Angloland

I was going to start by making a Royal Family joke, but it would have been too easy.

I'm starting to settle into the groove of living on an island. I listened to an angry Jamaican shout about the wrongs of the world from a free speech corner in Hyde Park. He said lots of things with which I agreed, reminded us all of Bin Laden's love of soccer, and pointed me out as one of the 13% of Americans with passports. This last bit worried me, as I had always believed Jamaica to be part of the United States, as governed by John Candy and chancellorred by Doug E. Doug. The orator then alerted me that I was in England, man, which is featured in everyone's favorite movie, Eurotrip. I thought about how hilarious that film was, finally deciphered that my confusion stemmed from the forgotten fact that there is more than one island nation, and I went on my way.

The only chancellor ever to be a panelist on Figure It Out.

I've watched soccer, or footy, or hexago-sport, or whatever it's called, quite a bit so far. Tonight the dorm's Sky TV room saw it's largest gathering yet for an Arsenal Champions League tie. Some Frenchies cheered on Thierry Henry (just like the terrorists - you did click on that link, right?! angry face) and I generally agreed. My focus, however, was not one hundred percent on the game, I admit, as I was attempting to appease the good doctor of Brain Age for my lax attendance as of late. He told me I hadn't showed in four days, and that I was quite a little rascal for that. He's right. I may even be a rapscallion.

Three Christians have approached me on campus so far in attempts to lure me to their Bible studies. Do I look that vulnerable? I may have to get into that knife fight sooner than I'd planned. In any case, here is how each conversation "went down," towards Hell:

1.
Solicitor: Hi. Can I talk to you for a second?
Me: You can, and you already did!

2.
Solicitor: Hello. May I speak with you for a second?
Me: If only the Crusades had featured this genial approach, I might have converted. Alas, that was 800 years ago, and since then I've built a thriving pita business.

3.
Solicitor: Greetings. May I talk with you for a second?
Me: You're just the same guy in a mustache. And it's the same mustache you had the first two times.

I attended an extensive exhibition on the sculptor Rodin today. It is being held at the Royal Academy and being sponsored by some insurance group named Ernst and Young. I got to meet one of their actuaries. He kept telling me that all of the sculptures were weightless relative to the 30-pound weight in my basement. I told him that such an idea defied physics. He said that physics was a lie perpetrated by actuaries who use it to their advantage. I told him that it was ironic he was now denying physics for his own advantage. He ran away.

Not Rodin's The Thinker, so get over it.

I might do something completely un-Wisconsin this weekend and go to a cheese festival. I learned about it in what is seriously the greatest newspaper I've ever purchased - The Independent. I'd read it online before, but in print it's so much better to snort cocaine off of.

According to The Independent, "American cinema audiences can be truly scary gatherings, but it seems unlikely all those ticket holders are psychopathic." Jackass (no italics) may prove even these lowered expectations wrong. As an expat who can still faintly imagine the goings-on of American society, I beg of you not to see this movie. Watch some kid ignite his butt on YouTube instead, consider the situation, and realize it isn't funny. Please.

Tonight I sat at a dinner table with 2 Grecians, a German, an Argentinian, and a Portugalman. I was going to make a joke about that ethnic combination, but it would have been too hard.

Melodrama Sucks

Except for City of Angels. How could I possibly be disappointed by a film that portrays Meg Ryan dying via "romantic bicycle ride into lumber truck"?

Oh, that was a spoiler alert, purposefully forgotten to be mentioned. Never watch that movie.

I don't really have time for a dramatic last post from America, so I'll do that when I'm in England. I'm busy trying to fit my dog into a suitcase. The tail keeps sticking out, and this is after I hacked it off from the rest.

I was also busy tonight entertaining Mike and Andy, the only friends considerate (sic available) enough to show up at my elaborate going away event. Sorry everybody else, but you're going to have to catch my family's Universal Studios-produced green-screen appearance on Star Trek some other time. Spoiler alert: I'm a Vulcan.

To fill space, I was going to paste a story I wrote during college about a depressed tapeworm named Tapey. Technology issues with my old computer prevent that at the moment, however, so enjoy my Tapey art instead:

Never mind. I can't upload pictures right now for some reason. Maybe Tapey's just too cute.

Oh, and God bless America, if you believe in either of those capitalized tenets. Which you shouldn't. Religion and patriotism really hurt my efforts in International Public Policy.

Oh, and that's the degree I'm going to England to get. So that's the melodramatic ending. Sniff.

2, 2, 1... Beakoff!

This may be one of those disjointed posts where nothing really connects and I start redundantly.

Sausage is gristly.

In two weeks I'm going to England. Rumor has it (starring Mark Ruffalo) that I'm going to school there; however, the truth is that I'm under contract to investigate a crime most foul. An explanation: I was recently playing Where in Time is Carmen Sandiego? for the Super Nintendo. Of course, and with the help of the game-included encyclopedia, I was breezing through the early cases . When I got to Super Gumshoe level, though, the drama stepped "it" up a notch. Big Ben had been stolen. I was shocked, as I always am when virtual events take place, but I was already on the trail. The criminal liked art by an impressionist who specialized in painting ballerinas. I figured this had to be either Mary Cassatt or Edgar Degas, so I went to check my trusty sidekick when... gasp! The encyclopedia was gone! All that remained was a note reading: "You are hired to solve the mystery of where your encyclopedia is. A little birdie told us you should start in London..."

Was there a signature on the note, you inquire? Yes. It was James Dean's!

"Non sequiturs are so not cool."

In two days I'm going to Chicago. I think I have friends there, so I might hang out with them. They'll probably pressure me into doing things I otherwise wouldn't do, and I'll end up appeasing them by creating the following interactive game. It's called Turncoat Harry, and it features you telling me to do strange things in Europe. Do you want me to have a threesome with a member of the Royal Family and a bowler hat? Do you want me to swim up and down the Thames wearing nothing but a French flag? Do you want me start a sitcom on the BBC called "Running through Threshires"? Then suggest these things! Not only will I read the suggestions, but I may even laugh at them! Everyone has fun playing Turncoat Harry! Everyone, that is, except propriety.

I read the first Paddington Bear story today, seeing as how I'll soon be living next to Paddington station. It was cute. Like a bear from Darkest Peru.

"I'm even cuter when sculpted with eyes."

In one day (meaning Friday) the most important event of my year is occurring: My mom is buying a bird! If bird jokes were hilarious before my family housed a bird, I can't imagine how topically hilarious they'll be when there actually is a bird in the house. I can already picture myself letting you people in at the door, walking you past the cage, and introducing you to my "fine feathered friend." He'll be cleaning himself, and I'll say something like "It's hard out there for a primp!" And because you haven't watched Leno this week, you would've only heard a joke referencing that song twice in the last week and it will still be awesome.

I wonder what my mom will name the bird. I'm guessing the Harry Potter lobby in my family will push for something like Hedwig, but you can count on me to pressure for the only name a bird of comedy should have: Eddie Gizzard.

A crossdressing bird of comedy, I mean.