BARE BODKIN.

befuddlement, bewilderment, bemusement, b+ average

Monday, November 28, 2005

ATM Land

Personally, when I go up to an ATM, I enter a little private ATM world. In ATMland, ATMshire, ATMia, the rest of the world disappears as I’m faced with disgusting metal buttons and dim, cracked LCD screens. It’s a fanciful place of bleeps and bloops and money money money, and it’s quite an intimate setting.

Anyway, I was in ATM land for a few minutes, plundering my account, and as I finished and stuffed my pockets with pounds and receipts, I noticed something peculiar in the air. Literally, in the air. There was a strange, solid, flaky water substance that was falling on me. It was unfamiliar. It wasn’t rain, but it was rain-like. I thought maybe a fat, wet pigeon had exploded, and I was being sprinkled with pigeon innards. But no, anyone with a modicum of common sense could tell that pigeon fluff and guts aren’t that clean, or that pure. I searched within my boundless wizdom and concluded that maybe, perhaps, this alien substance of frozen bits of water, falling from the sky, might be what the Inuit call snow. I hear they have fifty words for snow. Or maybe they have fifty words for love. I don’t know, something like that. They love snow. So do I.

It was snowing.

If you, by chance and luck, have wandered to this log of mine and do not particularly know me, I should let you know that I have resided on the California coast for the duration of my life thus far, and though I have seen snow on the ground, and even felt it, I have never been snowed on. Snowed at; it was snowing at me. For a minute, only, but it was hearty minute.

Sunday, November 27, 2005

No Subject

You know, throughout my few years at Stanford, people have always complimented me on my wit. Always with the adjective 'witty'. I really don't mean to be tooting my own horn; I totally appreciate any comment anyone has ever made to that effect, though I've never really known what they meant, and I'm not sure they know either. I've sort of taken the describer 'witty' to mean that you're able to insult people without getting caught, and the drier the wit, the more severe the insults. Maybe that's sort of a misanthropic interpretation of wit, I don't know. And if dry wit is based on subtle insults, then what of wet wit? Wit can't be wet. Better stuff my cheeks with those little paper packets of silica gel.

Of course, the long term goal of someone who 'studies' English in the way I do is as follows: step 1) make witty comments about cereal, step 2) get $160,000 college degree, step 3) ???, step 4) PROFIT!! Am I doomed to be speaking about 99 cent stores and halloween decorations in a monotonous voice on NPR accompanied by mellow musical interludes? Am I doomed to that!? Have you ever seen what Garrison Keillor actually looks like!?

Pish Posh. I'll find something much more mundane than that. Though now I'm only writing this to delay a paper on Christopher Marlowe that I've been delaying for a month (I figured, what's another ten minutes of delayment?).

So here's a picture of a beer bottle.
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Friday, November 25, 2005

Look on my goose, ye Mighty, and despair!

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Saturday, November 19, 2005

BALLOON MAN

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He sells balloons.
He sells them in pairs.
He occasionally stands on one foot and kicks the air with the other, which I suspect is a boot-adjustment technique.
The morning is young, the sun is low, and balloon man's shadow is forty feet long.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Muppet hides and slobs

Occasionally, I see women wearing scarves, or coats, or boots, that looked to be fashioned from muppet hides, and I wonder.

I think the difference in the way men and women dress themselves is fascinating. I'd say the majority of men are far less concerned with the aesthetics of their clothing; I suppose that goes without saying. It seems that men can more easily convince themselves that they look good, even if they don't. A dude, failing to find something more appropriate, will wrap himself in a welcome mat, tie an extension cord around for a belt, throw on his shades, and wander out into the street with the unjustified confidence and false gravitas of a senile lion. (And this is a tired, cliché subject, among observational subjects, but that's never stopped me before!). A woman, to be accurately stereotypical, will carefully select an outfit, try it on, try it off, adjust the color coordination, model in front of a full length mirror, etcetera etcetera, and still feel doubly unsatisfied with the available shades of azure. I really don't know why this gender division exists (and I also don't mean to suggest that everyone easily falls into my welcome-mat/azure-coordinated descriptions). Maybe some men should wisen up, maybe some women should wisen down, maybe I should occupy my thoughts with more pertinent matters; but I do commend our XX-chromosomed overlords for their matching accessories. We appreciate the effort.

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Oh just look at them all, you know you want to.

Sunday, November 13, 2005

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Friday, November 11, 2005

Dessert



“it’s a mincemeaty treaty sweety”

I really don’t know how to approach this. I had to preface this text with a photo, because I’m not sure you’d understand why I’d devote my time to writing about that thing presented to you above without having seen its majesty. Look at the majesty. Alright, maybe majesty isn’t precisely the right term and maybe the peculiarity of it hasn’t yet become apparent to you. That block is some sort of pastry treat, some sort of sweet snack. I’m sure you’ve heard of, in however may decades you’ve been hearing of things, the English phenomenon of mincemeat pies. I certainly do not know what, or why, mincemeat pie is, and I have done nothing to rectify this particular blotch of ignorance. Some things can be better appreciated as mysteries, really, and I frankly do not desire to taste a cow pie. I love cows, and despite my habit of eating them, I won’t degrade a cow to pie status. And that probably says more about my opinion of pies than it does my opinion of cows, but I also won’t let this become an anti-pie rant. In truth, I don’t really know if mincemeat pies actually have meat in them, or if it’s just some quaint carnal nomenclature, but a brief google search on the matter suggests to me that some pies in some places got meat in ‘em. But, I actually wasn’t aware of what I was holding when I acquired the item, so I never intended to partake in a deep, meaningful exploration into the meaty world of English delicacies. Luckily, there’s no meat in that brick anyway.

The real reason for my acquisition is because of the unrivalled, charming packaging. It presents in bold red lettering my favorite seasonal adjective: “CHRISTMASSY!” I prefer it with an exclamation point. I hadn’t noticed the small text beneath this (“mincemeat flapjack”), and being the largest word on the package, I was led to believe that Christmassy might be a noun, and that it might be residing beneath the thin plastic. I’ve never tasted Christmassy. But I have heard good things, and it’s from the renowned “Fabulous Bakin’ Boys,” so I’m sure it’s no surprise to you that I purchased this. (I’m more accustomed, and I’m sure you are as well, to having such treats baked by a fictitious grandma, gammy, or aunt, but I decided to give the boys a chance). The phrase under the Christmassy title, in quotes, has already been presented to you: “it’s a mincemeaty treaty sweety.” I really hope the folks in the marketing department got extra cushiony Christmas bonuses for that one. Enclosing this declaration in quotes directly suggests that someone actually spoke it; presumably it was one of the Fabulous Bakin’ Boys. The Boys are calling me “sweety”? Hmm. You know how those two Bakin’ Boys live together, and seem so happy together? I think they’re more than just roommates, if you follow my drift. Fabulous indeed; more power to ‘em, so long as they keep baking.

But this isn’t about mascot sexuality, this is about mincemeaty treaties, sweeties. The side of the package features Santa’s hat with angel wings attached, hovering in holy glory. I don’t think I’d call this personification, or anthropomorphization, but maybe angelfication. I’m not sure what their angelfication of Santa’s hat is based on, but I am wholeheartedly in favor of it. Though I can’t help but wonder if the rest of Santa’s clothes flew away too. Poor guy. It’s cold up there. As a final attempt to charm the consumer, on the bottom of the package where the ingredients and factoids are, there are three informative emblems: suitable for vegetarians, may contain nuts, and “unsuitable for grumpy people.” Those Bakin’ Boys, god bless their little ‘earts.

Oh, what does the Christmassy treat taste like? I dunno, sweet nuts and stuff. Who cares ‘bout that.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Bikecycles

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Saturday, November 05, 2005

The Red Cups

I’m now at a super active Starbucks on Cornmarket Street, the consumer ghetto of Oxford. It’s 5.5pm, it’s fairly packed and fairly loud. There’s some implicit obligation or assumption that when in Europe, you don’t go to Starbucks, you go to some better place, somewhere European. Yeah sure, I’ve been there. It wasn’t better. The reason I’m at Starbucks is primarily because they now have red Christmas cups, and secondarily because I don’t know any other place that make caramel macchiatos.

A French Starbucks dude just told me that they’re “closing this part of the café in ten minutes.” “This part” is utterly ambiguous, and I can’t help but wonder if “this part” refers only to the space that I occupy. Well, he actually means the 2nd floor, which I so enjoy (referred to by the British as the 1st floor, of course). The small downstairs area is open ‘til the late red-eyed hour of 6:30pm, when the more sensible among us are tucked away under plaid bed sheets, dreaming of multinational coffee corporations.

Anyway, I need to return to the reason I’m at the ‘bucks (the irony of “bucks” being part of the name has only recently been conveyed to my slow slow mind, by the way). The. Red. Cups. I noticed a small sign when I entered, which displayed the crimson cardboard in all it’s holy glory, and announced “THEY’RE HERE.” These cups, a recurring thing, are new to me. I’m only assuming they do this every winter. Where was I last year, and before? Well, not drinking many coffee related beverages in those medieval days, and if I was, it was at the venerable Moonbean’s, which I referred to as Moonbeams, because I was a naïve youth. So, red cups. Part of the red cup majesty is in the timing --- right after Halloween. Halloween isn’t too huge in England, though they had some tempting Frankenstein candies near the register, now replaced with Santas. And there isn't anything between Halloween and Christmas, so any post-pumpkin day is marked as belonging to the xmas season (pronounced ex-mas). We have Thanksgiving in the States, of course, but that’s really just a filler holiday that we just use to survive the post-Halloween pre-Christmas gray month of November. No one really cares about pilgrims and turkeys, and the 'thankfulness' sentiment returns FULL BLAST come Christmas time. (But, to briefly digress, making those paper buckle pilgrim hats and hand turkeys in grade school was a true delight). I think there might be an English holiday in November, but if there is, it certainly has no aesthetic associations.

My point here, my thesis, centered on red cups, is that Halloween and Christmas, these days of Heaven and Hell, are the season's, nay, the YEAR’S, only real holidays. (That was eight commas, if you were counting). Any days pertaining to respecting people and things are well and good, but my primary focus in life is utter gluttony, of course. Now, the idea of a Halloween-themed coffee cup is completely scintillating, and my eyes glow like a jack-o-lantern’s at the thought, but there are too many people unwilling to endorse that beloved day of the damned. Christmas, it seems, has pretty good public support. That's my perception. Personally, Santa, Satan, Stan, I embrace them all. (Saying that I “personally embrace” Satan makes it sound like I’m copping a feel of our dark lord, but I didn’t mean that. He does that gangsta handshake/hug combo, anyway. You knew that). 7,500 words later, and I haven’t stated why I like the red cups. They have elves or some lovely crap like that on ‘em. Shit, I don’t know, they’re Christmas cups, and that means it’s Christmas time, goddammit.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Attack of the 40 Pence Man

I just met the most charming panhandler.

He didn't look particularly panhandler-like. He was just an old English gentleman, with his tweed blazer and old English gentleman hat, sitting on a bench. He called me over to him as I passed, and told me his harrowing tale: he had to get back to Warmickshurshirefordonshurmickford, which, as you know, is quite a distance away. And in his age, he told me, his legs were just not up to the journey. They had gone quite numb, really. I didn't know if he wanted me push him in a shopping cart down the street, which is an English custom, but I continued listening. Actually, he just needed 40 pence for the bus fare. Ah. Okay. I had some change in my pocket (if a 2 pound coin can be called change), felt my way around, and produced a single pence. Oh. I told him that I was sorry I could only contribute a single pence, as shiny as it was, and he smiled quietly as I handed it to him.

No more than five steps after departing my dear friend, another old man approached me, grinning. I am not opposed to grinning old men, but it is an odd occurrence when a stranger who is no less than 100 years in age, and no more than 100 pounds in weight, impedes your path with a craggily British grin. It was clear that this gentleman was in some way connected to the other. He told me, in an expected thick British accent which I won't care to textually emulate, "You must quite a kind person. I just gave him forty pence! He's making a profit."

Uh huh. I mentioned that he had only received one pence from me, which I said as if it were some sort of victory on my part. Ah, well.

Those guys were great.