A New Weekly Brit?

Hi all,

I have a new blog!

The address is http://daverobbinsjournalism.blogspot.com

It's titled "Talking to Strangers."

Thanks for reading!

The End!

Okay - it's time I just come out and say it.

I do not have the time, or energy to finish this blog.

Moving back from England has provided as much material for writing as living over there did. Unfortunately, the material that I've gotten since arriving home hasn't been nearly as exciting or fun... nothing says "Good reading" like applying for a student loan, getting my tires changed and getting TOTALLY screwed over by some administrative procedures currently in place by the UofA.

The stories I've told have been based entirely on vivid memories - memories I don't think will fade any time soon. And even if some of them do, letting the less important memories fade is a very commonly used technique for writing non-fiction.

This coming semester I'm finishing my journalism requirements. The department has told me I really should stretch it into 2, but the job I want after graduation starts considering candidates in January - and I want as much relevant experience as possible by that point. One of the things I'll be doing is an internship with an online newspaper, and it'll require me to have a blog. Continuing my tales of travel in Europe isn't one of the things I can chose from - but... we'll see what I can do.

Both for myself and for my readers, I do want to finish writing these stories. I don't know when I'll have the time to - but WANTING to is what will eventually get them done.

So - thank you for sharing my journey through Europe with me. Thank you for your reading, your emails, your comments, the packages filled with presents - and most of all, the phone calls.

To my former flatmate's - not all of the exchange students I know had the same experience I did. Some of them actually hated it - but in each case, it had to do with whether they were happy with who they were living with.

Susan, Juliette, Maria & Dom - thank you all for being so much fun to live with. (God - I hope I didn't forget anyone... hey Sam, can you think of anyone I forgot to include in that list? Hmm...) Living with you 5 was one of the best experiences I've ever had, and I'll look back on it fondly for the rest of my life.

Thank you.

Susan, me and Juliette in the kitchen on our last night in Norwich.

Susan, me and Juliette in the kitchen on our last night in Norwich.

Me, Juliette and Susan broke into Sam's room (which he had moved out of a week prior) to take pictures. Sam's reaction: "Oh my God, why?"

Sam and I hanging out in his back yard in London on my last night in England.

A Tribute to Tony Snow

To quote Steven Colbert,

"Tony Snow is a man who can speak for an hour - and at the end of that hour, have said nothing at all - like nobodies business."

Despite the fact that Tony Snow sold his soul and worked for Satan - both of these are prerequisites for being a good journalist - and he indeed WAS very good at what he did. I do genuinely admire the White House Press secretaries for how awful and painful of a job they must have.

Hunter S. Thompson said, "The journalism business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs."

So Mr. Snow, on the day that you die, I wish that you may run free with thieves and pimps forever - in the long plastic hallway in the sky!

Tony Snow
1955-2008

Hello readers!

Hello readers!

It’s already been a month since my last real post? My apologies, I’ve been quite busy!

Pat came to visit for the last two weeks of my stay in Norwich, which was a blast. I got ready to move back to the states, spent the last few days with Sam and then took the 11 hour non stop flight home to Phoenix.

Since getting back 12 days ago, I’ve been down to Tucson to find a place to live (found one), retrieve my kitty named Bread from his babysitter, came back here to find and buy a car (2003 Hyundai Accent), as well as spend time with every important person I’d been missing who was geographically possible to see.
Yesterday I spent 4 hours going through “The Writers Market” finding places to send the short stories I wrote in England to for publication… today, I’m not sure what I’m up to…
I will – I will – I WILL finish the backpacking stories – as well as the rest of my England stories. I got off that damn airplane and hit the ground running and still haven’t had a moment to catch my breath – oh yeah, and I’m moving back to Tucson on Tuesday.

So, when things settle down a bit – I will finish my tales! Hopefully sooner than later… but who knows!

I am home!

I am home safely and already sunburned! Go Arizona!!

Anyway - The Weekly Brit will continue until I finish my stories! I've got something for all of the backpacking destinations and a few stories from once I got back to England. Not sure when the next one will be though. I'm heading to Tucson tomorrow to HOPEFULLY secure a place to live next year - as well as pick up Bread and see Rachel.

But - that's just tomorrow... so, sometime AFTER tomorrow Saint Patrick's Day Part 4 will run!

"Fingertips" & "Mona Lisa Chicken Dinner"

Hello readers,

In the blog I've spoken about both of the short stories I've written this semester, "Fingertips" & "Mona Lisa Chicken Dinner."

Unless you're JD Salinger - who supposedly has written 15 novels that he refuses to have published on the grounds that he knows they're perfect and doesn't need anyones opinion on them - the main point of writing is to have your work read. So, I'm making these two short stories available!

To receive a copy via email, please send a request to maximumbandit@gmail.com and I will email you a copy.

-Dave

LONDON - Saint Patrick's Day - Day 3

Dom’s band brought in such a crowd at Madden’s the night before that they got invited to play again the next night. Instead of following and going to the same bar for the same party a second night in a row, I got in touch with my buddy Dave who I had stayed with in London in the past. We agreed to meet up in SoHo and go out for dinner and a few drinks. I told Dom I’d meet him back at his house later that night – he said he’d wait up and make sure I got back alright.

I took the tube from Dom’s house to Piccadilly Circus and met Dave in front of the giant McDonalds. From there, we went to one of his favorites, Waxy O'Connells and over a beer or two we talked about his upcoming graduation and career options – among other things. That is, until he got a text message.

“So uhh – I was talking to this girl earlier to see if she was free tonight… and she said she wasn’t – but she just texted me and said her plans changed and she’s free – mind if she joins us?”

And so we became three.

This was Sunday, the night before real Saint Patrick’s Day. I met him right around 10pm and asked him what time the tube would stop running, so I could make sure I’d get home okay. He said it should close around 12:30 or 1 a.m. Good enough for me. Plenty of time.

Dave’s lady friend meets up with us and he suggested we head to a bar named “Ain’t Nothin but Blues Bar.” Live music every night – fancy people and expensive beer – sounds like a plan!

Despite the £4 pints, the place was really, really cool. It was a small venue but packed – even from the back we were no more than fifteen feet from the band. People were dancing and partying – wearing silly Guinness hats for Saint Patrick’s Day – the singer proclaimed that Saint Patrick was the patron saint of cheap beer – it was a blast. I stayed until their set was over and then decided I needed to get going so I wouldn’t miss the tube.

I stepped outside and looked around. We’d been to a bunch of different places before there, and I didn’t really have my bearings. There were a few taxis waiting outside. One of them waved me over.

“Where you trying to get to?”

“Woodside Park… how do I get to the nearest tube?”

“Tube’s closed, mate,” he says. I look at my watch.

“It’s only 11:30!”

“It’s a Sunday – tomorrow’s a holiday. Tube’s closed.”

I look at him blankly.

“You said you need to get to Woodside Park?”

“Yup.”

“That’s far mate, real far. I can give you a ride there for £200,” he offers.

For the record, this converts to $400 US dollars.

“That’s very nice of you – I have £7 in my pocket. Will that do?”

“Okay okay – I can do it for £150.”

Everyone likes trying to rob the Americans.

“That’s still very nice of you… I have £7 in my pocket…”

“£125?” he tries.

“Look man, I’m not bluffing. I’ve got £7 in my pocket – is that going to get me home or what?”

“Nah man. £125.”

“There a bus stop nearby?”

He points me in the direction of darkness – basically keep going straight and hang a left at the homeless person.

I figured at this point I wasn’t going to be home by the 12:30am I had told Dom. I pull out my phone and dial his number.

“We’re sorry – you have insufficient funds to place this call.”

My heart sinks.

I enter the code into my phone to see how much funds I DO have. £0.11: there is a God. This is EXACTLY enough to send one text message. Outgoing calls and texts cost – incoming everything is free.

“Dom – call me. I’m out of credit – kind of lost - and the tube is closed.”

I pop my phone back in my pocket.

The cab driver might have been trying to screw me over and pay off his mortgage on one sucker-American, but he gave good directions in the face of defeat. I got to the bus stop and wait for a few minutes, alone, before a bus pulled up.

“Will this get me to Woodside Park?” I ask the driver.

“No man – no that’s REAL far away!” he says, laughing.

“Yeah… yeah I know… do you know how I can get there?”

“Yeah man… take this to Trafalgar Square – get off there and take the N20 all the way up to Woodside Park.”

I swipe my travel card – and so far the only thing that hasn’t gone wrong on this expedition is that there’s plenty of money on it for me to get home – and even get lost on the way there.

Still no call from Dom.

Trafalgar Square is two stops up. I get off my bus on the east side of the square and see an N20 departing from the west side. I walk over and check the schedule. The bus leaves every half hour – good enough. London’s transportation has a helpful feature where they tell you exactly how long it’ll take to get from one destination to another. Trafalgar Square to Woodside Park? It says 2 hours. I have a half hour to kill – and I realize that there is something I need to do before that 2-hour bus ride starts… I’ve gotta pee!

I start wandering around Trafalgar Square in front of the National Portrait Gallery and realize this isn’t going to be easy… security is everywhere. But – security work here – and if they have to patrol all night – they’ve got to pee SOMEWHERE, right?

“Hey man – there a toilet around here?” I ask one of the guys in a yellow jacket.

“Uhh – well, you could climb up on one of the lion statues and try and make it into the fountain,” he said.

“Uh… any other ideas?” I ask, laughing nervously.

“Not a thrill seeker – eh? Well…” he said, leaning in closer, “if you go down that little alley way there are some nice dark corners…”

“Are you serious?” I ask.

“Look mate – you ain’t been in London if you haven’t peed on the Portrait Gallery,” he said. One of his colleagues hears this and starts laughing 10 feet away.

I followed his directions – his instructions – and sure enough there WERE plenty of dark corners. Mission accomplished!

As I headed back to the bus stop, the guard who had been circling the fountain sees me walking by and shouts “Hey! Yeah? Yeah? Everything cool now?”

I nod my head, shoot him a thumbs up and say, “Thanks, mate!”

I check my phone again – still no call from Dom.

The bus finally pulls up. I tell the driver where I’m trying to get. He confirms that this bus WILL get me there and it WILL take exactly two hours. I ask if he can give me a heads up when we arrive – he agrees. I didn’t really believe that he WOULD, but after he made sure I got where I was going – I found that if you ask a bus driver ANYWHERE in Europe to let you know when you’re “there,” wherever that is, they’ll help you.

Two stops past Trafalgar, Neil Diamond’s voice comes booming out of my cell phone – chanting the anthem of Red Sox Nation – finally: Dom is calling.

I tell him the situation.

“The night bus is a blast, mate! You’ll make friends with someone and the two hours will fly by,” he tells me.

And so it was. Two stops later, at Tottenham Court Road Station, on steps a really cute girl who comes over and asks “anyone sitting here?”

“No, go right ahead,” I tell her. She looks at my UEA hoodie.

“What’s an American in a UEA hoodie doing going to North-North London at this hour?”

Ladies and Gentlemen, meet Katie.

Katie is getting a Bachelors of Fine Arts in Theater from a university in London. She’s done a bunch of stage theater but is more interested in television. She also does vocal performance but tells me she doesn’t think she can make a career at it. My art-high-school dork alarm starts blaring. I’ve made a friend.

I very modestly brag about a few of my art-school accomplishments, such as singing at the Tempe Music Festival on the same day as The Counting Crows. Apparently, this is her favorite band.

Score.

“You have very kind eyes – I could tell you were an artist when I first saw you, that’s why I sat down with you,” she tells me.

She asks me what I’m studying at UEA – I tell her creative writing which gets the same gasp/squeal as The Counting Crows.

She asks what kind of “stuff” I write. Despite loving to talk about writing, I hate getting this question. First of all, if I answered it truthfully I’d have to include term papers, emails and random messages I write on people’s Facebook walls – because that’s ALL writing. I’ve always felt like if it’s simple enough to explain concisely in conversation – why would you bother writing it down? Of course – this answer would kill a conversation real fast and make me look like a dick so I gave her my “thoughtful” copy/paste answer that I’ve been practicing for years.

“I like writing about human relationships. The psychology of human interaction is fascinating and tend to write situational fiction, primarily about getting through conflicts.”

In laymen’s terms, this translates to “I like writing about things happening to people...”

Someone looking for a longer answer will realize I haven’t actually said anything and ask a follow-up question, where as someone who just wants to show polite interest will nod their head approvingly and tell me it sounds interesting. She followed by asking who my favorite author is.

We get back onto acting – and I ask who her favorite performer is.

“Jerry Seinfeld,” she says.

“You know… my grandmother lived in the same little-old-lady home as his mom,” I tell her.

Really? Did I just try to brag about that? Wow… way to go, Slick Bandit.

She didn’t skip a beat though, we kept chatting and telling stories about our various artistic endeavors. I tried to remember a monologue I preformed my senior year of high school – got through the first few lines and then made up the rest of it.

“You should go to auditions! You’re so good!” she said excitedly, slapping my arm.

“Nah – I think I’ll stick to writing.”

“Well, you are a man of many talents,” she tells me, looking out the window.

“This is my stop,” she says. I look at my watch and realize mine should be in the next few minutes too.

“Come find me when your name is in lights – okay Mr. Writer?” she says and then lays a HUGE kiss on me.

“Okay…” I say, surprised and a little dazed.

Sure enough – my stop was the very next one. The bus driver stuck his head out of his little window and says “Hey you – this is you!” and I make my way back to Dom’s house.

I tell him the entire story, he and his brother laughing along the whole way.

“I told you you’d make friends on the night bus.”