Miss USA--They're just like US

Donald Trump, an uncontrolled fit of morality, is threatening to strip Miss USA of her crown after allegations of underage drinking and bad behaviour. If we can move past the unfortunate word choice of "stripping" in conjunction with a beauty queen, I think we can move to the larger issue of pretty brats with full throated indifference. Beautiful people are allowed to be badly behaved, and in the case of young women, we should almost expect it. After all, if they don't have wild times as youngsters, what can they reflect on as they rot away in old age homes, forgotten by all but a few perverts? All these women have is their youth and looks, and when those inevitably crumble to dust they should be able to remember the halcyon days and be able to say "I did tequila shots at Marquee and fell face first into Janet Jackson." I mean, it isn't as though Miss USA has any actual responsibilites besides wearing a silly tiara and not falling down on television, so who cares if she get a bit sloshed in the week before her 21st?



Clearly, Lark-Marie Anton, the spokeswoman with the unenviable position of caring about these things, does. She is the one tasked with spouting platitudes like "Miss USA is a role model." To whom? I imagine some of the past "winners" are very nice and probably genuinely care about buying everyone in the world a Beanie Baby or something, but I've never seen Miss USA speak about Darfur, Tibet or the Kyoto Protocol. In fact, I don't have even the faintest idea what being Miss USA entails on a daily basis. I do think the very idea that we should reward people explicitly for how they look is a bad message for young women, who should be encouraged to develop brains and personalities that don't fit into 30 second sound bites. How can we so casually accept the practice of parading young girls on a stage to be ogled at, ranked and rewarded? I don't get it, but I do think that Donald Trump's indignation is hilarious, considering that he continues to get older and uglier while his wives get younger and prettier.



The whole things disgusts and amuses me.

Apathy is so cool, or whatever

The title is obvious, and not really all that funny, but it's the best description of my state of mind.

In this--my third year of college--I simply cannot be arsed with nerves or anxiety about exams and school work. I don't have the fear in me anymore. I've become pretty good at dialing it in and getting what I need done at the time it needs to be done. And I do it pretty well. So when I sit down and crank out an economics problem set in an hour and get 100% on it, you should know it isn't luck, but the workings of a man brilliant beyond the bounds of the natural order.

Not caring about things is as liberating as you would imagine, as long as you commit to it. You can't worry about how nonchalant you are, you just have to be it. It is a great feeling to walk out of an exam you didn't really worry about and be secure with the knowledge that you completely drilled it. Success is a necessary component of insouciant living, and I'm doing it to a T.

College is about change

I am slowly but surely lurching through my final exams and assignments. It's been a tough slog, I don't mind telling you. Today was the first day I wasn't working like a maniac, but that's because I turned out a stellar final paper over the weekend for a class tomorrow and gave myself breathing room. I do this because I am both extraordinarily talented and averse to all nighters. I have pulled only one so far in college; freshman year for my Russian history class. I had to write two 5 page papers, an output I consider laughable now, and I researched and wrote from about 6:00 PM to 6:00 AM. And then I went to a deli on University Place and saw about three students I knew getting breakfast after writing all nighters. It was what I imagined college would be like--primitive socialist accumulation and poppy seed bagels living side by side.

These days, I am usually able to finish assignments a day from the due date, which gives me time to edit the paper or give it to someone else. Before, my enormous ego and unshakable faith in my abilities wouldn't let me, but then I continued to get papers back with embarrassing typos and sentence construction at which even Borat would shake his head. I also have a lot of problem sets and math based exams, which doesn't really lend itself to peer review, or what professors would call "cheating." But here I am, putting together a presentation on Alexandre Dumas for Thursday in between cracking wise with my roommates. It's just what I imagined college to be.

How do you even ignite bones?

Libraries are dark and somber places by their nature, and never more so than during finals time. Here at NYU, the crunch begins immediately after Thanksgiving. Students of all stripes--Finance, History, Film, Nursing--are thrown headfirst into mountains of papers and a seemingly endless gauntlet of exams. In many ways I am exceptional, but in this arena I am not. I am faced with a daunting array of exercises designed only to needle me and break my will. Unfortunately for my exams, I am made of stronger stuff than candy and marshmallow.

I was feeling slightly uneasy about one of my assignments when I was taking the train back to Manhattan on Sunday, but the strangest thing put me at ease: the song "Fix You" by Coldplay. I'm not what you would call a big Coldplay fan, but I do like what they stand for--namely being British, posh, stylish, making relaxing music and marrying film stars. I also like that Chris Martin is friends with Ricky Gervais and has the ability to make fun of himself. I think you should listen to the song "Fix You" while walking down the street of a major city at night. It feels like the way the song was meant to be picturized, and if you're anything like me, a steady wave of calm will wash over you and bathe you in its peace. If I subscribed to this sort of thing, I would say it was an almost religious experience. I can't articulate how it felt, but I can say I wouldn't mind if it happened again.

Family Time Isn't Just for Families

Other than my actual family, my roommates are the only people I've lived with for extended periods of time. You'd think that five guys living together would be a hassle, but I love it. They are a reasonable approximation of a family, and Tuesday night is family night. This is when we usually gather in Matt and Jeritt's room and shoot the shit for an hour or two. If I tried to list the topics we cover, it would make most gentleman and a lot of truckers blush, but it is an invaluable component of the roommate experience. I remember being a freshman and wondering how I could keep a sliver of privacy while still living with so many people. The answer is you don't. In order to fully embrace cohabitation, you must be willing to be a masochist--namely be made fun of and have your self-esteem turned inside out regularly. Men interact by constantly ragging on each other, and it is the truest form of bonding we have. Any misstep you ever make will be frozen in time, and repeated ad infinitum in front of your parents, girlfriends, and guests. It is the unending quest of your roommates to shame you in new and innovative ways every day. It is incumbent on you to treat them in the same way. Women do not understand this--girls pretend to like their friends in public and hate each other in private, while Men act like they hate their friends in public and continue to say mean things in private. Having roommates who are incredibly quick and sharp makes it even harder to get away with doing/saying anything wrong or exhibiting weakness. It is much like sharks--we attack at the merest hint of vulnerability. It sounds cruel and impossibly inhuman, but I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

Except Ramirez: I'd trade him for a 5-pack of Trident.

Master of the House?

It seems that Democrats have taken a majority in the House of Representatives. This excites me, not because I think the Democrats are going to do a particularly good job, but because I like drama and upheaval at periodic intervals. Also, I like the idea of another party in control of one of the chambers in government. It holds the possibility of fiscal discipline and the hope of a generation of new ideas. That would make me happy--but it will probably be another two years of idiotic name calling and childish grandstanding.

Can't wait.

Borat '08

I cannot say anything about Borat that hasn't already been said in any of the glowing reviews who are falling over themselves to say how great it is. I will say only this: I have been to hundreds of hilarious movies, but I have never been in a place where so many people have sustained so much laughter for so long. The theater of jaded downtown New Yorkers squealed with delight at the sheer absurdity of it all in a bizarre unison--it was an experience I will not soon forget. See this movie. Full title--Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan.

You should also listen to the song "Circus on the Moon" by Bruce Hornsby. I heard it on Pandora, and it's the kind of song that you should listen to it while walking alone on a brisk fall morning. You'll feel like you're in a TV show. A good one.

Utilitarian to the Brutal End

Today I had what could be considered a quintessentially New York moment. It pains me to use that phrase, as I mostly associate it with girls in my high school who saw Rent 500 times and thought their lives were "just like" Sex and the City--excepting of course the relationships, setting, daily habits, general intelligence of surrounding people and income levels--but besides that, they were sooo Carrie. Be that as it may, I can think of no way to describe it, and it's 1:30 in the morning and I have no desire to ponder it further.

It's rather well accepted, even by those that don't live here, that New Yorkers are surly and self-centered. I don't think it's true, but I must plead guilty to one count of New Yorkdom in that I generally don't want to make small talk with someone I am buying a paper or V8 Splash from. My main concern here is speed, as I am a busy man with an expensive datebook. Sometimes I don't even stop--pick up the Times and drop a dollar bill in one elegant, hurried motion. But today I was heading back downtown after meeting a friend for dinner on the Upper East side. Subway stations tend to reflect their neighborhood, so this one was a bit nicer, and had multiple newsstands. As it was late, and trains are about as frequent as good Fergie songs, I was having a bit of a browse. None of the magazines really caught my fancy, but subway stations are about as hot as a frat party at Florida State, so I bought a Diet Coke from the laughably small freezer. I was listening to my iPod, as I almost always am when I walk anywhere, so I just sort of lifted the can to his eye line and looked at the shopkeeper. He met my gaze, and rather than say anything, just held up his index finger, so as to indicate that it was $1. I paid, and walked down the platform.

It was a wordless commercial transaction, but as the shopkeeper was Indian, it is conceivable that we could have conducted it in English or Hindi (I would guess). Instead, we chose the unofficial language of New York--a dialect of silent efficiency tinged with quiet appreciation. I've become quite fluent in it, and when it's working, it's fantastic.

Babies are the new black

After reading this link online, I was pretty shocked. I don't know if it is totally true, but let's just assume it is because it makes for a funny and depressing story at the same time. This trend of babies as a statement of compassion worries me. I feel Angelina Jolie genuinely cares for her children--both adopted and birthed--and that she wanted to give them better lives. At the same time, my deep and abiding mistrust of all things Madonna tells me that she realized how much goodwill Angelina was getting and decided "I can be a trendy Mom too!" The way Madonna's adoption was publicized made me feel like she called a couple of newspapers from her diamond cell phone and told them she was doing this, which cheapens the whole thing a bit. The reasons to adopt a child is if he/she is unsafe or not being provided with food, water, and shelter, not to exercise your own vanity and reveal the magnificent depths of the ocean that is your narcissism. The money Madonna is lavishly and pointlessly spending on this baby could provide the village he hails from with food and shelter for thousands. An electric car? For a baby? What the hell is going on here?

Too Many Good Men

It's long been a source of embarrassment for me that I don't own the movie "A Few Good Men", because I've seen it somewhere on the order of 12,563,235 times. The first time, I was about 11 or 12 years old and I don't think I had the faintest idea what was going on. I was just responding to a few snippets of funny dialogue and the intensity of the scenes. Now, as a news addict and ardent evangeliser of Aaron Sorkin, I appreciate the film in so many ways. It really shaped how I look at the military and the way they conduct themselves, because let's face facts--we need them on that wall. This was his first big success--the play he wrote that was turned into this movie, and I firmly believe it is one of the best movies I've ever seen.

Even my wholehearted efforts to purchase the DVD are thwarted at every turn, as I can almost never find it in stores. Either it has been out for so long their is no space for it on the shelf and it has been squeezed by the likes of the insipid trash that is Nanny 911, or it is so staggeringly popular that it is constantly out of stock. But now, thanks to the wonder of the Internet, I need not agonize over the glaring omission of this film in my collection. Instead, I can just watch the best scene of the movie on YouTube over and over until my eyes fall out of my skull and everyone ignores me for fear that I'll tell them (again) that this scene is so masterfully written that it practically defies the natural order of our great and glorious universe.

I'm off to see if I can find YouTube clips of "The American President." If I have, you'll be among the first to know.

A Brave New World

Blogger has given me a new version, but I am not clear on what any of the new features mean or if they are even useful. Despite this, I dutifully updated because when it comes to Google, I try all of their products and am a loyal foot soldier in their army.

I saw The Departed this past weekend, and like every review you've read, it was awesome. I loved the biopics Marty, but I'm glad we're back in gangland. This movie is in many ways a return to form for all involved. It marks a return to crime drama for Scorsese, Jack Nicholson's is playing twisted evildoers again, and the reemergence of the long dormant, but much missed Boston accents of Matt Damon and Mark Wahlberg. Martin Sheen has one too, but I never really associated him with Boston, but rather with idealized Democratic Presidents. Damon and Wahlberg's accents are, in a word, resplendent. DiCaprio's intensity is bursting in every frame--he looks as though he is constantly about to snap, but I must say that Alec Baldwin's humor and Mark Wahlberg's savagely hilarious profanity were underrated aspects. William Monahan's insults recall a Mamet-like ferocity that makes me wish I liked my friends a little bit less, if only to allow me to obliterate them as seen on screen.

I have been helping my friend Brady with a script that he's writing, which allows me to see how many "Arrested Development" and "The Office" style awkward moments I can cram into a 10-12 page screenplay. The answer is a lot, but I really believe Brady has written a fantastic script. I was very interested to see how the writing process works for the screen, as it seems to be heavily predicated on showing the drafts to as many people as possible, gathering as many suggestions on pacing, joke placement and length, fears of repetition, balance of characters, etc., and distilling them all while maintaining the idea of the piece. It is a task I do not envy, and was glad to help in any way I can while maximizing the amount of credit I will receive from it.

Co-writer credit. I'd like my name in Helvetica in the credits Brady. It has a quiet elegance.

The Devil, I Know

Despite my own deep protests, I don't believe I failed the accounting test I took this morning. I had been convinced, completely convinced, that I would--but after finishing it, that doesn't seem likely. Deep and abiding pessimism pays off, it would seem.

I am going to try and write a story (not a very good one) about an incredibly good looking man who is very lonely. I've started 500 stories in the past 3 years, and they are all populated by variations on a few character traits: lonely guy, rich guy, rich lonely guy. I only ever think to write about men--sad, lonely rich men--because I don't imagine I could convincingly write in a woman's voice. The way women think is entirely aloof to me. I've had women tell me stories wherein they are walking me through a decision or a conflict they've had, and their reasoning is something I could never have deduced given 1,000 years and a map. I suppose that is why when I am scouring for fiction books, I never think to read one written by a woman. In fact, just thinking about it right now, I can count very few women authors I even like--Harper Lee is good, but that's all that comes to mind. It isn't that I believe women to be inferior writers, I just don't gravitate toward their work. I don't think women and I share a sense of humor--mine is far to dark for most polite society. If I find a female who loves Ricky Gervais/Stephen Merchant, Arrested Development, Aaron Sorkin, Oscar Wilde, Brendan Behan, and/or Steve Coogan, I'll read her book tonight. Or quite possibly marry her. That's really up to her.

Always a schmaltzy ballad writer to me

Billy Joel is a fine performer and singer, and I don't think I am going out on any sort of limb when I say that. He is universally popular, I think he is one of only a few artists to go Titanium (1 billion albums sold). His music is good, but I've consistently found him to be something of a lazy songwriter. His lyrics are often a narrative, but sometimes they are silly and sappy in a pointless way. My most damning example is "Always a woman to me". On first glance, the lyrics are evocative of a lost love, but they are really just about incredibly mean woman. Of course, I can't expect Joel to write horrid women the way Fitzgerald does, but come on Billy. If only you could make us understand why you like this ice queen. To borrow a phrase, she appears to have no redeeming qualities whatsoever.

I think this entry peaked with the title. This is what happens when you rush to finish before Studio 60 starts. I will not apologize.

Sorkin on crack is still better than 99% of Hollywood

Studio 60's first episode pulled down fine ratings, and it is already being declared a hit, which in television is a self-fulfilling prophesy. As long as people have decided your show is a hit, it will stay on no matter how bad it is (Yes, Dear--I'm looking at you.)

The fact of the matter is Aaron Sorkin is probably the best screenwriter working today. Much has been made of his rapidfire dialogue full to the brim of sparkling wit and even the lowliest characters are towers of erudition. His stuff is always a joy to behold, the smartest people you can think of being very fast and funny. It is, of course, not realistic--nobody is that smart and sharp all the time--but who the hell cares? It's a scripted drama, people should sound and be smarter than they would be in normal life. From 'A Few Good Men' to 'Sports Night' to 'The West Wing' and now 'Studio 60', Aaron Sorkin has been dazzling us, and he deserves the incredible fame and fortune he has.

But beyond that, I love Aaron Sorkin because he represents that greatest of all literary characters--the tortured genius. The only story that gets more coverage that Aaron Sorkin's genius is his drug problems. Even people that don't like Aaron Sorkin's shows admit he is a supremely talented writer, just as those who cannot stop praising his writing must confess that he is a self-destructive typhoon who has never been able to fully control his demons. I have always been fascinated by people like Aaron Sorkin who are so phenomenally talented, so intellectually and creatively blessed, but are so deeply and tragically flawed. I don't mean to sound like a high-handed moralist, but Sorkin knows that he has had problems in the past. Maybe that is simply part and parcel of being a great writer--Fitzgerald, Hemingway, AA Milne, voracious drunks all. It's almost as if brilliant people have an incredible fire for a brain, but sometimes they need to extinguish it for fear that left unabated, it would burn them down. Watching him rise again and again, you realize that a mind like Sorkin's cannot be contained. His characters are fuller than almost any other on TV, and his stories of competent people who lean on each other are as compelling now as when he wrote sports night 8 years ago. He truly is a golden boy, and I hope his flame burns for years to come. Or at least until Studio 60 can hit syndication.

Tea and Sympathy

As I write this on a rainy Friday afternoon in New York, I am drinking a hot cup of peppermint tea. While I can think of no better way to start a morning than a strong coffee, tea is an afternoon drink and must always be treated as such. That being said, I must admit that in the past few years, especially after moving to New York, I get faintly embarrassed at buying, preparing, and consuming tea--a feeling that is greatly exacerbated by my preference for mint tea. This unease isn't because I dislike tea--far from it, obviously. It is more that I don't like the idea of other people on line with me at the market seeing my mint tea and associating me with the strange Moby-inspired trendiness that is part and parcel of tea subculture.

Tea has been around, according to my research, for about 75 million years, and I have reliable evidence that dinosaurs drank it regularly. It is a staple drink of many cultures, including India, which would explain my early introduction to the brew. But in America, the 1990s saw a huge popularity for all things Eastern--Anime cartoons, Chinese/Japanese tattoos, Henna--and tea was part of that resurgence to be sure. While coffee has a distinct European context, tea is Asian, and therefore seen as more exotic. Coffee is fuel--it's aggressive and capitalist and people drink it with one hand while reading the Wall Street Journal and firing their assistant. Tea is serene, contemplative, reflective and something you indulge in while cultivating your own garden and massaging your chi and feeling a breeze lick your face and open your kimono in an indecent manner. It's not clear to me why these stereotypes exist, seeing as my process for making either is more or less the same, but they are indelibly stamped in our minds, or for the sake of this argument they are. I would imagine that many young people who drink tea drink it to be associated with this intellectualism and serenity, as if either of those can be achieved through hot drinks. This is probably why whenever I buy mint tea (the only other tea I like is English Breakfast, but I don't even like that too much) it always comes with philosophical saying that look like they came out of a 9th graders term paper.

I dislike the whole packaged smugness that surrounds tea now because I think it creates and encourages a mysticism and quiet superiority that isn't real. Tea does not have healing properties just because wise, bearded Asians people drink it in movies. It is nothing more than leaves boiled in water. Stop selling me tea where every bag has a quote from Homer or Ralph Waldo Emerson. I can't buy coffee with quotes from Voltaire on the bag--because it would be stupid. Tea is a fine product without anyone ascribing supernaturalism to it.

Hipsters ruin everything.

Colbert brings rooms together

Despite the fact that we all had work to do, my roommates and I came together to watch Stephen Colbert and a New Jersey Congressional candidate in the 3rd District (I don't know, nor will I look up his name). It was one of Colbert's best pieces--a truly magnificent performance. Of course, after the show, we all broke off to our caves to finish whatever work our dark overlords deigned important, but for a brief moment we were witness to comedy at its finest. It was the kind of thing that envelopes its observers in pure joy, and releases a warmth and serenity that holds within it the secret to a better tomorrow.

I think I've oversold it.

An Urgent Announcement

I am writing to say that I have my computer back, which means I can blog with impunity. But not right now, as I don't have anything to say.

Just wanted to keep you abreast.

Charlie Brooker is a hate-filled genius

One of my favorite news paper columnists is a British writer named Charlie Brooker. He writes for the newspaper The Guardian, and has previously hosted and written for radio and tv. He is also one of the meanest and most misanthropic writers I've ever seen. His work now mainly consists of television reviews and free form essays he composes on fanciful and not quite realistic topics. I love them. He writes with a sort of vengeful lyricism and is profane with a peerless elegance. I suggest you (and I speak now of the wasteland of souls and thesis papers that is the blogosphere) check out his work. There are also tons of his clips around which are fun as well.

This post was not one of my usual whinefests, but rather an attempt to share some things that amuse me. I will return to the rancor in short order.

City Girl Squawk

Jason Horowitz wrote a great piece in the New York Observer about a very particular kind of Northeast accent he calls the City Girl Squawk. I know that when I give a link that is more than a paragraph, it feels like a homework assignment, but this one is good (skim around it if you must) because it deals with an accent that I have a lot of experience with. Almost every girl I went to high school with talked in this way, and seeing as I go to NYU, largely populated by girls from the Northeast, I haven't escaped it. This accent has bothered me for a long time.

A lot of people make fun of Southern accents, which I actually find very pleasant, but the city girl squawk is curdling to the point of being a public safety risk. It is also very specific to a type of girl--as Horowitz calls her: attractive but not pretty, stringy but not skinny, smart but not all that intelligent. He might as well have been in my study hall. It is a voice typified by long, whiney vowels and a piercing laugh that makes you want to scrape out your cochlea with a grapefruit spoon. Conversations are liberally sprinkled with hyperbole and the words "like", "so" and "totally." Horowitz puts together an incredible snapshot of the practitioner of the accent. Everything I would point to as annoying is in this article. Read it--you'll love it. Unless you're a girl I went to high school with, in which case this article is probably about you. Sorry.

Rising to Flogian Heights

Since I didn't get an apartment in New York this summer, I have been commuting into Manhattan via train. It's about an hour, which sounds a lot worse than it actually is. All things considered, trains are the best way to travel very early in the morning. They require little to no consciousness on my part, allow me to read, and provide a lot of interesting characters for me to silently amuse myself with. One of the newest ways I've devised to occupy myself is to write small, and (I think) funny lists. Past topics include "Nicknames I've tried to give myself" and "Terrible Product Names". Only I, and maybe people I've paid, think they are any good, but it is amazing that it takes me an hour to come up with 5 things funny enough to write down. My mind takes off on incredible flights of fantasy and bizarre musings when I force it to be disciplined. Those tangents are usually populated by dark thoughts that I would never say out loud, much less write down where it could be tracked back to me and derail my chances at being White House Chief of Staff one day.

I frequently wonder where the limits of propriety are in my daily life. Sometimes when I am talking to someone I don't know very well, I will make up a word and use it confidently in conversation. Most people plow ahead valiantly, and just assume you meant to use another, more obvious word. A smaller number will press you, and ask you what that word was. This is where your choice of made-up word is important. My favorite for a long time was "reponstulate" because it is just complex enough to sound real. If you go over the top, you will be found out. For example, when someone asks me what I want to do, I'd say something like "Well, since corporate entities need to raise capital for their operations, I help leverage their assets to fully reponstulate a secure line of credit" or something like that. Sounds good, but means bollocks since I threw up a word like 'reponstulate' in there. I've said that before, and 9/10 times the person just nods like I'm a mental patient and slowly shuffles toward the crab cakes. Making up words is a good way to amuse yourself and escape the burden of trying to entertain others. I suggest you try it.

Scoff and You Scoff Alone

Those who know me know that I have a long and storied history of making fun of things. I agonized about what word to use in place of "things", but I could not come up with a word with enough totality. It isn't just movies like Miami Vice (do you know what is meant by foreboding? It means badness that is going on right now), or television shoes like Blind Justice (in which we had to be constantly reminded that the protagonist was, indeed, blind). My venom can reach from pop culture to current affairs to consumer goods. Most recently, I've been savaging the new Gillette Fusion with it's 5 blades on the front and 1 on the back. This is familiar territory for me, as I made snarky comments about the Mach3 Turbo and M3Power, both of which I bought later. This is the biggest problem with my outsized mouth--it very often has to eat its words. Some people would be embarrassed to be seen using a product that they very recently called "idiotic" and "a waste", but I am a shameless hypocrite who is a sucker for a close shave.

The crux of my complaints (I am speaking only of razors now, not gay marriage amendments or Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas) is that consumers get hoodwinked into using new razors when there is nothing appreciably wrong with their current ones. Is there really a subset of American men who were yearning for more aloe strips on their blade? We seem to be getting more blades without really understanding if we needs them. As was reported (somewhat cheekily) in the best magazine in the world the curve for blades is following something of a parabolic curve and at the end of the decade we should be looking at ten blades. Some might recall an old SNL sketch that lampooned what I've dubbed "blade proliferation" with dozens of razors rotating on a fan and cutting up Tim Meadows's face (I think it was TM, but it could have been Anchorman). We are laughably close to such a reality. Before I would have sneered at these developments and thought I was being duped. But I am a convert to the Church of Latter Day Razors. Bring 'em on. I've used the new Fusion and it is a much closer shave than I've ever had, as I always knew but was loath to admit. If that day should come where they've added so many blades to the device that I'll have to yank a chain to start the damned thing, I will do some tricep stretches and let it rip like a lawnmower.

You should buy this razor, even if you feel like an idiot when you do. Don't worry, I was one of you once--the swarthy, unenlightened masses. Now I have seen the light, and those glorious extra blades gleam in it.

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There's only one thing that truly unites mankind -- the objectification of womankind.

Stephen Colbert's satire knows no bounds, but it does know how to make me laugh and not want to tell anyone why I'm laughing at the risk of sounding like a sexist. People don't give you money or invite you to their ski chalets if they believe you to be a sexist. They also don't introduce you to attractive women if they have reason to think you're a gentleman of ill repute, or worse, a cad of the first order.

Then again, guys who use phrases like "gentleman of ill repute" and "cad" don't meet many attractive women anyway. With good reason.

This Week with George Stephanoindianapolis

I am an avid watcher of "This Week" on ABC every Sunday morning. It's one of the many things that my father did while I was growing up that have now become a part of my routine--a reflex I feel every week. Sometimes George brings out the big guns, usually when the world is falling apart: George Will (a regular), Cokie Roberts (silliest first name in news), Fareed Zakaria (my favorite political writer) and Sam Donaldson (a face that defies explanation). The reason I love it so much is that it feeds my desire to know what's going on while avoiding shrill screaming. Also, I harbor some long-standing illusion that Fareed Zakaria and I will become friends one day and discuss global affairs and the best recipe for cooking ducks, or whatever Fareed Zakaria does in his limited free time. Erudite without being snobbish, the panel of This Week makes me glad to live in a country that still has intelligent debate.

The Summer Continues

Despite my best efforts to read blogs all day and eat free food at work, I am actually learning a great deal about banking this summer. For one, bankers all seem to use a four in hand knot in their ties, which makes sense because it is the most popular tie knot and because the windsor knot is the "mark of a cad" according to James Bond. I make it something of a rule to not contradict Bond, except in very specific claims like where he believes that homosexuals cannot whistle. I can't really understand that one. I also learned that most people with full time jobs spend their time in training sessions to learn about their job or in feedback meetings with their bosses. Presumably their bosses are evaluating them on their skill in a training seminar, but I'm just an intern--what do I know?

We also talk about football a lot, especially since I started work the week the World Cup started. Most bankers are big on the World Cup it seems (purely anecdotal evidence) which makes sense as high income Americans are more likely to follow football. Is that because they are smarter or bigger snobs? I could argue it's a combination of both. I have been in sporadic contact with my former roommates who got me into football, and they are probably as shocked as I was to see Zidane head butted Materazzi. Normally so classy, we saw an ugly side of the Frenchman who had a chance to lead his team and his country to a second World Cup, but he was hijacked by his emotions. Of course, I can't fully understand his state of mind, but in such an important game I would have hoped for more poise from Zidane. I am, of course, happy for Italy at large and Fabio Grosso in particular, because I saw some footage of him playing for Inter a few months ago and just liked him. Del Pierro as well--richly deserved.

Here's hoping for a smooth second half of my internship, and many more free meals to come.

Wit: The Last Refuge of the Scoundrel

Yesterday after work I met my friend Carolyn at some new coffee shop in the village, Think. Carolyn told me that it had opened while I was in London, which explained how I missed it, because as it is on Mercer Street, I would have walked past it every day. It's a really chill place, a judgement I base on the fact that I ordered precisely one espresso and bullshat with Carolyn for about 3 hours. I have to try their cappuccino sometime, obviously before 11 AM (nobody with any sense drinks cappuccino after 11 AM, it's positively declasse). To give you an idea about what kind of place it is, I glanced around when I walked in and counted about 8 Powerbook laptops. Yeah, that kind of place.

Carolyn and I hadn't spoken since I left for London, so we obviously had a lot to catch up on. I did what I do, which is prevent real conversation from happening by constantly employing double entendres, absurdism, bitingsarcasm, and just general hilarious diversions. Carolyn (in between fits of convulsive laughter I would add) reminded me of something I told her once: I am uncomfortable when talking for more than 60 seconds without making a joke. I had to admit, she had me dead to rights. I tend to throw jokes into quite serious situations. They're not all homeruns, but it's something of a tic I have. I get called a smart-ass a lot, and have been told that my jokes "don't stop" and that is usually followed by "why, in the name of all that is holy and right on God's green earth, won't they stop?" Carolyn, and many other people I know, have told me that this is a defense mechanism I use to hide myself and to create some kind of distance from people because I have a crippling fear of abandonment. I have no idea where people get it from. If ONLY I had a fear of abandonment, it would add some flavor to my otherwise charmed life. I firmly believe that what keeps me from a career in comedy is that I've had nothing sad ever happen to me. That and I'm not very funny. I remember reading an interview with my comedy hero Stephen Colbert, who I've been a fan since I saw Strangers With Candy in like 1999, where he talks about his father and two older brothers die in a plane crash when he was 10. He said that a sense of humour is developed when someone loses their sense of innocence. I probably intentionally gave mine up rather than "lost" it. My parents are still married, my sister and I get along, I'm upper middle class and have never had any serious health problems. I go to a private university that costs more annually than a new luxury car or new kidney. With no real darkness, how can I create comedy? By making asinine observations about people around me.

I think my need to make jokes constantly stems more out of my desire to make people feel comfortable than to get people to like me. In fact, my humour is largely self-deprecating because it puts people at ease more than my more acerbic style of comedy where I cut people down like Paul Bunyon cuts down trees. Was Paul Bunyon a lumberjack? Or even real? I have always disliked confrontation and tried to make everyone feel easy all the time. Luckily, it hasn't been at the expense of people walking all over me yet. But as I wander through this post that is not so much a coherent thought as a safari through my subconscious, I feel it is important to clear up a point: I don't make jokes so that people like me. I do it because it makes them feel comfortable, it's fun and it keeps my mind occupied while you talk, because to be frank you're quite boring.

I'm not sad, but sometimes I'd be happer if I was.

Party in Danbury

I spent the last weekend at Rich's house in CT, which I will spell that way to avoid learning how to actually spell it. It was an obvious rocking time. Rich's family cracks me up, especially because they rag on each other constantly. Rich is one of the top 3 funniest people I know (yes, I rank everyone I know by how funny they are--ask me I'll tell you), and knows exactly how to turn a phrase or even vocalize an oft repeated joke. It amazes me that someone who is functionally illiterate can be so funny. I'm kidding, but for an ESL kid, it ain't bad. Of course, the festivities ran late into the evening as I spiraled deeper into my own personal hell of shame, mendacity, and violent outbursts. Or so I was told. I remember having a great time until I voted to impeach President Nixon, when someone whispered in my ear that not being a member of Congress I don't have that authority, and moreover that Richard Nixon had not been President for over 30 years.

Thanks for a great time, Rich.

Wealth Strategies for Chabillionaires

So far my job is pretty good. I surprisngly don't mind wearing a tie because I think it makes me look distinguished. That and my Selleck mustache. More interesting than helping rich people keep their money at my job is the fact that every time I am in my car on the way back to my house I hear the song "Ridin' Dirty" by Chamillionaire. I really like it, but I can't listen to more than a few minutes because when I'm driving it makes me speed, and dare the NYPD to catch me ridin' dirty.

France, you were robbed today, quel dommage. England, I am putting my hopes on you, so step it up Beckham, Owen and to a lesser extent Ferdinand.

Let It Be

I was watching Boston Legal, one of my favorite dramas because I don't have to watch it all the time like LOST or 24. Flexibility can be liberating that way. I also tend to like anything James Spader does. He has an posh elegance and a roguish manner that I find to be quite winning, especially as his character is an utterly amoral bastard with the requisite heart of gold. Also, I love how William Shatner has completely embraced the fact that he was once a laughing stock, thereby making himself cool and self-effacing. David E. Kelley is much better as a surrealist and a comic writer in my opinion anyway, and if you don't believe me watch Robert Downey Jr. on Ally McBeal--amazing. Anyway, on tonight's (rerun) Tom Selleck played the ex-husband of Candice Bergen (who is a lot better looking than her age would indicate, as would the fact that she dated Kissinger). Now, you and I both know that Tom Selleck is known for being Magnum P.I. and having a mustache, and to be fair those two things are pretty much tied together. Well, in this episode his mustache looked immaculate as always, but he had grown in a goatee that looked about half as old as the mustache, which gave it an oddly asymmetrical quality that I found unnerving. My only conclusion is that someone told Selleck to grow the goatee, but this bothered me--Tom Selleck's mustache is iconic. He's worn it proudly for decades . In spite of it falling from fashion favour, he's stuck by it because he's not one of these "shave and run" Hollywood types. He's earned that mustache. So lay off, mustache-anistas. Selleck knows what he's doing. Let's have some faith in him.

An Inconvenient, but altogether needed, Truth

I wasn't allowed to vote in the 2000 election, but if I could I might have voted for George Bush. This may shock people who know me, as they probably wouldn't call me a conservative, but at the time I didn't really like Al Gore. He struck me in much the same way he struck everyone else--dry, a bit wooden, unable to effectively communicate his role in the preceding 8 years of prosperity and good will. But another reason might be that he didn't fully stress an issue he had dedicated so much of his life as a public servant to: the environment. Since leaving office 8 years ago, Gore has relaunched himself as the crusader for the planet he had been before with his film on the dangers of global warming entitled 'An Inconvenient Truth.' I've done a little reading into it, and my eyes popped.

Diseases like malaria spreading to new areas, an increase in the intensity and frequency of hurricanes, melting of ice caps that could flood coastal areas, droughts, fires, hundreds of thousands of deaths. If Al Gore had related this to people when he was running for President he could have scared people shitless as to what will happen if we don't do something. I'm not a very liberal person, or rather I've met a lot of people in college who are self-proclaimed liberals and they annoy me, but this seems like an issue that should be central to Presidential campaigns. I also don't agree with people who say that the environment is a radical left-wing, hippy tree-hugger issue. It's about life and death. The environment is tied to energy policy, which is tied to national security policy, defense policy, economic policy, trade policy. It's also the starkest and most scary 30 second commercial you can make:

Your children are going to die in an enormous fire, or be drowned in a flood, or be killed by a bizarre disease because the other guy doesn't want to stop global warming. He doesn't even think it's real. But your kid dying--that's real.

I just made that up right now. It would sink a candidate who is still debating if global warming even exists. I like that Al Gore is a ballsy guy, but it pains me that on the campaign he never came across as anything other than supremely scripted and terrified that people would paint him with the "slick, equivocating, philanderer" brush that had been used to tar Clinton. Not having to run for anything tends to help with honesty and objectivity. Knowing all that I know now about Al Gore and George Bush, I would have voted for Gore. That being said, I hope he doesn't run, because he is doing a lot of good being unburdened with an election. He can educate more people and raise the level of debate if he is a fire-breathing outsider. Can he sometimes be a bit over the top? Sure, but I'd prefer he continue to throw haymakers than dampen it so much that he's a wet noodle.

Please, Al: don't run for President. Just do what you do now, make me think.

LOST but not found

Since I started watching it on DVD in January, LOST has become my favorite TV show, supplanting 24 as my example of how better entertainment is coming out of TV than movies. Today was the season 2 finale, and this show is slowly replacing breathing and eating as the most important functions in my life. Watching LOST is soon to be an autonomic function of my mind as I try to unravel LOST's mind-bending quality by combing websites created by the show's producers meant to give hints, reading forums created by fans, and esposuing my cockamamie theories to anyone who will listen. If you aren't watching this show, you should be, but know that it will take over your mind like a virus.

I...can't...stop

Long Live the King

Since returning to my house here in the States after 4 months away, I feel like the King returned to his kingdom after exile. The past three days, I have stalked this house with a strong sense of my territory under foot, and it feels great.

In a way, coming back to my house is something of a microcosm of coming to America. The student flat I spent the past four months in was small. I had a tiny bedroom that I shared with Bryce, small bathroom, and even though I had a sizable kitchen and a decent living room, it had a cramped feel. It had plus points--a lot of light and a cool location--but after living in a large penthouse last semester it was a bit of a shock. I got used to it though, and through my travels in Europe I became acclimated to smaller rooms, minor inconveniences like sporadic hot water, and having only five television channels. I adjusted to having hard water, not having a dryer, and slow to non-existent internet connection. I dealt with it because I was living in a city I loved, having the time of my life, and there was a pub approximately 6 feet from my door, and another on the corner. Now, my house and America at large display that shocking abundance that visitors always remark on. My room here feels comparable in size to my entire flat. I have a fridge full of food. Instead of a 13" tv with five channels, I have a 65" tv with 700 channels. I can kind of understand how Europeans feel when Americans complain about inconveniences in Europe--our entire perspective can be a bit out of whack. I am starting to wonder if America's love for all that is enormous isn't a bit toxic, and if I'm not a bit tainted by it. It is the land of plenty for sure, and while I enjoy it, there was something oddly satisfying about that spartan lifestyle I left across the pond. It wasn't an ashram, but it was less that I was used to, and the minor asceticism of it appealed to me. When so much is available, do we lose those small pleasures--a pint and some good banter in a pub? Maybe I ought to scale back the luxury a bit, or at very least stop making this sound like a narrative from Sex and the City.

This is my 100th blog post--and the bizarre rantings continue unabated.

Watching: Entourage on HBO on Demand--can't get enough of it.

Fin

Today is my last day in London. As I've mentioned in previous entries, it is a bittersweet moment. I have loved my semester here. London is the only city other than New York that I can imagine myself ever living in. Maybe in dire straits San Francisco. Anyway, I am a bit sad to go, but I am also ready to go. At the start of the program here, I was a bit wary and it took me a week or so to really jump in with both feet. I was either homesick or had a viral infection, but I had a knot in my stomach for the first 5 days. I had to shake out of it and really enjoy London, and once I did I fell in love. I've already chronicled all the things I like about London, so I'll spare you that. Suffice it to say that if you do want to visit London, don't fall into the trap of having to see only the major tourist spots like Tower Bridge and Buckingham Palace. Do the slightly out of the way things--pick a neighborhood and walk through it. Without question, the most rewarding parts of my trip have been when I grabbed my camera and devoured a neighborhood: Mayfair, St. John's Wood, Kensington, Primrose Hill, Soho, Islington, Brixton. I could go on, but there is no better way to get to know a city. London, I'll miss you. If New York is my wife, then you are surely my mistress, and even though you're elegant and intoxicating, I love my wife too much to leave her.

New York: I'm coming home.

A Long Kiss Goodnight

It has been too long for me to justify my reasons for not writing a blog, so I won't bother. Last month I was on holiday to Belgium, Denmark, and the Netherlands and had an incredible time in all those places. I highly suggest you visit Copenhagen, a thoroughly charming and beautiful city that once was the seat of power in all of Scandinavia. I like the quiet and unassuming nature of the city. It has an enormous palace, but overall it is quite understated. Plus, it has a mermaid.

Belgium is a smaller and less hyperactive version of Paris, with its pretty streets and curiously rude waiters. When it comes to Belgian chocolate, believe the hype. It is not to be missed, but I don't think you should go unless you plan to eat your weight in chocolate and drink your volume in beer. When vacationing in Europe, excess is the name of the game, and one should embrace the joie de vivre of it all.

Finally, Amsterdam's canals and street life are incredibly lively, but I am probably the only American, and definitely the only American student, who was put-off by the Red Light District. Open air prostitution is ugly business, literally, and Amsterdam seems to be trapped by its permissive attitude. Nobody wants their city full of British, American and Canadian students smoking pot in the streets (everyone knows it reeks) and generally being disorderly, but Amsterdam has to accept it, as tolerance and a liberal ethos are its cross to bear. Sad, because I could probably do with less of it. It's not as if other world cities provide no avenues for the illicit pursuits, but they have the good sense to hide it away somewhere. Plus, as a long time advocate of liberalizing societies rules on "harmful behaviors" it was a bit saddening to see what a completely open society would look like. Other than that, Amsterdam's monuments and canal tours were quite nice. I saw the world's narrowest house, which was probably about a meter wide. It is the weird shit like that which interests me.

I have less than two weeks in London, and that is a cause of great sadness to me. I really like London, and British people especially. I am thankful that I was able to chat with ordinary Britons, in cafes and pubs and on the bus and while in the queue for anything. I find them witty and kind and always eager to chat. I've long had an imagined love affair with Brits, and it was incredible to have all my greatest hopes realized. London is, sorry to my American friends, a much prettier city than New York, and I often wonder (both silently and aloud) why New York has so few squares/parks, seeing how they beautify an area and lift the spirits. A few Bedford Squares, or even a Soho Square, imported to New York would do a concrete jungle some good by including just a touch more jungle. If I had my way, I could jet between New York and London on a whim and bunk up in some posh Chelsea hotel, but alas it cannot be. I will have to content myself with the thought that in the last thousand years, London has lasted and I hope to see it thrive again in the next thousand. Of course, this is not my final love letter to London, but I guess I am missing it prematurely.

Last week of classes, and if you are an American student who is already done with school know that I am wishing such a symphony of pain for you Puccini himself would be stunned.

Song: Gnarls Barkley "Crazy" Totally huge here in London, and I imagine it is getting some buzz in the states

Notting Hill: Not just a movie

I was as shocked as you are.

How was I to know that the film 'Notting Hill', a charming little love story released in 1999, starring Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts, written by Richard Curtis and directed by Roger Michell was also the name of a neighborhood in London? Gobsmacked, I tell you. I spent last Saturday perambulating the Portobello Road market which I had heard so much about, not realizing that if I, ignorant American, had heard so much about the Saturday market, it should stand to reason that every other person currently visiting London would be there as well. And so it was. At no other time during my 2 months in London have I been in the company of so many Americans, and I am including the times I have been with all the American students here in London. Even more puzzling was how the presence of these Yanks upset me. I haven't been here long enough to be a dyed in the wool Londoner, but tourists always bother me.

My particular method of exploring a city is to blend in as much as possible. I see all the major sights, but since I prefer to travel alone and understated I don't set off any tourist bells. I take photos discretely, and abhor any photos with me in them. I don't quite understand people that need to stamp every portrait of their trip with their visage--of course I was there, I took the picture. I think the picture of me standing in a red phone booth is tacky, and I prefer to remember the things I saw with that precise elegance that attracted me to them. In addition to the obvious sights, I like slightly out of the way things, and in London I am drawn to very small pleasures: four (real) men in suits having a (real) meeting at a kitchen table display in a department store, a bag of American beef jerky entitled "Extreme Dude", pleasant Georgian squares and Victorian houses. British streets have different designs, and in many areas one finds more continental European streets and cafes lying cheek to jowl by an American looking strip mall. I prefer the former, but the latter can offer it's moments of quiet comfort that Woolworths still thrives and I can purchase 12 socks for 4 pounds. Snapping back to the original intent of this paragraph, my excursions lead me to dislike the American method of seeing an area, which is to drag five people in USA hats into the street, take a lot of pictures of the children high-fiving under Tower Bridge or picking the nose of a statue, have a Whopper and go back to the hotel room. How can you really get a feel for an area by seeing only what tourists see? One must enter the tea rooms and the pubs to engage the locals. For example, after having lunch in a cafe in Notting Hill, I walked into a nearby pub to catch the last few minutes of a Chelsea-Tottenham football match. This pub was packed to the gills with Chelsea fans, and all were restless at the missed chances that kept the match locked at 1 apiece. In the 93rd minute, Chelsea's Gallas put a bulge in the old onion bag, and the pub cheered with full-throated joy. It was a wonderful moment to see, and afterwards I spoke with a few of the Chelsea fans, and they were pretty excited to explain their theories on why they love Chelsea but think Mourinho is a git. It was a true English afternoon, and I think the best way to see not just the sights of a city, but to know its character.

Anyway, I'm off to McDonalds. 99 pence menu, I can't compete with that.

Charlie Sheen is irresistable

Part of my weeknight routine here is watching the Simpsons and Two and a Half Men from 6-7 PM. It's a nice way to reconnect with home, because two dimensional yellow people and Malibu bachelors remind me of my own life living in a 5 person apartment in Chinatown. I admit, it's a bit of a leap. Actually, all the NYU students here in London are gripped by the show Prison Break, and we talk about it a lot, but I digress. The focus here is Two and a Half Men. As far as diversions go, this is a pretty good one, especially because I like Charlie Sheen in everything he does. The creator of Two and a Half Men is a guy named Chuck Lorre who famously writes a title card for the credits of every episode of the show. They're something of short comedy vignettes and a lot of them make me chuckle. One of the best ones is this one, because it makes me think and is in line with something I'd say at a job interview just to weird someone out.

CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #112

When I was in the shower this morning, I thought: If we assume a Big Bang beginning of the universe, then every molecule, every atom, every proton, every electron, every quark, every wavelength, every vibration, every multi-dimensional string, every everything that makes up everything else shares an ineffable property of pre-Bang Oneness. Assuming that, then every everything is always moving in one of two directions: either away from that primordial state, or returning towards it. We feel these quantum movements. Moving away is experienced as loneliness, fear, anger and despair. Returning is experienced as one or more of the infinite variations and gradations of what we call love. Now, while some might say that equating the miracle of human feelings to the meandering of sub-atomic bric-a-brac robs them of their mystery, the truth is quite the opposite. Connecting our fundamental experience of life to the great mystery of existence ties us to the eternal within our every waking moment. We are not separate. We are made of the same stuff that existed at the beginning and will exist at the end. Therefore, the question we must each ask ourselves is simple: "In what direction am I moving today - towards oneness, or away from it?" When I was done reflecting on this, I stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and, while glancing at the mirror, pondered a new thought: "I have a pretty nice ass for a guy my age."

Good times.

Hooray for seething racisim!

I'm very happy "Crash" won best picture, because when I saw it I thought it was the best movie I'd seen in a long long time. Totally deserved. Also I am glad that Clooney and Seymour Hoffman picked up some hardware, but those are slightly dimmed by the fact that I, along with almost everyone else, predicted those two wins. "Crash" was a welcome surprise.

From what I've seen and read, my man Jon Stewart did a pretty good job hosting. I of course did not watch the Oscars since they weren't on one of the 5 tv channels we have, but I checked the papers this morning and a few video clips are scattered over the web. The internet rules.

Sorry to Felicity Huffman, for whom I view every award she gets now to be retroactive appreciation for "Sports Night".

Gotta love Hollywood.

London, still

This is my second post from jolly old England, and I wish I could write more, but I just don't feel it sometimes. I'd rather not force it and write some crap, but I have a sneaking suspicion that's what you'll be getting right now.

I am sitting in my flat before I leave for class in a little under 2 hours. Monday's are my worst class day because I have Management and Organizational Analysis, which is more boring than it sounds, amazingly enough. My prof is dry and takes about two minutes to speak 10 words. Imagine Ben Stein, with an German-English accent. I use that class for daydreaming and doing work for other classes in order to keep it from being a total bust.

After MOA, I usually head over to the University of London Union, which basically a student center. A few kids from my MOA class head over with me, we eat tasty and inexpensive nachos and shoot pool in one of the bars. It's not a bad way to kill a few hours, and it makes Monday's tolerable.

Monday night includes a class that all NYU students in London have to take called 'Issues in Contemporary British Society and Politics.' I think it's pretty interesting, and we have a new guest speaker every week. So far, we've had a columnist for the Independent newspaper and the head of Prime Minister Thatcher's policy unit--people in the know I'd say. Most people probably don't like the class because it is on Monday night and is required, but it could have been a lot worse.

This weekend was the most work I've done in London, and will be the most work I do until finals. I have to finish a paper for my class on the EU due Wednesday and finish a presentation for my class on Consumption tomorrow. I realized this weekend that I haven't written an academic paper in almost 10 months, since finals of freshman year. Last semester I was taking Economics and Math classes with sporadic problem sets, and even my Politics class had only short answer questions on the final.

This was the first weekend I didn't do one of my now famous jaunts around London. I usually pick a neighborhood to stroll about aimlessly and snap pictures of. I poke my head in various shops and cafes and talk to the locals, where whenever I open my mouth they ask me "Are you American?" There are a lot of Americans in London, which I expected and can't honestly complain about since I am one, but you'd be amazed how few English accents you hear. Most people in London it seems are from somewhere else, either in Europe, Asia or US/Canada. That part is mildly disappointing, but there are still loads of proper Englishmen around.

Lately, for some inexplicable reason, I've been feeling some degree of anxiety. I don't think it's because of school or being away from home or missing people, but it's a very vague feeling. Sometimes it's a headache or a tightness in my stomach. It comes and goes, and I don't really know why it comes or how it goes. It makes me feel very weird.

I was talking to my Dad this weekend and telling him that I don't like sitting inside to do work while I'm here because I feel like I'm missing something 'out there' and should be seeing London. He told me that I should enjoy London and get to see it, but to remember that I'm here for school and that 'Europe isn't going anywhere.' More than most people here in the study abroad program, I really like London. Other kids come back from trips into Europe and talk about hating London and wondering why they picked it. I couldn't disagree more--I like European cities like Paris and Rome, but I've also seen them before, and many of these kids haven't which contributes to their love of it. Those cities are great, but London has something different. It's got cheery locals who you can talk to because you know the language. It's got building that are a thousand years old. It's got fantastic television shows, and theater, and museums. The tiny little streets with pubs and customized umbrella shops. The black cabs with the best cabbies in the world. It's got parks that are a good 15 times better than any park in New York. Go to St. James's Park on a weekend afternoon and see how amazing it is. I really like London.

But I miss New York. Not so much that I'm sitting in my room crying about it, but I definitely miss it sometimes.

London: Delayed

Well, I've been in London for almost a month now, and I haven't written any blogs. I really meant to, but I never knew what to write, so I'll just let it fly with scattered observations on British life as I know it.

Walking around London requires a lot more vigilance than in New York, because streets here aren't straight and often change names at unspecific intervals. You need your "London A to Z" on you at all time to make sure you are passing Cavendish Square and not Russell Square. That being said, it is ultimately more rewarding because I feel so comfortable in almost every neighborhood in New York, and here I am constantly assaulted with new images and sounds. There is a charm in how old and elegant virtually everything is here. Imagine if 75% of New York had the design of the West Village, and that's something of what it's like. This is right up my aesthetic alley, and I have to stop myself from takin pictures of every building that looks like that, reminding myself that I already have some shots of it. I love it.

British accents are not all what you imagine. As an American, it would be easy to assume that everyone in London speaks like Richard Burton, but the variety of London accents is astounding. Across the pond, we assume that everyone in England went to Cambridge and expect them to sound as such, but I find the phoenetic assortment exciting. I have picked up small British speech patterns simply by immersion. I say "you lot" for "you guys", "about" for "around", and "colonies" for "America". Also, the more British people I interact with, the more conscious I become of my own accent. British English, to me, sounds very clipped and precise, whereas American English, particularly that spoken where I am from, tends to be nasal and lets all the sounds in a word whine together until they are indistinguishable. It is very slack-jawed, floppy tongued way to speak. I don't want to be one of those guys who spends 4 months in England and comes back sounding like Jeremy Irons, but some change in my speech will be natural, and I hope it is permenant--it will add some verve to my speaking.

British women are, contrary to popular belief, rather pretty. Italian and French women get a lot of attention, and rightfully so, but just walking around London and sitting in cafes and bars, you see a lot of beautiful English roses about. Plus, they tend to be quick with a joke, which is a sure way to my heart.

British people, refined and classy as we imagine them to be, are obsessed with celebrity news, gossip, and trash reality shows. There are more celebrity gossip magazines here than there are mirrors at a Kate Moss party (oh, British humor is often very centered around schadenfreude.) I can't believe that a country that produces such quality journalism as BBC News, The FT, and The Economist also cranks out Heat, Hello, and OK! It's a duality, people I've met and spoken to around London seem just as happy to discuss Jordan and Kerry Katona as they are to ruminate on the Danish cartoon scandal. Generalists: my kind of people.

American goings on are not very big news here, which I kind of like. I find it somewhat satisfying that I can walk around all day, look at headlines on the front page of The Guardian or The Times (the London Times, the first one) and see news that has absolutely nothing to do with me or America. Here, people were pretty wrapped up with pedophiles in teaching positions and similar such scandals, surely no time to worry about Scooter Libby or Jack Abramoff. If I want American news, I have to look for it. But I'm ok being somewhat removed from the US and it's news cycle, it will make for a fun integration period when I return.

Finally, I don't miss any thing about the States, but I do miss my friends. London would be a totally different, and I think pretty cool, experience were my crew here. But as someone said "absinthe makes the heart grow fonder." Or something like that, I was pretty hammered when that homeless guy said that.

Cheers.

Guest Blogger: Matt

Before I begin my blog, I think it’s important that I introduce myself, no this isn’t your quick witted friend Nitin that all of you have grown so fond of reading about, but in fact it is his light
hearted, 24 obsessed roommate of the past year and a half Matt. Now if you’re one of the literally dozen or so avid readers of his blog like I am you might’ve heard about me in previous posts. Since it has been so long since Nitin posted because he in a deeply spiritual search for creative material I offered my services to him as a guest post, and after first making fun of me he agreed. And so, after that long, arduous introduction I will begin my own post.

There are two things which I love about going to college in New York, going to bars and seeing all kinds of crazy shit. Fortunately Wednesday nights often afford me the opportunity to do both. There is a place that I believe resembles heaven called “Second Nature” that
has perhaps the greatest invention in the history of mankind, The Wednesday Night Open Bar. It is a thing of pure genius, fifteen easy dollars to poison yourself as much as you can handle from nine oclock to one oclock. Even since I’ve discovered this sanctuary of fun I have made it my mission to go whenever possible, and not once have a I regretted a night spent there. In one of my final weeks of the semester I made sure to attend this weekly drunk fest with a few
friends and although I do not remember anything after I began drinking a dangerously delicious drink called “Sex on the Beach” there was still enough crazy shit that went on before to entertain the hell out of me.

Upon arriving, I anticipated the bar being nearly empty because we were getting there so early, however the unpredictability of the city reared its head in the shape of what seemed to be an oversized office party that appeared to have been going on for at least a few hours.
What lay before me were at least thirty people over the age of thirty in suits and office attire getting wasted and trying to act half their age. Needless to say, it was hilarious. And of course u know there were younger women attached to the sleazy older men who I assumed had
very large…wallets. It took approximately 5 seconds for one of the girls I was with to get hit on by one of these suits and I duly made note of this. After seeing what I saw I can assure you there are very few things more entertaining than a bunch of trashed, unattractive 30
something year old women acting like they are hot shit and dancing like they were britney spears. This was especially funny (as if it needed any more humor added to it) because they kept falling all over the place. Now I’m not talkin about your harmless slip and get back
up casual drunk fall, I’m talkin head first legs in the air land with a fuckin loud noise fall that everyone hears and I was laughing my ass off at. Call me what you will but nothing puts a smile on my face quite like some drunk working woman fallin face first in the middle of a bar. As entertaining as this all was, the night had just begun and I had many drink ahead of me. Another great thing about open bars is the creativity and adventurousness that can accompany it. Because there is no limit on the amount of drinks you can get you are free to try all kinds of crazy concoctions that may or may not end your life. The drinks that I remember trying that night goes as follows in the order that I can barely remember: Kamikaze, 2nd Kamikaze, Red Bull and Vodka, Vodka Tonic, Sex on the Beach. The Sex on the Beach proved to
be a worthy adversary that night and only God knows what transpired between that time and 3:30 in the morning when I was told by your brave blogger, Nitin, that I arrived home. Although I do not remember much after the first one I have since been told tales of me drinking countless of these throughout the nite and later escaping to the bar bathroom and shamelessly puking in front of the well situated bathroom guard they employ there. Apparently he wasn’t fond of my vomiting and told me to leave, how I got home is beyond me, but when you put your life in the hands of Second Nature you can’t expect to remember all the details, or even hours you were there, but one thing is for sure, once you’ve experienced it you will never be the same.

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The above was courtesy of Matt, but what follows is all me.

One thing I've learned from living with Matt is that there are almost no places in New York that you can't vomit if you put your mind to it. The most prolific puker I've ever met, I think Matt has upchucked in multiple boroughs on the same night, and even threw up in transit from the Bronx to Manhattan. That's a triple play most people don't have the stamina to pull off. In fact, Matt has been known to hurl in a bar/apartment bathroom, continue on the street, on the 6 train, and still be blowing chunks when he gets back to our place. You'd think I'd be mad, but I just have to salute that single-minded determination.

What made this night fun for me, although I wasn't at Second Nature, was the mystery left on the couch for me. I woke up to another of my roommates getting dressed in a hurry. I asked him what was going on, and he said, "I've got to get out of here before she wakes up."
I didn't know who he was talking about, so I walked into our common room, and saw a shape under a jacket and some of our pillows. It was clearly a girl, but I didn't know who. I needed to find out, so I figured out a clever way to extract this information.
"Yo, who the hell is that?"
My roommate tells me it's a girl who lives in a different dorm, but for whatever reason came home with him the night before. She tried to make out with him, but she didn't know that while my roommate is nice and pretty good-looking, he is terrified of girls. He is just not interested in girls who are interested in him. He also probably didn't want to take advantage of a girl who was very drunk. Anyway, this girl wakes up, my roommate makes a little small talk, and then bounces. I think I should mention that I've never met this girl before, and now she and I are in my apartment alone. It was awkward. After my roommate left, she hung around for about 45 minutes to an hour and seemed too hungover to really go anywhere. Of course, I can't really blame her, she was at the pleasure garden known as Second Nature. It's the kind of place that impacts even innocent parties like me by forcing them to take care of drunk strangers who crashed on their couch and spent the better part of a morning hanging around trying to summon the strength to leave. If you are thinking of going, beware this entirely possible chain of events.