Joey B

On the Road Again

2010-11-09T10:03:00.000-08:00

After three years without a car, I finally bought another car. Actually, I bought two. First, I bought a VW Golf. I had it fifteen days, then I crashed it. It was a write off. I had to wait a month for the insurance check. Once the insurance paid off, I started looking for another car. With the Golf, I got lucky. I found it the first day I started looking with money in my pocket. The second car took me over a month to find. I finally settled on a Peugeot, which cost half as much as my Golf. I never dreamed I would ever buy a French car. In any case, the Peugeot has survived and gets good mileage. It's great being off public transport and I get to and from work in half the time.

A woman I wanted to date turned me down, a couple of years ago, because I didn't have a car. More recently, last year, another woman I was briefly dating complained that she didn't want to go on dates with me riding on the bus. This was despite the fact that she didn't own a car and road the bus every day, herself. She told me, "you need to buy a car." I let her know that I would buy a car when I was ready, not when she snapped her fingers. Both these women lost out on a relationship with me, because they couldn't be patient. I wonder how many others made the same mistake?

When I was younger, I always wanted flashy sports cars. Several times in my life, I loaded myself with expensive car payments to support this desire. This time, after three years with no car, I decided that any car is better than no car. I paid for my modest car cash. No loan payments to make, it has cheap insurance, and good fuel economy. Maybe I have finally learned a lesson.

The End of An Era

2010-11-03T02:03:00.000-07:00

After several years, my second housemate, Hitler's Nephew, has moved out. Although I didn't get along with him and we spent much of those years not speaking to each other, I miss him, after a fashion. At least he was interesting. The new guy, D1, is nice enough, but he's bland and dull. He doesn't have any interesting stories and isn't even quirky enough to provide the basis for anything funny for me to write about. At least I still have my other housemate, Nando, my racist Italian housemate.

It Finally Haappened

2010-10-31T16:55:00.000-07:00

Finally, I got to see myself on the big screen, in a proper film. While watching "Green Zone," with Matt Damon, I saw myself, in the background. There's an old saying, "you wait ages for a bus, then three come along at once." Well, I saw myself in another film, "The Infidel." I'm clearer in there and visible several times. I wonder when the third one will come along? I did manage to attend the world Premier of "The Infidel," my first premier, but they didn't let me attend the after party. Shucks!

Speak English!

2009-10-18T23:52:00.000-07:00

I get frustrated with some people who talk on mobiles while on public transport. Okay, it’s not what you think. Plenty of people moan about being bothered by people having mobile conversations on buses, trains, even on the Tube, when it runs above ground. I have no problem with it. In fact, in these tough economic times, I think it’s a golden opportunity for free entertainment. Instead of berating these travelling talkers, listen in on their conversations. You get endless hours of free amusement, then. Why waste money on an iPod, when you can hear one half of a juicy conversation, free? The songs on your iPod you’ve heard before anyway. This is fresh, real life, and it’s drama!

I’m sure there are some of you, out there, who’ll claim that earwigging is rude. “Nonsense,” I say. If people are going to talk loudly, in public spaces, they should expect people to listen. It’s fun trying to guess who the person on the other end is, when you only have half the conversation to go on. This can be especially useful, when you’ve completed the easy and intermediate sudokus, and are stuck on the hard one. As you listen in on the conversation, you can try to figure out if it’s to a spouse, boyfriend or girlfriend, parent, employer, employee, business associate, or just a friend.

However, as no good column would be complete without a moan about something, I do have one complaint. As London is a cosmopolitan city, with people from all sorts of nations and ethnic backgrounds, you do get some spoilsports who insist on talking, on their mobiles, in a foreign language. It is to these people that I say, “Speak English!” Otherwise, how are the rest of us supposed to listen in? I will defend to the death (yours, not mine) your right to talk loudly into your mobile, on the public transport network, as long as you do it in English. Otherwise, you can sod off, back to where you came from. I’m an immigrant too and if I can do it, so can you. Those of us born into families that speak English are notoriously bad at going on to learn other languages. Therefore, it’s up to you lot, who learned English as a second language, to speak it whenever you’re talking on your mobile, in public. Have a nice day.

A Quiet Cinqo De Mayo

2009-05-06T16:43:00.000-07:00

Of course, yesterday was Cinqo de Mayo. For ten year, I have been saying that I would go out for Cinqo de Mayo, to a Mexican restaurant, here in England. In the past, I always forgot, or, one year, I just couldn't be bothered. Since I have started driving buses, in London, I have seen several Mexican restaurants, in various locations around South London. I almost forgot again, this year, but, at the last minute, I remembered. So, after work, I caught a bus to Spices Yard, in Croydon. There is a Mexican restaurant across the street and that's the nearest one to the garage where I am based. Nobody I sent a text to showed any interest, but I didn't let that stop me. With great anticipation, I walked into the restaurant. It was deserted. There was on couple there and the staff outnumbered the customers. What went wrong?Back home, in New York, Mexican restaurants put on big Cinqo de Mayo celebrations. It's some sort of holiday, in Mexico. This place, in Croydon, was dead as a swine flu victim. There weren't even any signs of the holiday, anywhere. It was midweek and Arsenal were playing Manchester United. Maybe that was it. Even after I wished each staff member a happy Cinqo de Mayo, they each seemed underwhelmed. I had my first margarita ever, order dinner for one, ate, then went home. Has swine flu killed off all Mexican enthusiasm?

Blogging

2009-05-03T15:36:00.000-07:00

My regular readers have probably noticed that my once prolific blogging has, lately, slowed to almost a standstill. It's not been for lack of desire, but I am way more busy than I used to be. Also, since my car blew up, almost two years ago, getting around has become a lot more time consuming, thus using time I used to blog. I am planning on acquiring a laptop, soon. This may result in me finding more time to blog.

Nando Blew Up Our Kitchen

2008-12-19T08:33:00.000-08:00

Last night, I was relaxing in the lounge, watching TV. Beginning to get hunger pangs, I was waiting for Nando, my racist, Italian housemate, to finish in the kitchen, before starting to prepare my evening meal. Suddenly, I herd a loud popping noise, followed by Nando yelling, "shit!" in an Italian accent. "Are you alright," I shouted over the sound from the TV set. There was no reply. I yelled again, still nothing. Hitler's Nephew, my other housemate, looked up, but made no effort to ascertain what happened. Then Nando walked out of the kitchen and went upstairs, holding his face, but he wouldn't respond to my questions. Had an improvised explosive device (IED) gone off in the kitchen? Were we the victims of some terrorist attack? No. Nando had blown up his coffee pot.
I don't know what caused it to happen, but there were coffee grounds everywhere, in the kitchen. Eventually, Nando came back downstairs. He was fine. He'd merely gotten some coffee grounds in his eye. Fortunately, he'd not been standing closer to the pot when it blew and I wouldn't have to miss the rest of "the Family Guy," driving him to the hospital. I did have to wait an hour and a half for Nando to finish cleaning the kitchen, before I could have dinner. The top half of the pot had rocketed into the ceiling, chipping the plaster and leaving a big, brown, splash stain there. The ceiling would need to be repainted by someone, not me. Once I was assured that Nando wasn't injured, the whole thing did strike me as a bit funny. Who needs satellite TV when there's this kind of drama in the house? Eventually, I got to enjoy a steak dinner, with a jacket potato, sweetcorn, broccoli, and cauliflower. The steak was topped with fried onions and mushrooms, plus A1 steak sauce, imported from America. I washed it down with a cold, Becks beer. Life is great.

Easier Christmas Shopping

2008-12-19T08:04:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I awakened to find that my racist, Italian housemate, Nando, had the day off from work. I rushed downstairs in my robe, to see if he was going out. Sure enough, he was sitting at the kitchen table, fully dressed in house leaving attire and smoking a cigarette. In front of him was a cup of one of his coffee concoctions.
In response to my inquiry, he informed me that he was going into town, to do some shopping. I asked him if I might tag along, if I got dressed quickly. After cautioning me that he would be out shopping for a couple of hours, he agreed that I might accompany him. The advantage for me is that Nando has a car, so I would get free, door to door transport, between home and the town centre. I'm not sure what the advantage would be for Nando, but that was his problem, not mine.
As Nando pulled into a pay, multi-storey car park, it occurred to me that we could enjoy free parking in Camberley. When I suggested going to Camberley instead, Nando said he couldn't be bothered. He's willing to pay a couple of quid for parking, rather than make the effort of driving a couple of extra miles. His first errand was to go to the bank and pay a bill. There are so many ways that Nando's life is less convenient, as he refuses to get a computer and and internet access. So much of what he goes out to do, I can do over the net, from the comfort of my bedroom.
After the bank, our next stop was a card shop, where he started looking for Christmas cards. It was so crowded, I decided to wait for him outside, where I managed to find a bench to sit on. As I sat, I addressed a Christmas card to my mother, back in America. Most likely, this would be the only Christmas card I would send, this year. Having finished addressing the envelope, I read a book, as I continued waiting for my Italian friend. When he finally appeared, he told me not to get up, as he wanted to sit and have a cigarette.
After his nicotine break, Nando walked over to a store, diagonally across the pedestrianized square. This emporium boasted massive discounts, on large, red signs in all its windows. At the entrance, I told Nando that I was going to the post office. I might as well get my mother's card in the post, as soon as possible. While Nando had been in the card shop, I had tried to find my voucher for a free eye exam, from one of the high street, optical chains. Having my eye exam was one of the tasks I was hoping to complete on this trip. Sadly, I had been unable to find it. I would have to print off another one, so that was one task that would need to await another trip.
Arriving in the post office, I was shocked to discover a very long queue. This was a Thursday afternoon. Where were all these people coming from? Don't they have jobs? Also, why is it there are about nine windows in the post office, but they never seem to have more than three of them staffed, at any one time? One staff member was standing near the front of the queue, asking people if they wanted to apply for a Post Office credit card. Everyone was turning him down. Surely, he would have been better employed manning another one of the windows, so the line could be serviced quicker. As chance would have it, I ended up with the only female working the windows. She charged me £1.22 to send my card to my mother. That seemed a bit higher than I used to pay. Usually, it's under a Pound. At least she stamped and posted it for me. That's much better customer service than in the past, when they hand me some stamps and my envelope back, which I have to put in the post box myself.
Having escaped the postal ordeal, I then visited my bank, which is just across from the post office. I checked the exchange rate for Dollars. Then a young man in a bank uniform asked me if he could help. I asked what the current fee was for international money orders. It had been years since I had sent one to my mother. While he didn't know, he asked a beautiful, female member of staff and she informed me that the price was £1 more than it was the last time I used the service, over five years ago. It was still £5 cheaper than a wire transfer. The young man proceeded to engage me in conversation. He admitted that the bank was quiet and there was definitely a business slowdown, for them. We discussed the pros and cons of my getting another loan, next year, to finance a motor vehicle purchase. Then we talked about the economy and the futile attempts of politicians to control it.
Eventually, the young banker was needed, to do some actual work. I left to find Nando. Checking my mobile phone, I discovered that Nando had sent me a text, about twenty minutes earlier. At that time, he was heading to HMV. He could have been anywhere after twenty minutes, so I called him. When he answered, he informed me he was at W. H. Smith, so I told him I'd meet him there. After I caught up to him, we went to Boots. There, he purchased several items, including four of the same thing. He said that item was buy three, get one free. I suggested that his friends might get annoyed if he gave four of them the exact same Christmas present. Undeterred, he rationalized that none of the four knew each other and like he felt about most things, when it came to Christmas shopping, he couldn't be bothered. Since Nando didn't have a Boots loyalty card, he agreed that I could have the points from his purchase. As we were near the car, he decided to put the purchases he'd made so far in the car. I waited in the warmth of Princess Square shopping mall, reading my book.
When Nando returned, he led us to Argos. He informed me that he was looking for a CD rack, for his girlfriend's daughter. I suggested that he try Woolworth's, as they were closing down, or Bentall's, although the latter would not be cheap. I also suggested that he try the discount shop, run by the geezers in the turbans. As Bentall's was closest to our position, we went there first. Nando found some crystal wine glasses he wanted, there, but thought they were a bit pricey. Leaving the glasses, we went to Costa Coffee. Nando wanted a cup of coffee and a cigarette. He bought me a hot chocolate. I wonder if he'd forgotten that I now earn more than him? We sat outside, European style, where he could smoke. Over our refreshments, he informed me that the planned regeneration of Bracknell town centre had been put on hold, again, due to the credit crunch. We agreed that the town centre looked dismal and needed a regeneration. There seemed to be fewer Christmas lights, this year, and fewer children's rides.
Having refreshed, we made our way to Woolie's. I looked for bargains in the CD section, while Nando went off in search of a CD rack. I resisted the temptation to buy any CDs and Nando found nothing there he wanted. This might end up being the last time I step into a Woolworth's. The chain closed in America, over a decade ago. On to the discount store, run by the turban wearing geezers. After browsing awhile, Nando inquired. One of the non-turban wearing staff agreed to show us their selection of CD racks. The Italian picked out a wall mounted unit, which happened to be the cheapest.
With CD rack in hand, we returned to Bentall's, so Nando could purchase the wine glasses. While we waited to pay, Nando looked over the CD rack. Puzzled, he asked me how it stood up. "It's a wall mounted unit," I replied. "You screw it into the wall, just as it shows on the picture." It was then that I discovered that Nando hadn't realized that his purchase wasn't a free standing CD rack. He's not very good at this shopping stuff, I suppose. I suggested that he return to the discount shop and ask to exchange it for one he preferred. He had doubts about the willingness of the shopkeepers to exchange it, but I reassured him that, given that he wasn't asking for a refund and that he'd be purchasing a more expensive one, they'd be fine with it.
Back we went to the discount shop, which was in the opposite direction to the car. Several times, Nando expressed doubts about being able to exchange the CD rack, but each time I reassured him. Once we were at the store, the exchange went off without a hitch, as I expected. We headed back towards the car and I helped Nando carry his packages. So, I turned out to be some use to him, after all. In the car, I helped pay for the parking, as Nando didn't have enough change. I ended up covering about 35% of the cost, which was less than my hot chocolate cost.
As Nando drove us home, I reflected on what lessons could be learned about Christmas shopping, from our day out. Use the internet, whenever possible, so you don't have to gown into town, if it can be avoided. Be careful that what you buy is what you want, what you really, really want, like the Spice Girls. It then occurred to me that I had only looked at things to buy myself, during the outing. Christmas shopping is much easier if you only shop for yourself. They say it's better to give than to receive, so surely it's best to give AND receive. Buying gifts for yourself would ensure that. Nando experienced frustration, while I had an enjoyable day out. I spent a minimal amount of money, looked at several purchases, but didn't make them, and I even got my mother's Christmas card into the post. Santa Claus could take lessons from me. So, if your tempted to buy anything in this run-up to Christmas, don't. Have a cup of hot chocolate instead, preferably at your friend's expense. Have a merry Christmas and if no one gets you the gift you want, buy it yourself, during the after Christmas sales.

New Day Job

2008-12-04T18:03:00.000-08:00

I am so happy with my new "day" job. No more working at the restaurant, for me. Okay, I miss the free food, but I have doubled my income. I'm now saving money to send my mother and I have money in my pocket. For those of you who don't already know and are curious as to what I am doing, I am driving a bus, in London. A big, red double-decker, London bus. Hey! it's fun.
Of course, I can't help thinking about the negative attitudes that used to be directed my way, by a number of women, at the paltriness of my old salary. One old girlfriend referred to me as someone "with no prospects." Now I earn more than her, ha, ha, ha. Another female friend, desperate to get married and/or have a baby, turned her nose up at me, because I didn't earn enough to, in her words, support her, while she took time off from work, to give birth. Although she wanted to wait five years, before getting pregnant. I used to ask her, "why do you assume I will be making the same in five years time?" Then, there was the woman I was seeing, last year, who stopped all contact with me, because I said I would marry someone rich, for money. Why was she bothered? She's not rich. Anyway, this "indecent proposal" conversation was only academic. There was another woman, who turned her nose up at dating me, in part, because I don't own a car. Well, I am planning on buying a car again, next year.
Sod all of them! I'm on my way back up. While the world has a financial melt-down, my financial situation is vastly improving. It's going to be a happy new year, indeed.

Third Time Unlucky?

2008-12-02T12:02:00.000-08:00

It's been almost six months since I posted a blog article. Traveling by public transportation uses up a lot of the free time I used to spend blogging. Also, I've been very busy, doing radio, TV, and my new day job. In any case, I wanted to share something with you, my lovely readers, for some time. I've finally taken the time to write about it.
The details are a little fuzzy, now, as this actually happened last spring. In my last two postings, I explained how I had helped total strangers. The first time was a beautiful, young woman. Then I helped an old lady, but as I got something out of it, cynics among you have cast doubt on that as an act of chivalry. It happened again, but this time, I helped a man.
I was on my way North, one Saturday morning, to do my radio show. I stopped at Egham Train station, to by a ticket to Victoria, since my season ticket didn't cover travel to London stations. Ahead of me, there was a muscular young man at the ticket window. He seemed to be having trouble communicating with the woman behind the glass. He was asking for directions to Victoria Station and I suddenly realized that he was speaking in an American accent. After a bit of hesitation, my impatience got the better of me and I interrupted them. "I can show you how to get to Victoria. That's where I'm going," I said.
The young man accepted my offer of assistance and, more to the point for me, got out of the way, so I could buy my ticket. The next train was due in minutes and I didn't want to miss it. After getting my ticket, I told the fellow to follow me, onto the next train. As I explained that he needed to change at Clapham Junction, he gave me an unsure look. "Just come with me, as I'm going that way," I instructed. It seemed the simplest way to solve his problem.
So, we ended up sitting together, on the train. He explained that he was a soldier, serving in Iraq, but was in the UK on leave, visiting some friends. Although I was interested in finding out about Iraq, he seemed reluctant to talk about it. I relented and we talked about what he'd seen on his vacation, so far. Once I had safely escorted him to Victoria, I showed him where to catch the coach he was looking for, then headed to my own.
Having now helped a man, so that it can't be excused away by my weakness for women, what does this signify? Am I getting soft as I get older? Was it just because he was American? Or, merely the result of me wanting to get him out of my way, at the ticket window? What will become of my reputation, now?

Oh No, Not Again!

2008-06-20T10:48:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I posted a blog article. I'm sorry about that, but I'm so busy these days, it's hard to find the time. I want to mention something that happened the day after the events in my last post ("A Bit of Chivalry," April 30, 2008). To review, that article is about me helping a total stranger, on the way to Victoria Bus Station, in London.
On the following day, I was on my way back home, from Withernsea. It was raining and cold, so I decided to treat myself to a taxi ride home, from the Bracknell train station. When I walked out of the front of the station, all the taxis had pulled off with other passengers. There was one couple who'd missed the last taxi. For some strange reason, these two rocket scientists were standing at the end of the taxi rank, where they had just missed the last cab. They weren't moving to the front of the queue, so as to be in place when the next cab pulls up. This left me in a dilemma. Should I go stand with them, being that they were there ahead of me, or should I go stand at the front, where they should have moved?
After a brief few moments pondering this, one of life's profound questions, I decided to stand at the front, where they should have been. I figured that if they noticed me at the front, they might wake up and come there. If they did and said anything about being in queue first, I'd defer to them. On the other hand, if they were too stupid to cotton on and move to where they were supposed to be, and they didn't say anything, I'd take the first cab that comes.
Fortunately, the taxi rank is covered by the upper floors of the station building. This meant I was sheltered from the rain, while I waited. During the wait, I pondered the irony that the one time I wanted a cab, there were none there, available. That's quite unusual for Bracknell train station. There's usually plenty waiting when the trains arrive. All of the sudden, I noticed this tiny, little, old lady, who had walked up and stood to my right. The rocket scientists were still at the wrong end of the queue. This old lady had gotten in queue behind me, seeing that I was at the front. Like me, she'd left the idiots down the other end to fend for themselves. She was carrying a little bit of shopping and I started wondering if I should let her take the first cab, when it arrived. It's too bad we weren't going the same place, then we could share it and split the cost. As I stood there, my curiosity grew. Where was she headed? Was it to anywhere near my house?
Eventually, a taxi approached, returning empty from dropping of a previous customer. The old lady saw it at the same time I did. She looked up at me and said, "this is your cab."
For some unknown reason, I overcame indecision and my strong tendency not to speak to strangers. I asked her, "where are you headed to?" It turned out she was going to the same street as me. She lived about fifty houses up the road. So, I suggested that we share the cab between us.
"Are you sure?" she inquired, in response. I reassured her that I was certain. What a wonderful outcome. I was able to get her on her way, so she wouldn't have to stand there and wait longer, while at the same time, getting my own journey home for half price. The driver dropped her off first, then me. As I paid him, my sheer joy at saving half the fare was interrupted by a tiny, negative thought. This was the second time I had helped a total stranger, in two days. Was there something wrong with me? Was I ill? Had I lost my mind? If news of this gets out, what will happened to my reputation?

A Bit of Chivalry

2008-04-30T12:01:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, the 19th of April, I was traveling up to Withernsea, to do my radio show. I happened to be walking from Victoria Tube Station, in London, to Victoria Coach Station, to get a bus to Hull. As I started to cross the road, I noticed an attractive, blond, young woman, struggling with several pieces of luggage. She had so much stuff, I figured she must be travelling with someone else. Normally, I don't get involved. Hey! I'm a New Yorker. I keep my head down and mind my own business. This time, something caused me to break the habit of a lifetime.
My inertia carried me beyond the girl. I was one quarter of the way across the road, past her, but still looking back at her. I wondered if she could be alone. I don't know why I did, but I turned back. Maybe it was because I was still smarting from the twenty-something, oriental woman giving me her seat, previously. In any case, I approached this blond and asked, "are you going to the coach station?" Her response was a bit confused and she wasn't on the right side of the road for it, but I worked out that the answer was, "yes." Unfortunately for her, she was planning to head in the wrong direction. Fortunately for her, I wasn't a mugger, rapist, con man, or murderer.
Victoria Coach station is a little confusing, as it's spread over three buildings. She was heading toward the building where mostly local buses depart from. She needed to head to the departures building, for the long-distance services. I happened to be headed to the same place. I pointed out where she needed to go, then asked, "would you like me to help you carry your bags?" Enthusiastically, she said yes. I took one of her biggest bags, with built in wheels, and another, smaller bag. I hung the smaller bag from the extended handle of the bigger one. I still had my own shoulder bag, plus a shopping bag full of newspapers and food. We set off to the departures building.
Her bag on wheels was heavier than I thought and I was struggling with all I had to contend with. She spoke with an American accent, so I asked where she was from. Alaska was the answer. "You're only the second person I have ever met from Alaska," I said. No wonder this chick was so trusting. She was from the wilderness. I learned that she was a student, spending a semester in Europe. Having come to Britain from Germany, she'd spent a week in London and was now on her way north, to some university I'd never heard of. As I struggled with her heavy bags, I asked, "you haven't got books in here, have you?" After all, she was a self-confessed student. She denied that the contents contained literary matter, so I asked, "why have you got so much stuff?" Innocently, she informed me that she'd been buying all sorts of things as she travelled across Europe. "Do yourself a favor," I suggested, "and send some of this stuff home, by courier, or something." I couldn't imagine her managing on her own, with this load.
"I thought of doing that," she said, "but when I asked my parents, they said to just keep it with me."
Her parents probably didn't want to be bothered with all of her junk. "You haven't figured it out, yet, huh? Don't ask your parents, just send it." She seemed a bit clueless. Then I found out that she was only seventeen. No wonder she didn't know what to do. I told her she was pretty brave, traveling around Europe and doing a semester abroad, at seventeen, all on her own. She was earlier for her bus than I was for mine, so we chatted for a while, in the departures lounge. She explained that she'd finished high school early, which explained why she was doing a university semester abroad, at such a young age. Obviously, she was brainy, if not worldly. Something paternalistic in me had taken over. She was a year younger than my evil ex-stepdaughter, the Black Princess, was now, and even more blond. I gave her tips on Britain and advice, plus invited her to tune in to my radio show. Eventually, other girls near to her age, fellow students, started turning up. I noticed her looking at them and realised that she wanted to get to know some of them. I said farewell and shuffled off to my gate. I felt satisfied that I had helped a very deserving person. What's wrong with me? Am I getting soft as I get older, or what?

How Old Does She Think I Am?

2008-04-16T11:43:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday, on the way home from my day job, I decided to take advantage of an accumulation of loyalty points and stop at a supermarket, to redeem some of them. It was my turn to buy toilet paper, for the house. Toilet paper is one of those items I can't get free, at work. With a family size pack running about £4, it seemed like the ideal time to cash in some points.
I stopped in the Sainsbury's in Camberley, before catching the train home. Spotting some vegetables marked down, I added some impulse items to my basket. When I was ready to check out, I was faced with one of those supermarket dilemmas. To my left was a very attractive, "black" female cashier, with no one in line. To my right, an ugly, "white," female cashier, equally idle. Which cashier should I choose? Cheekily, I asked the "black" gal, "which one of you should I go to?" Unimpressed, she suggested that I use the other woman. Despite her advice, I started putting my purchases on the "black" woman's conveyor belt. I had overcome a moment's hesitation, when the thought occurred to me that the ugly woman might be the better cashier. When it comes to picking checkout queues, beauty usually wins out, with me. If I must stand in a queue, I might as well have a pretty face to look at. I would come to regret my decision.
I'd found a real bargain in toilet paper. I selected a package of Sainsbury's own brand, which was sixteen rolls for the price of twelve. This was the largest package of loo roll I had ever purchased and me without a car. Fortunately, it came with a built-in handle. With my other purchases in a carrier bag and having saved £7.50 off a total bill of just over £8, I walked to the Camberley train station. I'd messed up my timing and just missed the train to Ascot. That left me with almost thirty minutes to wait for the next one. Sitting down to pass the time, I happened to start reviewing the receipt from my shopping. I have a tendency to look over my receipts from supermarkets, to check that I haven't been over-charged. Usually everything is fine, but this time, it wasn't. The pretty cashier had overcharged me by thirty pence! I contemplated going back. It would be a pain in the ass to walk back, with the things I was carrying: my black shoulder bag, my package of sixteen loo rolls, and my carrier bag of impulse purchases. Still, I had time to kill and I hate losing money unnecessarily. As I walked back to the store, it occurred to me that the ugly woman probably wouldn't have made the mistake. A lot of ugly women are good at their jobs, because they can't just coast through on their looks.
I managed to get my thirty pence back and still catch the next train to Ascot. Once in Ascot, I changed platforms and caught the first train towards Reading; a necessary step, if one is going to Bracknell. After arriving in Bracknell, I decided that I'd had enough of schlepping with all the things I was carrying. I decided to treat myself to a bus ride home, rather than the half-an-hour walk. When the 194 arrived at the bus station, it was a double-decker. I didn't feel like struggling with all my stuff to the upper deck, especially as I was only going three stops. However, because I was one of the last people on the bus, there were no more easily accessible seats on the lower level. I resigned myself to parking my packages in the area provided for luggage and stand. As the bus started off, a lovely, oriental, young woman, seated in the single seat nearest to me, asked if I wanted to sit down. Even though I said, "no," she got up anyway. I figured she must be getting off soon, so I took the vacated seat.
It felt good to be seated. I eyed my benefactor and she smiled at me, when we made eye contact. She was short and looked a little like Lucy Liu, only with a slightly darker complexion. As I sat looking her over, thinking she's somewhat attractive, I tried to decide what Asian country she might be from. She looked Chinese, but with the tanned coloring that is common amongst Thais and Nepalese. As I was enjoying the view of her long, dark hair, we passed the first couple of stops without her getting off. It suddenly occurred to me that she hadn't gotten up because she was getting off. She had deliberately vacated the seat so I could have it, like one would do for an elderly person. Looking at her and estimating her age to be in her early twenties, I thought, "how old does she think I am?" Here I had been, fantasizing over her, sexually, and she'd been treating me like an old age pensioner! The pleasure of getting to sit had turned into a sour taste in my mouth. I'm not even fifty yet, for Pete's sake!
The bus approached my stop, so I signaled that I wanted to get off. As I gathered my things, I noted that the young woman was still on board. Well, at least she could have the seat back. I slipped out the door, leaving my little, oriental fortune cookie on board. Oh, the humiliation! She thinks I am an old man. I walked home from the bus stop, with my bags, sixteen rolls of toilet paper, and my bruised pride. Should I stoop to coloring my hair to hide the grey? What price vanity?

A Saturday Night Off

2008-04-10T11:38:00.000-07:00

This past Sunday, I had to be on location, for a film shoot, at 6:30AM. Because of that, it wasn't possible to do my "Night Waves" radio show, as it finishes at 7AM, and the studio is about 250 miles from the location. After explaining to the Station Manager, he was cool with me taking Saturday night off. After all, I make a hell of a lot more money working on a film, than I do doing radio.
The last time I was "off" on a Saturday, was the Saturday before New Year. Then, my good friends, Tim and Barbara, were visiting, from New York. Even though I was off, I was busy entertaining them, so it wasn't a relaxing time for me. This past Saturday was different. I had nobody to please other than myself. I was up for some fun. I found that Jordan Marsh's band, Blue Shoes, was playing a gig in Essex. I had to hire a car to get to the shoot on Sunday morning, so I picked it up Saturday evening, then set out for Essex. The car hire company gave me a free upgrade, because they were out of the cheap cars, which is what I had reserved. Instead, they gave me a Fiat Bravo and I wasn't complaining. The car was very nice, with a six speed transmission. I tuned in some music on the stereo, then blasted around the M25, to the other side of London.
Jordan was playing at the Eagle and Child, the same pub I had been turned away from, on New Year's Eve. This time, I had no trouble getting in. When I walked in, Jordan had just started his first set. He gave me a nod of acknowledgement, as I walked in. I bought a pint of Strongbow from the bar, then settled to enjoy the show. Jordan plays a nice mix of classic rock, soul, rockabilly, and even takes requests. Women in Essex have quite a reputation and there were several good looking Essex girls, present. In fact, I ended up surrounded. I had two brunettes in front of me and two blondes behind me.
When Jordan finished his second set and started packing up for the night, I walked over for a quick word. He was cordial as ever, even though we were interrupted by one of the brunettes, who was drunk. He told me that he's still not finished the CD he's working on. After saying goodbye, I rejoined the Fiat, out in the car park. With the stereo fired up, I roared back around the M25, to Berkshire and home. It was a fun night out. The only thing that could have made it better is if one of my friends had joined me. If you ever have the chance to see Jordan Marsh perform, grab it. He always gives an entertaining performance. This Saturday, I should be back on the radio, from Midnight, UK time, till 7AM, Sunday. You can listen to me at www.seasideradio.co.uk .

Open and Shut Case

2008-04-09T11:37:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday, I was working on a film shoot, on location, in London. It was my fourth day on the same project and, just as on the previous project I worked on with the same director, he seemed to keep us waiting around a lot. As long as I'm getting paid, I couldn't care less. On Thursday, I didn't do anything all day, but sit around, sleep, play sudoku, read the paper, eat, and chat with fellow background artistes.
Barbara, the Hungarian woman I met about eleven months ago, on the director's previous project, was also on the current shoot. This time, she'd gotten her son on the job, as well. He seemed like a nice young man and is very "into" films. Each day, I carry my black shoulder bag, to keep my "stuff" in. For the shoot, it contained flapjacks, newspapers, a book, my hat, plus back up pen, train schedules, bus schedules, my portable radio, and a few other "bits." The bag is actually an old, leather, laptop case. Someone was throwing it out, last year, when I rescued it. As I tend to pick up any free newspaper I can get my hands on, but don't throw them away until I have completed the sudokus in them, there are usually several newspapers sticking out of the top of one of the compartments of the case.
When we wrapped for the day, I happened to be walking out at the same time as Barbara's son. Suddenly, he says to me, "your bag is open."
After looking down to check it, I say, "I know." Of course it's open. I usually leave two or three of the top compartments open, because I have so much "stuff" inside, I can't close the zippers. Several newspapers were sticking out of one of the compartments, as normal. Was he really concerned that someone might steal one of my several days old newspapers, or was he just teasing me? I walked to the Tube station and didn't give the matter any more thought.
After taking the District line to Richmond, I crossed over to the Southwest Trains platform, to catch the next Reading bound train. When the train arrived, it was very full. I pushed past several people standing in the doorway. I had spotted one empty seat, between two people, facing backwards. I hurried to get to the seat, before someone else grabbed it. I was tired and wanted to sit for the journey to Bracknell. As I started down the aisle, towards the seat, one of the people who had been standing in the doorway grabbed my arm. It was a young man I had squeezed past. It had better be important, as he'd just violated the taboo against touching a stranger. Feeling annoyed, I turned to see what this person wanted. "Your bag is open," he said.
"Yeah, I know," I said feeling exasperated. That's it? This muppet grabbed my arm on a crowded train, delaying me from reaching the only available seat, to tell me my bloody bag is open? It's always open! Every day I travel, one or more of the compartments is unzipped. There's nothing valuable inside. Usually, no one says anything about it. In fact, I have been travelling on public transportation since last July and no one has ever told me my bag was open. Until last Thursday. Now, two young men had told me in the same day. What's with these guys and my open bag? Leave me alone! I hate when strangers who aren't beautiful women disturb me, in public. I hate it when people tell me something I am already fully aware of, as if they've done me this massive favor. Why me? Why that day? I can hardly wait till I can afford a limousine.

TV Alert: Dawn Porter Gets Her Man

2008-03-05T12:04:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow night, March 6th, Dawn porter's latest documentary, "Dawn Porter Gets Her Man," airs on BBC 3 at 9PM. As I participated in this project, I should be seen in the program. Don't miss it!

Backwards People Vs Forwards People

2008-03-04T12:24:00.000-08:00

One thing about travelling on the train is that a lot of seats face away from the direction of travel. This seems to be the case more for trains than for any other form of transport. When you fly on an airline, generally, all the seats face forwards. In some smaller planes, like corporate aircraft, and in helicopters, there are sometimes backwards facing seats, but not on airlines. One exception is the jump seats for cabin crew. These are often backwards facing. Some people don't like travelling facing backwards. They insist on facing forwards. I call these people, "forwards people." A minority prefer facing to the rear, so I call them, "backwards people." Others don't care, but I don't have a label for them.
Some forwards people claim they will throw up, if they ride in a backwards facing seat. I prefer facing forwards, myself. When I was younger, I went o great lengths to avoid riding backwards, but I never threw up because of it. As I have gotten older, I have found that I am less concerned with whether I end up in a backwards seat, or not. My main concern is to get where I am going and to have a seat. During my trip to Paris, at Christmas, I learned that my good friend, Barbara is a forwards person. She is one of those who claim riding backwards will make her vomit, so on the Eurostar, she insisted on moving from our reserved seats, which were backwards, to some forwards ones. I let her get on with it and stayed put.
The other day, I was on a crowed train. I ended up riding backwards. As there were so few seats available, I took the first one I could find. Looking to my right, across the aisle, I noticed that there were three blond women riding backwards, facing three brunettes riding forward. Is there a correlation between hair color and direction of travel preference? I feel empowered, because I can ride in either direction. Forwards people sometimes seem like a pain in the ass, when they start stressing over a seat. I've noticed one man, on the first train I take in the morning, who seems to be a backwards person. Even when a forward seat is available, he will take a backward one. I wonder if he'll be sick, if he rides forward? As I am a person who can ride in either direction, I wonder if that's why I haven't come up with a name for us?
So, which are you? Are you happy the way you are? Do you think direction of travel preference is due to nature or nurture? Can a forwards person ever be cured of his limitation? I just thought of something! Rowboats are primarily backwards facing. I wonder if forwards people are more susceptible to seasickness? Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily...life is but a dream.

Bench Man

2008-02-28T18:22:00.000-08:00

Having spent the past three months commuting by train, I've started to recognize some of the same people travelling at the same time, every weekday. One of these is a guy I have dubbed, "Bench Man." He wears a suit and looks like a business type. My suspicion at his profession is reinforced by the fact that he heads towards London every weekday morning. That's not unusual, as there are lots of business types on the eastbound train, in the morning. Many of them fumble with Blackberrys.
What's so special about Bench Man? Every time I see him, he's standing in front of one of the benches provided for passengers to sit on,while they wait at the station. That's his unique selling point. He stands in front of a bench. He stands so close to the bench, that he blocks one of the spaces on it, yet I never see him sitting, just standing in front. So why does he do it? This inconsiderate goon wastes one of the limited bench spaces and hes not even using it himself. If he would just move a couple of feet away from the bench, someone else could have a seat. Are you a Bench Man, blocking other people from using something, while deriving no benefit for yourself? Am I the only person who is considerate of others? I enjoy a small thrill when I arrive before Bench Man and sit in the spot where he usually stands. Gosh, the benches are ugly and not very comfortable, either.

Juno

2008-02-07T20:41:00.000-08:00

Late last year, I received an invitation to attend a screening of a new film, in London. The idea was to invite a load of bloggers to see the film, with the hope that we would then write about it. Given that the screening was free and there was a party afterwards, with free food and drinks, I was happy to attend. You know me, always happy to get freebies. The film I ended up seeing was "Juno." As it opens tomorrow, in the UK, it seems timely that I make good my end of the deal.
I wasn't expecting much. The title didn't give much away. Somewhere along the line, I learned that the film is about a teenager, Juno, who gets pregnant during her first sexual experience, then decides to give the baby away in adoption. It was supposed to be a comedy, but the description didn't exactly sound hilarious. Sometimes the best results come when one's expectations are lowered. The film is great! Ellen Page plays the 16-year-old, Juno and is quite convincing, as she looks very young. It's funny, which is a good thing for a comedy. The dialogue is filled with understated sarcasm, which is a form of humour I particularly enjoy.
The screenplay, written by Diablo Cody, has a full helping of great dialogue. What's even more impressive is that it's Cody's first film. Cody is a novelist and after this sample of her work, I definitely plan to check out her novels. She also is a blogger and was discovered by a film producer, who stumbled on her blog. He became a regular reader, then contacted her one day, offering her screenwriting work. This is the kind of blogger Cinderella story that entices us to sit for long hours in front of our keyboards, creating written matter for the world, unpaid.
Although the story is about a teenager, it's not a film only for teenagers. Those of us who are post-teens can find a lot to relate to. Between Juno's parents (played by Allison Janney and J.K. Simmons) and the prospective adopting parents (Jennifer Garner and Jason Bateman), there are plenty of adult characters to empathize with. If you're like me, you will find the teenagers ones you can relate to, as well. No matter what your age, you can remember what it was like to be a teen...unless you have Alzheimer's. Juno says the kind of stuff a lot of us would like to say, if we could return to our teens, but still know what we know now.
Directed by Jason Reitman (son of Ivan Reitman), it's one of the best comedies I have seen in a while. My opinion is supported by the fact that the film has received four Oscar nominations and a BAFTA nomination, since I saw it. The only slight flaw in it is that Juno has so many killer lines, it's almost unbelievable that she's a teenager. Also, if she's so clever, why the heck didn't she use a contraceptive? In any case, it's a film, not real life. It's easy to suspend disbelief. If she had used birth control, there'd be no story.
If all of this isn't enough to make you want to rush out a buy a ticket, the film as a fantastic soundtrack. The film is a total package: good acting, great screenplay, good directing, good music, and it's funny. It opens in Britain, tomorrow. Go see it. If you're the type of person to go to a film on Valentine's Day, the timing of the release couldn't be better. I can't think of a better date movie, out now.

Buses Versus Trains

2008-01-27T11:59:00.000-08:00

Towards the end of last year, certain unexpected bills caused a cash flow shortage for me. Part of my coping strategy was to switch from taking the bus to my day job, to taking the train. The advantages are: the train is cheaper and I can pay for my ticket using a credit card. The latter preserves cash. The disadvantages are: I have a 25-30 minute walk to and from the train station and I have to get up a half-hour earlier. Originally, I meant this to only be a temporary measure. Once the cash flow crisis eases, I intend to go back to the bus. The bus is more convenient, as I only have to walk around the corner to get it. However, now that I have gotten used to the train, I am wondering, should I stay with it?
The enforced walking has caused me to loose more weight, which can only be a good thing. I am now getting an hour of exercise, every day. Also, my weekly train ticket can be used to get me discounts on travel, to and from London. There are also loads of free newspapers available on the train. I could pay extra and add the bus from the town centre to my weekly train ticket. Then I wouldn't have to walk home, although I would still have to walk to the station in the morning, as the buses aren't running that early. If I did add the bus, I would lose the financial savings I am currently enjoying, using the train. What do you think I should do?

Christmas With a Difference

2008-01-14T17:56:00.000-08:00

If Christmas 2007 had been typical of the last five years, I would have been facing another holiday season alone. Nando, my racist Italian housemate, went home to Italy. Hitler's Nephew, my other housemate, went home to Austria, thankfully. So, it would have been sitting home, watching satellite TV, sleeping, and fooling around on the internet. However, Christmas was different, this time. For the first time since I moved to England, nine and a half years ago, my good friends, Tim and Barbara, came to visit.
Not only didn't I spend the holiday season alone, but I received presents. I planned so much for their visit. I managed to carry out some of it and other things fell by the wayside. Tim and Barbara joined me for my big Christmas radio show, the night of the 22 December till the morning of the 23rd. If you missed that broadcast, you missed the best one since I have been doing my radio show. We went to the National Railway Museum, in York, on the 23rd. After spending the day in York, it was back to Bracknell. I had rented a car for the weekend, which was due back on Christmas Eve. The rental agency office closed early and they were shut when we arrived. We ended up keeping the car till Boxing Day (26 December), which worked out better for us anyway.
On Boxing day, we went to Paris. That's Paris, France, not Paris, Texas. Despite my best efforts to get us on the cheapest transportation alternative (the bus), Barbara booked us on Eurostar. At least it was more convenient. Although it was my third Eurostar round trip, it was my first one from the new departure point of St. Pancreas Station, in London. With the new, high-speed rail link in England, the trip should have been the quickest ever. Although I enjoyed speeds of 180 plus miles-per-hour, we had an unscheduled stop in Kent, due to "late running engineering works" in the Channel Tunnel. We ended up waiting an hour! This added 50% to our journey time, to Paris.
This was my first visit to Paris at Christmas. Previously, I had visited the French capital in the summer. The Champs Elysees was lit beautifully, at night. We managed to do some of the things I missed on my first visit, including going to the top of the Eiffel tower, visiting the Louvre, and a Seine river cruise. We also went into Notre Dame and, at Barbara's insistence, went to Moulin Rouge. Personally, I thought Moulin Rouge was overpriced and I don't really see the point in a bunch of women dancing with their tits out.
Back in the UK, we got another rental car. I drove my guests to see Stonehenge. On the way, we drove by my old house, where my evil ex-wife, the Black Queen, lives. That felt odd. On New Year's Eve, we spent the day finishing off London sightseeing. To satisfy Barbara, we went shopping in Harrod's. This was my first time actually going inside the famous store. They have the most beautiful sales staff I have ever seen. Half of them look like models! I tried to take my visitors to see Jordan Marsh, for the evening, but we couldn't get in. The venue was sold out. We made it back into central London in time to see the fireworks on the Thames, at midnight. I was surprised at how few texts I received as the new year came in. I dropped off Tim and Barbara at Heathrow, in the early evening of New Year's Day. It was great having them visit, although not very restful for me. I returned the rented car after dropping them at Terminal 4, then it was back to Bracknell, by train. Now it's the new year. What will 2008 bring for me?

Rushing to See August Rush

2007-11-21T22:59:00.000-08:00

I managed to win tickets to see "August Rush," tonight, in an advanced preview. Instead of asking for two tickets as I usually do, then having the problem of not being able to find anyone to go with me, I only asked for one. I also managed to get a ticket to a cinema close by, for a change. The screening was in Slough, which is in the same county as Bracknell. However, things never work out for me with no hiccups. If I was still driving, then it would have been a simple matter to drive to Slough after work, for the 6:30PM screening. Riding the buses was a different matter.
Usually, the bus I take home gets me to the stop around the corner from my house by 5:35PM. If I stay on the same bus, it will take me to the Bracknell town centre, about ten minutes later. It would be 5:45 and I'd just be in Bracknell. There's no telling how close a connection I would manage with the bus onwards, to Slough. To make matters worse, all this would be happening in rush hour, when the traffic is bad. I could take the train, instead, but that would entail complicated connections, as Slough isn't on the same line as either Bracknell, Camberley, or Farnborough. Furthermore, buying a train ticket would entail extra expense. I can ride the buses for no extra charge, using my weekly bus ticket. I am so short of money these days, that this final consideration tipped the balance for me. I would make the epic journey by bus!
Unable to get out of work early, I departed at my usual time, starting with the 4:15 shuttle bus to Camberley. Being a Wednesday, I had managed to acquire a couple slices of pizza, left over from lunch. Having provisions with me would render it unnecessary to buy snacks from the cinema. Although the buses progressed at their normal plodding rate, I felt more anxious than usual, repeatedly checking my watch. When the 194 bus to Bracknell started pulling in to the Bracknell bus station, I looked through the windows, to see if the Slough bus was there. It was. Would I be able to make it onto the Slough bus before it pulled away? I willed the 194 driver to hurry up and open the doors.
As the doors opened, I leaped out of the bus I had arrived in. Dashing across the station, avoiding any of the mammoth buses that were in motion, I raced to the 191 to Slough. I made it! I couldn't have asked for a closer connection. However, whenever I have good news, it's usually accompanied by bad, it had started to rain. The rain would slow the traffic even more than usual. People in Britain seem to really have a tough time handling driving in the rain. Even Nando, my racist, Italian housemate, is bothered by driving in the rain. For Pete's sake! It's just a bit of water. My fate was now in the hands of the driver from First buses.
6:30PM came and went and we hadn't arrived at the Slough bus station. When we finally did arrive, I struggled to find the way to the cinema. The mall was partially closed, so instead of cutting through, I had to walk around. I kept hoping the film started late. If it was a normal showing, there would be about ten minutes of ads, followed by about ten minutes of coming attractions. These advanced previews usually don't have all that. Would they even let me in when I arrive late?
Finally, I rushed up to the box office twenty minutes after the screening was supposed to start. The man behind the counter informed me that the show had started already, but didn't object to me entering. I hate missing the beginning of a film, but I'd traveled so far, I might as well see as much as I could. After all, it was free. I don't know how much of the film I actually missed, as I have no idea if they started on time. I did manage to pick up the majority of the story.
"August Rush" is the story of a boy sent to an orphanage, as a baby. His parents are two unmarried, young musicians. The boy ends up on the streets of New York City, learning busking. He is a musical genius and his talent aids in his parents finding him, and each other. Directed by Kirsten Sheriden, the film has somewhat of a "female" feel to it. With a mother's bond with her long lost son triumphing over everything, I get the impression that this is the world the way a lot of women imagine it to be. It's Kirsten's seventh film as a director, although I haven't seen any of her other projects, nor even heard of them. The film is technically competent and the acting good, although some might feel that Robin Williams supporting role was a tad bit over-played. Freddie Highmore, who plays the starring role, is worthy of particular note. It's so hard to find good child actors, but he did an excellent job. I found it an enjoyable film that's suitable for families. It tugs at the heartstrings a bit and it may be slightly cheesy, but all in all, a nice story, well presented. The soundtrack is also quite good.

A Tale of Two Callers

2007-11-19T11:42:00.000-08:00

This past Sunday morning, I had two people call in to my radio show. The first was my good friend, Mucky Sarah, also known as Miss Anjelika Jinx. Sarah writes a sex blog called "Naive London Girl." She also produces and co-presents a podcast by the same name. If you haven't checked out the blog and podcast, you should do so immediately. As a special bonus, you can sometimes hear me co-presenting with her, whenever her regular co-presenter, comedienne, Wanda, is unavailable. You can hear me on two recent episodes, "Cocaine and Hot Lesbian Sex," and "Menstruation and Oral Sex." The podcasts and blog are available at http://www.naivelondongirl.com/ . Sarah's regular co-presenter, Wanda, is very funny, even if she does refuse to go out with me.
At first, I was pleased that Sarah was listening to my show again. That pleasure quickly faded when she admitted she wasn't listening. She was on "kind of a date," but was calling me anyway, from a secret location. Well, it was nice of her to think to call in, even if she wasn't listening. I wish she would record her dates and then let me play them on the air. That could be interesting.
Some time later, another woman called in to my show. It was a new listener, Melinda, from Quincy, Illinois. She was listening to me over the internet. This was the first time I have had a caller from outside the UK. Usually, people listening to me from abroad just email. I asked her if Quincy was named after the medical examiner, from that TV show by the same name? She claimed that the town was named before the TV show. Well, that's her story. I was curious as to how she had come to listen to my "Night Waves" show. Melinda told me that Dave, from Northern Ireland, had told her about me. This is the same Dave who had traveled with me and the Station Manager, to York. I love that word of mouth publicity. Immediately, I wondered if there was some sort of romantic thing going on between them. I hinted around, trying to find out, but, whether accidentally or deliberately, Melinda didn't take the hint. Not being one to give up so easily, I asked expressly. Melinda has a very nice voice and I wondered if she was "available." Finally, she admitted that there was "something" between Dave and her.
Apparently, Melinda had flown over to Northern Ireland to visit Dave, twice, but he has, as yet, not visited her in America. What's that all about? They originally met in an internet chat room. That's the same way me and my evil ex-wife, the Black Queen, met. Within a month I had flown over to meet the Black Queen. Melinda seemed frustrated with Dave's seeming unwillingness to visit her in return. I don't blame her. Is there something about her that puts Dave off? If he isn't serious about her, he should let her know, instead of stringing her along, shouldn't he? Now, if only I could get Dave to phone in. Then he and Melinda could fight out their relationship problems on my show. That would be great, radio entertainment. Don't miss out on the fun. Listen to my weekly show, "Night Waves," on Seaside Radio, 105.3 FM, Withernsea, England. If you're not local, you can listen over the net at http://www.seasideradio.co.uk/ . If you want help with your relationship problems, email me on my show, or call in. I love to help.

Old York

2007-11-18T20:14:00.000-08:00

When I heard the Station Manager of Seaside Radio mention going to a museum of trains, I couldn't contain myself. Turning my reaction to this overheard bit of information into a joke, I berated him, mildly of course, for never telling me about this museum. His reaction? He promised to take me to it. Yesterday, that promise was fulfilled.
After I arranged myself in the back seat of my boss' car, the Manager's acquaintance, Dave, climbed into the front seat. With minimal delay, we were on our way. Dave, who was visiting from Northern Ireland, was quiet at first, but my constant banter eventually got through to him. On the way to York, we stopped in a small town, to visit another station. It seems Dave is a bit of a radiophile, not to mention a borderline train spotter. My boss talked tech with the station's management, while Dave looked on, seemingly enraptured. My interest waned after a few minutes. Once you've seen one bunch of radio equipment, you've seen them all, right? Besides, no one was paying any attention to me. It became a bit more interesting when they finally took us to see the studio. That would be the bit where I would work. The guy on air was about 100 years older than I thought he would be, listening to him in the car. The show he was doing sounded awful, to me. While technically competent, it was just the same old thing: a tired top 40 clone. A robot could have performed just as well.
Back on the road, we covered the rest of the distance to York fairly quickly. I have never been to the city before. It's an old, walled city. Founded in the year 71, the walls are older than New York, where I come from. We found the cheaper parking, across the street from the National Railway Museum, that one of the guys at the radio station we visited had recommended. It was almost full, but we managed to come across a space. On the grounds of the museum, a very large Ferris wheel was glistening in the sunlight. Known as the Yorkshire Wheel, it's a smaller imitation of the London Eye. Once in the entrance hall to the museum, we were pleased to discover that entrance to the museum is free. My boss asked if Dave and I wanted to go on the wheel. With his Northern Ireland accent, this sounded like "whale." I was trying to figure out what whale he was talking about, when it finally dawned on me that he meant the wheel. Since he was paying, I said yes. So did Dave. We all agreed that we would tour the museum first, then ride on the "whale." My boss acquired our "whale" tickets as well as our free museum tickets, then we immersed ourselves in railway hardware.
If you like trains, then the National Railway Museum is for you. I've always had a love affair with trains, since the earliest days of my childhood. I was interested in going to the museum, because my old friends, the husband and wife couple, Tim and Barbara, are due to visit me for Christmas. Tim is more into trains than I am, so I wanted to scout out this attraction, with a view toward taking them there in December. The National Railway Museum is home to many old locomotives, including famous ones, like the Flying Scotsman and the Mallard. If your taste runs more toward the modern, there are life-sized models of a Japanese Bullet train as well as the Eurostar. The museum offers more than just locomotives. There are railway cars, including retired carriages for the royal train, used by British kings and queens. On display are all sorts of items relating to railroads. Signs, signals, promotional material, plates, and furniture. I expect Tim will love it.
Once we had our fill of the trains, we made our way to the "whale." It may seem like a naff imitation of the London Eye, but rather than crawling around once, like the Eye, it is run at normal speed, like a traditional Ferris wheel. The view is wonderful. From the top, you can see not only the entire city of York, but the surrounding countryside. There's also a bird's eye view of the working, city train station. The rail lines run right by the Railway Museum. Another plus to the Yorkshire wheel is that the price is a fraction of the cost of the London Eye.
When our "whale" ride had finished, we set off to see the city centre. All of us were feeling a bit lazy, so we decided to ride a "free," miniature tram into town, made up to look like a steam train. One was waiting to depart just as we came out of the museum. My boss soon discovered that there was a charge to ride the tram he thought was "free." We were looking forward to riding into town too much to quibble, at that point, so we paid up. I was starving and my boss promised to take us to a restaurant which had great hamburgers. We set off in search of this culinary paradise. During the ensuing search, we wandered the streets of the old town. The old buildings now house modern shops, pubs, and restaurants. Narrow roads are bordered on either side by Tudor style architecture. This will appeal more to Barbara. Just when my boss was about to give up and settle for any old restaurant, we stumbled across it. I was so hungry, I didn't even notice the name. I'd had nothing since my train ride in to Hull that morning and by this point, darkness had fallen. I think all I could manage to mumble by that point was "food, food, food!" When the waiter came to take our order, I opted for a "Cajun Burger," and a Coke. Our timing was great, because as we waited for our food to arrive, the restaurant, which was nearly empty when we came in, filled up in a matter of minutes.
After dinner, which was tasty, we agreed we'd walk back to the car. Having rested our tired feet during dinner, the walk didn't seem too bad. I fell asleep during the drive back to Withernsea. I needed to get some rest before my marathon, seven hour radio show, starting at Midnight. My boss paid me quite a compliment by telling Dave that he must listen to my show. He even offered to loan Dave a radio to enable him to do so. You can also listen, via the internet, at www.seasideradio.co.uk . My show, "Night Waves," starts at Midnight, Saturday night and runs till 7AM, Sunday morning, UK time. Those times are five hours earlier on the east coast of the US, and eight hours earlier on the west coast.

Stranded in Staines

2007-11-17T14:53:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I had an audition in London, at 11AM. I didn't want to ask the restaurant manager for an entire day off, so I came up with a more enticing proposal. I would come in to work early, at 6AM. I would work till 9:30AM, doing all of the food prep I usually do before noon. Then I would leave work, drive a rented car to London, do my audition, then race back to work and finish the day. I wouldn't need the day off, so everybody would be happy, right? As I expected, the manager accepted my deal.
In order to pull this off, I had to rent a car for a day. Unfortunately, the nearest car rental locations to where I live, like the ones in Bracknell town centre, close at 5:30PM. That's earlier than my bus brings me home. However, the rental agency locations at Heathrow Airport stay open late. I reserved a car at Heathrow. After work Thursday evening, I took the bus from Bracknell to Hammersmith. There, I caught the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow. At terminal 4, I picked up the Hertz courtesy bus, which deposited me at their offices on the airport ring road.
I had reserved a pre-paid rental online, at Hertz's website. They had quoted me the same rate for their smallest car, a Ford Ka or similar, as for the next size up, a Ford Fiesta or similar. With the price the same, I opted for the Fiesta. I might as well get as much car as I can for my money. Besides, I hate the Ka, which looks like a giant Flymo, electric lawnmower, to me. When I walked into the Hertz office at Heathrow, there were no other customers. Two guys were sat behind the counter, looking at me expectantly. Walking up, I said, "is it always this busy? Do I have to wait in queue?" They just laughed. I produced my voucher, license, and credit card, then waited while the inevitable computer records were filled out. To pass the time, I mentioned that I used to work for Hertz, back in 1986. They also noticed the button I wear, promoting Seaside Radio. I confessed that I do a weekly radio show. After a bit, the one processing my rental handed me the rental agreement. I initialed and signed in all the right places. He gave me the keys and told me the car was a Volkswagen.
As I walked outside, looking for my car, I wondered which Volkswagen model I would have. Something equivalent to a Ford Fiesta, I figured. I just hoped it wasn't a Polo. Reaching my spot, I thought something was wrong. I had the keys to a Volkswagen Beetle, convertible. When I opened the car door, I found out it was an automatic, as well. In Britain, you normally have to pay extra for an automatic and for a convertible. Here I had both. The rental agent must have upgraded me. This was a far cry from a Ford Fiesta. Okay, so I probably wouldn't need a convertible in Britain, in the middle of November. Still the car was peppy, had power everything, as well as a good stereo. I drove home enjoying being behind the wheel again. I wondered, did they upgrade me because I do radio, or because I used to work for Hertz?
The next day, things went pretty smoothly. I did my audition, as planned. I then went back to the restaurant and finished my afternoon work. When I got home for work, I was exhausted. The car was due back at 10PM. I decided to have a nap. I could sleep for a bit, then wake up, watch "Eastenders," then get the car back by 10. After setting my alarm, I went to bed. I really enjoyed sleeping. Suddenly, I sat up in bed. "What time is it?" I thought. Checking my clock, I discovered, to my horror, that it was a quarter to ten.. Panic struck. "How could I make it to the airport in time?
Throwing on some clothes, I raced to Heathrow. By the time I returned the car, it was 10:30PM. I was a half an hour late, but nothing was said. I then faced the challenge of getting back to Bracknell. Originally, I expected to be at Heathrow early, so I could take the bus back. The bus is cheaper, but the last bus leaves at 10:30. There is a train that leaves Waterloo Station at 11:30PM. I planned on intercepting it at Richmond, which would buy me a little more time.
When I got off the District Line train, at Richmond, there was a train already waiting going westbound. I ran over the overpass and managed to just make it in the doors as they were closing, I was home free, or so I thought. The display board indicated this train was terminating at Staines. I figured they must be doing some night track work further on and would send us by coaches. When we reached Staines, I saw railway staff putting passengers into cabs. Getting in queue and listening, I discovered that all the passengers seemed to be heading toward London. When it was my turn, I asked about arrangements for passengers headed toward Reading. One of the staff members told me the last train for Reading had gone already. They were putting eastbound passengers into taxis, at the train company's expense, because there was a security alert at Reading station. No eastbound trains were leaving the station. The taxis were being provided for eastbound people only. If I wanted one, I'd have to pay myself. Upon my enquiry, I was quoted more money than I had.
Since his return from Italy, Nando had bought another car. I tried sending him a text. "Where are you?" I asked. He sent me a text back, stating that he was over his girlfriend's for the night. No way he would help, then. I then tried to work out how far Bracknell is from Staines. Surely it couldn't be that far? I decided to try walking. While I walked along the roadside, I tried hitch hiking. I felt hungry, as I hadn't had my dinner. When I stumbled on the Staines McDonald's. I treated myself to a Big Mac meal. Hunger abated, I resumed walking.
Over an hour went by, when I started seeing signs for Eggham, the next town along the rail line, after Staines. Walking the paths late at night had been surprisingly enjoyable, but it was getting late and I felt tired. I'd have a rest when I got to Eggham. By the time I finally reached Eggham train station, I was exhausted. It had also taken me over an hour and a half. I decided to give up my ambition to walk to Bracknell. There was no choice but to stay there till the trains started running again, in the morning. Just my luck, the weather was freezing cold. I put up with the cold as long as I could, then strolled over to a convenience store which was still open. I spent ages in there, trying to get warm. On my way back to the train station, I slept in a phone booth, in order to save myself from freezing. At least it was dry in there, as it started to rain while I was in the booth.
Once the trains started running again, I caught the first one west. I took it all the way to Reading and commenced my northward ride to Yorkshire. I didn't have my usual food with me, but I did have my CDs. The show must go on!

Pritam's Notice

2007-11-12T11:51:00.000-08:00

Pritam, my Nepalese co-worker, has given his notice. He's quitting! For months, he's been saying to me that he wanted to leave, but he never seemed to act on it. I had started thinking this was just talk. Now, he's finally gone and done it. This is his last week at the restaurant where I work as my day job. Most struggling actors have a "day job," which provides us with the means to live, until we get our "big break." I am excited at the prospect of him leaving, because of the two of us, he has the easier, more pleasant work duties. I end up with all the crap jobs. I am hoping, when they hire his replacement, the new person will take my old responsibilities and I will take over Pritam's. There's no more money involved, but I like his work much more. It would reduce the likelihood of having to work late, as well. I'm almost in a good mood, now.

Nando Returns

2007-11-09T21:22:00.000-08:00

Tonight, I was sitting in the lounge, watching TV, when I started wondering when Nando would return from his trip to Italy. He said he'd be gone for twelve days, I think. He left on October 28th, so...ummmm...he should be back any moment, I thought to myself. Maybe, even tonight. Within a few minutes of me thinking that, there was the sound of someone putting a key into the front door lock. Who would it be coming in? Hitler's Nephew? The Landlord? Nando?
I looked to my right, towards the door. Nando stepped through the threshold, with a large suitcase. He looked well rested. Even though I have enjoyed having undisputed control over the TV remote, while Nando's been away, I am pleased to see him return. "What are you doing here?" he asked, in heavily accented English.
"I live here," I responded.
"You're not going up to do the radio, this weekend?" he probed further.
"I got a good price on a Saturday train, this week," I explained. After hearing my explanation, Nando adopted the look of someone satisfied. I asked if he enjoyed his trip and how his mama, and sister, were. "Yes," "good," and "good," were the replies I got back. He proceeded to take his heavy suitcase upstairs, to his room. It would be full of food, as his mama always sends him back to England with loads of food. I don't think she realizes that they have invented supermarkets, here in England. She's more like Christopher Columbus' mother, sending him off to explore. "Christopho, taka dis meat wid you, fa da tripa. Youse neva know wat mite appen," I imagine Columbus' mother saying. Wait a minute...why would she speak English with an Italian accent? She wouldn't. Like Nando's mama, she'd only speak Italian.

No Treat

2007-11-01T01:43:00.000-07:00

On my way home from work, yesterday, I wondered if I should stop at the supermarket, to buy some chocolate bars to give to trick or treaters. As usual when it comes to spending money, I managed to talk myself out of it. Kids, here in England, don't do the trick or treat thing as much as they do in America. I almost made it through Halloween without any of the little monsters ringing the doorbell. I had every light in the house off, except the glow from my computer. I was sitting at it, doing something internetish, when I heard youthful voices mumbling to each other. Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Oh for Pete's sake!

I sat thinking if there was anything in the house I could give them. A bottle of beer each? Nah! I wasn't about to give up any beer. It sounded like a lot of them. I couldn't come up with anything, but as I hesitated, a solution presented itself. They gave up and went away. Thankfully, today's British youth don't show the dogged determination that I had, when I was a lad. I spent the rest of the night undisturbed.

A Birthday Wish

2007-10-31T11:33:00.000-07:00

It's Halloween, which means it's my mother's birthday. I've sent her a card, but it will arrive late. Having broken the ice by calling her, recently, I've been speaking to her a lot, on the phone. I'll call her, later, for her birthday. Our most recent conversation has me worried. My mother's worried about her financial difficulties. The property taxes in Nassau County, Long Island, where she lives, are some of the highest in the United States. Her house has no mortgage on it and has been in our family for four generations, but the property taxes have risen so high that she can't afford to pay them and eat. For the past three years, I have tried to increase my income, so that I could assist her, but I haven't been successful yet. She had considered selling the house, but certain legal complications have delayed that and now the housing market in the US has softened.
Another problem is that she's let the house become run down. Spending almost all of her income and savings just paying the taxes each year and buying food, and electricity, she's not spent anything on repairs. Because of years of neglect, the heating doesn't work and there's no running water. It was bad enough thinking of her living there without heat and running water, but now she fears she will lose the house to the tax collectors. I need to at least double my income in order to be able to afford to live myself, plus support her. I've started applying for jobs that pay significantly more than my day job at the restaurant, but I've not landed any so far. I worry that it will be too late by the time I do manage to significantly increase my income.
Ironically, for years, when I was younger, my mother and I didn't get along. When I was young, she was horrible to me and I didn't consider doing anything for her in return. She always had her mother to look out for her, so I concentrated on myself. Then, after I moved to England, my grandmother died, leaving my mother on her own for the first time in her life. The big breakthrough between us came after my divorce. For the first time in my life, my mother was kind and considerate toward me. If she could change that much, surely I could drop my resentment toward her. It was great to develop a new, pleasant relationship with my mother. Now, I want to help her and make sure her latter years are as pleasant as possible. Unfortunately, I'm not now in a financial position myself to do anything for her. I keep hoping she can hold on till I make a big breakthrough. I dream of being able to turn up and fix all the problems. Get her heat and water fixed, and pay the taxes for her. My fear is that she'll die before I am able to. I worry about her health. In addition to a thyroid problem, I know she has glaucoma and I suspect she doesn't always take her medication, because of lack of money. Also, I worry about any medical problems she's not telling me about. I don't want her to become homeless. If she could just keep the tax man at bay till I land a better job, then things would be okay.
Now an idea has occurred to me. I have over 2,000 "friends" on Myspace. If each of them gave only £1, that would be enough to get her past her immediate property tax problems. Sure, many are bands and commercial sites, who aren't going to do anything. Still, maybe some people would want to help. Many of you have been readers of my blog for some time. It's free and I make no demands on you for reading it. I try to be entertaining and am grateful that you read it. I would never ask for anything for myself, but if you feel inclined to make a small gift to my mother, it would be appreciated. I only ask for at least £1 per person, or $2 if you are using American money. Of course if you are well off and would like to give more, that's fine. If you are not in a position to give a gift, or not inclined, I won't think ill of you.
Those of you in the UK should send your gifts to me. I will pool all the money and then convert it in one lump sum, into dollars, to send to my mother. Make checks payable to Joseph Brennan and send them to Joey B, Seaside Radio, 27 Seaside Road, Withernsea, North Humberside, HU19 2DL. Please mark the envelope "personal and confidential." Those of you using US dollars can send your gifts directly to my mother. Make checks payable to Joanne Brennan and send them to: Joanne Brennan, P.O. Box 126, East Meadow, NY, 11554-0126. If you want to send her a belated Birthday card, or a Christmas card, that's fine. Please don't mention that I have made this appeal. She's a proud woman and wouldn't want to think that I was asking for charity on her behalf. Don't mention her living conditions or glaucoma, for the same reason. Regardless of her stubborn pride, I'm doing this because I don't know what else to do. I just don't want her to become homeless before I can help. Anyone who objects to my request, simply do nothing. Blame me, don't take it out on her. Please don't send her any harassing mail. She turns 70 today and I just hope to make her Christmas happier than her birthday is. Those of you who do help, no matter in how modest a way, will join my hall of heroes. I will never forget you and when I am successful, I'll throw you a thank you party, or something.

Which Witch?

2007-10-29T18:12:00.000-07:00

Riding home on the bus, recently, I spotted a young woman getting on at one of the stops on the way out of Camberley. She looked to be in her early twenties, tall, with long dark hair, which contrasted with her pale skin. She wore a long black skirt, down to her ankles, black, high, wedge heeled, black boots, a black top and black jacket. The only thing on her not black was a purple bag, hanging off one shoulder. The bag was fabric, with a wiccan-like design woven into it. She reminded me of Winona Ryder in the film, "Beetlejuice," only taller. So, I wondered, is she a witch?
A couple of conventionally dressed girls on the bus kept snickering over the witchy girl. She ignored them and listened to music on her MP3. I found myself very attracted to the possible witch. Was she casting a spell over me? Ironically, recently, Steve Allen was speaking on his show on LBC radio, 97.3 FM, London, when he compared a woman to Morticia Addams, as if that was a negative. I quickly emailed Steve and let him know that I found Mortica very attractive, when I was a boy. Still do. Morticia always wore long black dresses, to the ankle, and had long dark hair, and pale skin. Before Steve read my email on the air, he read one from another guy, saying the same thing. So, I'm not the only man who's attracted by this look. I wonder how many other men are also bewitched by these charms?

A Hole in the Ground

2007-10-28T20:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, the Station Manager of Seaside Radio took me to see "the Bunker." During my time traveling to Withernsea, I have repeatedly observed signs for "the Bunker." The Station Manager had promised to take me to see it, several times. So, what is "the Bunker?" It's an underground, military installation, built during the Cold War. It's proper name is RAF Holmpton and as he drove us to the location, my boss let me in on a surprise. Not only were we going to see it, we were going on a guided tour of it.
The tour didn't turn out to be a private one, just for us. It was a regularly scheduled tour. When we arrived at the location, I wasn't expecting there to be too many people desiring to go on such a tour. As my boss backed into a parking space, I observed one other vehicle, to our left. It was an old van, with a dark haired individual behind the wheel. As we were early, we stayed sitting in the car for a while. Shortly after our arrival, another car backed into the space to our right. It was a late model saloon and occupied by a well-dressed couple. I joked that the van on our left contained the Bulgarian spies, while the car to our right was MI6. My boss seemed less than amused. He entertains numerous conspiracy theories, including one where there is all sorts of secret activity going on at this base.
Once my boss had finished eating lunch in the car, we walked over to the building which houses the entrance. Looking innocuous, the building is small and almost looks like a house. My boss asked the fellow manning the ticket window for "one adult and one American." His astonishingly funny, Northern Irish sense of humor was in full effect. The old man, in RAF camouflage fatigues, wisely charged for two adults. He directed us to a waiting room and my boss asked me if he should buy an official tour guide book. My recommendation was that he should not. We joined the few people already in the waiting area, which included the Bulgarian spies. There was a TV showing a continuous loop of old fashioned TV announcements advising the public what to do in the event of a nuclear attack. This set the mood.
Before the tour started, I was surprised at how many people turned up. There must have been a couple of dozen. Our tour guide turned out to be the same old man who had sold us the tickets. He announced the beginning of the tour, then directed us down a stairwell. Down, underground, we went. Once on the lower level, we proceeded down a long corridor, designed to dissipate the pressure of a nuclear blast wave. Our guide took us to numerous rooms and displays, where we could see the facility's equipment. Included was a nuclear warhead. At several points along our path, we sat and watched short films, detailing various historical points about the base. Originally built as a radar base, RAF Holmpton later became the headquarters for managing RAF supplies in a a post nuclear attack scenario. Essentially a hole in the ground, 100 feet down, the base facility was built upon a base of shale, then encased in thick concrete walls. It was designed to withstand a near miss by a nuclear warhead. Of course the Russians learned all about it and supposedly had targeted two nuclear warheads on that very facility. Not only would a direct hit have obliterated the base, but it would have turned the surrounding area into a nuclear wasteland, including beautiful Withernsea. I learned that during the Cold War, over 100 nuclear warheads were thought to be targeted on the United Kingdom. A full scale attack was expected to kill 40 million people, which was the majority of the British population.
The final film we were shown included the portrayal of the effects of a full scale nuclear attack on Britain. A series of underground outposts around Britain would be manned by teams whose task was to measure the fallout and report conditions after an attack. In these post-Cold War times, when the threat of nuclear war has faded, it was very sobering to be reminded of how the world once lived in fear of nuclear annihilation. It's a good place to take young people, who have never lived through the Cold War, so that they can see what the world almost came to. There were several children on the tour. During the whole afternoon, the only military person we observed was the same old man who had sold us the tickets. When the tour ended, I pointed out that the base seemed harmless. Undaunted, my boss pointed out that we hadn't seen all of the underground facility. He insisted on buying an official guide book. The souvenirs were sold, of course, by the same man who was our tour guide. As we walked back to the car, my poss pointed out the Sky satellite dish on a mast sticking out of the ground, above the bunker. He took it as proof that the base was currently being used for some secret activity. My suggestion was that the old man just likes watching Sky, like the rest of us.

Avoid Midland Mainline

2007-10-27T18:52:00.000-07:00

Last night, I was on my way to Withernsea, as in my habit. For weeks, I have been taking this overnight series of five trains. This journey includes a four hour wait at Sheffield. As I have on previous occasions, I went out to the late night restaurant, across the street from Sheffield Station, to buy a Coke. Besides getting a cold drink, it gives me change for the bus in Hull, in the morning. I rushed back to the station, to get into the waiting room on platform 2, before the Station house closes. The Sheffield Station building closes between 2AM and 4:20AM, for some odd reason. I think it's supposedly so the station can be cleaned, although Leeds Station stays open all night and they manage to clean it.
As I re-entered the station building and walked toward the stairs to the platforms, some geezer asked me where I was going. The fact that he spoke to me at all was disturbing enough. This dude was dressed in some sort of uniform and was the guy who usually locked the doors when the station closed. It was 1:48AM and there was a train departing for Manchester Airport at 1:50. It's the last train before the station closes. I should have just lied and claimed I was going for that one, but, unfortunately, my first inclination is to be honest. Instead, I tried to through him off with a vague answer. "To the train," I said.
"The station's closed," he said, coming over to me.
"Not yet," I pointed out. There was still a few minutes before it closed. I started to walk on toward the platform. He blocked my way, repeating that the station was closed. I confessed that I was going to the waiting room on the platform, but he said I had to leave, as the station was closed. I then said that I make this journey every week and I always am able to wait in the waiting room on the platform. He responded by claiming that never happens and he's there every week. "Then where were you last week, because I was there last week, along with several other people, and there was no sign of you," I pointed out. He then admitted that he'd been off last week. I tried taking the offensive and pointed out that he'd lied to me, when he said he was always there and no one waited in the waiting room. I pointed out that I was the customer and I have a ticket, with a four hour layover. I wanted to wait inside the waiting room, as I have done, previously, rather than out in the cold. He responded by shouting over me that the station was closed and if I didn't leave immediately, he'd call security.
I looked him in the eye and accused him of being a useless jobsworth. He didn't like that. He then retorted with a claim that if I had been "civil" toward him, he might have let me go, but now I had to leave. Now, he'd shown no previous indication that things were negotiable. If he could let me stay in the waiting room, then how dare he play a little Hitler and accost me in the first place? I told him he was useless and people like him were the reason that customer service in Britain has a terrible reputation. Before leaving, I wrote his name down and told him I would be taking this further. I pointed out that I am a member of the media and would be mentioning him and the company he works for, Midland Mainline, in unflattering ways, on my radio show. Sadly, I have misplaced his name, since then, so I have not been able to fire off an angry letter to his boss.
That reminds me, I asked him for the name of his boss, but he said he didn't know it. "How can you not know the name of the person you report to?" I asked. He gave no reply other than to repeat that he didn't know the name of his boss. All I could note from his name tag was that he was the "duty manager." In any event, I left the station. Fortunately, it was much milder outside than it was the week before. When I returned at 4:20AM, low and behold, when I reached the waiting room, it had more people already waiting there than ever before. This included a group of drunks, being very noisy. So, they had managed to wait there, while the station was closed. In fact, this was the second week in a row that I had encountered drunks at the station. It seems that the duty manager was able to hassle sober customers, but did nothing about drunks. Also, there was a broken glass bottle on the waiting room floor, with spilled liquid, so, obviously, the waiting room hadn't been cleaned.
For the time being, I am going to try to avoid using Midland Mainline trains and stations, whenever possible. I advise you to do the same. So far, their trains have been unimpressive, looking old and dingy. They also seem to employ duty managers who could do more in the customer service department. Now, the big question is, should I pay more to avoid using Midland Mainline, or still use them when they are part of the cheapest connection?

Is Nando in Love?

2007-10-26T20:26:00.000-07:00

As I was sitting in the lounge, tonight, eating dinner, Nando received a call on his mobile. It was the woman he's been seeing. Dare I say "his girlfriend?" So, of course, I listened to his side of the conversation. He was laying on the couch next to the one I was on, so it was almost impossible not to overhear. As I took fork fulls of beef and rice, I figured out that he was giving her directions to our house. He gave very detailed directions, mentioning almost every rock and tree between our street and the main road into town. Then it happened! Just before he hung up, he said, "love you." What????
That's something I'd never heard Nando say to a woman, before. I just had to say something about it, right? "So, it's 'love you,' now, is it?"
Nando grinned sheepishly. He excused it away as something he was saying in response to her saying it. So, was he just telling me that because he was embarrassed, or does he really not love this woman and is just telling her what she wants to hear? If he is just faking it, I feel bad for her. On the other hand, what if they get so serious that he moves in with her? What happens to me, then? I went through so much trouble to get Nando a place in this house. If he leaves, maybe I'll move to London. He seems so nonchalant about her, it's hard to imagine it's that serious.
To change the uncomfortable subject, I commented on what detailed instructions she seemed to require. Like many women, she's not strong in a directional sense. My evil ex-wife, the Black Queen, who was a sailor and a great helms woman, couldn't navigate her way out of a paper bag. Nando laughed at how unsure his girlfriend was over the directions. She would be driving over tomorrow. It will be her first time coming to our house. Sadly, I won't be here to meet her, as I will be in Withernsea for my weekly radio show.

Nando's Offer Fails

2007-10-25T08:04:00.000-07:00

A couple of months ago, Nando offered to let me drive his car while he is away on holiday, in Italy, at the end of October. I was worried that he wouldn't be able to make good on his promise, when his car first broke down. Then he got someone to fix it and things started to look up. However, when I got back from Withernsea, this past weekend, it had stopped running again. I think he will scrap the car and buy another one, but he's not planning to do anything further about it till he gets back from Italy. That leaves me out in the cold. Things never seem to work out for me. First I get divorced, now this.

Slow

2007-10-24T19:46:00.000-07:00

Researchers have determined that London is the slowest city in Europe. Traffic in the UK capital averages just 11.8 miles-per-hour. For years, I have suspected that London traffic is particularly bad. The traffic seems much worse than that in New York. One major problem is that the city is so old. The roads are not laid out in any sort of pattern, but seem to go this way and that, like a twisted mound of spaghetti. I think a lot of London was built back when there was only horse-drawn traffic.
New York City streets follow a pattern. Through most of Manhattan, streets go east and west, while avenues go north and south. Most roads there are one way, alternating direction. Additionally, lower numbered streets are in the south, with numbers getting higher as you travel North. The north-south avenues are very wide, with several lanes of traffic. Even the streets are more than twice the width of typical London streets. With such simplicity, almost no one who lives in New York owns an atlas of the city. By contrast, every Londoner owns a London A-Z atlas. It's virtually impossible to find your way around without one.
London traffic is hindered by the absence of any cross-city motorway. Thus, there's no quick way to get from the west side of town to the east. Some roads turn ninety degrees, then dead end, leaving a driver to follow a very convoluted path to navigate on his way. When you add up the traffic, the congestion charge and the difficulty, and expense, of finding parking in central London, if I lived in the city, I wouldn't bother owning a car. As far as the slow average speed goes, maybe everyone could just hurry up ands raise the average?

Late Buses

2007-10-23T18:58:00.000-07:00

Lately, I have been taking the second bus from Bracknell to Camberley, in the mornings. This bus arrives in Camberley just a few minutes before the bus for the office complex, where the restaurant I work at for my day job is located. For a long time, I was worried that if I took this second bus, I might miss the bus from Camberley to work. The downside of taking the first bus is that I end up waiting half an hour in Camberley. Also, to catch it, I have to leave earlier, which results in less sleep, or getting less done in the morning. That wasted half hour annoyed me.
For a few months, I watched the second bus arrive just before my bus to work. It seemed to make it every day and the driver of my bus to work even thought I was taking it. Finally, a few weeks ago, I was so busy, I failed to make the first bus. I took the second one and it worked out fine. Without consciously intending to, I found myself falling into the routine of taking the second bus. All was well, until one day last week, when the bus was ten minutes late. I missed my connecting bus to work and ended up being late. This morning, it happened again! Should I force myself to start taking the earlier bus and end up spending half an hour sitting around, in Camberley? Or, should I continue taking the second bus and if I miss connect occasionally, so be it?

My First Radio Guests

2007-10-22T11:17:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday night, I treated the listeners of my radio show to a surprise. I had two guests join me in the studio, just after the beginning of my show. Martin, 24, and Chris, 20, stayed for three hours. They are the hosts of a new show on Seaside Radio, Friday nights at midnight. Something to do with Trance music. They brought me Chinese spare ribs and a couple of cans of Coke. Nice! They work delivering food for a local Chinese restaurant, in Withernsea. Martin is the son of the former Mayor of the town. Too bad it's not the current Mayor, I might have been able to get a street named after me. We talked about loads of stuff, including cars, TV shows, music, films, and women. Also, I started fooling around with sound effects in the studio.
Martin took it upon himself to try to permanently fix the internet streaming, at the station. Unfortunately, the end result was to make matters worse. By 3AM, it had completely stopped working. The boys left at 3:15AM and I spent most of the remainder of my show playing music. Due to some sort of local cell phone glitch, no text messages were arriving in the studio. My apologies to everyone who sent a text, but I didn't get it. After I left, all the texts turned up at the station. No one thought to copy them down and forward them to me. Having the guests made it the liveliest show yet. This was my first time having in studio guests on my "Night Waves" show. I wonder who my next guest will be?

Sunny Autumn Saturday

2007-10-21T10:50:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning, I woke up from a nice nap on the Northern train to Hull. Looking sleepily at the windows, something struck me as odd. The windows looked fuzzy. My just awaking mind struggled to come to grips with the visual data. The train rocked and seemed to be proceeding unusually slow. I yawned and scratched my head. "Why does the view look so weird?" I thought to myself. Suddenly, it came to me. Fog! We were traveling through thick fog.
By the time I got to Hull, the sun had just risen. Because of the fog, my train had arrived a few minutes late. I rushed to the gate for my bus to Withernsea. It would have to use gate 36! Thankfully, I made it. After buying my ticket, I climbed upstairs to the upper deck, taking my usual place in the front row. I love the view up there and since I ride to the last stop, it's worth the climb.
Once out of Hull, I could see patches of fog hovering over farmers' fields, along our route. The sky was clear and the sun slowly rose, higher and higher. Its radiation would burn off the fog as the morning progressed. I arrived at Seaside Radio and joined the on-air presenter in the studio. He had his 13-year-old son with him and was letting the boy choose music, as well as speak on air. They finished at 10AM and the lovely Susan Dukes took over. She turned up looking even better than the previous week. Her hair was freshly styled, make up immaculate, and she was even wearing a string of pearls. I teased her by reminding her that this was radio, not television. Susan still doesn't feel confident running the board, so she had the Station Manager, Justin, helping her. He closed the door to the studio, so she wouldn't be put off by the rest of us. I decided to walk the fellas out to their car.
Thinking I would only be outside for a moment, I left my jacket inside. During the hour and a half since I had arrived, the sun had made the day bright. It was warm enough that I didn't need my jacket. I walked with the father and son team, chatting to them. They went left, towards the sea, then left again, strolling along the road that parallels the beach. As we went further and further, I began to wonder how bloody far away from the station they had parked? Finally, I asked the father, "did you drive?"
"No," he said, "we walked." No wonder they hadn't stopped! I had inadvertently walked a couple of blocks from the station. I decided not to travel all the way to their house and bade them farewell. Turing around, I retraced my steps, back to Seaside Radio. I enjoyed the sound of the waves crashing against the shore and the smell of the sea. What a lovely autumn day.
The Justin had promised to take me sightseeing, but when I got back to the station, he told me something had come up and he wouldn't be able to, this weekend. He rushed off just after noon, so I went out into the sun again. I visited the outdoor market, which runs every Saturday. Then I tried walking to Tesco, to buy some drinks for my show. Although Justin claimed it wasn't a long walk to Tesco, I found it longer than I cared to indulge in. At least the weather was lovely. I saw a temperature sign which read 18 degrees, Celsius. I'm not quite sure how warm that is, as I was raised on Fahrenheit, but it seemed warm for the time of year. I wished every weekend could be that nice. Even the cashier at Tesco seemed in a good mood. I teased her a bit and she rewarded me with a big smile. So far, the women in Withernsea seem much friendlier than gals in London. I bought myself a cold bottle of Ribena drink, to refresh myself from my walk. I had worn my jacket, which turned out to have been a mistake. It was that warm. Sipping my blackcurrant juice drink, I made my way back to the station again. I'd done enough walking for one day.

More or Less Drunks

2007-10-20T22:19:00.000-07:00

Last night, I began my weekly trek to Withernsea, to do my radio show. My first connection is at Reading train station. This week, the Virgin Trains service to Birmingham New Street was significantly late. Many trains were late, most of them belonging to First Great Western, who are the biggest users of Reading Station. Over the public address system, there was an announcement that delays were being caused by "congestion at Reading Station." It was very cold and the good thing is that Reading provides heated waiting rooms on some of the main platforms. I had forgotten that it was the beginning of half-term holidays from school, so all travel services were busy.
We finally got underway, thirty minutes late. I was worried that this might cause me to miss my connection to Derby, at Birmingham New Street. I hoped the train would make up time on the journey. No such luck. As we got nearer to Birmingham, the service manager on the train announced that a request was being made of Central Trains to hold their 11:10PM departure for Nottingham, till we arrived. That was the one I needed to go to Derby. As we slowed for our approach to New Street Station, the manager announced that Central Trains had agreed to wait. What a relief! He advised that they were expecting seven passengers from our Virgin train, so that we should rush to platform 7A. Once they saw that seven people had boarded, the train would depart.
Rushing through the station, I managed to get ahead of almost everyone else, except for one couple, in front of me. These twits managed to get behind an intoxicated couple on the stairs, down to platform 7A, who were moving very slowly. We all bunched up behind them. The intoxicated couple looked back at this mass of people bunched up behind them, seemingly oblivious to the delay they were causing. "Hurry up!" I shouted, in exasperation. Finally, I was down on the platform, but there was a new problem. There were two trains standing at the platform. One was the one I needed and the other the next train waiting to depart that platform. Which was which? I took a guess and boarded the nearest one. On board, I asked a woman if it was the train to Nottingham? She said she didn't know. Oh for Pete's sake! How could you be on a train and not know where it's going? Just in time, the train guard announced that it was, indeed, the Nottingham train. I'd made it.
In Derby, I had about forty minutes till my train to Sheffield. I needed to pee, so I walked over to platform 1, where the toilets are located. As I walked up to them, a cleaner said, "the toilets are locked up, mate." I don't know which annoyed me more, the fact that the toilets were locked, or that ridiculous Midlands accent the cleaner spoke to me in. And I hate being called "mate," by a total stranger. How stupid, locking the toilets when there are still trains arriving and departing. I'd have to wait and use the toilet on the train. I made my way back to platform 2, to wait for the Sheffield train. At least the waiting room was very warm. It was so cold outside, I was worried about my four hour wait in Sheffield. Usually, I spent two hours in a late night restaurant across from the train station, having a Coke. It's heated in there. However, they close an hour before the train station reopens. Normally, I spend the last hour walking around, but despite wearing a warm sweater, it was freezing out.
On previous trips, I noticed that every time I went into the waiting room for my platform in Sheffield, at 4:30AM, there were one or two people already in there. Was it possible to spend the whole time in the platform waiting room, even while the station is closed? I decided to find out. I went to the restaurant and bought a Coke, then made my way back toward the station. On my way back, I encountered a drunk man, hanging out near the top of the stairs down to the station entrance. He said something to me, but I just grunted a response and kept on my way. Once inside the main station hall, I ran into another drunk man. As I tried to walk past him, he grabbed my arm and asked me directions. "Don't touch me," I said, rather sharply. He let go, then I said, "I'm not from this country. You'd better ask someone who is." I turned and continued on my way to platform 2.
The drunk man shouted after me, "what d'ya mean you're not from this country?" Then he swore at me. I stopped. Turning on him, I said, "if you weren't drunk, I'd kick your ass." As he tried to comprehend what was happening and mumbled curses to himself, I continued on my way. I'd run into a lot fewer drunks this week, but the ones I did come across were a lot more trouble. I succeeded in staying in the waiting room, even while the station closed. While it was warmer than being out on the street, Sheffield had the only waiting room I'd encountered which wasn't heated. I sat there in my coat, shivering. I could have used a hot tea.

Small Pricks

2007-10-19T21:11:00.000-07:00

Women should stay away from small pricks. Well, at least women who are receiving in vitro fertilization (IVF) treatments. A study in the US has found that women on IVF are 37% less likely to get pregnant, if they have acupuncture. The surprising thing, to me, is that someone thought up a study like this. Imagine some scientists sitting around the table, during a coffee break, one day, when one of them shouts, "I know how we can get a grant! Let's do a study on the effects of acupuncture on the effectiveness of IVF!" Who paid for this study?
Speaking of getting pregnant, here in Britain, people seem to say a woman "falls" pregnant, or "fell pregnant," in the past tense. I didn't know falling was involved. When children ask, "mummy, where do babies come from?" do mothers say, "well, women fall over on their stomachs, then get a swelling from hitting the ground. Inside the swelling, a baby starts growing."
The confused child then says, "but I thought the storks brought them?"
Mother thinks on her feet, then adds, "well, scientists suspect that, while the woman is fallen over and a bit stunned, the stork lays an egg in the swelling, because they think it's a neat place to make a nest." The child responds by looking at his mother like she's a nut.
Another possibility is that when British women fall over, drunk, a man realizes they are in a fit state to give in to sex. Perhaps people used to say, "she fell and got pregnant." That became shortened, over time, to "she fell pregnant." Then the cynical side of me imagines that it comes from the expression, "falling in love." "Victoria fell in love, now she's pregnant." How romantic. Nah! I wonder if the scientists will do a follow-up study, to determine the effect of small pricks on "falling" pregnant, with women who aren't on IVF? There's another grant!

Nando Too!

2007-10-18T11:31:00.000-07:00

Nando's car has broken down! Recently, he was left stranded. Someone told him he had a blown head gasket, which is usually an expensive repair, possibly more than he paid for the car. That leaves our household totally carless, at the moment. Hitler's Nephew doesn't own a car and Nando and I own ones that are inert. Hitler's Nephew does own a motorcycle, which he conned someone out of, but for some strange reason, he's put it in our back garden and doesn't use it. It's been there for over a month, since before he went on vacation. I suspect it's because he's too much of a weenie to ride it in the winter. I wish I could use it, but since I can't stand him and we are not speaking, that's not going to happen. In any case, Nando's not happy about not having a serviceable car. "I don't know how you do it," he said, commenting on the fact that I've gone four months on public transport. At this point, I don't have much choice.

Sharing Chocolate

2007-10-17T19:32:00.000-07:00

My racist, Italian housemate, Nando, has been doing a lot for me, lately. Today, I was able to do something for him. I brought home three chocolate brownies, from work. After dinner, I asked Nando if he wanted to join me for a brownie. I happen to know Nando loves chocolate, so I wasn't surprised when he accepted. As I was dishing them out, I decided to give Nando one and a half, while taking one and a half for myself. In this way, we used up all three brownies and avoided that awkward, future situation where I would have one for myself and none to give him.
I brought Nando's on a plate, to him. As I was back in the kitchen, getting my serving, Nando called out to me, "this seems like more than one." I chuckled to myself. Was he complaining? I explained that as I had three, I decided to split the entire amount in half. I think Nando wanted to make sure it was all for him, before he scoffed it all down, just in case I had put both of ours on one plate. Although not helping either of us in our diets, the chewie, chocolaty brownies tasted so good. Sometimes, even in the autumn, it's good to indulge yourself.

Government Efficiency

2007-10-16T19:10:00.000-07:00

In the UK, the Assets Recovery Agency was created in 2003. This government agency was given the power to seize wealth from people, even though they hadn't been convicted of any crime. Billed as a way to strike at organized crime, by confiscating assets, a new report by a committee of the House of Commons may be its epitaph. Over four years, the agency spent £65 million to seize £23 million. Thankfully, the agency is due to be shut down, next year, but it seems that the terrocrats still haven't learned their lesson. The duties will be taken over by the Serious Organised Crime Agency. Oh please, get serious! No matter how much they reshuffle the players, government is inherently inefficient.

Asking Mother to Call

2007-10-15T18:39:00.000-07:00

Last week, I called my mother, again. Now, I had an ulterior motive for calling her. I wanted something. My mother being how she is, she rabbited on, about this and that, leaving me little chance to get a word in edgewise. Those of you who know me may find that hard to accept. Anyone who's spent any time with me would probably expect me to dominate the conversation. I realize I am a bit talkative, especially for a man. It could be that it comes from growing up in a household full of women, or it could be genetic. All the immediate relatives, with whom I grew up, talked a lot. However, they were all female, so who knows what caused it.
So, my mother was talking away and I realized that time was passing without me making my grand request. Perhaps I was apprehensive and so quite happy to delay asking. In any case, my mother ended up starting to end the conversation, when I finally spoke up. "I haven't gotten to say what I called you about!" I said, with exasperation. She paused for me. Timidly, I inquired if, possibly, there might be a chance, however small, that she might call me on my radio show. As I think I feared, deep down, she said no.
I tried to talk her into changing her mind. With my mother, such persuasion has to be quite gentle. If she feels pressured, she'll stubbornly refuse and accuse me of causing her stress. "If you are so desperate for callers that you need me to call in, you're in bad shape," she said.
"That's not the reason," I explained. "You'd be very entertaining. Other radio personalities have their mothers calling. Howard Stern's mother used to call him and you have a much better voice than she does. Besides, you're very funny, without realizing you're funny."
"That doesn't sound good," she snapped back, starting to get her back up. Oh-oh! Time for a bit of back-peddling.
"But in a good way," I add, as damage control. Earlier in the conversation, my mother had mentioned that she'd like to do more background artist work. When I first started working in films, my mother decided to give it a try, much to my surprise. Most of my life, my mother has been the most anti-social person I have known, so the idea of her hanging out on a busy film set and putting up with cameras pointed in her direction came as quite a surprise. I was not above stooping to use her desire to rekindle her acting career to bolster my case. "You could call regularly, then use that on your resume." She wouldn't budge. I decide to let the matter drop...for now.
"What about getting Inez to call?" Inez is my mother's only surviving friend. She met Inez while working on her first film and Inez is a fellow actress. Maybe Inez would be more willing and could pretend to be my mother. As has been typical of my mother, throughout my life, she refused to provide me access to her friend. For the time being, my show shall remain motherless.

More Listeners

2007-10-14T11:06:00.000-07:00

I felt more relaxed doing this weekend's "Night Waves" radio show, on Seaside Radio. I did a lot more talking, then I did on the first show. My good friend, Mucky Sarah called in, but the equipment that enables us to put callers on the air wasn't working. I heard from more listeners, This week. Tom emailed me. I had texts from an unknown person, whom I dubbed "the anonymous texter," and from a new listener, Mandy.
I met two female DJs who are also on the station. The first one was Susan Dukes, who does 10AM to Noon on Saturdays. She's the one who didn't turn up last weekend and who I covered for. She's blond and very good looking, but, sadly, married. The second one was Karen, who does a jazz hour on Sunday evenings. Karen is brunette and also attractive, but also married. Don't forget, you can join in the fun by tuning in to "Night Waves," on Seaside Radio, 105.3 FM, Withernsea. The show starts at midnight, UK time, on Saturday nights, and runs till 7AM, Sunday mornings. If you are not in the Holderness region of Northeast England, you can listen over the net at: www.seasideradio.co.uk .

My Fellow Train Passengers

2007-10-13T20:15:00.000-07:00

Every time I book a train ticket to Hull, which is the route I take to get to Withernsea, to perform my weekly radio show, I only seem to be able to get the cheapest fare on a Friday night, overnight routing. This route encompasses taking five trains, with four connections. The timing of the second and third connections places me right in the "witching hour," vis a vis people traveling from Friday night drinking sessions. In other words, I encounter a lot of drunks.
Last night was no exception. Quite the contrary, I think it may have been a record. First, on my second train, the Virgin Trains service to Birmingham New Street, during a stop in Coventry, or there abouts, a couple of dozen 20-somethings poured into the carriage I was sitting in. As it was around 10:30PM, these young men and women were on their way to Birmingham, for a night out hitting the clubs and pubs. Unfortunately for me and the few other people in the carriage, they appeared to have had a head start. Not only did they seem drunk already, they brought cans of beer with them. The boys were bad enough, but how could girls let themselves get in such a state? The amazing thing is that they were only at the beginning of their night. What state would they be in after hitting the nightlife of Birmingham? They were so loud, there was no opportunity for further sleep. Even though the ones sitting around me were the females, I still didn't enjoy their company. Drunken women just don't do it for me. I was happy none of them ended up throwing up on me.
Our arrival in Birmingham couldn't come fast enough for me, but when it did, I waited for the gang of young drunks to exit the train first. I let them clear off the platform before I got onto it. I made my way to platform 7A, for my next train, the 11:10PM to Nottingham, which stops at Derby, amongst other places. I, of course, get off at Derby. The platform was very full with other waiting passengers. I decided to stand near three beautiful, mixed race sisters, who were on their way home from a night out with their father. Sadly, the older two sisters seemed inebriated. At least the middle sister was quiet, sitting on a foot rail, with red eyes. The oldest and most talkative sister got into a conversation with a drunk couple, who spilled out onto the platform, near us, not long after my, sober, arrival. What a waste. I didn't move because the platform was so full and most of the other passengers seemed equally sauced. What is it about the British that so many of them find it necessary to become so inebriated on Friday nights? The girls' father was very dark skinned (kind of like Wesley Snipes) and I found it amusing when the man from the drunken couple asked the father how the girls could be his daughters, when they were lighter skinned (sort of Beyonce colored). The farther seemed shocked and offended. I thought "what do you expect, mate, talking to drunks?"
The train to Nottingham arrived late and was so full, I had to sit on one of the folding seats on the bulkhead, near the doors. To my right was a man with a baby in a stroller, and a dog. The dog was ugly, with tired, red eyes, which made him appear drunk, as well. Thankfully, man, baby, and dog got off at one of the early stops. The man walked in a way that led me to think he was either drunk, or tired. The baby remained asleep and I'm assuming he was just tired, but you never know around here.

Nando Gives Me Clothes

2007-10-12T16:30:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, when I got home from work, Nando, my racist, Italian housemate, was sitting in the lounge. When I walked in, there was a small pile of neatly folded clothes, sitting on the sofa I usually sit on. Nando told me to look through the pile and if there are any items I want, I can have them. Otherwise, he's going to get rid of them.
Nando's style of dress is a bit different to mine. He wears a lot of T-shirts and pull-over tops. I tend to prefer button down shirts. Still, I'm not one to turn down the chance for free stuff. I was concerned because I think Nando is a little smaller than I am. At first, none of the things I look at fit me. Finally, I started to find items which are my size. I ended up with a couple of pull-over tops and a light-weight jacket. I have wanted a light jacket all summer, so I'd have something to wear on summer evenings, when it gets a little chilly. Innocently, Nando admits that the reason he wants to get rid of these clothes is that they don't fit him anymore. It must be the weight he's put on. His loss is my gain, or vise-versa.

An Autumn Day

2007-10-11T16:15:00.000-07:00

When I got off the bus from work, today, I felt so good. The weather was nice and I could smell the smell of fallen leaves in the air. It was nearing sunset and there were wonderful colors in the western sky. I'd brought home a free bucket of rice, from work and it just felt good to be alive. It didn't matter that I am 48. It didn't matter that my car doesn't work. It didn't matter that I don't have a romantic relationship, at the moment. Life is just great! So, I wonder why I am in such a good mood?

Miss England is Angry

2007-10-10T15:57:00.000-07:00

As everyone who's ever used Myspace knows, some people create fake profiles, pretending to be celebrities. I have no idea why anyone would want to be bothered doing that, but they do. Well, it seems that fakers have struck Miss England. The real Miss England, Georgia Horsley, is angry that there is a fake Myspace profile of her. She is outraged that the fake profile makes her seem stupid and "tarty." Her mood is described as "horny," she's listed as single, and has drinking as a hobby. Metro Newspaper quotes Horsley, a Miss World contestant, as complaining, "they have made me come across as a bit thick and a bit of a tart." Honey, you're a model and a beauty pageant contestant. Why on Earth would anyone think you were a thick tart?

Brown Bottler

2007-10-09T21:22:00.000-07:00

Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, announced that there would be no election this autumn. After the Conservatives gained in the pools, following their party conference, cutting Labour's lead, it seems Brown is afraid the risk is too great that his party would lose. The result might have been the shortest Prime Ministership in recent memory. Conservative Party leader, David Cameron, challenged Brown to call an election, giving a confident speech at his party's conference. When Labour was ahead in the polls, party leadership seemed anxious to call an early election, but lost their nerve when the gap closed. Here, Parliamentary elections are not set, like elections are in the United States. The Prime minister has some leeway over when to call an election. Brown gave the unconvincing excuse for not calling an election that he wanted to "establish his vision for the UK," before facing a general election. What nonsense. Regular readers might remember that I wrote, earlier this year, that Gordon Brown's wife is attractive. Well, Cameron's is even hotter! These lovely women are burdened with nit wit, politicians for husbands, when they could have me. Shame.

Night Waves

2007-10-08T21:02:00.000-07:00

Saturday night, I performed the first of my weekly radio shows, "Night Waves." The bulk of it is, technically, Sunday morning, as the show starts at Midnight. It's a marathon, seven hours. A lot of things I wanted to do weren't ready, but I enjoyed doing it. This will definitely be a work in progress. I ended up playing a lot of music, as it's a long time to fill, with no one in the studio to talk to. I do everything, produce the show, run the equipment, run the station, and answer the phones. No one called, this first night, but I had several emailers and texters, so someone was listening. The last hour, between 6AM and 7AM, is the hardest. My eyes are very heavy by then. After the show, I start my journey back home, taking the first of five buses. Join us next weekend, at www.seasideradio.co.uk .

UK Radio Debut

2007-10-07T17:21:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Withernsea at 8:30AM, Saturday. As I rode the bus from Hull, I started seeing signs advertising the radio station. Seaside Radio is one block from the bus stop. It didn't take me long to walk the distance. The door was locked, but the Station Manager, Justin, let me in. Because I arrived 15 hours earlier than my show's starting time, the manager said, "you must be keen."
"Actually, it was the cheapest connection I could get," I clarified. He led me upstairs to where the new studio is located and his office. I set my heavy shoulder bag down, happy to stop lugging the thing around. I relaxed and we chatted away, Justin was playing music on the station. He advised that some presenter wasn't available. Whenever there's no one else to cover a shift, Justin does it himself. He was waiting for a female presenter, who was due to go on air at 10AM. 10AM came and no sign of her. She hadn't called, either. Justin turned to me and said, "you're here early, you can cover." I thought he was kidding, but he wasn't. He expected me to jump in immediately and take over the airwaves.
After a little hesitation, I agreed to do it. I wanted the boss to think of me as someone who's willing to help in a crisis. I sat behind the board and took survey of all I needed to do. Before I got to it, I asked a few questions. Nothing major, just "how do I do" this and "what does that button, there, do?" In the beginning, I kept things simple. Just played music. That came almost naturally to me, given that I was a club DJ, over 27 years ago. From music, I moved on to talking. By the second hour, I was feeling more confident. Just when I was beginning to relax and enjoy myself, the next DJ turned up. All too soon, it was over.
Justin said, "good, now I don't have to stay with you during the first hour of your show, tonight." I worried that he still hadn't shown me how to take callers on the air. I'd just done a two hour radio shift. Ahead of me lay a marathon, seven hour shift, starting at midnight. 27 years and 9 months later, and 3,500 miles from where I started, I was back on the airwaves. D J Joey B is back. Will the world ever be the same?

On My Way

2007-10-06T12:39:00.000-07:00

Leaving my preparation for my radio show till the day I left for Withernsea was probably not a good idea. When I got home from my day job, last night, I was tired and yet I had, seemingly, a million things to do. Originally, I had planned on taking a nap after work. That plan fell by the wayside. Instead, I was scrambling to email some songs I wanted to play, to the station. I was also listening to the station over the internet. It was the big re-launch and the first time I had he chance to hear it. The station manager was on the air.
For some reason, the audio files were extremely slow to load, when I was emailing them. It was taking too long! I still wanted to shower and have dinner, before catching my train, at 8:20PM. I also needed to place all my bets for the weekend, which involved getting the picks from Nando. After emailing two songs, I gave up. It was just taking too long. Having showered, I went downstairs to take my laundry off the line. Then Nando asked me to put a bet on, for him, on football. I didn't have time for it, if I was going to catch the bus to the train station. Thinking on my feet, I offered to do it, if Nando drove me to the train station, in his car. He agreed. That gave me enough extra time to have a quick meal.
I just managed to get Nando's bet placed and leave the house, with less than ten minutes till my train. Nando drives much slower than I do and as I sat in the passenger seat of his car, I found myself willing him to go faster. I literally just made it to the station platform as my train arrived. Once on board, I felt relaxed. All of a sudden, it hit me. In all the rushing, I had left some discs home I wanted for my show. Too late. It would have to wait for next time. Thus began a 12 hour journey, consisting of five trains and a bus, to get to Seaside Radio. I didn't mind. I was just excited to be back on radio, after 27 years and 9 months.

A Restful Evening

2007-10-05T11:39:00.000-07:00

Finally, I had a restful night in. Last night, I stayed home for the first night this week. I hadn't seen Nando for days, as I go to work before he gets up and I've been coming home after he goes to bed. My racist, Italian housemate may be a decade younger than me, but he doesn't have my energy. My plan was to watch a little TV with him, then get some things ready for the big debut of my radio show, this weekend. I ended up falling asleep in front of the TV. Oh well, the preparation would have to wait for another day. I just needed sleep.

London Evening Hat Trick

2007-10-04T10:15:00.000-07:00

Last night, I was back in London. This time, I was an extra in the filming of a documentary. Confidentiality restrictions prohibit me from discussing the content of the show, but there were a lot of women involved. In particular, a certain female, professional dancer, was there, who had an amazing body. Dark haired, tall, with a sporty build, she happened to end up near me during one scene. When the group of dancers she was in kept doing their bit I couldn't take my eyes off her.
When I arrived early for the shoot, I was told to come back in about an hour. Finding a near by pub, I treated myself to a pint. Three nights out in London, in a row, and still working my day job, leads, me to feeling very busy. There are some positives to this, as I hardly notice being single. On the other hand, I wonder how this will affect me for the weekend, when I do my radio show. Will I be able to stay up all night, Saturday night, or will I be too tired? The director seemed a bit loony, but all in all, it was a fun shoot. Filming ran late, so, once again, I was late getting home.

BT Digital Music Awards

2007-10-03T21:17:00.000-07:00

Last night, I attended the BT Digital Music Awards. A friend of mine, who works in television, got me a press pass, in exchange for me working as part of her crew. My duties included holding a bag for her, running across the street to buy batteries, and taking some snapshots on a digital camera, when the crew photographer was off, shooting somewhere else. I also had to fetch drinks. On the plus side, I got to drink free all night.
This awards show is less established and wasn't attended by too many A list stars. I got to stand near by, while our correspondents interviewed them. The biggest star of the night had to be Natasha Bedingfield. I was amazed at her figure. She was, by far, the hottest woman at the show. She had a curvy ass that beats Jennifer Lopez's. Natasha's figure was highlighted by a figure hugging mini dress, which showed off every curve, but in a tasteful way. Even one of the women in our crew was amazed at Natasha's figure. I'm not that impressed with her music, but she sure looks great!
Several "Big Brother" former contestants were there. Chantelle Houghton, the winner of last year's "Celebrity Big Brother," attended. She looked great, although overly tanned. My friend interviewed her, but made a slight gaff at the start. My friend started off the interview by calling Chantelle, "Chanelle." Doh! Chanelle was a contestant on this summer's "Big Brother." Needless to say, Chantelle was not pleased. Her eyes flashed and her nostrils flared, but all credit to her, the former Paris Hilton look-alike maintained her composure and merely corrected the error, saying, "My name is Chantelle," through slightly clenched teeth. For me, that was one of the funniest moments of the night.
We were also treated to Nikki Graham, one of the stars of "Big Brother," 2006. From this year's "Big Brother," we met the twins, Sam and Amanda, as well as Charley. The twins didn't do much but pose for photos and giggle. Charley spoke a mile a minute, just like she did on the show. She complained that she had ended up wearing the same dress as the twins. Charley looked better than she ever did on the show. It's the first time I have seen her really look pretty. Her makeup was perfect. Sadly, the tattoo on her right arm detracted from her otherwise classy look.
The second most funny moment of the night, for me, was when Simon Webbe, former member of boy band, Blue, came to the press area, to be interviewed. I happened to be heading to the loo at the same time. We came face to face at the entrance to the press area. Simon immediately stuck out his hand and shook mine. I returned his greeting, politely, then made my way past him to the toilet. He mistook me for someone he needed to talk to. There were a number of newer bands and musicians who I've never heard of. I was interested to learn that members of the major news media didn't know who these people were, either. My friend had equipped us with photos of each act who was attending. While we were covering the red carpet entrance, a TV reporter in front of us kept turning around and asking us who some of the people entering were. Many of the reporters and paparazzi help each other out, while working.
Hoping to start covering these sorts of events for my radio show, I spent part of the evening talking to a photographer for "the Daily Star," and a radio reporter for BBC Radio 6. I was interested n their advice on equipment. In particular, the Radio 6 reporter, who happened to be a woman, discussed recording equipment for recording radio interviews, with me. I told her I was trying to organize equipment for my new radio show. She was very helpful. I also spoke to two women who were covering the event for TalkSport Radio. I mentioned James Max and they seemed to know him. I think one of them said she produces James when he is on TalkSport. I managed to tear myself away in time to catch the last train back to Bracknell. My second night out in London, this week, yet I still had to be at my day job in the morning.

Goldenballs

2007-10-02T19:28:00.000-07:00

A production company contacted me and asked if I would attend a taping of this game show, "Goldenballs." While I wasn't that interested in the show, I agreed to do it. I had done a show with this same company, over the summer, and I was flattered that they kept my details and thought of me. I figured I might as well show that I am willing to help them out and maybe they will do me a good turn in the future. Besides, it would be a cheap night out. They offered me the opportunity to bring a guest, so I accepted. That lead to the dilemma: who to bring?
I mentioned it to Chef Anthony, at the restaurant where I have my day job. As usual, he claimed he wanted to go. However, in the past, every time he's said he wanted to go to some show, or another, with me, he's always backed out at the last minute. I decided to continue searching for someone to go with me. I asked someone who's previously been a close, personal friend, although she's seemed a bit distant, lately. As she lives a bit far, I expected that she would decline and she did. Sadly, my former friend, Jan, the artist, recently ended our friendship, so there was no point inviting her. I decided to call Mucky Sarah. She agreed to go, even though she'd have to leave work a bit early. That's one problem solved, but that left me with a new problem.
My new problem was how to break it to Chef Anthony, that I'd chosen another person, over him? Really, I shouldn't be bothered, as many times as he's cancelled on me, or just not turned up. In the end, I said, "do you really want to go to see 'Goldenballs' with me? A woman I know wants to go."
Immediately, he said, "take her." That worked out fairly easily.
The taping was yesterday. I had arranged with Mucky Sarah to meet outside BBC's Television Centre, where the show is taped, at 6:15. 6:15 came and went, but no Sarah. The production company had said that we needed to enter by 6:30, or we wouldn't be let in. I sent her a text. Shortly after that, my mobile rang. It was Sarah. "I'm still at work," she said.
"So you're not coming?" I said, coldly.
"No I'm still coming," she replied.
"You have less than fifteen minutes to make it," I explained. "I don't see how you can possibly make it in time." She reiterated that she was coming, then we both hung up.
I started walking toward the entrance. I was going inside now and she could just fend for herself. At the entrance, the BBC has as much security as Heathrow airport. My bag was x-rayed and I had to walk through a metal detector. My steel toed work shoes set off the alarm, so I was subjected to a wand search. This was the most security I have ever been subjected to, just to attend a TV production. Once past security, I then spoke to an audience coordinator, who checked my name on the guest list. She asked about Sarah and I advised her that Sarah was running late and might not make it. The coordinator said the taping was going to be late starting, so Sarah might still get in. I was then directed to a waiting area. I sent Sarah a text letting her know that she might still get in, even if she was a bit late. Then I settled in to wait for the taping to begin.
When I attended the shows that this production company did over the summer, which weren't done at the BBC Centre, they provided snacks and drinks. At the BBC, no refreshments. The waiting area had a small cafe where one could buy refreshments. I was so thirsty, I bought a Coke. There was also a store selling DVDs of BBC shows, as well as souvenirs. I browsed through the DVDs, looking for a bargain. I quickly discovered that I was looking in the wrong place. The prices were astronomical! I'd do much better on Amazon. Giving up on the store, I found a seat and read the paper, while waiting. Would Sarah turn up in time?
When the ushers finally led us into the studio, Sarah had not turned up. It was more than 45 minutes past the time she'd originally agreed to meet me, so she joined the club of the unreliable. I found the game show to be a bit complicated. The warm-up comic was entertaining, though. I spotted an attractive woman in a blue business suit, sitting with a small group of people, on the other side of the studio. During one of the breaks, when the comic was entertaining us, I asked him to bring the suited woman over to us. It turned out she was the "independent adjudicator," observing the show to make sure no cheating was going on. He did bring her over and tried to match-make us. She was single and I am. She was a lawyer and I like professional women. When he asked her if she liked Americans, she said yes, if the have a lot of money. Oh dear! Even if I was rich, I think that would put me off her.
When the show ended, I made my way home. No text or voicemail from Sarah, explaining her absence, or apologizing. I hate that the extra space was wasted. Maybe I should have invited Tom, instead. I think I need to restock my supply of friends.

Breakup Podcast

2007-10-01T18:09:00.000-07:00

I've recorded another podcast with Anjelika Jinx, about Breakups. We recorded it last night, and I am filling in for her regular co-presenter, Wanda. You can listen to it at Anjelika's blog site, www.naivelondongirl.com . Her blog and podcasts are very "adult," but very entertaining. If you haven't listened to the Naive London Girl podcasts before, you should check them out. Especially the latest one, cause I am on it. You can even hear me sing on it! Leave her a comment and tell her what you think of it and of me. Also, if you come to read her blog, or listen to the podcast because you heard about it here, please leave a comment or email her and tell her that.

The Kingdom

2007-09-30T10:58:00.000-07:00

Having won free tickets to see an advance, sneak preview of "The Kingdom," I went to see it, today. Although I had two tickets, I couldn't find anyone willing to go with me, so I went alone. One problem was that the cinema I needed to attend was a bit off the beaten path. Out of the two people I know who live near the cinema involved, one had to work and the other had a sick daughter. Never mind.
"The Kingdom" stars Jamie Foxx and Jenifer Garner. It's the latest film by director, Michael Mann ("Collateral," "Miami Vice," "Heat") Jamie Foxx leads a team of FBI forensic investigators who travel to Saudi Arabia, to track down the terrorists who attacked a compound of American, ex-pat workers. Working with a local, Saudi cop, who starts out as minder and ends up an ally, the FBI agents face a severe culture clash. This provides the meat of the drama, outside of the action scenes, culminating in a gun battle that has become a Mann trademark. I was instantly reminded of the big gun battle towards the end of "Heat." The only drawback to the film is that the subjects it raises are covered very superficially. I thought "Collateral," which also stars Jamie Foxx, along side Tom Cruise, had much better character development. So, I wouldn't say this is the best film by Mann, but it's competently done, escapist fare.

On Your Bike

2007-09-29T09:12:00.000-07:00

A Department for Transport survey, here in Britain, has produced some surprising results. The survey on people's bicycling habits found that the richer a person is, the more likely he is to cycle. Poor people are the least likely to cycle, even though they are more likely not to have access to a car. Ironically, since I blew the engine in my car, I have considered getting a bike. My good friend, Tom, an avid cyclist, got very excited when I discussed the possibility with him. He thinks I should get a bike. What do you think?

Pennies From Heaven?

2007-09-28T20:30:00.000-07:00

This morning, I was taking a shower, when I heard something fall into the tub. We have one of those showers that is part of the bath tub. Looking down, I spotted a bronze colored object, which had fallen from my body. The water had washed it off me. It looked blurry, because I don't wear my glasses in the shower. I had to bend over to pick it up. I hate bending over. Because of this, I get annoyed when I drop something. This may have resulted in me developing quick reflexes. Many times, I have caught something before it hit the floor, which saves me from bending over. Doing so gives me such pleasure. Perhaps that's the good result of me hating bending over. It gives me the opportunity for such pleasure, when I catch something that's falling.
When I bent over, in the shower, I discovered that the object which had fallen from me was a penny. At first, this was very puzzling, because I was not wearing any clothes. I have this habit of not wearing clothes in the shower, odd as that may seem. So, where did the penny come from? Then it dawns on me. The penny had been sticking to my skin. How did it get there? Well, I usually sleep naked. The night before, I had been talking on the phone. I often lay on my bed, when I am talking on the phone. I have this tendency to roll around, when I am laying on the bed and talking on the phone at the same time. When I was talking on the phone, the night before, a penny must have fallen out of my pocket. It remained on the bed, unseen. When I got undressed and went to sleep, I must have lay on top of said penny. After hours of sleeping on the penny, it stuck to my skin, only to be washed off in the shower. In the end, the penny I found in the shower was just one of my own pennies, from my pocket. I was no better off, financially, and the penny didn't constitute any evidence for the existence of heaven.

Start Date Confirmed

2007-09-27T16:39:00.000-07:00

It's official! The start date for my radio show has been confirmed. My first broadcast will be Saturday night, 6 October, from midnight until 7AM, Sunday morning, on Seaside Radio. If you happen to be in the Holderness area, East of Hull, England, you can pick us up on 105.3 FM. Anywhere else and you will need to listen over the internet, at: www.seasideradio.co.uk . My show, called Night Waves, will include a combination of talk, music, and listener phone calls. Don't miss my long awaited return to radio, after 27 years and 9 months. The times given are UK time. If you live in another time zone, you will need to adjust the time accordingly. The time on the Eastern Seaboard of the United States is 5 hours earlier than here.

Phone Banking Moan

2007-09-26T16:20:00.000-07:00

29-year-old British man, Graham O'Brien, has been refused access to his account, five times, by his bank, when he tried using telephone banking. Staff at the Halifax Bank declined to provide Mr. O'Brien access because he has a high pitched voice. The problem is his bank details are in the name of a man, but his voice is so high, bank staff think it's a woman calling. Mr O'Brien has said he felt humiliated, but I just find the whole thing funny. The Halifax have subsequently apologized.

Failing the Grade

2007-09-25T09:27:00.000-07:00

Last week, the Qualifications and Curriculum Authority, in the UK, announced that new guidelines will be issued, under which pupils will grade each other's homework and will decide what will be asked on exams. Government ministers are studying the plan. Hopefully, they will have sense enough to give the scheme an F grade, for failure. This is the same group of dunces who announced, two months ago, that Winston Churchill would no longer be covered in history classes. Imagine that! In Britain, Winston Churchill would no longer be studied in history classes. The mind boggles. The government schools, in this country, are becoming a bad joke. Anyone who can afford to should send his or her children to private schools. I am sitting here, in front of my computer, holding my head in my hands. Never have the futures of so many been ruined by so few.

Death Proof

2007-09-24T21:25:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday night, I went to see Quentin Tarantino's "Death Proof." Originally released in the USA as half of a double feature, entitled, "Grindhouse" (the other half coming from Robert Rodriguez), disappointing ticket sales for "Grindhouse" in the states prompted Tarantino to agree to the studio's suggestion that they be released separately. Thus, here in Europe, we have "Death Proof," on its own. This film is a tribute to 70's slasher and muscle car films. Having read a couple of reviews which alternated between mixed, half-hearted praise and downright panning, I think the European reviewers have it wrong. That's probably because they aren't as familiar with the style of films Tarantino is trying to emulate, possibly because they are too young. Also, being from Europe, they just might not be getting the "American" feel of this film. Those reviewers who had anything good to say about "Death Proof," seemed to focus on the car chase sequences. While those are good, I think the other parts of the film are also entertaining, just in a different way.
The film shows a character, known as Stuntman Mike, stalk two groups of sexy, young women. He uses a stunt car to kill and is brilliantly played by Kurt Russell. The majority of the film is spent getting to know the women, as we listen in to their conversations about sex and dating. I find it interesting that the protagonists in the last three films that Tarantino has done, are women. First, there was "Jackie Brown," then "Kill Bill (volumes I and II...Tarantino speaks of them as one film), and now "Death Proof." That's over half his filmography. Perhaps he finds women as fascinating as I do. Not only are the women in "Death Proof" all visually good looking, Tarantino equips them with stereotypical, Tarantino dialog. While one might be tempted, at first, to dismiss the dialog as the unrealistic fantasy of a male screenwriter, given the enormous difficulty in writing dialog for characters of the opposite gender to the writer's, my experience of listening to the podcasts of my good friend, Anjelika Jinxs (www.naivelondongirl.com ), leads me to conclude that some young women do actually talk this way. All through the film, I kept being reminded of Anjelika talking with her friend and co-presenter, Wanda. If you haven't checked out Anjelika's "Naive London Girl" podcast, do so. They are very "adult" in content, but also very funny. Back to "Death Proof," one reviewer actually complained that the women are all sexy and dressed in revealing outfits. Duh! I'm thinking he must be gay. Far from being a negative, I'd say that's a plus, especially for male viewers. None of the women in the film are size zero waifs. They are curvy, real women. One even has a little bit of a belly going on.
The crowning glory for "Death Proof," as far as I'm concerned, is an aspect that, so far as I've read, has been totally lost on the reviewers. The second half of the film follows Stuntman Mike's second group of potential victims. These girls are working on shooting a movie, but the plot line centers around stuntwoman turned actress, Zoe Bell, playing herself. Zoe has a compulsion to drive a 1970, white, Dodge Challenger and perform a stunt called, "ship's mast" with it. Why is that significant? Well, if you have to ask, then you, like the reviewers, is missing out on one of the best aspects of "Death Proof." A 1970, white, Dodge Challenger is the car from the film "Vanishing Point" (1971). The fact that Tarantino has Zoe, and another of the girls, being fans of that film was great. The girls even refer to "Vanishing Point" as one of the greatest movies ever made, in the dialog. I'd qualify that by saying, "the greatest car film ever made," but it is in my top five. I love that Tarantino is also into "Vanishing Point." For most of my life, I thought it was just me. If you see "Vanishing Point," it takes "Death Proof" to another level. Zoe Bell ends up on the hood (bonnet) of the speeding Challenger, during a car chase sequence with Stuntman Mike in another 70s era muscle car, a Dodge Charger. The action, here, is truly breathtaking and Tarantino is quick to point out that no CGI or sped up film techniques were used to make the sequence. The cars are real and are really being driven as fast as they seem. This beats the hell out of the fake looking stuff you get in "The Fast and the Furious" franchise.
"Death Proof" has a simple plot, as is typical of the types of films it's emulating. It's not Shakespeare, but great escapist entertainment. It was able to hearken me back to my youth, when I spent many an afternoon in a darkened cinema, enjoying thrilling car chases. Tarantino manages to wed that to my adult interest in women and bring the whole package into the noughties. I found a common bond with the film maker. Perhaps we are both products of the same era.

Major Media Announcement

2007-09-23T23:07:00.000-07:00

Today, I returned from a weekend in Yorkshire. I went up there to meet with the Station Manager of a radio station. As a result of a successful meeting, I am going to have my own, weekly, radio show, starting next month. I will be doing overnight between Saturday night and Sunday mornings, on Seaside Radio, 105.3 FM, in Withensea, England. Those of you not in the local catchment area for the station will be able to listen over the internet. I am calling my show, "Night Waves" and it will consist of some talk and some music, with caller participation, as well. The talk will be somewhat humorous, very similar to my blog. Because of my trip, this weekend, there won't be a new Artist of the Week, this week. I hope to catch up by next Sunday. More details will be forthcoming when the start date of my show is confirmed.

Bluetooth Bite

2007-09-22T10:41:00.000-07:00

For some reason, 23-year-old, Frankie Hulme, decided that it would be a good idea to run across a £170,000 Lamborghini, Murcielago, he found parked along a curb. Watched by some of his friends, one of them cleverly decided to film the drunken prank on his mobile phone. Frankie's stunt put three dents in the roof of the Italian supercar. The genius friend decided to share the clip of the stunt with friends at a pub, four days later. Unfortunately, when he sent the clip using bluetooth, everyone in the pub who had bluetooth received it. One of the people who received the clip happened to be an employee of the owner of the Lamborghini. Like a good employee, he forwarded it to his boss. The car's owner showed the clip to the police.
As a result of all this, Frankie ended up convicted of criminal damage, in Norwich Crown Court. In addition to being sentenced to 100 hours of community service, Frankie has been ordered to pay £1,000 compensation to the car's owner. Now, the bit I don't understand is why was he only ordered to pay £1,000 compensation, when he caused £20,000 in damages? In case you're feeling sorry for unemployed Frankie Hulme, the judge is letting him pay the compensation in installments of only £25 per month. I feel sorry for the beautiful car.

My Mother is Alive!

2007-09-21T12:09:00.000-07:00

Last night, I tried calling my mother, again. This time, she answered. Well, the phone stopped ringing and I could hear someone pick up the receiver, at the other end. I said, "hello?" The person at the other end said nothing. I repeated, "hello, hello, hello?" several times. No reply. My mother was playing her silly phone games, again. Finally, I said, "Joanne?" That's her name.
She responded. "Who is this?"
"It's Joseph," I said.
"Why didn't you say my name right away?" she asked.
"I thought you'd recognize my voice." Gee, my own mother doesn't recognize my voice?
"I've been receiving a lot of harassing phone calls, lately," she explained. "Someone even called, asking for you. So, how are things with you?"
"Pretty good, but I've been going out of my mind. I thought you might be sick, or dead. I sent you a letter almost two months ago, asking you to send my helmet, but, when there was no response, I started worrying." I hoped my explanation would justify my disregarding my mother's request that I not call her anymore. Over a year ago, my mother asked me not to call her, because she claimed it caused her stress. I have pretty much complied with that request, writing letters and sending cards, instead. Sending a letter to her, via old fashioned "snail mail," is a royal pain in the ass. As it's international, I end up needing to visit the post office. That means a trip into town. It would be so much easier if she'd get used to using the internet. If she had an email address, I'd send her email all the time. Thankfully, she didn't seem annoyed that I had called. She seemed in quite a good mood. "When you didn't send the helmet, I started worrying," I continued explaining, more in relief than a serious thought that she didn't get the picture.
"I've gotten a box for it," she said, "but I've been wondering whether I should put bubble wrap around it, or just wrap it with newspapers. Does it cost a lot to send a package to England?"
"Ma, I don't know. It shouldn't cost much." Always worrying about money, my mother. It had been a little over a year since I have talked with her the last time, so I was prepared to indulge her in whatever conversational topics she wanted. I began telling he about all that has happened to me, lately. She spent a lot of time talking about diet and health. She was excited that she'd lost weight and lowered her cholesterol. Now, she wants to send me and Nando some drink mix that's supposed to help you lose weight and lower cholesterol. It's the drink that has helped her get results. She ends up keeping me on the phone for about two hours. As she lives alone and doesn't have many friends, she doesn't get to talk to people, much. I think she's missed having conversations, as she talked to me for ages. No arguing, no stress...a lot of crap about this drink mix, though. In the end, she never mentioned the fact that I have broken her ban on calling. Maybe even she realises, now, that it's not worth it. Having broken the ban, I will start calling regularly, again. Now, if only I can get her to answer the phone, without playing hide and seek games.

A Model of Teen Unemployment

2007-09-20T15:45:00.000-07:00

This week has been London Fashion Week, again. That's why there have been so many news items about the fashion industry, floating around. The latest is that the British Fashion Council has decided to ban people under 16 from appearing on catwalks. Recently, a 12-year-old model, Maddison Gabriel, caused a stir in Australia, during their Gold Coast Fashion Week. Australian Prime Minister, felt the need to open his gob and complain that "girls" under 16 shouldn't be appearing on catwalks. He described having a girl as young as 12 modeling as "outrageous." At least the models are doing honest work, Mr. Howard, unlike "government officials." It's hard to find work when you're a teen, so those who can should take advantage of the opportunity.
I had my first job, a paper route (or round, as the Brits say). I was 11 when I started. It never did me any harm. I wasn't earning as much as a model would. I think Naomi Campbell sided with those who favor a ban. That's hypocritical, given that she started at 15. I bet the real reason she favours a ban is that she doesn't want the competition from younger models. Let's face it, Campbell isn't getting any younger. When teens don't find work, people criticise them. You can't have it both ways. Someone needs to stand up for these models. I guess it falls to me.

Out of Whole Cloth

2007-09-20T11:26:00.000-07:00

Last Friday, a report entitled, "Let's Clean Up Fashion," was published, criticizing the high pay that chief executives of some fashion firms receive. The report contrasts these sums with the low wages paid to overseas workers, in poor countries. Two advocacy groups, War on Want and Labour Behind the Label, claim that most well-known clothing companies are not doing enough to make sure that factory workers overseas are lifted out of poverty. They also claim that overseas workers who make the clothes sold in the leading British fashion retailers are not paid a "living wage."
There's one big problem with these claims. The living wage being used as a yardstick is the British living wage. These workers don't live in Britain. The UK is one of the most expensive nations in the world in which to live. Low level wages in the UK are about double what they are in America, for example. However, since just about everything here is twice as expensive as in the States, low level workers, here, aren't any better off.
Then these idiots compare the £3 million fee paid to model Kate Moss for coming out with her own fashion line, for Topshop, with the earnings of the workers in Mauritius who make the clothes. The factory workers, there, take home £64 per month. They also compare the earnings of the CEOs for the largest supermarket chain in Britain, Tesco, and department store chain, Marks and Spencer, with garment workers in Bangladesh and Sri Lanka. Are these advocates idiots, or do they think we are? If you compare the wages of the petrol station attendant, in London, with the CEO of any major oil company, the Company director will, of course, be earning much more.
The workers in these third world countries are happy to get the wages they are getting. If these jobs didn't pay more than the alternatives open to them there, they wouldn't take them. Demanding that companies pay these folks the same as workers in Britain earn will just result in more expensive clothes for the poor in Britain and/or the jobs being eliminated all together. I wonder which is better, £64 per month in Mauritius, or £0 per month? In a free market, real wages rise to the marginal level of productivity. If these meddling twits really want to help the poor abroad, they'd campaign to eliminate barriers to migration and trade. Freeing up the markets will, in time, raise the standards of living for people in poorer countries. Until they wise up, I wish the advocates would "put a sock in it."

Spiders, Man

2007-09-19T21:42:00.000-07:00

This morning, I killed another spider in my bath tub. This is the third, big spider I have killed in the tub, over the past ten days, and the second in the past 24 hours. Nando reported killing one in the bathroom, as well. Where are they all coming from? There's a popular saying, in this part of England, that spiders come in the house in September. I just thought it was some nonsense that people say, like an old wives' tale, or something. I have definitely done battle with more spiders this month, than the entire summer, combined.
I don't like spiders. Neither does Nando. I am not afraid of them to the degree that Nando is afraid of moths. For example, there's this moderately sized one who's taken up residence in the upper left corner of my room, above the computer. So long as he stays out of my way, I've been content to let him stay there, over the past week, since I noticed him. There's another, long legged, delicate one, who's been hanging around in the upper left corner of the bathroom, above the tub. We eye each other up every morning, when I take a shower. I have one of those shower/bath combinations, where the shower sprays down into the tub. This one has survived and I can stand in the shower, naked, while he moves around, so long as he stays out of the way.
When I was a kid, I was very afraid of spiders. Even more so, worms. It seems like a lot of humans dislike wiggly, creepy, crawly things. Nando particularly hates spiders when they walk across the floor. There's something about the way they move that seems wrong, somehow. The three I have killed, recently, have been big and have been in my tub. I don't want to step into the tub to take a shower and have that big hairy mother start crawling over my feet. Some people try to catch and release spiders. The heck with that! There seems to be plenty around, so it's not like they are an endangered species, or something. My policy is, if I see one outside, I usually leave them be, but if they come into my house, uninvited, they are subject to death. And yet, Spiderman is one of my favorite superheros. Strange, huh?

I Dream of Onions

2007-09-18T15:08:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning and remembered dreaming. They say that we each dream every night, but only remember dreaming occasionally. If we don't remember dreaming, what good is it? Anyway, this time I do remember. In my dream, I was walking along what is known as a "dual carriageway," here in Britain. In America, we'd call it a "divided highway." The point is, there's a "central reservation" (UK), or "median strip." (US) In the dream, I am walking in this center part, on the grass. All of the sudden, as I am walking along, looking down...
There's a tendency to look down, when your life is crap. It's as if you keep your head down, then no harm will come to you. Kind of/sort of a "see no evil" strategy. Or, the mindset of an ostrich. If you don't see it, it can't see you. It's not so much being scared, as it is feeling tired. Don't make eye contact with anyone and maybe they won't try to speak to you. Anyone who speaks to you must want something. Sometimes you can feel tired of being confronted with everyone else's wants.
Another reason to look down when you're walking is that you might find money. That does happen, sometimes. Still, I think the main reason is tiredness. Being tired of the constant grind life seems to have you under. "Leave me alone. I just want to get home and have a rest."
All of a sudden, as I am walking along, looking down... I see onions. A whole field of them. The grass seems to be full of them, still growing. I start picking them up, as many as I can carry. I am thrilled to be getting these free onions and carry my bounty home. What's it all mean?

Nando Feeds Me

2007-09-17T18:21:00.000-07:00

The other day, Nando came home from work and started cooking. I was in the lounge, watching TV. Nando told me he was making homemade lasagna and asked if I wanted some. Free, homemade lasagna? Sure! I didn't have to lift a finger. I just sat back and continued watching television. In due course, dinner was ready. What a treat. Freshly made lasagna. What with Nando being Italian and all, I would expect his lasagna to really be good. It tasted good to me, but then I don't think I have that discerning a palate. So what's with Nando, lately? First he gives me two T-shirts, now he makes me dinner. Actually, I suspect it had more to do with him making more than he could eat himself. He even gave me seconds.

Artist of the Week: Dido

2007-09-16T19:45:00.000-07:00

This week, my Artist of the Week is singer/songwriter Dido. Although she hasn't released any new material for about four years, she is reportedly working on a new album. I liked both her albums, so far. Her single, "White Flag," from her second album, "Life For Rent," became a personal anthem for me, in 2003, when it was released months after my divorce was final. The lyrics summed up my feelings about my evil ex-wife, the Black Queen, quite accurately. I don't know how popular she has been in America, since her big commercial break came after I moved to the UK. Obviously, Eminem heard her, because he sampled one of her songs for his single, "Stan," and she also appeared in the video.
I was fascinated to learn that her full name is actually Dido Florian Cloud de Bounevialle Armstrong. No wonder she goes by "Dido," professionally. She's a four time BRIT award winner and has been nominated for a Grammy, as well as for a couple of MTV awards. If you aren't familiar with her music, it's about time you tried it. You can check her out at her official Myspace page: www.myspace.com/dido . I am eagerly awaiting the release of her third album, due out early next year.

Since When Do Men Wear Tops?

2007-09-15T11:27:00.000-07:00

I managed to get myself going early, today, so I caught the bus into town. I needed to pick up clothes from the cleaners and buy some groceries. It was just a quick trip, as I wanted to get back in time to watch football, on TV. As I was walking back to the bus station, I encountered three young men, walking the opposite direction. One of the three was very tall, while the other two were short. The tall one was talking and I couldn't help but overhear. He was saying, "let's go and get those tops we saw the other day." That was all of the conversation I got to hear, as we passed each other. In a flash, they were out of earshot again.
As I continued walking to the bus station, the little snippet of conversation stirred my brain. There was something not quite right about it. I mulled it over for a few moments, while continuing to scan the walkway for beautiful women. Suddenly, it occurred to me...that young man said, "tops!" Since when do men buy tops? Men buy shirts. Women buy tops. What gives? Is this a sign of the further demasculinization of the British male? Come to think of it, that tall, young man looked a bit effeminate. Why were these boys going clothes shopping in the first place? That's a girly pass time. Why aren't they heading to the pub, or home, like me, to watch football? Now that's a manly pursuit. Sitting in front of your satellite TV, remote at your fingertips, cold beer in hand, watching the footie. If boys, these days, don't get to practice such manly activities, what will become of society?
Perhaps they were raised by single mothers. No man around to teach them the many arts of football watching, remote control fondling, and wearing shirts. What's worse, these lot probably put the toilet seat down, after they pee. Or, horror of horrors, they call it "weeing," instead of "peeing." The next thing you know, they'll be using moisturizers and tons of hair care products. No wonder Britain lost the Empire.

Those Damn Tories

2007-09-14T15:29:00.000-07:00

The Tory Party, under David Cameron, are considering a set of green policy positions. These include raising taxes on short-haul flights, raising taxes on cars, and banning the standby feature on electronic appliances. They are supposed to be conservatives, but they seem to be trying to outdo the other parties at anti-market, centralized economic planning attacks on liberty. Thus they offer no alternative to the socialist Labour Party, currently in power. Unfortunately, the Liberal-Democrats aren't much better either. If the British people want to emit less CO2, they are already free, in the marketplace, to do so. They do not need government terrocrats using force to make them do so. Most of the Tory proposals being considered would not reduce CO2 emissions, but merely line the coffers of the Treasury with more stolen money.
I pay for the electricity I use. If I want to use it powering standby modes, that's up to me. People should throw their remote controls at Cameron's head until he gets it. The airlines, car companies, power companies, oil companies, and electronics companies need to wake up and realize that these green proposals will be a threat to their businesses. Call me a sceptic, but reduced fuel consumption will reduce the takings by the government gang in fuel taxes. These new, so called "green" taxes might just be a sneaky attempt to replace expected lost revenue. Sadly, there seems to be no pro liberty alternative in the British political arena. At least in America, they have Ron Paul. We could do with a Ron Paul for the UK.

Wearing the Real Costume

2007-09-13T16:20:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I worked on the feature film for which I attended the costume fitting last week. I had a 6:30AM call time at Pinewood Studios. Getting there via public transportation would prove tricky. After much research, I decided to take the first bus from Bracknell, towards London, but get off at Langley. The production company was providing a free shuttle bus service from Langley train station to Pinewood. They were expecting people from London to arrive at Langley on the 6:11 from Paddington Station. The bus from Bracknell was due to arrive in Langley at 6:06. The only problem was that the bus stop isn't at the train station. Could I walk to the train station in five minutes?
The answer turned out to be, "no." It wasn't helped by the fact that my bus was a bit late. The train station proved to be quite far. After walking a while, I caught a bus that was going my way. I asked the driver if he stopped at the train station, but he said no. He did get me closer, faster than I could have walked the distance. By the time I arrived at Langley Station, it was 6:25. When I walked to the front of the station, I figured the shuttle to Pinewood would have left already. Maybe I could catch a cab from the station. As the front of the station came into view, I was pleasantly surprised. There were a bunch of men waiting there. The shuttle hadn't come yet.
The mini buses didn't start arriving to pick us up till just past 6:30. Technically, we were late, but as we were all in the same boat, I figured I couldn't get into trouble over it. We had been told to arrive at 6AM, if we wanted breakfast. I was concerned about missing breakfast, as I hadn't brought anything to eat with me. Upon arrival at Pinewood, I was in for my second pleasant surprise of the day. They were still serving breakfast. There were so many background artistes in line for their costumes, that there was plenty of time for me to grab something to eat first.
The only downside to this shoot was that all of the actors for the scene were men. There must have been a couple of hundred of us, but not a single female. The only women around were a couple of production runners, a couple of costume people, and all the makeup department. The makeup ladies were quite old and matronly looking, but the female runners were on the cute side. Oh, one of the assistant directors was female as well, but she wasn't so good looking. Mostly, she kept repeating, "quiet please," so often that towards the end of the day, I felt like pushing her head through a wall. Strangely, I ended up resisting the urge.
Although my agent had originally told me the job was for two days filming, I found out that the production company was going to try to cram it all into the one day. That's why we started so bloody early. Because I had been told it was for two days, I had booked two days off work at the restaurant. If they succeeded in getting all the filming done in one day, I would end up with a day off for nothing. The day was long. They didn't wrap us till just past 7PM. It was then that they finally told us for certain that we would not be needed the next day. By them, there was no one left at the restaurant for me to call and cancel my day off for the next day. Oh well, I resigned myself to spending the next day at home, relaxing. Poor me.

Sexy Science

2007-09-12T10:09:00.000-07:00

Even though the subjects of scientific research into what humans find attractive in a mate claim that they look for partners similar to themselves, the research doesn't back that up. Scientists are saying that a study of speed dating results shows that men are attracted to beautiful women. Women, on the other hand, are attracted to blokes with money. Go figure! It's interesting that what people do seems to differ from what they say. This supports a contention I have made for years, that if you want to understand people, watch what they do, rather than going by what they say. Now that these astounding results have been published in the "Proceedings of the National Academy of Science," I guess I shall continue my pursuit of wealth. I thought women liked men who make them laugh? I suppose the best strategy is to become a rich comedian.

Mothman Fears

2007-09-11T10:12:00.000-07:00

One night last week, my racist, Italian housemate, Nando, and I were watching TV together in the lounge. It being a warm night, Nando had opened the back window at my request. All of a sudden, a moth flew in the window and began that erratic flying pattern they do, spiraling towards the light in the corner. Then Nando jerked up from his reclining position, saying, "I hate those bloody things." I watched all this with casual amusement.
"Nando," I said, "you're not afraid of moths, are you?"
"I can't stand them," he replied, all the while ducking and diving in time to the little winged creature's movements. I started laughing out loud at this. "I can handle spiders and snakes, but I can't take these things flying at you. Hurry up and kill it!" he stated.
As if it understood Nando's violent intentions, the moth disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. "Nando, I could understand being afraid of snakes, or spiders, because they could be poisonous, and could kill you," I explained, "but a moth can't do you any harm. It's a tiny, little thing and very delicate."
"I can't stand the way they fly around" he replied.
"Are you afraid of butterflies, too?" I asked.
"Butterflies don't bother me," Nando said. There doesn't seem to be that much difference between moths and butterflies, to me. Nando explained that butterflies don't fly at you and fly slower. I rolled my eyes at such petty differences. If someone wanted to torture Nando, all the torturer would have to do is lock Nando in a room with a dozen moths and an electric light. Nando looks like he's not afraid of anything. He's normally quite calm and not easily upset. Who'd have thought that something as small and insubstantial as a moth would terrify him?
I went up to bed, leaving Nando sitting anxiously in the lounge, looking this way and that, least the moth return. He said he'd have to kill it before he went to bed. As I left, Nando asked me to kill the flying creature, if I should run into it on my journey upstairs. I couldn't be bothered to even notice if I passed the moth, or not. The next day, Nando reported to me that said moth had indeed met his demise, at Nando's hands. He'd tracked it down before gong to bed, himself. Nando won that victory and it remains until the next little moth creature finds its way into the house. It might be fun to see what Nando would do if there were two months in the room, at the same time.

I Wish Someone Had Told Me

2007-09-10T09:22:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday, I went into London to film an interview for a TV show. I can't tell you the name of the show yet, because of the confidentiality agreements that were part of my release. It should air sometime in December, so I'll let you know when I know, exactly. I was able to travel in style, by train, because the production company paid for my transportation. No bus for me, for a change. Also uncharacteristically, I arrived quite early. I wandered around the block, looking for a pub to kill some time, but there were none in the area. There was an Indian restaurant, closed for refurbishment, though. Turning around, I just decided to go in early. It turned out to be a good thing I did.
When I entered the building, there were already several people waiting. If I had waited to arrive on time, I wouldn't have gotten a seat. The production crew were running late with an earlier group they were filming. After waiting a while, they informed us that our group wouldn't start filming until after lunch. It was suggested that we could go out and come back later, if we wanted to. What, and lose my seat? No way! Besides, we were fed and watered with delicious, free food and drink. Packages of crisps (potato chips) and fizzy drinks were on offer, as well as coffee and tea. I enjoyed a can of Sprite and a package of crisps.
The group of waiting people was almost evenly split between males and females. Every woman there, except one, was good looking. The majority were actresses and models. While the refreshments may not have exactly comprised a feast, there was certainly a feast for the eyes. Sitting around me were a Brazilian psychologist, a woman from Switzerland, and a Malaysian model. Across the room were two beautiful dark skinned women. As seats ran out, there was a gal with a very full head of gingerish hair, quite styled. Later, I spotted a blond, glamour model type, standing near the door. She seemed to be adjusting her breasts, or how they sat in the dress out of which they were practically spilling.
Malay started making eye contact and smiling at me. I wondered if I had some funny bit of fluff in my hair, or something. Eventually, she made some comment or other. I took the opportunity to talk with her. Soon, Swiss Miss and Brazil Psycho gal had joined in. Sadly, a British, bald actor did too and he talked and talked, and talked some more. He talked so much, it was minimizing the opportunity for me to get a word in. I may have a great personality, but I need talk time to display that. Overhearing Malay mentioning a daughter, I wrote her off as probably attached. Then filming restarted. Malay and Brazil Psych rushed towards the entrance of the studio, hoping to get in early. Bald actor dude went with them. I considered joining them, but it would mean standing and there was no guarantee how soon we would be filmed. Although a bunch of people started lining up behind them, I surmised that the producer had her own idea about what order she wanted to interview people, so standing in line wouldn't make much of a difference. I elected to remain in my seat.
Swiss Miss stayed sitting, next to me. This wasn't the good result it may sound like, at first. She was one of the plainest there, in the looks department. She had short hair and hard features which bordered on the butchy lesbianic. I talked with her some more, but noticed she wore a ring on her left hand. Probably taken, I figured. As seats became empty, I shuffled towards the front. Relocating to a chair right across from the two dark skinned girls, I began listening to their conversation. Although they weren't there together, they had fallen into conversation, as often happens when waiting for stuff like this. People willing to be on TV tend to be a bit more out-going and friendly. The prettiest of the two, who was also the shorter and the darker, was speaking quietly enough that I was having a hard time hearing everything. Short and Dark mentioned something about experiencing racism when she was on holiday in Wales, with her "white" boyfriend. My attention wandered from her toward Taller and Lighter. Still quite brown, Taller and Lighter had on a skin tight, mustard colored, mini dress. This dress showed off every curve, including her ample, bootiliscious posterior. Her height was accentuated by a pair of black, stiletto heeled, lace up boots. Heavily made up, she gave off the impression, visually, that she was trying too hard. One of the staff came by with more treats. I snagged a Mars bar, while she tucked into a chocolate muffin. She bemoaned the effect her sweet tooth has on her figure, vowing to hit the gym to try to undo it. I told her not to worry about it and just enjoy the chocolate, while following my own advice. That Mars bar sure tasted good.
The numbers of us waiting gradually diminished, as, one after another, people filmed their interviews. Even though she'd moved to the front of the line, Malay was still there. As I had suspected, all that standing hadn't made any difference. As they were running behind, the production staff said they didn't have time to finish everyone that day. They offered volunteers a chance to film a different segment, instead. I was willing, but then it was announced that they preferred younger people for that. At 26, Taller and Lighter took the opportunity. She removed her boots and put on comfortable, flat flip-flops. Somehow, this spoiled her whole look. She flip-flopped out the door. Some interesting information came to light at this time. The production assistant informed us that everyone there, that day, had been single. Couples were being filmed another day. What? Now they tell me! I had spent the day surrounded by loads of hot, single women, without knowing they were available.
Soon I was in the "green room," with a couple of the other men left and Malay. She was the last female there. She'd made eye contact with me earlier in the day, so I tried to engage her in conversation. After I enquired about her daughter, she showed me a picture of the girl. Cute kid. The hours of waiting seemed to have taken their toll. There just didn't seem to be any magic between us, anymore. Malay seemed only focusing on getting out of there and home to her daughter. Then she was gone. When my turn finally came, I went on and did my interview. The interviewer was sitting off camera, while I sat on a couch shaped like a pair of red lips. The short series of questions finished, the director yelled cut. He smiled broadly and said my segment had gone really well. Too bad none of the single women had been there to hear it. I walked out the door and into a warm London, with the sun about to set. I had a free pass to use any public transport within Zones 1 and 2. The night was young and I had nothing to do. Pulling out my mobile, I dialed Mucky Sarah's number. Perhaps she'd be up for doing something. Walking along towards Marylebone station, chatting on my mobile phone, I managed to feel good. There are fish in them waters.

Artist of the Week: K.T. Tunstall

2007-09-09T17:51:00.000-07:00

This week, my Artist of the Week is K.T. Tunstall. Her second album, "Drastic Fantastic," is due out on general UK release, tomorrow. It should be out in the US by the 18th of September. Recently, the Scottish singer-songwriter caught my ear with her latest single, "Hold On." I noticed it on the music video TV channels, a couple of weeks ago and I liked it immediately. She has also caught my eye, as I have seen billboards around London and the southeast of England, promoting her new album. On these billboards, she strikes a sexy pose with a short, white dress and holding a guitar.
I was interested to learn that K. T.'s birth mother was half Chinese. So was my evil ex-wife, the Black Queen. Could they have been one and the same? Hopefully not. Anyway, K.T. was adopted and still has grown up to have a successful music career. She's an example that being adopted is no excuse not to get on in life. You can check K.T. out on her Myspace, at: www.myspace.com/kttunstall . I wonder what else she has in store for us, on her new album?

Nando's Given Me a Gift

2007-09-08T20:14:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, Nando came home from work late in the evening. I think it had been a couple of days since we'd seen each other. I usually leave the house before he does, in the mornings, and usually return after him. Sometimes, I come home so late, he's already gone upstairs to bed. Nando usually occupies one of four locations in the house. The toilet, his bed, eating at the kitchen table, or laying on the sofa watching TV. If an assassin wanted to kill Nando, all he'd have to do is stake out one of those locations and Nando would turn up, sooner or later. Out of the four, by far the most common one is on the sofa. Nando could be the poster boy for couch potatoes.
On this occasion, Nando says he has something for me, then rushes upstairs. That alone is quite unusual. I tend to be a short-term pessimist and a long-term optimist. Thus, I expect things to go wrong in the immediate future, but work out in the long run. This leads me to experience apprehension, while Nando is upstairs. What's he got for me? Has someone dropped off court papers, suing me, and he's answered the door? Could it be another evil box? When he returns downstairs, it turns out to be two T-shirts. He found some publicity shirts at work, promoting some brands of beer, and brought two home for me. Nando's also brought a couple for himself, as he's not completely selfless, thank goodness.
Free stuff! Anyone who knows me knows I love free stuff. Now I don't have to go out and buy two T-shirts. I can't remember Nando ever giving me a gift before that wasn't food or drink. He said he found a couple of boxes of these T-shirts at work. One was for Fosters and the other Carlsburg. He's kept two of one brand for himself and gave me two of the other brand. Why didn't he mix it up and give us each one from each brand? Come to think of it, why did he only bring me two? I wish he'd brought me some sports socks. Most of mine have holes in them. Or a car. Why hasn't he brought me a car? Am I getting carried away with this?

Banning Cars

2007-09-07T09:42:00.000-07:00

Recently, this dork from the Liberal-Democrats, in Britain, called for the banning of petrol cars in the UK, by 2040. Chris Huhne, the "Environment spokesman" for the party, came out with this crap in order to "tackle climate change." I am so sick of people asking for this and that to be "banned." If consumers want vehicles that don't emit CO2, then the market will provide them. In fact, as I have previously said, the market is poised to do just that, with the pending introduction of hydrogen burning vehicles. Politicians can't solve problems, they can only create them. All that they can do, in government, is apply force. Hopefully, Huhne will eliminate his "carbon footprint," by shooting himself. For the moment, at least, we have the satisfaction that Huhne's party is not "in power."

A Real Costume

2007-09-06T21:35:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a really busy day for me. A long one, as well. First, I went to my day job, at the restaurant, arriving at 7:45AM. After working till 11:15, without my usual break at 10:00, I left and rushed over to Pinewood Studios. Traffic was moderate and the drive took 35 minutes. I made my costume fitting, scheduled for Noon, with a few minutes to spare. Walking from the gate to a temporary structure behind the 007 sound stage, a fellow supporting artiste asked me to show him the way. I am usually slightly less enthusiastic about helping guys, as opposed to pretty women, but what the hell. As I was leading the way, my new, talkative companion let slip that his father is a producer. Hello! Major networking opportunity.
Upon arrival at the marquee, we were given payment paperwork and confidentiality agreements to sign. Because of the latter, I can't say which major motion picture it is I will be working on next. The film industry can be so secretive sometimes. Usually, when I have attended a costume fitting for supporting artiste work, the costume ends up being primarily my own clothes. They look over what I have brought, add this, or takeaway that, but I end up wearing my own clothes. What fun is there in that? This time was different. I was given a complete costume, shirts, trousers, even shoes. Finally! This feels more like acting. I will enjoy playing my small part much more, knowing that I am wearing a real costume, not just my own clothes. The only items of my own that I will be wearing will be socks and underpants. Producer's son was going a bit slower and I needed to get back to work. I bade him farewell and scampered off towards the parking lot. Hopefully, I would talk to him more during filming, next week.
Rushing back to work in my rented, Italian car, I got there by 1:05PM, just five minutes later than I had hoped. I was in a great mood, having listened to my favorite Black Eyed Peas song, "Hey Mama," on the radio, in the car, while speeding down the motorway. That was the first song I ever liked by B.E.P. and every time I hear it, I can picture Fergie in the video, shaking her...ass-ets. Back at work, I struggled to catch up on my work, which had piled up while I was gone. There was no time to relax. I needed to get finished as quickly as possible, so I could head to my next project for the day.
I finished at the restaurant by 4:50PM. After a quick break in the lavatory, I raced off to return my rented car. The rental firm dropped me off at Hatton Cross Tube station. As I rushed down the stairs, to the platform, I heard a train pulling out. I reached the platform just in time to see it was an eastbound Piccadilly line train. Just the one I needed. Trains on the Heathrow spur of the Piccadilly line run a bit infrequently, so I sat down to wait for the next one. I was racing to meet my good friend, Mucky Sarah. She was producing some project of her own and needed a male for voiceover work. When she offered it to me, I jumped at the chance.
Catching the next train, I figured out I could change to the District line at Acton Town. The District line would take me to Ravenscourt Park, the nearest station to my destination. From there, I could walk to the studio where we would be recording. Unfortunately, the London Underground system was recovering from a strike, which had just ended in the early hours of Wednesday morning. Even though it was now Wednesday evening, full service had not yet been restored. The District line was running again, but only on a limited service. I ended up with a long wait at Acton Park. Sarah called me on my mobile. She'd beaten me to Ravenscourt Park. I told her to go ahead and I would meet her at the studio. Trying to be helpful, she offered me directions from Ravenscourt Park Tube station, to the studio. Even though I had a map, I took note of Sarah's directions. After all, she'd been there before and was traveling the route at that very moment. I had never been to that part of town before. Surely, her tips would save me valuable time fumbling with my map, printed from the internet.
By this time I had been going for over twelve hours. I guess was tired, or something. That could explain why I totally forgot that Sarah is navigationally challenged, even more so than most women. When driving her car, she's almost completely dependent on her GPS. When her GPS wasn't working for a while, this summer, even with computer generated directions from the internet, she still managed to get lost, twice, while driving us somewhere in northwest London. None of this was in the forefront of my mind when I left Ravenscourt Tube station. I blindly followed Sarah's directions and lived to regret it. Subsequently, it began to dawn on me that I was going the wrong way. Consulting my map and struggling to find a street sign, I eventually figured out that I was on the wrong side of Ravenscourt Park. One of the quirky things about Britain is that many intersections lack street signs. This makes navigating much more of a challenge than it is in the States. I made a right turn and cut through the park, trying to get myself back on course.
I must have gotten slightly disoriented in the park, because I ended up on the east side of it, rather than on the north side. However, I wouldn't figure that out until later. I tried comparing the streets I was seeing to the few that were named on my map. Instead of relying on this crappy Mapquest printout, I should have consulted my trusty, old, London A -Z, but as I said, I was tired. I pressed on in what seemed like the right direction. Sarah called to find out where I was. "I don't know," I said. "Your directions were shit," I informed her. A brief discussion ensued and she admitted that she had given me a wrong turn, sending me left out of the station, when it should have been right. Oopsie! Sarah started making unhelpful suggestions, based on her own habits. This included suggesting that I go back the way I came and start over. That's a well known tactic of hers. I had been walking for half an hour, by then. No way was I going to redo that, then still have the walk to the studio to do. Next, she suggested asking someone. Asking is a stereotypical female, navigational tactic, but I am a man and real men don't ask! Did Christopher Columbus ask? Hell no! She started debating with me, which wasn't helping. In fact, it was distracting. I pretended that I was getting a bad signal on my mobile and couldn't hear her. Then I hung up, saying I would call her back. When I didn't, she called back, a few minutes later. I just let my phone ring and didn't answer.
Having finally found a main road that was on my map, I tried to figure where I was along it. Lack of street signs again caused me to walk along it in the wrong direction. Those street signs I did find didn't correlate with the ones on my map. Reaching a bus stop, I consulted the local map displayed there. Finally, I knew where I was. By reversing direction and walking a bit, I was able to get to the street the studio was on. I finally arrived there, an hour late. I did it my way, as Frank Sinatra would sing. No asking strangers for directions! Male honor was satisfied.
In the studio, I offered Sarah and the sound engineer croissants, but they declined. How cool...I was able to appear generous, but without any of the negative side effects. She gave me a copy of the script I would be reading. We were recording a segment of her book, which is based on her blog. Sarah writes a sex blog, "Naive London Girl." The book is based on her blog and real life sex exploits. The publishing company she is negotiating with want to put it out as a podcast book, as well as traditional print, and wanted a sample. Sarah writes under the pen name, Anjelika Jinxs. You can check out her sex blog at: http://www.naivelondongirl.com . That site also has her podcasts, including a couple with me on them.
Looking over the script, I noticed that the male parts I was doing involved some very sleazy sex talk. This script required me saying all sorts of pathetic, sleazy things that I just wouldn't normally say to a woman. Noticing my distaste, Sarah said, "it's called acting." Sarah and I sat in a studio, together. We did a couple of practice run-throughs of the script. It's funny how Sarah can be so inhibited about so many things in day to day life, like driving without a GPS, or eating vegetables, but the filth that calmly spews forth from that girl's mouth is enough to make a sailor blush. Once we started recording, Sarah did a few bits on her own, then we did some together. Listening to the criticism of the sound engineer, we did a couple of takes of some parts, trying to get it right. Finally, we came to my last part. It was a single line, but it involved me pretending to be having an orgasm. Faking orgasms is what women do. I have no experience with that. It was my turn to feel inhibited. I did it over and over again, but Sarah wasn't satisfied. She kept urging more out of me. The problem is the character is saying things I would never say during an orgasm. Finally, the engineer said to try ad libbing it and saying whatever I was comfortable with. Once I did that a couple of times, he said he was satisfied that he had enough. He will edit parts together to produce what he and Sarah want. Sarah teased me that I don't make noisy enough orgasms. I teased her back that her scriptwriting was crap. My parts finished, I was free to leave.
We had finished a little earlier than I expected. Not wanting to repeat the disaster of my journey there, I caught a bus to Hammersmith Underground station. From there, I walked to the bus stop for the coach to Bracknell. I was happy to get the 9:50PM Coach from Hammersmith. Originally, I had been expecting to end up on the 10:50. Arriving in Bracknell after 11:30PM, I walked home from the town centre, as the local buses had stopped running by then. A Taxi would cost the equivalent of an hour's wages at the restaurant. It only took me half an hour to walk. That's the like doubling my wages. It was after midnight by the time I waked through my doorway. I felt hot and sweaty. I had just endured an 18 hour day. Uncharacteristically, I had a shower and went to bed. Blogging could wait for another day.

An Italian Car

2007-09-05T11:23:00.000-07:00

Last night, I went to Heathrow Airport and picked up a rented car. I had decided that because I needed to go to Pinewood studios during the day today, then back to work at the restaurant, it would be too inefficient to do that on public transportation. I shopped around for the best deal, then settled on Budget, through Ebookers. Their price was about 25% cheaper than the quotes I had been getting directly from the car hire firms.
When I arrived at Budget for my 9PM reservation, they put me in an Italian car. It was the latest edition of the Fiat Punto, an economy car. Although I was after cheap transportation, I was pleasantly surprised with the Fiat. The styling was massively improved over older Puntos. The car felt solidly put together and had all the bells and whistles one might want. Equipped with a CD stereo, power windows, power door locks, electrically remote control side mirrors, power steering, and air conditioning, this economy car provided a pleasing degree of luxury.
Okay, it wasn't as fast as my old BMW, but it didn't feel like a stone, either. I managed to coax it up to almost 100 mph, but it seemed more comfortable between 80 and 90. Acceleration was slow, but that's not surprising for an economy model. I was just pleased to be driving again, even if it was only for one day. Racing home to see the 10PM re-broadcast of "Eastenders," the car felt light and nimble, but with a solid steering feel. After parking in front of the house, I looked forward to being able to enjoy an extra hour of sleep in the morning. Driving is one of the most enjoyable experiences in life. There is a special bond between a man, or a woman, and a car.

Transformers

2007-09-04T21:08:00.000-07:00

For the second weekend in a row, I was let down by an America friend backing out of going out. Last Saturday, I decided to go out on my own and went to see "Transformers." I wasn't a fan of the original cartoon, TV series. It was a bit after my time, as I was grown up by the time it came out. I did have a small encounter with the cartoon TV series, though. During the 1984-85 school year, I worked as a school bus driver, while training to be a flight instructor. One of the kids on the bus, Tommy, had a bad reputation as being a lot of trouble. Previous drivers had repeatedly "written up" the boy for causing disturbances amongst the other children. I was warned not to hesitate to "write up" Tommy, if he caused any trouble.
I have never been a fan of authoritarian solutions. Instead, I talked to Tommy. I told him that the seat right behind me was a special seat, which only the most privileged child could have the honor of sitting in. Of course, he wanted that honor. This kept him close to me, so I could monitor him, and away from the majority of the other children, who hung out towards the back of the bus. Next, I talked to him and asked him what he liked to do. This led him to tell me about the TV shows he enjoyed. One of the ones he named was "The Transformers." I decided to watch the shows he named, a few times, so I could speak about them with him, thus keeping him "entertained" while he was riding the bus. That was how I ended up watching a few episodes of "The Transformers" cartoon TV series.
It worked. Tommy got into the habit of quietly sitting in the special seat and discussing cartoons with me. Meanwhile, I learned about the Autobots, led by Optimus Prime (the good guys), versus the Decepticons, led by Megatron (the bad guys). Transformers are robots which are able to "transform" into cars, trucks, and other innocent looking machines. After one school year, I quit that job. It was only meant to be temporary. I also quit watching "The Transformers." I was in my mid-twenties and it didn't have any nostalgic appeal for me.
Fast forward twenty-two years later. Someone has decided to make a feature length, live-action film of the Transformers. From trailers for it I had seen in the cinema, I was impressed with the Computer Generated Images (CGI) technology which bring the Transformers to "life," on the screen. With my original plans for Saturday postponed, I decided to go see the film. As it has already been out for about two months, there was only one showing on Saturday, at the local cinema, in Bracknell, at 5:10PM. Oddly, when I arrived at the box office, the line for the multiplex was so long, I ended up missing the first few minutes of the film. From where I picked it up, I only need one word to describe the film: fantastic!
Director, Michael Bay, has done a great job turning a line of toys into a film, while keeping it relatively faithful to the earlier cartoon versions. The special effects are amazing but the film doesn't solely ride on CGI. There's a human story as well. Shia LaBeouf plays Sam Witwicky, a somewhat nerdy high school student, who gets his first car. Megan Fox plays Mikaela Banes, Sam's love interest in the film. The first thing I can say about the aptly named Fox is that she's hot! What's icing on the cake is that her character is an expert mechanic and that's hot too. I can't think of much that's more exciting than a beautiful babe who can turn a wrench. Fellas, if you like your female eye candy a bit more on the academic side, there's also the lovely Rachael Taylor, playing brainiac computer whiz, Maggie Madsen. All the women in this film are clever and I'm one of those guys who's not intimidated by clever women, so I was loving it. There's a message in there for the women of the world. Nice guys like women with brains. Don't worry ladies, there are some hunky guys in it too, as U.S. soldiers. I'm sure many young women will also find LaBeouf cute as well (I've herd he's dating Rihanna). Anyway, that's one of the great things about this film. There's something for everyone.
Of course, Sam Witwicky's first car turns out to be an Autobot named, "Bumblebee." The car/robot's loyalty to Sam is heart warming, as well as building on every man's fantasy that his car is loyal to him. The film also has some funny comic elements and I found myself laughing out loud several times, starting with Bernie Mac as the used car dealer, and continuing with Sam's parents. Special effects as good as those in the film are best enjoyed on the big screen. If you haven't already seen it, try to catch the film before it leaves the cinemas for good. Watching it as a DVD, at home, just won't compare. This film is enjoyable, escapist fare. I liked it much more than "Spiderman 3." It's not as sophisticated as "Bourne Ultimatum," but on a simpler level, it's more fun. Some newspaper critics have complained that it's too long, but I didn't think so. Although two hours and twenty-four minutes long, it doesn't drag and I was sorry to see it end. I wanted more. This is a fun film which the whole family can enjoy. Kids will love it, while there is enough in it to keep adults entertained, as well. "Transformers..." more than meets the eye.

A Holiday of Sorts

2007-09-03T16:57:00.000-07:00

In America, today is Labor Day. It's the last three day weekend of the summer, there and the symbolic end of summer. Here in the UK, we had our end of summer, long weekend, a week ago. Even though summer officially ends around the 22 of September, or something like that, the last long weekend is the psychological end. This week, kids go back to school. Over the weekend, I noticed that it's getting dark noticeably earlier. It's starting to feel autumnish.
Whew I was a kid, going back to school seemed like the end of summer. In the newspapers, it was reported that meteorologists are predicting warmer temperatures, later this week. The newspapers lamented that this warm spell is a cruel twist of fate for the returning students. That's one area where being older has it's advantages. The opening of the new school term has no affect on me. Being that I work, nothing changes.
I did end up starting a holiday of sorts, today. Nando informed me that Hitler's Nephew is away for a whole month. Apparently, the old git has gone back to Austria, for a month off. A whole month! No I do feel like celebrating.

Nando Has a Second Date

2007-09-02T15:27:00.000-07:00

After my racist, Italian housemate, Nando's blind date, on Tuesday, I asked him what the woman was like. He showed me a picture of her. I think she looks nice and very sweet. He and I talked about her and I got the impression he wasn't thrilled with her. He doesn't think she's good looking enough. Although they had agreed to a second date, I'm not holding out a lot of hope that they will last as a couple. I feel sorry for her, as Nando is a very closed person and somewhat of an emotional desert.
Their second date was Saturday evening. Nando didn't get home until almost midnight. I was still up when he came in, so I asked him how it went. He said she looked much better, this time. Okay, that's a positive step. They went out to dinner and to a pub. During dinner, she was telling Nando about the other men she has been introduced to, by the dating agency. Apparently, one of them was "black." She said something like, "I'm not a racist, but I don't know why they are introducing me to a black man. I stated in my profile that I am looking for white." A smiling Nando told her it's alright to be racist. Is it just me, or does it sound like he's not exactly going to bring out the best in this woman?

Artist of the Week: Robyn

2007-09-02T10:54:00.000-07:00

This week, my Artist of the Week is Robyn. Robyn, who's full name is Robin Miriam Carlsson, is a Swedish singer and songwriter. She's not a newcomer to the music scene. Not only is she well known in her home country, she actually had some commercial success in the United States, making it into the top ten of Billboard's Hot 100 chart, in the late 1990s. As the new millennium began, Robyn continued having some European success, but the evolution of her sound caused a reconsideration by the US arm of her record company. 2004 brought a further evolution, to an electro-pop sound. Record company executives reacted badly to the new Robyn sound, so they parted company.
In early 2005, Robyn created her own record label, Konichiwa Records. She released her forth album, which achieved commercial success in Sweden. This year, Robyn has secured her international comeback. Her latest single, "With Every Heartbeat" has reached number one in the UK singles chart. I happen to like the song a lot, as well. You can check her out on her Myspace, at: www.myspace.com/robynmyspace . In particular, American readers pay attention to her latest song, as I don't know if it's getting play in the States.

Big Brother 8: the Result

2007-09-01T17:01:00.000-07:00

Somehow, at the last minute, last night, things turned around and Brian ended up winning "Big Brother," series 8, in the UK. The lovely twins came in second. This result ended up saving the bookies millions. This leaves me wondering if the bookies could have voted enough to change the outcome? At least my bet on Italian football club, A. C. Milan, was successful, so I ended up even for the night. At the end of "Big Brother," it was announced that auditions for series 9 would be held a couple of months early. It will be my third time auditioning. Will the producers do the right thing this time and put me on the show?

Ten Years On

2007-08-31T10:29:00.000-07:00

Today is the tenth anniversary of the death of Princess Diana. I happened to be in Britain on that fateful day, visiting my then girlfriend, D---a, who later became my evil ex-wife, the Black Queen. Ironically, the Black Queen and Princess Di have the same first and last letters in their first names. She yelled up to me, as I was in bed, upstairs, while she was downstairs getting some refreshments for us. "You've missed your chance, dear," she yelled. This was a reference to the fact that I had a crush on the lovely, divorced Princess.
Last night, I watched a news story on TV that reported that some American doctors, reviewing the reports of the French medical personnel who attended the crash, have concluded that Diana might have survived, had she been taken to the hospital sooner. What they failed to mention was that had Diana been a regular reader of my blog, she might not have gotten into that crash in the first place. On a related side note, I can NOT confirm rumors that Princes William and Harry are regular readers of this blog. Diana is still the most popular British royal in recent memory. A moment of tribute to "the people's Princess."

Big Brother 8 Final Tonight

2007-08-31T10:05:00.001-07:00

It's all come down to this. Tonight is the final of "Big Brother" series 8, here in the UK. This has been the longest running series so far, with the most housemates. However, I think producers picked a bad crop of contestants, this year. The last few weeks, ratings have reportedly been down and even I have not been watching as much as I usually do. Let's face it, any series without me in it is an example of the production company not putting their best foot forward. My favorites to win are the twins, Sam and Amanda, who count as one contestant. Typically referred to as "Samanda," they are also the favorites with the betting public. They have set a new record for receiving the most amount of money wagered on them to win. At least report, £5,000,000 has been bet on them to win the competition, tonight. Even I have gotten in on the action. I bet on the twins a couple of weeks ago.

Older Men

2007-08-30T19:17:00.000-07:00

Scientific research has now shown that women have more kids if their men are older. A study of 10,000 couples has showed that the number of kids goes up as the age gap widens. Researchers at the University of Austria think there is an evolutionary reason for this. Hopefully, this news will spread far and wide. It can only benefit me, as I get older each year. If Jodie Marsh knew this, maybe she wouldn't have settled for a guy four years younger than her, when she could have had me. Jodie wants to have four children. Anyway, I will brace myself for the rush of offers soon to come.

Nando's Blind Date

2007-08-29T16:53:00.000-07:00

Two nights ago, Nando, my racist, Italian housemate, asked me how easy is it to drive to Guildford? "Pretty easy, if you have a car," I replied. If you ask me a question, you have a 90 percent chance of getting a quip, joke, pun, or sarcastic answer. Nando elaborated, saying that he needed to go somewhere near Guildford, but not exactly in Guildford. He then asked if I knew where some place was. With his accent, it sounded like he said, "Cran Lake." It doesn't ring any bells, but I offer to look it up on the internet for him.
Curious, I asked him why he needed to go there. Nando then tells me he has a date and is supposed to meet the woman there. Recently, Nando had been seeing this married woman who works at the golf complex where he's a chef. I asked him if it was that same, married woman he's been seeing. He surprised me by shaking his head, "no." "So, who's this woman you're meeting?" I asked. His reply shocked me. Nando explained that he has registered with a matchmaking agency and they have introduced him to this woman.
This seems totally unlike Nando. I've known Nando for over four years, now. I have known him to date before, but for the past two years, he's seemed to be in a bit of a slump. He usually can't be bothered to go out, or even to move from the sofa he lays on, watching TV each night. The fling with the married woman is the only action he's had, lately. As he met her at work, he didn't have to go out of his way and to hear him tell it, she practically threw herself at him, so not much effort was required. Nando is so cynical, I would have thought he'd say something like, "dating agencies are for loser's," or something like that, if someone suggested he use one. He's been registered with the agency for a month and this is his first date. A little further enquiry revealed that he's never met this woman before. It's a blind date. He's seen a picture of her, but she hasn't seen a picture of him. Personally, I am surprised she's willing to meet him, sight unseen. How desperate can this bird be?
As I was on my way upstairs, I asked Nando the name of the place he's going to, again. This time, he spells it and I realize that he's been saying, "Cranleigh" all along. That does sound familiar and I fully intended to look up directions for him, on the internet. Nando doesn't have a computer of his own. Once I got upstairs, I got totally involved in blogging for you lot and forgot about the directions.

Yesterday, when I arrived home from my commercial shoot, I realized that I had gone to bed with getting Nando the directions to Cranleigh. I knew his date was supposed to be yesterday, but I presumed it was at night. I appologized to Nando and offered to get him the directions immediately. I had come home from the shoot fairly early, so I figured Nando hadn't gone yet, as he was home and casually dressed. "I've already been," he informed me. After I apologized again, for not remembering to get him the directions, he tells me it was no problem. His date had sent him the directions, by text.
Immediately, I wanted to know how things went. Nando told me he was off work yesterday, so they met during the day. He's not very talkative at the best of times, so I keep asking questions as he gives me brief answers. "What's she like?" I asked.
"She's okay," Nando replies, focusing on watching TV.
"Is she good looking?"
"She's okay," he said, again.
Did you two agree to see each other again?"
"Yeah," Nando says, matter-of-factly. I was dying for more detail, but grew tired if the effort it was taking to get tiny bits of information. Nando did tell me that he's getting older and he thinks it's time he got involved with someone of the opposite sex. I am fascinated about the kind of woman who'd be satisfied with Nando's minimalist attitude toward relationships. He comes across as very flat, emotionally, and not as passionate about women as I am. I wonder if I will get to meet this mystery woman, one day?

This Takes the Biscuit

2007-08-28T15:28:00.000-07:00

Today, I worked on my first commercial. It was a TV advertisement for a magazine. I am excited about it for two reasons. First, it pays better than the film work I have been doing. About three times as much, so today was the best single day's pay I have ever had. Second, I should be seen in this commercial, given that there are only six of us in the scene, and it will be shown repeatedly, thus maximizing my public exposure.
I arrived early, which is good for me. As I was sitting waiting, a gorgeous actress walked in. She had a beautiful, full head of auburn hair, flowing down over her shoulders. Wearing a business suit, she also had a sizzling hot figure. I later learned her name is Carla and she's a TV presenter on Sky Channel 634. She's also a former dancer, which would explain the figure. For my sins, I got to sit next to her for the entire shoot. What's also impressive about Carla is that she's over thirty, but still looks gorgeous. That's one of the nice things about working in TV and films, you get to work with some stunningly beautiful women, sometimes.
The premise of the ad is that Carla and I, plus four others, are sitting around a table in a meeting room. We are all dressed like lawyers. At the head of the table is an empty chair. It's empty because the boss is not there. Instead of being in the meeting, he's off reading this magazine we are promoting. He can't put it down. We're all bored waiting and doing various things to pass the time. One woman is texting on her mobile phone. Another woman is doing a crossword puzzle, while a male colleague sits next to her, trying to chat her up. Carla is doodling on a pad. Originally, I was supposed to be rolling a biscuit (cookie for American readers) back and forth, across the table with a male colleague, opposite. After a couple of rehearsals, the director decided that instead, my colleague would be sleeping with his head on his hands. That left me and the biscuit. He asked me to play with it in some way. I decided to spin it, on edge, like a top, on the table. The director liked that idea and decided to go with it. Thus began the great biscuit challenge.
The director decided he wanted to end our shot on my spinning biscuit. The problem was to work it so the camera finished tracking back just as I spun the biscuit, but have all the action fit within the time allotted for this part of the commercial. We were shooting for a 30 second commercial and our scene was supposed to take 7 seconds. Coordinating the camera tracking, my spinning, and the 7 seconds, became very difficult. We did take after take. I finally lost count when we hit 40 and that's not counting the numerous rehearsals we did. Little bits and pieces of the scene kept being adjusted and re-adjusted. We had a female cinematographer, which was a first for me. The whole crew were great and a joy to work with. They got us water and fed us breakfast. When we finally wrapped, around 1PM, I was being teased about being typecast, forever more, as a biscuit spinner. Given that my spinning biscuit became such a central part of the scene, I feel fairly confident I will be seen in this commercial. I am looking forward to when I finally see it on TV.
Between takes, I spoke with Carla as much as possible. When I asked her where she lived, I thought she said "northward." So I guessed Honslow. To this, she replied, "northward," or so I thought. I tried Harrow, even Luton. Still, every time she would say, "northward," in an ever more exasperated voice. Then I figured out that she wasn't saying "northward," but "Northwood." I found that funny. Carla looked so good, I thought she should be doing bigger time stuff than this. I pictured her as a leading lady in some film. When I asked her if she wanted to do bigger acting projects, in the future, she replied in the negative. "I'm a better TV presenter than I am an actress," she explained. She just does the acting on the side, on her days off from TV presenting. In any case, she made my day. In what other line of work can you spend a day playing with biscuits and chatting to a gorgeous lady, and get paid for it?

Bank Holiday and Death of the Box

2007-08-27T11:29:00.000-07:00

Today is a holiday in Britain. It's a "bank holiday," which means most businesses are closed. Every year, this long weekend symbolizes the effective end of summer. I have enjoyed an extra day off. Tomorrow, I have a commercial shoot, so I am off from the restaurant. For me, that's like having four days off of work in a row. I went out on Saturday night, but the rest of the long weekend I didn't end up doing much. Just relaxing, catching up on sleep, blogging, and listening to music.
I had planned on going shopping, today. However, after staying up till 3AM, I ended up sleeping till 1PM. By the time I had my breakfast and watched a little TV, it was too late. The downside of it being a bank holiday Monday is that the stores close early. One thing I did accomplish was the death of "the box." It's evil forces seemed to have faded. The weather was lovely all weekend and my agent called me on Friday, with this commercial work for tomorrow. Today, I took a pair of scissors and attacked the box. After cutting open the paper, it was a simple matter to remove the top and get to the contents, inside. As I had suspected, it contained all the items I had left at my close, personal friend's home, during my last visit. Sadly, there was one casualty. She had given me a little figure, which was supposed to honor "the world's greatest actor." The figure's arms broke off during shipping. I suppose that was the box's last, feeble attempt to strike at me. Perhaps this bank holiday can be a celebration of my defeating the evil box. Hey, if the cardboard from the box is recycled, does that mean it's evil influence could return one day?

Artist of the Week: Basheeba

2007-08-26T18:32:00.000-07:00

This week, my Artist of the Week is Basheeba. Based in Belgium, this little known group is one of those gems I occasionally find on Myspace. They are apparently composed of three female vocalists, plus one man who does the music. At some point in the past, there seems to have been a fourth female vocalist. There's not a lot of information about them. You can check them out on Myspace, at: www.myspace.co/basheba3 . If you like Britpop and girl groups, you'll like them. The girls look great and the music's catchy. What more needs to be said?

Fashion Police?

2007-08-25T11:47:00.000-07:00

Do some Americans take themselves way too seriously? Well, at least certain "government officials." The latest example? One C. T. Martin, a member of the Atlanta City Council. It seems that Martin is sponsoring a proposed new law that would make it illegal to reveal even a part of one's underwear. The motive behind this legislative nonsense is to stop guys from wearing their trousers low, around their hips, and revealing the tops of their boxer shorts. However, ladies who display a part of their bra, or their thongs, would also be in violation of the proposed law. Martin has described the trend of wearing low slung trousers as an"epidemic" and a "major concern." Why's he spending so much time looking an young men's pants?
I'm the first one to agree that seeing guy's boxers showing is unattractive and I wish they would stop doing it. I also don't like when you can see a woman's thong showing above her belt line. But the solution isn't to pass yet another law. It's a fashion trend and like all others, it will change in the course of time. In a tolerant "society," one needs to not get one's knickers in a twist over other people's fashion choices, even if they are a bit repugnant. If this law is passed, people should avoid Atlanta. Just don't go there. Spend your money somewhere else and see how they like that.
In comparison, consider the attitude of people on this side of the Atlantic. To promote the opening of a new branch of the chain, Joy, a trendy clothing retailer, the company offered a free outfit to the first 25 people to turn up semi-clothed, at the new store, in the Bank area of central London. This past Thursday, passersby were treated to the sight of dozens of men and women standing in line, in their underwear. So many turned up, even though it was raining, that the shop ended up clothing 40 of them. As far as I know, nobody stressed out and no new laws were proposed as a result. The message from the British, for their American cousins? Relax. Chill out. It's only underwear.

Should I Get An MP3 Player?

2007-08-24T07:50:00.000-07:00

Life has hit me with one of those hard to resolve dilemmas. Should I get an MP3 player? As this weekend is a holiday weekend, in Britain, there are loads of sales on at the shops. I saw an ad in the paper for an MP3 player for only £9.95. I had considered buying one before, when they were advertised for £19.95. Now I am glad I waited. Okay, it's a basic model and only holds 12 hours of music, but still it's less than a tenner. Even I can afford that.
When I was driving my car, I didn't think I needed one, as I had the stereo in the car. Now that I am on the bus, I spend a lot more time musicless. Should I hold out for a better model? One that has an FM tuner costs £39. I can't quite bring myself to spend forty quid, when I am saving for a car. Technology gets cheap when you don't have to have the latest thing. All this stuff gets so cheap, if you wait. Still, I don't know if I can be bothered walking round with those little earphones in my ears. What do you think?

Virgin Records Party

2007-08-23T21:04:00.000-07:00

Last night, I was on the guest list for Virgin Records Industry Party, at Pangaea, in London. For the last couple of months, I have been trying to do some clubbing, with disastrous results. I stopped doing the club thing back when I was married. My evil ex-wife, the Black Queen, wasn't into clubbing and refused to go with me. As I recall, we only went out to a club once during our marriage and that was for a work night out. Since I have been single again, I have gone a few times, but only to local venues, in or near Bracknell. Sadly, I haven't found any place in the local area that wows me, like big clubs in London, Frankfurt, and New York have, in the past.
Over the past couple of months, I have made several attempts at sticking my toe back into the proverbial club scene water, but each one has been sidetracked, for one reason or another. When I received the invitation to attend the Virgin Records Party, something about it set off a fire in me. A fire of desire. That something was "CD giveaways." I set my mind to the task of going. Trying a few folks to see if anyone would be up for going with me, I had the usual success. Nando couldn't be bothered, despite agreeing, a couple of years ago, that we would go clubbing in London, sometime. Not willing to move his lethargic ass off the sofa for a change, I looked elsewhere. I wasn't surprised that Nando turned me down, but I needed to ask as a matter of politeness. Tom seemed unreachable. I still couldn't confirm if he has gone to France, as planned, or not. Mucky Sarah came the closest to saying yes, but when she heard the party started at 10PM, on a weeknight, she declined. She had to work the next day, but hey, so did I (and I have to be at work a lot earlier than she does!). Finally, I asked TV presenter, Opal Bonfante. It was a long shot, but again, it was a nod to politeness. Opal has never agreed to go anywhere with me, but you never know. It's been so cold in southern England this year, that I thought hell might have finally frozen over.
With Opal's not unexpected decline in hand, I went ahead and RSVPed from myself, alone. Once I set my mind to doing something, I don;t let little bumps in the road stop me. Was the box stopping people from agreeing to go? Who knows, but to hell with the box. For my re-emergence on the London club scene, I decided on my black suit. I matched it up with a white and lavender, striped shirt, but no tie. A couple of squirts of Giorgio Armani's Acqua di Gio (courtesy of a close personal friend) and I was ready to go. Due to the quirks of the local British transport system, I would not be coming home after the party, but taking the first train to Camberley, in the morning, and going direct to work. Because of this, I had to carry my work shoes and shirt in my travel bag. To cut down on bulk, I swapped the black suit trousers for a clean pair of black work trousers. In a dark club, no one would notice that they weren't a perfect match and I would only have to switch shirts, and shoes, for work in the morning.
On my way out the door, I made a side trip to the kitchen and grabbed two slices of pizza for my bag. One would be my dinner, on the bus, while the other was held in reserve, in case I got hungry before I got to work the next day. Opening the front door, I was greeted by a downpour. I had left my favorite, big, black umbrella at work, so I opted for my little, old, beat-up, folding one. It barely protected me and a bit of water was blowing in from the sides, but I would have to do. As I was walking to the bus stop, a route 190 went by. If I had just been five minutes quicker, I could have caught that. The rain and just missing the bus seemed like last ditch attempts by the box to dissuade me, but I was determined. It didn't mater, as there was an inbound 194 due in less than 15 minutes. That would be in plenty of time to get me into Bracknell's town centre to catch the 8:10PM coach to London.
The 8:10 is the last Coach to London on a weeknight. At £4, it's much cheaper than the train. With few passengers, I got my favorite seat, with extra legroom. I tried to get some sleep, as I knew I would be up late, but I was too excited for more than a slight doze. The closer I got to London, the more the funk eminating from the box seemed to lift. Perhaps the box's range was limited. Maybe it could only affect people and events near to its location. Whatever the reason, I felt the best I had felt since the box came into my life. As the coach roared eastbound, along the M4, I snacked on one of my slices of pizza. By the time we were entering the outskirts of London, the rain was abating. Looking north, as we traveled the elevated section of the motorway,just before it ends into the A4, I saw the arch of the new Wembley Stadium, in the distance. Although it wasn't my first time seeing the arch, it was the first time I was able to appreciate it's architectural beauty.
The coach dropped me off at Hyde Park Corner, just before making a turn to the south for it's final destination, Victoria Station. From Hyde Park Corner, it was relatively short work further east, along Piccadilly, into Mayfair. Pangaea is at 85 Piccadilly. I made such good time, I reached number 85 by 9:45. The party didn't start fr another 15 minutes and I didn't want to be the first one there. The club bouncers were just setting up the ropes outside. A little further on, I spotted a Starbucks. I decided to nip into Starbucks for a cold drink and a seat. More misfortune awaited me. Starbucks had let the supply of chilled, sparkling water run out from the refrigerated display. They offered me the choice of a warm bottle (yeah, right!), or a cold bottled of still. I settled for the still, as cold was more important than bubbles. My roving eye spotted a lone, remaining piece of some rich looking, chocolate cake. It was called "Chocolate Decadence," or something like that, and I decided to treat myself. Yum, chocolate! The bloke behind the counter insisted that the last slice of cake is always the best. Armed with cake and water, I plonked myself down at a table and began to enjoy my treat, at leisure. I pulled out a copy of a gossip magazine I had in my bag, to catch up on the latest celebrity gossip. It helped pas the time and slowed my consumption of chocolate. I wanted the pleasure to last as long as possible. Looking to my left, I noticed a group of four girls, dressed for a night out, They were doing the same as I was, killing some time before going to Pangaea.
I managed to use up a half an hour in Starbucks, but they looked like the wanted to close. I left just behind the gang of four and followed them back to Pangaea. There was enough of a gap between us that a girl on her own managed to slip in between us, as we reached the velvet ropes at the door. The bouncers cleared the gang of four, then started speaking to the single girl. She reeked of alcohol already and was having trouble answering a bouncer's questions. While she was fumbling, trying to come up with the name of who's guest list she was on, he decided o have her wait to the side and move on. I guess I looked more coherent. He found my name on the list and then asked if I was on my own. Wincing, I confirmed I was. No need to rub it in, pal. I was admitted immediately. The next step was being frisked by the next bouncer. He also checked my bag but didn't take my last slice of pizza. Once he was satisfied that I didn't pose a risk, I was cleared to proceed. I walked downstairs to the club, proper. It was still early and very few people were there yet. I walked around, looking for the coat check. I wanted to leave my bag there. I spotted the gang of four, then found the check room, on the opposite side of the room from the entrance. That seemed a most unusual place to put the check room. Usually, it's near to the entrance. I paid £2 to check my bag.
Free of my luggage, I started surveying the place. This was my first time at Pangaea, even though I had passed it on several occasions. I was a little disappointed. It was small and had a tiny dance floor. There was an attractive, female DJ, but her choice of music was leaving a lot to be desired. The sound system didn't seem to have enough base. I found a place to sit and waited for more people to arrive. My location, next to the coat check, ended up being advantageous. Every woman who entered ended up coming over to check her coat. I was treated to a show of legs, as it seemed that most of the female guests chose to attire themselves in short dresses. I was really impressed with the beauty of the women that night. I'd say 98 percent of the women in attendance were beautiful. A tall, leggy blond, with a sporty figure and sporty attire to match, walked up to me. As she started to speak, I was a bit surprised. It turned out she was selling massages. I'd heard of this. I remember seeing an ad for people to work giving massages in clubs, last year. She said I could pay whatever amount I thought it was worth, after the massage. I was very tempted, but I figured I'd need to at least give her a fiver. After paying two quid to check my bag, and spending over three quid in Starbucks, I decided I'd better put a stop to the hemorrhaging of my budget. Besides, I'm not into massages. I was just being tempted by the thought of her putting her hands all over me. I declined as sweetly as I could, explaining that I'm not into massages. She took defeat well and told me to let her know if I changed my mind.
As the crowd built up, the music got quite a bit better. The DJ played a number of the current crop of popular dance tracks, although the sound system still sounded a bit flat. Then I thought, "where's the CD give away?" In due course, another attractive woman strolled over, her arms full with a stack of CDs. She offered me one, which I gladly accepted. As she moved on to other patrons, I looked at what I had received. "The Last Trick," by Anja Garbarek. Never heard of it. But then, I suppose that's the point of these events; to introduce lesser known artists and promote stuff. Obviously, the CD was a Virgin Records product. It was a single, so I didn't even manage to get a whole album.
As the night wore on, I had to fight to stay awake. I kept catching myself nodding off. At one point, after 2Am, a bouncer came by and touched me, to see if I was alright. I was fine, up till he touched me. I didn't enjoy that! I much prefer a woman's touch. Although the party was due to last till 3AM, I packed it in at 2:30. The majority of folks had left by then. I caught a night bus to Southbank, then walked to Waterloo Station. I napped while waiting for the 5:05AM train to depart. Once on the train, I changed my shirt and shoes, getting ready to work. Another nap on the train, then again, on the minibus to work, would be all the sleep I would get. It would have been more fun if I had company, but the words of Paul Newman in, "The Color of Money," came to mind: "I'm back!"