Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Smell London’s dairy air
I really didn’t have a plan Saturday Morning but, since I was up at 5am for some reason I decided to take a walk as soon as it was light. I returned to my humble room about 10 hours later with a phone full of pictures. I didn’t do any of the real touristy things like the White Tower with all that "raven" nonsense or the wax museum but I did have a great tour. My interests are a little scattered so stay with me.
As I walked past the London Zoo a giraffe watched me. I think he was observing me in my natural environment.
The lords cricket field where Aurther Dent and Ford Prefect landed on a chesterfield sofa shortly before the white, cricket robots attacked. Later they were whisked away by Slartibartfast’s ship the Bistromath.
Neil’s yard was the home of Terry Gilliam’s animation studio.
If you still feel like you need to see more of London you are invited to go to:
http://homepage.mac.com/robhughes11/PhotoAlbum13.html
But, I’m telling you now, it’s just going to be a bunch of clocks and towers and stuff. You know, things that no one really wants to see.
So for some reason I can't load anymore pictures. But there are more. So... maybe next time.
next time: more pictures, I hope!
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Lon don dinnim
Plop, splat, thump, blip, blop
…Ears your plate, mate. Enjoyit.
God damn right, I will!
Interesting bunch the Brits, they sure have a funny way of talking. I don’t know where they get it from. It sounds like a cross between Canadian and Australian with just a little bit of American thrown in. Someone should research this language, it might make for an interesting article or something.
The main BKN office in an area called Holborn. It is right in the middle of London. Near, what they call, the eye. I haven’t asked anyone about why it’s called the eye because I don’t want to appear dumb. (But I’ll ask them about their language the next chance I get.)
If you were clumsy enough to drop a glass on a coffee table, and the table didn’t shatter, you would have made a perfect map of London. This is where I am, right where the glass hit.
The editing suit is SOHO about a ten minute walk to the west. It’s pretty cool there. That’s where all the live shows are. It’s like their Broadway only more fragmented. (remember, the coffee table?) Down south by the river is the Savoy Theater. (Gilbert and Sullivan’s old place) The shows get smaller and less known as you travel north. There’s Stomp, Blueman group, all kinds of stuff. There’s a show next to the studio that features an old woman, a fork and a cat. It’s no “Mikado” but hey, the “Mikado” is no “Lunch with Granny”.
She is the very model of a modern major pussy cat… (poke with fork) meaowwwwww!
I've information vegetable, to find out where my pussy’s at…(Cat pokes her with fork) Meaowwww!
(I know it isn’t the Mikado, but I don’t know that one.)
The weird thing is just how many of the shows are Disney. They even have a Mary Poppins show. Imagine the nuts on the Disney swine to play this thing here. …Where they really did have nannies and chimney sweeps. They’d better watch it.
Yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day. Boy, is it popular here. I thought it was just an American Irish thing, but the Brits seem to get into it. I suppose anything to do with drinking would be popular here.
The bar around the corner was so packed that they spilled out into the street. Here’s a picture that I tool at lunch time.
Sadly, I didn’t get a chance to partake this year. Anyone who knows me knows that I consider New Years and St. Patrick’s Day to be amateur night. Besides, I was alone! No one to drink with!
Between the Savoy and the editing studio there’s a little China town, with little Chinese people in it. It’s adorable. But, I fear, it will be a while before I go there to eat. I guess I didn’t realize how much I miss sandwiches.
Next time: My day off!
…Ears your plate, mate. Enjoyit.
God damn right, I will!
Interesting bunch the Brits, they sure have a funny way of talking. I don’t know where they get it from. It sounds like a cross between Canadian and Australian with just a little bit of American thrown in. Someone should research this language, it might make for an interesting article or something.
The main BKN office in an area called Holborn. It is right in the middle of London. Near, what they call, the eye. I haven’t asked anyone about why it’s called the eye because I don’t want to appear dumb. (But I’ll ask them about their language the next chance I get.)
If you were clumsy enough to drop a glass on a coffee table, and the table didn’t shatter, you would have made a perfect map of London. This is where I am, right where the glass hit.
The editing suit is SOHO about a ten minute walk to the west. It’s pretty cool there. That’s where all the live shows are. It’s like their Broadway only more fragmented. (remember, the coffee table?) Down south by the river is the Savoy Theater. (Gilbert and Sullivan’s old place) The shows get smaller and less known as you travel north. There’s Stomp, Blueman group, all kinds of stuff. There’s a show next to the studio that features an old woman, a fork and a cat. It’s no “Mikado” but hey, the “Mikado” is no “Lunch with Granny”. She is the very model of a modern major pussy cat… (poke with fork) meaowwwwww!
I've information vegetable, to find out where my pussy’s at…(Cat pokes her with fork) Meaowwww!
(I know it isn’t the Mikado, but I don’t know that one.)
The weird thing is just how many of the shows are Disney. They even have a Mary Poppins show. Imagine the nuts on the Disney swine to play this thing here. …Where they really did have nannies and chimney sweeps. They’d better watch it.
Yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day. Boy, is it popular here. I thought it was just an American Irish thing, but the Brits seem to get into it. I suppose anything to do with drinking would be popular here.
The bar around the corner was so packed that they spilled out into the street. Here’s a picture that I tool at lunch time.
Sadly, I didn’t get a chance to partake this year. Anyone who knows me knows that I consider New Years and St. Patrick’s Day to be amateur night. Besides, I was alone! No one to drink with!
Between the Savoy and the editing studio there’s a little China town, with little Chinese people in it. It’s adorable. But, I fear, it will be a while before I go there to eat. I guess I didn’t realize how much I miss sandwiches.
Next time: My day off!
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Britannia waves the rules
(Thank you for that one, Frank Furlong)
Here I go, off to London again. Only this time I’m not a wonderstruck honeymooner but a dullstruck dad, on a mission, on his own. Work-wise, there’s going to be plenty to do and no time to do it. (The usual situation in the animation world) I fear the only London I’ll see is the inside of an editing bay. No worries, I saw all the touristy places last time I was there.
I say “there” because I’m still here. (Specifically, in the business class lounge at the airport.) Not a bad place the business class lounge.
If you’ve never had a chance to go to one I recommend it. Just sneak in, if you can. I don’t recommend you buy your own ticket because it’s not worth it. But if someone else is footing the bill, do it. There’s free food, drink, internet hook-up and all the free non stress music your stomach can handle. It’s lovely stuff really, for those people who like it. Who those people are, I don’t know. But I’d like to meet one and ask them what’s up with the music. Is it something that makes you whiter and richer?
I’m beginning to like the airport again. Business class is probably what air travel used to be like. They don’t treat you like shit the way the airlines do now. And when you get on the plane you get a drink right away and little gift. Oh, what’s inside the little bag? Oh, look! Little things… There’s a little toothbrush, a little toothpaste, a tiny razor with a little tube of shave cream… (I’ll pass on the shave, in-flight. Razors and turbulence don’t really go together.) They give you some socks to put over your socks, some eye shades and ear plugs, (so that you don’t have to hear the pathetic screams of the people in coach as they are whipped and tormented with shitty food.) and some other cool little things golden hats, coupon for a hand job, a car… It all depends on the airline. Then the menu arrives…
I’ll be getting on the plane in an hour, so I’ll see you all when I get there. Talley-ho, chocks way. Last one in the air is a homo!
In the mean time, here’s what I had for lunch yesterday.
Do they hate fish too?
Next time: Long pants, and rain.
Here I go, off to London again. Only this time I’m not a wonderstruck honeymooner but a dullstruck dad, on a mission, on his own. Work-wise, there’s going to be plenty to do and no time to do it. (The usual situation in the animation world) I fear the only London I’ll see is the inside of an editing bay. No worries, I saw all the touristy places last time I was there.
I say “there” because I’m still here. (Specifically, in the business class lounge at the airport.) Not a bad place the business class lounge.
If you’ve never had a chance to go to one I recommend it. Just sneak in, if you can. I don’t recommend you buy your own ticket because it’s not worth it. But if someone else is footing the bill, do it. There’s free food, drink, internet hook-up and all the free non stress music your stomach can handle. It’s lovely stuff really, for those people who like it. Who those people are, I don’t know. But I’d like to meet one and ask them what’s up with the music. Is it something that makes you whiter and richer?
I’m beginning to like the airport again. Business class is probably what air travel used to be like. They don’t treat you like shit the way the airlines do now. And when you get on the plane you get a drink right away and little gift. Oh, what’s inside the little bag? Oh, look! Little things… There’s a little toothbrush, a little toothpaste, a tiny razor with a little tube of shave cream… (I’ll pass on the shave, in-flight. Razors and turbulence don’t really go together.) They give you some socks to put over your socks, some eye shades and ear plugs, (so that you don’t have to hear the pathetic screams of the people in coach as they are whipped and tormented with shitty food.) and some other cool little things golden hats, coupon for a hand job, a car… It all depends on the airline. Then the menu arrives…
I’ll be getting on the plane in an hour, so I’ll see you all when I get there. Talley-ho, chocks way. Last one in the air is a homo!
In the mean time, here’s what I had for lunch yesterday.
Do they hate fish too?
Next time: Long pants, and rain.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Chicken little Arabia
I started with too little last time. Remember the chicken spines picture last time? Well, they weren’t selling those. They had already cut the good stuff off them and hadn’t gotten around to tossing the leftovers, so they just leave them hanging there. Here’s what the dish looks like:
It’s cleverly called, “Chicken Rice”. A name they cleverly got from the ancient Chinese, “雞米” which means, “chicken rice” The dish consists of some chicken and some rice. There’s also a bowl of chicken broth that comes with it, but the broth’s agent wasn’t good enough to get it up on the marquee with the stars. When it first found out it threatened to break up the act but the chicken and the rice got together and promised the broth that it could be the most flavorful part of the act. Eventually the broth agreed and the rest is history.
Chicken rice is the national dish of Singapore, and it’s pretty good. It’s like a bowl of chicken with rice soup that no one had bothered to mix up yet. Which brings me to a thought about Singapore and chicken; they hate chickens. They must. Oh, don’t get me wrong they like to eat chicken, but they hate them. They burry their eggs for 3 and a half months and then eat them, they chop them to bits and eat them, they even eat their feet. They hate chickens. I’d sure hate to be a chicken around here. Come to think of it, I’d hate to be a chicken anywhere. When people weren’t making you fight, taking your eggs or eating you they’d be asking a lot of questions, “Why did you cross the road?” “Which came first?” No, I’d rather be a badger. Badgers are nice and nobody eats badgers. Not even bigger badgers.
Little Arabia? I don’t think that’s what it’s called. Anyway there is a series of little shops on and around a street called “Arab Street”. The goods that were sold there weren’t really Arabian but they were nice. In fact I’ll go as far as to say that Arab Street was one of the nicest “Littles” in Singapore. Better than little India, larger than little Luxemburg, And much smaller than little China town (which runs from the tip of Santosa island all the way to Russia.) Little China town is so big that they all got together and dropped the “Little” right off the front. Now they just call it Holland Village. That was just before the island was over run by ants. (Sorry this blog has turned into pure crap in an effort to be funny. It’s really called China town. And there’s no little Luxemburg.) There was a really good rug place on Arab street:
Oh let the sun beat down upon my face…
Hard to feel a Kashmir rug, enjoy it’s smooth texture and not spend the rest of the day going,
“dad a dat, dad a dat.
dad a dat, dad a dat.
dad a dat, dad a dat.
dad a dat, dad a dat.
dad dada-da da-da da-daaaaa!”
And how many rug merchants, like my friend Sadullah here, have to put up with that same song from every 40+ American smartass. Quickly, I must check my guide-book… Oh, One. And hey, there’s a picture of me! How do they do that?
The story of the Cashmere rug is an interesting one, and probably best researched on a real web site. (Unless you don’t mind sounding like a real crack-pot at the next cocktail party you go to.) You can tell where the rug came from by the pattern. The people of each village all pitch in and make one rug. One family makes the dye, one family sheer the sheep, one family makes that little tag that says you’ll be beheaded if you remove It.
It takes the village months to make one rug. And when it’s finished they send it to Singapore and sell it for $700 bucks. They are very nice. So next time someone says, “you lie like a rug” ask them what kind, and take pride! You lier!
Surprisingly the young people of the village are starting to have other interests. Why stay in this little village with your arms stained to the pits with purple dye when you could be a rock star? (Ironically, with arms covered in tattoos.)
This little shop features rugs from a lot of other regions, from Afghanistan to India. They also ship, so, as soon as the cats die, I’ll be back. Anyone want a couple cats?
Next time: The Road to Londonium.
It’s cleverly called, “Chicken Rice”. A name they cleverly got from the ancient Chinese, “雞米” which means, “chicken rice” The dish consists of some chicken and some rice. There’s also a bowl of chicken broth that comes with it, but the broth’s agent wasn’t good enough to get it up on the marquee with the stars. When it first found out it threatened to break up the act but the chicken and the rice got together and promised the broth that it could be the most flavorful part of the act. Eventually the broth agreed and the rest is history.
Chicken rice is the national dish of Singapore, and it’s pretty good. It’s like a bowl of chicken with rice soup that no one had bothered to mix up yet. Which brings me to a thought about Singapore and chicken; they hate chickens. They must. Oh, don’t get me wrong they like to eat chicken, but they hate them. They burry their eggs for 3 and a half months and then eat them, they chop them to bits and eat them, they even eat their feet. They hate chickens. I’d sure hate to be a chicken around here. Come to think of it, I’d hate to be a chicken anywhere. When people weren’t making you fight, taking your eggs or eating you they’d be asking a lot of questions, “Why did you cross the road?” “Which came first?” No, I’d rather be a badger. Badgers are nice and nobody eats badgers. Not even bigger badgers.
Little Arabia? I don’t think that’s what it’s called. Anyway there is a series of little shops on and around a street called “Arab Street”. The goods that were sold there weren’t really Arabian but they were nice. In fact I’ll go as far as to say that Arab Street was one of the nicest “Littles” in Singapore. Better than little India, larger than little Luxemburg, And much smaller than little China town (which runs from the tip of Santosa island all the way to Russia.) Little China town is so big that they all got together and dropped the “Little” right off the front. Now they just call it Holland Village. That was just before the island was over run by ants. (Sorry this blog has turned into pure crap in an effort to be funny. It’s really called China town. And there’s no little Luxemburg.) There was a really good rug place on Arab street:
Oh let the sun beat down upon my face…
Hard to feel a Kashmir rug, enjoy it’s smooth texture and not spend the rest of the day going,
“dad a dat, dad a dat.
dad a dat, dad a dat.
dad a dat, dad a dat.
dad a dat, dad a dat.
dad dada-da da-da da-daaaaa!”
And how many rug merchants, like my friend Sadullah here, have to put up with that same song from every 40+ American smartass. Quickly, I must check my guide-book… Oh, One. And hey, there’s a picture of me! How do they do that?
The story of the Cashmere rug is an interesting one, and probably best researched on a real web site. (Unless you don’t mind sounding like a real crack-pot at the next cocktail party you go to.) You can tell where the rug came from by the pattern. The people of each village all pitch in and make one rug. One family makes the dye, one family sheer the sheep, one family makes that little tag that says you’ll be beheaded if you remove It.
It takes the village months to make one rug. And when it’s finished they send it to Singapore and sell it for $700 bucks. They are very nice. So next time someone says, “you lie like a rug” ask them what kind, and take pride! You lier!
Surprisingly the young people of the village are starting to have other interests. Why stay in this little village with your arms stained to the pits with purple dye when you could be a rock star? (Ironically, with arms covered in tattoos.)
This little shop features rugs from a lot of other regions, from Afghanistan to India. They also ship, so, as soon as the cats die, I’ll be back. Anyone want a couple cats?
Next time: The Road to Londonium.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Little India's all wet.
Hey, boss. You wan? Where you from boss? To which I naturally say I’m from Malaysia. It really screws them up.
“Oh, yeah, I was born there, In KL. I went to this really cool school that focused on the art of the American language. I specialized in honky, 30’s movie talk and Michigander. Where you from, Judy?”
One of the things that Singaporisians are allowed to do is shop. The big shopping area is called Orchard road. (Or as they say “Orcharo”) I think it’s a lot like Vegas, only instead of casinos the street is lined with malls. And at night there are hundreds of people wandering around enjoying the cooler, 90 degree weather.
But as the guide book says, in order to enjoy Singapore at its fullest you have to get down into the local markets. Slide on in there, throw your self on the dirty ground and roll around in the filth that is the floor of the Singapore wet market. (that’s the guide book that went down the garbage chute, where I’m sure it’s enjoying itself as it is slowly devoured by roaches.)
The traditional wet market is the kind of place that could make the average, antiseptic American scream like a little girl, repeatedly. They sell fish, vegetables and meat. The reason they call it a wet market is because every morning they hose all the shit on the floor into the sewer and start over. The charming result is a wet floor all day. The smell is exotic (to be nice) and the overall effect is almost overwhelming. It’s a little like a frat house.
As “G” an I wound our way between the saturated chopping blocks I toyed with the idea of vegetarianism and thanked my good fortune I wasn’t wearing my flip flops. Will I return to the wet market in Little India? Probably not!
Next time: Who you callin' chicken?
And now, here's something we hope you'll really like
Here I am almost on the eve of my wife’s visit. And I couldn’t be more excited. What is it? Four weeks? About that long… I sure will be glad to see her. I haven’t been with her for almost three months now. Well, it will be three months when she gers here. Yep, that will be nice…
And the kids too. Gotta love those kids! Yep, the old kiddos…. Sure be good to see them… the kids…
But, it’s the time I get to spend with my wife that I’m looking forward to
How happy I will be when she arrives. We can talk of old times. We can make plans for the future. We can go shopping.
We can go to the aquarium.
We could have a hot dog at Ikea.
We could take a little drive around town.
We could shop for toys.
Hey, we could even buy some winter coats.
Yep, that sure would be fun…
Winter coats…
…
Next time: ... uha, yeah... um, whatever...
And the kids too. Gotta love those kids! Yep, the old kiddos…. Sure be good to see them… the kids…
But, it’s the time I get to spend with my wife that I’m looking forward to
How happy I will be when she arrives. We can talk of old times. We can make plans for the future. We can go shopping.
We can go to the aquarium.
We could have a hot dog at Ikea.
We could take a little drive around town.
We could shop for toys.
Hey, we could even buy some winter coats.
Yep, that sure would be fun…Winter coats…
…
Next time: ... uha, yeah... um, whatever...
Friday, March 03, 2006
It wasn't a Nano
My guidebook tells me that Singapore considers the air conditioner the greatest invention of the 20th century. Too bad that polio vaccine didn’t make the cut. That’s what I had my money on. Some see the “Aircon” (as they call it here) as the beginning of the end. It’s mans ability to create a simple object that would cater our immediate comfort while destroying our future. Me? It makes me cold. It’s nice when you first get in, to stand in front of a cool blast and watch your clothes slowly dry. And any environmental concerns are justified by that blast of sanity.
Next time: the visitor!
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]