British Days: The Most Ridiculous Situation I Have Ever Been In

The most ridiculous situation I have ever been in happened when I was staying at the Forbes* residence in London. Late at night I was awoken from my sleep because I had to use the restroom, and rather badly. I was about to get out of bed when the door to my room flung open. My roommate was back. It wasn't unusual for him to come back late at night because he liked to stay out partying. But this time he had a lady friend with him, and they staggered into his bed, which was beside mine. It was obvious they were drunk too. They didn't even bother turning on the light so they could see where they were going. Passion and intoxication was their only guide through that darkness. And unfortunately for me I would be an unwilling voyeur of what transpired next.

The next thing I knew a lot of heavy breathing started to emanate from my roommate's bed. I didn't know exactly what was going on--and to this day I'm still not certain what they were up to--but I have a good idea because all those peculiar sounds are usually associated with people when they are engaged in sexual intercourse. Then the next thing I knew there was shaking going on in the bed and even some bouncing. Then--and this has to be the high point of the absurdity of the situation--whoever had decided to shack up with my roommate started to fake orgasms.

"Yes, yes, yes... oh, God, oh, God, oh, God," she said like a scratched record being played over and over. Once a succession of yes, yes, yeses and oh, God, oh, God, oh, Gods had finished she'd go through another monotonous succession of yes, yes, yeses and oh, God, oh, God, oh, Gods. And she'd say it in exactly the same way.

Like I have said before it was ridiculous, and the reason why I have reiterated it is because it is simply worth saying again.

And that is how it went while I stayed in bed contemplating how I should handle the situation. During situations like these I never quite know what to do, after all complaining to your roommate about him doing his sexual practices in your presence is bound to be awkward. Should I turn on the light and try to have a calm, rational discussion with them? More than likely that wasn't going to work because they were drunk. Should I turn on the light and get angry with my roommate? If I did that then I risked provoking my roommate, and I didn't want to get into a heated argument and wake up the Forbes. Or should I just let them do what they have to do and then talk to my roommate afterwards or just talk to Mr. and Mrs. Forbes? This seemed like the best option, but I never had a lot of time to think about what to do because the urge to use the restroom became too great, and I got out of bed and headed up stairs. I'm quite sure they heard me get out of bed, and therefore became aware that I was aware of what was going on. But the sexual festivities continued unabated--as if I didn't exist. I stopped at the top of the stairs and listened. I was amazed. 20 minutes had to have had passed and they were still at it and I could hear her fake orgasms all the way up there. And as can be counted on her yes, yes, yeses were quickly followed by her oh, God, oh, God, oh, Gods. She had to be faking; it would be hard for anyone to maintain that many orgasms over that stretch of time. My roommate was just too drunk to be able to tell.

I used the restroom and hoped I wouldn't hear them in the bathroom. 20 minutes of hearing fake orgasms was enough. But then I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Great, I thought. The Forbes' room was beside the bathroom, and if it was my roommate I didn't want to have a confrontation with him and wake them up. And if it was the girl I wondered would I be able to contain my anger. There was a gentle knock at the door. I opened it, and standing there was this bedraggled, goth-looking girl. She looked at me in bewilderment, and I could tell from the look on her face that she knew I was not happy with her. I said nothing and went downstairs into the kitchen. When Mr. and Mrs. Forbes came downstairs I informed them both of the situation, and I can only surmise they said something about it with my roommate.

My roommate didn't stay for much longer in England because he was there to take a three week class; and once he completed that he went home. I can't say I missed him, and soon after my roommate's sexual adventure in England I got new housemates from Texas. When I introduced myself I told them what had happened. One of them told me what one of his friends would do when he was in a similar situation. Apparently, this friend had worked out a solution for such situations, which I sometimes have a hard time doing. Whenever one of his roommates decided to have a sexual adventure in his presence he'd cut on the light, go over to his roommate's bed and tell him "Dude, I think she's broke."

*The Forbes family was my homestay in England.

British Days: A Bad Day

Although London was a nice change for me I was still prone to having a bad day. One day during my stay in London was filled with a series of bad events, and each one was worse than the successor. At work all I did was put records accompanied with stickers, postcards and press releases promoting Fat Records in evelops that would be mailed out to customers. It took me about an hour and thirty minutes to complete this task. After I did this I was told I could leave or surf the internet. They didn't have a lot for me to do there, and Paul, one of my bosses, had told me this the previous week. Putting records in envelops was the only thing they could think of for me to do. I came all the way from Muswell Hill for that! It took me about an hour by tube to get to the office because it was on the other side of London. Now I was going to have to spend another hour of traveling just to get back to my homestay after only spending an hour and thirty minutes at work! I didn't want to feel like I had come all that way for nothing so I stayed around and sent out friend requests for their myspace.com web-site. But eventually I got bored and left.

By this time I was hungry, but I needed to eat somewhere inexpensive. I spoted a Turkish fastfood resteraunt. There are many of these resteraunts in London, and a person can eat a full meal at one of these places for an inexpensive price. I love the chicken shish and lamb shish they serve. I looked at the overhead menue and saw chicken shish. I approached the counter and told the woman behind it I wanted chicked shish.

"Chicken shish kebab?" She asked, not quite hearing me the first time.

I replied that is what I wanted. When my order was totaled it came to about seven pounds, much more than I had anticipated. Maybe the water cost more than I had thought? When I got my order I noticed I not only had chicken shish but I had another sandwich too. I turned around and looked at the man and woman behind the counter. They could tell something wrong.

"I only wanted one," I said.

The woman looked down at the food behind the counter a little frustrated.

"You order chicken shish! Then you order chicken shish kebab!"

I had thought chicken shish and chicken shish kebab were the same thing. I didn't know what to say.

"O. K." I said in defeat. I didn't want to get into an argument. The man behind the counter shrugged his shoulders. I sat in the resteraunt and ate my chicken shish, angry that I had wasted some money.

When I got back to my homestay I went to sleep. I didn't want to think about the days events. I just wanted to be unconscious. When I woke up I went for my routine run in Alexandra Park. The run made me feel better as I had hoped, but my stomach started to hurt after I finsihed. I went back to my homestay to use the toilet. But for some reason it wouldn't flush. Water would fill the toilet bowl but it wouldn't flush; something was clogging the toilet. This was embarrasing! I was reminded of all the times when the toilet overran at my house when I stopped up the stool by accident. One time when this happened the water flowed all the way downstairs. It was a disaster and it was disgusting. My mom had to get get the house dry cleaned because of it. I didn't want that to happen in the Forbes' household*. So I asked Mrs. Forbes if she had a plunger. She asked if the toilet was stopped up. I said yes, and she told me not to worry about it. This did little to relieve my worries. I was in the Forbes' household, and I didn't want to do anything disrespectful. The toilet overflowing would be a nightmare, and God forbid if that happened. So I stayed upstairs and waited for the water level in the toilet to decrease. I was going to try to unstop the toilet myself by flushing the toilet. I was hoping a flush would put enough pressure on whatever was stopping up the stool to go down the drain. That didn't happen, and I didn't want to risk another flush because the toilet just might overflow on that try. I went back downstairs to talked to Mrs. Forbes about the situation. I didn't know what else to do and I didn't want to leave the toilet clogged; it seemed rude of me to do. I could tell Mrs. Forbes didn't want to deal with the stituation. She had given me no answer as to whether they had a plunger and she had simply went downstairs after she told me to not worry about the stool being clogged.

"Is everything alright," she asked.

I told her the stool was still stopped up. We went back upstairs and I can only imagine what she must have thought when she smelled the bathroom. When we got in there Mrs. Forbes must have realized I was worried about this problem.

"Berkley, it's not like I haven't unclogged a stool before! Out!"

And with that Mrs. Forbes went to work to unclog the stool. I went downstairs to eat my dinner in the kitchen. I munched on my food while Mrs. Forbes slaved away upstairs to unstop the stool. I felt awful. This had been my worst day in England. I just wanted to forget about it. After I ate I went to bed hoping to find better things in my dreams and the next day.

*The Forbes family were my homestay.

British Days: The Tube

The tube station can be a pushy place and getting on the tube can be a challenge. Tubes stopping at Finsbury Park tube station--which was the nearest station to my homestay--are always crowded in the morning. A lot of people get off and a lot of people are unable to get on. Before the tube gets there there is always a long disorganized column of people along the plank waiting to get on. The unlucky are at the back of this long column, waiting to see if they can get on. They usually don't and have to wait until a tube or two passes until they have a chance. Each time a tube passes their chances of getting on the tube increase. This is because when a tube passes some people get on, making the column thinner, allowing the people waiting to move up each time a tube passes. Also, whenever people move up in the column their previous place is taken by a new arrival. People on the plank in the morning are like a mechanized machine at work, despite whatever inconveniences that exist.

But this is only one of the complications of using the tube. In the morning and evening the tube is crowded; and when somebody enters a crowded tube it's like entering a pack of sardines that has reached its maximum capacity and is on the brink of bursting. It's so crowded you can't move. You are literally in somebodies face and there is plenty of bumping up against someone or something. Everybody who has to wait on the plank to get on the tube trades his or her place for a more crowded one. The best thing you can hope for is to get through the experience in one peace. But if you're unlucky you'll be stuck in front of someone who needs takes a shower and there's nothing you can do about it. This has happened to me. During my second visit to London somebodies bare armpit was in my face; and either his deodorant had worn off or he hadn't bothered to put any on. It was not a pleasant experience. There are certain places where a lot of people tend to get off the tube, which will leave more room to move. But worse things can happen. Sometimes the tube stops because of some malfunction, and people can be stuck on the tube for hours until the problem is resolved. This tends to be big news in London. Newspaper vendors often try to sell papers whenever the latest tube disaster has happened using this sort of headline: 300 PEOPLE TRAPPED ON THE TUBE FOR THREE HOURS IN TUBE NIGHTMARE! But what would be worse is if the tube broke down and you had to use the restroom. You would truly be in trouble with few options to deal with your predicament--and I am not trying to be funny at all. There were many times in London when I had to use the restroom, and finding one when I was trekking around London was not easy.

Some people might feel overwhelmed and intimidated by all this, especially people who have mobility problems. There have been times when I have seen elderly people who have mobility problems have difficulty using the tube. This is reminiscent of the Tortoise and the Hare children's story. The hare has no problem with mobility; he's fast and the mere thought of being slow would be unthinkable to the hare. But tortoise is slow and sometimes it's a real struggle for him to get from point A to point B. The elderly who have mobility problems inch their way toward the tube in a struggle while everybody else rushes by them. Whenever I saw this it reminded me there will be time in my life when my health will be in decline, and I might not be able to do some of the things I enjoy doing now. I can see why Ray Davies wrote "imagine yourself growing old" when he was 23. Those people were a constant reminder to him the older he got the more likely he was going to have health problems. But one complication I know the elderly wouldn't tolerate in London is being pushed or shoved from behind, which is common in the tube station. One night when I got off the tube at Finsbury Park I was pushed from behind. Somebody put their hand on my backpack--either inadvertently or not--and pushed me forward. I had paused for a second because I was tired; the trek down to Tottenham Court Road and back had worn me out, and I needed a breather. But the unspoken rule of the underground is unless you have mobility problems no one is going to wait for you. If you stop moving when a lot of people are trying to get off the tube or when a lot of people are trying to get on you're liable to be bumped or pushed out of the way. I didn't turn around and quarrel with the person, that would have been pointless. He or she were probably long gone anyway, making their way through the rush and push of the crowd. I fell in with the rest and did the same with the knowledge that this was simply part of life in London.

British Days: Meeting A Girl Named Holly

After one of my adventures trying to get back to Muswell Hill on the bus one night I met a girl named Holly. After I had gotten back to my homestay I went up the street to get some chips. It was almost 2 AM in the morning, but I was hungry, and I knew a place up the street where I could get some chips at that time. The trek back to Muswell Hill on the bus took almost two hours because I went beyond Finsbury Park (the place where I can catch a bus to Muswell Hill) and I had to figure out how to get there from Edmonton, which is north of Muswell Hill.

After I had gotten my chips I made my way back to my homestay. I noticed a snail slithering across the sidewalk. I have noticed that Muswell Hill has a lot of snails, and they usually come out at night. One time when I went into the kitchen at my homestay four snails had gotten in there and I accidently stepped on one with my barefoot. It was a gross experience and I didn’t want to step on another one with my shoe. So I checked the soles to see if there was any gooey mess on there. A girl who was walking down the street behind me asked me what in the world was I doing. I told her I didn’t want to step on snails.

That must have sounded like a strange thing for someone to say. I turned around and looked at her. She looked like she was in her early 20s--22, 23 perhaps, maybe older. She stood around 5'4 and she had long brown hair and blue eyes. As we walked down the hill I munched on my chips and heared her footsteps. They went plop, plop, plop. I thought maybe she was drunk. She told me she was on her way home because she needed to get changed because she spilled wine. I introduced myself. I told her I was an international student interning at a record label and how much I liked London. She looked at me like I was crazy. I told her in London I ccould see many of my favourite bands, and that there was more stuff up the street than the entirity of my hometown of Danville, Va. Danville has hit hard times. When I left Danville the city had the highest unemployment rate in the state. This might be due to a shrinking labor force. Muswell Hill has been a nice change for me. They have all sorts of shops on Muswell Hill Broadway, which is the main street in the community there. You can buy clothes, eat all sorts of delicious foods you can't get in Danville--Thai, Indian and Greek resteraunts are all within walking distance--, buy wine from several wine shops, go to the movies or even drink coffee at Starbucks. Muswell Hill is a far cry from life in Danville.

As we made our way down the street I told her my dream was to be a rock journalist, and she listened intently to my story.

"You sound like your from America or Mexico," she said.

I replied that I was from the U. S. and I offered her some of my chips as we talked. After I told her who I was and why I was in London she told me some things were meant to be. I know many people believe fate exists in some form, but I don't know if anything is meant to be. I am of the philosophical postion that is something we can not know. But her comment does make me think because of the way things have worked out. I had a previous opportunity to study abroad in London, but I passed it up because I wanted to finish my philosophy minor. At the time if I had gone to London I wouldn't have been able to have finished the minor. I still had to take the capstone class, which was a topics class. Nothing at Middlesex University would transfer into Radford University as credit for it. I could have taken the capstone class as an independent study, but I was uncomfortable with that idea because I wouldn't have any direct supervision from a teacher. Also, the capstone class is supposed to be the hardest course in a curriculum, and the idea of me doing an independent study of a capstone class made me uncomfortable. If I wanted to finish my minor the best choice was to stay at Radford University, which I did, and I did complete it. It was through the media studies department that I was able to take advantage of a second opportunity. Dr. Waite and Dr. Worringham formed a study abroad group. They chose students through the process of elimination. I was a shoe in because I was the department's Dean's Scholar for 2005. I've been able to do many things that I wouldn't have been able to do if I had studied abroad the first time around. At Middlesex University I probably would have spent most of my time studying, and I wouldn't have ventured out in the city much. But since I was an intern--which meant I didn't have to spend my time studying--I had plenty of time to explore London. This was a great advantage because I got to see some of my favorite muscians. I saw Neko Case at Sephard's Bush. I saw and met some the members of The Church at The Boderline. I also saw Echo and the Bunnymen play an amazing gig. Underpining all of this is the fact this is the first time Dr. Waite and Dr. Worringham have put together a study abroad group. I got lucky, and things could not have worked out any better.

British Days: Echo & The Bunnymen

The thing I love the most about London is everything I like is easily accesible. There's a coffee shop and bookstore almost everywhere you go and almost every week a band I was interested in came to London to perform. Unlike my life in Danville life in London is hardly boring. So on a Sunday night I went to see Echo & The Bunnymen at the KoKo club in Camden Town since I didn't have anything to do. It was the best gig I have ever been to.

I got to the club early so I could see the two opening acts, and because I wanted to make sure I could get as close as possible to the stage. I was able to get a spot in the second row. But when I entered the club there were a lot of people on the first and second balcony. I wondered why those people weren't on the first floor trying to get as close as possible to the band. There was still plenty of space on the first floor. The first band to go on that night were already playing, and when I got as close as I possibly could to the stage I understood why those people remained on the balcony-- it was loud down there. The Koko club is a big venue with two balconies. So that means the band has to be loud enough for everybody to hear, including the people on the two balconies. At times the voice of the singer was a muffle lost in the blare of the music from where I was at and I couldn't hear the harmonies that well.The two opening acts worked hard on stage. They poured alot of passion and energy into their songs. The second act, a band called Freemaker, reminded me of The Stooges alot. They played straight ahead primitive working class hard rock that was catchy. They even dressed in black t-shirts and jeans which made them look like they were from Detroit or New York. The singer even seemed like he had learned a thing or two from Iggy Pop. He strutted up and down the stage and did various rock poses in an effort to work the crowd. But when he spoke with a Scottish accent I knew this band was from some place far away from Detroit and New York. I was impressed, but the singer was having a hard time working the crowd. They were there to see the legendary Echo & The Bunnymen and Freemaker couldn't fight against that.

"You're a hard crowd," the singer told us.

After Freemaker left the stage the floor got crowded. People were making their way to the first floor so they could get as close as possible to The Bunnymen. Like many gigs it got so crowded I couldn't move to my right or left or forward or backward without bumping into someone. It got so bad I had to take off my backpack to make more room for myself and other people. I laid my pack on the floor in front of my feet so I wouldn't get seperated from it. After awhile the legendary Echo & The Bunnymen came on stage. The first member of the band I saw was Ian Mculloch. He wore a black coat, a t-shirt, jeans and shades. He walked up to the mic, flicked his cigarette and started to sing non-chalantly. Ian looked like the Terminator up there on the stage; and the amazing lightshow made him look like he had just emerged from the time warp itself. His movements were concise for maximum effect. All he did was stand there and sing, and the section I was in went crazy because of it. When the Bunnymen played "Stormy Weather," the third song that night, the entire section broke out in a massive orgy of pogoing. Echo & The Bunnymen had unleased a fury of middle-age male aggression, and there was no letting up to it; it just grew, and I was caught in it. Now I really realized why those people on the two balconies were there. They didn't want to get pogoed on. Things were getting aggressive and I had only two options: pogo with them or be pogoed on. Since I was far away from the non-pogo section I had no other choice but to get aggressive with them, and it was rough going. I couldn't enjoy the music because I was getting pogoed on and I didn't feel like pogoing for the entire gig. That would have been too much of a workout. I had already gotten seperated from my backpack, and I couldn't go back for it. So I made my way to the non-pogo section where I could see The Bunnymen's amazing gig without somebody bumping into me. I also continued to observe the Bunnymen's middle-age male fans go berserk. These people treated the gig like they were at a celebration. While they pogoed some of them had their arms around each other, happy to be in the presence of the Bunnymen as the band played on. After the Bunnymen left the stage I was able to retrieve my backpack. It was still in the place where I left it, and the contents (which included Joy Division's first LP on vinyl) weren't damaged.

The Bunnymen gig put me in a state of awe. I didn't know live music could be like that, and the definition of music has taken on a new meaning for me. Compared to the two previous bands that night Echo and the Bunnymen made rock 'n' roll look easy. They played classic after classic, and those songs sounded better live than the studio versions. "Do It Clean" and "All That Jazz" put the recorded versions to shame, and they made the crowd go into a frenzy. Also, Will Sergeant's guitar work put me in another world. It was like he showed up from another dimension just to show us what could be done with a guitar and some effects pedals. Simply put-- The Bunnymen were spellbounding. The records just do not capture what that band is capable of doing live. They had the right mix of passion and great songs to play that night and they made the place go crazy just from showing up. And as Keith Richards would say on any given night any band that has the right mix of passion and songs is the greatest band in the world, and on June 4th, 2006 Echo and the Bunnymen were that band.

British Days: World Cup Fever

Last year England was caught in the grip of World Cup fever--and it was intense. Wherever I went in London people were displaying their patriotism. English flags hung from the windows of homes, many people wore the English soccer jersey, countless flags flew on cars and on game day many people draped the beloved English flag over their shoulders. Wherever I went in England I couldn't escape World Cup fever.

From an outsiders perspective during the World Cup in England people are expected to put aside whatever differences they have and support England. There's nothing comparable to it in the United States. The closest sporting event we have that approximates the intensity of the World Cup is the Super Bowl. The Super Bowl is a huge event in the U. S. Out of the three major professional championships played in the U. S. (the other two are the World Series and the NBA Championship) the Super Bowl is easily the most recognizable and the biggest of the three. This is because the Super Bowl has morphed into something more than just a championship--it is a cultural event. The Super Bowl is hyped up long before gameday. Fans not only eagerly debate what two teams will be playing each other on that special day in January but they also plan where they're going to watch the Super Bowl, what they'll eat when watching it and what they'll be wearing during it. Advertisers in the U. S. have latched on to the Super Bowl as a way of showing their new commercials, many of which try very hard to be clever and funny, and sometimes a big deal is made over some of these commercials. Commentators are now almost expected to critique these commercials. And any American knows how much of a big deal the Super Bowl half-time show is, one of the most important things during the Super Bowl. Usually some big name entertainer such as The Rolling Stones or Paul McCartney play their music to millions. In comparision to all this it would almost seem inevitable any other championship in the world would pale in comparision.

But the World Cup is a bigger event. The Super Bowl lacks the intense patriotism fans bring to the World Cup. The mere thought of the World Cup being unpatriotic to the English would be unthinkable. When I went to the pub to watch England's first match against Paraguay with my housemates we were lost in a sea of red and white (the colors of the English flag). We had gotten to the pub an hour early so we could find a seat and get something to eat. When we entered we realized we weren't going to find anywhere to sit for awhile; the place was packed. Everybody in there was ready for England to take on Paraguay, and they were going to support England all the way. When the English soccer team took the field the pub was filled with a loud chorus. It said one thing: England!I have never seen patriotism this intense before, and it is hard for me to think Americans would get as patriotic about something, especially a sporting event. This is for several reasons. Americans like their sports homegrown. We typically aren't very supportive of a sport that hasn't been bred on American soil. This is why we love baseball, basketball and American football so much. These three sports are played in other countries, but it has only been recently that we have considered two of these sports--baseball and basketball--as being international. This year was the first year of the World Baseball Classic, a baseball international competition. But most Americans didn't get patriotic about it, and this is a sport that is supposed to be the American past time! Most Americans were disinterested. Also, there was some controversy about it in the U. S. George Steinberner made it known he didn't want his players involved in it out of fear they would get hurt and wouldn't be able to play for the Yankees. Also, there is a deep cultural divide in the U. S. which makes it hard for Americans to support something with an one for all attitude.

The comparisions and contrasts of the attitudes that Americans and the English have toward sports is interesting because these attitudes reveal some major differences between the two countries. Soccer isn't that big in the U. S. and many Americans are disinterested in the sport. There's a deep rooted bias against it in America. Some people are so disinterested in the sport they openly express their dislike of it. I remember one time when I told my dad I wanted to play soccer he replied why the heck do you want to play that; and his attitude has always been of dislike toward the sport. But in England soccer is a big deal; it's so embedded in the culture the idea of not supporting England in the World Cup--and I suspect any other international soccer competition-- is almost unthinkable. To illustrate my point after England had defeated Paraguay one of the housemates told me he wasn't leaving the homestay if the U. S. and England played each other in the World Cup. World Cup fever in England was so intense he feared for his safety--and he had good reason to.

British Days: Public Transportation In London

One of London's many quirks is its public transportation system--it has a mentality of its own. When somebody takes the bus or tube in London he or she becomes a voyeur. Londoners have a habit of talking about their personal lives when they use public transportation. On any given day of the week you can overhear anything that is going on in the lives of the people of London. Somebody might be having problems taking care of an elder member of the family. Somebody might talk about how to resolve a situation with a potential lover. Two people might even make out in front of you on the tube, revealing the physical intimacy between them. Observing all of this was like weaving in and out of other people's personal lives, although I didn't know anything about those people.

And as can be expected from someone who constantly observes these things I overheard some hilarious things. I remember one time I overheard a conversation between a man and a woman about opera. The topic of conversation was about a male singer, and the terminology they used could've been interpreted as having sexual connotations. "Did he float your boat,"the man asked the woman. She was a little skeptical of the singer's abilities but she replied that her boat did in fact float. But this wasn't the most outragous thing I've heard while using public transportation in London. One time when I was on my way back to my homestay on the bus a young woman made her way to the back of the bus where I was sitting. She looked like she was in her late-20s or early-30s. She was dressed in a nice outfit, and looked like she was going to have a night out with some friends or go on a date. She pulled out her cell phone and started to talk to someone on it. She told the other person on the other line she didn't want to be lonely in life and mentioned the perfect relationship and the perfect somebody. Then she proceeded to beg--and I do mean literally plead--the other person to have a drink with her. She wanted to go out on a date, and it was obvious she was desperate. My housemates reported even more outragous stuff. One told me how he overheard three women talk about how much time it had been since they had had sex. Whenever I overhear these conversations on the tube or the bus it reveals something about somebody's personal life. I always wondered who were these people who were so open about their lives in public? What walk of life do they come from, and how did they get where they're at now in life? What sort of problems have these people encountered, overcome or even succumbed to?

British Days: Fat Records

In London I worked for Fat Records, a breakbeat label in London; and my time there was spent doing online marketing, clerical work and listening to a lot of breakbeat music. It was not the most exciting job and it mostly consisted of making as many friends for Fat Records on their myspace.com web-site. Since I didn't have a lot of things to do at Fat Records I got to observe what running a record label was really like.

Far from being situated in a neat, clean place the office of Fat Records was housed in a slightly dilapidated warehouse-like building in south London. Like many such buildings it had a peculiar smell, which I can best describe as being like many of the odors that would emanate from a woodshop class. Also, a visit to the restroom was enough to make you realize the building was far from music-biz glamor. The toilets in the men's room were a disgusting sight--as if they had been neglected to be cleaned or replaced. When a man walked into the restroom when I was in there one time he looked at the toilet and invoke the son of God's name in shock.

The office of Fat Records was basically a make shift room. Upon entering the room you could see various record label paraphenelia: DJ magazine covers covered the walls, a CD and turn table for playing music and four computers which were organized close together. But no matter how much personality the room had it always retained its warehouse-like origins, and a grayness and stillness seemed to mix with the personality of the room. It was as if somebody had given temporary life to an otherwise bland room, and that the blandness of the room was an inescapable part of it. No matter how much personality was given to the room it would always retain an element of blandness.

My three co-workers, Rory, Clair and Paul, were always working hard. As I sat at my computer trying to make as many friends for them for their myspace.com web-site they'd be typing away, recieving calls and making calls and the only time they seemed like they got a reprieve is when they went to lunch. Life at a record label seemed frantic; they'd always be calling someone to bug them to do something for them and somebody would always be calling them to bug them to do something for them, and this seemed like it was standard protocol for the industry as a whole. And I suspect I know why it is. If they didn't do things like that then somebody would be more likely to forget something and in the music business things need to get done as quick as possible. Also, Paul who owned the label was self-employed--the record label was his label and Rory and Clair were his employees--so there was a lot of encentive to do things like this. They didn't make a lot of money. They all made their money from club nights, and they'd usually be able to split even, which was just enough to make a living doing what they loved doing. So they couldn't afford to waste money and opportunities, which meant if they wanted to do what they loved as a living then they were going to have to keep up with the frantic pace of the business.

The way Fat Records was started is an interesting story in itself and worthy of its own blog entry. The label grew out of Paul's parties. When he was a teenager he'd throw parties when his mum wasn't around, and one day he decided to make money from it, and this practice turned into his record label. His first record label was called Certificate 16, which was another breakbeat label and still has a web-site, but that record label went out of business. Paul says it was because he didn't use common business sense, such as spending too much on art work.

The biggest thing I learned from working at Fat Records is the music business is a business; and like any business the bottom-line was to make money. Clair told me some people were in the business for precisely that reason. The only reason why they were in the music business was because they could make a livlihood from it, and that was the only reason they had any interest in it. But Rory, Paul and Clair were in the business because they loved doing what they did. Rory and Paul were DJs themselves, and they'd often have to leave for days to DJ somewhere in the world, which was a constant reminder why they were in the business in the first place.

British Days: Going Back to England, Pt. 2

It was the fall semester, and surprisingly I didn't think about my decision to not go to England that much. I was too busy with classes to think about that. Life had gone on and I had other things to worry about. But in one of my media studies classes my professor, Dr. Worringham, told us he and Dr. Waite (another media studies professor) was organizing a group of students to go to London for internships.

This was the golden opportunity I had wanted, but ironically it didn't dawn on me at first to take advantage of the opportunity. I had already completed my internship for credit, so I thought I wouldn't qualify to go. But over the course of the semester Dr. Worringham persisted in telling us about the trip to London, but few people in the class showed any enthusiasm about going to London. One day Dr. Worringham reiterated what he had been telling us all semester long: This was a golden opportunity. But this time he said it with some frustration, obviously disappointed with the lack of enthusiasm in the class. That's when I realized some people did an internship after they had walked*, and maybe it was possible I could do another one, even if I had already gotten credit for it.

I approached Dr. Worringham after class, and he told me it was possible that I could do another internship. I was estatic. Although the participants in the program had to be picked by the professors (I overheard someone say they had over 80 applications) I thought I had a good chance of being selected. I was on good terms with all the professors in the media studies department and I was the department's Dean's Scholar, which is the highest academic award a student can achieve on the university level, and I'd been in England twice before, so I knew what to expect. I was almost certain I'd be a shoe-in, and to unsurprisingly I was selected for the program.

Although Middlesex had been a sacrified opportunity this one turned out to be a better one. We stayed with homestays which was great since I had the chance to be immersed in English culture instead of just being a tourist. When you're a tourist you just see a place but you don't get to know it intimately. Also, I got to stay in Muswell Hill--the neighborhood were Ray Davies of The Kinks, one of my favorite songwriters, grew up. The family I stayed with even said they knew Ray; they'd gone to school with The Kinks. And I got to intern at a record label. Things had come full-circle. I had been motivated to go to London because of music, and when I went back for the third time I got to stay in the heart of Kinkdom and intern at a record label. It would be hard for me to wish for anything more. If I had gone to Middlesex it is likely I would have spent my time doing homework, and I would have missed out on a lot. But with this opportunity I didn't have to do any schoolwork, and that allowed me to take full advantage of what London had to offer. Also, when we got to London the first place we went to was Russell Square, a place I'd been to during my first two visits. The familiar gray English sky loomed over the day, and when I looked at London College, the British Musuem, the park in Russell Square for the third time I felt a sense of familiarity, and I thought I'm back. Things had come full circle indeed.

*This is in reference to taking part in the graduation ceremony.

British Days: Going Back to England, Pt. 1

"The opportunities you pass up in life you never get back," the man told me.

It was dinner time at the university, and I was sitting at a table in the dining hall eating my meal, which I often ate alone. But on this day my solitary meal was interrupted by one of the workers on the cafeteria staff who gave me this invaluable piece of advice. He was a middle-aged man, and obviously did not want me to make the same life-mistakes he had made. Once he told me this I knew I was in for a life lecture and wouldn't be eating my meal in peace. He went on to tell me about how a friend once offered him an opportunity to work in South America when he was around my age, but passed it up because he thought he needed to stay behind and work to make money.

"Why did I do that?" The man said, regretting his decision. "When you're that age you don't need to worry about losing money. It's always coming back."

But it was too late for him because he had a family now, and once you have a family it becomes harder to travel because of family responsibilities. I nodded my head in acquiesce, but my calm reaction was a facade. My anxiety level shot up, and I got nervous and imagined the worse. Oh, God! What if I do something like that?! What if I pass up some important opportunity for not-so-good reasons? What if I miss my opportunity to travel abroad!? Am I going to be looking back on that decision with regret forever!?

Ever since I entered college I had wanted to go to England, specifically London. As a teenager I had gotten in to rock music, and most of my favorite bands were from England, and ever since then I had wanted to visit that country. I knew college could give me the opportunity to go because many colleges have study abroad programs for their students to study in England. I had already been England twice with a study abroad group at the community college I used to attend, but those trips were short trips, and had lasted about a week each. I wanted to go to England and spend some time there, and I was hoping if I had another opportunity to go I would be able to stay for a few months. But the man's advice made me nervous because it implied I might be in a situation where I would have the opportunity to go but not take advantage of the opportunity because of perceived "extenuating circumstances." I walked out of the cafeteria hoping nothing like that would happen to me. I hoped I would never be in a situation where choosing to go or not to go England was a difficult decision because of my circumstances. I wanted that decision to be as anxiety free as possible because I had been longing to go back to London for a long time.

During my senior year I was set to study abroad in London at Middlesex University. Everything was official, and all I had to do was go over there the next semester. But there was one big problem--Middlesex offered no class that would transfer in for the capstone class in Philosophy (Minds and Machines), which I had to take to complete my minor. There were several options I had to deal with the situation, and none were appealing to me. I could take the capstone class as an independent study while I was at Middlesex, but I didn't think that was a good idea. Any capstone class is supposed to be the hardest class a department has to offer, and I thought if this is the thoughest philosophy class it would be best that I took it at the university instead of by myself. Or I could not take the capstone class and go to Middlesex anyway. But that would mean not completing my minor; all philosophy majors and minors had to take it to complete the program, and since I loved philosophy so much I didn't want that to happen. Also, the class was only offered in the fall, so I couldn't take it in the spring. I could theoretically come back in the fall of the following year to finish my minor. But I thought that would be wasting time when I could be working. Going to Middlesex during spring semester was not an option too. The university's exchange programme was only for the fall semester, and if I went in the spring I'd have to be accepted in to Middlesex as one of their students, and I'd have to pay their tuition, which was twice as much as Radofrd University's because the pound is worth twice as much as the dollar. As the deadline approached to finalize classes for fall semester I brooded about my situation. My choices came down to doing either one of two things: either go to Middlesex and forfeit the completion of my minor or stay at the university and not go to Middlesex and complete the minor. This was a dilemma and nightmare I had wanted to avoid. I recalled the cafeteria worker's advice to me: "The opportunities you pass up in life you never get back." But whatever I chose in this situation I was going to have to sacrifice an opportunity to gain one, and I might not get back the opportunity I chose to sacrifice.

After thinking about the situation for a long time, and after experiencing a lot of anxiety, I decided to stay at the university and canceled out of the exchange program. When I told the International Director I was canceling out of the program he told if I had a dream not to give up on it. But I was still devastated, and wondered whether I was doing to right thing and if I had just passed up my last opportunity to go back to England. I didn't know if I would ever get another chance. But I loved philosophy, and I wanted to complete my minor and take the Minds and Machines class. If I went to England I'd miss out on it, and I'd be missing out on something important. A couple of days later I told somebody who had studied at Middlesex University what I decided, and she told me I should have gone because she had to give up all sorts of things--such as honor club memberships--to go. But little did I know at the time that another opportunity would come my way.

Canadian Days: Playing Good-Will Ambassador For Sloan

Most people who know me know how much I love music. I'm always listening to music and I rarely go anywhere without my MP3 player. I also buy at least one new album a month and I have aspirations of being a rock journalist. I eat, breath and live music, and since I'm so passionate about music I'm always eager to expose my friends to the music I'm passionate about, especially to bands who are worthy of having a bigger audience. These artists need all the exposure they can get, and since I'm one of their dedicated fans I have no problem doing all I can for them. After all, if it wasn't for people like me--people who'll buy almost everything these bands will release--these bands would have a harder time making a living as musicians, and it would be a shame if these people quit making music for financial reasons.

The WinterCity festival in Toronto gave me a chance to spread the word about my favorite Canadian band, Sloan, who are always in need of converts so they can continue to make records.
The WinterCity festival is a huge arty event. Over two weeks the city of Toronto puts on an extravaganza of what it has to offer: a vibrant arts scene, great food, the ability to bring in Canada's most popular performers and free concerts. Since Sloan were playing in the festival it was prime time to play good-will ambassador for them. And since the concert was free the people I would be trying to convert to the band wouldn't have much to lose. If they didn't like them they couldn't gripe to me about how they lost 10 to 15 dollars. I hyped up how good Sloan were to my friends. I'd been a Sloan fan for awhile, and had all their albums. I described them as "Canada's finest," and that they were the band I wanted to see the most in Canada.

The evening got off to a promising start. My friends and I headed down to Nathan's Phillips Square where Sloan would be taking the stage, and a medium-sized crowed was out there, eagerly anticipating Canada's finest. Right before Sloan took the stage MuchMusic* introduced the band as "the east coast legends." I felt what I had told my friends about the band had been vindicated with good reason. Everything was falling into place. I had gotten my friends out there in the bitter cold just to see Sloan, and MuchMoreTV had backed up what I had said to my friends about the band. Now all Sloan had to do was rock their way to glory, and they'd have some new converts on their hands, courtesy of me.

But things did not go according to plan. The concert got off to a good start. Sloan played a stomping version of "Who Taught You to Live Like That?" But after that the concert devolved into Sloan ploughing there way through the new songs off their new album "Never Hear The End of It," which didn't go over as well as their earlier material. The songs off "Never Hear The End of It" aren't bad, and I consider the album as the ultimate Sloan record. "Never Hear The End of It" is the most ambitious Sloan record. It consists of 30 songs and represents a culmination of everything the band has ever done. It just doesn't translate well live. The album is similar to "Abbey Road." The second half of that record consist of short songs that immediately phase into each other. It's more of a theatrical performance than a collection of individual songs, and "Never Hear The End of It" is the same way throughout the entire record. There are only a handful of songs that could be singles, which are the songs that would be more suited for a live performance. Compounding the problem is most of the songs on the album are complicated; the songs tend to go through alot of changes, and songs like that are hard on the ears. It's the sort of record you'd have to listen to five or six times before you started to like, and the record you'd think twice about giving someone in effort to convert them to Sloan.

At mid-set my friend Cassie taped me on the shoulder and told me she was leaving. I could tell by the tone of her voice that she was not impressed. I looked back and saw all my other friends had left. This was embarrassing. I told Cassie O. K., and then she left me out there in the bitter cold. All my efforts to convert my friends to the good cause that is Sloan had been in vain. And what made my efforts even more pointless was the fact that as Cassie left Sloan launched into their classic material, which is what everybody had been waiting for, and the concert took off. As Sloan played these songs the crowd showed more enthusiasm, and Sloan were finally on their way to rocking their way to glory. After "Money City Maniac's" Patrick Pentland, one of the guitarists in the band, shook his fist in the air, as if Sloan had finally conquered the day. But for my friends it was too late.


*MuchMusic is Canada's version of MTV.

Canadian Days: How I Missed Out On Meeting The High Dials

One thing I am passionate about is music. I love rock music, and I collect at least one new album a month. But since I'm from a small out-of-the-way city I rarely have a chance to hear live music, and seeing one of my favorite bands on stage is even rarer. But since Toronto is a major metropolis that wields an enormous cultural influence in Canada I had plenty of opportunities to see my favorite bands. One such opportunity was Canadian Music Week, which is held near the end of winter in Toronto. When I was looking for gigs to go to in Canada I discovered The High Dials, one of my favorite Canadian bands, would be playing at the festival; and what was better was that they'd be playing at the Silver Dollar Club, a club not that far from the hostel.

The Silver Dollar Club was a small venue, and I thought I might have the chance to meet some of the band members. It wasn't an impossibility. At places like The Silver Dollar Club you can walk up to your favorite musicians and have a chat with them. They may be well known in the underground musical community but they aren't so big that they're cut off from the audience, unlike a major touring act, who you won't be meeting in the crowd because they'd get mobbed. When I was in London I met several members of The Church at The Borderline, a small club in the central part of the city. I even got to assist Peter Koppes (one of the guitarists) DJ at an after show party. It was an awesome experience because I got to meet the people who created music I loved, instead of just sitting around somewhere listening to the album. And here was another chance to meet one of my favorite bands.

I got to the club early because I didn't want to miss out on The High Dials. I came so early I had to come back because the person who was taking money wasn't set up yet. So I went across the street to get some coffee, waited a few minutes, and then went back into the club. When I entered the club the first person I saw was Trevor Anderson--lead singer and primary songwriter of the group--with the rest of The High Dials. Here was my chance to meet the man who had penned "War of the Wakening Phantoms," an impressive, eclectic album that I was listening to alot. But I didn't say anything because I figured he was busy getting his gear organized (which usually takes a long time to do) and probably didn't want to be bothered by an awe struck fan.

I had been admitted into the club an hour before the first band was supposed to go on. So I killed time by I sitting on a stool in boredom as I watched a band set up its gear on stage. While I waited Trevor walked up right beside me and ordered a beer at the bar. Here was my second opportunity to introduce myself and tell him how much I liked "War with the Wakening Phantoms." Again, I didn't say anything. Did Trevor really want to be bothered by a fan, especially when he's enjoying a beer? But maybe I was worrying about nothing? After all, it would seem like he would want to meet the fans; the very people who are making his living as a musician possible. Maybe Trevor would be glad to have a chat with me. Still I didn't budge.

Throughout the night this process repeated itself. I'd see Trevor somewhere in club, contemplate introducing myself, and then chicken out. Since I couldn't work up the courage to say anything to him I basically observed him consume beer after beer and overheard snippets of his conversations. Trevor talked about relationships alot, which I assumed were of the romantic kind. While I was observing all this I'd make up excuses why it was potentially inappropriate to talk to him. All sorts of worrisome scenarios would run through my head. Maybe the music was too loud and he wouldn't hear me speaking to him? Maybe the situation would be awkward because he doesn't know me? Maybe he'd think I was too obsessive about their music? Maybe he didn't want to be bothered with? After all, the man is trying to enjoy his beer. He's been drinking alot tonight too. Maybe he'll be too drunk to understand what I'm saying? He's talking to people about relationships. People in rock bands who talk about relationships don't want to be bothered by the trifling concerns of a fan.

Near the end of the gig a woman who was sitting at the bar said something to Trevor, obviously she had been impressed by their show and wanted to greet them. That's all I had to do, but I could never work up the courage to say anything to Trevor, and I walked back to the hostel angry and disappointed with myself. But as I walked on I came to my senses, and realized that what I was getting upset about was ridiculous.

Canadian Days: Rue Morgue Night

When I was in Toronto one thing I always looked forward to was Rue Morgue Night at the Bloor Cinema. Rue Morgue is Canada's premiere horror magazine, and every month they would have a special showcase which involved showing a horror film. It was always interesting and it was a highly anticipated event. Each time I went I had to wait in a long line in the bitter cold just to get in, and I got the impression people typically waited out there for a long time just to experience a Rue Morgue Night. Also, since Rue Morgue was a horror magazine people would express themselves in all sorts of peculiar ways. You might be standing behind someone dressed as a zombie with fake blood dripping down their mouth. Or you might be standing behind someone dressed in drag. I guess in some ways going to a Rue Morgue Night was like going to a Rocky Horror Picture Show. After a hard day of work it was a good excuse for alot of people to indulge in weirdness, which I'm sure kept their sanity.

The first time I went to a Rue Morgue Night they were have a screening of "Phantasm"--the weirdest horror movie I have ever seen. And they were billing this as a special event since it was not only an established classic, but also because people would get to see it on the original grainy film. And not only did you get to see it on the original grainy film there was going to be a question and answer session with one of the actors (Reggie Bannister). When I saw this being advertised on a flyer I thought is this experience really going to out do watching it on DVD? I thought about not going because I'd seen Phantasm, and not only had I seen it but I'd seen it on superior DVD picture quality. But since I had nothing to do in Toronto that night I decided to head down to the Bloor Cinema, and experience "Phantasm" in all its original grainy quality.

When I got there and sat down in the theater they kept telling us we were in for a treat. We were going to see "Phantasm"--the established classic--on the big screen and on the original film. Somebody did mention that the film was old; it had been sitting around since the late-70s, which implied we would really be getting an authentic grainy experience. Then came the big event, what everyone had been waiting for: experiencing a grainy "Phantasm." During the movie people kept laughing because they thought the movie was funny. Somebody once said horror is close to comedy because the stuff that happens in it is just plain ridiculous. The premise of "Phantasm" is an evil alien comes to earth, who takes the form of a evil looking tall man, and turns people and corpses into evil little beings that look like the Jawas in Star Wars. The Jawa-looking-things then run around indulging in all sorts of evil stuff: stalking people, biting them, trying to kill them, freaking them out and in general creating chaos. But there is another reason why people laughed so much through out the movie. The movie is plagued by bad dialogue and sometimes bad acting. "Phantasm" is one of those movies that's good because of its cheesiness, and sometimes cheesiness can be a good thing because it can make a movie more entertaining.

The next movie I watched at Rue Morgue Night was "Fido," a Canadian zombie comedy. Before the start of the movie Rue Morgue held a zombie costume contest. Some people who had shown up looking like zombies were hand picked to come to the stage, and whoever looked the most undead won the prize. Then we watched "Fido." "Fido" took place in an alternate world, much like the universe of George Romero's zombie films, where the dead come back to life and prey upon the living by eating them. It was a worldwide epidemic, and in Canada people were able to fend off the zombies and lived in a sheltered city. Also, people learned how to domesticate the zombies. Once they put a specialized collar on them a zombie was rendered impassive, and these zombies would be kept as pets or used for domestic chores. The movie was like "Lassie" meets "Land of the Dead," or "Leave It to Beaver" meets "Land of the Dead." The entire movie was about a boy's relationship with his pet zombie. He kept telling the zombie to go fetch and to do all sorts of other ridiculous stuff. Also, all the living characters had a 1950s mentality; everyone was complacent, and everyone believed problems--especially the zombie problem--could be dealt with in a clean and efficient manner, which was hilarious considering death was a big part of the movie. Also, families were concerned with "keeping up with the Jones." If another family saw that the Jones had a zombie then they had to have a zombie so they would enjoy the prestige of having a zombie.

Anyone reading this might think "Boy, you certainly did experience alot in Canada." And I did experience alot in Canada, including Rue Morgue Night. One thing I've learned about the difference between big cities and small ones is all sorts of weirdness can come out in the big city, but not in most small cities. When I was in London sometimes when I didn't have anything to do I'd go down to Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street because I could see all sorts of weird and interesting things there. One time I saw these guys who looked like The Clash dressed in drag, and I knew there was a biker bar down there too--things I would never see in Danville. Someone from a small city may disdain such things because their not used to it, and because he or she might feel threatened by such activities. But my theory why people do these sorts of things is because it keeps their sanity. In big cities people are subjected to all sorts of stresses people in small cities don't have to worry about. Big cities are pushier, more crowded, and you often have to deal with people who want to beg you for money more, and big cities can become targets for someone to attack. In London a couple of weeks ago somebody tried to blow up a car in Piccadilly Circus--something people in small cities never have to worry about. I see how the accumulated stresses of living in a big city could cause some one to flip. After a hard week it can be a good thing to get away from reality for awhile, and as far as I'm concerned it's best for people to keep their sanity than to lose it.

Canadian Days: How I Made It Out To Niagra Falls

On of the most beautiful things you can experience in Canada--and of existence for that matter--is Niagra Falls. It truly is a great work of nature.

After I decided to go back home I set aside some time to go out to the Falls. Up until then I hadn't done any sightseeing in Canada, largely because I wanted to find a job before I did any, and because I didn't put a priority on it. The first two times I went to Britain I went as a tourist and all I did was sightsee. Sightseeing can be informative and help you understand a culture better, but it's not the same thing as being immersed it. When your a tourist you see the place, but you have limited opportunities to interact with the culture, and I'd rather be immersed in it. That way you can meet people you wouldn't normally meet. I expected to go out to the Falls, see it, and then come back; and that would be the extent of my tourist activities in Canada. But it didn't happen like that.

On a Wednesday morning I groggily woke up, and thought about not going. I was sleepy and I wanted more rest, and I figured since Niagra Falls was a tourist activity it wasn't that important--my rest, however, was. Niagra Falls was just a waterfall, could it really be that exciting? Maybe the experience of the Falls would be like Stonehenge. Alot of tourists want to see Stonehenge when their in Britain, but all that experience amounts to is supposedly looking on in awe at a bunch of rocks in the middle of nowhere. But I decided go to the Falls anyway, despite my skepticism. I'd never been there, and I thought maybe my preconceptions were wrong.

I went with a group of people on the tour, mostly people from hostels in the area. Our itinerary included wine tasting at a winery, a visit to Fort George, a visit to a dam and then Niagra Falls. The winery we stopped at got the tour off to a good start. I have forgotten what the name of the winery was, but it did have a connection to Dan Akroyd, who starred in Ghostbusters (one of my favorite films). Although I rarely drink I took a sip of the wine and it was delicious. It was the best wine I had ever tasted, and I thought about buying a bottle, but the steep price (30 Canadian dollars) prevented me from doing so. So I bought a small bottle instead. Being at Fort George was an interesting experience because it was captured by the Americans in the War of 1812 and then recaptured by the British. As an American I had always rooted for the Americans in the war. But before we got there our tour guide told us he was glad the British took it back because he was Canadian. It doesn't surprise me that he had this attitude. When you travel abroad you encounter different attitudes than what your accustomed to. I always wondered what did the British think about the American Revolution, especially since they lost. But that is a subject I will have to investigate at another time. Then we stopped at an off-shoulder pass on the road which gave us a magnificent view of the river that runs behind Fort George. There was a sign there that said "Niagra Escarpment," one side was in English, the other French. Then it was off to see a dam, and on the other side of the dam was the United States. This was a weird experience. Here I was in a foreign country, and I could walk into the U. S. from where I was at. Far from being an uninteresting tourist experience my day had been interesting so far.

Then we got to Niagra Falls--what we had been waiting for all day--and it certainly wasn't like Stonehenge. It is hard describing what Niagra Falls is like because it is an experience that can not be described in words. Seeing it on television, pictures and reading about it can't do the power and magnificence of the place justice. The best description I can think of is it is what you would expect a giant waterfall to look like in heaven; and only God can make a better waterfall. Our tour guide told us he never got tired of going to Niagra Falls because he was always in awe of it, and I can see why. Going to Niagra Falls was the highlight of a good day, and it was a day that got better with each successive tourist attraction. All these places were unique, and had I not bothered to get out of bed I would have missed out on something. Sometimes tourist attractions can be disappointing, and attractions are often exploited as a way of making money, which can discourage people to go to them. But on this day the experience was worth it.

Canadian Days: Comedy Night at the Pub

Upstairs in a pub a young woman is on stage with a mic in her hand. She has long brown hair, glasses, and is wearing a blue shirt. She looks like a college student, and I figure if she's on stage she's got alot to say, mostly about her lovelife, whether it's about the struggles in it or her frustration of not having one. My hunch is correct too. The next thing I know she shifts body posture and says something about her love experiences that's too revealing for me. I feel a tinge of discomfort. The crowd laughs. I don't because I think the joke is in bad taste. Then she shifts her body posture again, and tells another joke that's even more revealing: "He said I want to c** on your glasses." Nobody in the room laughs, and I think it's the worst joke I have ever heard.

The scene I've just described is from comedy night, which was held every Sunday night at the pub across the street from the hostel I stayed at. I have decided to give it a mention in my blog because of its sheer awfulness. To me there was little that was good about it, except being occasionally amused. Comedy night was open mic--anybody could try their hand at comedy--and the result was poor quality since most people who took the mic were just starting out as comedians.

I only went to comedy night a couple of nights. The first time I went was because a friend suggested we go because we had nothing do. Had I known how bad it was I would have never have gone. But each time I went back I naively hoped it would get better. It never did, and since I was able to observe comedy at its worst I came up with a theory about bad comedy, which is: a bad comic is one that spends too much time joking about their sex life. I have never understood why some comedians found the most intimate experiences in their life to be funny. A comic who spends too much time joking about their sex life is a comic that has run out of creative room. Whenever a comic doesn't have any more good jokes to tell sex--which is a subject alot of people find funny--is often a convenient substitute. Alot of people who went on stage at comedy night had a tendency to talk about sex alot. I remember one guy who said something like"Don't you hate it when your on top and you've got to do all the work." The joke fell on deaf ears.

But one good thing about comedy night was it allowed people to get creative. But even this didn't escape in keeping with the awfulness of the event. Since most people who took the stage were starting out as comedians they were in the process of finding out what worked and what didn't. Few people were "polished comics," so that meant anything went. Somebody might wear a hood over their head, carry around a pail and a water gun and mumble nonsense. I never understood whether this was supposed to be performance art or not, but whatever it was it was just awful. I remember when one of the more polished comics took the stage. He talked about his obsession with weed the entire time, and I consider this to be progress since he didn't focus on sex, although I don't smoke weed. Listening to this guy you'd think he'd smoke weed at breakfast, lunch, dinner and in between. It was as if his idea of heaven was being blissed out in an eternal state of being high. He was only one of two comedians I found to be remotely funny.

Some people reading this may think I am being too harsh on comedy night. After all, it is a harmless event intended to lighten things up, which is the purpose of comedy. But I wasn't the only person who thought comedy night was unbearable. My roommate, Ben, would hang out with us up to a certain point in the pub on Sunday, and then leave as quick as possible whenever comedy night was about to begin. Upon observing this I thought Ben had an impeccable since of timing, and when it came for him to leave I'd leave too. As far as I'm concerned Ben had the right idea--it was the sane thing to do.

Canadian Days: Unique Canadian Things

* This is an earlier blog entry, but I've decided to reprint it since it fits in with the theme of entries about Canada.

Earlier this year I spent some time in Canada, a country I had wanted to visit for a long time. I qualified for a six-month working holiday visa, and stayed in Toronto for three months before coming home. I wasn't able to find employment, unfortunately, but while I was there I discovered that the question "What defines Canada?" is dubious to some Canadians. When I was in Toronto I stayed at a hostel, and one of my roommates was Canadian. When I asked him what made Canada unique he groaned. "Oh, God...," he said with annoyance. Also, I had read Canadians tend to be sensitive to the question. This was reinforced when I saw Douglas Coupland's "Souvenir of Canada," a documentary about what he thinks are things that define the Canadian character. At the beginning of the film Coupland states that he had been thinking about what made Canadians Canadians for a long time--as if it were a perplexing problem. Although I was only in Canada for short time I do believe there are things that are uniquely Canadian. Here are some of them below:

• Poutine (Fries covered in gravy and cheese)
  


• French and English are official languages in Canada
  


• It has a French speaking province (Quebec)
  


• Canada is sparsely populated
  


• Alot of Canada is wilderness
  


• Most people in Toronto are polite
  


• The seasons tend to exist in the extremes
  


• Most Canadians live within 200 miles of the Canadian/U.S. border
  


• Canada is the second largest country in the world
  


• Alot of movies and television shows are filmed in Canada, particularly in Toronto and Vancouver
  


• Timothy's Coffee, Tim Hortons and Second Coffee
  


• Hockey
  


• David Cronenberg
  


• The Tragically Hip
  


• The pervasiveness of the term "eh"
  


• The CN Tower

There's no doubt the list can be extended beyond this, but since I was only in Canada for a short time my knowledge of the country is limited. But I wonder why some Canadians consider the question "What defines Canada" to be dubious. If I were asked what defines the United States a number of things immediately come to mind: it's the world's only great power, it exerts an enormous amount of cultural influence, it likes to innovate, it's a big country, it's a very religious nation, etc. The list of things that define the U. S. seem endless. But it might be because Canada shares a common culture with the U. S. I know there are things about Canada that are peculiar to Canada (like poutine), but I know if most Americans went to Toronto--which is Canada's cultural center--they would say its no different than the U. S. Since the U. S. is the only great power in the world and historically has been a huge innovator all the western nations are bound to be influenced by it, especially Canada since it shares a border with it. But ironically this attitude--being sensitive to the question of what defines Canada--may be another thing that is uniquely Canadian.

Canadian Days: Canadian Politeness

One of the most enjoyable aspects about Toronto is the city's politeness. Wherever you go in Toronto you're likely to encounter a friendly, courteous person; and it is noticeable to Americans. When I was at the university a teacher told me people in Toronto were polite. And when I was staying at the hostel two American girls agreed with me that most people there were polite, and they reacted as if this was one of the more peculiar aspects of the city. I even met someone from the United States who moved to Toronto because of the city's courteous nature. He and his wife decided Toronto was a good place to raise a family, so they packed their bags and headed north.

But the widespread politeness doesn't rub off well with all Americans. When the same teacher was talking about Canada in class a girl shrugged her shoulders and said the Canadians were "so glee." The reason I think she said this is because she is accustomed to people being more aggressive with each other. And the United States does have a reputation for being a stressful nation from some people's perspective. When I was in Canada somebody told me she couldn't live in the U. S. because of what she perceived was a more stressful lifestyle.

In my opinion the U. S. can be pushier than Toronto. For example, when I had to wait to get my coffee at a Starbucks in Toronto somebody on staff gladly gave me a card to get a free drink. They had gotten the orders confused and there was a slight delay with my order, so they thought they'd make it up to me by allowing me to get a free drink. But when I was in the same situation at a Starbucks in the U. S. the person on staff who was fixing drinks got annoyed, and she certainly didn't give me a card to get a free drink. But my theory why the U. S. can be a pushier place is because of several reasons:

1. The U. S. has the awesome responsibility of being the only world-power in the world, which inevitably creates stress in the culture.

2. The U. S. has a long-standing culture war. Some people believe the nation is as ideologically divided as it was during the Civil War. In "Culture Wars," a book by James Davison Hunter, he argued the contemporary culture war is waged by the orthodox and progressives who do not see eye-to-eye when it comes to morality.

3. It has often been noted that ever since the 1960s Americans have gotten more cynical, especially about the government.

4. American culture is extroverted by nature. Americans value discussion and there's nothing we believe that can not be discussed, but this often creates irresolvable conflict between people on opposite sides of the culture war (e. g. Ann Coulter vs. Jesse Jackson).

5. Americans work alot, and this adds to the stress we already experience.

I am sure there are some Americans who will take offense with me since I stated the U. S. is a pushier place than Toronto. But what I am saying is often expressed by older generations of Americans. I've noticed they are more likely to complain that the value of courteousness has eroded, and almost every young American has been subjected to hearing about this, often to their annoyance. My own dad sometimes tells me "people are crazy nowadays." Also, out of all the places in the world--including every city I've been to in the U. S.--I have never been anywhere where politeness was as widespread as it is in Toronto. The people of Toronto have achieved something special that alot of places strive for but never fully attain, which is something I hope I can go back and experience again.

Canadian Days: For Love of Drinking

A favorite past time at the hostel was drinking alcohol. After a hard day of doing whatever one did during the day--whether it was studying hard at the university or lounging around--my friends looked forward to having a few drinks to relax, especially on the weekends. On a weekend night, since many people didn't want to brave the harsh winter night, the common room would be saturated in alcohol consumption. Alcoholic beverages would be strewn all over the place, people would be indulging in drinking games and whoever got drunk usually babbled nonsense (and might not have remembered it later).

I only had two drinks while I was in Toronto because I rarely drink, so I got to see how alcohol affected my friends behavior, which was often funny. One friend that comes to mind is my roommate Billy. Billy spent alot of time in the evening drinking alcohol with a buddy from Denmark. Drinking would start around 5 PM and usually didn't stop until sometime in the morning, and as can be expected both eventually got painful hangovers. One time after a night of drinking Billy came back to the room drunk. He loudly staggered into bed, and then spent several minutes groaning and twisting and turning around. It sounded like he was drowning or choking on something and was about to die. Eventually it was too much for him, and he got up, ran out in to the hall and threw up. Me and my two other roommates woke up, and when Billy returned he informed us "If anybody asks I've got the 24 hour flu."

Another friend that comes to mind was another roommate, Freddy. Freddy was Irish, in his late 20s, and probably could out drink anyone in the hostel. Freddy's alcohol tolerance level was so high he could drink an entire six pack and still not be drunk. There were several times when Freddy would be drinking his fourth or fifth beer with ease, while someone else would be getting inebriated on their second. I remember one time when another roommate of mine, who was English, had a couple of drinks and started babbling to me about how he had been hearing American accents his entire life, and that only he was the only normal sounding person in the universe. It is unlikely Freddy would ever say such a thing after a few beers. His alcohol tolerance level is so high it would be hard for him to get drunk, even after finishing a six pack.

Then there were the issues some of them had with Canadian and U. S. drinking laws. Most of my friends were European, and the U. S. has more stringent drinking laws compared to many European nations. One night a friend demanded that I tell him why the legal drinking age in the U. S. was 21. I didn't know, but I told him I supported keeping the legal drinking age at 21 because most Americans drive. I wouldn't be surprised if the teenage accident rate went up if it were lowered. I could tell from his reaction that was not the answer he wanted to hear. He persisted in asking me why was it set at 21. I guess he wanted to know why wasn't it lower like in Britain, which is where he was from.

But the pinnacle of all the indulgence were the drinking games my friends would play. Usually whenever they didn't have anything to do on the weekend they'd organize several mugs in a circle on a table with one mug in the middle. Then they'd try flipping a coin into a mug. I don't know the exact rules but I think each mug represented how much you could drink if you flipped a coin into it. They could spend hours doing this, and I wouldn't be surprised if many of them got drunk from playing these games. I say this was the pinnacle of all the indulgence because it was truly drinking just for the sake of it. It is hard for me to imagine how they could have taken the experience of alcohol consumption any further.

But it doesn't surprise me that my friends loved alcohol. Most people in the hostel were European, and probably had been accustomed to being around alcohol for most of their lives. To them it was a way of relaxing after a hard day. Also, most people who stay at hostels are young, and my experiences at college taught me that young adults typically like drinking, sometimes too much. I on the other hand stood in stark contrast to my friends when it came to drinking, and surprisingly this may be a reflection of cultural differences. In the U. S. there are few pubs--which are places to eat food and drink--and my parents don't have a fondness for drinking. So I have never been accustomed to drinking alcohol. And like my parents I prefer clean living, meaning no alcohol--or as little of it as possible--no smoking or drugs, and I want to keep it that way.

Canadian Days: Friends at the Hostel

One of the most enjoyable aspects of staying at a hostel is meeting people you wouldn't normally meet. During my entire stay in Canada I stayed in a hostel and I made friends from around the world. I was even apart of a group of friends that hung out all the time--and almost all of us belonged to a different nationality. But one lamenting thing about hostels is the friendships you make in them tend to be short lived. This is for two reasons: 1. Most people only stay a couple of nights in hostels. 2. Once you go back to your native country you tend to be seperated by a vast distance from the people you befriended, which makes keeping up with them difficult. Since most people stay in hostels for a short period the friends I had was constantly shifting and changing. When one person would leave a new arrival would take their place.

One of the first people I befriended was a guy named Johnny, who was from Manchester, England. One night Johnny talked me into dancing on the dance floor at a club, which is a remarkable achievement, and anyone who knows me will understand what I mean. By nature I am a shy person, and I've always dreaded dancing in front of people. I feared--and I still fear--that my dancing skills would make a fool of me. People were egging me on to dance, and I expressed concern that I would look like a fool because of my mediocre dancing skills. "If you can dance real good then you probably have too much time on your hands," Johnny told me. That got me out on the dance floor. But Johnny took off to ski in Vancouver a couple of days later, and I never saw him again. A couple of weeks later I met a girl from Scotland in the hostel. She smiled at me and said "Hello. I'm from Scotland. My name's Jennifer. People call me Jen." This was the first thing that happened to me that day, and it was as if she was telling me she was going apart of the group of friends I had, and she eventually was. But unfortunately--like all people who stay at hostels--it came my turn to leave. This was not an easy to do. Right after I learned a hold was put on my credit card my friends approached me on a street corner smiling at me; they were glad to see me. But I had to break the hard news--more than likely I would be going home because I couldn't use my credit card. I could tell they wanted me to stay, but under the circumstances I thought the best thing to do was to go home since I had no job, little cash, no credit card and because three months of my six month work visa had passed. It was awkward, and I wish I could have stayed. When I left one thing that did run across my mind was who I wouldn't befriend because I was leaving.

Canadian Days: How I Got Rejected From Every Job I Applied For In Toronto

"But that one moment, that one line 'screamin' from beaneath the waves' crystallized this vision and became proof that the inner struggle, though unwinnable, is the only fight worth fighting."*


After I chucked up my job as a dishwasher I set my sights on Toronto.** Finally, I'd be leaving the dishroom, and what was better I'd be in Canada's cultural center instead of Danville. Unlike Danville Toronto had something to offer to everybody, and I was looking forward to finding a job that had something to do with what I liked instead of cleaning slop. I have always preferred working in a CD store, or a book store, or a movie theater if I had a low-paying job because music, books and movies are the things I'm interested in. In Danville it's hard to do this because the unemployment rate is high and because we only have one CD store, two book stores and two theaters. But I was sure I'd have plenty of opportunities to find employment at those types of businesses in Toronto since it was a big city; it was bound to have more employment opportunities. And I didn't worry about my six-month work visa being a problem either. My experience working low-paying jobs is that the turnover rate is high, and I was certain it was likely an employer would be willing to hire me for a short period of time. I could not have been more wrong.

Most of my time in Toronto was spent trying to find employment, and I did everything I could to get employed. At first I tried the walk-in method. I'd walk around the city in the bitter Canadian cold submitting my resume*** at different places, and I was usually told they weren't hiring or wouldn't hire me because of my six-month work visa. I remember one time when I submitted my resume at a Second Coffee the manager smiled, looked at my resume and noticed I was from the United States. My hopes went up. "Finally, maybe I've found a job and I can stay in Canada," I thought. Then I told him my work visa was good for four more months. That smile quickly disappeared and he sternly told me "Sorry, we can't do employment like that." Although I was getting rejected at a rate I had never experienced before I stubbornly persisted with the walk-in method. Surely in a big city somebody had to be out there who was willing to hire me. If I just stick with the walk-in method I'm bound to find employment. I finally changed my mind after I got blisters on my feet after playing soccer in a gymnasium. All that walking had worn my feet out, and I spent that night hobbling around the hostel I was staying at.

The next method I tried was looking for employment online. At the SWAP office**** I'd spend hours sending out resumes around the city, hoping that someone would take a chance on me. This was effective. I was able to get employers to interview me, but the result was the same--rejection. And I was rejected to the point of absurdity. I did find a business that was looking for a temporary employee to work the cash register, and the interview went well; and I was told they would contact me about the job. Again I got my hopes up. Maybe this would be the job that would keep me in Canada for the duration of my work visa. But when I didn't hear anything from them for several days I called back to check on my resume. The manager informed me the store owners had decided to ask back the girl they had fired.

After this I decided the sending-out-resumes-online method was not working. The only thing that was left to try was temping. One of my roommates, who had a five-month work visa, did this and he was able to find employment soon after he arrived in Canada. I had given my resume to a temp agency a couple of days after I arrived in Toronto, but I didn't hear anything from them, and I even submitted my resume twice. This time I decided to submit with a different temp agency. After about a week the agency did find me a job, but my cell phone was recharging when they tried calling me, and it was one of the few times I recharged it during the day. This was probably the biggest mistake I made while I was in Toronto. But that same day my credit card got canceled because of potential fraud use. At that point I had spent about three months in Canada--half the duration of my work visa. So since I had little cash, no job and now no credit card I decided to go back home.

Going back home was like an anti-climax; I had high hopes of finding employment in Canada. But hardly anybody was going to hire me because of my six-month work visa. Most employers figured if I was just going to be in Canada for six-months I wasn't worth hiring; and a six-month work visa was the longest visa I could obtain because of the SWAP agreement the United States and Canada have. I don't know why it's like that because having a six-month work visa makes finding employment hard. It's like fighting an up hill battle that can not be won. But somebody told me it was like that because the U. S. and Canada share a border; they're two countries that are close to each other, so they don't want people from the other nation taking jobs away from their citizens. But I have no regrets about going to Canada--even if I was bound to fail finding employment. I met alot of great people in Toronto and had a great time. If there is anything I learned from falling flat on my face in the bitter cold it's if you don't take any risks you won't get anything out of life, even if you fail.

*Liner notes from the Echo & The Bunnymen boxed set written by Wayne Coyne

**How I was able to have the legal right to seek employment in Canada is explained in "Restaurant Days: Routine Dishwashing."

***SWAP (Student Work Abroad Program) is the Canadian program that allows U.S. students to work abroad in Canada for up to six months.

****Most businesses in Canada only accept resumes, even if it's for a low-paying job.