I swear this must happen only once in a blue moon, so to speak. My favourite colour has ALWAYS been blue. I even chose my University for it's chromatic identity among other things. But then I saw a pair of lime green loafers in the SoHo flagship store that shall remain nameless (they don't even put the name on the door anyway) and I couldn't afford them, so they are just illustrative anyway. But there is something astounding about the colour green, specifically lime green. I've always liked citrus A LOT, so unless you like drinking blue Curaçao, you can't really enjoy the taste with your favourite colour there. So today when I was having a moment buying a diet coke, the fact that some douche had STOLEN my lighter from the King's Arms in Oxford, which was a REALLY good use of £1.50, I had to buy another lighter. The selection was the usual 99cent bic variety, so it might as well have been arbitrary, but my hand was drawn (some may have noticed that ALL hand involving actions for smokers are passive, and the smoker has no control over what he does) to a lighter of an amazing green colour. It's lime green transparent. Oh wait, I should mention I had watched at South Park Christmas special the night before in a Westchester motel room, and a visit to Canada was modeled after The Wizard of Oz. The Parliament was modeled on the Emerald City, which I must own is probably a REALLY cool place to hang out. But I still haven't figured out what to make of my shift in favourite colour. I have a feeling it means a lot. I hope it signifies a recognition of being young and capable for a short, albeit meaningful length of time in one's life. For someone who thinks they live in a semiotic universe, colour is incredibly important, so it bothers me that blue is no longer as cool (in the chromatic sense) as it had once been. Don't critics always say that blue is sposed to be relaxing? And green is so lively! (BTW the Dartmouth variety is never being considered. That's not lively at all)

It's as Simple as That

This wasn't meant to be 'entertainment' just so you know.

Killer Writing

Jessica Fletcher is AMAZING. After Golden Girls, Murder She Wrote has got to have been the best TV Show ever made. Or maybe I have a granny fetish. Anyway, I first watched this amazing show growing up in Italy, where it still plays and is simply called "Jessica Fletcher" and ever since, this crime solving woman never ceases to impress me with her ability to simultaneously shmooze AND solve murders. For instance today (I watched 3 episodes on A&E), and in the more noteworthy one, Jessica left Cabot Cove to go to LA (her first visit) to sort out a movie director who was adapting her bestseller "The Corpse Danced at Midnight" (which incidentally, is another great episode in the show). Well. Fast forward, obviously the director is murdered on, where else but the studio's graveyard set. And she just HAPPENS to be there with her flashlight, finds and identifies all the button and cigarette butts in the vicinity and then exposes the murderer. The peak of the show's dramatic flair was when she was raising a toast to 'all my newfound friends (the cast of the movie, that had all become her BFFs since she had excuplated them from having killed anyone, of course!). Like how does anyone DO that? Go to LA, not know anyone, but solve a murder and then befriend a fleet of Hollywood actors and then go home to Maine to write a book about it? AMAZING. The best part was when, after her toast. she said to screenwriter eyeing the Champagne (no wait - it's California - must have been sparkling Chardonnay), of whom we had learned earlier in the show, was a recovering alcoholic:
"Maybe you'd prefer a diet cola?" Can SHE run for president?

Meine Damen und Herren,

I have very mixed feeling about fur and fur farms. Actaully since I'd never wear fur ever for any reason, I could take a position of being against it. On the other hand, I have been informing myself lately, since I saw a sign for CEASE, a Massachusetts animal rights organisation. So I checked out their website, and to be fair I'm not convinced. For example: the picture of the squirrel is VERY sad. and it obviously had an AWFUL death. On the other hand, it's not good ammo for this organisation, cause who the hell wears squirrel? I just think animal rights can get out of control like that. Like beating a baby white seal over the head with a club, then leaving it cause it's too small? That's just awful. But then again, remember when Dorothy Zbornak moved out of the house, and the Golden Girls became "The Golden Palace" and was completely dedicated to animal rights? That was the downfall of the best show in television history. You know all those people are STILL alive, and could have been making great shows still. Whatever. Let's mourn this Squirrel, but to be fair, he looks kind of staged.

I am beginning to think that all in the world is response to a question. Everything, everything, everything IS a response to some sort of question, or expectation, I suppose is what I mean, proposed by whatever sensibility to which whatever THING is responding. Right? Ok but this all falls apart when we ask ourselves, or try to imagine, "what was the first question?" We cannot avoid, in discourse such as this, slipping into describing investigating interrogatives to investigate interrogatives. We shouldn't do that, but when the question is, "what was/(is?) the question that all in the world is trying to answer," well since we don't really know, uncertainty breeds faster than Cochons d'Inde. Maybe I should have been clearer. This was all raised by my observations of that certain art form that isn't ever thought of as one: subway station decor. Like for instance Trafalgar Square. Even if it's not your stop, you know where you are when the train stops, and exactly what you're right under. There are graphics lasered on to the wall of some of the more iconic things in the National Gallery. You get the picture, so to speak...but what strikes the passenger is this subterranean geography, that is not visibly at all related to the City above, is relying on, and playing with our expectations of what Trafalgar Square means. So the brown and white Holbeins lasered on the wall are the response to what we ask whene we look out the train window. Take also Kenmore Square on Boston's oh so grunjy Green Line. The artwork, which if not amazing, becomes certainly endearing after a few rides, tells us, "yes" when we remember our impressions of Kenmore Square. I'm not sure. It's very exciting when we wonder that the world might have started with one AMAZING question, that all in the world is still trying to answer, no?

Pence and Sensibility or Why I'll never be an Investment Banker

Ok. I take it all back completely. This country is not any less expensive than England, but then why do we like to label it as being so expensive at the moment? In general, expensive things seem to be expensive by virtue of the fact that they ARE expensive things, but for this model, expensive things generally cost the same everywhere right? Uggh...I don't think I have the time or dignity to discuss this in full, but I get the impression that we label Britain = London as being so expensive becuase what's cool or in over there never comes at a bargain. It has to do with an entirely different sensibility for what is what right? For instance, in contrast to Boston, which is a huge University town too, Oxford doesn't have the proliferation of huge and very cool second hand emporia that sell things for like 2 dollars. This in Oxford would be incredibly cool in many ways, especially for my grocery bill. But on the other hand, that would dramatically change the face of Oxford. Right? I mean they have 'Charity Shops' but it's all stuff that should be DONATED to charity, not sold for it's profit. This cannot be said of the Boston set, wherein you can usually find something really decent, and cool because it's obviously second hand everyone know's that's what you were going for. Another thing is this unifying theme of groceries. Well, it IS the way we go through daily life no? Ok so I was eating a head of Boston lettuce tonight, and I looked at the $1.79 label. And said a few wtfs to myself. Round lettuce, which is Boston lettuce's hydroponic pseudonym in England costs 34p! Shut the fuck up Touré, who on VH1 bitched about the 2 to 1 exchange rate recently. Put that on your playlist.

In other news. I have resolved not to attend, as a rule, plays, of which the casts are over fifty percent recorded as "townspeople." Long story involving a lot of inappropriate laughing at a school play which wasn't sposed to be funny at all. And since when did Salem Witches wear fake tan. Ugggh...

Appell an die Vernunft

Dear Boston Public Library,

Will you help me please? Help me sort my life slash work out? That would be very sweet of you. May I compliment you on your Sargent murals and extensive collection of audiobooks? In any case, I hope to see you soon.

Very best,
Me

Paper or Plastic?

I am the most disorganised person since the invention of disorganisation. I went to the Stop and Shop this afternoon for some octopus lettuce (very yum) and some shoe polish. It was both depressing to FIND Le Petit Ecoliers in the cookie aisle sleeping next to Chips Ahoys (sp?) but at the same it reminded me of how my disorganisation has led to some recent grocerial fuck ups:

- HP Sauce. I don't think you can get it here and it's SO good on ANYTHING. And I MEANT to buy LOTS of it in Oxford and bring it back to enlighten people Stateside with it.
- Lemon Curd?!! Is that even what it's called? I always see it in the aisle at Sainsbury's cause it's above the Rose's lime juice of Gimlets' fame and it's always been one of those things that I can't afford or would want to buy in term but would like to bring back at the end of term because it's so quaint.

One thing about England that ISN'T quaint is my workload. This vac I MUST work so I don't spend all next term wishing I had just done all the reading when I had had the time in the previous vacation.

In other news, this Croation red gets points for trying but still an F. For eFFort. What am I talking about? - It's not that bad at all, what is bad is getting to the point where you don't want to offend your wine. My magic 8 ball, in regards to the advent of a certain Thai fried noodle dish says it's sources point to yes. Hopefully sometime soon.

Letter from America

Ok so brief recap: So EVERYONE knows the Abbey Road album cover. Therefore, whenever I cross that famous thoroughfare of northwest London, I'd want the experience to be fittingly iconic. Unfortunately, crossing in the rain, with two suitcases veering towards my 64 kg Warsaw convention weight allowance, a laptop and carryon (plus, the new GQ London ads like another pound) just doesn't always help you out. Also, unlike the Beatles, I don't have that gait that comes along with a million pound record contract, so when the wheel of my suitcase that I had broken in the Munich red light district this summer hit a rock, leaning over in the middle of traffic to retrieve my pillow from a slimy puddle was also not so glamourous. The tube journey is pretty easy though, if you dodge the ASL 'moms' pushing strollers veiled in fleece. There was ONE funny episode when I changed at Green Park station and this Vietnamese woman obviously thought she was Gwyneth Paltrow in Sliding Doors cause when the train pulled off before she could get one, she started to bitch (I think) about how her life was so much worse that she didn't catch her train. And it's so nice to know that American Airlines is aiming as high as it flies: exhibit A: Microwave Pizza????????! Exhibit B: $5 for California WINE??!! Exhibits C, D, E and F: Elf, Everybody loves Raymond (not funny at any altitude), Without a Paddle (hadn't heard of it either...) and a biopic about Ashlee Simpson's SNL fuckup. Thanks to Miss Marple and her Carribean Mystery, which I willingly watched three times, getting to Boston was bearable. But the 27 degrees wasnt. More to come...

You Probably Think I'm an Alcoholic at this Point...

Oh - And how inconsiderate? How could I leave the best isle of beauty with out one last, symbolic though heartfelt shout out to my best belgian friend Stella. Oh how I'll miss you. I mean the wine, is fine and dimensions more sublime when I need it, but Stella you're always there for me when cold and refreshing are the day's magic words. Fuck the American drinking laws. But then again, I wouldn't want to subject you to some sleazy bar in Boston anyways. Promise you'll be here waiting when I get off the plane in January?

love,
me

Il Bicchiere Svuotato, La Sigaretta Spenta

Whatever your outlook, as soon as the bottle is empty, there is nothing left to debate about the fullness of the glass. Term is over and despite all this finality that surrounds me, packing has reached no arguable level or completion. There's no such thing as being 'half packed,' especially when I'm officially squatting this room, since I was sposed to have moved out at some point yesterday. Nevertheless, I've done my best to squeeze the last few drops out of MT 04 and they've been OK. Tonight's selection was of the New Zealandese variety (Oddbins was closed). Not dry enough, and for better or for worse, mild enough not too lead any extreme impression one way or the other. Unrelatedly, I'd illustrate one of the subtleties between Oxford and London that most guide books will overlook: Say you call one of those cherished numbers in your phone in London and say: Hey, Raj it's So-and-So, I'm a friend of So-and-So's, are you working tonight? - About one taxi ride and £20 later you're all set and rearing to go for a sensorily enhanced night on the town. However, the "Hey, are you working tonight" line, in Oxford is taken more literally, and usually follows a "yeah mate, my extended essay's due the first of eighth week, how about you." Awkward conversations full of botanic inuendo are likely to ensue till the person gets a clue why you are calling. I think it's a worthwhile tale of the two cities. I don't know how useful, but useful nonetheless.

Vacuum bags are DEFINITELY the way to go. All you need to find is a Vacuum, but then Voila! What had been fields of cashmere and poplin and crumples of denim and anything else you need to pack, is, in a matter of seconds rendered to something that resembles the Appalachian chain, albeit it looks REALLY uncomfortable for the shirts. And what the hell am I going to do with/to my plants at this point?! Leave them in my room? I think I'm actually going to stick them in the college garden in the main quad, pretty concealed among things that are actually GROWING, so that they might enjoy salaried watering. I've failed them so it's the least I can do. Tomorrow = Christmas shopping. Tomorrow = feeling depressed that I can't afford anything in London anymore. Tomorrow = the joy of finding out what tomorrow equals.

Vivat Bacchus

So sad. I hate the kind of sad that comes out of extreme happiness. I just had my last tutuorial, so I am officially done with the term. Oxford becomes especially serene at times like these. When you don't have to worry about work and it's all there to enjoy. But of course then you have to leave. Three cheers to the folks at Chateau Haut Lignan who have supplied my celebratory bottle of Claret. It's nice. Not fruity and very dry. 2003 - not that you had to drink Bordeaux to already know this, was an absolutely great year. In principle I'm all for drinking wine young. Especially since the guy at Oddbins just told me the 2003s have a nice dry crispness that goes away after year for a while. But it's nice to think of drinking wine young. Like memories, the further back you reach the sadder you get. Oh and these Chinese white pears from the farmer's markey are especially juicy.

In other news, I found my iPod and absence DOES make the heart grow fonder. But on the other hand, trashy techno music also makes the earphones fuzzy. I'm looking forward to an Orange Julius if I have to buy another pair. Whatever. My Bonsai tree is dead. Though I'm not mourning it. It sucked from the beginning. You can't blame it though, though the website should have mentioned the mortality rate of such creatures in countries that have NO sunlight ever. The theme for the rest of the day is catharsis. I will be throwing away all the crap that I was too sentimental about earlier on when I didn't have having to move out looming in the very very near future. Maybe I really can pull this Shaker thing off...

In Memoriam

It's so sad. I went to Coop, where after eleven pm they put all the things nobody ever buys on sale. I have no problem with no one buying the groty liver, so they mark it down to like 5p. BUT and this was unbelievably sad: there was this little trout - wait let's capitalize him: There was this little Trout, who no one bought. He was individually wrapped and originally like £2.09 or something, who cares, but since no one bought him, he was marked down to 20p!!! I am positive they threw him away that night, packaging and all. Can you imagine if he KNEW that he was born to be caught, killed, packaged and MARKED DOWN, before being thrown away? Well, at least now he's famous.

My Amazing Conversion

Simplicity. That's right. It's the new black I heard. I mean why NOT become a Shaker? Shaker's don't deal with the shit most of us deal with: the rankness of old, overflowing ash trays (to the point where you can't read the name of the Parisian restaurant from whence 'twas pinced), they don't deal with crap under their beds that accumulates over the length of term. Shakers, if they indulge in the occasional diet Coke, they probably make some swift and deliberate action to throw it away, or make the can into something else, BEFORE it is joined by a family of like creatures over the course of a week. Shaker's don't have very many clothes, cause the white linen bonnet/overalls look just never get old, and they get enough excersise going down to the river to wash them, so that they don't have to hate themselves for not going to the gym. For Shakers, every thing, from sweeping to carving chairs and making ladders has gotta be as simple as it is exquisite, so I have to say I'm hooked. But the question is do they have any fun. The very idea of having to dismantle and pack up my entire court here into a few plastic receptacles from Boswells, and put it all in the damp caverns beneath my college for the next six weeks is uh...daunting? Fuck. And what about the shoes? The count is now 11 pairs here, none of which I really want to subject to neither the dampness of the Somerville underworld, nor the Boston salt that has cut down so many in their prime. What to do? If I were a Shaker, I wouldn't have to deal with all this crap, and could glide into duty free at Heathrow in four days for some leisurely pre-flight shopping. Then again, if I were a Shaker, I wouldn't have my wallet, or want to buy anything. Unless Pink does anything that looks good next to a pitchfork. I really do love flying out of Heathrow though. There's that one rasty pub that does like pints for three quid, but it's just worth the experience of going there cause you can smoke and meet other people going other places. It's like an anomalous (sp? (is that even a word?)) place in space that shouldn't technically exist, and the people who meet - well there conversations shouldn't even ever have happened. Cause airports aren't real places. Fuck. That's deep. Nobody steal that. I'm so much better than Calvino. I have to go.

Wine

OMG. Why do I CHOOSE to be DIZZY? South African bad wine. At £3 pounds a pop it's so fucking bad. I haven't slept in SO long...I am very excited to go to bed. No more coffee. No more cigarettes. It's so bad. I hate it. I hate my dependencies. Ugggh...It's time to go to bed. America in 3 day. Yes. America = Pad Thai. So good and so soon.

Meaning

I'm pretty dreary at this point. But I think this is apropos:

Schläft ein Lied in allen Dingen
Die da träumem fort und fort
Und die Welt hebt an zu singen
Triffst du nur das Zauberwort. (Eichendorff, 1835)

I really think you can find meaning in even the things that seem the most tedious and prosaic. For instance, this morning - there really IS a reward in a disgustingly procrastinative all nighter. Besides finishing the essay, Magdalen Street Sainsbury's - the taste of two (one of which will be regretted) all butter croissants that are STILL WARM, and enjoying them at a time when you'd otherwise still be in bed. And the feeling when you finally finish the essay. The next song that comes on your computer just sounds better. The next cigarette tastes just a little bit sweeter, and the feeling of climbing into bed for the rest of the day. I think I work best when on all nighters. Besides the incentive from the fact that I've left an essay I had two weeks to do, till 3 am the day it's due, isn't there something to be said for what you learn about how you use time when you really need to? That probably sounds like period, cause I need to go sleep like RIGHT NOW (11 am) but at least I'll remember enjoying the experience.

It's December?!!

Little Clarendon Street looked like the great flood today. I think a water main broke, so there were a lot of people in North Oxford this afternoon, testing the endurance of their driving shoes. Other than that, it's getting fucking cold here - and very very expensive. On www.xe.com it's crushing to see that the exchange rate is virtually 2 to 1 now. My back hurts like a mofo and I went to the doctor today - my first (and last, methinks) runin with the NHS. When I told her that I had almost fallen over in a fit of puking in Wellington Square this morning, and that the only time my back doesn't give me unbelievably huge and unfair amounts of pain, is when I'm in the bath - her recommendation was 'have some lemonade [read: soda] and some paracetomol [read: really low grade tylenol]. My thoughts were more along the lines of why did I waste part of my day coming to see you at all...I could have followed her prescription with 50p, a soda machine and about three seconds. I guess med school must be much more about socializing or something else than they let on. But wtf??? I'm fucking twenty and just BARELY twenty and I have back pain? The best remedy so far has been tying my SPS red sweat pants around my middle in a kind of homestyle triage. It looks unbelievably stupid but it is dulling the pain. America in...5 days...Essay in?...9 hours. Fuck.