With all of my troubles detailed in my previous two posts, it is easy to forget that all of these shitty things are happening across the Atlantic in one of the most richly historic areas in the world. Thinking about all the stuff that has happened here is enough to give anyone a boost, and in walking around, I am constantly met with reminders of previous generations and epochs. The UK does a good job of reminding you that people have stood where you are at that moment for centuries, usually in the form of plaques or tiles. 

My Aunt and Uncle are moving here in January, and holy shit, is that an exciting thing. They were here last week looking at houses, and we met up for a dinner at the very posh and very amazing Scott’s, which is a seafood restaurant that caters to a celebrity crowd near Bond Street. After a couple bottles of wine and different cocktails, we didn’t really know what we were getting into when my Uncle, Derek, mentioned the waitress, “just bring us some different seafood.”

I knew we were in trouble when a couple of people came over and laid out a Bob Vila starter kit of tools for each of us.

That was before this monstrosity turned up (English phrase. Nice one [English phrase].) The iPhone 3GS photo doesn’t really do the size or breadth justice, but trust me when I say, that the amount of various types of seafood on these 3 platters was alarming. There was so much, in fact, that they send someone to change the ice for you and rearrange the food, because they REALIZE that no two people could finish this without the platters turning into a sloppy ice bath.

It was tough walking away from this dinner, knowing that I just had truly some of the best food that the UK has to offer within the first 2 weeks of being here. Nevertheless, it was a wonderful time had by all, and you’ll be hearing a lot more about them on here once they move on over. I stumbled back to the hostel that was 95% French, and had myself a nice evening before moving out the next morning.

A little over a week after this, between which I managed to have all that bullshit happen, I was able to return to my museum-going ways. The hostel I moved to AFTER the passport/food poisoning shit turned out to be right next to the Imperial War Museum and a few blocks south of the London Eye. The museum is filled with tons of decommissioned vehicles, uniforms, and weapons, which makes for a pretty harrowing experience, but also makes you stop and think each way you turn, which may explain why I was there for 3 hours.

This is the same model as the first of the warheads that the US dropped on Japan. Jesus.

One-man submarines, rockets, and tanks galore. If it has been used in any of the major wars of the 20th century, chances are, this museum has it. A lot the German stuff was captured and taken by the RAF to study. When you consider how much time and money went into the development of these pretty impractical devices in a lot of cases, it’s easy to see that war isn’t pretty.

I heard rumblings in the hostel (which was above a karaoke bar, mind you. First night featured an old guy of probably 60 singing Tears In Heaven. Let that sink in.) that there was a Chipotle around Covent Garden, which is a really nice section of London. Seeing as I’m always fiending for a burrito and Chipotle happens to be my favorite fast food place in the US, it was a perfect outing. Seeing as I went to Chipotle an embarrassing number of times while living in Westwood, I, as long with most Americans, are familiar with the process. A couple of Italian guys weren’t really sure how it worked, which ended with one of them ordering JUST a plate of rice. I must’ve looked frustrated, or maybe the British are just better about not eating 6 portions too many per meal, but the final product was not of an American Chipotle’s girth. Still, the flavors were there, and when it comes down to it, that’s the kicker, ain’t it? The colors and bags were a welcomed sight.

I had tickets to see an American band from Baltimore called Wye Oak for the next day, and seeing as I had some time to kill, decided to find a place that serves a proper English breakfast. Someone in the hostel mentioned that the English “invented breakfast,” which is essentially saying that they thought the English invented eating food in the morning, but considering how good it is, they might as well have coined it for all I care.

An English Breakfast, for those not familiar, essentially revolves around some combination of meat, eggs, beans, toast, and vegetables. Most often, we’re talking a couple of sausages, some slabs of Canadian bacon, a few hash browns, baked beans, some grilled tomatoes or mushrooms, and some fresh toast. With a coffee (white or black is the common question), it usually comes out to about 3-4 pounds, which is really cheap.

After sleeping that off for a bit and reading for a while (I’ve just finished the Steve Jobs biography, am halfway through A People’s History of the US by Howard Zinn, and am just wrapping up For Whom the Bell Tolls), I found my way down to the Wye Oak show. They’ve put out what may just be the best record of the year in my opinion, Civilian, and are just a terrific couple of kids.

The venue was small enough for that “up close and personal/will never see them again in this small of a room” type of feel. They killed, and despite me being behind a guy that managed to be taller than me somehow, it was great to see some live music again.

They are only a two piece. The drummer plays the beat with his right hand, and keeps a synth/bass line going with his left, which is extremely difficult. Very Ray Manzarek-y.

The rock continued into last night, when I took a train down to the coastal city of Brighton to see my pals and favorite band Saves The Day. Not knowing anything about Brighton, I decided it would be best to only stay the night there, as it is only 50 minutes by train. Turns out, that was a shitty idea, because Brighton is FUCKING AWESOME.

Hey look at me and my gull friends.

I think I make the same face in every photo that I take of myself as a means of showing people around me that I’m not going for a MySpace profile picture. God I hate it. But I call the shots around here.

Yeah, so Saves The Day. Seen that band a whole lot over the years, and when I saw that they were headlining a gig outside of London, I figured why not. As anyone who knows me can attest, this band is kind of it for me, so needless to say, seeing them in a small venue and having a nice chat with them afterwards was a real treat.

I’m in my own room now in a small town outside of London. I don’t know what a silent room sounds like. Happy Thanksgiving to all. Happy Thursday/Friday morning to me.

The rest:

That’s an abandoned, burned down pier, complete with legend about competing bakers who hated each other so much that it lead to a firefight of some kind. England is great.

Heinrich Himmler death mask. Quite possibly the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.

Goodnight, you folks.