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In the spirit of adventure, I responded to a forwarded email from a friend – their colleague was offering a free photo-shoot consisting of black and white headshots (and nothing more, I know what all my male friends are thinking).
I went, lights were setup, photos were taken, and until today that was all I knew, as I waited for the photographs to be developed on film. I got the first few back today, and while the more serious ones don’t suit me, there was a bit quirky, and I like it! Of course, it’s still a face only a mother could love, but it’s the only face I have . . .
Handsome Devil? Or just devil?
I’m always been appreciative of forgiving friends, and I feel this isn’t by coincidence, given my personality. So it was a great relief when Jeff was so gracious after I tried to kill his four-year old daughter, Siena.
It wasn’t purposeful – I was at their house eating a chocolate cookie when Siena walked by and I gave her a cookie. A few seconds and one shriek later Jeff was in the kitchen reading the ingredients on the cookie box, checking for nuts. Luckily the cookies didn’t contain any nuts, though the box gave one of those CYA vague warnings about not being suitable for people with nut allergies. The cookie, missing only one bite, was removed from Siena’s little hands as she gave puppy dog eyes to all around.
But I learned not to feed children cookies without checking with parents.
Whenever I’m hanging out with a few of my American buddies, and the conversation veers towards girls, I wait for someone (I’m thinking of you, Paul Perry) to inevitably say, “Don’t European Girls have hair armpits? I don’t know how you could date them!”
I simply stare in wonder and ask my friends what exactly they do with a hairless armpit they don’t do with a hairy one, which promptly shuts them up
But the bigger question is, why the armpit obsession? What is it that makes Americans ignore the European topless beaches, lack of morbid obesity, and lascivious reputations and instead go right to the armpits, as if that’s a deal breaker? And how many of my friends have actually seen a hairy european female armpit, in person? About as many who have been in outer space. Urban legend, through and through.
Or so I thought. I just moved into a house-share with two other guys and one girl, all French. I present photographic proof of said hairy armpits of my new flatmate Magalie, hair so thick it can’t even be contained by clothes.
I was invited to a brilliant and inventive party by a friend of mine, and what made it so great, beyond the great company and vast quantities of smoked ham and soft cheeses I ate, was the gingerbread man competition. We had different shapes, different colored icing, and little sugary decorations – our only constraint was our imagination. The sky (or the gutter) was the limit.
I made about four out of the collection. You may find some of these tasteless and offensive, but I didn’t make those. Really, I swear.
Photo album: (click image to see more)
I like to think of myself as a fundamentally good person who is, in both friendship and amour, attracted to other fundamentally good people. But there comes a time in one’s life when, for no reason in particular, one feels compelled to confess dark secrets. Mine include:
- Faked a positive result on a Tuberculosis test. For the fun of it.
- Fed stunned but living mosquitoes (which recently had dined on me) to an ants’ nest. The mosquitoes were crowd-surfed away.
- After a 5 year old child said, “I want my mommy,” I replied “I want your mommy too.”
- Convinced a friend that the pivot point of his elbow during right-handed auto-erotica had led to a crippling curvature of his member, and that he needed to use only the other hand for a few years.
- Attempted to burn a wooden religious icon when in need of firewood (prevented by others, sadly).
- Smurfed a feminist.
- Accidentally started a long-lasting rumor that one of our virginal friends had contracted the clap.
- Hid a sewing machine in the trunk of a friends car, leaving her and her family to spend an entire week wondering how on earth it suddenly appeared in their car.
After a long stint in the US, I’m back in Old Blighty. How do I know? The clarification on the pumpkin. Even mentally handicapped American children know what a pumpkin is for – it’s to make a jack-o-lantern. Not the English – their pumpkins come with handy stickers.
In other news, I’m in court today, as a witness for a violent crime – a family ruckus ended up with two people punching each other on my front doorstep. How charming, as the English would say.
Being in Court involves me sitting around for hours waiting for the attacker and victim to show up (neither ever did) and trying to get out of a parking ticket related to the matter. Here’s hoping I see £200 refunded from this.
Any visit to an official building always requires me to first remove my pocket knife from my keychain. It’s technically an illegal weapon, despite having a blade less than an inch.
Britain banned all guns back in the ’80’s when a crazy man shot a bunch of children in a school. People pointed out at the time that this wouldn’t prevent knife crimes, and surely you couldn’t ban knives. Well, after a spate of teenagers stabbing each other, they banned knives as well. Yes, I could face charges for possessing my knife.
God forbid they ever search my bags after I get back from camping – I have a Kill-Bill-esque blade I carry that would get me in the nick in no time.
I remember back when Panama was invaded and Manuel Noriega was holed up somewhere in a Church, the US Army blasted rock music round the clock in an effort to get him out. How odd and quaint, I thought at the time. But I’ve been on the receiving end of such music, both as a benefactor and a sufferer.
Exit a London Underground station in a seedier part of town and you’ll here classical music played at a decent volume. If you think its for the pleasure of music connoisseurs, I’m afraid your wrong. It’s to keep away the riff-raff and chavs. Apparently young trouble makers hate it while older tax-payers are pleased by the music and absence of loitering youth.
Well, when I was in the library in Barcelona last week, trying to eek out every last minute of opening hours and the free wifi, I was surprised and amused to hear heavy punk rock blasted fifteen minutes before the library shut. People began leaving in droves as their ears were assaulted, and the librarians presumably had no trouble shooing out the one or two remaining stragglers.
What an odd, odd world we live in.
One of my (and most computer geeks) favorite cartoons is XKCD. It’s shocking how relevant it is to me sometimes.
It’s supposed to be crap, but really it hasn’t been that bad. It’s just two long seasons, with Spring moving into Autumn, which in turn moves back into Spring. Of course, as it never gets truly hot out, women don’t wear the outfits they normally would in summer. So my eyes suffer the most, I suppose, in England.
We have had some fun thunderstorms, which is nice. A friend snapped this photo while we waited out a squall under the footbridge on the South Bank, and later added some photo-wizardry. I’m not normally a big fan of photos starring myself, and certainly not profiles, but I really like this one.
I live right by Brick Lane, the neighborhood that is chock-a-block full of Bangladeshi immigrants and restaurants that serve Bangladeshi food to white Londoners. Where the real Bangladeshi’s eat out is still a mystery to me.
Anyway, there are also a lot of wholesale clothes stores in the areas, and they have without a doubt the most revolting looking mannequins. Most are dented or cracked, and some look like they are cast out of a Steven King novel where evil mannequins come to life. But today I saw what might be the winner – a Shrek inspired child mannequin. Really, who designs these things?
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