Fapril Aools

April Fools’ Day is tomorrow. Most readers probably shrug their shoulders at the First of April and the hilarious traditions associated with it. And that’s fine with me. This holiday has survived hundreds of years, fueled by the naiveté of dissenters who choose to ignore this day’s importance. But the privy among us know that April Fools’ Day has, for generations, been a day of side-splitting practical jokes, uproarious antics, and hysterical accidental deaths (for the record, you can have “too much Exlax”). And if you’re on the fringe about participating, why not just try a prank or two tomorrow? You’d be a FOOL not to!
For those of you who are eager to join in on the fun, but are at a loss for ideas, the following list of playfully amusing gags has been compiled:

1.) Put cottage cheese in your roommate’s/spouse’s bed.

Here, I must give credit where credit is due. Unfortunately, with the holiday fast approaching—and due to my large readership—I cannot divulge the true name of this prank’s mastermind. So for now, I will refer to him (or her?) as “Alex Braser”.
Now, the keys to this prank are: surprise, cottage cheese, and bed. That’s it, actually. Just put that disgusting excuse for a dairy product under the sheets, and listen for the inevitable, “Ugh...eww!!! What is that? Curdled milk?” Well, technically, yes. “Oh my…oh no…the texture is unbearable and…ugh, just look at it.” Really, you’ll just be hearing the same things people should be saying when they are eating cottage cheese.
To avoid suspicion after buying the cottage cheese (because, seriously, no one’s going to believe you actually plan to eat that crap), tell your target that your grandparents are planning to visit—those things will eat anything (thanks, Great Depression!).

2.) You’ve always wanted your friend/relative/complete stranger to quit smoking those disgusting and smelly cheap cigars, right? But nothing you say or do ever seems to deter their nasty habit, does it? Well, this next prank is perfect for you.
First, you’ll need to find a time when your target leaves his/her cigars lying unsupervised. When this happens, act fast, and grab one (April Fools’ tip: temporarily replace the cigar with a rod pretzel—no one can tell the difference). Next, you’ll hollow out some of the tobacco. Give the removed tobacco to the kids; that should double realism and fun in Cowboys and Indians.
This next part is important, so pay attention: in the hole you’ve created, carefully pour some gunpowder. It is completely up to the prankster as to just how much gunpowder to use, but I can’t imagine you’ll need more than a few thimbles full. Then, carefully hide the evidence of your deed by placing a pinch of tobacco on top of the gunpowder, and put the “improved” cigar back in place of the dummy cigar (feel free to enjoy that pretzel, you’ve earned it!). All you have to do now is sit back and enjoy the show. The smoker will light go to light up and BOOM! he’s covered in soot and the cigar has safely splintered back over his incredulous face. Then, he’ll quit smoking (you’ve scared the nicotine out of him).

3.) Is Bobby Bully giving you a hard time at school? Well, the next time he comes to take your milk, just act naturally, begging him to leave you alone but ultimately giving in to his demands. As he snorts with amusement at your pathetic actions and begins downing your milk, jump up on the table and shout, “April Fools’, bully—that’s poisoned milk!”
And as he spits out the milk with frightened surprise, everyone will raise you on their shoulders and parade you around the hallways, shouting, “Hail So-and-so; the Bully has fallen!” And who knows? They might even make you King of School…you’ll definitely get Prom King.

Also, April Fools’, don’t do that last one because I don’t want to get in trouble. I repeat: No poison.

Or is this last part just an April Fools’ joke? *Wink*

Why not, instead, try simply putting cottage cheese in his bed? Seriously, that would be so disgusting.

Goodbye, Eileen

It is late, and I am tired.

Tonight, I said goodbye to my friend Eileen. I don't know if she will ever read this, but if she does, she should know that I enjoyed her company immensely, and I am grateful for her listening to my ramblings.

Eileen is one of few people I know who enjoys films as much as I do. We talked movies a lot, and she always caused me to realize the important role they play in my life.

Although our time together as friends has come to an end, I hope that even while thousands of miles away, we can keep in touch.

She understood--or pretended to understand--almost every joke, story, and piece of understanding I threw at her, and that was the most important thing she could offer me.

So I must end with what is expected: Goodbye, Eileen.

I miss you already.

One Giant Leap...For Mankind

I'm tired of putting it off. I always say that I am going to do it but then reason my way out of it. Over the last couple of years, I have spent a good amount of time writing for it and contemplating it.

Well, this summer, I am going to do a proper stand up comedy routine. A good friend and I have been talking about doing a duo show for a long time. Unfortunately, we've already retired from that and moved on to sketch comedy. Having written no sketches after 5 months, I am ready for us to come out of stand up retirement and do a show.

The only problem is that I can't write any good/original material. Between the two of us, nothing has come to fruition.

But now, on this blog in front of literally tens of people, I am announcing a Summer Stand Up Show. Even if I have to go on alone, I am going to do it. Never did I actually aspire to be a comedian because: 1.) it forces me to assume that I have funny things to say 2.) writing is too hard 3.) it just never appealed to me. Now, however, I see every hindrance as one collective challenge that I have to face.

Another aspiration that has only recently emerged is a desire to start a legitimate band. Despite years of practice and enjoyment in music, I have always thought it silly to join a band. People do the same stuff over and over again, and that is a huge turn off for me. Improvising and just messing around are two of the most enjoyable pastimes for me, while set, pre-written and overly-rehearsed music isn't that interesting to me. My iTunes has about 28 songs on it; I have tried to get into listening to music, but I can't seem to do so.

Yet again, I am faced with this obstacle--albeit, an obstacle that I don't actually have to hurdle. Nonetheless, I find myself at a stage in my life where I am beginning to see thousands of doors leading to all sorts of different opportunities. And, luckily, I can go through as many as I want. But that doesn't mean I can easily go through every door I see. Some doors have locks, so I'll have to find the keys for those. Others have big, heavy chiffarobes (thanks, To Kill a Mockingbird) on the other side. To combat all of this, I have, over the years, been collecting the suggestions of many people--wise and other. The overall message seems to be to do everything you can with what little talent you have and never worry about what you can't do. It is important that people think you are doing them a favor by showcasing your talents.

Unfortunately, I can't be funny; but I know I can work hard enough to trick people into believing I'm a comic genius. And I'm a mediocre musician, but I have Drayton Eggleson. Drayton, I will ride your coattails wherever you go. Folks, right now, I am not cut out to make it in either of the aforementioned fields.

But, damnit...I don't want to get a real job.

Ping Pong and Paul

In the previous entry, I mentioned that tonight ended with table tennis. I have my paddle (Brits call it a "bat") here with me, and I have been searching for a place to play. Luckily, I discovered such a place earlier this week (I read about it in a pamphlet), and I found myself there for the first time tonight. I do plan to write about this overall experience another time, but for now I simply want to leave a reminder to myself about a guy a played with called Paul. He and I--not minding the others for a time--just knocked the ball back and forth for what surely must have been an hour and a half. The group became sparser and sparser as our practice session became more and more intense. Back and forth, back and forth, back and...net. Paul being the superior player, I felt a need to be sure he was getting in a good session. We were both pouring sweat...Paul, with his dreadlocked hair, old school Adidas shirt, and Jamaican flag wrist sweatband all soaking up his perspiration; and, I, with my red collared shirt and black dress slacks soaking up mine. Just think about the situation: my first night in a place containing only strangers playing a game that, while legitimate in every way, is not generally taken very seriously. And it came to a point where it was just Paul and I sweating out this practice session. We would have played until 3 am, I know it. But we were shutdown because the building managers had to set up for a seminar taking place tomorrow. Now, to me, this is not immediately a strange situation. In fact, I find myself in these situations often. Yet it really is an odd circumstance. Paul seems like a really good guy. Actually he seems awesome. But how do I know? How is it possible that people can connect in such a way with such ease and comfort? After being given the boot, we sat and talked for another quarter hour about the dangers of Fundamentalism. That's an absurd series of events. Two strangers, with a rift of age and origins between them, just shooting the breeze like close chums...because of table tennis. And I don't want to forget it.

Blessings

Because I know people who read this blog don't want to be preached to, I generally "take it easy" when it comes to writing about God and my faith. Now, I don't know if I'm right or wrong to do so, but such is the case.

And, honestly, I don't know if it would be taken seriously when put up against an easily made free Tibet joke.

But I do know that it would be wrong--and, indeed, selfish--of me not to give God the credit for all of the good things that I have been given. Obviously, that is a general statement, so I want to glorify God specifically for what He has been doing for me here in London.

I will take it a step further and thank Him just for today. It is coming up to midnight on Sunday. This morning, I woke up feeling completely good. Yesterday, I went to a park and kicked around the rugby ball, after running with all of my gear for about 5 miles. I was at the park for a few hours, and was able to put in a good workout. I mention this because this morning I was successfully sore, if you'll allow the phrase. My whole body was feeling the workout--a good feeling.

Also, my arm was completely asleep. I couldn't move it for a minute or so. That may not seem like a good thing, and it isn't necessarily. But it was a really interesting experience nonetheless

After a bowl of my Sainsbury's Whole Grain fruit & fibre (I eat a bowl a day), I went out for a walk with my notebook. It was still drizzling after a bit of heavier rain, which is my favorite weather here because everything feels so British when it is slightly damp. I found a nice little place to sit and write in the entrance of a Catholic church (I should note it being a church was just a happenstance, no metaphor intended).

I sat and wrote out a few pages of something I have been working on that I might blog about tomorrow.

Feeling content to leave my work be, I walked home under the care of my black and tan umbrella. Back at my place, I was flooded with some important emails. For the purpose of time, I will not go into too much detail. I couldn't hope to do justice to the happiness I felt after an email from a brother, a dear old friend, and a future roommate with news of some progress in the search for housing for 2008-09. On and on came the good news.

And perhaps the only appropriate cap for such a day: table tennis.

All of this from a God who really is looking out for me, often by surrounding me with people who do the same. He's keeping me close and I can't help but express my praise of Him.

False Promises

This morning, when I was coming back from a meeting, I happened to walk by a demonstration taking place about 200 yards from my housing unit. I grabbed my camera and hurried to take some photos, afraid that heavy rain was on the way.

So I took my place across the street from the roughly 250 people standing around listening to a woman speak about the horrible ordeal she had been through in her home country. And though I, too, listened to her moving story, my
interest wasn't completely piqued until I heard the magical words: free tibet.

Mmm, mmm, mmm...!

Being the curious (and hungry!) guy I am, I crept into the crowd to look around.

But you know what? There was no tibet to be found. I looked all around, but found nothing. I think some people must have had seconds which is pretty selfish because I didn't get any. I stood and listened politely that whole time, but was not handsomely rewarded. Now, perhaps I shouldn't judge, but I can understand why those people put that woman in jail--if she's a liar, she's most likely a thief, too.

Anyway, I guess the saying remains true that if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

Whoops! You almost read this one.

I am about to read a book and go to bed (as a quick aside: we read books to fall asleep because books are boring and reading them makes the brain say, "Well, I'd rather be doing nothing than doing this.").

But before I do that, I want to share an experience I had roughly five minutes ago.

I have been missing American sports, which--for me--means I have been thinking about them and my relationship to them. I'm not the biggest sports nut, but I am a fan (basketball and baseball are the big ones I am currently missing out on).

Anyway, in trying to come up with a terrible metaphor for this relationship, I have created the following:

I'd rather play a sport than be a sport...just like I'd rather be a bee than be honey.

If you or anyone you know is having trouble coming up with a terrible simile/metaphor, let me know the parameters, and I will work within them to create one.

100

As of today, I only have 100 days left in London. To mark the occasion, God sent an earthquake to England.

As I was drifting off to sleep at just about one this morning, I was feeling a bit gloomy. Just the first pangs of homesickness, I believe. The day had been a really good one, but nighttime brought some doldrums, so I just stayed in (I should have expected as much on a Tuesday, I suppose). But before I could nod off into that sweet land of honey where dreams live, I began to shake. To be honest, I thought I was half asleep and being attacked by some type of cowboy ghost in that half-dream.

The hangers in my closet shook along with me for about 10 seconds before the movement ceased.

Though the quake was significant, it wasn't enough to get me out of bed or to cause me any great concern; so I fell asleep.

At work, in a conversation with Teshome and Tomomi, the question was raised in jest, "Did you feel the earthquake?" I was excited to learn that I wasn't experiencing any of the stages of insanity.

Nope, it turns out there was indeed an earthquake--with an epicenter near the town of Lincolnshire (get out those maps)--that registered as a 5.3 on the Richter Scale [For future reference: I will always use the Richter Scale when speaking about seismic activity]. The effects felt here in London were mild, but obviously noticeable. No one was really talking about it--it happens every 10-20 years. Still, it is interesting to be a part of an earthquake in England, or what I will always remember as the "Vanilla Shake".

If you don't get that joke, then you are not a racist.

For the short version, read the bolded sections

As I see it, there is no use trying to catch up right now. Too much has happened since I last "blogged", so I will start with this weekend. Be prepared, this one is a doozy, and I am tired so there aren't any good jokes.

After work on Friday, I came back to my room and watched an episode of South Park (streaming online) and had a ham sandwich with some carrots and broccoli--a normal afternoon. I was relaxing in preparation for what I was expecting to be an exciting night. But an hour-long bus ride to a no-name London suburb doesn't necessarily spark the fire that drives me to great things.

A guy in Wigram House, my housing unit, is on the Westminster Dragons, my school's rugby club. Though he was careful to warn me of the team's--shall we say--mediocrity, Erik invited me to ride the bus along with the team to the game. Because I have been yearning for some rugby action, I decided to tag along. Plus, a free ride on a coach bus is hard to turn down.

Well, the bus was really nice and the ride was expectedly dull, but not otherwise unenjoyable. Before I proceed, I should mention that my dad has instilled in me the importance of always bringing along your rugby kit...always. And being the respectful, attentive son that I am, I brought my kit with. Not only did I pack my boots, shorts, and mouth guard, but I also had the foresight to include a complete change of clothes for the journey home--how considerate of me.

Of course, as my luck would have it, there was not going to be a game for the "second side" because Westminster has no second side. In fact, the team's substitutes passed the time by drinking beer and yelling (in their view of things) amusingly degrading phrases to the opposing team. The few that did sub in seemed reluctant to do so, and were at best mildly prepared to join a game that had moments before been nothing more than a spectacle. And I'll tell you, it was quite a spectacle.

Boffed.

Boffed is the best way to sum up this match. Boffed passes, boffed kicks, boffed officiating. When I first stepped off of the coach bus and approached the very classy (honestly, it was a nice place) Metropolitan Police Sports Club, I was expecting a good show. I figured any match played at a place that has 4 or 5 nice pitches and a fairly sizable stadium (along with a Members Only bar) would be well worth the trip. But I was wrong--I was dead wrong.

It really is hard to explain how horrible both teams were. The game moved along slower than this blog entry. And added to the lack of skill were some 6 or 7 time stoppages for injuries (a concussion) and lost balls (the first went on the bleacher overhang and the second [which was pumped up and ready to use in a quick 20 minutes] was lost in some Dr. Seuss hedges that were easily 30 feet high--I really wasn't joking about how nice this place was/is). Both balls were lost because these two idiots attempted comically bad kicks, that were completely unnecessary. Also, finding a working pump took forever.

So by halftime, I was ready to stretch my legs and find some food. By the way, take a break from reading this, right now. But the pub food was a bit too pricey for me, so I set out on a journey to find something to put in my belly. About 5 minutes into my walk, I was quickly reminded that I was no longer in London. While London is packed with establishments selling snacks, in this particular suburb, cookie-cutter houses are the buildings-of-choice.

Oh, man, cookies. I was so hungry, but also feeling the adrenaline starting to flow as I was in a completely unfamiliar area with no phone and little confidence in my ability to find a store open at 10 pm. The darkness didn't scare me as much as the idea that, if I didn't hurry, I would be in a pretty bad spot. So I jogged--and then I ran. Dress slacks aren't designed for such activities. (This blog is so long already, I know. But understand that I want to cover some details.) As I quickly moved along, I was really at peace, only jarred by the occasional car's headlights passing by on what is still to me the wrong side of the road. It is hard to say exactly why I was feeling so good, despite my hunger. Certainly, being out of the city was a nice change, but I have to think there was something else at play. I was still riding high after some God moments that had taken place earlier in the day. As I passed over a small bridge, the water shot back one of those great moon reflections that will make your night.

Anyway, I made it to a downtown area, that I can only describe as a place that Genoa, IL would look down upon as inferior. But my hunger drew me to a Tesco (a big chain over here), and I was soon on my way back with peanuts and a sleeve of digestive biscuits (look them up). The game was still going on when I got back 45 minutes later.

Though both teams' performances were shockingly sub-par, the result was 25-5 in favor of the opposition. But who cares?

To be honest, I am not sure why I decided to tell this story. I like it, though. When I was running towards that town--and trying to avoid breaking into a sweat for the sake of not stinking up the bus--I was just absolutely thrilled at my situation. Here I was hoping for the best, and when it worked out, I was happy and eating peanuts and cookies. On the ride home, some guy struck up a conversation with me, and a girl nearby overheard (because she was eavesdropping [rude]) that I am "from Chicago", so I had to listen to why her being raised in Wicker Park helped to shape her into the "open and diverse" person she is. (For clarity on this joke, please familiarize yourself with Wicker Park.)

But all the time she was talking, I was still running down that dimly lit street, toward an unseen, yet trusted destination...and the metaphors, oh the metaphors.

It Flies

It has been a month since I said goodbye to my family and friends and dog. I have napped, eaten Chinese food, and consumed more sweets than anyone should do in a lifetime. In my short time here, I have: seen a parade, taken fewer pictures than I would have expected, been to York, enjoyed being to York, tried new food, tried bad food, sung songs in the streets of London, seen unfortunate souls struggling in those very same streets.

Folks, I've heard about my Damned Soul, seen folks lose control; watched a man get punched in the face, and I have felt out of place. I've waited at the train station for old friends, and gone on runs that have seemed to never end. I sniffed out an undercover cop just by his body movements, and I have begun to see my need for improvements.

Yes, in my thirty-some days abroad I have learned about "pennies for Guy" and William Laud. With my pounds in my pocket (and some gaining on my belly), I've learned to do without PB & Jelly. Oh the food...

It'll be a Big Mac-less several months without a Reese's Cup in sight
Unless I go to Covent Garden and pay a fortune to buy it
No, Brits don't have the same candy, and that's tough for me
But luckily I've found a friend in John Cadbury
I've a craving for Cream Soda and a swig o' Mountain Dew
And if you come to visit, please bring Ranch Wheat Thins, too.

I miss driving to Wal Mart at 1 am for everything I need
And I feel like some strange creature
That thinks about Sam's Pizza
And can't suppress the urge to feed.

But I've traded Netflix for Fish N' Chips; DePaul's nice gym for the River Thames--and I've even picked up "cheers".

And I have learned that I might be able to do that missionary work I have been talking about... from my town back in the States. Yet, I can also go (should I feel the pull) to the places we neglect. I've started remembering that I can choose my path, and I might like to be a teacher--but that doesn't mean I can't be a global trekker in the summer. That is, I can be a jack of all trades if I fancy so, and I have people who will support me. Though I miss my country and all that it means to me, I'm not nearly done here. I hope and I trust that God and I--working together, have a pretty good chance at continuing what has already been a diverse and rich experience.

Here's a Novel Idea: Watch the Movie

You don’t see unattractive women driving around in Maseratis.

Anyway, I finished A Tale of Two Cities, and having enjoyed that read, I decided to return it to the library and pick up another novel set in Britain.

(Un?)Fortunately, I found George Eliot’s Middlemarch—all 838 pages of it. I picked it up off the shelf thinking, “Who does this guy think he is?” And then (to my horror), I read About the Author, and found out this imposter is actually a woman…literally. But I digress.

Eliot’s novel is widely considered one of the greatest ever written, but I—even before reading it—beg to differ. Dickens pulled off A Tale in 390 pages; that windbag Dostoevsky managed to keep his Crime and Punishment under 500. The SparkNotes for Middlemarch are probably as long as the first two installments of the Lord of the Rings. Yet, I will give it a shot.

Seriously though, this will be the biggest book I’ve ever looked at that isn’t giving me the definition of “loquacious”.

More importantly, my German friends Nora and Marie are coming to visit. I expect them Wednesday night, and I expect schnitzel Thursday morning. Another German joke would have involved sauerkraut, but I am going to go find Hyde Park.

...Like a Yankee With His Head Chopped Off

Tonight, I decided that I should finally start exercising. So after dinner, I put on some athletic-looking clothes and headed out. My original plan was to run to nearby Hyde Park where I plan to kick a rugby ball around (once I get a pump to put air in the ball).

Down Victoria Street I ran, afraid that maybe it was taboo to run, despite my having seen hundreds of others running around all the time. But there is just something different about running that makes me feel I am doing it wrong when I am in an unfamiliar place. I think, "Surely these people must think me an idiot." And I feel this way not just because running is stupid (running just for the sake of it when I could be playing a sport seems so dumb even though I don't actually mind it that much) but also because there is something inherently ostracizing about running.

Making my way to Hyde Park, I soon remembered that I didn't (still don't) know where Hyde Park is. Well, I know it is in London somewhere, but I can't tell you what is near it. I just kept going, though, as is my way when I am on runs. My method is usually to get sort of lost so that I am concentrating on finding my way home and not on my aching legs that I should have stretched better. What followed was one of the best runs I have ever experienced. I was passing sites I had only hoped I would see here. Not Big Ben or the Tower of London, but out-of-the-way places that have a different type of character. Homes and shops that I may never again see--London is massive. I passed by Chelsea Hospital, a marvelous structure that could either be foreboding or warmly welcoming. I ran by tiny little streets with cars parked on both sides, making it--one would suppose--difficult to drive a car in between.

After following groups that seemed to be headed toward a park--for what amount of time, it would be impossible for me to say--I found myself in front of Battersea Park. Although it was not my intention to arrive at this particular destination, I was just glad that the descriptions others have attributed to London's parks are not by any means hyperbolic. This is at least the second one I have been to and they are incredible. They are especially so if one thinks of them in their context: several of these lush, open, well-groomed beauties--with their trees, winding paths, and overall woodsiness--exist within one of the biggest cities in the world.

I ran about in the park--I might have been skipping, for all I know--for a bit, and then simply headed back. From the park, I just instinctively made my way back. My instincts were probably listening to the signs pointing back to VICTORIA.

After my shower, I went to Sainsbury's for some oranges.

By the way, I am reading A Tale of Two Cities. Sadly, I have never read it before, but I have pretended the opposite on several occasions. Actually being in the general area where the novel takes place is making me more and more pleased with my decision to hold off on the read. Still, I can't help hoping that one of these times, I will open the book and the inside will be cut out, and inside the hole there is a DVD of the book.

Invading York, Forgetting Your Camera

Obviously, I didn't pack for York on Friday evening or night. No, I packed for the journey (I had to be at Kings Cross Station at 8:15 on Saturday morning) 15 minutes before I started the journey. On Friday, I worked a half day (9:15-1:00) and went directly from there to the Westminster Study Abroad office to make the final course/module decisions. Unfortunately, I had to go to the office to do so due to privacy policies, I assume. But as my life goes, something useful came of this drop-in: I was reminded of the boat party that was set to take place later that evening.
I made my way back to my room, and made sure to immediately take care of my laundry. Here, I should thank British Airways for the free detergent that was included in the package handed to me on Friday morning. There was a group giving out bags of promotional goodies that morning. Anyway, I put in my clothes and was set to take care of some work...this was at about 4:00. By 4:45, the clothes were still going, as happens occasionally (people open up machines, the machines guess incorrectly, etc.). Instead of waiting the 15 minutes downstairs, I headed back up and started my dinner. Then, back to the laundry room; no change--back upstairs. With supper thoroughly cooked and eaten, I popped back down to check the machine. To my surprise, there were still 12 minutes left. Now I am no clock, but that seemed impossible.

Suddenly, like a bad movie edit, I was brought back to the laundry room at Clifton-Fullerton Hall, my dorm at DePaul. (Here, I should say to my Uncle Dave Dlabal: I have a letter for you, and I will tack-ily email it to you soon because snail mail is for squares, man). I found myself revisiting the handful of horrible experiences that occurred in that room. Locked machines imprisoning my clothes. Broken dryers that blow only cold air. Prying open locked machines because I really need the contents, you stupid machine. Dad, is any of this admissible evidence? I might owe DePaul some damages.

Back to the present, and I am using all of my tricks because the machines in every dorm anywhere in the world are Maytag. Basic, mostly unreliable, yet not horrible laundry equipment. To skip some details: I got the machine going, and the clothes in the dryer. With the clothes dry, I was ready for the marathon sprint to get to the meeting point on time. Current time: 6:00 pm; meeting time: 6:15 pm. I threw on a proper outfit and bolted toward Victoria Station. Travel For London's website puts the trip to Monument station at 9 minutes; I left Wigram House (my dorm) at 6:03. I was on my way to Monument at 6:06--what a fast person--and I made it to the meeting point in time to wait 15 minutes or so because obviously they know people will be late.

The next part of this long entry might not last here long. I will explain later on. On the boat, I ordered a drink and sat down, planning to just hang out for a bit. I planned to be there an hour and then go get some sleep--catch some proverbial Zs, if you will. Fortunately, this guy who is in both my Intro to 3rd World Studies module and my Challenges to the Nation State module recognized me and came to sit down.

Peter is the coolest guy I know from Denmark, and we had a good discussion. 8 pm rolled around, and I was contemplating my next move when I saw this young beauty that is also in both of my modules. I remember this because after the 3rd World lecture on Tuesday, she walked into the same cafe as me. But I was eating carrots and was obviously in no position to "mac", so I just sat there chomping away like a rabbit, pretending to be really engaged in the reading in front of me.

Now back to the boat.

Since most romantic stories involve a crappy old and smelly boat and boredom, I was in the mood to say hello. Then, the idiots running the music decided to turn up the bass and the treble, and everything in between. This was no good. Especially since I quickly learned that the young woman, Eliza (I don't remember her name), has a fairly pronounced accent. It is hard enough to understand Americans when the music is way too loud, but here I was trying to key in on some dainty French girl's mispronounced words strung together to form what I can only call: sentences?.
Well, the conversation went as well as possible. She is French, but moved to Canada for some reason (do you see her when you go to work, Dave?). Her boyfriend lives in Chicago, and I think she asked if I know him. She asked me if I was hungry, she and her friend were going to go get food (the boat remained docked all night).

I, knowing the ways of jealous Frenchmen ( and being chivalrous), politely declined her offer. Yet, I made my own offer: to see the two out and off to their destination. Outside, I asked again for her name (again, I have since forgotten maybe-Eliza's name) and for some reason I forgot to ask her friend's name. I guess I just didn't care. With regards to my statement about the possible impermanence of this portion, I think it is fair to say that I will erase this bit if the French girl and I become friends.

Home at 10:30. Emails and such, and no packing.

Shoot forward to 7:00 am the next day. I was awake and showering. I was fully clothed and packed by 7:30. I made good time, and arrived at Platform 2 at 8:00. No one there yet. 8:13: no one. Thinking my train time was set for 8:30, I was sure I had missed some directions in all of the emails sent to me. But, alas, 8:17 and some familiar faces. Only, no leader. She showed up at 8:20, knowing that our train was set to leave at 9. Also, the tickets are open to any train to York at any time that day. That is, we might have departed at 10:30 or 5:30 pm, for that matter.

Now, this is a huge post, but it all culminates here: I wanted to take a picture of platform 9 and 3/4 (from Harry Potter fame), but I did not have my camera. Sadly, throughout my York trip, it remained back here on my desk. No photos of the lush countryside and lopsided, sloped roofs. No proof of my stay in a really nice hostel, or my venture into Yorkminster (an amazing cathedral with loads of history). I have no way of showing you lot that I was in one of the best cities I have ever been in. But at least I didn't have to carry it around? I don't know how to make myself feel better about this.
Overall, the weekend was excellent. I even went on a Ghost Tour, but no sightings. Sorry for the length of this one.

Not Really Directly Related to My Trip

Usually, when I think of a new phrase or word, I go to Google and search for it. I search with quotation marks, so I can be sure that my exact idea is being searched for.
That is, what I believe to be my idea. If the search with quotation marks around the subject yields no results: great idea, Keenan. If there are results, I check to make sure it wasn't some freak coincidence that brought the words together in such a way as to seem--in a Google search--to be the same as my thought. And if someone else has already thought of it? That is, if it does yield results. Well, then I guess no one should open up Circus Coffee: The Greatest Joe On Earth because they might get sued.

I don't even like coffee.

Catching Up

Obviously, it has been awhile since I last posted--such is the business of moving to a new country for awhile. This will be a brief overview of the past week or so because I am going into work in a little bit.
Last Thursday, I went to the Comedy Store in Piccadilly Circus. Before the show started, I had some time to kill, so I waited outside of this theatre where Johnny Depp's movie, Sweeney Todd, was being released. Movies do not get here until well after they have been out in the States. Anyway, as I was waiting, there were these moments of uproarious screams (much like those heard in old Beatles footage) from obsessed British girls and other raving internationals. And believe me, they were loud. It was hard to hear, and I was a good 75 yards from the lot of them. But the volume nearly tripled when the Man of Mystery himself casually walked out of his limo and down the red carpet. It was actually a good experience--very interesting to see this reaction and overall event. Anyway, the show was well-worth the 16 pounds ($30), but it is the last time I spend that much on anything here.
Friday night found me on a London Walks Tour through the Jack the Ripper Haunts. It was a tour guided by one Donald Rumblebow (he fairly famous for this gig--he has helped on the sets of most major films about Jack). It was really tough to imagine that these crimes had actually taken place so long ago in the same place I was standing.
Saturday was another museum day, went to bed early enough. On Sunday, I went to church, and while I was welcomed by many there, I do not plan to return. Monday saw the start of class--Tuesday, the continuation of my studies. And yesterday, Wednesday, was my first day at RASC; I need to go there now.

With Grape Power...

Sorry about the length and confusion in that last post. This should be much shorter.

I think I am starting to get over my “jet lag”—a term I view as bullcrap because in reality, I am just tired. “Jet lag” is like “alcoholic”, it’s a nonsensical term that means nothing. But, anyway, along with getting on a good sleeping schedule (hard ‘k’ sound, not ‘sh’. Get it right, Brits.), I am also starting to feel more comfortable here. Today, I had my face-to-face interview with Teshome Damte from the Refugee Advice and Support Centre (RASC). That was at 11:00, but I was there at quarter til, so we started then. RASC is a 241 King Street, in a building that is surely over 150 years old. I mean to say that it is noticeably older than most structures I come across. There are a few other organizations that share the building, but I am not yet sure what they are. Immediately, Teshome began discussing my responsibilities. He expressed the need to overload me with information today, as he will be gone until the 28^th. This will leave me in charge…co-charge. Temomi is a Japanese girl of about my age who is also volunteering with RASC; she started yesterday. Until Teshome’s manager returns, Temomi and I will be answering the phones, dealing directly with drop-in clients, and interacting with the students that stop by to use the three or four computers available to them. We will also be teaching an English class in the upstairs “classroom”. ESOL books and my incredible grasp of the English language will be our main tools, as Temomi speaks English as a second language herself. Underlying all of this is the need for more resources. That is, RASC is constantly seeking funding. In the way of volunteerism and charity-giving, the UK is far behind the US, so suck, UK. We would be you again because with a few bake sales and a Sycamore Storm Dance, we'd have enough funds to shoot before seeing the whites of your eyes. Drafts for grants from various groups are constantly being written up by RASC. Temomi (this has to be spelled wrong) and I will work with Teshome and the manager to write up several of these in my time with the centre. Obviously, expect to hear more about my adventures at RASC in the coming weeks.

Universality of Parades

I will not be writing for nearly as long as last time around, as it is 4:55 am, and I need to try to get back to bed. Last night, I fell asleep at 11ish, and I slept until about 4:00 am. Waking up at four with no problem is strange (and frustrating), but at least Sunday was a good first full day in London.
The day began with the me waking up at 11:30 am after a sleep-spotted night of cold-- apparently sheets will not do the job of keeping me warm when it is 50 degrees. Unfortunately, 11:30 was the magic number, as I was to have been at an orientation at that very same time. I woke up at the correct time according to my phone clock, however, the time on that phone was incorrect. Thanks, Piccell. Anyway, I had to catch a taxi ($), and at least that was nice. The driver liked me. Despite my tardiness, Lisa, the CEA rep., was not the least bit upset.
After being oriented (a courgette is a zucchini, but I don't want it in either language), I was off to find a proper alarm clock before the 2 pm walking tour. I found one at a local Boots.
The group met at Oxford Circus. Nate Miller has often spoken of LillyWhites, a sports paraphernalia store. There is one in Oxford Circus, but we were just meeting the guide there, so there was no time to stop in--later, I suppose.
To keep this short, the tour was fine. The little British lady spouted jokes that were obviously memorized (Lisa was not laughing much), but at least some of them were slightly amusing. Here is a quick summation of the tour: Piccadilly Circus, little parade, gentleman's clubs (not like Damon's, but clubs for actual gentlemen...with loads of cash), royal homes, joke about British royalty, disinterested look from Lisa, royal parks, joke about royal horses, distant view of Buck. Palace, fatigue, slight boredom, tube ride, reminders that this is an expensive place.
Of the many great things from Sunday was the realization that no matter where one finds him/herself in the world, a parade sucks just as much as anywhere else.

The First Day, The First Nap

Hello all,

I am not certain how many people will be reading this, so congratulations if you are the only one--you have successfully found the next big thing. If I maintain this journal/blog, I stand to create the greatest collection of thoughts ever assembled by a Turner living in London on a VAIO laptop...post-9-11.

I want to start back at the airport in a time not too different from now...

It was yesterday that my parents helped me finish my packing (apparently, I use a lot of stuff because those bags pushed the weight limits). On the first attempt to journey to the airport, my mom--thankfully--realized that she (I) had left the folder containing my University of Westminster acceptance letter, my airplane ticket, and several other key documents on the counter at home. Five minutes and 38 "'Are you sure you have everything, son?' s" later, we were off on our second attempt. We left early in anticipation of traffic, both on the road and in O'Hare. This fact helped to calm me when, just outside of Malta, some trucker tried to backup some farmer's driveway. The two or three minutes that trucker stole from my life are not that important, but it did leave me thankful that I am going to college for something other than my GED (I'm looking at you, trucker. High school equivalencing, my eye. 90% of a high school diploma is earned by avoiding/giving wedgies from bullies/to dorks; you have earned nothing in my book). But the trip to the airport was quick and the security was a joke. The hardest part of it was saying goodbye to my parents.
To me, this process was a bit like attending my own funeral, but the rules only allow me to stay for a half-hour. Certainly, I could sit and reassure my mom about the situation, but perhaps--as in a real and normal funeral--the reassurances and support are best left to those back how with my mom. As for my own reassurances, I am entirely grateful to my folks for their support in my endeavors. They have done more for me than I would ever ask for. But that's just it, I didn't need to ask. I just told them about my aspirations, and filled out some forms.
And other family members have been helpful, as I have been on the receiving end of many good wishes and other supportive gestures. Friends, too, have encouraged me. I think of those at First Baptist who have been praying for me; I can say with great certainty that God is with me in this effort. Those not affiliated with FBC have been there for me in much the same way, lending helpful tips and tools for my trip.
Yet, what good would any of this be without God? I say that it would count for naught, were I without Him in this life-changing time. Earlier today, I crawled into bed for a quick nap, and all I could think was, "God is with me. " And that is the basest thing I require: the presence of a God who controls my world.
I want this trip to reflect many things--too many to list. But perhaps more than anything, I want to put into action Pastor Steve's message about getting off of the swingset in the backyard, and moving on to DisneyWorld.
Feel free to knick any of my jokes; there should be more in the next entry. By the way, the flight on American Airlines was great and I just walked around for a few hours today. Big Ben is not that big. I think they should just call it Ben, and let the individual decide for himself which adjective should be attached to it.

My Best,

Keenan Turner