The Hoff Falls Ill

The news was relayed via Yahoo! headlines: David Hasselhoff suffered a seizure and spent two days in hospital. I would normally not pay attention to such things; but for the photo I had taken of Knightrider Street last spring after watching the disappointing reality television 'series' which promised to chronicle an English radio personality's experience 'living with the Hoff'. In fact, the English radio personality's 'living experience' spanned nothing more than a long weekend (ok maybe a week; I didn't pay close enough attention to the timeline.)

In short, I felt gipped by The Hoff: When Scott Came to Visit. For a show that promised new heights of bad TV, it was really just kind of boring. It did, however, highlight Knightrider Street as the location of David Hasselhoff's favourite London pub.

For this very tangential reason, today's headline grabbed me and before I could stop myself I clicked on it and came face to face with The Hoff, looking worse the wear. That is when it struck me: my brother (yes, that one) is today very much like David Haselhoff. An aging athlete. Fading good looks (if you're into that pretty boy, too-well-coiffed kind of thing). Not much of a career. It does make me sad for him. For both of them.

Poles Apart Reprisal Kicks Ass

The Commercial Tavern is on Commercial Street, east of Liverpool Street Station.

My original plan was to take the bus as far as Tottenham Court Road, change to the Central Line to Liverpool Street, walk up Bishopsgate and finally cut to Commercial Street, but on the way to the bus stop I noticed standstill traffic and, in the distance, the flashing blue lights that mean trouble.

Might be better to take The Tube.

Leaving my options open, I walked along the bus route toward the tube station, which was also in the direction of the flashing blue lights. Someone was in trouble. Big trouble. Police had stopped traffic in both directions. Paramedics adjusted straps across a body atop a gurney.

It was the type of sight that makes me think of My Man and hope I never get a call from flashing blue lights.

I texted him. You’re probably pissed. Eat something. Love you.

I thought about how horrible it would be if something happened to him whilst I was in the theatre with my phone switched off.

What if I miss my chance to say the final goodbye because I have my phone turned off?

A morbid, ridiculous thought. We didn’t always have mobile phones.

What’s the point of a final good-bye except as some tear-jerking scene in a Hollywood production?

This train of thought had no business distracting me from my good mood.

My father and his wife had said their (tearful) good-byes early in the morning, and I was off to east London to meet certain kind of friends and see a production! Hurrah!

The Commercial Tavern is aptly named. It is less a pub and more a tavern. Almost a a wild west saloon but with neither swinging doors, nor cowboys swigging whisky, nor ladies strapped in tight bodices with feathers in their hair. It’s a dimly lit, round(ish) tavern with a bar across one wall, simple tables, and a mishmash of chandeliers overhead.

I walked up to a man at the bar and asked him if he was the friend I was looking for.

He said no, but would be if I wanted him to be. I thanked him for his offer and re-scanned the room. My friend was sitting at a table. We introduced ourselves. The conversation flowed effortlessly. Others arrived, and together we took our leave to get a bite to eat before watching the show.

We were in a bit of a hurry so we accepted the first offer made on Brick Lane. A Tiger beer, chicken saag and 20 minutes later, and we were on our way north from Brick Lane to the Rich Mix Theatre to see another one of those kind of friends, a friend I've known, but not known, for years.

So now I get to what might be considered the review part of this post, and I struggle. I am afraid that I won't do justice to my friend or his colleague or their work. I have limited time; I don't want to rush; but I want to get this out. I am impatient.

Daniel is a tall man. You don't quite realise until after the show when he gives you a hug and you feel like a midgit. Daniel's colleague has American-style teeth. Big, straight and white. During the performance, they alluded to his chubby stature. I wouldn't have noticed he was chubby; I actually don't think he is chubby. He has dazzling teeth.

All of that has nothing to do with the performance that you will probably never see. What a shame because it was politically relevant (as you'd expect from Daniel) and laugh-out-loud funny. A seemingly effortless delivery of a combination of impromptu banter and scripted material. It's a good thing I'm moving because I'd probably become a groupie or junky or both, and Daniel would need to get a restraining order.

Thanks for the good time last night, Internet Friends.

Father Arrives

It is Thanksgiving week. My father and his wife arrive. As usual, they make a great display of being ever so happy to see me; but the sincerity of their interest comes into question as our time together extends.

To be fair, my father's wife is very interested. Too interested and too chirpy and she never shuts up.

My father is most concerned with his perception that we are 'not really in London' because he has never heard of Fulham until I moved here. He also dwells a lot on where he can find award winning something-and-something pie, which sounds like a shepherd's pie but I don't remember because by today, the fifth day of their visit, I have lost interest. I have lost interest in trying to engender interest: pointing out places of historical interest, name-dropping, relaying anecdotes I think my father will find interesting. All this disgusts me with myself. I think I am just like my pathetic brother who yearns for my father's approval. Fortunately, I don't make stupid career decisions based on this hangover from childhood.

To be fair to my father: he loves me. He really, really loves me. He just doesn't know how to show it. He had no father in his life. He grew up in the Marine Corps. As if to wash away the shame from the other side of the tracks, he surrounds himself with wealthy white men whose sole interest is making money. Or hunting. He's not interested in me. I know it is better for me to accept him on his terms and follow him around my town - as if it is his town; I should stop striving for his approval, stop giving him the chance to demonstrate once again that I have nothing of interest to say.

There are also more normal, yet equally uncomfortable aspects of this particular paternal visit. My father has aged. He still walks, but his shoulders are more hunched. He forgets that he's already asked questions. He is almost doddering. I am patient with this part of him. I am an age where the reality of ageing degradation is close. Close enough that I know I need to be patient because it will happen to me too.

He's a good man. I want to be a good daughter; I feel ungrateful and guilty.

The Boy Next Door Visits

6:30 in the morning and I was preoccupied with where to have dinner. I would need to get home to walk Dog. If I left work a few minutes early, I'd have enough time to walk her, drop her off, and make my way to South Kensington.

What restaurants around South Kensington?

The vision of Khan's of Kensington flitted through my mind, and I remembered the vision of fluorescent green gop on a plate of supposed Indian food. Hands down the worst Indian I've ever had. Avoid Khan's at all cost. Particularly disappointing because it was a late night meal after jaw-dropping performances by Cirque du Soleil in The Royal Albert Hall.

How many holes will fill it?

Carluccio's would be an option; though, I'm not really keen. Average Italian at best. Then I remember there is a Gourmet Kitchen Burger not far.

Buffalo Burger!

I get excited.

But what if he doesn't want to go to a burger joint? He can get a decent burger anywhere at home.

I had landed on the idea of South Kensington because it would be convenient for him. I thought maybe if he'd be bold enough to travel a little further afield, I could walk Dog and meet him at a local.

Patara would be nice Thai; though our local is better.

Later in the day we exchanged suggested plans by text. At half twelve I picked up my phone to call him. I was afraid and smiled at my fear. All morning memories had been flooding back, but not his voice. What would he sound like? Had he picked up the regional accent of the place he now calls home?

No, he hadn't; even so, I didn't recognise his voice. I might as well have been speaking to a stranger.

Not my first*.

He'd been game for the local pub.

Phew. Logistics sorted.

He got there first, found a couple of comfortable arm chairs, and texted me to let me know where to find him. I wondered if he was bald. His father had been bald. I couldn't remember if his mother's side had lost her hair. He'd always said he would be bald.

He wasn't. He was, as he put it, older and heavier.

"Aren't we all." I retorted.

To which he said, "You are beautiful."

We talked about family; his all good; he offered a high five when he heard my parents had divorced.

"About time!"

I never thought catching up after 20 years could be so effortless.

*Yes. My first time was with 'the boy next door'. He was a friend. My best guy friend. He was 'doing me a favour'.

Duvet Fluffing Spawns Big Idea

The Man and I were making the bed. Specifically, we were shaking the duvet cover.

"Shaking" isn't quite the right word. "Fluffing up*" would be better. An up and down motion, and just before the duvet reaches the highest point of its trajectory, it slows down and seems to float the last moment up and then down until, with a snap of our forearms, we flick the duvet back into an upward motion. Kinda like when they would bring the parachute into PE** in elementary school. I loved it when we got to play with the parachute. All of us sitting around it in a circle, holding onto the edges, and following the PE instructor's instructions.

It must have been a weekend morning because we were obviously not rushed. As we shook the duvet awake for the day, we chatted. Idly. About this and that. Mostly about our growing grievances with The Smoke.

"The Tube is a goddamn rip off."

"The weather sucks."

"It takes planning and commitment to see anyone across town. No spontaneity."

"We don't have any real friends. You meet someone cool, hang out for a while, and then they fuck off."

"The Tube is a fucking rip off."

"London is a fucking rip off. It gouges you."

Smattered between the complaints were points of defense. All those reasons why we love London. The buzz. The history. The cultural opportunities. The fact that this is home. My home. I have lived in London longer than I have lived anywhere.

Our conversation wasn't a new conversation. We've had it almost since we moved here.

London is a fucking rip off. It sucks the pounds out of your pocket and you have very little to show for it (a coffee, a newspaper, a journey on The Underground, and that spare tenner you had in your pocket, it's gone).

London is a transient city. Cool and interesting people move here; those cool and interesting people leave here. You'll be lucky to get to know how cool and interesting those cool and interesting people are. London's geographical girth makes it hard to pop around for a coffee or a cry. Taking the time to get to know someone often means an hour on the Tube to the other side of town (you don't take a taxi because the city is already making enough of a dent in your wallet). Someone living on the other side of London might as well be living in Bristol or Birmingham. What I'm trying to say: it's a difficult place to make long lasting friendships.

The weather sucks. (This is always My Man's point; whilst the weather doesn't directly get to me, it does get to The Man whose state of mind very much gets to me. )

On this particular weekend morning as we shook out our duvet, the conversation took a new turn.

"We've always talked about going back to Madrid. What's keeping us here?***"

*A phrasal verb you don't hear everyday.
**Physical Education
***I was tempted to reply, 'my blog.'

Fantasies & Change Distract

I have alluded to recent, unbloggable thoughts that have distracted me from my bloggling responsibilities; thoughts that supplanted my normal contemplative rhythm; a rhythm to which I have become accustomed to witness almost like an objective, yet curious, third party. Blogging has enriched my life; it has made me more active, more present, more keenly aware of my external surroundings as well as my internal state of affairs. At the same time, and somewhat paradoxically, it has liberated me from an overabundance of self-obsession.

The troublesome thoughts that have railroaded me from my general state of equilibrium fall into two seemingly unrelated, broad categories.

The categories are: change (as in big life decisions) and fantasies (as in close your eyes and escape into a false circumstance created just for you, by you with the possible help of television series or movies or books).

Even an amateur psychologist would probably be able to pick out the correlation between these ‘seemingly unrelated’ categories of thoughts. Big life changes spawn fantasies.

First, I’ll tackle the latter, in a general way.

I started fantasizing when I was a child; at bedtime, my pillow became my long lost father, then a boyfriend (no sex), then a lover.

It started off with Emergency . (The Doc was my father. He always bandaged me up after some mishap.)

It moved onto Chips. Whilst Ponch was dynamic (and dark and handsome), the quiet, strong type (John) won my heart. Then the apex of cheese to my schoolgirl fantasies: the Dukes of Hazard and Magnum PI. Later, LA Law had a bit part to play.

Oh! I mustn't forget The Lord of the Rings before it was a movie; and Charlotte's Web; and my fantastical, magical ability to commune with animals and make them love me above all else.

I’m sure there were others, but embarrassment has put the details out of my mind.

A sense of shame keeps the details of my recent fantasy off the internet. Suffice it to say, a recent fantasy whisked my thoughts away. I couldn't think about blogging whilst I obsessed over .....

Now, onto the former topic, life change ... the topic that the psychologist would probably say engendered the fantasies.

My Man and I have made a big decision.

We're leaving The Smoke.

Poles Apart

Not long after I landed in the UK; I learned to appreciate Polish plumbing acumen. And carpentry, brickwork and electrical skills too. That and the obligatory references to 'blitzkrieg' in history class was about the extent of my knowledge about the Polish and Poland.

This summer I went to Poland. I went to Krakow, toured the old Jewish quarter, saw the Schindler factory and the sight of the labour camp; I danced at a wedding and did Vodka shots and ate a lot of stuff that probably wasn't good for my cholesterol. With a good portion of the wedding party, I recovered from a hangover by touring a famous Polish salt mine. I took a bus out to Auschwitz and read aghast at the treatment of Poles by the Germans and Russians around the time of WWII. It's not that I was totally ignorant before; but, there was a certain sense of reinforcement of knowledge, details to cushion the concepts. I had some new learning too, no doubt. At the time I was reading a hefty tome on Stalin. And, have since, moved onto a book that addresses the end of WWI and how factors led to WWII. A long way of saying, over the past year or so, my interest in Poland and the Polish has been peaked.

Not long after I first started blogging, I came across a certain actor's blog. I commented on his blog; he commented on mine; and one of those odd, new-fangled relationships burgeoned. I consider him a friend even though I've never exchanged a verbal word with him.

I saw him in a production - an uneasy, uncomfortable, magnificent performance (by the whole cast) in Zero. I've read his posts on music and teaching and followed the string of vitriolic hate comments he's received. I've seen his (hoootttt) girlfriend, Eva-Jane in a music video and read aghast about the time he went to meet one of his hate-commenters in person (I would have killed him if I were Eva-Jane). I was too shy to stay and hang around after the production of Zero; I hope to have a 2nd chance.

So, what is the point of these disjointed paragraphs? What do Daniel and Poland have in common?

Poles Apart.

Daniel and his mate, Mark, will be reprising their production. I missed it the first time; I'll be there this time. See you on the 28th?

Kid Extorted

I'm reading a book*, and the main character is Jake. I think about the name. Jake. I don't think I've ever known any Jakes. Then I think back to Miami. In 9th grade (14 years old) the guy who sat behind me in Algebra II.

Wasn't he Jake?

I had a crush on him. He had dark hair and long eyelashes and the kind of ruddy skin that tans easily. After I moved away I heard his father had hired a hit man (actually an undercover FBI agent) to take out his mother.

Only in Miami.

I want to say his name was Jake, but I hesitate, and suddenly I remember: he was Josh.

Another 4 letter biblical name starting with J.

I'm almost convinced now that I've never met a Jake. I'm ready to stake my life on it, and then I remember my little cousin. He's actually my cousin's son.

Is that a second cousin or a cousin once removed?

My cousin isn't even really a cousin, but a step cousin.

So, a step second cousin or a step cousin once removed. Sheesh this gets complicated.

When thinking if I knew anyone named Jake I didn't immediately think of my step second cousin or cousin once removed because he generally goes by Jacob. Only his mother, my step cousin, calls him Jake.

He came to visit us when he was 19 years old. He'd never been to Europe; I don't think he'd ever been outside the United States - unless maybe he'd been north to Vancouver. His mom sent him to us as a high school graduation present. Straight off the turnip truck** from Walla Walla, Washington. A skateboard under his arm and a defined budget in his pocket, Jake (or Jacob as I knew him) made it to our flat in SW London with little travail. I was at work when he arrived; The Man was working from home and encouraged the boy to go explore the city, which he dutifully did. After that first day, Jacob seemed to have lost interest in exploring London. He spent the remainder of his trip skating through our neighbourhood park.

On Jacob's last day in The Smoke, The Man took him for a beer and teased out the details that explained his seeming lack of interest in London Town.

He had taken the 14 to Piccadilly Circus. He wandered up into narrower streets snuggled up behind Regent Street and Shaftsbury. He must of strolled by backstage doors of various West End theatres and up by the Windmill, London's version of the Moulin Rouge. He was buying a cheap slice of pizza when he was approached by a beautiful girl with a French accent. It wasn't even noon, but he agreed to go with her to a club. Inside the lights were low and most of the tables were empty. He was presented with a menu, which alerted him to the fact that this club was a actually a bordello. He apologised to the waitress who had presented him with the menu.

"I'm sorry. I'm in the wrong place." He stood to make his exit.

At which point, Muscle approached. "You want to leave? You've got to pay first."

"Wh ... wha ... excuse me ... for what?"

"The club fee. You haven't paid the club fee. You have to pay the club fee before you can leave."

My step second cousin (or cousin once removed) didn't have the £350 club fee, so Muscle generously offered to escort him to a cash machine where Jacob extracted the club fee and blew his entire graduation present budget before he'd even been in the country a full day.

Falling off the turnip truck can hurt.

* A fellow blogger's book. I'm not very deep into it yet, but it's got me hooked.
**I like using this expression in the UK. It strikes me as very American, and I have a sense that British people listen to it with bemusement. Could be I'm just imagining bemusement.

Full Moon Not Full

I’m on the bus and thinking that I haven’t been thinking in a while. Well, not about anything for the Internet Audience.

This morning I am thinking. Now that the floodgates [those non-Internet-Audience thoughts] have come down, the thoughts come hard and fast.

I think about how London, more than any city I’ve lived in, seems to be all straight lines against the sky.

The moon has seemed full these past couple of days. I know that it is probably not full because whenever I think it’s full I find out that the astronomers who determine such things have informed the rest of the population – usually via the Internet weather pages - that the full moon was either the day before or will be the day after I have seen the moon and thought with my naked and untrained eye that it was a full moon. So there’s a thought: the moon looks full, but it probably isn’t.

I think about how when I woke up in the middle of the night the moon was shining on me through the window in the office / guest room. I was sleeping in the guest room because The Man was out of town and I wanted to sleep with the dog, who is not allowed in our room. I think about how The Dog is a little smelly. She needs a bath, and now I need to wash the sheets we use in the guest room.

Who will be the next guests?

My father. I cringe a little bit and wonder how I will bear the visit. I think about the last party we hosted. Polish and English, Brasilian and French were present when someone noticed The Pocket Book of Patriotism*, which had been a gift from my father. I’d kept it around out of laziness, but the humour it provided during the party was cracking – especially once I got over the shame of being a patriot’s daughter – convinced me that it is a good party trick.

Will we put him and his wife in the guest room or give them our room?

There are still details I need to iron out.

*Imagine my surprise to learn, whilst extensively researching the facts for this post, that there is a British Pocket Book of Patriotism.

Football Hero Sighted

I like a good celebrity sighting. Hell, I like any celebrity sighting. My heart goes all wonky; my elbows go all wobbly; I get very excited.

Which is why I was so looking forward to yesterday's Fulham - Liverpool match. Clive Owen turned up at last season's match; I thought he might show up again.

Which is why I put on mascara and lipstick to go to the match.

Which is my My Man rolled his eyes as he stood at the front door waiting for me.

Clive Owen didn't show up. Maybe he's in the middle of filming something somewhere else. Maybe he's disappointed by Liverpool's lacklustre season. Whatever the reason, he was not sighted yesterday.

My mascara and lipstick, however, were not for naught.

The man in the photo is a celebrity, and although the novelty of seeing him is wearing off (I see him every game), he's worth a little mascara and lipstick. That man is George Cohen, a squad member of England's last world cup winning team (1966). He's a bit of a hero. I like him.

Screw Clive.