Gin and Tea (but not at the same time)

The comparison

2010-03-20T00:57:00.003Z

In New York:

Fine Cocktails
Travelling many miles without thinking about it
Silver trains
Enormous opportunity
Almost unfathomable anonymity
Slightly warm tap water
Extremes of temperature
Being six inches above the ground
Wood floors
Mastiffs

In London
Quiet
Peace indicated by my actions
Cupboards of booze
Vintage kitchens, old toilets.
Ancient things
Carpet
Wooden Windows
Toberlone

Rhino Hide and the US Election

2008-11-05T21:36:00.004Z

The best blogging is like the sushi of the web – compact, neat, easily digestible and not to everyone’s taste! The worst blogging is the pitiful navel gazing and self-referential rubbish that makes up most of the blogosphere. Bad writing makes me want to scoop out my eyeballs with a broken plastic spoon. Some people are as suited to writing as rhinoceroses are to playing the piccolo.

The musically inclined amongst you will be pleased to know that I purchased my piccolo a few weeks ago, and am still trying to get the notes right –but my horn gets in the way.

Last night I watched the election with a large group of friends. I still am not quite able to believe that America actually did the right thing and elected Senator Obama. It's a fabulous revelation; and from my point of view most unexpected. A lot of people remarked last night that this was the first time they felt engaged with politcs and that Senator Obama (now President-elect) could do great things.

I'm reminded of the elation across the UK upon the election of Tony Blair after the hideous Conservative government in the 1980s. I only hope Mr Obama repeats the successes of Mr Blair and avoids the pitfalls he encountered.

Musically bereft

2008-08-10T00:50:00.001Z

Blogging. Why do we do it? I started two years ago and, lets be frank, it's got the better of me. Not that I neglect my blog, just that I don't share all of the profundity with it that perhaps I should; And so, to sate the gentle nagging at the back of my mind like an irritated girlfriend dragged against her will into a Computer Games shop, Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to pour you another dose of Gin and Tea (but not at the same time).

With my musical senses somewhat dulled by the recent closure of Fopp (and no planned visits to Mondo Kims for a while) I have felt at a bit of a musical loose end. The ever fruitful soma.fm does its best to keep me abreast of the American Indie Scene, the fabulous Elise Nordling pouring her heart and soul into bringing the very best new sounds to the ears of Netziens through her station Indie Pop Rocks. Soma fm aside, my recent discoveries have been somewhat disappointing - the new Fourtet, Hotchip and Erland Oye have been satisfactory, but failed to really thrill me, and the new Mates of State and Velvetier albums also pulled up somewhat short.

I find myself increasingly turning to the American indie scene as for the first time since Grunge I am finding them to be more innovative and interesting to listen to than English bands. The current post-Libertines crop of Indie bands fails to do it for me, and there are only so many Arctic Monkeys clones a man can endure. Full marks to the Americans and their excellent output at the moment.

What's cooking your musical book right now? Your musical comments and suggestions will be warmly entertained in the comments field below.

It's the end of the world as we know it?

2008-06-18T21:56:00.001Z

In the late, balmy spring of 1994 I went to see The Godfather of Soul - the magnificent James Brown at London's venerable Brixton Academy.

James was "on" that night – the audience felt the air pulsating with his trademark yelps, his hollering and whooping. We fixated upon the great sparkling blue brilliantine sequin-covered banshee, skidding and thrashing, stabbing, spitting and waxing his way through his gritty brand of elastic, energetic and raucous classic funk; Leaping, kicking - spinning on the spot, great globs of sweat dripping from his head, lubricating his lightning passage across the stage. The Sex Machine himself demonstrated the art of the showman in its most pure (and utterly enthralling) form.

Brixton Academy is an ageing concert call from the early 20th century in a depressed and self consciously shabby part of South London. With a capacity of around 4000 the Academy is a favorite amongst local and international bands on UK tours. Its black painted floors are sticky with booze spilled in mid-gig ecstacy by generations of gig-goers. The curious stage surround (for a long time painted a delicate shade of salmon pink) is dotted with alcoves and white statues with cracking and peeling paint. But that night no amount of cracking paint could have distracted band nor audience - JB had assembled a finely rehearsed group - tighter than David Lee Roth's spandex trousers, trilling and crashing through their numbers, creating the kind of rare electricity at a gig that you don't witness very often in life. A man in front of me was rolling joints and handing them out amongst members of the audience, whiskey was £2 a shot in a plastic cup. No matter if you sat, stood or danced you could not help but think you were witnessing a master, dedicated to his craft at the top of his game.

Last Saturday I went to see REM play at the Jones Beach Theatre in Long Island, New York and that James Brown gig was immediately called to mind – but for all the wrong reasons.

Gig-goers have long been exposed to restrictions. Contraband forbidden from venues all around the world includes “professional” Cameras, Video & Tape Recorders. “No Glass Bottles” is common sense – no complaints there. These restrictions are inconvenient but mostly reasonable, and the ticket stub informed us well in advance.

Outside Jones Beach theatre however, we saw signs proclaiming further restrictions – No smoking (this is an outdoor venue!) and at the request of the band “No water” – No Water? No. None. Not even in a factory sealed plastic bottle. (We later discovered that the water fountains inside the venue had been disconnected). “Buy our Five Dollar Water, bitches!” one of my friends acidly remarked. REM apparently wants you to pay up or go thirsty.

Once inside the venue however I was struck quite dumb. Not only was there no alcohol for sale anywhere, but in place of the bars and areas that concert go-ers would normally congregate, laugh and chatter there were anodyne “lounges” sponsored by corporations. Garish plastic rugs emblazoned with logos and seating sponsored by Washington Mutual Bank, Pepsi and the like spotting the venue.

This did not feel like a gig. It felt like a bizarre trade show. Wait a moment; I paid to be here?

Mobile phone companies hawked plastic versions of their latest products under glass; Nikon’s offering was the most absurd - A bright yellow fake “stage” upon which members of the public were invited to pose with a few battered instruments and have their photograph taken by a bored Nikon rep– in a feeble ruse to link the brand with the music –( O the irony - this at a venue expressly forbidding many of the kinds of cameras that Nikon sell).

Polished, impossibly clean Cadillac demonstration cars sat on red carpets, with besuited salespeople onhand, no doubt to highlight the various features of the satellite navigation system and reclining heated headrest water bottle holder seatbelts.

The concept of going to an REM gig and coming home having purchased a car is quite perverse, utterly contrary to the spirit of rock and roll.

I have trained myself to avoid advertising wherever possible in the media that I consume. Offline, online, on television and elsewhere I’ve become adept at mentally erasing the messages that are broadcasted to me – when advertising becomes really offensive is when it replaces what was formerly there – in this case the bars and happy crowds of gig-goers discussing the music, standing around with a beer and nodding their heads in anticipation or appreciation of a great gig.

The live experience was mutilated and neutered at Jones Beach.

Long live Rock and Roll.

It's Raining Wine!

2008-05-09T19:00:00.003Z

I rather like wine. This (probably) will not come as much of a surprise to you. So much so that the normal kitchen-sixed rack of 30 or so bottles that I keep just isn't enough. My overflow consists of several wooden racks placed on top of the wardrobes in my bedroom. The wardrobes are about 8ft high, and there's two layers of wine bottles on top.

When I woke up this morning I noticed, through my groggy eyes, a wine bottle on the floor. "Ha!" I thought - I must have brought it to bed. Except that the cork had not been pulled and the foil cap was still on the bottle. My sleep addled brain began to work. I looked up.

The bottle (a 1994 Chateau Brun Grand Bordeaux) had somehow dislodged itself from the rack and fallen about 9ft onto the bedroom floor, landed, NECK FIRST and dented the wood laminate flooring. I now have a bright red dent in my floor (from the paint on the metal neck cover) and one VERY lucky bottle of wine!

Led Zeppelin at the Dome

2007-12-10T23:42:00.000Z

The Atlantic Records Ahmet Ertegun tribute gig for charity was held at the O2 Dome tonight. Ertegun died this year and his widow asked the surviving members of Led Zeppelin (whom Ertegun signed) to reform and play a benefit in his honour - the world was shocked when they agreed, and the gig was duly arranged for November. Unfortunately the guitarist, Jimmy Page, fractured his finger, thus postponing the gig for a couple of weeks. Tonight, in front of approximately 80,000 people, Led Zep duly played for the adoring masses.

In a sentimental moment of rock-fantasy lust I decided to traipse down to the dome and stand outside to listen to the band, nod my head and tap my foot and visualise what was going on inside the arena. I arrived at North Greenwich station at 9pm with my heart in my throat - perhaps they had set up a video wall outside the arena for the clamouring crowds of thousands of fans who had failed to get tickets, perhaps there would be a party atmosphere, redolent of the 1970s, perhaps I would even get in by the kind actions of some friendly security guard!

Something felt wrong as soon as I surfaced from the bowels of the Underground. Instead of being met by crowds of people milling about aimlessly, the station was eerily quiet. A few security guards, no police men. I quickly left the station and walked to the large run-off area where people gather before and after the show.

My heart sank when I saw the unused Jumbovision screen sitting outside the venue - a huge opportunity missed - not only that, but rounding the corner and seeing the dome proper - there were not the crowds of people I expected - the place was empty.

Walking into the Dome itself was when it hit me: the venue was soundproofed, blockaded, hermetically sealed!.

No sound was spilling out. Not kickdrum, not bass guitar, not Jimmy's riffs, not Robert's scream. Nothing.

This revelation took some time to sink in. I could hardly believe that I was standing less than 200ft from Led Zeppelin who, at that moment were (as far as I knew) playing their hearts out at at least 100db, -- Yet I could hear nothing. I left the venue and walked around the side to the artist entrance (nothing) then walked around to the opposite side of the venue to listen again (nothing). Are you getting the idea?

Sure, it was a gamble, and it didn't pay off. Instead of coming away being impressed by Jimmy's riffs (even from afar) I came away impressed by the engineering that managed to keep all that sound IN!

Eventually I gave up and made my way to the Underground station. As I was descending a straggly-hair wild eyed rocker in his 50s staggered up the stairs towards the Dome "woohoo!" he shouted "looks good!"

I couldn't have disagreed more.

A midnight visitor

2007-10-07T09:18:00.001Z

About two years ago I was waiting for a bus at the top of my road in the dusk, and saw a very large rat scurrying towards me. The size of the beast and its proximity to my house turned my stomach and gave me visions of vast colonies of the bastard things, burrowing underground and infesting the local neighbourhood.

Thankfully in the two years since that incident I've only seen one other (live) rat in the vicinity - but they still give me the screaming heebeejeebees. Last night I had that sinking feeling again, as at midnight I walked down my street after shooting a gig by The Vigours in south London.

From a distance of about 100 feet I saw something large shuffling along, silhouetted in the stark soduim yellow streetlamp outside my house. It was obviously curious - paying attention to the verges of the pavement where the gardens finish and the flagstones begin.

I stamped my feet to try to scare it away. It paid no attention.

I clicked my fingers and made "Ttscchhh!!" sounds to no avail.

Then it moved into the centre of the pavement - and I saw (with great relief) that it was not a rat at all, but something quite different. Can you guess what it was? A clue: much more friendly and useful!

Crossrail gains approval!

2007-10-05T18:48:00.001Z

Listening this morning to the radio, I gave a little whoop. I heard a news report that the UK government had announced they had approved a major transport programme for London: Crossrail. This is amazing news, as Crossrail had been mooted as long ago as when I was at university in the early 90s, and had been complete as a proposal for at least ten years. So, after the length of time that it has taken to approve it, I must say I am surprised to see it reach the green light. The impact that Crossrail will have on London cannot be underestimated; Quite a few of the readers of this blog are outside of the UK and many of you have never been to London – so I thought I’d take a moment to illuminate this project and its importance for London as a whole.

Crossrail basically links east and west London in a pretty daring way – cutting a swathe (PDF) through London – overground in the urban areas, deep underground the city in the central stretch.

It is a kind of Mega-Central line running east to west, linking urban Underground services and National Rail major hubs together and acting much like the kinds of services we see in New York and Paris, where express Subway services are the norm . This is good for businesses, the inhabitants of London and our massive tourism industry - keen to get across the city fast, and FINALLY links Heathrow in a meaningful way with the centre of London (the tube takes 90 minutes from the centre of London and the link into Paddington is exorbitant and not convenient enough for most Londoners due to Paddington’s location).

But where Crossrail is really important is that it is an equalizer – sure, it serves the rich in the City of London and Canary Wharf, but critically it expands deep into Essex, into the much poorer areas of the region. What could have been an elitist project, essentially linking the airport with the city to the east has been given an extra dose of sweetness by going beyond – literally – by providing much needed infrastructure links into depressed areas of Greater London like Ilford, Romford, and into Shenfield. It might take an entire generation for the effects of this link to be felt economically in these communities, but I can only foresee good things as a result of this greatly expanded access.

The project will be the largest construction project in Europe (eclipsing Terminal 5 and the Olympics) and is estimated to be open in ten years (although I predict it will take 15). The cost? £16 Billion at current rates (but you can bet that will double by its expected opening in around 2017 - if you think that sounds silly then consider the expected cost was £2.5bn as recently as 1999).

Don’t put off your visit to London in the meantime – come so you can compare London pre and post Crossrail!

Hideous journalism

2007-08-17T05:46:00.000Z

This beauty hardly need explaining. Just have a click and giggle. I found this article in a free paper I picked up in a Motel in Connecticut. I have underlined the alarming parts. See if you can spot any that I missed. Click for a bigger version. Bravo Earl Heath, whoever you are.

Spoon. Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga.

2007-07-31T14:41:00.000Z

Three weeks ago, my good friend Twist sent me a link to a record company website. The link was reasonable enough - a promotional website advertising the new album "Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga"by a band I'd not heard of: Spoon.

So, I duly click on the link and am presented with the usual quotes about the album, promotional tour information. Standard stuff. What was a little out of the ordinary was further down on the page were a series of buttons. Inscribed on each of the buttons was a song title (found on the album). Clicking on a button gave you the option to play the entire song. I had never heard of Spoon before, but because I had free and easy access to the music, I bookmarked the page and came back to it on several occasions.

So. When at my computer I could access an entire album. Whenver I liked. For free.

No restrictions (other than having to be at my computer... but this is not really a big issue).

I bought the album yesterday for a number of reasons: firstly, I enjoyed the music, but secondly because I was impressed by Spoon's approach to promoting their music. More bands should do this - I am certain that increased, unrestricted access to music would coerce me into buying more. And I can't be alone, surely!

What do you think?

Thriller. Filipino Prison Style.

2007-07-20T14:50:00.000Z

In my defense, I did set this blog up to relate interesting and possibly unique aspects of my life and experiences - and the next little tidbit that I have for you has nothing to do with me at all, other than the fact that I found it on the most amazing link aggregator - Reddit - which I visit daily for my "best of the web" links. This astonishing video was filmed in the Philippines at a correctional facility. My jaw was literally hanging open as I watched it....

My first television appearance

2007-07-20T11:53:00.000Z

I had a "Wow" moment yesterday. I was looking at my collection of videos on YouTube and wondering how I could augment them with new material I have created, helped to create or performed in - my mind was instantly taken back to 1984 when I lived in Chobham, Surrey. My parents were friendly with our next-door-but-one neighbours - Carol was a makeup artist and Nick was a television director who had worked with Thames TV. One day, Nick asked me to perform in The Sooty Show - as the son of the comic foil Rory Mcgrath (whilst dressed in a frogman's suit). The results are here: (you only have to watch the first 4 minutes....). Enjoy!

I was paid £25 in WH Smith vouchers. I bought a few games for my ZX Spectrum and a QuickShot II joystick.

Stupid. Part IX : Video Edition.

2007-07-06T02:09:00.000Z

Fopp is closing down

2007-07-02T11:07:00.001Z

Fopp, the newest large chain of (reasonably) independent record shops is closing down.
It appears that Fopp had serious cashflow problems after the purchase of the "Music Zone" stores. I suppose it is a a bit like an anaconda bursting after trying to eat a crocodile.

Everybody has to accept that the way we listen to, buy and store music is evolving as it has always done. We see single stores and chains close all the time - and for all other areas of retail I rarely bat an eyelid - but when your favorite record shop goes under - that really hurts.

As a dedicated fan of Fopp and a loyal purchaser of their goods for many years, this came as a big shock to me. I have visited the Fopp stores in London, Cardiff, Edinburgh, Glasgow and Sheffield and come away from each with wonderful things. Fopp introduced me to Boards of Canada (I bought their entire back catalogue at the Glasgow store). I bought my LCD Soundsystem there, fifteen Miles Davis albums, all my Jimmy Smith, my Doves collection, my unusual Brazil, Latin, Samba and loungecore collections all came from the upstairs gallery at the Cambridge Circus branch - Saturday afternoons were always fun times as a result.

As a 30th birthday present to myself I bought nearly 30 discs, but usually I would come away with between 8-20 in a single transaction. You see - whilst HMV and Virgin would sell reissue or back catalogue albums for as much as £16, Fopp had found a way to sell them for £7, £5 or even £3, and this generous underpricing of the back catalogues of selected artists made for compelling shopping.

Like millions of music afficionados, I grew up visiting record stores. As a fifteen year old I took pilgrimages to central London to visit the vast, flourescent caverns that were the West End Virgin Megastores and HMVs. The HMV had a formidable selection, but Tower Records in Piccadilly Circus always sucked - they geared their collections to chart-heads and tourists. I soon became disenchanted with these mainstream outlets and sought out better places to buy music. I could never get on with the second hand record exchanges in Notting Hill and Camden, and was disappointed with the Soho record stores and their snobby staff and high prices. I turned to the internet in 1997 (and made my first purchase from CD-WOW in 1997) but have always been turned off by the very disconnected feel - you can't REALLY browse a site in the same manner than you can flip through the racks at your local sound emporium.

Enter Fopp and its refreshing approach: Take discs and organize them thematically with "featured" sections, highlight special offers ("the £5 wall") and throw in more than a smattering of the obscure. Through this foraging or "digging" as DJs call it, I found albums I wouldn't have normally been exposed to there - in my hands, before me. Essentially, Fopp organized discs as the internet is trying to do now - in a "If you like this you might like this" sort of fashion. It felt organic. It felt good. The stores were mostly small and well organized and the staff cheerful. But most of all, I visited Fopp to fill in the albums in my collection I couldn't buy at college or earlier in my life, now reduced to £7, £5 or even £3.

With Fopp's entrance into receivership and the immediate closure of all of their stores, that is all gone now and I miss it terribly.

RIP FOPP.

Stupid. Part 9

2007-07-02T10:41:00.000Z

Summer 2001 and I am decorating my bedroom. It’s messy, icky stuff. I stuff my paint and plaster smeared trousers into the washing machine after a hard day of brushing and rollering. As I wash the brushes in the sink I hear a “clink, clink, tap, clink” and look down at the bowl of the washing machine to see that my mobile phone and my cordless landline are both frantically tapping on the glass as if trying to get out– having been tucked into the pocket of my trousers all day. I stop the machine and extract them both. A week later I return the (brand new) cordless phone to the BT shop where I had purchased it.

“It appears to have stopped working” I purr at the girl behind the counter.

“Oh don’t worry, Sir” she flutters her eyelashes at me, “This must be a faulty model; We’ve had a lot of these returned”.

Bingo. New phone.

You’d think I would learn, wouldn’t you? Summer 2002 and I run to the swimming pool with just my shorts and a T Shirt on. Hot and sweaty I quickly rinse myself off in the shower before diving into the cold, clear pool. As I surface and climb out of the pool to dive in again, I realize I have left my mobile phone in the pocket of my swimming shorts.

Another one bites the dust.

Stupid. Part Another

2007-07-02T10:11:00.001Z

Pole Perpendicular is one of the stupidest tricks known to man. Unfortunately like many cool things, it also looks exceedingly cool. My friend Andrew King is a pole-artist par-excellence, and you can see him performing this magic trick at the top of this article. Apologies for the quality.

My first foray into “poling” was an exercise in pain. Andrew and I had decided to try it out in New York City’s Union Square, on some scaffolding poles that had been erected in front of a Macdonalds Restaurant. With a few hundred people looking on, he demonstrated to me the art of “PP” and I duly tried to copy him.

Instead of resting my weight on the substantial bulk of my hip, however, I managed to rest it (through my arm and elbow) onto a single rib in my chest. Lifting myself up was no problem – but a single rib cannot support a man’s weight. I felt a “POP” and collapsed onto the ground. I had broken a rib, through idiocy. AGAIN.

You have a few days left

2007-06-22T09:12:00.001Z

Appeared on my computer the other day after a Windows install.

That's nearly 210,000 years. I think i'll leave it for now then.

Stupid. Addendum

2007-06-21T05:42:00.000Z

[06:39] benk uk: about six or seven years ago i was in the office
[06:39] benk uk: and i was using aol
[06:39] benk uk: i was chatting to fabio
[06:39] benk uk: and let out a great fart
[06:39] benk uk: "bloody hell, " I typed "that was *the most* disgusting fart - my insides must be churning"
[06:39] benk uk: "that's interesting" came the reply
[06:40] benk uk: I had clicked on Eleonora, (one of my staff) accidentally

Jazz Dispute

2007-06-20T18:15:00.000Z

This is a genius piece of two minutes and thirty seconds. Just WONDERFUL.

Colander Crisis

2007-06-15T09:27:00.001Z

They say that the kitchen and the bathroom are where most accidents happen in the home. I can sort of see. In 1994 I was a student at Middlesex University studying drama. One evening I had opened a bottle of red wine and was quickly preparing a bowl of pasta for myself and my housemates. I had recently been given my first colander and decided to use it to drain the pasta. However, the physics of the colander had not quite made themselves obvious to my addled brain. Holding the colander underneath (by the base) with my left hand and pouring the boiling saucepan of hot water and linguini with my right, I tipped the contents into the shiny steel strainer. Shrieking, I suddenly realized what the handles were for, as the steaming contents poured out of the pan, through the colander and onto my hand below. I can still remember the burns. Had I been naked this might have qualified me for the Darwin awards. Oh yes.

Stupid. Parts Five and Six

2007-06-14T14:08:00.000Z

What’s that smell?

A few years ago one summer afternoon, I treated myself to a big metal pot with a steamer on top – boil your potatoes below – steam the broccoli above – perfect. I cooked a fine meal, served tasty food to my guests and drank far too much wine, eventually collapsed into bed. I woke at about 5am to a rather strange smell. What *was* that metallic, rather “hot” odour? It smelled like a steel foundry had just opened its doors for business just down the road. My kitchen held the answer: I had left my steamer saucepan on the hob, gas on underneath, boiling dry for the past 6 hours. As I turned it off the metal began to contract and tick like the engine of a 1970s Volkswagen left out in the sun. Houseburndowntime.

Explosions in the Sky

This one is quadruply stupid as not only could I have killed myself but several other people in the process. Picture the scene: November. Guy Fawkes. Several impressionable young kids and one naughty loud mouthed older one – me. Fireworks and children are a hideous combination, but this was even worse. The pub next to my parent’s house had held a bonfire party with lots of the wood they had cut down from behind the carpark. The pyre had pretty much died down into an enormous pile of white ash with just some small embers in the middle. We found the remnants and expired casings of a few rockets and threw them on the fire hoping for "second life" fireworks and were sorely disappointed when all we got were blue flames and the odd crackle. Whilst kicking about one of the smaller boys had found an empty can of Silly String which he thrust into my hands “Look!” he said. In a flash I knew exactly what to do – place the empty can on the bonfire and see what would happen. I sort of knew that aerosols were dangerous (written on the side of the can in unmistakably large letters: “do no under any circumstances dispose of in fire”) but HEY I knew what I was doing – it was after all only a small aerosol can, wasn’t it?

I put the bent and crushed can on the dying fire and ushered the children back away from the ash, telling them to expect a bit of a bang – we retired about 40ft and crouched down. Nothing. The boys began to look despondent, it must be a dud. “OK”, I said, “I’ll just move it”, and stood up. BOOM! An ALMIGHTY explosion accompanied by a huge cloud of ash rose up from the ground in front of us, chunks of charcoal, embers and clods of fine white powder rained down upon us as we universally clutched our heads and cowered. That single episode should have taught me a lot about NOT being stupid in the future. Did it? Did it Buffalo.

Actors For Refugees

2007-06-09T06:02:00.000Z

Through my association with Christine Bacon, the Director of Actors for Refugees, I'll be directing the filming of the forthcoming show "Asylum Monologues" which is being performed simultaneously in 16 towns across the UK on June 21st. I'm excited as we have engaged film crews across the country to shoot footage for us which will then be edited into a short documentary about the day and the impact of the show. Those of you that are not familar with Actors For Refugees should check out their site and info about the show here. The pic for the poster is also one of mine - shot in Oxford in an enormous field full of cows in 2004. I'll post choice pics from the show (which in London will be at the National Portrait Gallery and the Young Vic theatre - on the same day!). Keep you posted!

Stupid. Part Four.

2007-05-16T07:22:00.000Z

This is not only stupid, it's mindboggling mean too, so don't read on if you wish to maintain any respect for me :)

I once played that game with a girlfriend when you blindfold each other and feed each other foods and you have to guess what they are. She was a right-on vegetarian type, so I figured I could win the game if I gave her a food that she'd never had before. With the blindfold on I chuckled as I fed her the last food that she had to guess:

Frankfurter.

Stupid boy.

Stupid. Part Three.

2007-05-08T04:57:00.000Z

Do you like champagne? I do. But it’s expensive, so a bottle of Freixnet Cava makes a price concscious alternative! Just as pleasing, cold, bubbly and it gets up your nose. I bought a bottle at Waterloo station in London a couple of years ago, and cracking it open swigged it on a train to a skating party that my cousin had organized at the beautiful and historic Hampton Court palace. Skating. Hmm. What makes people think that strapping boots with blunt knives attached to your feet and running around on a frozen artificial lake is a good idea? In Norway I imagine it is lovely (Fjords! Mountains! Norwegian girls!) but this isn’t Norway. It’s Middlesex. Still, I can always use my imagination.

Doing my best not to crash into small children (with most of a bottle of Freixnet inside me) I joined my family members in skating around in a reasonably orderly fashion. It struck me that at every skating rink in the world people skate in an anticlockwise direction (why is that? and do they skate clockwise south of the equator? :) )

But how to spice it up a bit? A little bored of the usual roundabout motoins, I got a bit feisty and decided to shift up a gear and play my own game of ice-bumper cars. Charging at full pelt towards my cousin’s boyfriend Mark, my intention was to crash into him, thus causing a little mayhem. Mark had other ideas, however, and neatly stepped out of the way. This, dear readers, was not a good thing for me. Picture the scene: I’m heading at full speed towards a waist high hard metal barrier, sort of counting on Mark being a nice soft, fleshy cushion between myself and the steel handrail. On arrival, no such cushion existed and I buckled up double with the force of the impact directly on my chest and ribs. Breaking your ribs is funny at the time, but considerably less so the next day – and for the next six weeks. Broke 2, bruised 2. Not a bad haul.

Friexenet is available from your local wine retailer for about £6 per bottle. Don’t skate and drink.

Tennis

2007-05-07T06:12:00.000Z

Tennis belongs in the 1970s. The heyday of the grass court game. Borg. McEnroe. Navratilova et al. Hence I have taken some Tennis shots with a 1970s lens and given them a filmic treatment to recall the bygone era.

Have a look

Thanks to Andrew and Hyoji DPRK for their help in putting these together.

Stupid. Part Two.

2007-05-05T03:24:00.000Z

Cyclops

I was a hyperactive, restless, precocious child with a propensity for idioting about in the most bizarre of manners. One birthday some well meaning aunt or other bought me several bike refelectors – but these were no ordinary reflectors – these were circular disks of brightly coloured plastic in iridescent shades of lime and tangerine. Instead of mounting them on my bike (as any normal child would do) I instead opted to display them proudly on my noticeboard and often take them out into the garden to whirl about in the sunlight. One particular autumn afternoon in my parents back garden I decided to attach an extra long piece of string to the reflector by way of a safety pin, and, helicopter style whirl the reflector around my head. Suddenly the reflector hit the edge of the garage, and, like a scene from a Looney Toons Cartoon, flew towards my face. THONK! A flash of sunlight and the dull thud of metal and plastic as it whacked me full on the nose and spun away to the ground.. As I brought my hand up to my face to inspect the damage, I disovered that the safety pin had opened and embedded itself in the bridge of my nose – smack between my eyes. I stopped whirling after that.

Cheese Factory

2007-05-04T14:15:00.000Z

I like Croissants, so much so that after a particularly irritating session at the bank yesterday I decided to pop into my local French-style patisserie and buy one.

I was welcomed in Polish, shifted uncomfortably because I don't know how to respond, placed my order and waited at the counter. Presently, another server came to the counter and enquired if I was being served.

"Sorry," I began "but I don't speak Polish, but we do have lots of Polish people where I live in London..."

"It's okay" she replied "Polish not very important language anyway. You are from London? I love London, is very nice place. People so different. Polite. Way of life extremely different there, I like it much."

"Thank you" I responded. "You should come back then"

"Well, No" her eyes looked down "I am not go back, I spent entire time in Manchester. I was working at Cheese factory"

"Oh" Visions of a diminutive Pole clad in a lab coat wandering around with enormous blocks of cheddar crossed my mind.

"Yes" She leant over conspiratorially and hissed at me: "Kerrygold".

Stupid. Part One.

2007-05-03T15:35:00.000Z

The Ten Stupidest Things I Have Ever Done

Cats, they say are born with nine lives. This, of course is absolute bollocks and simply another way of saying “Cats are astonishingly stupid but sometimes get away with it”. Humans are not bestowed with these honours; Much as a carelessly chosen moment to cross the road will splatter Mr Tibbles, so a carefully placed cliff, maniac lover or too much pie will do the same for a human. We’re probably a bit harder to kill, but not much. I am, by my own admission, occasionally monumentally stupid. So stupid that I fear one day I may qualify for The Darwin Awards (a yearly exercise in trumpeting the ultimate in human thickery), and although I haven’t quite got that far yet, I have done some birdbrained things in my life that I’d like to share with you now. Ten of them, in fact.

I’ll be posting them in installments and hope you find some of these amusing. Do feel free to try these at home.

Number 10: "Click"

Chores are annoying. but sometimes, just sometimes they are worth it. Ironing your shirts for example – you start with a crumpled rag and end up (bar a few scorch marks) something that might get you noticed. In 2002 I attended my first Lesbian wedding in Toronto. Enthused, I bought a new suit, shirt and shoes and set about packing for the trip. I left London with 10 days to spare before the wedding, stopping off in New York for a week to soak up the Big Apple and take photographs of photographers taking photographs of things (try saying that after a few Sam Adams!).

After nearly three weeks of lovely trans-atlantic holiday I returned home to London, heaved my Samsonite up the stairs and started unpacking in the lounge next to the ironing board upon which I had pressed my shirts and packed before leaving.

As I unpacked I heard a “click”. That sound chilled my blood; It was the thermostat going off inside the iron. Glancing over I saw it still standing upright on the board where I had left it before leaving the house. It had been on for 18 days and nights.

It still works to this day, well done Black and Decker!

Polish Encounters

2007-05-03T14:08:00.000Z

"You are speak Polish, Yes?"
"Um, no, Sorry"

An elderly man with mangled features appears in the hallway. He sports an alarming bright flourescent yellow windcheater jacket advertising some kind of rubbish disposal firm on the rear. He's clearly not in the best of health - he staggers and stoops over, clutching the rail with one hand and his thick bot belly with the other. He grins at me and nods a greeting, displaying black and splintered, rotting teeth below a broken nose. He reminds me of what a bareknuckle street boxer might look like after losing his last fight and hitting the bottle for 30 years.

"You live heer, not speak Polish?" he inquires in a thick accent, poking his finger towards me.

"Er, yes, I suppose that's right - I'm afraid I don't speak any Polish"

"Wi spek POW-LISH and Eengleesh" he scowls at me and begins to descend the stairs. He seems disappointed that I don't speak Polish. I feel hurt. I venture after him:

"How do you say 'Hello' in Polish?"

No response.

"Zeez beezigleta, is yours yes?" He cranks his neck around.

I look slightly puzzled.

"Sorry?"

"Beezigleta, ouside, eez yours?"

We reach the front door and he points a yellow finger in the direction of my bike which is propped up against the fence.

"Ahh, yes that beezig-I mean bike. That bike is mine, yes"

"Auuurgh" he intones and gives an exaggerated nod. I think what he might have been trying to say was "You really should oil your chain more often" or perhaps "If you park it there it is likely to be nicked", but perhaps a combination of a lack of English and an addled brain has robbed him of the ability.

"Um, Goodbye!" I call after him as he shuffles down the road looking like an enormous sherbert lemon.

Welcome to Greenpoint.

2007-04-28T03:53:00.000Z

Greenpoint is a neighbourhood in Brooklyn to the East of Manhattan. It is the northernmost part of Brooklyn and has a rich history of immigrant manual labour and trades, Wikipedia tells us that Greenpoint was a centre for such industries as "shipbuilding, printing, pottery, glassworks and foundries". Nowadays, Greenpoint is to Poland what Astoria is to Greece and what Chinatown is to... you get the idea. The area has developed a rich Polish heritage, with churches, social establishments (working men's clubs, bars, restaurants and nightlife venues) catering for the expat Polish community. Many of the businesses in Greenpoint are run for Poles by Poles (even the banks have signs in Polish) and the concentration is so high that you half expect "BUS STOP" to be written "Baza Kolejowa".

So why am I here? Well, Hyoj has moved to her very own place in, yes, Greenpoint! Formerly the haunt of our dear friends Kim and Luke (who are sadly moving to Botswana) this railroad-style apartment has been repainted in a cool shade of white. Here's a few pics!

What better than a few interior Fisheyes to give you an idea of the new place:

I'm fond of the fringes of cities, and Greenpoint doesn't disappoint. I like the fact that it's difficult to get away from the sheer Polishness of the place. My London home is smack in the middle of a rich mix of Greeks, Turks and lately, Poles who are stamping they unique cultural influence on the area. In Greenpoint this has already happened, and it is clear that there is a a truly established Polski community.

Neighbourhoods with a strong ethnic flavour, unfailingly inject interest into cities. Their American adaptations of the stores they are used to back home sometimes make for startling experiences (there's a Polish restaurant on Manhattan Street with a full suit of armour outside, and the walls are decorated with scabbards, gauntlets and other medieval ephemera). Of course these oddities are supplemented with the usual trappings of metropolitain life - the odd dive bar, requisite groups of hooded teenagers, ornate churches (more of which I will post about later) and a higgeldy-piggeldy collection of other shops and businesses with interesting goods for sale - Polish bakers, a shop selling what appears to be a coffin and a comfortingly large number of liquor stores.

On my first walkthrough the neighbourhood I was interested by an establishment selling something called "Polish Spirit" - on closer inspection this $18 bottle of clear fluid sported a label marked "150 proof - 74.4% Alcohol". I can only imagine what it tastes like. Further down the block was a restaurant sign reading "Polish Mexican" food (unfortunately it was actually Polish AMERican), and I was treated to the sight of several ladies in their mid 40s wearing miniskirts, lashings of gold and an inch of slap, clutching helium baloons - straight out of a Helmut Newton spread.

I'll post some photos of Greenpoint soon. Welcome to the neighbourhood.

RSS

2007-04-10T15:10:00.001Z

So. Now that I want to do a bit more with this blog I have decided to incorporate it at http://monchavo.net, but I need to learn how to do it. Onward with the Googling!

Silly Poetry

2007-01-16T09:37:00.000Z

My friend Andrew King, the feted author, photographer and noted "pole artist" has a thing for poetry. He bought me the collected works of CK Williams which I am working through currently.
He recently mooted that we might collaborate on a poetry collection that he is putting together on the subject of shit. Poems for the toilet if you like. So I have written two for him which I am presenting here for the first time in public.

Firstly, "The Bosun"

Heave ho dear friends, heave ho I say
And pull your oars 'til port's in sight
For sitting on your arses bare
Will ne'er allow a happy night

Heave ho say I, and make some haste
The bo'sun's sick and green
He lies upon the captain's bed
A poultice on his spleen

He's pis'd himself, and bled full cups
I fear there's not much more
He's calling for his mother's hand
an' a sobbing for the shore

The bo'sun chill'd, then hot was he
And fevers made him scratch
the worms he said was in his skin
their eggs was ripe to hatch.

He screamed out "Devil, take me Sir!"
"you've poisoned my inside!"
but still the fever rode it's course
upon the sinking tide.

One night a shout, like skinning cats
came piercing through the dark
I turned and saw the bo'sun's face
his words I fear'd to hark:

"Oh Christ!" said he, and closed his eye
a fart broke through the room
I spie'd his breaches thick with brown
which glistened in the gloom.

"The bos'un's dead!" my Shipmates called
"He's shat out his insides"
Nary but a shell was left
And Shipmates all but cried

So come, dear friends, and hark my words
Take up what I have writ
and do your best to never be
a vessel full of shit

And secondly, a rather different verse:

My daily appointment starts
By dressing myself appropriately
Or rather, undressing

The white porcelain consultation chair
With it’s plastic seat
That I despise

Sitting, I wait patiently
To rediscover yesterday’s meals
One by one

Texture and aroma noted
I picture my insides
Processing

Processed, my sphincter contracts
I grunt in satisfaction
Contented.

Looking back
I watch my therapist swallow
Goodbye

See you tomorrow
No appointment necessary
Just drop by

If you want to contribute to the collection of poetry (to be published sometime in 2007) then contact andrewking11@gmail.nospamno.com
Remove the nospamno to get the right address :)

Computer Archaeology

2007-01-08T17:33:00.000Z

Over the Christmas holiday I found a dinosaur. Hidden away at the back of a closet at Hyoj’s house, and huddled inside a leatherette bag, this ancient beast had slept for about 6 years before being rudely awakened by two curious, sticky fingered technophiles.

Inside the bag we found this:

A Gateway 2000 notebook computer, complete with spare battery, external floppy drive and power supply!

Dating from 1994, clearly this machine is not going to be a modern powerhouse – but it’s fascinating to see what the engineers crammed into such a small space back then. Powered by a passively cooled 486-SX 33 Mhz processor, it has 8MB of Ram and (believe it or not) a 240 MB Hard drive. The screen is a white-tinted monochrome VGA. Of course, there’s no optical drive – the CD-R you see here is for scale. The size of the beast is the most fascinating thing about it – it’s tiny – truly a notebook computer which would fit happily into even a modest sized ladies purse. To get it down to such a size, clearly the engineers had to make sacrifices - there’s just one PS/2 connector on the machine (for an external keyboard). The mouse is the small blue “nipple” to the right of the machine, and the buttons are awkwardly raised nubs on the front of the unit, underneath the keyboard. Left-handed? Tough cheese! In defence of the machine’s connectivity, it does have a single PCMCIA type I slot which is reserved (in this case) for the modem.

Hyoj bought the machine in 1994 for $1000 to write papers for her Masters course on it. It must have had immense pose value at the time too, as most laptops were behemoths with miserable battery lives and enough heat generation to warm an Olympic swimming pool.

It still works (which is remarkable). The software is the usual vanilla MS Dos 6.11 with Windows 3.11, MS Word and a lovely old copy of Netscape Navigator 2.0. The keyboard is reasonably responsive (with a fairly sure click to it) but the nipple mouse hinders any meaningful pointer-based activity.

After this wonderful nostalgic trip we packed the machine back up away in his bag to be rediscovered, perhaps in another ten years by equally curious folk….

Redondo Beach, California

2006-12-31T06:26:00.000Z

Check out some tasty crab, amazing sea fisherman, Korean rice wine and frozen bananas....!

The Getty Centre

2006-12-29T06:58:00.000Z

Today I visited the Getty Centre, which sits to the south of Los Angeles. To quote Wikipedia: "The Getty Center, designed by architect Richard Meier, is the $300 million flagship museum of the J. Paul Getty Trust, the largest arts endowment in history (at over $3 billion)"
Plonked onto the side of a hill in Brentwood, Los Angeles this white sandstone palace of art is sectioned into "wings". In the centre of the complex is a series of beautiful trees, and a water feature - but what makes it really special are the amazing gardens which surround the place. Designed by artist Robert Irwin, it's a garden worthy of mentioning next to Kew or Wisley - some of the best horticultural sites I've been to. Here are a few pictures:

Once inside the museum though, one would be forgiven for forgetting the beautiful gardens and astonishing views of Los Angeles county, as the art inside the building represents the most complete and certainly the most prestigious collection of artworks that I know of in a private collection. Impressionists, and artists from the German and French schools of the 18th and 19th centuries are particularly well represented. The photography collection is rich and fascinating, both of my previous visits have been fortunate enough to co-incide with major special exhibts of photography- the latest being a retrospective of contemporary American photographers capturing scenes from normal everyday life.

Technically, many of the photographs in this new exhibition could have been taken by the most rudimentary of cameras and the most lowly skilled artist. The beauty here was in the curation - the choice of images reflecting the breadth and depth of modern American existience. A collection of lonely seasonal log cabins, occupied by hunters and woodsmen, surrounded by thick forest, Brutally functional single room shacks built by society's itnerants at the edge of the desert and county fairgrounds - used for just two weeks a year - for the display of the local fruit, vegetables, produce and livestock - but left dark for the rest of the year.

For such an inclusive country, this was an exhibition about the fringes of society - the things rarely seen or collected together (this is the brilliance of fine curation) - but despite the lonely and often isolated subject matter, there was sufficient wimsy and humour in many of the photographs to lighten the viewers experience and to allow continued viewing without fatigue.

The first photography exhibition I went to at the Getty was a more polarizing experience, I said at the time that it 50% inspired me and 50% humbled me - there was a lot of technical peacocking going on; this exhibition was very much more accessible and, by intimidating me a bit less probably taught me more about how to look at things before photographing them.

Museums like the Getty are vitally important to society because they have multiple roles to play. The deep pockets of an independent museum can collect, catalogue and preserve art which is outside the mainstream. They can, and do, take risks that goverment owned institutions might be unwilling to take. From a spectator point of view, the free access to a rich collection of paintings, drawings and sculpture is immensely welcome and very enjoyable - and provides a resource for amateur artists to draw on. Lastly, the museum acts as an inspiration to children, and a gateway into another world, for just as music and good writing fire the imagination, so do great works of visual art.

Christmas in Los Angeles

2006-12-26T08:08:00.000Z

I would hate to be a writer. Especially one who has to create new and interesting things to say about cities that have had greaters minds than my own, musing on their wonders. This is my second visit to Los Angeles and I still don't feel as if I have even a small handle on the place, let alone be able to write engaging prose on the subject! For a start, it's a vast place - a series of 6 to 12 lane motorways connect small towns together - this arrangement forms Los Angeles. It's all an amorphous mass of loosely interconnected towns with great distances inbetween. There isn't really a centre - no focal point or real heart. This makes it tough on cityphiles like me to get a feel for the place.

LA further complicates things for those withing to get to grips with it's innards by the fact that it has meagrew public transport. It's certainly the biggest city I've been to without effective public transportation. Think of many major cities around the world - Paris, London, New York, Barcelona, Madrid, Rome, Tokyo - even nearby San Francisco - they all have wideranging bus, tram or subway (underground train) services. Not LA.. No sir. The odd bus, a completely anaemic subway system and infrequent rail services - can you tell I'm not impressed yet?

So how did LA get like this? Cities develop with many different and powerful factors guiding them - their geography, proximity to rivers, and climate amongst other things. Once man has dug into the earth and established a town, the financial success of the place is determined by myriad more influences - economic conditions, goverment bodies and the inviestment to the region, workforce supply, the types of industries that are created and so forth.

All this has led cities like Chicago and Barcelona (2nd string cities like Los Angeles but with strong industrial backgrounds) to have strong infrastructure and public transport. Los Angeles unfortunately hasn't followed along this path. Roads rule. Cars are kings. And they are not just ordinary European style cars. Sports Utility Vehicles are the order of the day - or large pickup trucks. I wince when I see them.

I don't want it to seem like I am bashing LA just yet - it can be astonishingly beautiful. I find the 5pm sunsets in December fascinating. Those, along with 82 degrees F weather on Christmas day and more palm trees than you can shake a coconut at - it's easy to see why this place is so popular.

This has been a Christmas day like no other. I sang "Noreban" - Korean karaoke, ate Suhlungtang (a spicy soup with fresh spring onions and mandu - Korean style pork dumplings) along with Haemul Pajan, a seafood pancake. Astonishingly delicious. It was also a rather computery Christmas - I installed Windows XP onto a a brand new Apple Macbook (!) and simultaneously cleaned 36 viruses from a Korean Windows XP installation. I also shot some portraits of a wonderful minature Schnauzer known as Kobe. Those of you who have seen hyoj and my film: Asian Adventure will know k2g. Kobe is the original Mini Schnauzer (from whom k2g gets his name - kobe 2 go...)

Fun. It's all such fun.

In other news, I love batteries. 3 small cells occupy one 9v cell. And you can hack them out. Watch!

Enjoy!

No Navel Gazing!

2006-12-18T04:43:00.000Z

Since Wednesday, I've been vegetating. More precisely, I've relaxed and enjoyed an unchallenging holiday; days of lazy photography, nights of fine food and wine. Very little of note has happened to me. Other than cracking a rib whilst trying to scale a steel pole in Union Square, and hoist my body vertically at 90 degrees. This rather unusual sounding gymnastic feat has been named "Pole Perpendicular" by Hyoj. My good friend Andrew King is a self proclaimed "expert" at it, and being a bit of a big head, I thought I would give it a go.

Silly boy.

As our ladies watched from the safety of the restaurant, we staggered outside into the cold and began to assault the pole, Andrew deftly applying his arms and hands to the pole, and WHUP! he was suspended, horizontally - using his balance and sheer strength to hold himself up.

I failed to read his instructions correctly, however - as when I attempted it, I placed my ribcage on one of my elbows (no mean feat in itself - try it whilst reading this blog entry) and proceeded to place my entire weight on the arm.

CRACK

"Ouch" I announced. It still hurts. A lot. (I have bruised or broken ribs twice before in my life, once during a Bumper Car accident in 1997, and again at an Ice Skating rink in 2003). Eventually (whilst the alcohol and adrenaline were doing equal parts to keep me from collapsing in agony) I did manage to do it properly (HURRAH!) but I'm sorry, there 's no photographic evidence (yet!).

Moral: The pursuit of looking cool is dangerous. Wear protective clothing :)

We're computerizing and we just don't need you anymore

2006-12-13T17:40:00.000Z

Those of you who have taken a trip to Club 49 O will know that I have two bookshelves stacked full of CDs and a voracious appetite for new music and interesting pieces from the past. It will come as little surprise then, to see this handful that I have acquired on my recent trip to the Big Apple.St Mark’s Place and East 8th Street has 3 good record shops selling new releases and bundles of well selected 2nd hand stuff for between 6 and 9 dollars per disc. My favorite is Kim's. New discs retail at between 12 and 15 dollars. With the exchange rate currently at $1.96 to the pound (!) these prices are just un-missable. A second hand disc at a London record shop retails for between £5-8 and a new disc is up to £15 – which is nearly $30.

I am not going to turn this post into a rant about how ridiculously inflated UK CD prices are – I have done something far more effective. I only buy discs from the sensibly priced Fopp chain of stores (who have somehow found a way to keep prices very low) or I buy when I come over to the States, effectively depriving the UK record industry of my custom. Complaining is all very well, but voting with your wallet can be an effective alternative.

So I went on a bit of a New Music trawl. I listen to the fabulous soma.fm station Indie Pop Rocks– which is broadcast over the Internet from San Francisco. The playlist is put together by Elise Nordling, and the station is run without DJ banter OR adverts – it’s pure, free music (which is really something special in these hideously commercial times). IPR has introduced me to a number of bands who I have dutifully scribbled down on bits of paper and gone searching for – Kinski, American Analog Set, American Music Club, Iron and Wine, Radio 4 and Yo La Tengo all came through this route. The remainder (Verve, DJ Shadow, OK GO, The Stills and Joseph Arthur) were bands I knew and loved from before.

With so much to listen to in a week, it’s been hard to pick favorites but leaping out at me already are the American Analog Set disc and the Yo La Tengo platter. The AAS album came out in 2001, entitled Killing By Heart (which sounds unpleasant, but don’t let the title deter you). This is delightful acoustic, ambient tinged deliciousness from the unlikely source of Austin Tx, is a peach from start to finish. Their carefully produced, gentle songs describe the quixotic nature of love and making sense of the world around us. Ever so slightly quirky and maladjusted (but in a very benovelent way), their song titles are equally wonderful – the album opens with “Punk as F*ck” which is a slow burning, harmonized beauty and ends with “We’re computerizing and we just don’t need you anymore” (which I think henceforth should be written on every redundancy letter).

I've got plenty to write about (Street Furniture, Christmas in New York and the Lower East Side are coming soon) but I'll return to CDs every now and again and waft a few notes over to you from my audio findings.

Join us on the Chinatown Express!

2006-12-12T08:00:00.000Z

Chinatown.

London’s Chinatown is very disappointing. No more than a handful of streets of rather dilapidated restaurants, half a dozen grotty shops, some gaudy gold baubles, and a pair of rather ornate Chinese gates. It’s miserable and despite Westminster Council printing a few of the road signs and street names in English and Chinese, it lacks authenticity, pizzazz and, fundamentally, a sense of place.

No such afflictions are felt when walking through New York’s Chinatown – a hubbub of activity, tens of thousands of people compressed into a few streets, hundreds of stores selling herbal remedies, dried squid, seaweed, pork belly (unwrapped, naturally!), dim sum joints, restaurants, laundries, quacks, Baptist churches and Chinese schools. The noise is remarkable – Chinese is a language best spoken loudly it appears. My father once opined that it would be possible to be born, grow up and die in New York’s Chinatown without ever having to learn a word of English. So immersed do you feel that I (almost) believe him.

Here’s Hyoji and my brief introduction to this quite wonderful part of New York City.

Wasting Time in Brooklyn!

2006-12-09T07:27:00.000Z

I'm not quite sure how this came about, but once I'd filmed it we just had to put it up.
Sorry for the lack of text updates over the past few days. I have worked 8 out of the last 10 days, 12 hour shifts per day. Tomorrow is my last for a whole 14 days and so will be once more back to full strength. Thank you for your patience, and please do keep the comments flowing.

Happy Weekend!

NO TEXT #1

2006-12-07T04:30:00.000Z

There's a moral here... Somewhere...

2006-12-06T05:05:00.000Z

Yesterday I came home to find a UPS sticker slapped on the door “3^rd delivery FAILED” it said.

The brown and gold erstwhile delivery company have been trying to deliver a package to my friend Clare for the past week or so. You may be aware that they try to deliver three times to an address, then they invite you to come and collect the item from their depot, or have it delivered elsewhere.

3 attempts at delivery seems like a lot. All of them failed for one good reason: there’s no bell at this address, so the UPS guy bangs on the door in the vain hope that someone (in the 4 storey building) will hear his plaintive hammering and come and pick the parcel up. Nobody did. 3 times they tried, 3 times they failed.

So, somewhat irked, Clare decides to take a car service to the UPS delivery depot (which is on the other side of Brooklyn, quite some distance from public transport). She pays $40 for the round trip, only to find that her package is... a $14 vase from Crate and Barrel…...

There's a moral here, somewhere...

Where on Earth Am I?!

2006-12-03T21:27:00.001Z

Where in the world am I?

I had a great comment from Djon yesterday which remarked that he didn’t really have any perspective of where in the world I am, so I have put together a little map which should give you a few reference points and a bit of context around where I am, and why I am here.

I’m staying with Christina, Clare, James, Sasha and Ethan in a turn of the century brownstone, located to the south west of Brooklyn’s Prospect Park – in an area known as Park Slope.

Prospect Park is a beautiful undulating park (with a circular cycling and running track around it) that acts as Brooklyn’s equivalent of Central Park.The similarities are no doubt in part that the two parks share the same architects - Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux. Brooklynites adore the place, with good reason - It really is a delightful place, with a large lake, sports courts of every description, flower gardens, large green open spaces (for football, baseball and Ultimate Frisbee), thick swathes of old trees, shrubberies and dense, wild undergrowth. It’s obviously a labour of love for the employees of the Brooklyn Parks Administration.

On any given day you can see dozens and dozens of cyclists doing circuits, runners, dog-walkers, mums with buggies, picnicing families, football players and kite-flyers all doing their thing. In the summer the authorities dedicate a section of the park over to a bandstand where you can hear Jazz and live music wafting across the green swathes. Jazz I like, but the last time I went running in September, the hideous sound of a practicing marching band and their drumming was polluting the atmosphere!

Spotty youths and snare drums aside, this is a beautiful place for a wander during any season.

Recently, the Park Authority added a series of unusually tasteful christmas lights to the 4 main park entrances. I'm going to grab my tripod and do a series of night exposures, so keep your eyes peeled.

As a neighborhood, Park Slope is roughly equivalent to Clapham in South London. A few miles SW of Manhattan, the neighborhood has been through lots of changes over the years. Although now the darling of young families, writers, intellectuals and hip twenty and thirtysomethings, Park Slope retains a broad cross section of society. From the beautiful turn of the century brownstones of 10th St, just south of the Park to the municipal housing along 5th Avenue, the tired "melting pot" cliché applies nowhere better than here. I first came here in the autumn of 2003 and in the three years that I have been returning I can see a creeping gentrification. Large, 1920s redbrick appartment blocks being demolished on 4th avenue to make way for expensive appartments, Restaurants and bars opening on 5th and 7th avenues (everything from fish and chips to extremely high class sushi and seafood, burgers, mexican and brunch joints).

Naturally, gentrification brings rising house prices and rents, and Park Slope accomodation prices can seem as high as Manhattan - many are so. It appears that people are moving to Park Slope for the lifestyle option - it is much less hectic than much of Manhattan, certainly quieter than many neighborhoods. It seems to be safe, and the proximity to such a beautiful park can only be beneficial. The efficiency of the New York subway means that you are very close to Manhattan, and with express trains (which run on parallell tracks to the local services) you can be in deep in the heart of the city in a matter of 20 minutes.

This has turned into a bit of a sales job for PS, so I am going to shut up now, and let you enjoy the Wikipedia entry on the area, as well as a few choice photographs.

Drinking in New York

2006-12-02T16:04:00.000Z

New York is full of drinking establishments. The only other town that seems to come close in my experience is Barcelona, where there surely must be a bar for every man, woman and child in the city. Where New York distinguishes itself is in the range of choice. From high-class lounges to neighborhood dives, the stops in between make The Big Apple a very satisfying place to go on a Bar crawl. I started last night at The Flatiron Lounge on 19th St between 5th and 6th avenue, a dark, low ceilinged, long, thin 1920s-30s themed cocktail lounge with period decor (including a delightful tiled mirror mosaic), a thick and authentic leather-bound drinks list and the obligatory knowledgeable and very efficient bartenders. At $12 a pop the cocktails are not cheap here (I had a dry, dirty Gibson, up) but they are mixed very well and served beautifully.

For those of you not familiar with the Gibson - I present you with this recipe -

- Fill a cocktail glass with ice and a little water. Leave it to chill.
- Pour a large measure of premium gin (Tanqueray in my case) into a shaker
- Wave the shaker towards Italy (in deference to the "martini" part of the drink. (The observant amongst you will note that there is no vermouth in this recipe!)
- Shake. Shake until just before your arms fall off.
- Set the shaker down and empty the water and ice from the cocktail glass.
- Pour the contents of the shaker into the glass.
- Add a little "licquor" from the jar of pickled onions.
- Spear two pickled onions and place them into the glass.

Voila! One Gibson!

If the Flatiron lounge represents a classy and stylish way to sip a cocktail whilst dreaming of the glamour of the 1920s, Old Town Bar (on 14th between Park and Broadway) presents a very different way to get smashed. This place is certainly the most unpretentious bar in New York. Started in 1892, and with decor very much reflecting that period, Old Town Bar oozes personality. The vaulted 16ft tin ceiling is caked in a thick brown of gunk that looks as though it has been there for the 100-plus years the bar has been in existence. The walls are dotted with the kind of memorabilia you see in fake "old" pubs, but due to the age of OTB - you know it's the real McCoy. Ancient presidential election posters, autographs from baseball players, faded sepia photos - it's all here. The food is coarse, traditional bar fayre - conveyed on New York's oldest Dumb Waiters. Hyoj and I both agree that the Nachos are the finest anywhere. The beer is reasonably priced and well served. There can be few better places to relax after work.

Oh, and they have a no mobile phone policy which we really like!

Sick as a dog

2006-12-01T00:31:00.000Z

I began writing this blog on the plane, feeling a little queasy, but full of excitiment about my forthcoming holiday. The first few hours of the flight were fairly uneventful. I took a few photos of the inside of the plane and a nice sunset or two. Then, a couple of hours into the flight I started to feel rather ropey. By the time I landed I was feeling hideous. Dehydrated, sick and feverish. I imagined it was a 24hr bug and that a good night's sleep would solve it.

How wrong I was.

What followed was an entire week of lying in bed, suffering fevers and chills, hideous stomach cramp and all sorts of other unmentionables. It appears that my digestive system decided it needed a full system reboot. I didn't eat for 3 days (I couldn't seem to digest food) and straying further than 30 seconds lurch from a toilet was a complete nono.
Thankfully I was nursed back to health by the wonderful Hyoj (and thanks to Yej!) and, yesterday, I finally - 8 days later - took my first venture outside the house and into the city.
I missed Thanksgiving and my first trip to Boston and the beautiful state of Maine (my apologies to the King family who were due to have us as their guests). As Hyoj rather dryly commented, we should have bought shares in Glaceau, the makers of Vitamin Water, as I appear to have drunk about 10.5L during my time in bed.

Being sick is rubbish, as we all know. Being sick whilst on holiday is doubly rubbish. Being sick whilst on holiday in america with no health insurance is triple rubbish, and this is the last time I will be doing it. I discovered that if one is on holiday and decides, latterly, that one requires health insurance - you can still buy it up to 7 days after departure. After that, it's American companies only (and their insurance policies appear to be rubbish in comparison to our British brokered ones). This is NOT a country where you want to get sick without insurance. The simple visit to the doctor costs between $110 - $180 per consultation, then you have bloodwork to pay for ($220 and up) and we are talking about somehthing as mundane as Gastroenteritis here!

Enough about my sickness. Thankfully I am better now and can enjoy the rest of my time here.

One thing that kept me from gnawing the bedclothes too much was the online purchase of lots of CDs! I bought Kinski's Alpine Static, the new Yo La Tengo, a brace of discs from Texas brilliantines Midlake, American Analog Set's 2001 platter, Daniel Johnstons mid 80s "Hi, How are you?", the new Joseph Arthur entitled "Nuclear Daydreams" (utterly brilliant) and finally Mr José Gonzalez's 2006 disc: Veneer. All will be duly listened to and short reviews posted here. Thre's nothing like a few CDs to make you feel better, I can tell you!

A preamble and my first thoughts from the plane

2006-11-30T20:17:00.000Z

Dear friends,

I’ve decided to blog my two month stay in America. As much personal exploration experiment as well as travel diary, I’ll try to keep it readable and focused. I’ve resisted writing any kind of online diary or blog for many many years for a number of reasons –

Firstly, I’m not a particularly good writer. Despite a good education, above average vocabulary and eloquent parents, I often have difficulty in making what I write appear fresh and uncontrived. Maybe practice will help me in this respect, but it is certainly my objective to make this online journal readable, engaging and interesting. Secondly, although I’ve traveled extensively I’ve never felt that my contributions would be unique or worth reading. I’m going to dig deep to change that over the next two months, and would welcome your advice and feedback.

Of course, the Brits have been attracted to America for eons. The “special relationship” so often mentioned when diplomatic stories hit the headlines translates to the average member of the public as something much more mundane; With non-english speaking Europe on the doorstep, many prefer the comfort of visiting somewhere where “they speak the language”. America is also very cheap to visit at the moment thanks to the depressed dollar – with double parity (£1=$2), your pound goes a long way.

Understanding the appeal is not difficult – Americans have the art of self-promotion down to a tee. So much so that in September when I looked for a UK based US tourism office, I was told it had been closed down! The logic is clear: why maintain an expensive operation when Hollywood will do the job for you?

My relationship with the land of the Stars and Stripes is not an easy one. I find it somewhat of a guilty pleasure. Whilst I am uncomfortable with the Bush administration, two-party state, lunatic gun laws and environmental policy, I love the diversity, vibrancy and creativity of America. I’m obviously not alone: my ears prick up and my heart starts to beat faster whenever a debate on the States starts happening around me.

One thing that continues to rankle however, is the seeming ignorance on behalf of the American people to the impact that their country has on the world. As a result I’ve been really pleased to see a string of homegrown “wake up America” documentaries: Al Gore’s “An Inconvenient Truth” which deals with environmental change and the role America has in polluting the globe, Morgan Spurlock’s “Supersize Me” which attempts to explain the astonishing effects of Fast food and the work of Michael Moore, who, in Bowling for Columbine tackles gun control and in Farenheit 911 discusses the Iraq war.

The reason I find these comforting is that in my experience, vast swathes of America is populated by an astonishingly isolated and largely ignorant people. Outside of major cities and towns, I have been frustrated by what appears to be a lack of awareness – and – infuriatingly – a denial that anything America did could be wrong. September 11^th made this worse, allowing the Bush administration to focus the agenda on one thing: Security – at the expense of other important issues. I once sat in a hotel room in Nashville, looking for world news. In in the 40+ channels was unable to find even one mentioning what was going on outside of the 50 states. They had a hunting and fishing channel, 4 shopping channels, even a Korean channel, but no outlet on the wider world.

The area I am staying in – Park Slope, on the edges of Brooklyn’s magnificent Prospect park is a very different kettle of fish to Nashville. It’s a community that reminds me of Clapham back in London. Depressed and ignored for a while, pockets of bourgoise who have occupied the Victorian and Edwardian brownstones, living alongside a healthy Latin and Black population. Lots of strollers everywhere (PS seems to be Brooklyn’s nursery!), interesting shops and boutiques, along with the ubiquitous licquor stores, excellently stocked Korean delicatessens and the odd flea market, fish shop and motley restaurant collection.

I hope you enjoy my musings over the next few weeks. Comment below if you wish