The British Are Coming

Hold the (emergency elevator) phone. I thought we Americans owned the "fat, oversexed, tv addicted" market.

First my hometown (and by hometown, I mean nearest city I never went to growing up in fear of being robbed, or worse yet, depressed) loses the dubious distinction of being America's fattest city, and now this? Get back to eating, folks.

Week(end) in Review

With my friends well on their way back to the U.S. of A, a few interesting "takeaways" from their time here in London:

The emergency phone in my building's elevator can be used for much more than emergencies:For the past few months, I've never thought to try to make a call on the elevator phone, assuming it was a direct line to the London Fire Department or some isht. Sarah took it upon herself to test this assumption after being out one night, and, well, let's just say I have a new (free) means to keep in touch with family and friends in the states. I'll keep you posted on the inevitable tenant letter detailing charges to Michigan and New York.

The ladies at work apparently think I'm "eye candy": There have been a few rumors about this emanating from the States, but evidently I've got a bit more opportunity here than I realized. Woo hoo! Just when I thought I'd be chang-ing bics for the rest of the Summer, Tim brought me back to reality by suggesting that "There must be no other single men in London". Thanks, man.

There is Karaoke in London after all: You just have to search for it (which for us entailed asking a bunch of randoms in the streets). Unfortunately the selection was quite limited, and the MC curiously shut down additional requests just after Sarah and I had warmed up the crowd with Stevie Wonder's "I Just Called to Say I Love You". Coincidence? After we butchered the high notes at the end, I think not. Bastard.

I've become a bit obsessive about cleanliness: I'm placing blame on this one. First, I spent a good two years living with an obsessive compulsive roommate of Danny Tanner proportions. (No offense, Joey). Second, my visitors were a bit sloth-like when it came to keeping the apartment clean. (To their credit, they were relegated to sleep in my small living room). At one point I scolded them about how often we were repeatedly losing the TV remote, cell phone, and keys amongst the squalor. However, they weren't deterred, and instead just started calling me "Dad" and repeating my comment - "This is how things get lost!" for the rest of the weekend. Sorry guys...

Guestblog entry (and, now that I think of it, likely revenge) from Tim on it's way as soon as he gets his act together.

CityHangover Guestblog, Vol II

As promised, the first of two CityHangover Guestblog entries. First up, Sarah. (Who, by the way, insisted that we use her grossly outdated 2002 edition of Let's Go Europe! throughout the trip, despite us having a myriad of more recent travel guides.)

This May Be The Spaceshake Talking...



It is my honor to contribute to the CityHangover tradition, which, against all odds, seems to have developed something of a following (who ARE you people, and why do you tolerate him if you don't have, say, a history from the college years or a familial obligation?). I will do my best to, as Curt instructed, "walk the fine line of appropriateness." To know Curt is to know that said line is generally disregarded, so I'll obey to the greatest extent possible.

So after a series of travel adventures and a lovely day (Brits' term, not mine) in London, Curt, Tim, and I set off for Amsterdam, home of the world-famous Van Gogh museum, Anne Frank's horrific end, and stoners from 'round the world. Admittedly, the third item seems to have really made its mark on the Amsterdam culture, with an embarrassing human-to-Pizza Hut ratio of somewhere around 3:1. The famed Red Light District, which I had imagined as a gritty-glamorous epicenter of sexual deviance, was actually just sad, and even its sticky streets were not immune to the Pizza Hut influx. But one burning question was answered: Sex shows do not, in fact, close for Easter. (Maybe we're NOT going to Hell!)

In an attempt to recreate the carelessness (read: laziness) of our college days, we decided to simply find lodging upon arrival. We soon realized, however, that two things have changed since our glory days past: (1) The Euro has significantly strengthened against the dollar; and (2) Our standards have risen (who knew?). Thus, we were left with but one hotel option: A double room at the Golden Tulip Inn. Sounds lovely, eh? For 200 Euros a night, we were blessed with an intimate room just off the elevator shaft with a sloped ceiling, one window that couldn't be opened, and one hard double bed. In case you are worrying that the one double bed would prove awkward for the three of us, rest assured: The proximity to the elevator ensured that anyone coming or going actually seemed to be in the room with us, detracting from any otherwise uncomfortable moments.

Sadly, among the excitement of the Golden Tulip Inn, Amsterdam's quaint coffee shops, and Pizza Hut, we saved the Anne Frank House for our final day in the city, and the lines were too long to bear. I was momentarily disappointed that I would not get to see the tiny space that Anne shared with several members of her family, trapped inside while the city bustled outside. But then I realized that our night at the Golden Tulip Inn was more or less the same. And isn't it better to do than to imagine? Holla!

I'm still not sure how Vegas got rights to "The City of Sin" distinction but Amsterdam should definitely put up a fight for that whole "What happens in...stays in..." mantra. Never have I felt so dirty or disoriented upon leaving a historic city. Then again, maybe it was the Dutch language, which seems to operate on a simple principle: Take an English word, add four syllables, stick "laan" on the end, and call it a day. And with that, I'm finishedstraatschmubenlaan. Dank u wel (or, as Curt told many a native waiter, "Donkeyville")!

I'm Baaaaaaack

Relax people. I'm alive. And I've finally recovered from a great weekend in Amsterdam.

Although I've been to Amsterdam before, this most recent trip far exceeded my expectations. The weather was amazing, so we spent our days strolling through the Jordaan, smelling fresh tulips and dining in quaint outdoor cafes. Our nights were quite low-key, and often punctuated by a hearty broodje dinner and espresso. We relaxed amongst the linden trees and gardens near Museumplein, and soaked up the history and culture of both the Rijksmuseum and Van Gogh Museum for an entire afternoon. We also took the time to visit the Anne Frankhuis, a "difficult yet important" experience which left us all emotionally drained.

Ok. So maybe none of that happened. And maybe it was suggested (by my boss) that I go home from work early on Tuesday because "your body is here, but your mind is somewhere else". But that's neither here nor there, is it?

To make up for my extended weekend absence from, well, reality, I have a surprise for you. Not one, but two CityHangover Guestblog entries are on their way courtesy of NYC hipsters (and current London visitors) Tim and Sarah...

Fun With Words

A famous quote by George Bernard Shaw suggests that England and America are "two countries separated by a common language". I'm finding, however, that the language isn't common after all. That said, I've been having a heck of a good time ramping up on my British slang. And best of all, like most of my key phrases/actions, it's tough for others to decipher if I'm being ironic or just stupid when I flaunt my newfound vocabulary. I'm not sure I really know anymore.

So you probably already know that a guy is a bloke, a 5 pound bill is a fiver, and the London subway is the tube. You also probably overuse the term bloody when speaking of the British. Easy, right?

I imagine you're less likely to have heard that the term fanny pack refers to something far more vulgar than your parent's must-have travel item, or that taking the piss refers to when you're giving someone a hard time (while to be pissed is to be drunk). You might not realize that if you pull with a fit bird you're hooking up with a good looking girl, but then again, said birds are tough to come by in this city anyway.

I'm still undecided on my favo(u)rite British slang. For a while, the term chav seemed to have just the right amount of versatility and staying power to lead the list. Unfortunately, it appears to be a bit more classist and offensive than I first realized (even after providing for a generous "gimme" level of British classism). Check out a full description (with pictures!) here.

Feels Like Home

Have you ever had a nagging feeling that something is missing in your life?

I've had an indescribable void in the pit of my stomach for a while now. A yearning for something characteristically "New York", so to speak. I was finally able to put my finger on it today while walking through Tralfalgar Square (because that's what people in London do). I miss the crazies!

Fortunately my pleas were heard, as London delivered a whole slate of NYC worthy weirdos on this lazy Sunday. First, I came across the man pictured above, who danced in circles to some sort of Gaelic-like (?) music blaring from his boombox while carrying a sign with an Israel/rapture/God's chosen people message. (Don't worry. I couldn't figure out the connection between his message and his miniskirt, either). Dude must have been cold.

Shortly thereafter, I had to endure a painful rendition of "Tears in Heaven" from a shady guy on the subway, er, tube. Evidently, crazies come in threes too, because on my walk home I passed a homeless woman pushing what appeared to be a shopping cart full of empty plastic grocery bags. She was wearing a large plastic bag to stay dry, and also had bags around her shoes. When I passed her, she barked incoherent insults (well, mostly. I did catch some cursing in there) at me. For those of you who have spent some time in Brooklyn Heights, she actually reminded me a lot of that hefty homeless woman that resides along Henry Street and tends to favor high-heeled boots and midriff baring tank tops.

This place is really starting to feel like home.

Remember, Remember the 5th of November

I finally saw V for Vendetta - as you may recall, movies don't come cheap around these parts. As a whole, I liked the film. That said, I think I came into it predisposed, or at least wanting to like the film given that it was a Wachowski product. (I'm letting them off the hook for the Matrix sequels.) I won't attempt to construct a review, or consider how it compares to the graphic novel - the rest of you can do that far better than I can. But a few thoughts:

-I found the entire plot far too overt, as though the Wachowski's had a list of hot button political topics they were committed to checking off as each scene progressed. Terrorism and biological warfare. Check. U.S. International relations (particularly with the Middle East). Check. Gay marriage/homosexuality. Check. Wire tapping. Check. In fairness, I tend to feel this way about most of the movies I see, so it may be that I just like working a little harder to decipher a film. I guess it could have been worse, a la Oscar favorite Crash. And speaking of overt references to racism, where was that in V? At least we can look forward to racial harmony as our metropolis crumbles in 20 years.

-Is anyone else finding it harder and harder to hate Natalie Portman over time? It was so easy when she was going to Harvard and making those stupid Star Wars films (sorry guys). Now she's actually acting quite well (particularly in the scenes in which she is held captive), delivering a British accent that exceeded my low expectations (far better than Jude Law's American twang in I Heart Huckabees), and looking borderline hot in the pre-shaved scenes. I may need to find a new Harvard grad to hate. Any nominees?

-The American and British press seem to be responding to this film quite differently. In the U.S., it seems like the film is earning a respectable B average from critics - definitely worth seeing, but admittedly flawed. In England, I've found the reaction to be much more negative. I'm not sure if it's just that the issues the movie addresses are so clearly American in nature, or if Brits are simply annoyed that American filmmakers had the audacity to destroy parliament on the big screen. A few examples: In The Guardian, Peter Bradshaw's review finds the film condescending toward London and Britain (although he does get points for calling the filmmakers out on the weird Beauty and the Beast(iality) thing at the end), while the review on easyCinema (I know, a literary gem) considers the actors' performances largely, well, rubbish.

In other movie news - I saw a trailer on iTunes for Brick, which apparently generated a lot of buzz at Sundance. Anyone seen it? If my one college film class taught me anything (unlikely), it appears to be a modern take on film noir. And the girl in the preview looks a lot like Summer from the O.C. But then again, these days, who doesn't?

Nepotism vs. Trust Funds

In my experience, Sundays are best spent napping, doing laundry, catching up on DVR, and feeling generally morose about returning to a Monday morning cubicle existence. If I'm feeling particularly motivated, I might go running or pick-up some groceries (to be tossed out a week later when I replace them with duplicates and curse myself for never cooking). That's more or less the extent of my Sabbath activity. (A note to my Muslim and Jewish brethren, I'm using the term Sabbath in the traditional Christian sense here. No offense.)

Like most days best spent catching up on life, Brits instead approach Sunday as one final opportunity to get rowdy and toss back a few pints before the week starts. This activity is typically centered around watching football or rugby, but this weekend it was all about "The Boat Race". And it was awesome.

The Boat Race is a gazillion year old tradition featuring gazillion year old Oxford and Cambridge Universities. The schools' crew teams compete each spring in a perilous 4 1/2 mile journey along the River Thames, and the winning team gets to take home the losing team's girlfriends. Or something. As a spectator, you spend most of the day "socializing" along the river banks, traveling from bar to bar in anticipation of the big event. Inevitably, by the time said big event starts, no one is in any shape to care about a slow ass rowing race between two popped collar universities.

I, however, rose above all of this debauchery to snap a photo at what I believe was the 1 mile mark of the race. If you squint really hard, you may even see the two boats duking it out on the right side of the pic. I also did some research after the race to bring you this year's critical stats. Because you deserve to know. Oxford won the race by about 5 lengths, clocking a time of 18 minutes and 26 seconds. Interestingly, the Oxford team was lead by a trio of Americans (gasp!). More interestingly (?), I believe I was biting into a two cheeseburger meal (large sized) right around the time of the Oxford finish. My stomach is still recovering.