Mad Dogs and Englishmen

An American once asked me why English folk always talk about the weather. I was in California at the time, not missing my homeland one bit, and answered that it was indicative that the bad weather is the best thing about England. Yesterday I was eating a lunch of my own words, when unseasonably the sun put his hat on and came out to play. “Hip-hip-hip-ho-ray!” I exclaimed as I led a chorus line of lawn-mowers rockin’ the suburbs in the B-Flat that signals spring officially sprung.

The American posed an interesting question, and one that responds directly to that asked nationwide yesterday: “Nice out, isn’t it?” Indeed, people were talking about the weather, and they were making the most of it too. Joggers were out in full force, regretting the New Year’s resolution they thought was in vain – “as soon as the weather picks up I’ll start running again”; Telford’s disenfranchised youth sat on the hoods of their souped-up Honda Civics to eat their Happy Meals; and even my sister and I took a walk, slide and swing in the park. I embarrassed myself a little by stopping a pre-teen kid to ask if he was on the TV show, Fat Camp. He wasn’t. But nevertheless, it was a lovely day – perhaps not for the fat kid – and it looks as if it’s warming up to be another.

And would you look at that? In keeping with the English tradition, I’ve just talked about the weather. But it is nice out…

A Family Holiday

As you know, I’m back home from University for the Easter Holidays, and having served exactly one quarter of my time here I thought I’d commemorate this auspicious occasion, invite you to ‘meet the family’, and write about my break from the Spring Break tradition, which last year took me south of a border to Mexico. This year I’m in Telford, neither north nor south, in the middle of England, and as far as possible from the sea and any immediate route of escape. Here, el mariachi play drum & bass from bloated car stereos, burritos are filled with cigarette butts and the senõritas push prams to McDonald’s. My holiday this year cannot be further, not just geographically, from Spring Break 2003. And instead of spending it with five other likely lads and their matching t-shirts, I’m with the friends you can’t choose – family. They are:

Mum

Mysteriously, neither of my parents is tall and yet at 6’3’’ I am perhaps their collective height. My mum is particularly small. Even on tip toes she struggles to slap my face, should the need arise. Her rather grand personality though adds a couple of feet, and draws more than a few laughs. Funny, overwhelmingly optimistic and tea-total from the start, my mum is an unlikely counsellor for alcoholics, and I fear would find an ample client base amongst my peers. At home her work manifests itself in the question “…and why do you think you feel like that?” which is raised at several points during the day and to a creeping feeling of unwitting analysis. She once asked me if the colour I chose to paint my bedroom represented the way I was feeling, which if true would mean that I felt white.

Dad

With a curious cross-pollination of Delhi and Wolverhampton accents, my dad is a soft and rarely speaking man, exuding a seeming wisdom from an oft-lotus position. A news junkie, dad trades political views with a Michael Moore than enough inaccuracy and a fervent distaste for people in power. Having been his own boss for a number of years with a number of businesses, dad once maintained a cartel of corner shops in my hometown. He now ironically keeps a living speaking at a call centre in Telford’s only high-rise building, barely scraping the sky, and dabbles in delegation of the YDIY sort on his days off.

The Not-So-Ugly Sisters

Being the youngest in my family there was little left in the way of good looks after my senior sisters – the Bollywood starlets – were born. First came Suman, who loved school so much she went back to be a teacher, then Uma, who, I guess, loved home so much (and her money) that she went back to be a rent free resident. She thought she was lucky to find a career that combined work with socialising, but it turns out social work is not so much that. She spends her weekends shopping for windows, while my eldest sister Suman spills over essay plans for the German class she teaches. When working in a tag-team formation they can really kick my ass, but hey – where would I be without my menstrually diverse sisters and their fit friends! (Danke Shön, Su!)

Progress?

When we were last here I proclaimed the car "the ultimate symbol of freedom", and while that might be true for us in a capatalist society where car salesman is king (I'm referring to the Car King showroom in town), freedom holds a different meaning for the people of Ghana, focus of a BBC 4 documentary playing in the background as I write this.

It was from Ghana, a former British colony, that the Atlantic slave trade began; the selling of men and women to European plantation colonies in North America became an enterprise, and a new nation became the capital of the "free world." It was also Ghana that in 1957 became the first state in sub-Sahara Africa to gain political independence from European colonial rule. Despite being well endowed with natural resources, Ghana remains heavily dependent on the West for financial and technical assistance. A dependence that a talking head from aforementioned documentary understands to be a new form of slavery: "We now lean on the western world," he said. "If they don't bring you your food, your vehicle, you're in that same position...you hear ol' massa's voice."

We don't have to worry about food; most of us at least have access to a vehicle. Our leaders have set their sights beyond such issues, beyond the clouds even. The BBC 4 documentary was not so much about Ghana's national history - I got most of that from Encarta. It was about an issue affecting an inordinate number of Ghanians. It was investigating the affects of the Apollo 6 space shuttle landing in the country. "It seemed that American progress," the talking head continued, "was a disease for the people of Ghana."

A Ride Into the Sunset

So my sister Uma passed her driving test today, bunked the day off work and celebrated with a Macarena of synchronised screaming, clapping and jumping. To be honest I haven’t seen her this happy for quite some time – not even her ‘A’ Level results summoned the sort of celebratory jig witnessed today. Of all the tests we undertake in this assessment obsessed society, from SATs and GCSEs, to University finals and psychological evaluations, passing a driving test is probably the most liberating. Getting behind the wheel of a car, the ‘ultimate symbol of freedom’, opens a bottomless mug of immediate possibility and independence.

The first (substantial) trip I took as a new driver was to the theme park Alton Towers in the Staffordshire countryside, not really reachable by public transport, the journey itself is a white-knuckle rollercoaster of sorts. I remember the steep hills and winding roads and periodically checking my rear view mirror to see who was incessantly honking their horn. It turned out I was honking myself so to speak, leaning on the horn in the centre of the steering wheel as I turned the corners.

My fondest driving memory, a rather specific category of recollection, is from my time in America. My then girlfriend Amanda and I spontaneously took a roadtrip from our base in Davis, California to Portland, Oregon; so spontaneous in fact that our first excursion upon arrival was to go underwear shopping. Since, unfortunately, the sound of a car engine puts Mandy to sleep, I undertook the bulk of the driving. However liberating my licence was it didn’t quite permit me to drive in America nor without insurance, so this time when I was checking my rear view mirror, besides the obvious safety reasons, it was to look out for the stars of the hit TV show, Cops. Fortunately, I never did see a cop car, the view in my mirror was far more impressive if you can imagine: I had a sinking sun behind me and the rising colossus of Mount Shasta up ahead. It was worth staying awake for, Mandy and I agreed, as I drove on – eyes wide open – into that ‘ultimate symbol of happy endings’, the sunset.

Back to the Future

Good evening blogees. I'm coming to you live from the year 1994, thanks to the marvelous technology of...coming home for Easter Break. Somehow every homecoming is like time travel. Whether I'm returning from a semester at University, a year abroad in California or a trip to the petrol station down the street, I can always rely on everything here remaining exactly the same - not a scrunchy unscrunched, a Bush in office, or an episode of Friends yet begun. Unfortunately, it also means that I'm back to the World Wide Wait of dial-up Internet, and so I'm writing this offline, not downloading an episode of Friends (because it doesn't exist yet), and not peppering this entry with Google search results.

(For better or) worse still, unlike my blog studio at University, where I've no TV, Channel 4 is playing here in the background and I'll admit that The 100 Greatest Films show is very distracting, and unexpectedly comforting. At #18 is The Matrix, a scene from which just flashed on the screen, its title superimposed and, in brackets the date of its release, 1999. If by coming home I have gone back in time, I'm at the most only five years back.

So I'm going to see which film makes #1. While I'm gone post a comment and let me know what would hit your top spot.

Termtablist

The last class of term is usually an emotional one - farewells to friends, 'thank you's to staff, the final handout. This time however, considering how hard this term's been, relief was my primary emotion, and since Beth has scolded me for my overly self-deprecating sense of humour, which borders on self-hatred, I won't tell you that the fewer friends you have the easier the farewells are. (It's not true anyway. It's worse.) The teacher, Nick - big up, showed a documentary about the history and art of scratching in hip-hop culture. I thought aloud to Beth that I should be like the first famous Indian turntablist or, and it's easier to type than say this, "turban-tablist". It's almost worth wearing a turban for.

Anyway, I'm going to get some lunch. More soon.

A Half-Arted Attempt

I've just logged on, smoking from a heated debate with Beth, who was plucking high-brows and picking fights on, of all subjects, art, which like personal hygiene and being nice, is clearly not her forte. I'm just kidding; Beth is pretty nice and smells good for most of the time, but has a leaning towards the odd absurd opinion, especially concerning art...

Tonight I noticed how the tulips on my window were looking a little worse for wear. Not a regular flower keeper I'd forgotten to water them. In fact, I didn't even realise you had to - I thought they'd take care of it themselves - and so the tulips were clearly on their way out, on their death flower bed, if you will. Anyway, I gave them water, shone my desk lamp on them and performed the CPR I learned from Baywatch but nothing would revive the purple pretties.

So I decided to take some photos and document their final hours, much like I suppose, The Passion of the Tulips. That's not to compare my flowers to Jesus, although the poinsettia and palm leaf have both enjoyed connotations of the Christ. Right, I better avoid any further charges of blasphemy and get back to my point.

Preparing for the shoot, I arranged the flowers against the glass of the window, which was decorated with raindrops illuminated by the street light. I positioned a lamp beneath the flowers, adjusted my camera accordingly and - content with my composition - began to take photographs.

"Why don't you do some real art?" Beth asked. To which I countered, "And what is real art?" "You know, with pencils and stuff," she replied. "Like the stuff you did in Paris, or the nude...or those skulls you painted." I asked her if she thought photography was art, to which she replied "yes", alluded to Ansel Adams and suggested that time in setting up a shoot was necessarily a requirement of good art. "You can't just take pictures of stuff. Nature is the art in your pictures." And then her most damning accusation. "You're plagiarising God!"

Landscape photography was naturally a point of contention then for Beth and something she's termed, "half-art". Turning her scorn now to Ansel Adams, she continued. "God's already done the art for you. You just have to snap and it looks good."

So, you could say, I snapped - and showed her the photos I had taken. These, Beth said, were "art-y. Not art but like art," which I'm not sure is better than the "half-art" of Ansel Adams, et al., but I'll let you decide. Please post your comments and let us know what you think of my photos, poor Ansel's and of what makes 'real' art.

Watch Out: A Real Super Man

"If misery finds company, this man has a full house." Those are the (approximate) words of NBC chat show host David Letterman, whose one-time regular guest Harvey Pekar is the focus of the splendid biopic American Splendor, which found its way from Cleveland, OH., to the Cannes Film Festival, to, in no ascending order of glamour, our campus cinema, whence I have just returned, moved, puzzled and very impressed.

Harvey Pekar is, I'm pretty sure, a blue collar writer for underground comic books now in his sixties whose life and work is drawn up on the big screen by documentarists Shari Springer Berman and Robert Pulcini, who ramble some no-man's-land between fact and fiction in a film that leaves us neither here nor there. (In fact, I Googled Pekar's name when I got in tonight just to be sure that this man exists.)

Pekar's autobiographical comic itself, on which the film of the same name is based, makes no clear distinction between fact and fiction, and the filmmakers transfer this ambiguity to celluloid remarkably well, layering fictional recreation, newly shot documentary footage and animation, to produce a kaleidoscopic portrait of the artist as a troubled man. Harvey is played for the most part by the excellent Paul Giamatti with uncanny resemblance to Pekar, who to complicate things or help explain them, narrates the film and appears in present day documentary scenes commenting on unfolding events and even casting choices.

There is so much to say about this film - about the wit and compassion of its many layers, and the hall-of-mirrors effect they create; so much that this film has to say - about the disaffected and the disenfranchised in American society - that I couldn't possibly convey them all in the far inferior comic book of my blog. I would urge you to see it if you get the chance. It is the most refreshing film I have seen in a while - more so than Lost In Translation, dare I say, and in the words of Harvey Pekar, a real comic book superhero, doing daily battle against the villainous reality of the working class, of the bastards at NBC, of cancer - "it's the real thing."

Writer's Blog

This replaces my previous entry concerning the penultimate episode of Sex and the City and some of the most absurd comments I've made, comparing my life to those of the show's characters, whom I referred to, in the post, as 'four lesbian women'. Bit of a bizarre thought, I admit, but in keeping with the general decline of the blog. I'm really sorry that I've been slipping lately, resorting to fancy dress and lesbianism for spectacle, and parading my desperate, single lifestyle as entertainment.

If sex sells then we're certainly in a state of recession, and nobody wants to read about a failing economy; so from now I promise there'll be less of the Sex and the Dawson's Creek style angst of late and a return to the Golden Era of blog writing (see entry, Sylvia Plath): a more simple time, when a song lyric, a memory, or an anecdote from my day might arouse comment, without a need to dress up in spandex for laughs.

A Fancy Dress

There was not a single spandex moment in my weekend but it was still one of the best, in March at least, due to a little shindig we hosted here at the Beth and San Ranch, complete with peach cobbler, board game and a live music revue, headlined by Caroline and myself on guitar; singing along, camp fire style, were Mike, Beth, Ian and Lindsey. Of course, three glasses of wine and a Five for Fighting song was enough to get out the Superman cape but not quite enough to get me into the blue tights. (Four of five glasses maybe, and the theme from Superman: The Movie and you've got yourself a superhero.)

A costume party was out the question apparently, when I suggested we dress as characters from Sex and the City for its final episode last night. The female core of Saturday night's party returned in casual attire for the viewing, which was emotional to say the least. Goodbye Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha and Miranda! And thanks for reading.

Lock up your mums

Three times and it's a regular thing - almost tradition, and tonight was indeed the third famed Curry Night, the biggest turn out, the longest running and the best yet. I'd like to give a special shout out to all in attendance this evening - Beth, Mike, Caroline, Jill, Lindsey and Ian - and of course the staff at the posh Weatherspoons in Lancaster.

Tonight was a lot of cross-Atlantic, conversation-laden fun and true testimony to the perspective giving power of the good company of good friends. New friends, mind you, but good ones all the same. And I look forward to our little Saturday night room and board game party and, with slight hesitation, the Fox TV like reality game, Find-San-A-Date Bar Crawl of Mike's over-zealous imagination, coming to a campus near you soon. Lock up your daughters. (And your mums, to be safe.)

Watch Out: Translating a Lost Generation

Every once in a while my connection to the Internet, and thus the world outside of this campus, is lost, and I am too in a way; and a little frightened at how dependent I have become on the technology. Not knowing what to do, I took a walk just now and thought to myself how sad it is that both my work and my leisure times rely so heavily on the web. I needed it tonight to research a presentation I am preparing, from which I would probably procrastinate and play guitar, having downloaded the chords from www.ultimate-guitar.com. So here I am – typing this in Word, not listening to Internet radio, or instant messaging ‘buddies’ but feeling positively 1995. No Internet access? Now there’s a blast from the past.

It is indeed a sign o’ the times that ’95, that version of Windows, O.J. Simpson and the Ebola virus seem eons away, although admittedly all still (and sadly) exist on older PCs, in obscurity and in the Congo. Cast your minds back a further four years if you can and you might remember a book called Generation X by Douglas Coupland, the subject of the aforementioned presentation. It concerns itself with three twentysomethings suspicious of the consumer society consuming society who, having quit their careers, hide away in the California desert and tell stories. These Xers, born roughly between 1965 – 1975, are characterized by an amorphous sense of irony and the material reality of being the first generation fiscally worse off than its predecessor. They are also, a Newsweek review of the book suggests, “a bunch of whiners”.

My analysis of the book led me back to Ernest Hemingway, writer of the ‘Lost Generation’ and an inevitable reference point for Coupland and his Xers, also blessed with spiritual alienation, self-exile, and cultural criticism. It is by sheer coincidence that my last act of web mastery was to illegally download a crisp copy of Oscar darling Lost In Translation, in which Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson play two lost souls rattling around a Tokyo hotel much like Hemingway’s puppets in Paris. The strangers in a bar, who might have sex at anytime, fall into conversation about their marriages, their unhappiness and the meaning of it all.

Murray and Johansson reminded me of the Lost and X Generations, whether in Paris or Palm Springs, or Coppola’s Japan, unified by their ultimate emptiness, and skating the ice border of being “a bunch of whiners.” In Lost In Translation however, our couple might not solve their problems, or those of their generations, but feel a little better all the same. Although I didn't think the film was great, perhaps a little too self-important, it was sweet in that sense. And Tokyo’s high-rise, high-speed, tech world, I guess, is not so far removed from ours…Oh, looks as if the Internet is back on. Phew! I can instant message my friend in Japan now. ‘Til next time.

All in a day's work

Friday's a good day for most. A day to thank God for it, finish work and according to an eighties band, be in love. If, in the words of Robert Smith, The Cure, "...Monday's blue / Tuesday's grey and Wednesday too", my Friday wasn't much better and if you've read my last entry, rendered in greyscale, you'll know I wasn't in high spirits.

Yesterday then I set about cheering myself up, as much to salvage my soul as my personality, and to give you something interesting to read. This involved some good ol' retail therapy. In my shopping basket was:

• Nothing says 'comfort food' like Farley's Rusks biscuits. It actually says 'baby food' on the box.
• In the absence of male friends I bought Swingers on DVD to fill that void, bonded with its stars and decided that there is a Heather Graham out there for me. I just have to keep looking and maybe socialise more at the Dresden Lounge in L.A.
• Have you ever bought clothes to boost your self esteem? I can say that nothing does the job better than a spandex Superman costume, complete with cape, outerpants, and a 30% discount from a closing down fancy dress shop!

Imagine this: a skinny 21 year old guy, watching a movie, eating baby food, dressed as superhero. To help you out there, as an apology for the last 'blah, blah' blog entry and in case you need cheering up, because this really has the cumulative effect of all three items in my shopping basket, here is a photo of me, the Man of Steel Compressed Aluminium, sporting my new day wear. Is it a bird? Is it a plane...? (Maybe it is a bird...) No, it's...Supersan!

One Sequined Glove Short of a Pair - or - Mandy Called

I set the alarm on my phone to go off this morning at 8:00am and to the sound of birdsong. What I got instead was two verses of, 'San, you're a lazy fool with three hours to do your homework'. You see, when you put off work from the previous night your day really starts as an extension of the day before. And yesterday was a particularly bad day and today wasn't looking too promising.

With a yawn, a quick shower and a change of undies, I thought to myself with mantra like repetition, 'just a couple more weeks', undecided as to whether such short a time until the end of term was a good thing. On the one hand it's just two weeks until this work is all over. On the other, it's just two weeks to do all this work. Still, over the horizon was a month off school and a Spring Break for one to Boston (see 'Spring Break for One'). Even nearer in sight was the book I ordered online that was surely to arrive today. For the latter I had to just get through the day. For the former, I had 'just a couple more weeks.'

So I did the three hours homework, went to work at my job and my Tim from The Office impression (looking to an invinsible camera with bewilderment); I engaged in formal conversation via e-mail with my boss, seated beside me, and met with my classmates to prepare for a presentation, all the time repeating my mantra and looking forward to curling up with a cup of cocoa and a sequined glove to read the unauthorized biography of Michael Jackson that was waiting for me.

The long day was finally over and I opened my mailbox like a Pez dispenser, awaiting my treat. On top there was a letter from the company with whom I was booking my flight to Boston. It came with an "Important Notice", printed on red paper that read, "This affects your flights." No kidding. It seems the "subject to availability" clause finally got me and "due to the immense popularity of this promotion" all seats were taken for the offer of the free flight (excluding tax) that I had won. A little disappointed but not defeated, I rummaged further through the mailbox until I reached the bottom. There was nothing else for me. The book had not come. I sighed, closed the mailbox with my one sequined gloved hand and moonwalked back to bed, hoping that the next day would start anew, with a better song - maybe something by Michael Jackson - and that the book would arrive.

Heavy Breathing

Prince Harry has gone back to Africa. I say 'gone back', not knowing if he's been before, but alluding to the fact, oft-quoted by staunch non-racist types, that we're all ultimately from Africa. I don't know much about plate tectonics but I like the simple science theory that undermines racial superiority and a couple of Bible stories in the process. (Favourite tectonic pop song: Carole King's, "I Feel the Earth Move".)

Anyway, I mention it because seeing Prince Harry and new friend, 4 year-old orphan Mutsu Potsane planting a peach tree in Lesotho (an enclave of South Africa) was indeed a heart warming start to my day, courtesy of an official Royal Family photographer. Also, one time pot smoker, Harry, is second in line to marry my ex-girlfriend. If, of course, her plan to wed Will falls through should he, as her online profile fears, continues "to resemble a horse." I didn't see her with Harry and Mutsu so it looks as if the Will thing is working out, and spending time with the Prince is keeping her from replying to my messages! :-) At least she has a good excuse. If Eliot from Scrubs does ever get in touch my blog might even go on hold. But I won't hold my breath for e-mails from past or future loves.

Holding your breath never works with things like that. It's like playing chicken with your life. I was having to, er, breathe pretty hard the other night when things got a little heated on campus. Let's just say, things happen when you least expect it. And I wouldn't wait holding your breath, if I were you. You might need it. ;-)

Scrubbing Up Well

It's a bit of a cliche opening statement but it really did start off a good day. I woke up to the sunshine, took the weekly hose-down, styled my hair in a new and exciting way and threw on my good shirt. Damn. I was, and get ready for Cliche no. 2, looking good and feeling good. Unfortunately, today this new found confidence was moonwalking the border of cocky and since Beth no longer responds to my crude sexual double-entendres I've taken to asking it, "am I right?", before hi-fiving my wardrobe.

You see, all three seasons of half-hour medical comedy Scrubs (Sky One, Sundays 7:30pm) have become available for me to download and I've been watching on average three episodes a day. I'm beginning to see my life as a series of quirky incidents akin to the sitcom format. I'm even beginning to imagine my job at the Information System Services on campus as the Sacred Heart Hospital of Scrubs. I'm hardly saving people's lives but I'm referring to/treating the printers I repair as 'my patients.' This evening however my obsessive/compulsive/disorderly viewing of Scrubs paid off...

Dining alone again, I went to the burger bar and placed my order with the lovely assistant behind the counter, before sitting in ear shot to pretend to read the paper. I overheard her talk with her superior. "I've got a riddle for you," the elder started. "I've got two coins that add up to 15 pence. And one of them's not a 5p piece. What are they?" "Ooh, that's a tough one..." the younger said. "Modern coins?" "You'd find them in the register." She looked over at me and I smiled. "Your burger's ready." The younger held the bun open and asked, "any salad?" "Yeah, I'll have some tomatoes, lettuce and pickle please." I leaned in, and lowering my voice, said, "and the two coins are a 10 and a 5...She only said one of them wasn't 5p." "Thank you. I would never have got that!" "Actually," I laughed. "I heard it on TV." With that, and feeling as cool as fcuk, I headed for the door.

Did I just pull? Unfortunately not. I pushed a 'Pull' door and, in that awkward moment, caught my reflection in the glass. My new exciting hair style looked nothing like the guy off Scrubs.