Hell's Half Acre

receive the body LOL

mr. manfrengensengen

I wasn't the biggest fan of A Fish Called Wanda when it came out. Loved John Cleese. LOVED Kevin Kline, who I believe won an award for his performance. But overall the movie never knocked my socks off and I'm not sure why.

I think that time and experience have caused this film to warrant a second viewing. Master G is fond of the movie and I trust his opinion on all things funny. He has a favorite quote from it that often gets stuck in my head even though I had no idea which scene it came from. 

I was looking for footage of the quote and I found The Best of Otto on YouTube. In watching this montage, I couldn't help but laugh at how much I am identifying with Otto this weekend.

Meltdown-On-Thames

yesterday I walked from Putney Bridge to Waterloo. It was a good long walk, especially since I hit some weird dead ends and had to backtrack. I found Battersea Park. . .pretty cool place. Yesterday it was beautiful here, around 70 degrees so by the time I got to Battersea it was full of kids and families and sunbathers. I thingk I may have gotten a little color actually. People were grilling in the park. . .it felt pretty American, except I realized that we, meaning me, don't really go on picnics much anymore. I miss that.

Yesterday I had a bit of a meltdown surrounding food and etiquette. I felt out of place, tired, disoriented and mostly just tired. I'm off my routine. I may seem spontaneous but I really am not. I am a creature of habit. I go to the same coffee shop each day. I take the same route to work. I go the same bars where I know people.

Since it was nice, I knew my task for the day was to walk and get familiar with this place so that I can make an educated decision about where I will look for a flat, when it comes down to it. BTW, this place is fucking expensive. Manhattan pales. SF doesn't register. They're just stepping stones. Thankfully I've lived in both places so the sticker shock isn't as bad as it was for G, who moved here from Houston. I'm digressing. This story is about blowing the routine and how I almost had a meltdown in a restaurant.

So with my task ahead of me, I take off, figuring I'll grab a bite somewhere. It was a little after noon and I haven't had food. My body and I are firm believers in the power of breakfast and if we don't get food in the morning, we will start to unravel by 2pm.

2pm hit. no food. I decide to duck into a cutesy little restaurant on Putney Wharf. The area reminds me of being in Battery Park. I look like I should be in my hood in Queens, schlepping around on 37th ave. I feel like the hostess is humoring me by allowing me in to the restaurant.  I feel conspicuous as hell. It's as if I have lost all powers of communication. I am the only person in the restaurant dining alone. I am the only one who looks like they just rolled out of bed.

The server never comes. Hunger is making me shake. I begin to get enraged, in the way I get when I am ridiculously hungry and can't think straight. I have a dilemma. Do I flag down someone with a loud "EXCUSE ME" in my american accent? Is this restaurant all "european style" where we have to reflect for an hour before we order? Why hasn't the person even asked me what I want to drink? How do I get someone's attention without looking like a chaod, considering the fact that I'm entering a dibetic coma? Oh I know, they won't serve me because I'm fat. That's it. They figured I'm good to go already? Sure. Or is it because I am alone? Maybe they don't realize that not everyone comes as part of a pair? Could that be it?

It's been twenty minutes. Two tables seated after me have their orders taken. I am so angry and at a loss for etiquette that my eyes start to tear up. Then I get more angry. I am ready to storm out. It seems that there is no way to handle this without a "Scene."

This whole thing would have been solved in 2 secs in NYC for me. Easy. "Do we have a server? can you send them over? I'm ready to order."

Here I am a newbie and far too self-conscious of American stereotypes.  I notice that the table next to me is having a hard time getting their check. The table on the other side of me is having a hard time getting menus. I finally realize, there is no etiquette problem. The server JUST SUCKS. BIG TIME. And I suppose when you don't make your living off tips, it probably doesn't matter to you that you suck.

So I flag down the hostess. "Can you send over my server? I'm ready to order. And I'd like a glass of tap water and a Sauvignon Blanc, mmmkay?"

The service still sucked but at least I got the ball rolling and prevented further meltdownages.  Did I tip? Was I supposed to? I used this opportunity to practice the no tipping habit so prevalent here. I wouldn't have tipped in the states? 25 min before the person show at my table? Not acceptable.

So if you're at Putney Wharf, avoid this place. It sucks.

an american hairball in london

i am not prone to crippling social anxiety in New York. I walk around like I own the place. Here in what I formerly called the jolly but today I will call HELL, I can feel myself wanting to find a cave. A big fat cave where an out of shape rude american can go have a bit of a hide.

I'll get over it I'm sure.

everyone here seems fit. I'm trying to figure out how much weight I'll need to lose in STONES. Looks like five or so.

also, I tried to use the stove today. The knobs look like this. You tell me which one is HOT. I mean hot like I need to make some bacon comfort food hot. (answer = 5, btw.)

I figured google would know what the translation of the dials was but guess what? I type in Ignus electric stove I get nothing.  I finally figure out that it is an electric HOB. WTF??  Were we not beget from this country? If so, why can't they speak our language.

god help us everyone. 

I'm gonna rock down to electric avenue

I am getting told that Brixton might be a place to consider for living. I can't help but hear The Guns of Brixton in my head but I have been reminded by many that the guns of Brixton were firing over twenty years ago.

What also happened over twenty years ago was Eddie Grant rockin' down to Electric Avenue. Brixton, according to the our collective unconscious, Wikipedia, is the heart of the Afro-Carribbean community.

The UK beigers recommended it. . .said it's getting trendy. They're all young dudes. . .so far they're looking out for me like a posse of little brothers.

the jolly's answer to Chipotle

yeah, they have burritos in the Jol. check this Judy! 

I visited the Burro-Mobile and it was good.

st. whosits?

today is st. george's day. He's the patron saint of England apparently but no one over here gives a shit. I am thinking that we should put together a pitch to American beer manufacturers because we don't really have a good beer drinking holiday in April. Just sayin'.

guess who I saw!

I was walking along the south bank and look who I ran into! FRIXCOURT the little alien from Xanax.

we had drinks and bonded over how alien we feel when taken out of our respective orbits. Very alien indeed.

the iraeli/palestinian conflict in my pants

it's not really in my pants, it's on my computer. Earlier today, I tried to reply to an email and all I could type was hebrew. What up? Yo, I don't even know Hebrew Yo.  The I go to blogger and I see this:

it's like there is a whole middle east peace crisis being fought on my computer. me no get it. I am neutral.

Mary Queen Mother of God, what the hell is this??

Yesterday I was introduced to this concept.

A Scotch egg consists of a cold, hard-boiled egg removed from its shell, wrapped in a sausage meat mixture, coated in breadcrumbs, and deep-fried. The dish was invented by the London food shop Fortnum & Mason, in 1738.[1] Contrary to popular belief, it is not a Scottish dish. Scotch eggs are commonly eaten cold, typically with salad and pickles.