It's Bitchin' in Hitchin

The Sun Will Always Come Out

2008-10-09T08:36:00.001-07:00

Today I started to feel that same anxiety here that I do at home- the tidal wave of WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE? I realized that I do not have ANY boys in the que- an unusual circumstance- I am usually in ‘relations’ with SOMEONE, but right now if I needed a booty call, it would be to myself. SAD.

However, I have to look at this as the time to finish this god forsaken thesis, get all of the bits together. There is no distraction. That is a gift.

UPDATE: I have written 30 pages this week of Chapter Three! HOLLA! I also found that Starbuck's has free wi-fi! THE DAY IS WONDERFUL!

Here are two awesome videos from the other night out with the girls: PS- DONT THREATEN ME WITH A GOOD TIME!

PSS- Thank you SS for the therapy.

[ We were at the worse b-day party of all time, and entertained ourselves by crawling under the table. I can have fun ANYWHERE!!!]

[ I am both horrified and intrigued by this scary dancing man- the shirt. the dance moves.....what?!?!?!]

Lost Chances and Missed Opportunites

2008-10-09T08:33:00.002-07:00

So I found out yesterday that my car was in a minor accident while I have been away- some asshole mashed the front grate and hood, and did not leave a note. THANKS DUDE. Hence, all of the money I was going to spend on a hotel and sundry items in Paris is now having to be earmarked for car repair upon return to SF. AWESOME.

This means the next four to five days, which I was going to be away, are now going to be spent RIGHT HERE in GLORIOUS HITCHIN.

At first, I was totally bummed. I had a non-refundable ticket, with the American dollar cost of $250. Hear that swishing sound? Yep, that’s me flushing my hard earned coin down the proverbial toilet. It seems like a lot of the things I had counted on for this trip are sailing away, with my own stupidity- the perfect dude, money, hell, I thought I would be swimming and running every day! Instead, I have been sitting on my ass, freebasing chips and beers with my cousins, and watching a shit load of bad British ‘telly.’ I freaked out that my main memory from this trip would be the long hours spent at the one WIFI spot, McDonald’s.

But then I realized: I MUST FINISH MY THESIS BEFORE I DO ANYTHING ELSE! I MSUT!

This is an opportunity- I am so fantastic at instant gratification, of the “MUST LIVE FOR TODAY!” that I sometimes forget to see the whole picture that is being painted for tomorrow.

So I am locking myself in the house, with my best friend Phoebe, and writing my ass off until Sunday, when Becky and I will swim in the public river of Hampstead Heath.

I want to make sure that when I look back on this trip, I see the key elements: I realized where I have been is actually pretty amazing, and I setting myself up for a great next part of my life. Oh, yeah, I’ll pass you another beer to sip with me.

I Must Have Both

2008-10-09T08:33:00.001-07:00

9.30.08

This is going to sound sooo weird- I am ready to NOT be on vacation anymore. I will probably forever regret saying these words. But here is why: my cousin in law, “Doris” (we thought it would be funny to have some pseudo names) pointed out to me the very obvious- I love love love England so much because so many people I love, great memories and art that means the world to me has come from here. Let me explain further:

On my first trip to the UK, my husband Christiaan INSISTED that his cousins would be THRILLED to have me stay with them for two weeks- without him there! He was flying on to South Africa, leaving me in the care of his cousin, Alfie, and her partner, Doris, people I had never met before, or, scarier for them, they had NEVER met ME, and I was coming to invade their house. It seriously could be an absolute recipe for hell. But the strangest and most magical thing happened: I absolutely fell in love with Alfie and Doris. They were literally the most down to earth, hilarious, generous, loving, beautiful people I had ever met (with the obvious inclusion of my best friends who are reading this, natch). I actually spent Christmas with them- a holiday that was probably one of the best memories I have period.

When they dropped me at the airport to see me off to San Francisco, I was hysterical- I did not want to leave them. They treated me like a princess, plus I felt 110% comfortable and accepted by them- it was the best.

When I got home, the first two weeks were spent in the deepest depression, missing the cousins and England. I would wake up first thing in the morning, and be devastated that I was in my room instead of back in Hitchin. The first moments, eye closed, would be spent hoping and praying that I was back in the UK. Those seconds upon glancing around the familiar contents of my SF abode were so saddening- I had found my next adventure, yet I was back at the start, so I felt.

Upon four more trips to England, I met the friends and family of Doris and Alfie. If someone else had told me that I would meet some the greatest people I know in the world within one small group, I would most likely not believe them. Yet that is exactly what happened- I loved all of the crew, missed them when I was not in their presence, and considered them close friends.

My fear of leaving behind everything I know well, a place where I can get in to any gig, have a huge network of friends and family, of my childhood dreams- I remember coming to San Francisco with my parents on several random trips- it seemed so dark, seedy and alive with possibility- I just could not let go.

Now it has been almost a month of being in England. There are things that strike me as strange, and make me pause before packing my bags permanently from my Bay Area home. Take last night- I was horrible hung over, sleep deprived and feeling sick. All I wanted was the voice of my best friend Leslie, telling me that everything will work out, or my roommate Gary asking if I wanted anything from the store. The two people I love and trust the most have been absent from my daily existence here, and sometimes it feel unbearable- there is not a soul here who loves me unconditionally, who will deal with my fluctuation between “fabulous” and just plain Jen in sweat pants.

The idiosyncrasies here are strange too. The fact that no one owns a ‘tumble dryer’ causes me extreme pain- I actually got into an argument with a hot Scotsman the other night about how ‘wasteful’ Americans are because, instead of letting our clothes turn into mildewing stank on some clothes line, waiting two weeks for a sweat shirt to dry, we INSIST on using a TUMBLE dryer. There is a distinct smell to Britain- I realize it is the smell of decaying wet clothes.

Also, things that I do all the time are strange here. Example: I wear sunglasses all the time. I admit it, I am a vain piglet, and the thought of aiding the ever-increasing lines around and under my eyes in their seemingly exhilarating growth horrifies me. My cousins will laugh at me- ‘It is raining outside! THERE IS NO SUN!,’ yet there I am rocking the shades. I argue that the glare creates the need for the ‘increased protection.’ As I look around, I am the only fool donning the darker specs, appearing as an extra in a P. Diddy video. NICE.

From walking Phoebe all over greater Hitchin, I have noticed that, like most of England that I have visited, there is very little litter. Ominously, most of the discarded refuse on the street, in the park, the gutter is MCDONALDS. Holy shizzers, the pollution from the US continues!

I have extremely fluctuated from breaking down in hysterics while eating sausages at a camp ground, wanting to go home to Leslie and Gary, my EXTRA HOT dryer, my DVR player and, dare I say it, HIGH WATER PRESSURE (I had NOT experienced the fire squad strength water hitting me while bathing that I love so much ANYWHERE in England until I recently went to stay with Doris’s parents. Literally, there must be an ordinance against water coming out in any more than a pathetic drip- for those of us with thick hair, lots of product to wash out, or simply liking it HARD, the bathing experience in the UK leaves something to be desired). I just wanted to go home, exchange inside quips with the close circle of family/ friends that know me inside and out.

Yet I realize that I love those people and, hopefully, they love me, no matter where we are in this world.

The last couple days here in Hitchin, I have woken up; eyes still closed, and thought I was in San Francisco. San Francisco feels like a relationship from my early 20s- which it really is, if I think about it. I know those hills, those sidewalks, the bars, the people. I love them, I hold them dear. But they do not need to be re-visited. In order to keep growing, evolving, I NEED TO MOVE HERE TO THE UK.

I simply must have both. It is like loving two amazing hot men that compliment each other perfectly- one loves Phil Collins, one adores Morrissey. What to do?

I have been sleepless over this- what will I do next in my life to get me to be able to live dually? I love the family I have here too much, love the rain, the buildings, the opportunities, the West Cornwall Pasties. I do not really love San Francisco in the same way- it is my friends that I miss (although I also DO miss the restaurants- sorry, my dearest-boyfriend-some-day, Gordon Ramsey, all of the places here I have eaten at have been shit- including Momma Cherries, which YOU ‘re-did’ – I was so violently ill after eating there that I broke blood capillaries all around my eyes from projectile vomiting- THANKS). When I think of my ‘home,’ it is always Leslie and Gary and I, somewhere wandering in Santa Cruz. THAT IS MY HOME in the States- a place I have not actually had a residence in for over half of my life.

I looked on the English equivalent of Craig’s List for a job here- it had the same morgue like feeling of telemarketers and ‘needed: hot young stupid girls for modeling’ as our Bay Area job board. Sigh.

So here I am, perched between the two loves, plane ticket back home in hand. I need something to happen to give me a sign. Please, please let me find it.

Sylvia, What gives?

2008-10-09T07:53:00.000-07:00

Last week I had the chance to go to three places that were absolutely breathtaking. I have wanted to go to all of them since I have been coming to visit the UK, and only on this trip did I actually have the opportunity. Since I am probably one of the biggest literary nerds I know, all of the places were specific to strong women in the ‘canon,’ as we uber goobers call the group of British authors who made the ‘must read’ list for several centuries.

First up on the itinerary: a trip to Kent to see Restoration House. Restoration House was the inspiration for one of my all time favorite characters in ALL of the thousands of books I have read- Miss Havisham of Dickens’ Great Expectation. For those that do not remember this gem of a lady, a quick overview: the story’s protagonist, Pip, falls in love with Miss Havisham’s beautiful niece. Alas for Pip, Miss Havy has reared the niece based upon her own bad experience with the gents: long ago, on her own wedding day, Miss Hav was left at the alter by her man. Though many decades have gone by, she still dons the wedding dress, having never changed out of it from the long ago day. Decaying food and wedding cake are still on the tables in the grand dining area. She is such a vivid, colorful character, I reference her constantly, surely to the chagrin of most ‘normal’ people around me, who left Dickens in high school (note: when I read the book, I asked to do a ‘creative’ project on Great Expectations. This resulted in a “Miss Havisham rap,” circa 1987, caught on a video. Yes, I will look for it).

Dickens is thought to have come to Restoration House, and many of the scenes involving the niece and Miss Havisham in Great Expectations directly describes the home.

I dragged my willing friend Calyx to Kent, for what she referred to as our “Havisham Holiday.”

We met outside the tube station, at yet another homage to my favorite organ:

After posing for a quick pic, we went on to my favorite eatery in all of the UK: West Cornwall Pasties, where I dined upon my first pasty of the trip

The trip to Kent passed quickly, as we chatted about men, visas and work. The usual fodder.

We arrived in Kent, and cobbled our way to what we referred to as “the Havisham Home.” We caught the place on the last day it will be opened for the ‘season,’ until next May! Sweet Georgia Brown!

The house looks EXACTLY like what you think ANY place in Dickens would be- grand, imposing, gorgeous, breathtaking, and haunted up to the gills with surely a dozen or more ghosts.

Calyx and I toured the home, including, our fave spot, the toilets, which were done ‘as they would have been in Dickens time-‘ in this case, a fancy outhouse, which smelled a whole lot sweeter than many of the WCs I have used throughout my many journeys.

[Toilets R Us]

In each room, there was a guide, talking about all of the items, all from the 1600s that were in that particular spot. Calyx and I were easily the youngest people at the House by 30 or more years. Yet that made it so much cooler- chatting it up with an older person who clearly was excited that we were there, and sharing their enthusiasm. That has been the really best parts of the trip- the small anecdotes and the random people I have met, such as a librarian I spoke with at the Hitchin library recently. She told me about showing an elderly patron how to use the Google images on the Internet. She said that usually people ask to see their own streets on Google maps. This man, however, asked for an address in Australia. As the picture came up, tears started flying down his cheeks. Apparently, it was the spot where his brother lived, a place that he had never (and would probably never) be able to see with his own eyes, but had been described a jillion times by his sibling.

Calyx and I asked a myriad of questions, and it was really cool to hear about something that was so different than anything I ever am around. After the house tour, Calyx and I went to have tea in the lower region of the mansion. This was a fundraising effort for a cancer hospice in Kent. It was so inspiring, because all of the women working the benefit were clearly over 75, and yet here they were, still working for a cause they believed in. I have had cancer, and my grandfather, my best friend, died of cancer. Even though I have zero zero money, I gave them my last ten-pound note, as a contribution.

We then toured the gardens and grounds of the House. A beautiful grass maze, fruit trees and secret nooks to make out with a cute boy abounded. I wanted to live in Restoration House! They even have a fountain and koi pond. Sigh. Miss Havisham’s man was a fool to dump her, if he would have had the opportunity to live in this palace!

[I want a maze in my yard!!)

[Calyx in the greenhouse]

Next up was a visit to my idol, Sylvia Plath. On my last visit to Britain, I had gone to the house where both Yeats and Sylvia called home (not at the same time, obviously). I was pissed, since there is a sign saying that Yeats had lived there, but my poor heroine had ZERO mention. So much for equality.

This time, I dragged Becky’s wonderful and sweet mum, Pat, to the random, tiny town of Heptonstall, to give my respects at Sylv’s grave.

The day was rainy, misty, cold and rainy, all at the same time- perfect for haunting about a graveyard.

The drive from Pat’s home in the lovely Northern town of Salt Aire to Heptonstall usually only takes about 30 minutes. However, in the gloom and doom of the day, we got lost in the mountains. There were literally unpaved country dirt roads, with rolling hills, sheep and heath for as far as you could see. I wanted to jump out of the car and bottle its beauty. It was all of my dreams of Britain from reading the sad, longing poems all of those long nights in college, all of those long nights alone in bed, all of those long nights reading them to a boy I liked, trying to get them to understand ‘where I was coming from,’ (and they never did). Oh, I wanted to bottle it, breath it, have IT run through my veins. Pat kept apologize for the long journey, but I never wanted it to end. As we finally pulled into Heptonstall, a huge rainbow appeared over the hills. Everything made sense and was glorious, for a moment.

Heptonstall is the smallest, most medieval town I have yet to see. Cobbled roads, homes that look like they are from centuries ago, and the narrowest of roads.

There are two churchyards side by side where Sylvia is buried. One church, and graveyard, clearly suffered a fire, leaving the truly ghostly, burned out buildings standing, in all of their charred beauty. I could not take enough pictures, or wander long enough among them. I did not want Pat to leave me there, though, so I had to cut short my walking about by a bit. Not a soul was visible the time we were there, and my camera stopped working properly as well, casting all of the pictures in a bluish hue.

The new church, and by ‘new’ it is still very gothic, sits next to the area where Sylvia is. Her grave, which I found quite easily, was over grown, and surrounded by weeds. Here is a horrible picture of me, with wet hair and no makeup, by her grave:

It is inspiring for life to see that someone as influential as Plath can be so unattended in death. What I mean is that though she is one of the most important writers of the 20th century, it was clear that her grave was basically forgotten and orphaned. It made me want to do even greater things in this life, and make my mark while I can.

I then dragged Pat to the land of the Brontes. We again got lost, giving me another opportunity to see the countryside. Sadly, no pictures are allowed inside the Bronte home, but I especially love the fact that they have the couch on display upon which Emily died. HOT!

The house and graveyard, much like Heptonstall, is ripe for someone like me. I can not imagine growing up in these places as a ‘modern’ person, aka someone like ME, who FREAKS OUT without a cell phone, WIFI or even the necessity of having a Kwik and Convenient Mart to run to at a moments notice, for an emergency bottle of booze or snack. It is easy to picture the long, cold, miserable, isolated nights, and writing a grand masterpiece- I was ready to move in myself!

Like the Sylvia graveyard, I wanted to walk in the mist for hours, but my guilt at making Pat also suffer tore me back to the warmth of the car, after a quick run through.

Though it is not literary at ALL, I also went to Brighton this past weekend. If you have never been there, it is 110% the same as in the Who movie, Quadrophenia. Sure, stuff may have changed, but the vibe of the town is fantastic- both new and modern with beautiful and mod, or at least, again, with my imagination. Here is Brenda and I making homage to the movie:

I am now convinced that I should live in Brighton- it is the Santa Cruz of ENGLAND!! Is this not perfect for shooting the next Lost Boys?!?!?:

We also experienced such torrential winds; I was pretty convinced that I would be blow away:

The big reason we went, though, the deciding factor, was that my idol, Gordon Ramsey, had featured a restaurant from Brighton, Momma Cherrie’s, on his Kitchen Nightmares program that I love so. He had supposedly re-done the restaurant, making it a pearl of this beachside town.

However, after eating there, and reviewing it with another friend, we agreed that it was fairly lack luster, and, if anything, rather gross. My revulsion was increased upon my EXTREME sickness later on that evening, causing me to violently projectile vomit. My illness resulted in me breaking blood capillaries all around my eyes, creating the effect that I was in a bar brawl. Thanks, Mama!

Next up: a trip to Paris. I am sure that will create more exciting stories.

Sidebar: I just read in Mojo that Echo and the Bunnymen are performing their entire Ocean Rain album with an orchestra in November. I am tempted to come back.
Any takers?

I Missed Again

2008-10-06T08:37:00.000-07:00

NOTE: for some reason, the pics on this cut off half way- just click on them to see them in their FULL glory!

So I went out for the long planned crazy eve in London with my home girls Denise, Effie and Brenda. I had zero expectations, had no idea what was going to happen. I think my liver has now become immune to the amounts of booze that I am in taking in, since arriving here, since I easily drank my body weight in alcohol, yet seemingly could not get drunk. Which makes the following tale funnier / more sad and pathetic.

[Trying to get drunk with a shot of who knows what- notice my perturbed face]

We started off at a birthday dinner for some work friends of Effie and Brenda. Maybe I am a hideous troll, but I really have not eaten out anywhere on this trip that would demand a return trip for a meal- many of the places I have gone to have been long on ambience, short on food being remarkable. This meal was similar- a cute spot that had a Las Vegas-esque Neptune’s Palace feel, but was so tiny that zero room was allowed for movement of wait staff or patrons. The temperature inside the venue was easily 30 degrees hotter than the chilly England air outside, making for the feeling of menopause when you would go from the outdoors to the blasting sweat of inside.

[Denise and I make the most out of boring people]

[Effie and I mock the boring from outside the b-day dinner]

[We escape for a minute from the crap dinner!]

The other guests at the table were probably the homeliest and most lacking in personality group assembled in one place at one time- a living bowl of oatmeal. Every conversation topic that any of my crew tried to strike up was greeted with a blank look, then a guttural grunt of “yes” or “no.” The most fun was had by Brenda, Denise and I having to crawl under the table in order to go to the bathroom- the restaurant was so small and the other guests so stout, that we were literally trapped between the wall and the table. It seemed an inauspicious beginning to our evening.

After escaping the crappiest dinner company of all time, we were off to a bar where Brenda’s sister works. It turns out that the sister, Hannah, is now at Uni, and best pals with Princess Beatrice. I hoped for a brush with royalty, or at least a person who was once removed.

Of course, I was prowling for SOMEONE ENGLISH TO MAKE OUT WITH, since that has been my mission upon landing here- that and getting a passport of the UK variety.

[Ahoy, matey....surveying the scene for a hottie]

I struck up a conversation with a cute boy outside the bar- it turns out he has dual citizenship, and now works at the same bar as Hannah- oh the best part- he was MY NEIGHBOR in SF until he moved here recently. Our conversation was sadly cut short by him being called back inside the bar- on to the next possible conquest.

Stop two was a spot called The Gallery. The easiest way to describe the music would be a cross between bootie and top 40 from the UK charts. The patrons at the club were a mix of what we call “eurotrash” in the States- men in vests, wildly spazzing out on the dance floor, and gold chained thugs, who seemed like they were sad that they had never had the chance to kick it with Snow (rapper famous for his early 1990s hit “Informer.”) I have not been grinded up against, brushed and grabbed as much since I was on tour with Jordan Knight from New Kids on the Block. and I was his impromptu security guard. Considering that Effie and Brenda are constantly complaining about the type of men they are meeting, I would suggest, gently, a change of venue for fishing, unless you want to feel like a car getting washed in an automatic gas station.

[This charmer would not stop staring at us- FREAK, PARTY OF ONE!!]

[This dude's line was, "I am from the same place as Count Dracula..." Huh?]

[ Are they from Antioch?]

Next up was The Crown. The Crown offered a mix of people, and, my favorite, a poor DJ using his laptop to provide all of the dance tunes. Much to his chagrin, I went over to tell him that I AM A DJ in SAN FRANCISCO. He immediately offered for me to come behind the decks, and help him pick out the next song. As I scrambled over the speakers to him, I accidently hit the switch to the stereo system- shutting down all of the music. As an ominous silence fell over the club, DJ boy pointed at me as the bad seed that hit the music off. NICE.

[Sadly, this hottie DJ pal has a girlfriend- oh well, he asked me to spin with him next week, so SCORE!!]

Last stop was The Good Ship, a venue that I would return to again and again if I lived here. Upon walking in, a drunken cute guy was like, “Marry me! I love your accent.” I took this as a good sign of what lay inside.

I never stop being perturbed at the Brits playing random American ditties when I go out here. Although the DJ blew it, in my mind, by playing “Love Shack,” a song I never have to hear again in this life time or any other, he somewhat redeemed himself by a double hitter of “This Charming Man” and “A Town Called Malice.” As I was grooving away, a Danny Zuko type came up to me and started spinning me around. After he and I sang loudly to both songs, I decided that my quest for a proper UK snog might be bestowed upon this fellow Mozzer fan.

However, as we began kissing, I had that yucky panic in my mind- way too sober to be making out with a stranger, who was hot because of his dashing blue eyes and British accent, but not anyone I would probably ever talk to normally. I found myself giving him a couple smooches, and then bailing to go find my friends, all of whom were fairly trashed. Why oh why was I the sober one!?!?!? Why oh why did I pick that moment to have some semblance of standards?

As it was 4am, the club was closing. We were all dispelled onto the street, where Brenda took up singing, and Effie and Denise made a bunch of new friends.

[Brenda gets her groove on]

Here is the tragic part of the story, oh- I am still so blue thinking about it:

Effie introduced me to one of the flock of gents she was speaking to. He seriously looked like an actor from the 1950s- not in his style, which was perfect Diesel, but by the way he carried himself; His name was Tom, and we immediately hit it off. He said, “ I saw your awesome dance moves at the Crown- good job!” A man with sarcasm- I am in!

Within the first 10 minutes of conversation, we discovered that we both were socialist at heart, he was left handed (a strange fetish of mine)- sweet!. Though it was negative 50 degrees outside, and Tom was not wearing a jacket, he agreed to walk over to get food with the rest of group. We chatted the whole way about music, travel, politics- I have never met someone at a nightclub, or rarely in my life, who I so immediately connected with. I asked him if he was hitting on me, and he said, “Yes, I guess so...is that ok?” Unlike the grabby hands of the entire evening, Tom was shy and funny, a total gentleman. As my friends waited for the 530am kabobs to cook, Tom and I squeezed into a small loveseat in the restaurant, gabbing away to each other.

We then walked Effie the long 12 blocks back to her house (he still did not have a jacket!), and grabbed a cab. When we pulled up in front of Tom’s house, he handed the cab driver money to cover the ride for all of us. As he got out of the car, he turned and gave me a quick kiss. He paused outside the door for a second, looked in at me, and then pushed it close behind him.

I was so in awe of the evening, the company, we had immediately gotten on so well, I did not even think about getting his number. It seemed we would be hanging out forever and again- it was just one of those things.

[ Tom shows off his American accent...did I mention that he loves shopping!?!?!]

And suddenly, he was gone. I did not get his last name, his e-mail, his phone number, or anything. ME! The ultimate networker, always ready to exchange business cards. I had been so in the moment with him- and then he was gone.

As we spend off, Brenda and Denise were like, “YES!!! HE IS AMAZING!!! GREAT JOB, Jen!!”

All I could sputter was, “we did not exchange information.”

Their dumbfounded looks at my stupidity were only topped by the verbal barrage of “YOU IDIOT!!!” from them both, followed by talking about how fantastic Tom was. I just sat there in a ball, knowing / worrying that I had blown my chance at the coolest guy I had met in years, a LEFT HANDED, SOCIALIST, BRITISH guy at that – oh, did I mention he speaks fluent Italian and French?!?!? I AM SO FUCKING STUPID!!!!

Of Mimes, Men and Money (not necessarily in that order)

2008-09-25T08:44:00.000-07:00

Before I embarked on this particular trip to England, I sold a bunch of stuff, so that I could have as much money as possible. Though I left with the proverbial coffers lined with enough money that I would be "comfortable" for a month or two living in the States, my bank account was literally halved upon setting my toes upon British soil. The exchange rate, making the dollar worth literally less than two to one, yes, that is right gentle readers, TWO DOLLARS TO ONE POUND, is seriously like TWO PUNCHES IN THE FACE to ONE in the ass every time I spend on anything.

Because of this, and a not so mild case of WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE-ITIS?, I have been home bound, aka, staying in HITCHIN, with my best friend, Phoebe the dog.

This has created a very bad cycle of me feeling like a total mooch / sloth / annoyance to my cousins that I am staying with.

I am also not appreciating ANY part of the England I love, which is pretty much the whole getting out, walking around and the convening with the people. My fright of going back home to a life of panhandling and sipping paint thinner is so strong that I stay inside, where I already feel like a total asshole for sponging off my friends; I stay in the house, where there is LITERALLY no cell phone, no internet, no new people to meet, nothing fresh to see- there is only Phoebe, who at this point is completely disgusted with me, too. The stagnation continues, making me feel even more loser-esque, and I just basically lie on my cousins hardwood floor, about to twitch like a freak in almost mid-life crisis free fall of the bourgiouse- I have too many choices, therefore, I am not sure what to do; hence, I do NOTHING. I sit on my ass, drink beer and free base Hob Knobs.

So yesterday, basically since two of my friends from SF had an intervention with me, I HAD to go into London, HAD to spend $40 for a rail ticket, and meet NEW PEOPLE, bust out of da funk.

First up: a random blind date. My old student Chris, tired of hearing me moan and complain about the latest batch of freaks of nature that I had been out with in the Bay Area, was like, "WE (he) ARE GETTING YOU LAID IN THE UK!!!" He merrily went about creating a profile for me on yet ANOTHER dating website. "THIS WILL SOOOO WORK, TRUST ME!" he proclaimed as he typed away. SURE CHRIS.

But I gamely went through with it. Why not? I am showering with low water pressure, drying my clothes on a clothes line, I may as well bust out this way as well, and go TOTALLY British, right?

After Phoebe and I looked at the site for a bit the other day, dudes started pouring in. As usual, there were a lot of random freaks, and I already was like I DO NOT WANT TO DEAL WITH GUYS, especially when I am in this super "she must be RE-BUILT" mode.

But then this one dude actually listed the Joy Division song "Transmission" as a favorite in his profile- this I could deal with.

So we went and hung out yesterday. Turns out, though he is a vegan (minus points- you dont do bacon, I do not know if we can REALLY get down, if you know what I mean), he is in to a lot of the same view points as me, and basically probably would have wanted to BE me, circa the shows I went to in 1992. He is learning Finnish, and I have come to the conclusion that his system for studying is way more complicated than I could deal with- he had like 70 words on one side of a flashcard, and then their meaning on the other, seemingly not to line up at all- it seemed really confusing- or maybe I was just drunk. He already had swearing down, which we all know is the most important:

I really get annoyed when people ask me to 'say' words in my 'funny' accent, since, come on, I AM A MOTHER FUCKING AMERICAN FROM GEORGE BUSH COUNTRY, and IT IS THEM who speak funny. I HATE IT when Americans use "British" words, like "cheers" or "ta." They sound so stupid. So I was kind of tipsy after a day of pints and a music business event (THANK YOU AUDREY!! I WORSHIP CLIVE!!), and I was trying to get Mark to say dumb American words, hence the camera being all over the place, because I was rolling around in the booth we were sitting in, laughing like a nerd:

Conclusion of date: Maybe there are cool people (person?) here that did not live in Manchester circa 1979-1995. Mark made the crucial mistake of telling me that a REAL Vampire lives in a cemetary here- I am now going to BEG him to take me there before I go. HEART YOU, Mark!

Another funny thing I am seeing is that there are total stereotypes. I met this gent Steve last night, and I ADORE HIM. Is it just me, OR IS HE NOT A TOTAL HUGH GRANT?

And for you, Lynnie, it seems EVERYONE wants to set me up with a cousin, friend or co-worker of some kind. Here is this lass I met last night, who, after I told her about the cut vs. au natural debate, INSISTED that I sample the "native" goods of fine England before I return home- I clearly DO NOT KNOW what I am missing:

One of the funniest things, though, that has happened, since I have been in Hitchin, I DID NOT capture on film. My cousin Alfie hired a VERY chatty handyman named Gerrard to custom build a cabinet in the room I am staying in.

In the three days that Gerrard was working on this project, my duty was to make sure he was at the house on time, had plenty of drinks available to him, and kept his work on track.

Gerrard, being a motor mouth, LOVED to tell me a lot of personal tales about himself. I learned how Gerrard and his wife met, about Gerrard travels throughout Europe, and how Gerrard is a sort of "dog whisperer."

But my favorite and most horrifying aspect learned of Gerrard was that he was a PROFESSIONALLY TRAINED MIME. YES. A MIME.

After he told me this, I was completely aghast- with shock, horror, disgust and awe. I HATE the entire clown / mime family. And here I was, face to face, alone in a foreign country with a PRIDEFUL, BOASTING, UNPAINTED MEMBER OF THE CLAN!

Seeing my expression, Gerrard would, for the remainder of the week, exit and enter the room where I was, with "mime" moves. Alfie BEGGED me to try to take some pictures, preferably video, of his antics. Again, I was both stunned and alarmed in silence by these performances.

Of the assortment of people I have met so far, Gerrard, you are the only one to "walk the dog" as of yet.

Back in the High Life (on West Cliff Drive, preferably)

2008-09-25T08:02:00.000-07:00

9.22.08

My cousins asked me before I came to visit them if I would be down to go camping with them. You must understand a couple things about me that are totally contradictory:

1. I hate camping. My parents took us camping almost exclusively for family vacations during my childhood. I associate camping with being scared of Bigfoot, my mom and dad fighting, being cold and having to be on “forced marches,” aka long ass, never ending drives in the car, where my mom refused to stop, no matter how bad we had to pee.

2. I do not understand why anyone would choose “uncomfortable” when they could choose “comfort.” In other words, sleeping outside, where a serial killer, Yeti or loud unruly child(ren) from another adjoining campsite could potentially “come and get you,” where the food will not be as good as what you get at a restaurant or at home, the sheets will not be as soft and the bathroom will surely be WAY grosser. Why, oh why?

3. The closest I have returned to “camping” during my adult life, has been, unwillingly, and not by choice, when the hotels (note: NEVER MOTEL) that I wanted to stay at was overbooked, and I was forced to stay at a lesser accommodation that DID NOT have a mini bar or room service. That to me is “camping” - not having immediate access to stuff ones face from the convenience of one’s own bed (600 thread count, at least, natch) 24/7.

4. At the same time, I ADORE surfing, the beach, being a sandy, unshowered, disgusting mess, rolling around with the same swim suit for like a week at a time. I also think being a total unmade up, chlorined disaster is totally hot. What gives, kid? I can totally roll with the sweats, and, and Leslie calls it, ‘Apartment Pant” look of yoga pants and white wife beater for days on end, and think I look sassy as all get out.

Since I adore and love my cousins, and I am usually down for ANYTHING, especially anything to please the people I care about, I said YES to this undertaking.

The better part came when they told me that they had two other “normal” lesbian couples that would be coming on the trip, opposed, I suppose to the “weirdo” lesbian friends that they know.

I had no idea what the place was going to be like that we were going to. Here is a peek:

Upon arrival, I realized that I was totally out of my league. First of all, I have ZERO knowledge of “roughing it,” aka, tent set up, cooking in the great outdoors (without a microwave or just adding hot water, or, dare I say, an EXPENSE ACCOUNT!). These ladies, especially their pal Donna, knew how to rock the cooking outdoors like I have never seen:

These Brits do not play, as far as being outside is concerned. My sad Yankee blood is just too thin- the first night; I literally had to put on all of the clothes I had brought in order to not freeze to death:

My favorite part is that I look like a land whale in every picture and video- I am wearing literally 8 layers of clothes: a tank top, two t-shirts, two sweat shirts, a sweater, a scarf and a wind breaker coat. The hard-core lesbians wore tank tops and shorts, sometimes throwing on a fleece in the late evening.

Tent living was a challenge for me. The air mattress lost most of its air, and I felt like an extra in the Blair Witch Project, much to my cousin Alfies glee:

On the second day, I was repeatedly dared by Alfie to strip naked in plain view of all of Britain, and go swimming in the ocean. All of those years of changing in front of my car surfing, at swim and water polo meets finally came in handy. Being in the water was the best part of this whole trip abroad so far.

PS- this clip that Alfie took of me putting my clothes back on, undies the wrong way (oops!) already had 6 hits before I had it all the way up on YouTube, and the one of me putting the suit on has over 100... people must have been bummed when there was only my sandy ass.

When we got back to our campsite that night, I started thinking about how much I take for granted at home. These girls were so excited about the slight sliver of sun they had, so joyous. I totally shrug off the huge, glorious sunny days we have often in the Bay Area. Their beach was great, but my jaded ass compared it to Bakers where Lynnie and Les and I go to as often as possible to picnic and celebrate big occasions, and, of course, all of the beaches of Santa Cruz, Monterey and Carmel that I grew up on.

I was not only the only straight girl, but also the only single person. I had received e-mail from an old friend right before I had gone on the trip about how his kids are doing Junior Life Guards, a program that is integral in my memory and identity of growing up in Santa Cruz. I thought about how psyched these women I was with were to be at the beach, and how the beach has always played such a huge role in my life, and how I just ASSUME it will always be there, in all its wonderfulness, for lack of a better word. I started thinking about all of the people I love, who have loved me, and whom I have shoved aside for my work, again thoughtlessly disregarding them for my own selfish mono-vision. I am sitting in the Hitchin library writing this, and I am having a hard time not being hysterical just typing. The person who has the kid in Jr. Guards is one of those people, my best friend Leslie, my roommate, countless dudes I have dated, my fabulous cousins who I am staying with. I just burst into tears in the middle of the campsite, in front of all of these girls- no wonder I am single! I could not even put into words what I was feeling. I just felt so, so, so sorry. I just felt like I had MAJORLY fucked up somewhere, that I had made some HORRIBLE choice SOMEWHERE, and I do not know where or how. I became scared that I will never have a kid who can be a Junior Guard, or that I will never be able to appreciate who or what I am with or doing at that minute. When I got my first job in the music business, there was this woman named Laurel who was the “big boss” above us all in our branch. She was totally single, and had perfect nails. My biggest fear was to be like her: she had no kids, not boyfriend, she had never been abroad, and she never did anything outside of work. She seemed so used, old and tired to me, ultimately misery in a person. I was all of 18.

Yet here I am. I am with my cousins, who are doing everything they can to show me a great time, taking me to the beach, which they know I love, sharing their friends with me, which is huge, and all I can do is FREAK OUT. I AM LAUREL!

I ran into Becky’s car, and just sat there crying and crying. I finally talked to Gary, who talked me down. He explained that this is all part of the “process.” I am facing all my fears, my hopes, and the heinous parts of my personality. Man, it’s not cute. I kept thinking of my cousin Mike- just breath, just breath, the answers will come, everything is ok RIGHT NOW.

I wish I had some great story to tell about a break through, or something funny that happened. The great part is that I am realizing, as Gary always tells me, that my life in San Francisco is pretty darn amazing. And I really like mini-bars.

THOU SHALT NOT CONNECT

2008-09-25T06:45:00.000-07:00

9.22.08

I just have have have to write a quick blog about the TOTAL LACK OF WIFI here in Hitchin. We in the Bay Area COMPLETELY take for granted our Wi-Fi-ness. I am, to take a quote out of context from my dear friend Terri Nunn from the “Better Off Dead” Soundtrack, I am totally, totally dancing in isolation, here kids.

I researched the whole Wi-Fi thang before I came. I thought, YOU KNOW, it will be GOOD FOR ME.

I was sooo wrong.

There is literally TWO PLACES that have Wi-Fi- the frightening, no name café, which is pictured below:

I am scared I will be murdered in this place, my body parts sold off on the black market, kind of like that Nip/Tuck Season Four, I believe it was. I am not down with going out like that.

The other place that has Wi-Fi is, I am so disgusted, is…wait for it…..McDONALD’S.

The first couple times I went to the McDonald’s to use the FREE WI-FI, I was coolio. I just got my Diet Coke, and sucked it up, both figuratively and literally, that I was sitting in this place that socially, ecologically and environmentally fucked over the globe, just so that I could get ON LINE. It was like shutting out a really bad one night stand: you just concentrate on getting laid, blocking out the person’s face who is pumping away on top of you. It is always a horrible revelation when you open your eyes, and “come to,” a-hum, and realize where you are/ who you are with.

Then I started getting kicked off of the network repeatedly after about 10 minutes, as if “they” knew an interloper was among them, feasting on their FREE Internet for 89 pence of diet coke.

This is so annoying, especially when I am in the middle of looking shit up about travel, trying to e-mail work people, writing, etc…basically, DOING ANYTHING!!

Another unrelated note about the UK, which I cross, referenced with another pal who recently re-located from the Bay Area to England- the style here is WACK! You think that the Europeans will be kicking our ASSES on the style- NOT!! At least, not in England. These bitches are still rocking Uggs, with their jeans tucked in. And no wonder they have massive wrinkles every which way but loose- NO ONE wears sunglasses, though the glare is that of a solar eclipse, Bonnie Tyler style!

SO just now, I am there, yes, I sound like the bitchy kitty that I am, I can’t help it, I am caffeine crashing, I am sitting in mother fucking McDonald’s, sipping my diet coke, the fucking network is crashing on my ass, and this table of teenager girls are staring at me. All of them look like total hookers, it is freezing and total harsh sunny / rainy / gross outside, I am like WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE, I am wearing a long puffed sleeved red shirt, tweed shirt, shit loads of long necklaces, my SASS shoes, BITCHES, aviators, and GOD FORBID, I have “golden” blond CURLY hair, not the fucking white blond peroxide till it falls out of the head thang that all these fools have- basically, I look dope. I swear, I totally flashed back to being a punker in college, when Vanessa and I would be wearing head to toe Salvation Army. I HAVE DONE THIS TO MYSELF. Kind of like a bad hair cut (have one now), a bad tattoo (check), a lame boyfriend (too many to count)……..All I wanted to do was close my eyes, tap my heels together, and be 1. At Café Pergolesi in Santa Cruz, WITH WIFI, 2. In my living room at home with my roommate, 3. With my best friend Leslie, anywhere, 4. With my other friend Lynne, at our favorite café, with free wifi, and overpriced ham sandwiches, making fun of French people. But no, alas, I was here, in McNet land, being snickered at by a bunch of CHAV bitches. Life is grand.

Welcome to Hitchin, Herts, UK

2008-09-19T07:44:00.000-07:00

The first time I came stay with my cousin-in-laws, Becky and Alfie, I was under the impression that they lived IN London. This would be like saying that someone from New Jersey lived IN Manhattan, or, my Bay Area contingent’s favorite, a resident of Antioch claiming to have a SAN FRANCISCO address. No dice, people. Hitchin, though only 35 minutes by fast train* from the bustling metropolitan city, is literally worlds apart.

My initial trip to Bitchin’ Hitchin was WOW, there are STILL places like THIS? I was in graduate school, and it was that total “first world” view that the professors taught us to avoid when examining “other” cultures, especially those that lived among the rain forest, wore little clothing and usually had large wooden discs in their mouths. However, I found myself in the same awe of the locals I met upon landing in Hitchin. There are narrow cobbled streets lined with shops on either side-

I kept waiting for Charles Dickens or Elizabeth Bennett to pop out and wish me, “Top o’ the morning!” Unlike a similar looking set up in spots that I grew up, say, oh, PACIFIC GARDEN MALL in Santa Cruz, these are actually stores that people use- like the DENTURE SHOP, which seems to still be booming even though this country, like the US, is on the verge of a depression (thanks, George Bush(s)!).

The other sort of business that seems to still be rocking, is, of course, the PUBS. Bless the English and their drinking legs. Unlike San Francisco, which has numerous pubs that are “trying” to be “British,” with names like “Edinburgh Castle,” “The Pig and Whistle,” and “British Arms,” no one here WANTS anything to do with Americans, or American style pubs. NO WAY. If you are looking for some wings, you are shit out of luck. There are plenty of lace curtains in the windows, though, which seem to be a pre-requisite for opening a drinking establishment here. I have now encountered THREE different spots with the name “COCK” in the title, making me wonder if I am the obsessed- Thanks, cousin Mike for our discussion of porno before I left! - Or if I am very sensitive since I live with a gay man, or if I just love cock- both that of the man and the chicken- or if the English are a. Themselves obsessed with the male genitlia b. Obsessed with the rooster, c. Oblivious. I have not mustered up the courage to ask anyone who works at any of these “Cock” spots their thoughts on the “cock.” I suggested this line of inquiry to my cousins, and they blanched in horror.

Another thing that immediately hits you is how ancient everything is. The foot imprints in the stone just blows your mind- all the people before you who were also looking for fake teeth in the same spot. Or, as Becky’s dad told me the first time I was here, those who were buried here during the Black Plague. Then it hits you- as you sip your Starbucks- yes, those assholes have even invaded the Hitchin Town Centre (notice the spelling of “tre” on Centre)- YOU ARE IN EUROPE WHERE ALL THE SHIT WENT DOWN!!

(Yes, kids, under that grass is diseased bodies....nice!)

The town of Hitchin is set up like a wheel, with the hub being the church. It is a zillion years old and totally gorgeous. I think they should shoot the Crow IV: The Heath Ledger Years here.

(Notice the name of the stores in the background- the sweet irony of the Brits!!)

One of things I adore adore adore about Britain, besides their junk food, is the fact that they have often throw a graveyard RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THEIR TOWN. This shit would NEVER fly in the STATES. We try to hide the fact that we will die, that we are going to get old, IN EVERY MANNER POSSIBLE. I get so pissed thinking about it. I just e-mailed one of my oldest friends today. The “conversation” was about how I panic sometimes about how my “worth” as a woman is dropping, especially by USA standards, with every passing birthday. I so clearly remember walking with my mum through this mall by my childhood home (Capitola, SC peeps) when I was 13, she was 35, and her saying, “Everyone is looking at you, I am invisible.” I fear my own invisibility, yet I do not give a shit at the same time- those were HER fears and insecurities. I am my own person, and I feel like I just get smarter, more confident, better every day. The way we shuffle our old folks off to these crap facilities to be with people who do not give a rat’s ass about them makes me so ill. The fact that death is not seen as natural and a celebration of the life cycle is really sad to me, too. I love coming over here, going to the gorgeous graveyards- usually in or near the towns. It’s an extension of the architecture, and shows the great respect for life and those that were loved.

Hitchin’s grave stones are so old that the names are not readable- yet the history is so glorious, I just am overwhelmed with their grace (as you can see by my picture, where it looks like I smelled something bad- I was so jetlagged, I wanted to DIE! I forgot that I had my ipod on- oh, yeah, Stacy, you and I are AT ONE, because I was rocking Lykke Li!).

The people here are SUPER friendly. They ALL want to know WHERE I am from. I especially love the young people I talk to here. They are fantastic. They are smart. They are open to conversation. They know about politics- IN AMERICA. They do not like the United States- except to go to New York, where they go hog wild shopping, one pound gets two dollars. When I went to turn my big $400 in for British money, it was like I was flushing cash down the toilet, and changing it for breadcrumbs.

My favorite thing is when I ask where something is; the kids politely tell me, ask where I am from, then go, “I hate the US- I am so sorry.”

I cannot really disagree. I have a strange love / hate with my own country.

These kids and I talked about how evil McDonald’s is, and then one of them (the adorable imp with the blonde spiky hair) suggested I read a book called “No Logos.” Heart him!

My first intro to Hitchin blog would not be complete with out two other points of note about my particular situation:

1. My cousins love sauces on their foods. This is very exciting for me, since in college, my roommate and I sometimes, in our extremely poor state, would split half a loaf of French bread, and have it for dinner with “dip,” which would consist of either low fat ranch dressing, marinara or BBQ sauce. My cousins LOVE their condiments. At every meal, the various jars get their own spot of glory at the head of the table. Most of them are only available in the UK, so I feel it is my duty to pig out on these delicacies while I have the opportunity. Last time I was here six months ago, I attempted to bring back three different jars of various concoctions back to the States, only to have them confiscated by the UK security people. It’s always something with me!

2. My main companion here in Hitchin is a 3-year-old Cocker Spaniel mix named Phoebe. She is my cousin’s pride and joy. When I originally asked if I could stay with them for a month, my cousins instantly checked their calendars, and realized that my visit would correspond perfectly when they needed a dog sitter. Needless to say, I have no wifi at the house, and I have yet to get a cell phone. I am basically cut off from my life, as I know it. Before I left on the trip, all of my friends (minus Seb) were like, “THIS IS GOING TO BE THE BIGGEST ADVENTURE OF YOUR LIFE!!!!!!!!!” Seb must have had a crystal ball, to see the prognosis of my true ride of excitement would be the utter isolation from the 21st century I am experiencing- COLD TURKEY. The “adventure” is 1. Surely my lack of technology, which I realize I have become so reliant on that I keep grasping at the air with a claw hand, almost like they say people who have lost a limb do, reaching for a fully rigged iphone which is not there; 2. Hanging with a dog ALL DAY LONG. My day: get up at 730am; make INSTANT COFFEE (yes, Gary, you read that right!!!- That is SURELY part of the adventure!!); take Phoebe for a two hour walk; clean cousins house; cook dinner for cousins; clean up dinner dishes; walk Phoebe.
(My constant companion; where we walk 2+ times a day)

Earning my keep with the Cuz

I randomly write on my thesis and stare into the distance of Hitchin (which in my case is the cement backyard of the pub next door),

(oh, the Views!!)

and wonder when the great “answers” to life I came here to seek will hit me over the head- hopefully one of the numerous times I am picking up dog crap while walking Phoebe? The entire time, I am talking to the dog AS IF she is a person. Today at the park, I was totally rambling to her, and did not notice a somewhat hot man (the first I have seen) emerge from behind a bush. Perfect. I am now the freaky dog woman. Maybe I will just curl up with some pudding and call it a day.

*If you get the fast train, which only makes three stops between Hitchin and London, you can get to London in 35 minutes. However, if your bad luck has you on the “non” fast train, your sad ass will be stopping at every random town between here and the big city, and you are looking at an hour plus ride.

(I have wet hair, because, SURPRISE, IT WAS RAINY!!)

Here's Looking at you, Harvey West

2008-09-17T06:50:00.000-07:00

I grew up in a small beach town called Santa Cruz. We had one main public pool in the 1980s and 1990s, called Harvey West. I worked there as a high school kid, teaching swim lessons and lifeguarding.

Harvey West is the nucleus of many of my best young memories- either of friends I met from the summers worked there, or antics at the pool itself.

The pool was kept at a brisk 76 degrees. While this may have been an acceptable temperature for those swimming laps, kids like me who were in the pool with small children for hours on end found it rather unbearably cold. The weather in Santa Cruz, especially during the summer months, mostly in the morning, was usually overcast and foggy, making working in the pool akin to sloshing around in a polar icecap.

During the five minute breaks between lessons, we instructors had to decide if we would a. run into the locker rooms, to try to defrost under the luke warm showers, only to have to throw ourselves back into the ice water moments later, 2. Wrap ourselves in our wet towels before throwing ourselves back into the ice water, 3. Stay frost bitten in the freezing water, and pray that our whole bodies went numb, so that we would not feel the cold at all.

Fast forward to my introduction to the Hitchin Swim Center yesterday. The pools, plural, are housed in a large, vaulted, indoor auditorium. As you enter the locker room, which leads you to the pool area, a sauna like heat pushes you back. Upon entering the pool deck, a heat of upwards of 90 degrees instantly has you sweating. My pores were cleaned out better than most facials I have received in my life during the five-minute tour of the facilities.

The water was nearly bubbling, as if it was lava at a Hawaiian volcano. I almost expected people to be complaining of burns.

I am going to start swimming for their rendition of “masters” swim team here, in this soup of a pool. I am not sure how exactly it will work, or if I will be cooked alive, similar to the sausage in that Grimm’s fairytale, where the Sausage, the Bird and Mouse all house together. (PS- A survey of my two cousins that I am staying with, various other peeps here in the UK, and friends in the States revealed that I am the only one with parents twisted enough to expose their kids to this story- here it is, read it for yourself: http://www.candlelightstories.com/Grimms/TheMouseTheBirdAndTheSausage.htm).

All I could think about was how hardcore we were back in the day at Harvey West, and how totally pussy these Brits were in comparison. Here’s looking at you, H. West alums. We are mother fuckin' GANGSTA!

The Curse of the Foreigner

2008-09-17T06:47:00.000-07:00

I have heinous jetlag. It is seriously making my plans for massive life re-vamping during my early days in Hitchin a total impossibility. I wake up in the middle of the night (by the way, IT IS SILENT HERE at night, like NOT A SOUND!!!!), and I am WIDE AWAKE. It is that kind of alertness you want to achieve when you drink coffee. I have been a huge caffeine intaker since high school- I did swim and water polo team; so early ass mornings were par for the course. I only get to “normal” with caffeine- there is not an energy high of any kind.

This jetlag alertness, however, IS that sort of “awakeness” that you totally want. I have awesome ideas, my synopses are firing, and I am like, “Yes That is a KILLER comparison! Hilarious! I should hit the computer / journal NOW so I don’t forget THAT!”

But I am worried that if I get up, I will further mess up my sleep pattern, and NEVER get in to a proper rhythm. So instead I feel like Judy Garland, tired all day, pounding caffeine, then at night, tempted to take sleeping pills.

I wish I could say that sleeping problems are a new thing for me- I am a frequent sufferer of such agonies.

At home, I POUND coffee like I was playing beer pong at a frat party. Then I wonder why I am having trouble catching the Zs at night.

I don’t do any of the advice that I read in the down pour of chick mags I receive, the “To Do’s” for beating insomnia- I hate all of their solutions. Who wants to get up at the same time on a Saturday morning that they do during the workweek? That would ROYALLY suck! And the other brilliant one..”have sex- it’s a great reliever of tension.” REALLY!?!?!? That is BRILLIANT! I get laid as much and as frequently as I can! Thanks, magazines!

As I was lying in bed last night, around 3:37 am UK time, sadly, no English chap around to shag to “relieve the tension,” and realized that jetlag is another way of non-US countries saying “FUCK YOU” to Americans (and I guess most other people who come from as far away as we do), kind of like Montezuma’s revenge when we go to Mexico. Like let’s say that you only have one week here in the UK. The entire time you are here, you are going to be tired and wack, yet you are going to feel like you have TO MAKE THE MOST OF IT. If you are in Mexico, as I was a couple months ago, when Chris and I went to Mexico City, you WANT to eat and drink all the “local,” “native” goodies. Yet the story my mother repeatedly told my siblings and I, of my parents on their Tahitian honeymoon, and my father suffering a horrific “brown wave” for the entirety of the romantic getaway lends a not so appealing air to the notion of ”act locally, think globally.”

The Bomb That Will Bring Us Together

2008-09-17T06:12:00.000-07:00

The Bomb That Will Bring Us Together

After squeezing extra t-shirts, 8 pairs of shoes, 3 swim suits and enough books, those of the studious kind, so I can finish Chapter Three of my thesis, the some what creepy self help kind, with titles such as “The Fear Book” (which actually rules) and some seriously crap reads that have very large type for the somewhat retarded, into my three rolling bags, I was finally off to the San Francisco International Airport. While some people carefully plan and pack their bags for days, WEEKS before a major trip, I wait literally until my ride, in this case my best friend / sister Leslie, and her ever-patient husband Eric, were waiting to drive me to the airport, to finish cramming crap into my bag.

Notice I am already wearing about 5 layers of clothing, WITH flip flops. A dude at a pub my first night here was like, "YOU ARE WEARING FLIP FLOPS AS SHOES!" in total disbelief. GO ENGLISH FASHION POLICE! (and he WAS NOT GAY!!)

My friend Becky, who I am staying with in England, always tells me, in her posh accent, “PACK LIGHT! PACK LIGHT!!” “Packing light” for me usually means bringing only four “looks” for evening “eyes” instead of the usual eight to twelve possibilities that I like to carry with me. The irony is that when I am in the UK, I usually end up only wearing two pairs of pants and the same coat the entire time- I just like HAVING all the OPTIONS with me. I like to think that Jarvis Cocker will materialize out of nowhere, and invite me to dine with him and Gordon Ramsey at a Michelin star restaurant at the drop of a hat.

Upon arrival at SFO, I said a tearful to Leslie, and walked to the Virgin counter. I love it when I pay $1500 plus for a flight, just to be told that I can’t get on board. Yep, that is what the lovely lady let me know. She did say that if I agreed to go to the UK the next day, I could have a free voucher for a flight anywhere in the world- HOT DOG! I was totally down for that. I immediately agreed. However, she insisted on sending all of my bags through, and checking me in to the flight- though she vehemently insisted that I have a middle seat- perfect for six foot me- for this over sold flight. I still had to go through security. When I asked for all the details for the new flight I was to be assigned to, and how to redeem my free flight, her previous perky demeanor turned as sour as Condoleezza Rice forced to give Bill Clinton a blow job- she was NOT into talking to me about it at all. She was just like, “go to the gate for flight, they will give you all the details there.” Envisioning some future romantic journey with some unknown gent du jour to Italy or Paris, I made my way to security.

I have always had “issues” at airport security. Pre 9/11, when I traveled constantly for Interscope, I think that security knew that I was acquainted with “undesirable types” in the rock business (insert drug takers, Satan worshippers along the lines of Marilyn Manson, people with colored hair – ME). I suffered a compound fracture of my right arm several years back, so I now have metal bionics in place, making security alarms almost always ding and ping whenever I cross through to the “other side.” It is always an adventure.

On this particular day, I was wearing my particular favorite ring. I bought it a couple weeks ago after an unfortunate situation. I had gone out several times with a guy who can best be described as “buyer beware.” Looks wise he was perfect for me: tall mod with good style and all his hair- and STRAIGHT. Hot, right? I was so perturbed with my newly unemployed status that I did not really pay any attention to the bright flashing STOP, RED ALERT signs. One day we were talking on the phone, and he started telling me that he did not believe in global warning. WHAT?????? Also, those things under the Bush family reign of terror had “not been so bad.” HUH!?!?!?!? Bad went to worse when a certain “N” word was dropped in the conversation- REPEATEDLY (not by moi). A couple days later, we ended up being at the same event. A bunch of people, not aware that I knew this said gent, were like “that guy is hot.” Talk about majorly salting someone’s game- nothing ruins someone’s play more than saying they are not only anti-Bush, they are not pro-Polar Bear protection!

So I had bought this ring to celebrate my total desire to NOT DATE ANY MORE FLUNKEES of life. I realized that my standards had dropped SO LOW. This really struck home especially strongly upon a trip home to Santa Cruz for the day recently. All of these adorable kids- you could just see how hot they were going to be in ten years. I was revolted by myself. I HAD SPENT TIME WITH A RACIST! I HAD SPENT TIME WITH AN ANTI-POLAR BEARIST!! OH MY GOD!!

The ring is MAJOR. It fits over two fingers, is shaped like a bomb, and says “WAR IS OVER.” LOVE IT.

The Weapon of Mass Destruction

So I am going through security at SFO, wearing my LONDON PARIS NEW YORK SANTA CRUZ sweat shirt / blanket, baggy pants, Smiths t-shirts, and my kick ass ring. I take off the ring; throw it down into the tray with all the other crap.

Security grabs it, examines it like it is a steaming pile of crap, has this big pow wow with about 7 of them, all holding it with rubber gloves.

Finally, they grab my by the arm, and are like, “Is this your item?”

“Ya.”

“Well, we see you as being a security threat because this is shaped like a bomb, and because it says WAR IT OVER.” You can either throw this item away or leave the airport.”

WHAT THE FUCK!?!?!? A PEACEFUL MESSAGE is viewed as a SECURITY THREAT!?!?!?

I ended up having to re-pack all of the shit I had taken out of my over-stuffed back pack, cardio blasted to the opposite end of the airport, checked the ring into some over priced storage place, praying that they didn’t throw the “threat” away. I was in SHOCK.

When I finally got to the gate, I was told that the carrot of the free flight was a total hoax- I was indeed going to have to take my middle seat- AWESOME!

I literally have one friend, yes, ONE friend who totally stands in my mind as THAT person who totally KNEW ME totally genuinely as a kid, like met me when I was 13, before I was ANYTHING but ME. I will forever and forever love him for reals, even if this love is a totally based on a weird twisted amalgamation of memories that have been totally soaked with nostalgia, booze and years of delusion. I hope that everyone has one friend at least like this- someone that totally knew them before the years of life, reality, mortgage and adulthood may have twisted them away from what was possible in life.

I have not talked to him in years, we just started e-mailing recently again. His e-mails make me so happy because they are true and no bull shit, and I cannot get away with anything.

As I sandwiched into my seat, an unfamiliar number appeared on my cell. It was S. We talked for a bit, and I knew it was my last call before take off. I started crying, since it was so perfect that I talked to him of all people. It was like the end of one chapter of my life, and the beginning of a totally new one, and he is a constant, for literally decades, at least in my mind, of a real person. He said he was going to hang up on me if I did not stop crying. I love being in total control all the time, of planning. Sitting there, in seat A45, I just let go.

Upon landing, the immigration lady insisted on looking through my entire backpack. She said it looked like I was planning on staying for a “very long time.” I asked her if she knew any hot single British lads she could set me up with- marrying a countryman is the only way I could stay a long ass time. Not even a crack of a smile. She even read my fucking journal. After finishing a passage, she said that her son played bass, could I hook him up? BITCH! Finally, after EVERYONE else had got through, she let me into the UK.

When I saw Alfie, my cousin, at the end of the long ass runway, I RAN towards her, letting my 200+ pound luggage cart go, where it almost careened into an old lady. While most people had flowers, Alf waved a packet of Prawn cocktail crisps. They are tits. Aloha, England.

World's Most Brilliant Food (except for Hob Knobs, see below)

I do not understand why the UK has not surpassed the US as the fattest nation, since they have THE tastiest junk food.

1000 Rainy Days

2008-09-12T12:07:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning, I lay in my bed, listening to all of the sounds of my street. The bus, calling out the route from the automated loud speaker. The kids getting off the bus, shouting back and forth at each other. The recycle center across the boulevard, with the loud, crashing glass bottles. Whistling traffic outside out front window. Our neighbors six year old running up and down the hall stairs.

I usually never hear any of these sounds. They blend into silence of the day, of the rhymthm of San Francisco, material of city life.

But that morning, I picked out each note. I could hear my blood rushing around my body. I felt the intake of my breath.

I do not remember the last time I did any of that.

Usually I am up, running, running, running. How much coffee can I drink, how many calls can I get in, how many e-mails can I send from my iphone before I hit the car, before I get to the office?

The stillness was all around me.

I remember the last time I was in Hitchin, at my cousins home. When I first got there. Listening to the sounds of their street.

Of kids walking by, talking in the accents that I found so exotic.

After being there for two weeks, though, the musical sounds faded in to common. And I did not hear them anymore. It blended into silence, just as the bus outside my front windows in San Francisco.

I always go to the UK with a huge agenda. Becky, my cousins girlfriend who I stay with, who I worship and look up to hugely, always checks out my list of meetings, interviews, people to go see and places to be, pulls out her map of England, and says, "This is enough for six months." I dash around, one place to another, the UK version of my San Francisco routine. How many people can I squeeze into one day, how many meetings can I do in London on one tube ticket, how many hours of jetlag can I outwit? I am always ashamed at how exhausted I am.

I was telling Vanessa, my college roommate, about how I remmeber so clearly biking to my first apartment after the dorms. I had a total moment of clarity, of freak out. I had just accepted, with out question, that this was life. But then it hit me- I was going to a place where I paid my own bills, I bought my own food, I could bring who ever I wanted over whenever I wanted. Utter freedom. I was so excited and so scared. I could eat Pop Tarts AND Pringles, two foods Lee and Diane Otter NEVER allowed into our childhood home.

I look at all the things in my life, and my friends, that we just accept as "normal," as "growing up," without really questioning, with out celebrating, with out going "HOLY SHIT! I am scared to death!" or "I am so disappointed that I never sailed around the world!" or "IS this the best relationship ever? SHOULD I keep looking for someone else? OR AM I BEING A JACKASS?"

Someone that I nostalically love and adore once told me the song "Everything She Does Is Magic" reminded him of me. We were like 14. It's kind of like the equilvanat now, in my mid thirties, of someone saying "Your Love" by Cutting Crew is "our song." But this nugget, whenever I hear that song, makes me smile. That some young kid once thought that.

So as I woke up this morning, I thought, WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE. WHAT THE FUCK AM I GOING TO DO.

But then I thought of all the "1000 Rainy Days" since I was riding my bike home to my first apartment, all of the love, support and inspiration I have drawn from so many wonderful people, and I knew that this will be a great adventure. Fuck you, fear. I look you in the eyes, and I throw up my middle finger. I am Jennifer Otter, from Santa Cruz, CA, and I can do anything.

testing, 1, 2, 3.....

2008-09-10T15:43:00.000-07:00

I am a total retard on the computer, video, etc. So it is a hilarity extravaganza that I am making a movie and an aspiring writer. I also have the best friends in the universe, who are all funnier than I am. The other day, we were talking about circumcision (my spelling is for shite, since the advent of spellcheck). To hide her identity, a certain "L" is the only one who had been with an uncut gent, and she was too scared to look down and see the goods. I will have to going, kind folks, where none of my friends have gone before. Every time I go to the UK, I am entangled in some manner. Here are two videos of me trying to get "L" and then Leslie to document on-camera their portrayal of sex with the full monty.

"L" is hilarious-o...She is almost as penis-phobic as I am. I am always like "JUST GET IT IN THERE!" I dont want to see it!

The other day, Leslie was doing her comedy sketch. One part had people yelling out words for vagina. I am totally not uncomfortable talking about sex, or sexuality. Les was like, "What do YOU call YOUR vagina?" I was like, Um, I dont call IT anything...same with the male genitalia. I dont scream out "YES, THE DICK! Oh, give me the COCK! SWEET PENIS!" In fact, I DESPISE those dudes who think they can BUST into the "dirty talk" well before the relationship has gotten to "dirty talk time." I was telling "L" about this. I was also telling her about the high percentage of dudes who I have hooked up with lately who are into spanking...without permission, and EARLY on in the "relations," may I add! She, of course, thought this was very funny. Oh, my dear L, it is a cold cold world! She thinks there was some "Spanker 0" out there who started the whole thing. I love her.

My cousin is trying to get me to go into the porn business with him, he sees this as the motor to move all of my artistic ideas of documentaries and books. I of course, am still a nerd artist, and already am fantasizing about having the people having sex in the library, which I never could get anyone I dated EVER to do with me. Sigh.

Here is Leslie's Taqueria hand show of sex with the uncut.

Less than 48 hours!!!!

2008-09-10T14:55:00.000-07:00

Today I went and saw my dentist. She is like no other dentist. I actually LOVE her. I am obsessed with flossing my teeth. Because of this, we have an especially good relationship. My dentist is totally hot. I want to be as hot as her. I send all my guy friends to her, gay and straight, so they can have enjoy their time in the chair as well. The gays totally adore her because she is so fabulous, the straights just ogle her because she is fine. I forgot to mention, she is in her mid to late 50s. She revealed to me today that she just divorced her second husband because he was abusing her. My dentist, who is this dazzling, powerful, amazing lady! I could not believe it! But then I could- me, the queen of fucked up relationships. Everyone always says to me, whenever ANOTHER massive shit storm hits me, Girl, if ANYONE can weather the storm, it is YOU. Thanks, people. Well, it totally reminded me of Dr. M. So she just moved from Pacific Whites, the richy area of SF where the fools literally throw money around on the bed and roll around on it, to one of my fave 'hoods, Dog Patch, like the only "real" SF joint left. YOU GO GIRL. She started crying as she was looking at my mouth (I know, I bring tears to a grown woman, my teeth are that fab). She went on about how proud she was of me, and how I am just taking life my the scruff of the neck. I AM GOING TO MOTHER FUCKING ENGLAND! I can not believe it. I have zero plans for the future, NO idea what I am doing. THAT IS SO NOT LIKE ME. Usually I am planning, planning PLANNING. HAVE YOUR GOALS, JENNY OTTER! But today my goal is to just get through this minute. Breath. Who am I?