Fashionable Vagrants.

Continuing my torrid lifelong affair with carbohydrates, I decided there was no better way to cure a hang over than with a baguette in Central Park. Going to Whole Foods at Columbus Circle with the intention of having some sort of quasi picnic is one of my favorite things to do, as it reminds me of last summer when I would go to Whole Foods Kensington and then Kensington Gardens. Granted, both the Kensington Whole Foods and gardens are much nicer than the ones in NYC, but I don’t think I’m entitled to complain.

In that vein, I actually don’t mind being completely and horribly broke, because it’s the little things I’ve been finding in my travels that really matter.

• For example, forcing myself to talk with the foreign deli guys that work next to my office to get sandwich discounts.

• Dollar slices of pizza by the Port Authority bus station, where old men sit in lay-z boys by the side of the road and the younger men do chin-ups off the street light.

• The upscale McDonalds café by central park that still gives off its Americanized scent of French fries and shame.

• Those pre-packaged Indian meals I get at the organic-mart, purely because they’re on sale and I have additional coupons.

• Drunkenly going into convenience stores in the wee hours of the morning and bargaining for food. One nice man made me a Panini meal and then gave me a six pack of Bud Light pounders “for the road” in exchange for a dollar.

And finally the free open bars that beautiful NYC so graciously provides. For example, on Sunday I decided I couldn’t brave the afternoon one for various reasons. Mostly because there was no way in hell I was leaving the comfort of air conditioning and brunch eggs, so I told my friends to meet up with me afterwards. They showed up to my apartment complete wrecks, as they had somehow befriended the owner (and consequently the bartenders) and had forgone eating for the day. I dragged them to the Chinese food restaurant next door, made sure they ingested the proper amount of calories, and then went to lay out with them in Central Park.

Laying out turned into Peter passing out in the grass like some sort of fashionable vagrant in Ray-Bans and Sperry’s, and Marty and I sitting on the rock above him and judging all who walked past. Granted everyone who walked by was also judging Peter, but Marty and I are the arbiters of taste and bitchiness.

We decided that we should have a show together where we would sit on that very rock, and inform the women passing by that their husbands or boyfriends are actually in the closet. Someone needs to tell these poor women sauntering past, proudly hand in hand with their boo, that he’s skinnier and more fashionable and more attractive than you for a reason. Mainly because he’s fucking other men while you watch Real Housewives of New York and go over bridal magazines with your cat. As quoted by Cypher in the 1999 classic The Matrix…”ignorance is bliss.”

I think I hit a new Facebook low.

8/15/09

I just finished season two of the Tudors, and I knew it was coming, but I still cried when they lopped Anne Boleyn’s head off. I felt some affinity with her character, considering we’re both crazy bitches, and I loved her hair accessories. And when it comes down to it, that’s what really matters. Right after the shot of her demise, they showed Henry feasting upon a swan, just reaching right in and grabbing huge chunks while laughing.

A) You’re eating a swan. A lily-white fucking pure swan. Asshole.

B) That definitely goes over your 2000 a day calorie allotment. No wonder you begin to resemble Fat Bastard in a couple of years.

C) Anne is so much hotter than that hussy Jane Seymour. Just because she’s blonde doesn’t mean she’s a good time. It means she has Chlamydia.

If Henry wasn’t played by the beautiful Jonathon Rhys Meyers, who stole my heart in the multi-cultural masterpiece Bend It Like Beckham, I might stop watching the show altogether. Good thing I don’t have any will power to speak of.

Our flat is covered in book shelves, and with the novels and textbooks left over from previous residents. They range from the usual trash-fiction, to the occasional good book, but usually they’re just guides about London and its history. Today while I was perusing the shelves (and curling my hair, I’m not that sophisticated) I came across Merriam Webster’s Vocabulary Builder. What a great way to improve my vocabulary, and sound like even more of a pretentious asshole. Hurray! However, my excitement quickly dropped to more of a “meatloaf in the Hans tonight” level. The words are so basic, even my half-retarded brother or a business student could flip through it without learning a substantial amount. Cosmetic? Conspicuous? Deity? Really people, really? Once again I blame public school.

Last night we went back to Cargo because of free entry Friday, and it was pretty awesome. Granted we had to wait in line for about forty-five minutes because of fire code restrictions but I had my trusty jean jacket to brave the cold. Once again GAP, I am forever indebted to you. Britain has far less fire code restrictions than America, but instead of shoving everyone in and having a million fire exits and/or hoping for the best, they can only have a certain amount of people per fire exit. That means we have to wait for a certain amount of people to leave before we can get in. Once we did get in, there was a huge screen looming over the dance floor that had trippy lights and spirals and colors that complimented the techno quite nicely. They had a live DJ spinning, and it was classic European techno. Basically a room full of people just bouncing around with no rhythm whatsoever. Picture a European frat party with the guys having even less game than normal.

Today we journeyed to the Marylborne and Portobello Road markets, and because I’m a good child I didn’t buy anything. Just a reduced Ploughman’s sandwich at Tesco’s. Shame isn’t in my vocabulary. Marylborne was quite expensive and didn’t have that many stalls, there were a bunch of higher class clothing and accessory designers and an array of good food. Considering Sarah and I are design students, we spent the majority of the time bitching about how we could make the various pins and such for about 80 bucks cheaper. But let’s face it, I don’t have the energy and I ran out of glue for my glue gun after bedazzling my backpack. Just trying to live the dream people.

Portobello Road just had a bunch of the same things we’ve seen in Camden Market and Brick Lane, except it was even more overpriced because it was in Notting Hill. It’s pretty over there, but I like my area better because we have the gardens. I actually hadn’t been back there since Penn left, and it was nice to walk around once more and remember getting lost every damn time I tried to find their house. Which is next door to Stella McCartney’s mansion. Who did our schools sleep with to get these leases?

8/16/09

I am such a baller, I just won a prize pack from Whole Foods Kensington. With it came the strangest mix of excitement and sadness. Excitement because I’m getting an array of their body lotions for free, and sadness because I won by responding quickly enough to a query on facebook. Tomorrow I have to go to their information desk to claim it, thereby admitting I’m facebook friends with a fucking store. It gets worse, I saw their question come up on the newsfeed and I googled the answer instead of actually knowing about the product. I am a failure of a facebook friend, and as a person. However, come to think of it, I should be less embarrassed to be friends with them than some of the Drexel trash I’m forced into acquaintance with. Do us all a favor: go build a fort out of your old Natty Light boxes and stay there.

Last night a club promoter that knows one of the girls on our trip got us into a members only club with no cover. We had to rush and barely made it because the deal was we had to get there before 11:30 or pay the usual twenty pound entrance fee. I forget the name of the club, but it was down a side street in Piccadilly where the higher end clubs were located, and it was next to a club called Beautiful People. Sounds like someone didn’t make it onto the cheerleading team in high school and is desperately trying to make up for it now. Let it go, some things weren’t just meant to be. It was pretty in there, but the drinks were expensive (think 18 or 20 American) so I was glad I had pre-gamed like a damn camel. Unlike Whiskey Mist we knew we were going someplace fancy and had actually dressed for the occasion. It seemed to be a mix of awkward older white men trying to hit on really skinny Indian girls who would only dance with themselves, and the near blacked out white gold-diggers who were amusing the club promoters. It was fun, but everyone was blatantly a good decade or two older than me.

Unfortunately today was my last Sunday in London, as I spend next week in Dublin and the Sunday after that I jet back to the great and beautiful airport they call Newark, New Jersey. And then to Logan airport where I will be greeted by my loving family who will then proceed to give me as much fruit and cookies as they possibly can. Right? Right. I guess I always took fruit for granted, I know it’s expensive but it’s absolutely ridiculous with the exchange rate. The only ones that are moderately priced are green grapes. I hate green grapes. Fucking loathe them. But anyway, today we went back to Brick Lane for the Sunday Up Market, and all of the stalls were different. I went with the intention of buying presents for my family, but considering my mother is a whore I think I’m going to keep my meerkat totebag for myself. That’s what you get for not picking up the phone. The screenprinter I got it from had a lot of great work that made me want to kick myself for not thinking of better designs for screenprinting class. But then again, I’m not the one selling shirts in a stall. Yet. I’m so scared.

When I was taking a breather in one of the stall areas, it finally hit me that this kind of stuff would never happen in America. First of all, everyone was a hipster there. Everyone. Every other person in the market was wearing that white straw hat with the black brim and scene glasses. The atmosphere is also very different, no one really rushes about here sans the business section of London on a weekday. And then rush hour is those same people going to happy hour. I know Europeans live longer than Americans, and I don’t think it’s because f the food or exercise (I have yet to see a gym, but they eat fast food like it’s their job) so I’m thinking it has to do with stress. I would love to know their secret, but I’m just going to throw it out there and say they just don’t give a flying fuck. Minimum wage is around eleven pounds, and with universal healthcare anyone can easily live off of that. I absolutely love it over here, but I don’t think I could ever see myself permanently living here. First off there’s the whole family and friends issue, and second it’s a completely different way of life that I’m not used to. A lot of things are worse in America, but it's still the land of the free and the home of J Crew. Basically, it’s the devil I know and I’m sticking with it.