out all had the same reaction of “Don’t talk to ANYONE in Ipswich. Ever.” Apparently it’s notorious for bad things of that sort happening.

I also realized that when you have to take a train to Ipswich and a bus home because the rails are being worked on, they don’t check your ticket to get onto the bus, just to be polite. So, creeper in Ipswich could have just hopped on looking for someone to… well… in his own words… rob.

After my post from Day 1 of being here, thinking I almost got robbed blind in Heathrow Airport, I commented that I’d learned my lesson and wouldn’t let my guard down like that again. I can safely say I proved that right, but I hope I don’t have to again.

Me in the paws of the lion at Trafalgar Square.


Teri, my loyal travel buddy, also in the paws of the lion!

Beginning my education at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Intently playing with a race car at Hamleys Toy Store.

Pure, unadulterated joy! Thomas The Tank Engine!!!

More tank engine excitement.

Teri is praying by this rocking horse because IT COSTS $3,000!!!! HOLY CRAP!!!

Look guys! This is almost as big as my bedroom in ManziMo was!

WANT TO SEE MORE PICTURES FROM LONDON? CLICK HERE!
(You DO NOT need a Facebook account to access this album!)

The Baseball Diaries Part I: Sweating and Shivering

Play ball!!!

Ladies and Gentlemen, this is a no kidding around baseball team.

Spring training started yesterday. This was the first official practice of the season, though the guys have been getting together and having “unofficial” practices all semester. I’m definitely not in prime shape, but I feel confident that I could come home from England in better shape than I was in when I was 15, before the slue of 2 injuries and a hospitalization that kept me from working out for 3 years. (And, though there is no possible way I’ll be able to continue with baseball when I get back, I’m already psyched to get back into boxing training when I get home! Roar!)

The first practice was yesterday. It was intense. It was real. These guys are taking this very seriously, and so am I. We started by playing catch for about 40 minutes and then went for a run. After the run we stretched and then broke off into two groups – infield and outfield. Regardless of what position you play, or WANT to play, everyone is doing everything. I started off in the infield group.

Our coach, whose name I cannot remember, played baseball at Cambridge University and is now a fire fighter. He asked me “what’s your preferred position?” “Catcher,” I reply. He chuckles, noticing I’m wearing a catchers mitt and says “how come I knew that… Well, if you’re the catcher, you don’t need to field ground balls right now.” So, he hands me a ball and a bat and asks if I can hit some ground balls for people to field. I throw one ball up and hit it – line drive over everyone’s head (pure luck). “A little lower!” he yells. This doesn’t work all to well, and after I’ve missed the ball twice he says “Just throw grounders then.”

He runs through instructions on fielding ground balls (which, though I was far away I was listening to intently because I probably needed the practice) he comes back to where I am and starts hitting grounders with the bat. “Alright catcher, catch!” he says, and instructs the guys fielding them to throw them back to me.

After one hits me in the shin, two fly over my head, and another hits my wrist hard enough to break the skin he yells out “You need to AIM. It doesn’t matter if you get to it if you throw it away!” He then informs them for EVERY BALL that I don’t catch, the person who threw it to me has to do 5 push-ups. Way to not put any pressure on me!

He wasn’t a dick about it at all though. If I just dropped it they didn’t have to… it was more the ones that were thrown 25 feet to my right and 15 feet above my head that earned push-ups. (And I still had to chase the hell after them, so I got my exercise in just fine.)

Then we did outfield drills. The team has JUST enough mitts for everyone, but the more senior members of the team got the better ones (simply because I didn’t want to be the new guy who went and grabbed the good mitt from one of the pitchers). So, I started out taking pop-flys in the outfield with the brand new (and not broken in) catchers mitt. That didn’t go very well. One of the pitchers quickly realized that all of the balls I was safely under were popping out of my glove BECAUSE of the glove, rather than my ability. So, we traded gloves, which went better.

Now, I’ve watched enough baseball to hear people say this 8,000,000 times. Let’s say there’s a really high pop fly that happens to be on a B-line to where the center fielder was already standing. It’s a fat, fly ball. The fielder pulls out “War and Peace,” reads the first 9 chapters, then takes a nap, and wakes up and catches it. People watch that and say “HE MAKES THAT LOOK SO EASY!!!” Catching a fat fly ball coming RIGHT to you, where you don’t even have to take a step IS really easy. Happened 3 times yesterday, I caught all 3.

The difficult thing about catching a fly ball is tracking it. This tiny white object is moving at incredible speed across a background of white clouds. You can see what direction it’s heading just fine, but how far away it is and how fast it’s going is difficult.

In professional baseball, if there’s a high fly ball to 2^nd base, the center fielder is suppose to back up the 2^nd basemen – he’s got to book it from center to 2^nd before the 2^nd basemen gets it, and be behind him when he does. Here’s how this probably started.

Back in 1800-whatever when major league baseball was first established, Sparky McCenterfielder saw the ball flying towards second and ran towards it because he couldn’t tell how far away it was. It sure LOOKED LIKE it was coming right to him. Someone teasingly asked him “Sparky! WTF, mate? The ball was like 200 feet in front of you!” Sparky, now embarrassed, smacks the person teasing him and says “I was… uhh… backing up the 2^nd basemen, you ninny!” and then everyone did this because they didn’t want to be out shined by Sparky. Stay tuned for more installments of “the interpretive history of Major League Baseball.”

After finishing outfield drills it was time for a scrimmage match, and for one of the teams: I got to be the catcher! Like, for real! Mask, chest protector, leg protector, mitt! I was the rock behind the plate!

As excited as I was, there was an immediate “oh shit…” It was probably 40* out this entire time. You could see our breath so clearly this looked like a meeting of the UEA Cigarette club. But, running around for 2 hours prior I was drenched in sweat… which was cooling my skin enough to cause me to be shivering. But this was my chance, nothing was going to stop me!

I suited up and squatted down behind home plate and the game started. My legs started shaking immediately. After 2 hours of running laps and chasing balls, having 197 pounds of weight being supported entirely by my quadriceps wasn’t what my body had in mind. But I toughed it out; this was no time for whining or wussing out!

I honestly can’t say how well I did. The pitcher I was catching for threw more wild pitches than the other pitcher (who was being caught by a guy named Chris, who everyone calls Stonewall… an appropriate name for a good catcher.) I was really tired, and my reflexes for diving out of my squat to catch a wild pitch a foot and a half off to my right were shot. But, I was catching! It was amazing. My dreams of being a little league catcher at 8 years old re-lived! My fantasies of becoming Jason Varitek accomplished! (well, not accomplished… but we’re on that path.) I can comfortably say that Stonewall would have caught better than me even if we were catching the same pitches, and we weren’t cold… but I still think I’d have done a lot better than I did yesterday.

As for batting, I took a walk on my first at bat, and got safely to third after that. I was tagged out at home on the second out, with bases loaded, after I stopped at third but the guy behind me kept going. He was caught in a pickle and with me touching third, all they needed to do was tag second to get him out, so I took off towards home hoping they’d be so caught up with the pickle, that they wouldn’t notice. But, of course they did, and I got tagged out by a good 4 steps. (Didn’t I mention in a previous post something about my ability to be stealthy?) Someone started yelling “slide” when the catcher had the ball but I knew that that would just result in me going from RUN mode to SIT mode and I wouldn’t make contact with the plate, even after the catch.

The whole thing was a blast. If Stonewall indeed got that nickname for being a catcher, than I think it’s very unlikely I’ll be able to work myself up to being the starting catcher this season. But, I say this with total sincerity; I’m just thrilled to be doing this. We’re playing between 5-7 games this entire season, and we practice 3 days a week. After 2 weeks of practice, I’ll have already had more time on the field catching than I would if I were to start every single game all season. And I do get to catch every practice.

I get to be the rock behind the plate! I get to wear the mask! I get to play baseball!

I'm a College Baseball Player

I'm a college baseball player. I play for the University of East Anglia. Damn right!

Two of my flatmates play for UEA teams. Dominic plays UEA Rugby, and Sam plays UEA Squash. I mentioned wanting to join the baseball team shortly after getting here, but saw that they have 4 practices a week for 2 hours each. This conversation got brought up again at dinner last night.

“What are the practices like?” I ask Sam, about squash.

“We play squash for a few hours…”

“When do you do weight lifting?”

“Never…”

“Do you have running days?”

“No… where did you get that idea?”

Of the six days a week the UofA club team practices, 3 days they just do weight lifting, 2 hours of running two other days (The rest they play ball), and then 1 day a week is dedicated to playing.

Apparently that’s not the case here. Practices are entirely playing the game, with all sports offered.

“And you don’t even have to go. I’m a captain of the squash team and I only show up half the time and no one cares.”

I didn’t even have that leisure in little league! Mom was always like “Honey, you made a commitment and your team is relying on you!” Damn right! I kept the bees of Masconomo Park in good shape by running away from them, all while hoping to God the ball never came my way!

So, Sam directed me to where I can go to sign up for this last night, and I figured I’d mention it in my putting pictures up blog. I went to the office today and said “I want to sign up for baseball” and they give me that awesome “Oh, you’re an American!” look I’m growing both used to and fond of, and then they gave me an email address.

I emailed the captain of the team, who emailed be back really quickly sounding very excited that I already know so much about the game. So, it's official, I'm a college baseball player.

If I can’t be number 10, then 33 will work if I can have a “C” on the front of my jersey… and if both are taken I’ll just befriend #10, get them drunk and steal their jersey. (Oh and I said “them” because all the teams at UEA are co-ed, so not only will I get to play baseball but I’ll get to meet girls! Do I really have to go back to UofA in the fall?)

In other news, Cambridge University was very cool. The entire story of the day can be told through the pictures from the post below this one. I must say though: Cambridge University is not making its money giving campus tours! A lot of the campus was closed off to anyone but students, including their central library, which was a bumber. But, we got to go see the “Cambridge University Press” bookstore where pretty much every textbook I have ever used lives.

This coming weekend I’m heading back into London, with a friend from the UofA, Teri. I’m going to do some more in depth sight seeing – like going into all the pretty museums I took pictures of from the outside last time. Also, Teri has family living in London who offered free food and housing for six. I am very grateful for the opportunity (thanks Teri!)

Yeah, so uhh… I definitely feel like I should have some more exciting stories but that’s about it… two promises of more exciting stories to come.

MLB Spring Training games start in 8 days!!! Baseball season has returned!!! And, because I’m a “Loyal MLB Supporter” (which is code for “You give us your money every year”) I get to watch all of the spring training games online, commercial free (though I probably won’t… because I’ll be doing much cooler things.) My fantasy baseball team (The Damn Bandits) is drafting in 29 days, going for their second world series title in 4 years.

Lastly, Andy Pettite has admitted to being lying scum cheater who licked HGH off of Roger Clemens cleats. Eat it Clemens - big asterisk next to all 7 of your Cy Young Awards!

Note: I will try to keep my baseball rants to a minimum as the season starts… key word being try.

Pictures from my trip to Cambridge

"Oh my God, this carrot doesn't have enough chocolate in it! I'm gunna die!" - Me about 3 minutes ago.

The link below will take you to pictures from my trip to Cambridge University this past Saturday. I'm heading to London with one of my UofA colleagues this weekend so I'll have a bunch more pictures of that soon.

Look for a story-post tomorrow or Wednesday.

Sneak preview: The University of East Anglia has a baseball team? Is Dave trying out? Has he already joined?!? Find out soon!

CLICK HERE FOR PICTURES OF CAMBRIDGE

A Dirty Martini with a Splash of Raging-Dickhead, Please.

Happy Valentines Day!

Susan, Juliette and I went out for cocktails last night. They wanted to go see “Juno” but decided within 8 seconds of ordering their first drink that they’d rather just drink instead. I had gone along knowing this would happen, and even though they said we’d only be there for about 20 minutes, I went expecting dinner… and dinner I got!

We staked ourselves out at a table and though the place was not busy, I thought it made sense for someone to stay at the table, so I let the girls go fetch their beverages first. (They came back with a pitcher of blue stuff and vodka.)

This is only the second time I’ve been to a Norwich bar that was in no way affiliated with school (which, a ton of them are). I figure I’ll order something snazzy to show off a bit and feel like hot shit. I’ve never had a dirty martini, but my sister tells me they’re good so I figure I’ll give one of those a try.

I go up to the bar and am greeted by a fat guy who doesn’t ask what I want, just stares at me.

“A dirty martini, please.”

“A what?”

Come on… seriously?

“A uhh… a martini.”

I figured at this point since I don’t know what makes a martini dirty… I’ll just order a normal one… because I know what’s in those.

“Like… a sweet martini?” guy asks, looking at me like I’m an idiot.

“Sure.”

He pours an ounce of some brown liquid into a highball glass and hands it to me.

“This… isn’t what I ordered.”

“This is a Rossi. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“No…”

“Well what did you want?”

“A martini…” (Going back to my previously “seriously?” apparently the answer was yes.)

“Okay… and what did you want IN your martini” guy asks, starting to get pissy. I try and keep my cool.

“Vodka… vermouth… in a martini glass.”

“That’s not what you said you wanted,” says guy.

He grabs the “Rossi” out of my hand and slams it down on the bar. Now glaring at me the entire time, he takes two shot glasses, fills one with vermouth, one with vodka, and then pours them into another highball.

Instead of continuing to fight with this asshole, I just cut my losses and pay for it. He hands me my receipt, which has 2 drinks on it.

“Did you charge me for that?” I ask, pointing to the Rossi that is still on the counter.

“Well it’s not fucking free,” he says.

“Well… then give it to me if I paid for it.”

Now he realizes what I was pointing at.

“Oh… no, I didn’t charge you for that.”

“Then why are there two drinks on my receipt?”

“There are two shots in that martini, aren’t there?”

And then, Al Gore appeared out of nowhere, and surrendered to me his Nobel Peace Prize for not ripping this guys balls off and serving them to him in a martini glass… (Excelsior!)

Needless to say, 1 ounce of warm vodka mixed with 1 ounce of warm vermouth is enough to burn the hair out of the inside of a grown man’s nose, in case you were wondering. I’ve tasted some incredibly disgusting drinks, but even a Three-Wisemen tastes better than that.

But I paid $8 for it! So… I drank it anyway… or… most of it… I thought the taste of dinner would help it go down smoother but it was actually the opposite. So, after my fish and chips arrived I gave the rest to Juliette, who downed it like a champ.

Juliette reminded me afterwards that due to the bet mentioned in my previous blog post that Sam still owed me a beer, so I could make myself feel better by saying I’d only wasted $4… and hadn’t won a beer from Sam.

This entire experience further solidified my belief that you can never go wrong with a Sapphire and tonic.

So, today is Valentines Day… as you may have noticed by the date stamp on this post… or by the “HAPPY VALENTINES DAY” at the top of the page. I don’t really have any plans. Susan came up with the idea that she, Sam and I should hang out and drink wine and eat chocolate because we’re the only 3 (out of 10!) who live here that don’t have a significant other.

But, Susan decided to head home for the weekend instead, and Sam and I decided that it would be a bit homoerotic to sit and consume wine and chocolate together in one of our bedrooms on Valentines Day… so we’re going to substitute wine with video games, and chocolate with carefully crafted “your Mom” jokes and call it a night!

I hope you all have a nice Valentines Day, (or had, if you’re reading this later) Feel free to post what your plans are/were in the comments section! Keep the comments coming, they’re a lot of fun to read!

Sam bet me a beer I wouldn’t do “this” at the dinner table

“Oh, while you’re all here: Sam bet me a beer I wouldn’t do this at the dinner table,” I said, then did it.

Susan and Dominic looked at Sam and said in unison “that was a stupid bet!”

So, last night Sam and I were playing Madden (that kid is unfairly good at the game… fucking British kids…). I scored a touchdown and, sitting in my chair, thrust my hips forward twice (like… humping an invisible thing in front of me.) Sam says “I’ll bet you a beer that you won’t do that at the dinner table!”

“Does it have to be dinner?”

“No… but at least half of the flat has to be there.”

“Does it have to be a beer?”

“No Dave, it can be a cider.”

“Deal.”

And then we shake.

“But you have to say something blatantly sexual, to one of the girls at the table, and then smack your own ass after it.”

“That wasn’t the deal Sam. I made two humping motions without saying a word, and you bet me a beer I wouldn’t do THAT at the dinner table.”

“I know… but that’s stupid!”

“Yeah? Why do you think I took the bet?”

Sam still has a gambling problem, and – I’ll have a pint of Strongobw, please.

Speaking of Sam, shortly after blogging about his “AHH, AHH!!! JESUS CHRIST, DAVE!” experience, Sam told me the following.

“See, I know you, Dave. I know that if I retaliate, even though I have it in writing that you think it would be just and fair, you would STILL re-retaliate just because you’re an American! So the way I see it is, I should really just cut my losses and wait patiently for your next scheme!” I almost felt bad… but then Sam locked me out of my room and jousted me in the face with a dirty, wet mop and stole my desk chair… or maybe that was what I was retaliating against… Unimportant!

Our trip into Cambridge was put off until this upcoming weekend. (In case I didn’t mention that we were going to Cambridge… we were… and then we didn’t… and now we are again…) We got our tickets yesterday and I’m stoked.

So, this past weekend was rather quiet with a few excursions, but mostly just hanging out in the flat.

On Friday night, Dom, Susan, Juliette and I went to a party at one of the “nice” dorms. (Keep in mind, I have my own bedroom, a water front view, and a sink… and I’m in the poor kid dorm.) The nice dorms have queen-sized beds, full bathrooms in each suite, and leather seats in front of their kitchen table… and they STILL cost less than housing at the University of Arizona.

We arrived at around 9 and the majority of the 20 people who were there had already polished off a few drinks, including a girl named Sarah. Dom knows her, I don’t remember how, but he introduces us.

“Hi, I’m Dave.”

“Hi Dave, I’m Sarah.”

“Sarah, nice to meet you,” I say and she squirms with excitement.

“I just… LOVE the way Americans say my name! Will you… uhh…. Tehehe…. Will you say my name again? It’s sexy…”

This went on for about ten minutes.

Actually, no: it went on for EXACTLY ten minutes, then guess what happened? (Come on… you all know…) Her boyfriend showed up!

Now, I’m mentioning this not only because her boyfriend showed up (which happens to me more than reasonable or fair) but also she poignantly ignored me the rest of the evening.

As we were leaving the party I was incredibly tempted to go up to her boyfriend and say something like “Hey, tell Sarah I said thanks for the head she gave me before you got here,” but momentary glory of getting her in trouble with El Gordo wouldn’t have been worth the broken nose.

So, after dealings with women went unsuccessful, it was time to go do man things. That’s right: here at UEA, it’s bunny season.

No, no. Not Playboy Bunnies… I mean... BUNNY bunnies!

So, Dominic and I went to the rugby pitch to unleash our inner cavemen. It was time for bunny chasing.

If any of you have a copy of the movie “Homeward Bound” within arms reach, you might want to just pop that DVD into your computer and watch the scene where they tried to do this. Older and wiser than Dom I may be, but he got to play the role of Shadow (making me Chance, the full-grown puppy played by Michael J. Fox)

I knew we weren’t really going to catch any, but somehow after a few beers watching something run at full speed away from you, truly fearing for it’s own life is an empowering feeling. (And in return, I’m sure watching me sit on the grass wheezing for air for about a half hour was an empowering feeling for the bunnies after I decided it was time to call it quits.)

We tried to catch this all on video but my camera’s video capabilities wouldn’t have it. (Honestly, I don’t think any camera could have captured it with how dark it was.)

But here’s something I did wonder. In the unlikely event that I had somehow caught one simply by sheer luck of surprising the thing, what the hell would I have done when I caught it? I mean, a cave man would have killed it and eaten it but come on, did you click that link? Did you see that bunny? I probably would have been so astonished that I even made physical contact with the thing that I’d’ve held on to it in amazement for long enough for it to bite the shit out of my hand, and then I’d’ve dropped it. Good thing I am neither fast enough, nor stealthy enough to catch a bunny.

I only have one class on Mondays. It is my “The Politics of Language” class, which I have commented on in previous posts as being incredibly boring. It still is, but it’s getting a bit better. We’re moving on to some cooler stuff. This past Monday we had what felt like, at the end of it, had been a 2-hour group therapy session talking about our educations.

The professor started us off by writing 20 sentences on the board, and each one of us had to break it down and explain it. Subject, predicate, direct object, indirect object, context, connotation, all that stuff. We all went through and discussed our sentences and then he broke us up into groups of 3’s. He said he wanted us to debrief about how the experience had been for us, and then we would discuss with the class about how that came to be. (That was a poor way of describing it, but I’ll just clarify by continuing…)

In my education, other than what my Dad has taught me about spoken grammar, I have never had any formal education regarding grammar, structure, or even punctuation (minus my lovely copy editing teacher telling me he wanted to send me to Guantanamo Bay for unlawfully harboring commas: the grammatical terrorists.)

I remember roughly in sixth grade they started mentioning terms like “direct objects” and telling us “Oh, you’ll learn about those next year!” This continued, telling us we’d learn it “next year” all the way through something like 10^th grade, when all of a sudden in 11^th grade we should have learned it “last year.”

My AP English teacher during my senior year, try as she might, knew full well that she was dealing with a bunch of students who had been inadequately informed of direct objects as consequence of our high school being under-funded. I can proudly say I scored a 2 on the AP English test.

But, I graduated high school and made it to college. I decided I’d probably learn this in English 101. They told us we’d learn it in 102. What happened when I got to English 102? “Didn’t you learn that in English 101?”

The reason I said that this was like a group therapy session was because every person in the class, to some degree, had had the same experience.

Professor Womack brought up an essay he’d recently read called, “The Lost Generation of Grammatical Education.” It stated that the baby-boomers had never learned the type of grammar that the “college kids of today” were learning.

But none of us were! Including the two ladies in our class who are my parents age. The professor said that each one of us was dramatically off, and incorrect, in our description of the sentence structure. And then, the inevitable question came.

“But if we can all comprehend both spoken and written English, and none of us are failing out of college because of grammatical mistakes, why is it so important?”

Apparently, that is exactly the point of this entire class. It’s called the POLITICS of language because apparently there’s a movement of grammatical anarchism on the rise and we’re going to lead it! (Power to the punctuation!)

This class may have outed me, and I may be outing myself further by writing about this… but since last year I’ve had the dream of finishing grad school and then making a million dollars writing a book called “I have a Ph.D. in English and I still never learned what a direct object was!” So, for sake of that dream happening, please don’t tell me what a direct object is. I want to see if education will ever tell me on it’s own… because in this degree, it doesn’t seem like it should be something that I have to ask to learn… in the very least, they should be asking why I DIDN’T learn it, but still: no one has.

More Pictures from London

This link is below in the last post, but for those of you looking, here again is the link to pictures from my trip to London.

PICTURES FROM LONDON!!!



This was a weekend of 2 Dave's, as I was staying in London with my friend, Dave. He put his Red Sox cap on my head at some point in the evening, and I quickly proclaimed "I AM THE KING OF RED SOX NATION!" I so am, too.

I don't know why I like this picture... I fully acknowledge that I look silly, but I think I was just genuinely surprised that there was a camera there! And how!

This is me, Dave 2 with Dave Jr. (Dave Walker's flatmate Rocko dubbed us Dave 1 and Dave 2, but then I informed him that I was older so we became Dave 2 and Dave Jr.)

Tea, anyone?

We were playing dress up in the kitchen... there was a red hat and a scarf. Somehow, the logical next step seemed to be unbuttoning my shirt and pulling a knife, and BAM, I was a gangster! Don't act like you're not impressed.

Thrift Store Chair

I’m loving England. I know I’ve said that before, said it here, said it to all of you but this is experience is just getting more and more fulfilling as time going further. I’m 3 days shy of being here for a month. I’ve still got 4/5^th of my trip remaining but I’m already wishing I could have stayed here for a year.

I just came inside off the roof. It’s a beautiful sunny day. Dominic sent me an IM saying “It feels like summer, mate. How about a cup of tea on the roof?” I pause and think “I really should work on that 3,000 word essay I have due Friday.” Before responding, I look at the assignment sheet again, and I read it wrong. No more than 1,000 words (I can type 125 words per minute. You do the math.) Plenty of time, seeing as I only have 1 hour of class tomorrow, no classes Friday and it’s not due until night time.

Dom was right, it feels like summer out. It feels like a summer in Boston, which meant I was sitting on the roof shivering like a baby, but I refused to put on a sweater. It was too beautiful out for one.

I’m making close friends here. I’m becoming very close with both Dom and Sam. Last night (or, I suppose this morning at 2:30) Dom and I played the best practical joke I have ever even heard of on Sam.

He told me once he sleeps with his window open. Dom and I climbed out on the roof. (parents and parentlike-readers: I promise going on the roof is safe. It’s flat, with a wall at the edge, and there’s about 8 feet of walking space between the windows and the wall). Sure enough, Sam’s window is open. Norwich England has virtually no crime… because they pretend it’s Harlem. There are bars over the window, but they’re wide enough part to pull back the shades and snap a picture. The flash woke Sam who started screaming.

“AHHHH, AHHHH!!!!” then he realized it was us. “JESUS CHRIST, DAVE!!!” He will retaliate eventually, and I will deserve it. I will keep you updated.

I’m still amazed I have a water front view. We sat on the roof, sipping tea, looking at the water, the forest and the big blue sky above us and talked about our lives. We’re both in the same boat of not knowing what we’re doing after college because we have about 200 things we could do that would make us perfectly happy, and we’re both excited about that.

Sitting on the roof, talking about my future was the first time since I’ve been here that I felt like I could enjoy going to graduate school right out of undergrad. This is not a proclamation of intent by any means, but it’s a really strong statement that this month I’ve been here has been what I needed. I need a break from Tucson. The journalism school has a pretty set path for us, and for the last 2 semesters I’ve had to take extra classes so I could afford a semester out of the program. That’s been rough. For those of you who don’t know, I’ve learned that journalism is not what I thought it was, and I do not respect, and do not want to associate with what it IS. (However, this happy blog post is no place for my “What’s wrong with journalism” rant.)

I logged onto my UofA account to look at my credits and transfer units and everything. (Sign language has transferred: so I’m officially a junior, and I’m a half-semester ahead of where I need to be. Boyeah!) I scrolled down to the journalism section and saw something amazing. I am 3 classes away from fulfilling my degree requirement. 3. Not only do I get a semester away from lying and stealing, but when I come back I only have 3 more classes on lying and stealing until I have a degree in lying and stealing!

I went into the city of London for my first time this weekend. It was very cool. I have to say though, cities are cities. They’re very big, they’re very cool. There’s a lot of touristy stuff and famous sites to see but the experience of being in a COMPLETELY different universe hasn’t really hit me, and certainly didn’t in London. To quote my friend Katie “Well, you are in America’s Mom…”

However, this isn’t necessarily bad thing. I haven’t felt a lick of homesickness, which I suspect has a strong correlation to the fact that I don’t feel like I’m on a different planet. (Before anyone calls me sadly… like Rachel… I miss all of you, and have been thinking of you all lots… I just don’t miss Arizona… or North Point… or living with Kinsey, for that matter.)

Anyway, back to London. I didn’t mean to say I didn’t enjoy my trip… I was getting at saying that I’m just becoming more and more aware of how happy I am living in this small England town on the coast.

I’m not going to give a play-by-play of London, but instead link you to pictures! It’s through Facebook but if you follow this link you DO NOT need a login or an account.

This is the link:

http://arizona.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2239258&l=63665&id=10125855

Anyway, it’s 4:50pm and I’m about to leave for the grocery store with Dominic. I’m out of food, except for 2 cans of canned chicken. (By the way: Mom, you told me to try canned chicken so I don’t die of mercury poisoning from eating too many tuna sandwiches. The canned chicken they have in England is one of the most foul, disgusting things I’ve ever seen. It tastes bad enough to give a goat a nightmare. I will just substitute my tuna ration with more peanut butter.)

Yeah, so I’m out of food and hungry! I hope you’re all well!