I'm On the (Knife's) Edge of Glory!

I’ve been delaying writing this one, ’cause I wasn’t sure how much detail I wanted to go into. But, Nic has effectively blackmailed me into telling all, so here goes…

Well, not quite yet…

First, let me just say that nothing’s wrong, so there’s no need to worry. However, I have a certain…saintly image of myself that I want my wonderful parents to maintain. So, before I delve into the details of Monday night’s tale of drunken debauchery, I will ask that—if either of them are reading this—they just move their mouse over to the little colored ‘X’ in the upper-corner and click on it.

I’ll wait…

Still waiting…

This means you, Dad—bye!

Okay, I think the coast is clear now. 

Now, the rest of you have to swear to secrecy that you won't going runnin’ at the mouth with what you read here—there's no reason for them to become worried unnecessarily!

Let’s begin, shall we?

So, last week I was chatting with TvH—one of my peers in the Realism, Fantasy, and Utopia module—about my experience so far as an international student at UEL. You see, TvH is also an international student, although he’s actually studying at UEL for the full three years, and is half-way through his second year. 

Anyway, the topic of the conversation eventually turned to gay things, as it tends to do when two gay men are chatting. I was saying that I had been disappointed by UEL’s GLBT(-but no Q) group—like I said in an earlier post, I had hoped to find a ready-made circle of friends but, alas, such was not the case—and then I mentioned that I was too chicken to check out London’s gaybourhood by myself. Flash-forward a few days, and TvH was kind enough to invite me to go out with him, his partner, and a friend or two on Monday night.

So, off I went for my first adventure within that mysterious realm that is London’s chiseled, apple-tinied gay underworld…

As I learned upon arriving—by bus, of all nonfabulous things—at Tottenham Court Road, the rather nasty weather, coupled with the fact that it was a Monday night, had caused the rest of the group to bail at the last minute. 

Nonetheless undeterred, TvH and I set off for the first bar:

The Friendly Society is a tucked-away bar near the corner of Wardour Street and Old Compton Street. To enter, you have to descend a somewhat dark, quiet stairwell—seriously, you can’t see any of the lights from the club, nor can you really hear the music (contrary to what the older photo below shows). 

But once you’re within the bar proper, it’s like you’ve stepped into a strange, undersea kingdom…

The Entrance [NB: This photo is not mine!]

The Bar [NB: This photo is not mine!]

You can't tell from most of the photos above, but, most of the lighting is a pale blue, like the kind seen in the Faerie Tale Theatre version of ‘The LittleMermaid’—seriously, I kept waiting for Brian Dennehy or Helen Mirren to pop-out…or at the very least, Shelley Duvall! Adding to the ambiance are round, old-fashioned goldfish bowls (complete with fish), a room filled with tiny disco-balls hanging from the ceiling, and dozens of Barbie and Troll Dolls that give the appearance of ‘swimming’ across the ceiling courtesy of screws through their guts.

Notice the dolls on the ceiling [NB: This photo is not mine!]

More Swimmers [NB: This photo is not mine!]

Oh, and have I mentioned the projector? Into one of the alcoves behind the bench-lined white walls, a projector beamed the (in)famous shark-attack scene from the 1966 ‘Batman’ movie—the one with Adam West and the entire rogue’s gallery (minus either of the legitimate Catwomen)—over and onto patrons’ heads. 

The Movie Screen [NB: This photo is not mine!]

As for the music, a solitary speaker was pumping out the sounds of the Eurythmics in one of the siderooms.

It was in this delightfully kitschy environment that I had the first of many, many drinks over the course of the night... And the second. (Red wines, both.)

Wanting to pace myself, I suggested we check out one of the other nearby locations.

Moments later, we were at Village, which is somewhat reminiscent of Spin.

Now, regrettably, this is where the memory starts to get a bit hazy…

You see, no one in London seems to have heard of my usual, safe drink of choice (Fuzzy Navels), and I didn’t want more anymore wine because it would have had me asleep within moments. So, somewhat reluctantly I switched to my other standby: cranberry-vodka. 

Five of 'em…

That I can recall.

And then I remember TvH and I chatting for (what felt like) 20 minutes with this woman who kept going on-and-on about her hair, and how she hadn’t cut it (‘except the fringe’) in about 15 years… But, I kept giggling because I thought she looked like the late Wendy Richard.

I swear, the woman looked just like this!

Eventually, TvH said he needed a smoke, so we were finally able to escape the chatty Miss Brahms look-alike—and her drunken GBF, who kept asking me to hold his drink and then disappearing, only to re-appear later with a brand new drink…

Then it was back to the bar (or possibly a third one—I have a ‘mystery wristband’ from another bar called Shadow Lounge that may or may not be owned by the same folks who own Village, and that I don't remember getting) for a shot or two of tequila.

Okay, so let me clarify something here and now: none of this talk of drunkenness is meant to sound like bragging. I mean, I had a fun time (until the next day)—but that’s not the main reason I’m telling you all this. 

All of this is just set-up for this part of the story:

After the shots, we both decided we’d had enough and that it was time to go (our separate ways—I want to make that explicitly clear now, ’cause that’s not where this story is going!). 

We started walking toward Oxford Street, from where we could each catch our respective buses. All of the sudden, this guy appears out of nowhere and drapes his arm around TvH’s shoulder, and asks, ‘Are you guys looking for such-and-such-bar?’

Now, at first I thought that TvH knew this strange guy because, while he didn’t stop walking, he also didn’t jerk away suddenly. I realized I was wrong when TvH answered ‘No,’ and I noted the change in the tone of his voice—I think he was just in shock that this guy was touching him.

 The guy persisted for a few more seconds, and by that point we were both telling him ‘No’ and other dismissary comments. But he continued following…

That’s when TvH came to a sudden halt and said with surprise, ‘He just grabbed my wallet!’

Obviously, this comment brought me to a stop, too. 

We just stood there, staring at the guy…

Oh, and he was now holding a Swiss Army-type knife in his hand.

No lie.

No exaggeration.

We were being mugged!

TvH and I backed away, holding our hands up in a non-confrontational way, and when the mugger’s attention was back on TvH, I started mouthing at some nearby bystanders to ‘Call the cops!’

As far as I could tell at the time, they were too absorbed in the spectacle to actually, you know, help us—but, I think the guy started realizing how many witnesses were around and watching us, and so he took off, taking TvH’s wallet and passport with him.

TvH called the police immediately, and—to the credit of London’s finest—they were there within five minutes, if that long. 

Then came the embarrassing ordeal of having to give a police report and description while being both shaken-up and heavily intoxicated. I mean, seriously: imagine having to give a police report and description under such circumstances. Ridiculous!

Flash-forward to today, when I saw TvH at school and got an update: first and foremost, he ‘lucked out’ in that the mugging happened in an area where there are a few CCTV cameras around (now we just have to hope they’re working!). Also, apparently the thief was stupid enough to try and use one of his credit cards somewhere in East London, so there’s a chance that got caught on film there too.

All-in-all, that last bit was quite the experience—and not one that I ever care to repeat again. 

Now, as for the London club scene: I think next time I’ll just bring the bartender a copy of the Fuzzy Navel recipe and play it safe!

I've Just Been; and It's Frozen Over!

Good evening, dear readers!

Apologies for going so long between updates (’cause I just know you’ve been waiting with baited breath for the next titillating entry)! But, unfortunately, there just hasn’t been much to say. It’s all been pretty quiet, with me spending most of my time finishing up the massive amount of reading I had for classes last week.

Speaking of my room, I promised I’d post a couple of images this go-round, and I’m a man of my word, so here goes:

What's that on the laptop? Why--it's this very blog! How meta!

The studying couch--which, apparently, the evil cat got to at some point...

Not much to it, really. There’s the bed, a couch (on which I do my studying), a wardrobe, an extra chair, a bookcase that serves as a dressing table of sorts, and a coffee table that acts as a catch-all for everything else. 

I will, however, say that I absolutely ADORE the key—

Finally I can pretend to be Nicole Kidman in "The Others"

—and wish that keys in the states were still cut like this. It makes me feel all Victorian.

Speaking of differences in tools, I discovered something today that I hadn’t noticed before—something that (from my perspective) we do better in the States: laundry. Now, I’ve done laundry a couple of times since I’ve been here already, but I’ve always been busy doing other things, and never noticed the passage of time.

Today was different. I started a tub of laundry around 1:30 PM, assuming it would take about 30-60 minutes to complete, at which point I could hang it up and have it more-or-less dried by tomorrow morning—

(NB: houses that I’ve visited here do not have dryers—you just hang your stuff over radiator vents and whatnot. I don’t know if this is specific to UK homes in general, or if it’s all just been a coincidence.)

—Well, I waited for the washer to complete its job. 

 

And then I waited some more. 

And some more. 

And some more (again).

It didn’t finish until almost 5:00 PM—that’s right, 3 ½ hours to run one tub of laundry through the washing machine. Is that normal, or am I just living in a house with a terribly slow machine?

 

Moving on… There’s another big reason why I haven’t gone out and about much this week: IT’S FREAKIN’ FREEZING!!!! The UK press has been all over this story, reminding me somewhat of all the ‘snowpocalypse’ stuff from last year.

 We did, however, get some of the white stuff (that, strangely, Chicago has avoided this winter) last night. It was really pretty!

The view from my window.

 Now, I have to say that the press has hyped the weather stuff here similar to last year’s events back home. However, they have not exaggerated (much) with the cold—it’s been downright Siberian! It’s probably for that reason that I’m sick now. Yup, I’ve caught my first UK cold, and feel positively crummy as a result. But, I don’t want to dwell on that too much—just acknowledging the fact.

Shuffling on again… Two things of note occurred this week:

First, I procured tickets to and lodging in Paris, with the logistical help of Nic and the financial support of my parents. I leave Saturday, February 18, and return on Tuesday, February 21. Now, I’m not taking a plane or train but, rather, a bus. Partly this was decided upon out of monetary considerations, but the other rationale is that I wanted to see as much of the surrounding area as I can, and thought that 8 hours on a bus might be just the way to do so. Since I haven’t been yet, of course, there’s not too much more to say about it—more to come after the trip.

For some reason, this strikes me as an appropriate image to accompany the above story.

Nic says the cat above reminds him of his arch-nemesis, Estelle Parsons. What do you think?

The other event from this week I want to talk about is a trip I took yesterday alongside the other international students at UEL: we went to Cambridge. A town in its own right, Cambridge is about 50 miles north of London, and is most well-known for its university system, which dates back to the early 1200s.

King's College and Chapel as seen from across 'The Backs.'

Basically, it’s a two-tier system. On the first level, there are independent colleges (e.g., King’s College, Trinity College, St. John’s, & 28 others), which are designed to provide students a place to eat, sleep, and study. However, each of those independent colleges are then linked to a singular, overarching university system, which provides instruction in areas of math, science, and so forth.

To be accepted, one must be accepted at both the college and university levels, possess (the equivalent of) an A- or B-level GPA, and then interview with someone at the university level who will ask in-depth questions in one’s area of expertise (at which point one must demonstrate that they actually know what they’re talking about). Not surprisingly, two-thirds of applicants do not make it through this process.

But, amongst those who HAVE succeeded at getting their foot in the door are:

• Isaac Newton
• Charles Darwin
• Oliver Cromwell
• Jane Goodall
• David Attenborough
• Ian McKellen
• and nigh-countless others.

Trinity College Chapel

Two other quick tidbits about things I saw during my trip to Cambridge:

Rosalind

 This is “Rosalind” (a.k.a. “Hopsy”). Or, at least those are the names some of the students have given the beast seen here. In reality, this piece is called the Corpus Clock (a.k.a. the Grasshopper Clock). It sits outside of the Taylor Library at Corpus Christi College, and was officially unveiled to the public by Cambridge physicist Stephen Hawking. And despite the fact that it looks like a grasshopper, it’s not—it’s actually a Chronophage (literally "time eater"), and it moves its mouth—appearing to “eat” the seconds as they pass—and occasionally it "blinks" in seeming satisfaction.

Hopsy's Clock

 The other thing is this:

Darwin's Slides

These are actual slides collected by Charles Darwin while he was aboard the HMS Beagle. The insights Darwin gathered on this journey helped shape his landmark work, On the Origin of Species.

There’s a lot more to say about Cambridge—in fact, there’s almost too much to say about it, so I won’t even try here. If you’re my friend on Facebook, then I encourage you to check out the photos I’ve uploaded, where I write a little bit more about my trip with each of the photos.

For now, however, I think it’s time I close up. In honor of the cold, I think I’ll watch an episode of “Are You Being Served?” that perfectly suits the present situation:

 

Until next time, dear readers, pray that I won't have to update you that I've "just been, and it's frozen over"—and I am unanimous in this!

The (Rambling) Media Edition: Part 3

Those of you who have known me for more than five minutes know that I’m a huge fan of the British comedy “Are You Being Served?”—heck, just look at the url of this blog for goodness’ sake: “Looking for Grace Brothers’”—clearly an AYBS reference.

 

Well, what you may not know is that my love of this series—indeed, of all British comedy—comes by way of my friendship with my best friend growing up, William West (a.k.a. “West-Man”). Over the years, we spent many hours staring at PBS’ reruns of AYBS, and I’ve never forgotten that. I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t played a role in developing my own sense of humor, and defining the type of things I find funny.

 

At any rate, I was reading over William’s blog yesterday—which you can find here, by the way; it’s amazingly funny, and, as he points out in the header, “he’s forgotten more about pop culture than you’ll ever know”—and he mentioned a series I had never heard of, but absolutely should have!

 

The series was called “Take A Letter, Mr Jones,” and it starred Mr. John Inman (who played Mr Humphries on AYBS) as a male secretary working for Rula Lenska.

 

DVD Art

Now, a second ago I declared that I absolutely should have heard of it. But, then again, maybe not. Having learned of its existence, I immediately went to the YouTube store and watched the first episode. (If you’re so inclined, you can also watch the first episode courtesy of the embedded videos below.)

 

I have to say, I was less than impressed. I mean, aside from possessing a theme song that was more irritating than pubic lice (or so I’ve heard—I wouldn’t know personally), it just plain wasn’t funny. Such a shame, too, because I have always adored the late Mr Inman.

 

Perhaps seeing one of his other little-known, albeit funny roles would help us un-see the above...

 

An American Suburb in London

My apologies to everyone who’s been waiting with baited breath for my next installment—last night I was simply knackered, and couldn’t bring myself to type anything out. So, tonight you get a two-for:

YESTERDAY:

I had the day off yesterday, and spent most of it hunting for housing via the interwebs. No real luck, though, so I decided to sign-up for something called speed-flatmating. It’s like speed-dating, but…well, looking for flatmates. Hopefully that will work (especially after today’s experience—but more on that later)!

Later in the day, I attended a film night sponsored by UEL’s GLBTQ group. The event was...okay. But the film, called "Fit," should have been titled "Meh."

I mean, sure, I'm glad I did it for the experience, but it certainly wasn't worth the money or hours it took me to get there. There were only six other people there, and not a single one of them even introduced themselves to me, let alone did anything to make me feel welcomed. I was pretty disappointed by the whole thing.

We did watch two episodes of "Will & Grace" before the movie (which I find increasingly problematic the older I get, and the more academically minded I am). Nonetheless, it was interesting to see which American-based jokes landed, and which ones went over their heads. As for the movie: imagine "Step Up" (2, 3, or 10, since the first one was at least mildly enjoyable), meets "Fame," meets a high school coming out movie. My gravy, it was sooooo bad. 

I was feeling kind of disgusted after the fact—the group didn't even make an effort to get to know me as I was leaving—and I think that's because I partly assumed it would be kind of a ready-made friend set, you know? Like, they'd wonder what it was like to be gay in America or something. I don't know. But it wasn't what I expected.

So, at any rate, I tried to make myself feel better by swinging by Buckingham Palace on the way home for some more night photos. Wow—unlike Tower Bridge and the Tower of London, it was super sketchy and dark all around. And people were few and far between. I kind of feared for my safety a bit. (Unrelated to that last thought, but it was also the first place I've seen unhoused persons since I've been here, and someone vandalizing property—a young, well-dressed white woman tagging a phone booth). But I pushed through, determined to turn my mood around. I got one or two decent photos out of at least.

Buckingham Palace

I tried to get in, but they wouldn't let me...

...Or did they?

Finally, when I returned home, I watched two episodes of “The Inbetweeners,” which Nic and I typically watch courtesy of BBC America. For once, though, I was able to watch it unedited—and it was a bit overwhelming, actually. I just might prefer the bleeped out version a touch more. (Or, looking back at what I’ve written so far, maybe I’m just in a crabby, I-don’t-care-for-much mood today…)

TODAY:

Today was another non-school day, and another day of searching for housing. And this time I actually got an appointment to check out a place. Everything seemed good—the price, the location, the lack of a deposit—until I actually arrived: a huge portion of the wall against which the headboard was resting was caked in mold. Ugh! Obviously, I won’t be living there…

But, since I was in Stratford already, I decided to check-out one of London’s newest attractions, which has the UEL campus officials positively abuzz…

Ready…?

A Westfield’s mall.

Don’t get me wrong, it was a nice mall—but, I can honestly say that if when (and if) I ever get homesick for American culture, I can just pop over to the Westfield’s and it’ll be just like I’m home again. Except with a Marks & Spencer’s instead of Target. (Sadly, there was still no sign of Grace Brothers Department Store…)

They're free...mainly because I haven't found them yet. (Or because all but two of them are dead now...)

In short, I’d prefer spending my time in a more interesting London environment than one that I can find in practically any American suburb.

Ah, well, at least I got to watch another batch of episodes from “Come Dine with Me” (the celebrity version this time) when I came home. Oh, and I had dinner at a pub called “The Trout”—it was pretty tasty.

Until next time, remember: you've all done very well!