Want to know what I haven’t done in a while?  Blogged. I know that sounds stupid, but I  haven’t just sat down and written about  something totally random with no meaning  behind it. Now, the reason I don’t do that is  because that is more of a journal, which I  don’t want to do. I don’t like it when people  have a blog that they just use as a journal. It  annoys me a lot. If you want a journal, then  get a fucking journal!

So, what to talk about…well, There is  something that I have noticed is a repeating  theme in my life. I enjoy watching re-runs of  shows that are either no longer in  production, or are a few seasons into production. So, yes, there are the classic sitcoms, but more recently I have some too. The summer before high school I watched re-runs of Dawson’s Creek on TBS. They showed a 2 hour block at 9 am and then at 10 am. I watched every single episode from the first season, to the last. Which, to me, was disappointing. Does anyone else remember that? I now know that it was cancelled, which probably explains it all, and just makes me believe that they settled for that as a finale. I personally didn’t enjoy the fact that Michelle Williams’ character died. I didn’t like that one bit. Also, that Pacey’s older brother ended up with Jack. His brother wasn’t even gay until that episode. It was totally out of the blue. I know this because in the first season when Pacey was sleeping with his English teacher his brother was trying to date her.  I was less than satisfied.

Now, most recently, in my lack of schooling, and lack of working I had another one of these. One day I was channel surfing at the odd time in television. It was before the news and Judge Judy, but after a lot of the mid-afternoon talk shows (like Maury!). Then I landed on Lifetime. At first it was a commercial for an upcoming movie, and I decided that I could use some drama in my life, so I stayed…hoping that I would get that one movie about the 15 year old addicted to porn. Well, turned out that they had a two hour block of Desperate Housewives. It was a few episodes (about 2 or 3) into the first season, so I decided to watch. Well, that time turned into the whole week. That whole week turned into me watching it for 2 hours every day. It got to the point where the highlight of my day was the two hour block of Desperate Housewives. Which, all things considered, is just a tad bit sad.

Well, up until the whole work thing came up, I could spend my days eating and watching re-runs on Lifetime. Well, after the job thing happened, I was about half way through season 3. How long was this you may ask? Well, when you watch 2 episodes a day for 5 days, seasons go by fast. Also, season 3 was during the writers strike, so that was a short one. Luckily every episode was online. At first I was just going to watch the episodes I missed while working, but that didn’t last. It was too addicting! I couldn’t stop. I ended up watching all of season 4 and 5 in about 4 days. Luckily season six was a few episodes in so after I was done with that ABC.com had more for me to watch. Now, unfortunately, I have to wait a whole week for new episodes. It’s okay though because I don’t think about it for a whole week, more that I remember that it’s Monday, and I can watch the new episode online.

Now, I have told you my (potentially embarrasing) story. What about you? Is there any television shows that you watch that might have people looking at you weird? Do you have any obsessive qualities? If so, how/which? Let me know in the comments.

Also, be sure to follow this blog on twitter at twitter.com/joealmunblog or @joealmunblog

P.S I am going to start an advice category…so send me an email if you have something you might want advice on, or even something you might want my opinion on.

P.P.S Was anyone else upset that Edie Britt died? And, if you get the apple reference, leave that in the comments! You’ll get a special shout out from me in my next blog.

I can’t somehow imagine the Worksop Guardian, the Ripley & Heanor News, the Whitby Gazette and the Northumberland Gazette getting much site traffic now they’ve started charging for access to content. The Johnston Press websites will either ask users to pay £5 for a three-month subscription to read the full articles or direct them to buy the newspapers.

For those who don’t know from outside the UK, the most obvious difference between our national and local press is that the latter tend to think ‘girl wins trophy for skipping’ and ‘cat rescued from tree’ are hot news topics, while the former, um, don’t. You can purchase almost any local paper if you’re desperate to find out who won darts at the local Labour Club last Tuesday, or if you’ve heard that the hooded chav at number 37 has been done for growing a cannabis plant in his dad’s greenhouse. Exciting, edge of your seat stuff, with every page offering up reminder after reminder of just why everyday suburban living in Little Bumfuck-On-Sea beats climbing the world’s highest mountain in ballet pumps or sailing down the Amazon on a plank of MDF.

That’s all on the few pages in the middle that aren’t festooned with ads for sofas, vacancies for piss-pot changers at the local care home, and double-page LIDL spreads notifying us of 3 for 1 offers on real Zimbabwean butter that risk dangerous stampedes when the stores next open. And then we have the bi-annual Smiley Faced Baby Brat competitions, that often take up three or four pages, where we are treated to a rogues gallery of squishy-faced infants photographed by strange men in tweed suits wearing owl glasses who spend two weeks camped outside the aforementioned LIDL and the slightly more upmarket (okay, that’s a lie) ALDI tempting single mothers with prams with the promise of maybe winning £15 in shopping vouchers for the pound-per-item discount store and a trip to Skegness to see Roy ‘Chubby’ Brown’s progressive comedy routines.

Then there’s my own wonderful old dad’s favourite occupation over breakfast as well–flicking through the obituaries to find out who’s dead, and whether you knew them. The cowboy directories are pretty useful also, where you can quickly find any number of unemployed people using false names and pay-as-you-go mobiles offering garden clearance services whereby they’ll take your shit away strapped on top of an old Mini, sell what they can, and dump the rest on the M6.

Yep, you’ll get plenty of bang for your fiver. And they wonder why girls get pregnant at 16. If life is this boring, of course you’re going to start playing with your own bits and quickly move on to playing with other people’s. Ending up blind, hairy-palmed and with a baby your mother looks after before you can vote, that’s mildly interesting. But pay to be bored? I don’t think so.

From Dish Erin:

Nothing says the holidays at my Mom’s house like some of her time-tested recipes that I find myself eating cold from the refrigerator at various points on Black Friday. There is a time and place for vegetables smothered in cream-based sauces (especially those from a can), and it’s called Thanksgiving. This is a modified version of a recipe (we Jones girls rarely follow directions) of a dish, ripped from a Betty Crocker cookbook, circa 1988. The very thought of it conjures images of recipe-swapping parties in suburban households, and this one likely made its way through the NJ Tupperware party circuit. The page is stained with oil and fingerprints, vestiges of years of love and usage in my family kitchen.

3 cups sliced cooked carrots (I use the pre-peeled baby carrots and cook for about 5-7 minutes in boiling water)
1 can condensed cream of celery soup
1 cup shredded cheddar cheese

Topping
1/4 cup dry bread crumbs
1 tablespoon butter, melted

Heat oven to 350 degrees.

In medium bowl, combine carrots, soup and cheese. Pour into an oven-safe casserole dish.

In small bowl combine bread crumbs and butter. Sprinkle topping over carrot mixture.

Bake at 350 for 25 to 30 min until hot and bubbly around edges.

Serve with a smile, and in an apron embroidered with your name, obviously.

Nights.ro şi Love Events prezintă:

Desteapta-te romane!

SLYDE
www.myspace.com/fingerlickinslyde

Gojira
http://www.nights.ro/dj/gojira/

Mesmer
www.myspace.com/mesmer1979

luni 30 noiembrie
Club Suburbia

intrare : 30 lei

Aşa cum în fiecare an de 1 decembrie trupele de elită ale forţelor armate române defilează pe sub Arcul de Triumf, tot aşa noi dăm în fiecare an câte o petrecere în forţă, de breakbeat, cu DJ-ii de elită ai Regatului Unit şi nu numai. Nights.ro şi Love Events îi readuc, la cererea fanilor, pe SLYDE, recunoscuţi ca fiind cel mai de succes proiect al label-ului Finger Lickin’, precum şi pe incontestabilul terorist local, GOJIRA, cunoscut şi sub alias-urile “măcelarul din Victoriei”, “devoratorul de copii”, sau, mai simplu, “tatăl lor”. Seara va fi întregită de MESMER, unul dintre cei mai talentaţi producători de breakbeat din România, cu zeci de release-uri şi remixuri la Scarcity Records şi la alte label-uri importante. Localul ce va fi demolat pe 30 noiembrie de cei de mai sus se numeşte Suburbia şi se află în centrul vechi al Bucureştiului, pe strada Şelari, la nr. 19. Trăiască Breakbeat-ul!

I’m not a huge fan of the sporting world, I have to say. It’s ironic – as a child I lived in Twickenham and I went to school in Wimbledon. But even though I couldn’t give a damn about most sports today, I am quite interested in the history of a lot of them. Weird.

The history of boxing is particularly interesting (to me, anyway). It was in 18th and 19th Century London that it really started to take shape in its modern form. Indeed, so far has the sport evolved that it’s impossible to name an all-time great. Witnesseth the picture to your left, an impression of a major fight which took place between the American ex-slave Tom Molineaux and the popular British champion Tom Cribb. The most obvious difference to our eyes is the lack of gloves, which at the time were strictly for amateurs and fighters in training. That ain’t the half of it, though.

I’m getting ahead of myself. Boxing started to become popular as a sport at the beginning of the eighteenth century, but in many ways it was closer to wrestling, or even brawling, than the sport we know. Pretty well anything went, and fatalities were not unknown. It was around 1741 that Jack Broughton did something about this with his Rules.

Broughton was, by the standards of his day, a giant of a man at an inch short of six feet, and massy with it. His day job was working in the Pool of London as a waterman. He was, until the 1850s, entirely undefeated (or so it is claimed). He came  up with his Rules after causing the death of George “The Coachman” Stevenson in an effort to prevent similar fatalities from occurring again. The rules were:

1. That a square of a yard be chalked in the middle of the stage, and on every fresh set-to after a fall, or being parted form the rails, each second is to bring his man to the side of the square, and place him opposite to the other, and till they are fairly set-to at the lines, it shall not be lawful for one to strike at the other.

2. That, in order to prevent any disputes, the time a man lies after a fall, if the second does not bring his man to the side of the square, within the space of half a minute, he shall be deemed a beaten man.

3. That in every main battle, no person whatever shall be upon the stage, except the principals and their seconds, the same rule to be observed in bye-battles, except that in the latter, Mr. Broughton is allowed to be upon the stage to keep decorum, and to assist gentlemen in getting to their places, provided always he does not interfere in the battle; and whoever pretends to infringe these rules to be turned immediately out of the house. Every body is to quit the stage as soon as the principals are stripped, before the set-to.

4. That no man be deemed beaten, unless he fails coming up to the line in the limited time, or that his own second declares him beaten. No second is to be allowed to ask his man’s adversary any questions, or advise him to give out.

5. That in bye-battles, the winning man to have two-thirds of the money given, which shall be publicly divided upon the stage, notwithstanding any private agreements to the contrary.
6. That to prevent disputes, in every main battle the principals shall, on coming on the stage, choose from among the gentlemen present two umpires, who shall absolutely decide all disputes that may arise about the battle; and if the two umpires cannot agree, the said umpires to choose a third, who is to determine it.

7. That no person is to hit his adversary when he is down, or seize him by the ham, the breeches, or any part below the waist: a man on his knees to be reckoned down.

He was also the first to really treat boxing as a science, giving as much to defence as attack, and was regarded by commentators of the day as being virtually untouchable. While doing so, he also invented a device known as the “muffler,” now better known as the ”boxing glove.”

Broughton’s work was built upon by Whitechapel boy Daniel Mendoza, who you may see on your right. Dan Mendoza again put much emphasis on the scientific side of things, believing that really it’s a good idea to avoid being hit where possible. To this end he advocated the use of fancy footwork, ducking and blocking as much as possible. In so doing he was able to become Heavyweight Champion, despite only being a middleweight himself. He published his advice in a 1789 book, The Art of Boxing, whose influence may be seen to this day.

Mendoza died in 1836, two years before the London Prize Ring Rules came in. These rules were, broadly, much the same as Broughton’s, but specifically declared headbutting, biting and hitting below the belt to be simply not on. Holds and throws were still part of the game, as – slightly worryingly – were spiked shoes.

The rules would be amended in 1853 and superseded in 1867 by the famous Marquess of Queensbury Rules. Contrary to popular belief, the Marquess of Queensbury, pictured left, did not actually invent these, merely endorsed them. Queensbury was an immensely unpopular man due to his outspoken atheism and, indeed, his support of the still-only-semi-respectable sport of boxing. Still, his detractors could take comfort in the fact that Oscar Wilde was shagging his son. ANYWAY.

The actual Rules were drafted by John Chambers at the Lillie Bridge Grounds in West London (now the site of a London Underground depot). They are:

1. To be a fair stand-up boxing match in a 24-foot (7.3 m) ring, or as near that size as practicable.
2. No wrestling or hugging allowed.
3. The rounds to be of three minutes duration, and one minute’s time between rounds.
4. If either man falls through weakness or otherwise, he must get up unassisted, 10 seconds to be allowed him to do so, the other man meanwhile to return to his corner, and when the fallen man is on his legs the round is to be resumed and continued until the three minutes have expired. If one man fails to come to the scratch in the 10 seconds allowed, it shall be in the power of the referee to give his award in favour of the other man.
5. A man hanging on the ropes in a helpless state, with his toes off the ground, shall be considered down.
6. No seconds or any other person to be allowed in the ring during the rounds.
7. Should the contest be stopped by any unavoidable interference, the referee to name the time and place as soon as possible for finishing the contest; so that the match must be won and lost, unless the backers of both men agree to draw the stakes.
8. The gloves to be fair-sized boxing gloves of the best quality and new.
9. Should a glove burst, or come off, it must be replaced to the referee’s satisfaction.
10. A man on one knee is considered down and if struck is entitled to the stakes.
11. No shoes or boots with springs allowed.
12. The contest in all other respects to be governed by revised London Prize Ring Rules.

As you can see, we’re really getting the modern sport now. I’m intrigued by the mention of “shoes or boots with springs,” and wondering if maybe they were too hasty in eliminating them. I just think a couple of dudes bouncing around on springs would be an excellent addition to the Art. ANYWAY. These rules, in particular the mandatory use of boxing gloves, changed the way the sport was fought. Note Cribb and Molineaux’ defensive stances above. Now look at a modern boxer, Mr Muhammad Ali.

You’ll notice that he’s now leaning forward. The emphasis is on the fists rather than the forearms for defence.

Bare-knuckle fighting continued until 1882 (officially at least) when it was declared to be “assault occasioning actual bodily harm” in the case of Regina v Coney.

I can't work out whether this man is wearing tights or he has nothing to fear from blows below the belt.

Since then, the sport of boxing is as respectable as any other. This can largely be seen as a result of the old Marquess of Queensbury Rules, which completed the transition from something little better than a pub fight into a sport that was as much about strategy as brute force. The twentieth century saw the emergence of professional boxing. As the sport became more acceptable, so it became less concentrated in the fair city of London. And here endeth the lesson.

The results are in for the Think Outside the Box design competition sponsored by Designboom and Nissan. I find the typical parking lot to be the most unimaginative use of land and almost a complete waste of space and materials. Sure it’s a necessity for parking your car when you visit the local strip mall, but the potential for providing anything else worthy is completely untapped. It’s a microcosm of the gladiatorial relationship between people and automobile.

The top three entries probably best personify the theme to most of the designs – a parking structure that goes beyond our current acceptance of what a parking lot should be, a more typical parking lot that provides a secondary use for the land (i.e. produce energy), and a structure that uses the parking area to define public space with its mass and its facade (in this case a series of giant LED screens). I personally enjoy the ferris wheel parking structure because it leans more towards a built environment that resembles a structure (by its appearance and its use) from a Dr. Seuss story. (I’ve been reading a lot of Dr. Seuss to my son lately, so those illustrations are beginning to look like a more appealing reality than the typical beige suburban development I travel through.) But the ferris wheel parking structure also is along the same theme I have for a proposed mass transit system that resembles a roller coaster. (Also a Dr. Seuss induced construct, but seriously, who wouldn’t want to ride a ten-mile long roller coaster to work every morning? Imagine a world where people get to work laughing and high-fiving each other.)

Of course most of these entries are absurd, but they’re supposed to be – it’s an architectural competition. You can’t expect to get a good idea by just staring at the problem and repeating a solution that doesn’t work. There are enough proposed designs shown that I’m quite positive that you will see something that will make you utter “Wow, that’s actually a good idea.”

For a list of the entries check out www.designboom.com/contest/winner.php?contest_pk=29.

Proposed 2nd Floor Plan

I just posted a project I’ve been working on involving the 2nd floor remodel of a suburban house. The project can be seen within the ‘Past Projects’ page.

The space planning for most homes usually become outdated within a decade or so. The older homes typically lack the amenities of newer homes including larger master suites and more open kitchens. Newer homes embrace a more open floor plan that allows for multiple functions, whereas older homes were usually constructed in a more compartmentalized manner.

Dear Coming Home,

Well. I’ve been in Seattle less than 24 hours, been awake for less then 10 of those.

And the thing is, I’ve never visited Seattle as a person who does not live here. I have always lived here. I have never arrived on a plane and not been “coming home” from a “trip.”

Anyway, in those short hours that I’ve been here, I have: well ok first of all, I spent some serious time petting the dog. What can I say? She and I really like each other. I have also slept in my old bed, taken a shower in the shower I grew up taking showers in, been to Paseo like nobody’s business, and at the moment? At the moment I am wearing a softball sweatshirt from high school and sitting at the kitchen table where I grew up sitting when doing homework.

And it is pouring. POURING. And the grass is so so GREEN here. And when I went outside today I wore boots and a big scarf and a North Face jacket…I AM BACK, BABY.

I can actually hear the rain. Also, there’s a leafblower going in my neighbor’s yard. And bus #25 just went by. Oh, inner city suburbia.

And I’m going to my favorite Chinese restaurant tonight and tomorrow I’m going to study at Zoka. Anyway, the point is, it is both strange to be back and not strange whatsoever. And it is really, really nice to drive in a city without thinking about where I am going or the best way to get there.

Thanks for having me back, Seattle, and it’s nice to be home. Don’t worry, sunshine kids, my return ticket to the land of nice weather is nonrefundable. At the moment, my cities and I are all in this “open relationship” together.

So yes, it’s possible to come home again…and possible to miss the rain, be glad to see it, and be perfectly happy to know that I will see the sun again before May. And yeah, sometimes that’s a real question when you live in Seattle. But hellooooo green! Hello hello hello.

Love,

MM

I ride a train to work. It’s an easy commute. 33 minutes express, from my Chicago suburb to downtown. The car I choose to sit in is towards the back of the train and never gets too packed. People are, for the most part, sleepy and polite save for the cell phone users. And everybody knows that there are rude, loud-talking, intimate detail-sharing, deal-makers everywhere. Until there are laws against the use of mobile phones in enclosed public places or Cell Phone User Hunting Season we’re stuck with these people. They are either so pathetically lonely or so incredibly important that they can’t wait the 30 minutes or so to connect. I guess we allow it.

But this isn’t about morning-train loud-talkers. This is about me. This is about me and the epic battle of good (me) versus evil (the heinous she-troll in the seat in front of me) that unfolded during my 29-mile journey this morning.

I’m not a train pusher. I’m not one to scheme, jostle and shove my way onto the train so I can get a better seat, or a seat by myself or an upstairs solo seat. There are couples that stand 20 yards apart, in hopes that one of the pair will be situated such that when the train stops and the doors open they can scurry on and plop down in a seat for two, anxiously holding the seat for the other. Not this guy. I really don’t give a shit. I’ll sit with you, beside you, facing you or if I’m lucky, alone. If I see a solo seat upstairs, I’ll take it. It’s peaceful. I can write, read, stare, listen to music. Whatever. It’s a half hour. So I really don’t ‘try’ to get on the train. I just go with the flow and sit where I can.

This morning was just like that. Got on the train last. I let a lot of people – women mainly – go in front of me. It’s an archaic and underappreciated gesture that comes from my politeness training as a child during which Mom and Dad taught me to hold the door, be a gentleman etc. I do not see many other men behaving as I do. I assure you, in the dog-eat-dog world of double-knit and Docker-wearing commuters, ambition comes before civility. If the dead-eyed IT guy or mid-level regional sales manager or admin assistant can acrobatically and aggressively get his or her butt into a seat in time for it to expand for the half-hour ride every morning, then clearly the future is theirs. And I’m sure that future contains donuts.

So I get on the train. I scan for seats and a relatively normal person to sit next to. Let me explain my criteria. For me, choosing a seat is like the admissions office of a state school. I’m not that selective. I’m looking to see that there is no open food on the lap. I’m scanning to see blinking hands-free headsets – I’d like to avoid that guy. I’m hoping not to sit next to someone (screen name GwOrc256) furiously playing WarCraft, StarCraft or AnyCraft, while mouth-breathing and muttering to himself. What works for me? Readers. Readers are leaders. Paging through Maxim or Us Weekly? Even better. I can steal a pervy glance or two to pass the time. Listening to an iPod? Fine. Laptop-open workaholic? Go for it, glass ceiling crasher, I hope you don’t mind the company.

I think I sat next to a student today, maybe an art-school or retail management type. She was smartly dressed in all black. Shuffling through some papers, she studied a bit, texted a friend or two and then read for a spell. She was reading Skinny Dip by Carl Hiassen, which seemed a bit incongruous with the black on black thing, but OK. Maybe he’s the Tom Robbins of this age group, I thought, then I corrected myself. Someone (one of her parents, perhaps an aunt) had loaned her this book and she was finding herself reluctantly drawn in. As it turns out, she proved to be a perfectly acceptable seat partner. A quiet smile when I sat. An “excuse me” when she readjusted her things and smashed her purse into my thigh. General pleasantness.

One of the things that happens during each and every train ride is the conductor pass. He arrives at the front of the car, clicks his hole punch and says something along the lines of “TICKets. HAVE your tickets ready. TICKets.” Then he passes through the car making a mental note of the riders with a monthly pass, punching holes in the ten-ride tickets (like mine) and taking money and one-way tickets from the occasional one-time-in-a-blue-moon riders, usually high-schoolers or retirees heading downtown for fun. I didn’t realize it at the time but when I reached into my pocket to produce my ten-ride ticket, my knee moved forward into the seat in front of me, disturbing the woman seated there. She was forty-five or so and looked to be readying several vials and containers of fluids and powders in order to apply her makeup. She spun her head around and glared at me, but I thought nothing of it. The train had only recently started moving and I thought maybe she was looking at something else. She wasn’t. The conductor passed and punched my ticket and I moved to put it back into my pocket. The knee. Oh the violent and bullying knee. I guess it hit the seat again, because the Wicked Witch of the Western Suburbs spun around in her seat and said something to me.

I took the iPod earbud out of my left ear. “Excuse me?” I asked.

“Can you please not put your knee in my back?”

She didn’t really ask me. She more told/asked or ‘tasked’ me, if you will.

I instantly hated her.

I broke eye contact with her. As I put my earphone back in, I slowly, quietly and deliberately said, “I’ll do my best.” And the exchange was over.

Over, everywhere but in my mind.

In my mind, there was a gathering storm of hatred and vitriol that no one would ever know about (until now) but that I would enjoy immensely
for the remaining twenty-four minutes of my commute. The following, for your enjoyment, are some of my revenge plan scenarios. Reminder: I didn’t do anything, I just thought about it.

First, I thought, maybe I could very discreetly drop my gum down onto the seat behind her where it would warmly and moistly (and most
annoyingly) entangle itself in her root-tastic, bottle-job, blander than blond hair.

Gum in the hair? I’m slightly too mature for such a sophomoric act, so maybe not. The gumwad seems a bit young as a tactic and more like something I should do from a distance like, say, from a balcony onto someone’s fur coat or into teased up big hair. The gum attack is not appropriate for close quarters combat.

The urge passed. My mind wandered to thoughts of the verbal confrontation. What if my knee were to ‘accidentally’ brush the back of her seat one more time and she turned to chide me, again?

“Can you please not put your knee in my back?”

“Don’t even look at me,” would be my cold response. My plan was this: I would raise my voice, ever so slightly, so that the people surrounding us could hear. They would instantly side with me.

“Who are you,” I would continue, “the princess and the pea? I’m six-fucking-four back here and I’m not complaining. I’m sorry my knee grazed your seat. Did I disturb you putting on your mascara? Maybe your make-up is something you should do at home. You missed a spot, by the way. Oh, sorry, you probably came straight to the train from your parent’s house, where you still live. You should try being more patient, maybe you wouldn’t be so bitter and single.”

Then I saw the glint of her engagement ring.

Arrgh. Not single. I’d have to change my approach.

“Who are you,” I mentally began again, “the princess and the pea? I’m six fucking-four back here and I’m not complaining. I’m sorry my knee grazed your seat. Geez. You know what, ma’am? I feel bad for your fiancé. He gets you for better or for worse, and it looks like you’re headed straight to worse. Maybe he figured when he bought you that ring that he was starting with worse and things could only get better. It frightens me to think that you might be “better” now and get worse. Maybe you’ve got money, or you come with a nice car or a club membership or a toaster oven, that might explain why anyone would waste their time and sacrifice their spirit to be with you.”

And for punctuation, It would have been fun to mutter, “Bitch.”

But I didn’t of course. I just thought about it. And that was fun.

Back in reality, we were closing in on Chicago, so I stretched my leg out into the aisle. She saw. I just know it. She recognized my power. Everyone did. The tension was totally bearable and went almost completely unnoticed. For a moment I fantasized that she was about to douse me with pepper spray or some similar airborne toxic agent. If she would have, I would have walked away a martyr. My eyes and throat would burn with pain and fury and I would have to (gently but firmly) detain her while the authorities were summoned to lock her crazy ass up but I would be an instant folk hero. I would show the world the plight of tall guys going to work. People would understand my pain. Oprah would do a “Remembering Your Spirit” special on me or maybe I’d take my story to public access.

The station loomed ahead. My ride was over. But I still had one more move. As we slowed to a halt I got up and into the aisle ahead of my antagonist. I blocked her exit. I let everyone out before us, feeling her nudging me and huffing through her nose like an asthmatic pug. As I de-trained she shoved past me and into the crowd. And just like that she was gone.

She didn’t even know it, but she was totally bested by my muscle and size and rapier wit. Too bad I was the only one that was really involved.

Maybe someday, some half-blind senior citizen will size me up on the bus. He’ll never see what hit him. Literally and figuratively.

gudangan lele tempe sayur bayam
jagung seperti afterthought

rantangan tak tepat selera
maafkan

aku bukan lakilaki yang kuinginkan
aku khawatir tentang kebahagiaan suburbia ini

seperti layanglayang berbenang kenur
no match untuk benang gelasan

seperti kepala marsose yang tibatiba tertimpa kelewang
lupa mengaitkan tali helm di dagu jerawatan

aku ingin tinggal di rumah saja
memasang teralis di depan semua jendela

agar contentment tak bisa terbang lagi keluar
seperti burung dalam sangkar

Va asteptam pe toti duminica, 22 noiembrie in club Suburbia la lansarea trupei “Just Us”. Pretul biletului este de 15 RON.

If there’s one thing the Internet has revolutionised, it’s the urban legend. Time was when you’d have to work for your insane rumours. These days a good story can be invented, spread round the world and debunked by Snopes by lunchtime. How did we ever manage without it?

I was recently reminded of a London urban legend that predates the Internet – or at least, widespread use of it. It seems to have originated in the 1980s. I heard it as a schoolchild in the mid-’90s. I am speaking of the Chelsea Smilers.

The Smilers, so the story goes, were a gang of football hooligans. Depending which version of the story you hear, they would either roam the streets of South London, travel around in a blue Transit Van or – if you looked particularly easy to scare – would go door-to-door.

Details varied, but the basic essence of the story was this. The Smilers would confront you and ask you if you supported Chelsea Football Club (soccer team, for the benefit of any United Stateseans who may be reading). Possibly they would ask you a series of trivia questions to prove it. In the version I was told, they would then slice the corners of your mouth – upwards if you said yes, downwards if you said no. Then they would punch you hard, so you’d scream, thus ripping your mouth into a permanent smile or frown. Some versions would add that they would then pour something on the wound, usually vinegar, so the scars wouldn’t heal properly. I’m surprised no one suggested ink.

The Joker supports Chelsea.

There are a million variants on the story. Some say that they only cut you if you don’t support Chelsea, and then only in the form of the smile. Some say this was only practised by criminal gangs in Chelsea (presumably they march around in tailored suits, terrifying onlookers with their white-collar fraud and cold-blooded acts of insider trading). To be honest, while I don’t deny that such crimes may have happened – such scarring is known as the “Glasgow smile” and, so says the Daily Express, a case is treated every day by Scotland’s hospitals. But I’ve yet to see any real evidence that the Chelsea Smilers exist.

Still, I went to school in South-West London and it was a damn fine scary story. And that’s what’s important.

Love this movie, it never gets tired. It’s the ultimate teen angst punk rock movie set in an abandoned town on the outskirts of a residential area in California. Great styling and great music from the west coasts golden era of punk rock. It was directed by Penelope Spheeris, who went on to produce several more music documentaries on Americas alternative scene, before eventually entering the main stream, and directing Wayne’s world !

If you haven’t seen it I highly recommended it, or go check out Suburbia’s more main stream friendly cousin “Dudes,” also directed by Penelope, also both films feature the acting skills of Flea ! (americas prototype punk)

There are going to be flags at half mast in Gdansk if the cleaner can’t remember where she has moved my passport. Tomorrow I fly to Buenos Aires for work and an extended holiday and in a rare move of foresight placed my passport and camera on the kitchen worktop. They have been subsequently ‘tidied’.

This has happened before. Prior to the PR wedding of the year, that of Dan Glover and Clare Myddleton, I organised my l clothing well in advance. On the day I was relaxed about the preparation time required, though hadn’t counted on Iliana.

A belt that I had set aside for the occasion on a bed in the spare room had gone missing. Bedding was thrown in the air on several occasions, the bed overturned, the room torn to shreads. The model of composure just five minutes previously was a perspiring, red-faced, panting mess.

Being dressed in a new Hugo Boss suit, Thomas Pink shirt and Church’s shoes, without the only belt that fitted my reduced waistline (which had shrunk due a hot but crazy related illness) does not matter a jot without the correct belt. Other belts hung off my waist meaning I looked like a two-bob bookmaker on his uppers. The taxi outside waited for 20 minutes, every so often the cab driver banging on my door telling me we were ‘cutting it fine’. Helpful.

After several frantic calls to Iliana she eventually answered and cheerily replied that she’d moved the belt to another room and put it in my sock drawer. Why hadn’t I thought of that? So, yet again, I arrive at a wedding looking like I’ve come straight from The Hacienda when it couldn’t be any further from the truth.

This is just the latest episode. There was the period where a bank card, credit card, gym card and office key card went missing and I thought I was going mad. It was only after a second gym card disappeared from where I had definitely placed it for safe keeping that I asked Iliana of its whereabouts. ‘Ah yes’, she beamed ‘I put it for safeties in your card pot’. This was the first I’d heard of any ‘card pot’.

Sure enough, there in an unused plant pot in the dining room, gathered among coins, pens, sunglasses and other shiny items were all the missing cards. It’s like having the poltergeist of a dead magpie as well as a cleaner. Sticking with poltergeists, if that passport doesn’t surface this evening, I think both Iliana and I will only be able to be reached for further discourse via a seance with Derek Acorah.

“I know what you’re thinking,” shot Max at Deirdre. “You’re always thinking the same damn thing. You’re thinking that I shouldn’t go. You’re thinking that I’m being stupid. Just say it already!”

Deirdre looked coolly back at Max’s angry expression. She could have scratched her face off, for plainly showing her thoughts and emotions as it so clearly was. It was too late to fix the expression that had jumped unwillingly to it when Max had told her he was going out. She settled for pretending innocence instead.

“I’m not thinking a blessed thing, boy.”

“The hell you’re not,” Max spat back.

“Well, I’ve got nothing to say to you when you’re in such a foul mood,” Deirdre didn’t give up her act, but gave Max a bland look before turning her back to him. He knew everything she could say to deter him already. It was true that she thought him a fool for going, yet again, and there was no point in having another argument on the subject. Max would do what he wanted, and that was that.

A few minutes passed. Deirdre sat at her vanity, staring blindly at her own reflection. Finally, she heard the sound that she’d been expecting. The front door slammed with a force to shake the very panes of glass in it. She shut her eyes tightly for a moment, screwing her face up in pain.

Max waited outside the front door, wondering if this time Deirdre would come after him. But no, the minutes passed and still there was no sound of footsteps inside the large, boring suburban box of a house. He sighed and ran a hand over his face. Taking his car keys out of his pocket, he strode off down to the curb and unlocked, with an unobtrusive beep, the luxurious car parked in front of the closed garage door. He climbed into the front seat, put the key in the ignition, and turned it.

The effect was immediate. His seat bent down all the way back, several contraptions started moving around and making metallic noises, and the car began to pull out of the driveway and zoom down the street on its own.

When Max’s seat came back up, he was dressed in a black, skintight outfit, with a white mask covering his entire face except for a slit for his eyes.

Off to save… someone, Max thought, tiredly. Damn it.

He thought of Deirdre, her shimmering blonde hair running down her back in dripping strands as she took yet another hot shower. She always took showers when he went out on jobs. She seemed to like the sensation of heat when she was upset. Max took cold showers when he was upset. It was one of the many ways in which they differed. Another, rather crucial, point of difference, was that Deirdre wasn’t a superhero. Max was. He was really very tired of it.

I didn’t like this book when I was reading it, it’s full of irritating characters in a shallow era, but it’s been days since I finished it and I still find myself thinking of it, so it obviously got under my skin. Sinatra song titles come naturally, since the novel is set in the 1950’s and the author soaks everything in the mores of the time, as well as gallons of alcohol. I’ve always disliked the ‘50’s, it was a decade of hypocrisy and this novel reflects that.
It’s a story of a young couple, Frank and April Wheeler who get married because of her pregnancy and move to the suburbs of New York, where Frank has a meaningless office job and an anger management problem. He disdains his neighbors, his coworkers and most of his life, yet he doesn’t have any clear ideas of what he would do differently, just that he feels stifled by everything. The years pass, and eventually April hatches a plan for them to take their children to Paris, where she will support them as a secretary while Frank decides what he really wants to do. Real life steps in, ruining their plans and leading to a tragedy which affects the entire family.
All the while, Frank looks at everything with a superior attitude, though he’s really quite aimless, having no specific ambitions. He fixated on “being a man” in a truly Hemingway manner. He sleeps with a secretary to give himself an ego boost, the way someone else would buy a pair of shoes. Every action and word is weighed on how it will make others think of him. He’s incredibly self-centered and never thinks how his behavior might affect others, only that he mustn‘t get caught at it.
April has more depth, but is mostly seen through Frank’s view, as are most of the women in the book. The exception is their neighbor, Mrs. Givings, a realtor whose mentally ill son voices some of the glaring truths in the story. That was one of the obvious symbols in the book, as was the title, which is the name of the street the Wheelers live on, their lives the exact opposite of a revolution. The novel begins with April onstage at a community theatre, is it a hint that their marriage is all an act or does it hark back to Shakespeare’s claim of “all the world…”?
Despite the clumsy symbolism, the author has perfect pitch in capturing the decade. I distinctly recall adults of my parent’s generation having this sort of mindset; the forced laughter, the vague ambition, the hyper-awareness of what others are thinking and it always repelled me. Yates has something to say not just about the effects of the early days of modern suburbia, but also making bad choices which can have repercussions in ways one never thought of.

Vintage Contemporaries 1961 355 pp. ISBN 978-0-375-70844-2

Jackie lives in suburbia, but has always wanted to live in the country, closer to nature and farther from people.

Chiswick Park Tube Station by night

I think I might have experienced one of the most disagreeable sensations of my life that didn’t actually involve pieces of metal being inserted into me. More on that later.

Last night I made a visit to Chiswick, out in West London. I used to know a chap at school who claimed that Chiswick was the ghetto, but given that his dad owned an aeroplane, it’s possible that his definition of “ghetto” differs somewhat from that of most other people. I’d say Chiswick is one of the least ghetto-ey places in London. It’s notable, among other things, for being the residence of satirical artist William Hogarth and for being where the Chelsea Flower Show got started (although it probably wasn’t called that back then, now I come to think of it). Oh, and On the Buses was filmed there, although I’m sure we’d all like to forget that shameful period in our history.

I was there for a pub crawl organised by a chum of mine whom I shall call The Directrix, because she’s some miles away and can’t get me har har. Much fun was had. I recall explaining the origins of the word “Chiswick,” i.e. that it was founded by investors from Chelsea in 1865 and was originally to be called “Chelsea Is Wicked,” which had to be shortened due to the limitations of road sign technology in those days. I may not have been entirely believed in this claim.

I was introduced to an exciting concoction. I’m not sure how best to classify it. It consists of half a pint of Guinness with a double shot of Tia Maria, and basically tastes like a sort of fizzy chocolate beer. It shouldn’t work but somehow it does. I enjoyed various other substances, but somehow managed to avoid the champagne-and-absinthe, although I did wax lyrical with the Directrix about moving to the 1890s and drinking heinous amounts of laudanum in a loft apartment in Montmartre. I forget whether we came to any sort of conclusion on this.

The evening ended – for me at least – at approximately half past three on Sunday morning. I figured it would be a fairly simple journey back to Colliers Wood. A fifteen minute walk from the Directrix’s place in Chiswick, through Gunnersbury to Brentford. I failed to take into account two factors. The first was the sobering-up process. I don’t know if you’ve ever trodden the borderland between inebriation and the hangover, but it’s not fun. All the fun of not being able to walk straight or coordinate your movements with the additional hilarity that is rising headache and nausea. I tend to view the hangover, overall, as a form of instant karma. But I’d rather it waited until I’d had a bit of a rest before smacking me in the face.

The second factor was the rain. It was, as you may already know, wet last night. Really wet. So wet that my feet have been dyed a semi-permanent black from my shoe polish. So wet that when I took my coat off, I actually got a little dryer.

The two-factor combo resulted in utter misery and the walk being stretched to an hour. Raging thirst and a need for some sort of respite prompted me to enter a petrol station for a drink or possibly combustion-related suicide. Being too wet for the fire to take, I just bought a bottle of Pepsi. The chap behind the counter wittily asked if I’d been out in the rain. I forget whether I laughed or cried, probably both.

Kew Bridge Station, 4.32 AM, from the momentary shelter of the footbridge.

Eventually I reached Kew Bridge in Brentford and took refuge at the bus stop, although frankly by that stage the concept of “shelter” had become a little theoretical. Did anyone see Doctor Who today with those water-alien-zombies? Yeah, I didn’t realise there was anything wrong with them, that’s how wet I was. Anyway, there I stood at the bus shelter in the shadow of the tower of the Kew Bridge Pumping Station, now the Kew Bridge Steam Museum.

The tower by day. Last week, in fact.

Surprisingly, and mercifully, the journey back was pretty fast. The route was to be the Number 65 bus from Brentford to Kingston, then the 57 to Colliers Wood. Fortunately, a combination of the lateness of the hour, the crappiness of the weather and a couple of strokes of luck ensured that the rest of the journey took a total of one hour. Given my hatred of night buses, this was a Good Thing.

I had plans to go to Brentford today, but frankly couldn’t face it after all that. So I found business in Tolworth instead. Which is so much better.

Lately I’ve been struggling with the concept of what I’ll call, “suburbia chrisitianity.” That is, in part, John Piper’s fault. Our small group Bible study has been reading through his book Don’t Waste Your Life which confronts the idea that we can live a safe, comfortable, happy “American” life and have it be meaningful. I’m not entirely sure if my “struggle” against this concept is as pure or sincere as his is, though. I’m aware that part of it could be disillusionment finally coming to a head; mild bitterness at unfair expectations going unmet; or even downright stubborn selfishness that what I want is not just unhad, but not right to want.

Maybe part of my difficulty is melding the radical ideas the Piper presents with the reality of the way that appears to be lived out today. I just… don’t see it.
I do see sold-out missionaries leaving the country. I see people leaving the suburbs to go serve in the ghetto.
My question is, can you stay in the suburbs and really be sold out?
Can you have the best of both worlds?

There is Scripture that seems to make it pretty clear that you can’t: “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God… but woe to you who are rich, for you are receiving your comfort in full.” (Luke 6:20, 24). But Scripture also gives instruction to rich Christians (OTHER than “Go and sell all you possess and give to the poor.” Mark 10:21): “Instruct those who are rich in this present world not to be conceited or to fix their hope on the uncertainty of riches, but on God, who richly supplies us with all things to enjoy.” (1 Timothy 6:17)

I’ve heard plenty on the idea that God doesn’t just need missionaries in third-world countries, but everywhere – where God has you, right now, even if it is the cushy, suburb life. I don’t think that is wrong. I think there is truth to it. But I do think that argument can be used wrongly.

How many people really stay in the suburbs because they feel a call to serve God there and are finding ways to actively live it out? Versus staying there because it’s comfortable, what they are used to, and easier than being open to a different call or even a deeper call where they are?

I am NOT saying that Christians in suburbs can’t or don’t serve. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen heartfelt service and gospel truth spread through neighborhoods. I’ve seen the truth of God brought to light in suburbia. But… sometimes it’s hidden, if not hindered, by the SUVs, jet skis, and armloads of shopping bags from Super Target. Clarification: jet skis are not sinful. Clarification: shopping at Target doesn’t destroy your witness.

But… do those kinds of things show we are embracing anything different than the rest of the world? I had to ask that of myself. And let me tell you, the answer wasn’t pretty.

I don’t like the situation that that puts me in. Being fairly newly-married, open to buying a home and settling down, and still pursuing an established career for my husband and even myself – what am I supposed to be looking for?

The world around me – including the church at large – is telling me that it’s the house with a two-car garage and a play set in the backyard, in a safe neighborhood supported by a husband working a 9-5 job while I stay at home with our 2.5 kids and possibly a Pampered Chef gig on the side. And I’m all for that!

But then I feel conflicted about being all-for-it. For one, because I’m already aware of the subtle yet strong temptations towards complacency and “comfortable” Christianity that brings.

And sometimes I get angry at the rest of the church for living like that and giving the impression that that’s the way we all should live – even if we aren’t all there yet. I know they aren’t trying to do so. I know they would wholeheartedly commend sacrificial service. But would they join in? Would I? I’m not so sure, and that’s a big part of the struggle.

And as much as I am disheartened with what’s become traditional Christianity in the suburbs, I’m also disheartened with the flip-side of that. The people who seem like they want to make a change in that, but eventually take that change too far.

Case in point – Derek Webb, christian musician. He has a refreshing point of view, singing in what has become his most controversial song, “What Matters More” on a similar theme to what I have here. His song argues that Christians get too wrapped up in “discussing” issues – such as homosexuality – that we aren’t out there actually serving. The problem with that song is that he felt it absolutely necessary to include a swear word: “Meanwhile we sit just like we don’t give a sh**/About 50,000 people who are dyin’ today.” It does make the point that I believe he was trying to make. And I think it was a point well worth making. But I also believe it was made inappropriately, if not solely because it could be placed in the category of “causing Christians to stumble.”

What does matter more? Physical needs or spiritual needs – even if of the “weaker’” brothers?

(And if you want to read a good analysis of this song in light of legalism and Christians being controversial, I stumbled across one while searching for the lyrics: Aletheia.)

I still appreciate Derek Webb as a musician and what he’s trying to stand for – but there are things that I can’t agree with him on and they seem to be increasing the more as time goes on. And he’s not the only one I’ve noticed like that.

Which is discouraging if not disgruntling. Is there no middle ground? Can you question tradition, religion, etc. without eventually neglecting crucial aspects of it? It’s like you open the door for fresh air – fresh ideas that may question tradition – and you let in the flies of false truth and liberal interpretation. And as small as those flies may seem when they sneak in, they soon become a large pest.

But as my closing thought – when I sat down at the computer it was originally to prepare a Sunday School lesson for high school girls. I somehow got distracted on this train of thought and wanted to write it down before I lost it. I was going to wait to post it until I had a chance to read it over later, so I returned to the Sunday School lesson just to discover Elizabeth George’s commentary on Colossians 3:1-2 (“Set your hearts on things above, where Christ is seated at the right hand of God. Set your mind on things above, not on earthly things.”) In A Young Woman After God’s Own Heart, she says, “How do we resist the pull of earthly things? Answer: We look up. We look into God’s Word. And we pray.”

It’s amazing how all my “deep thinking” can be answered by the simplest truth. And sometimes I hate that it’s so simple – because it doesn’t often feel simple. But it’s certainly a starting place that will prove much more effective than just mulling over it.

They said he was misunderstood,
Neglected and bruised,
A warrior falling through cracks in the pavement.

I saw nothing but a puffed up man
Filled with self love and anger,
An egoist dancing on hearts in the suburbs,

And the film was much better for that.

Poetry.net

O noua zi, un nou post. Pentru ca este vineri va prezint evenimentele din acest sfarsit de saptamana:

• Suburbia - Kathaarsys, Nethescerial si Eufobia, 13 nov, 19:00
• Suburbia – Ati Edge and the Shadowbirds, 15 nov, 19:00 (15 ron)
• Goblin – Maximilian, 15 nov, 22:00 (12 ron – shot tequilla)
• Fabrica – Tomb Crew (UK), 14 nov
• Fire – VaduvaBOB, 15 nov, 20:00 (10 ron)
• Control – Decat o revista (lansare), 15 nov, 18:00
• Parc Tineretului – Freestyle firejuggling, 14 nov, 18:30
• Clubul Taranului – Grimus, 14 nov, 22:00

si multe altele.

Am intarziat destul de mult cu acest post deja asa ca, rusinata de ce am facut sau nu, ma intorc la jocul meu care m-a facut sa intarzii atat cu postul de azi, pana cand intr-un final voi iesi din casa. Stiu ca nu este magnific, stralucit, bun, ba chiar prost si lipsit de imaginatie, dar e weekend, iar nebunia incepe.

See you in town!