Ferrerbury

Admit it. The idea of mixing blue box mac 'n' cheese with chocolate is gross. Maybe that's the true reason why Cadbury has rejected Kraft. Now let's imagine what might happen when Nutella meets the Cadbury Egg. Much, much better.

Subprime Living: Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Slugs

LONDON--For two months beginning 1 September, I walked through the same home stay door in northern London. Curiously enough, for one and a half months, I gave little concern to the bruising pains in my lower shins as I wandered under that roof. Into the kitchen, up to the bathroom, back down to the bedroom. But wait! After two months, it occurred to me that continually whack-whacking my lower appendages was the standard of living in the house, kept just above the dirty, dusty floors. Just high enough for some to shrug at me and slap on a label that reads “learning experience”.

Cover your eyes, faint of heart. Put down your food. And drop the idea that studying abroad is all sunshine and harmony. No, no, no. It was a house in disrepair—almost humorous how the carpenter could fail so incredibly to cut dry wall, paneling, and molding even within an inch of connecting. Above the stair landing, a blemish so large in the ceiling that one could look up and see the absent dry wall, past the raw, dusty wood and into the shower on level two. Structural defects resulted in chilly drafts seeping through wall-length windows next to my bed.

Spin Doctor: It was a welcoming home, enhancing my experience by leaving the structural gaps open to the free flow of diverse wildlife. A “normal” home stay experience. What could be wrong with conversing with Londoners in the morning, and visiting with the massive slugs at night?

What? Yes, a slug “infestation”—but they were visitors, retreating back into the walls and garden when the sun shone. Come nighttime, I’d see mama slug and papa slug perched on the “clean” dish area, while the kiddies roamed the sink and counter. Did you know slugs eat dog food? Apparently one had developed a taste. Wait, it gets better. Dozens of tiny, white, parasitic bugs swarm across the slug’s slimy skin—the same slime that covered the dish sponges, the dishes, the sink, the counters, and the walls.

When conversation dried up with the slugs, I could wait for the mice to wander through underneath the floor boards. If I was really desperate, pellets of mouse poison were conveniently strewn on a shelf next to the food cupboard above the stovetop.

Skip the mold on the ceilings and mildew penetrating the walls. Skip the “clean” laundry coated with dust and dog hair. Skip the used pillow covered in blood and food stains. Skip the mouse droppings in the dresser drawer when we arrived. Skip the warning to wear shoes so as to not get jabbed by nails and loose floorboards. Skip the 10 days without a shower. Skip the morning wake-up alarm of construction in the house. Skip the lack of privacy.

Fast forward to October 30th and there we are, my roommate and I, standing in the entry way of a new home stay, meeting the new family. Thanks to the organization for moving us. The new place is great.

And I don’t miss the slugs.

The Dead Weather

one more coffee.
one more cigarette.
one more morning trying to forget.
if i had the chance,
i wouldn't like to bet
your game is something yet.

oh, it's a shame--ain't natural for you.
baby, it's a sin.
you know you just can't win when you are in.

you used to ride on buses.
take a tube to camden town.
now you go by aeroplane--don't let nothing bring you down.

it's a shame. ain't natural for you.
baby, it's a sin.
don't you know you just can't win when you are in?

now the road is dark and lonely
but you got a pearl light mode.
you're up in park lane now,
and i'm somewhere around in tottenham court road.

it's a shame--ain't natural for you.
baby, it's a sin.
no, you just can't win.
no, you just can't win
when you are in.

cover by the dead weather.

Remembrance Day

Checklist:
X.....Go to Parliament Hill for Remembrance Day, hear Royal Bands, watch thousands of retired
service men and women march through the street, and almost see the Queen place a
memorial on the Cenotaph. Instead, the view was blocked by the back of a street sign with
an "Impeach Bush" sticker.
X.....Get close with complete strangers and experience one of the worst foot-traffic jams in
twenty-one years. There's no such thing as a personal bubble in London, and I'm finally
comfortable with that.
X.....Go to Old Spittalfield Market near Liverpool Station and have opinion of hummus radically
changed at The Real Greek restaurant. One vendor was stelling Banksie photos. Not a
chance--I'll take my own Banksie photos.
X.....Write marketing paper comparing Borough and Spittalfield. Borough is much better. Way
more food variety. Paper is done.
_.....First homemade meal with new homestay family. Sunday roast couldn't sound any better.

In two month's time, I'll be coming home a completely different person. No more of that watery skim milk, fried eggs, or basic snack foods. Give me whole milk, hard boiled eggs, hummus, and olives.

And we're back! You're fortunate eyes have landed on the
trail-blazing,
stress razing,
mind-elating,
INVIGORATING,
promulgating,
fact-inflating,
never fading blog of yours truly. Coming at you from foggy town near London's mound--past the bus stop and through the door, up the stairs, on the second floor. Here you have it. Ladies and Gentlemen, THE RHUDABEGA!

You have missed out. How much happens in two months? Shoot. Trips to: Cardiff, Wales; Bath, Glatsonbury, and Stonehenge; the beautiful Scotland (Edinburgh, Inverness, Isle of Skye); Oxford; Windsor and Eton. Tours of Inns of Court and Parliament. Numerous pubs. The passage from poor homestay to great homestay. Five hour running photo-tour of London. Classes. And, of course, music to fit all the moods.

But, I'd like to express my gratitude for one invariable factor this semester. Though stress be high, a history paper below par, slug infestation, and our miscommunication, I have yet to clog the toilet. Couldn't tell you where the plunger is located. Heck, maybe there isn't one. Load up the red meats, fried foods, and biscuits! I'll sweat this one out in confidence.

A few goals of mine this November.
1) Grow the Novembeard. No shave November. Time to get grizzly.
2) Explore the nooks of London's music scene with aforementioned Novembeard.
3) Don't take for granted the little time left in London.

Any questions? Bueller? Bueller?

The Patterns

LONDON--Alright, alright. I'll admit it. I'm a slacker. Two weeks without posting anything is a bit long.

Have you heard Rimsky-Korsakov's "Flight of the Bumblebee"? That's the pace of my trip. Sixteen days in Europe already and the tempo hasn't slackened in the least. If fact, I'll argue life is a bit more crazy now with four classes and travel plans for the next three weekends.

As soon as I got here, I immediately began looking for patterns. Any composer, including Rimsky-Korsakov, will tell you that patterns are created by repitition, and more importantly, patterns can greatly enhance a musical piece. The first week in London was exciting, tense, and certainly overwhelming to all the senses. Everything was new and chaotic. By the first weekend, I was looking forward to the patternized schedule forced on by classes. Finishing up my second week of class I feel that I'm living in minute 2 of "Bumblebee"--still a frenzy, but now with some reliability. And, of course, my experience is enhanced. I feel more like a local.

Since we're on the topic, the public transportation system in London is FULL of patterns. I can count on seeing three types of people riding the tube at just about any time. Type number 1: the content, British man. Simple in presentation--button-up shirt, some type of bag or jacket in lap, reading material, slightly overweight, balding to some degree, and with the 5 o'clock shadow (if it's 5 o'clockish). Like everyone else on the tube, he keeps to his quarters and doesn't make eye contact. Type number two: the oddball. Dressed to be different, the oddball sports black attire, possibly black makeup (not to the extent that some Americans wear), and has a posture and presentation that's more rebellious. Type number three: the potential criminal. No one knows his story, but either a sketchy childhood or a bad day leaves this guy with a facial expression that makes me believe he's going to kill someone. Be careful not to make eye contact with him.

Patterns are telling me I should study BLAW.

The Knickers, the Discount, and the Homemade Dinner with Scotch

London -- Needless to say, a red-eye flight with only 15 minutes of zzz's has left me beat. Although, a handful of events in the last 28 hours keeps me from shutting down (it's 10:31 pm and I'm reclined).
My first run-in with an English accent led me to pursue small talk about London and weather. After commenting on the cold temperatures (low 60's), the accented girl asked if I brought plenty of knickers. That caught me off guard.
There are always two types of people to be avoided as neighbors when it comes to flight seating: 1) the excessive talker, 2) and the "overflow" neighbor. In short, I feel a 15% reimbursement is due since 15% of my seat was not occupied by me.
After picking up luggage and going through customs, we tripped over to our U house via coach buses and waited for hours upon hours.
My three roommates and I finally met our taxi and drove a terrifying drive to our Muswell Hill abode. The street lines seem to be more guidelines than restrictions.
We're very fortunate to have such great host parents. Mags made pasta with chocolate muffins, and we toasted over some scotch to a good semester.

Closest Comparison

London Day -- My best attempt to express the mixture of feelings is by way of analogy. Three years ago I joined the Wind Ensemble, not entirely confident in my playing but more so excited to see where the group would take me. The group took me to Orchestra Hall--my first time there. I vividly remember approaching the stage doors, walking out on stage, dodging percussion equipment, trying to find the best route without tripping, and making sure I didn't knock music over. That's the visible me finding my seat on the OH stage. Here's my thought process, best respresented as a checklist:
First: (approaching stage door) "Oh, no. Do I still have all my music?"
Second: (approaching stage door, still) "Bow-tie. Check. Fly zipped. Check. Shoes tied. Check."
Third: (going through stage door) "Don't trip. Don't trip. Don't trip."
Fourth: (back toward audience) Fake smile at someone.
Fifth: (back toward audience) Check for third time to make sure phone is not on me.
Sixth: (sitting down) "Everyone can see me, but I can't see anyone"
Seventh: (standing to welcome conductor) Profuse sweating.
The riled up nerves, discomfort, anxiety, excitement, and perspiration on performance day match the state of Scott today. Once again, excitement dominates by far.

Briefing

First of all, allow me to thank my two faithful blog readers who have labeled themselves "followers" for their silent presence. The change from 0 to 1 follower was a big step away from e-loneliness. To double that--a 100% increase--is beautiful. Thank you readers. Read on.

Solve this puzzle: In almost exactly one week from now, I will be a changed person, but I won't change much about me. First person to chew on that and spit out the right answer wins pride points.

For your curiosity, here are FIVE INTERESTING FACTS about our friends THE BRITISH, and A CITY CALLED LONDON:
1) The approximate longitudinal change between Saint Paul, MN and London, UK is 92.6 degrees. Yep.
2) The British DO speak english. An older man recently asked me, "Now, don't they speak another language over in London?" To back him up, the British certainly have a set of vocabulary different from America's, and there's slang usage. But it's still english.
3) If you want to make money or volunteer, you need a UK visa. I spent many hours this summer shuffling through papers and e-booklets trying to figure out UK's new visa application process.
4) London Stone. Legend has it that a character named Brutus was told by a goddess to travel from Athens to what is now London and found the city. He brought with him a stone made of oolite called the "London Stone". As long as the stone is protected, the city of London thrives. I will find this stone.
5) Benjamin Franklin lived a good chunk of his life in London on Craven Street near parliament.

Toodles.

A Story without Polyester Shrinks Like 100% Cotton: Theory Behind The Rhudabega

I confess, I accidentally crossed the invisible double yellow lines and bumped into this guy at Target. A bit rough-hewn, he was. Scraggly hair, jaw clenched, shirt sleeves rolled up. One hand clenched a shopping basket and swung furiously as he raced mom-with-stroller to the express check-out lane.

He stops and asks me, “WTF?!” but continues walking before I could work up an adequate response to an inquiry with so many applications.

WTF?!

I can only assume he was referring to The Rhudabega and my intentions behind it. Let me keep this short and sweet:

The Rhudabega is truth with a bit of synthetic fabric woven in.
It’s your entertainment and my outlet. Follow my
imagination, my London experiences, and enjoy.

OLD LADY SUCCUMBS TO LOVE'S ALLURING FORCE, CRASHES INTO SIDE OF TRUCK

SAINT PAUL, MINNESOTA -- Cupid's potent arrows, normally prominent around St. Valentine's Day, nearly drove 89-year-old Evelyn Alva Murphy to her death bed on Monday afternoon. Reportedly overtaken by emotion after making brief eye contact with a younger male driver, Murphy accelerated into the side of the man's truck. The accident resulted in minor damage to truck and severe surficial scrapes to Murphy’s 1992 Buick LaSabre.

When asked about the crash, Murphy neglected to provide details beyond the emotional override. “I felt like I was 35 again! He looks like Humphrey Bogart, don’t you think?”

Despite the estimated $2500 in damages, Murphy appeared to reach a state of euphoria when the 29-year-old Tom Brunswick gave Murphy his phone number in the exchange of information.

“What? Is she a cougar?” Brunswick responded to the elderly woman’s actions. He declined to comment further.

White Guy Says He also Enjoys "Beat Down Low" and "Top 'lit' Back"

SAINT PAUL, MINNESOTA -- Local white guy and Parks mower Scott Hansen professes his likeness and respect for rap artist, producer, and record executive Clifford Harris, Jr, better known as T.I. "He's ma boi", Hansen shouted giddily early Tuesday morning while attending to his trash duties at the local park.

Long, quite days at work and an iPod playlist devoted to T.I.'s top ranked hits led the 20 year-old to realize the common ground shared by the indebted college student and the multi-millionaire star. "Well, I realized our tightness after listening to 'Top Back' for, like, the hundredth time", Hansen explains. "Just like T.I., I also enjoy my beat down low and my top 'lit' back."

Among his favorite T.I. tunes are "Whatever You Like", "Top Back", "What You Know", and "Why You Wanna", from the acclaimed King and Paper Trail albums.

When asked if he had "stacks on deck, Patron on ice" just like his role model, Hansen admitted he did not know what Patron was, but pointed to the trash bucket and pickers and said payroll would mail his "stacks" to him by Friday.

Hansen is also a self-purported fan of Simon and Garfunkle, acoustic tracks, and "pretty much everything on earth except polka--I don't care for polka".

Hansen is leaving at the end of August to study abroad in London for four months. He hopes to spread the "T.I. love".