Wanderin'

Day two in London: I slept way too late. HOWEVER, I made up for this mistake by getting lost in the London underground for about 2 hours and having a real adventure. I tell you what, boy howdy, and other countryisms! The best way to really get to know a new city is to take a wrong train (or 3, like I did.) You end up seeing things you wouldn't normally see! Like a man peeing in an alley that says "WOOPSIE!" when you catch him, and graffiti that reads "Sex is not for sale." Interesting.

Before I got lost though, I got cocky. Which is probably why I got lost. I started the day by venturing out with a city map and an Oyster card (a train pass) looking to see the sights. I made my way with great success to Buckhingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, Burlington House, Big Ben, and the London Eye. After a frightfully good time at The London Death Trap, I decided to call it a night since it was cold and dark. Cutting through Westminster Abbey, I saw a Japanese girl getting strong-armed by some hustlers. I stood in the shadows ready to play superhero if necessary, but the girl held her own and sent the scumbags packing.

I then made my way to the tube station and promptly got on the wrong train, realized my error and sought to correct it...by getting on another wrong train. After I got on a third wrong train, I tossed pride aside and asked for help. After getting on the right path, my train failed to open its doors at my desired stop, so I had to wait for the next stop and double back. Good times. But you know, I'm really starting to like it here.

Even though this happened!

Appropriate

Sitting in your friend's flat,
In London with a sweater on,
Listening to the Beatles...
All You Need Is Love.

Immature

Though I turned thirty a few weeks ago, I have reasons to believe my mind in many ways has not progressed beyond the 7th grade. Today, while studying some fine Medieval poetry (save your nerd alerts for when I'm listening to the Bee Gees people), I came across a series of "riddles" in The Exeter Book. Most are religious in nature, clever, pretty little pieces of literature. However, Riddle 44 had me snickering in my seat like an adolescant learning about intercourse for the first time.

Without further ado, Riddle 44.

A curious thing hangs by a man's thigh
under the lap of its lord. In its front it is pierced
it is stiff and hard, it has a good position
When the man lifts his own garment
above his knee, he intends to greet
with the head of his hanging object that familiar hole
which is the same length, and which he has often filled before

I am not making this up. I repeat, I am not making this up. See, the ol' Brits aren't as proper as they would lead us to believe.

Hey, you know who else liked this riddle? This guy.

Hyppopocrite

We're all guilty of hypocrisy on some level. Lately, I've been thinking about some glaring areas where I fall into this trap of "holier than thou" behavior.

Area one: Knuckle Popping.



I hate it. If you commit this heinous act of self-abuse in my presence, the disgust will register in my face contorting it into a look of horror you'll not soon forget. However, I may pop my trick shoulder (the left) as often as I deem necessary. Which is a lot. I mean, a lot a lot.


Area number two: Gum chewing.




This is the more intense neighbor of the knuckle popping. If you chew gum around me, expose gum to me in any form (chewed, unchewed, packaged, etc)I will recoil as though being advanced upon by a leprous beast shooting laser beams and poison darts out of its eyes. If I could hide, I would. Instead, I just focus on breathing and keeping my dry heaves to a minimum. However, I may suck on mints and all manner of hard candies making a light slurping sound which probably registers the same decibel level as gum chewing.

Finally, flowery writing.



Nothing "grinds my gears (FG reference)" more than a writer who has to doll up their writing with more bells and whistles than a train station. To me, writing is like a good pizza. Adding too many toppings compromises the integrity of the food and confuses the palate. Keep it simple, keep it tasty. When a writer style clearly screams "Look here! I've managed to capture the forty colors of sadness all with a swipe of my pen!" I can only roll my eyes and pop my trick shoulder a few times. Yet, I, like a Domino's employee with too much time on my hands, am so very often guilty of throwing whatever may be lying around my mental kitchen into my writing. Olives, artichokes, sun dried tomatoes! Allegories! Syndecdoche! Hyperbole! More toppings more, more flare! All too late I realize I've got nothing but a junk-laden pizza that nobody wants to eat. Or read.

So what is the point of all of this? Am I going to change my wicked ways? Not likely. Acknowledging one's hypocrisy, however certainly does make for some interesting self reflection. And what goes better with self reflection than a nice, slice of pizza?

Flaw

My new found zest for purging my crowded mind into the blogosphere has proven to be quite refreshing. However, sleep deprived as I am these days, I am finding one crippling flaw in this recent creative writing exercise. I now have a new earworm in the form of obsessing over how flawed my writing is. I find that after every new post, I toss and turn in bed dissecting the piece in my thoughts and wondering how, how, how, can I ever have a career as a writer when I succeed in only producing trite little trinkets of indulgent observation. A perfect example is my last entry. How could I have possibly compared Nanny McPhee to Flow? There are so many flaws in that analogy I can't seem to stop thinking about them all. Here are the three big ones:

1. Now that I am fully awake (unlike yesterday, when I had not yet finished my breakfast of sugar-free Rockstar and determination), I remember the correct line from the Mary Poppins spin-off is "There is something you should understand about the way I work. When you need me but do not want me, then I must stay. When you want me but no longer need me, then I have to go." I'm not sure if that's the way Flow operates.

2. Nanny McPhee's functions were mystical in nature while Flow can be explained by science. Or can it?

3. I need to stop discussing things I know little to nothing about.

Sigh. On the plus side, I just now was able to come up with the word combo "trite little trinkets" and that just springs so pleasantly from the lips, I feel redeemed somehow.