Embracing the London Music Scene

We checked out the much lauded London music scene on Saturday night. Our destination was Camden, a "gritty" neighborhood in the north part of the city. (By gritty, I mean that the hipster to Starbucks ratio is a modest 10:1 - vs. the more robust 50:1 ratio in gentrified areas). Camden's venues have played host to a lot of now famous bands (think Blur, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Smashing Pumpkins).

I would have much more to say about the night, but unfortunately I'm still catching on to how early people go out here. By the time we got to our destination, Barfly, we had missed the openers and caught only about 3/4 of the headlining band. Regardless (you say irregardless, I say regardless. Or maybe you say disirregardless?), we had a good time.

The band we saw was called Tahiti 80, and a bit more pop than rock. They put on an entertaining, but admittedly pretty standard show for most of the night. At least until the bass guitar player came out in a Panda costume for their encore (see photo above). I don't know. But it was funny.

CityHangover GuestBlog, Vol I

Here's how it works - you visit, you blog. I provide complete editorial freedom (sort of like the Michigan Daily). Sharon leads us off.

'We Traveled Together'

Overwhelmed by this new acquisition of complete editorial freedom, I'm speechless. Almost. I feel my duty as the first-ever guest blogger is to provide all you future guest bloggers with a few tips on how to survive a week with Curt in London (and Spain).

Never Trust Curt's Map Skills: After arriving in London on an early Friday morning, I followed Curt's more than impressive PowerPoint map of the Underground and a zoomed-in view of his neighborhood with his apartment marked. Too bad the apartment address had the wrong street number. So there I stood on the street corner with my two heavy bags (filled with books, contacts, etc. per Curt's request) reading People magazine waiting for him to meet me. That point on I knew I'd be the point-person for all things direction related.

Murphy's Gonna Getcha Getcha: Saturday morning Curt and I headed to Sevilla (I studied there for 5 months so feel completely confident in using the Spanish name) to visit my youngest brother. After hurdling several obstacles to get to the train station (including station fires, closed Underground lines, and the like), we boarded a bus to take us to the airport. Too bad the coach driver missed the airport exit and had to drive an extra 30 minutes out of the way to the next turnaround. We arrived at the airport at the exact time our flight took off forcing us to purchase new tickets. Instead of a flight to Seville, the best we could get was to Malaga where we would then take a train to Sevilla. We finally checked in to the hotel after a 14 hour journey, and then proceeded to drink. Cheers to Murphy's Law.

Pack Lightly, But Not Too Lightly: Let us all learn a lesson from Curt's forgetfulness to pack underwear on our trip to Spain. Oops. Because every legitimate store in Sevilla is closed on Sunday, he finally located some at a Spanish-style flea market. He is now the proud owner of "Indero" boxers.

It's True: Brits Lack a Sense of Humor: Proceed with caution whilst at the passport control line at Gatwick airport. When asked by a passport control agent how much money I brought with me to England, I cheekily replied "Not Enough." Taking my comment seriously, he proceeded to interrogate me on how many credit cards I had, how much money I earned, who I was visiting, and what the nature of our relationship is. Next time, I'll remember to answer briefly and seriously.

Emily Post Would Be Proud: Despite his affinity for trips to the dark side and borderline cruel comments and lewd getures, Curt's a surprisingly great host. Not only is there an endless flow of snacks and drinks (alcohol, of course), he willingly gives up his bed for the Argos-purchased air mattress (bring D batteries as it's not plug-in style). And he even has 'Laguna Beach' on his iTunes just in case those crazy British shows don't do it for you. Most importantly, as a visitor, you get to blog. Who could ask for anything more?

Dos Chai Lattes, Por Favor

Just returned from a relaxing weekend in Seville, Spain. (You may know it as "Sevilla" if holding on to your halcyon days on study abroad.) Despite the infestation of American students (to be fair, we were visiting one), Seville provided a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of city life. We spent most of our weekend walking the city and dropping into cafes for drinks and tapas along the way.

All of this free time should have led to a host of profound thoughts, but, as it often does with my friends, instead resulted in endless fun at someone else's expense. This time around it was Jessica, a classic sorority girl transplanted straight from Jersey to wreak havoc on unsuspecting Spanish service workers. We were lucky to run into her at a Seville Starbucks. (Yes, Starbucks is omnipresent. Like NYC cockroaches.) Jessica insisted on applying her Jersey accent when speaking Spanish - which provided endless entertainment for the other patrons. The Spainiards in line actually started to make fun of her when she spoke, ordering quintessential American coffee drinks like Cappuccinos "Desnatadas" and Chai Lattes. Despite our own amateur Spanish language prowess, we joined in.

Rather than improve our own skills (like nunchuck skills, bowhunting skills...), we spent the rest of the weekend honing our SpanJersey accent - which meant we said things like "Sin Azucar" (without sugar) and "Cappuccinos Desnatadas" (Skim Cappucinos) repeatedly as obnoxious as possible. It proved quite fun.

Update: Stay tuned for Sharon's take on the weekend, courtesy of the CityHangover GuestBlog

Going Postal

My mailman hates me. Either that, or I still have a lot to learn about the "Royal Mail" system.

When I arrived here in London, my mailbox was full of what appeared to be junk mail for nearly every tenant of the last 20 years (see photo at right). I live in a corporate housing unit catering to expats - so it's very unlikely that Ms. Jacinta Allen, Mr. P Singh, or for that matter, The Occupier, are coming back to get their mail any time soon. Considering this, I tossed all of the stuff into the trash, ahem, rubbish, next to the mailboxes.

When I came home from work the next day I saw that my mailbox was once again filled with unwanted junk mail. Had spammers caught on to my whereabouts already? Those clever bastards. Nope. Upon closer inspection, I realized It was the same mail. Damn Jacinta Allen!

I figured that my mailman must have thought that I dispensed of the letters in error, so I gave him another shot by tossing them back into the trash again. At this point, I can imagine you're getting the hang of this. If you guessed that I returned home the following day to find the letters back in the #8 basket, you're on the right track. Who is this guy?

To avoid a standoff, I decided to tuck the letters safely away in my apartment until I move out. At that point, I'll probably toss them in the trash once again, leaving the subsequent fallout to the next tenant. Sucka!

Oh, and if Mr. P Singh is reading this, I think I have a chiropractor bill for you. My bad.

In today's Evening Standard

Hmm. I'm guessing a 2/3 majority "against" terror?

I have seen the future, and it is "Argos"

I'm quite disappointed with the U.S. of A. today. Not because of our crap president, our weak dollar, or even our Hallmark holidays. It's something far worse. We've let another country out consume us.

I found my way into Argos yesterday on the way home from work. It's OK - I had never head of Argos either. Until now, I've embraced a life with intermittent trips to New Jersey to experience Costco, Ikea, and Target, never knowing that the holy grail of "all you can buy" shopping was actually across the pond.

Here's the way it works: You enter the Argos store, go to one of their many "selection stations", and peruse the catalog. And this ain't no Sunday circular. This is somewhere around 1 million laminated pages of excess. Yep. It's that good. You pick out what you want, write down the product number, and then pay for it at the counter. Within 5 minutes or so someone has walked out of the back room with your goods. It's that easy. And if we're considering British Pounds without the conversion, it's also relatively cheap.

Yesterday I went in with the intention of buying an Aero bed, but came out with both the air mattress and an all in one down duvet/mattress cover/pillow (and something else I think, though I haven't opened it yet) set. I found myself there again today in search of a Brita filter. Check. Anyone who has ever lived in a city knows how annoying it is to not be able to find simple household goods. With Argos, you don't leave the city to hit the big box store - the store comes to you. Or whatever it is in that back room (Elves? East Asian children? Who knows).

In this time of overt Olympic patriotism (the berets? Again?!), it's tough to admit that the British are ahead on this one. Maybe we've got hope, though. With our inability to save money, it's inevitable that an Argos store will open stateside sometime soon.

All Is Well That Ends Well?

This past weekend was my first opportunity to get the locals to warm up to me. A colleague from work had a party at her apartment, and a handful of good looking girls were expected to be in attendance. I met another guy who is here on a project assignment for dinner and beers, and then we made our way to the party. The night proceeded as follows...

Oh, first - taking a step back - you can drink in public here. Given this, and because we had to show up with some beers, we sort of got a head start on the way. Anyhow...

9:44pm (they do it early here): We arrive at the party, recognizing our work cohorts and sharing requisite hellos. There seem to be more girls than dudes which I note as a positive start. I drop my coat off in the back room and see that there is a sizable balcony with a heater outside. Great place for a party.

9:48: I drop my (remaining) beers off at the fridge and notice a huge bowl of unknown alcohol concoction (think citrus, and probably something you've seen projecting from your mouth after a college party). I take special note to avoid said unknown alcohol concoction (U.A.C.) and stick with my beer.

9:49: I begin chatting with the girls tending the U.A.C., and somehow wind up with a cup full. The girls seem nice and OK looking, but the night is young and I'm still feeling ambitious. I make rounds introducing myself to the other guests, and head outside to the patio to enjoy the backyard view - which elicits nostalgia for life on West 89th.

10:15: An American guy joins the balcony crowd and begins telling terrible, completely self-promotional, stories. Worse yet, he vacilates between an American and British accent. Huh? I have to get away from him, and, against my judgement, take solace in the bowl of U.A.C.

11 ish: One of the girls that had been tending the U.A.C., Tall Big-Boned Girl (T.B.B.G), comes over and begins chatting with me. I feign interest for a while but begin inadvertently looking around the room. We chat for a good 15-20 minutes. I consider heading outside to listen to AmeriBrit's stories but decide against it. We continue to talk, though I allow a bit of sarcasm to trickle into the conversation. I need another cup of U.A.C.

12 something: I've somehow pissed off T.B.B.G., and she - quite publicly - begins to tell me off. She makes references to my "trainers" (Saucony) and "jumper" (argyle - which I thought was ironic but now I'm not sure) coupled with some sort of "Who do you think you are?" accusations. I smile, not knowing how to react. She gets more angry. I'm confused.

1 something: At this point I've circled in on the 5 cool people at the party and sequestered myself accordingly. Unfortunately, T.B.B.G. is back on the prowl. I fear more harassment, but am wholly surprised. T.B.B.G. is apologizing, saying she was harsh and it's just that I must have said something and that we really should hang out and blah blah blah. What's going on?

Later: We're all hanging out in the back room as the party starts to thin out. Somehow I manage to rile up T.B.B.G. once again, and decide to spice things up further by telling her that I don't remember her name. This time T.B.B.G. makes me pay, dumping her cup of U.A.C. all over my head. She also gets the hostess' dress wet, inciting near girl-on-girl violence. I am surprised, but we've all already decided that T.B.B.G. must be crazy, so it's shaken off.

Yet Later: We depart the party and head outside to catch a cab. I even shake hands with T.B.B.G. to ensure our split is amicable. Weird party. After waving a cab down, we're caught off guard by the arrival of Louise, a really out of it drunk girl (R.O.O.I.D.G.). Louise half begs us to drop her off on the way home, and we oblige, if only for the entertainment.

Still Later: We're chatting with R.O.O.I.D.G. in the cab. She shares how she had been waiting for the bus for the last 40 minutes, but then she realized that the bus # she was looking for actually doesn't exist. We begin to laugh. The cab hits a sizeable bump, and R.O.O.I.D.G.'s head bangs against the car door with a thud. Somehow, she continues to speak with no audible pause. We begin laughing uncontrollably. Finally, we drop off R.O.O.I.D.G. (she didn't really know where she lived, either, but you get the point) and contemplate the likelihood that she has a concussion. She seems to be balancing OK, so we proceed.

And Finally Later: We sit down in a Chinatown restaurant for a 4am meal. Highlights of the evening are discussed, as is the feasibility of an underground rice distribution system across London's Chinatown. We agree, unanimously, that it must exist. We also realize that the guy (owner?) sitting adjacent to us has fallen asleep. From the layout in front of him he must have been balancing the books. One leg rests on the floor, while the other is propped on what appears to be a cash box (see photo above). Bizarro night comes to an end.

And there you have it. I'm hoping to give the locals another try next weekend.

Good News

They have SuperCuts in London.

What's the same: They can still only do one style. You know, the one where they use the clippers on the sides and back and then trim the top to an inch or two. A glorified bowl cut, if you will.

What's different: The famed $12.99 cut has been replaced by one that cost me somewhere around $30.

"I'll Cut You With Words"

I watch way too much television. It all started when I was a kid watching channel 9 (I remember the theme song all too well - "Kids in Chicago, having a good time. They are watching, channel 9". Kind of lame, now that I think about it.) My favorite was the Woody Woodpecker Show (check out the opening clip here). I always felt for Chilly Willy - never able to get warm and all. I guess I was one of the few fortunate kids in my generation whose parents didn't catch on to the correlation between television and violence/ADHD/stupidity in children. I owe my parents a high five.

I've since graduated from cartoons to useless teen dramas (The O.C., and quite possibly the best/worst show ever, North Shore) and predictable reality TV programming (Survivor, The Amazing Race, all things Real World, etc.). Lost is one of my only redeeming shows. There might even be bootleg copies of an Amazing Race application video out there with my name on it. Check eBay.

Fortunately, iTunes has allowed me to carry these poor TV habits with me into my new habitat. Tonight I watched the newest episode of The Office, followed up with yet another classic episode of The Gauntlet II. (Timmy referred to his team as "a bunch of drunk ferets", Syrus got beat down in the gauntlet, and Alton caught a case of bigtime beer goggles.) If Lost was actually ever on I would have caught up on that as well.

I've been a willing victim of the iPod halo effect for some time now, but I have to say that I've got Apple on a 52 week high for this isht.

Is Anyone Here a Marine Biologist?

I went to Cambridge this weekend to experience the life of a privileged British youth at University. For those of you who don't know, Cambridge is a small town 50 miles outside of London with a college of the same name. Its university is the second oldest (to Oxford) in the World, blah blah blah. On second thought, just picture "Dead Poet's Society" and you're all set.

The University and town were great - a lot of old architecture and character. Aside from checking out campus, we stopped in at a local pub for beers and fish and chips. (How British!). Despite it being cliche, I fully expect to eat fish and chips at least once a week while I'm here. That must be Atkins or something?

The day was going perfectly until we got on the train to head home. After a few minutes on the train, I heard a loud thud a few rows behind me. I looked back and saw that some guy had passed out onto the train floor. Fortunately, someone began to help him, and within a few minutes he regained consciousness (although he had no idea where he was). It wasn't until well after he was back in his seat that I realized two disturbing things. First, that I hadn't moved at all to help him when he fell, despite being closest to his seat. Second, that my first thought upon seeing his body in the fetal position was that it would really suck if my one trip to Cambridge got ruined by some guy dying on the train.

Luckily, I felt better when I remembered that I still had 1/2 of the weekend edition of the International Herald Tribune to read on the way home.

Week 1

I've successfully survived week 1 in my new habitat, and have posted a few pics of my apartment building and street. I feel lucky to have landed in a nice neighborhood, sight unseen. A few highs and lows from the "experience" (I feel sort of like a reality tv cast member using that term) so far:

Travels

Highs: I wound up flying business class, which I must say made a big difference in my attitude regarding the 12 hour (door-to-door) trip. The seats were spacious, and they even came around with menus so you could choose the courses you wanted for dinner. I apologize for sounding a bit too impressed, but I spend most of my time in the last open coach seat - boxed in by the fat woman and the bathroom. I wound up eating well and then sleeping through the night. I even got to skip the long customs line. I knew I wasn't too far from home when the car service driver who picked me up was blaring R. Kelly's "Ignition (Remix)" in the car.

Lows:The guy in the seat next to me was quite fidgety and insisted on wearing a SARs mask the entire way, which was a bit unsettling. I was also outed as a business class amateur when I couldn't figure out how to get my personal tv screen out of the middle armrest. I took both as a sign that I should just sleep through the trip.

Apartment

Highs:My flat is newly renovated and a hell of a lot better than I could afford in this city. I was disappointed to find myself so excited about the presence of a laundry machine (what has become of me?) in my kitchen. I also have a housekeeper (completely unnecessary, I know). Although she's (or He's? to be fair) billed to handle only light clean up and dusting/vacuuming, s/he seemed quite adept at washing the sink full of dishes I left out. I'm going to leave clothes our for ironing this week to see what happens.

Lows:The apartment is very "British" by design - meaning that its floor plan is really choppy and each room has a door. Interestingly, all of the doors open in the less convenient direction. I wouldn't care, except the living room door opens into the couch and the kitchen door opens into the refrigerator. You have to really commit to being in any one room.

Work

Actually, I'll save that one. It merits an entry of its own. As a teaser: The water filtration machine has been broken since I arrived. Not a big deal. But instead of it getting fixed, people seem to have taken things into their own hands - inserting objects into the exposed wires to try and fill up their cups. The best part is, I wouldn't be surprised if they were still doing it in 2 months.

Changing the Game. Or Something.

Hello people.

First, let me state the obvious. I want to be cool, too.

Over the last 2-3 years, hipsters across America have actively chronicled their lives online. These web logs, or blogs, as they're called, have risen in popularity. Unless you're over 30 (or, as I recently found, one of my colleagues at work) you've heard of a blog. In fact, even old school, brick and mortar companies have taken to "blogging". Take CNN, for example.

Second, I have just moved. Not to the East Village, or even to Westchester. I've moved to London. Essentially, as I began to move up the corporate ladder I decided that New York City just wasn't expensive enough for me. People didn't drink enough, and the weather was too nice. Enter London.

Although I've only been here a few days, I have already had a number of comedic experiences. I've attempted to cache these in the back of my head for the day, but by the time I get home from work they're lost forever (actually, things typically unravel when I head to a pub after work, but that's neither here nor there).

Because of this, I'm "launching" a blog of my own. City Hangover. Hopefully this will give me the chance to share some of my more noteworthy experiences in my new hood, and ruminate a bit on life in my old one. And if anyone winds up reading it, even better.

Let's get started. Eat it, hipsters!