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O, my offense is rank!
Aug. 15th, 2008 04:29 pmx-posted to apocalypseweather.blogspot.com
6 Aug 2008, 12:45, Borough of Westminster
The trip broke the bank. One day more and I'd be busking at Heathrow, scraping together the money to get my car out of long-term parking somewhere off Imperial Hwy near LAX. At least busking on the Heathrow side I'd be paid in pounds.
It's just past noon and I'm in a franchisey-looking pub near the Tower Bridge, Wednesday, my last day here. Just coming off a week of unreality as escorted by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cazling (hostess in possession of the unquestionable mostess) and mon couer samdonne, infinitemonkeys and heyiya and some fantastic, hard-rocking good times with Sarah-Jane, a dual-citizenship top mate from back when we were six years old.
And at the same time I'm looking to get back to LA, you know, where everybody knows my name, or at the very least where my outgoing combination of brashness and sincerity is seen as friendly (as opposed to just terribly gauche, or, you know, threateningly offensive). In LA when I'm washing my hands in the ladies' room, next to another lady washing her hands at the adjacent sink, it goes like: I say "hey" and she says "hey" and then there's a "how's it going" sometimes even followed by a "I am in the process of ditching my date" or "I hope they don't tow my car" (this is me, spitballing typical LA convo), and then we dry our hands and go our separate ways, right? Anyway it turns out if you do this in a surprisingly non-touristy subterranean wine pub near Covent Garden, the lady in the loo will look hard at the floor, not say a word, and brush past you like you might be trying to corner and kill her.
But the point of all of this, the culture-clash punchline, is Hamlet, up in Stratford-Upon-Avon, me full of glee and no idea of the appropriate way to show it.
( i knew him, horatio )
And on the other hand, I'm going to attempt to get out there and see the show again next year.
*
6 Aug 2008, 12:45, Borough of Westminster
The trip broke the bank. One day more and I'd be busking at Heathrow, scraping together the money to get my car out of long-term parking somewhere off Imperial Hwy near LAX. At least busking on the Heathrow side I'd be paid in pounds.
It's just past noon and I'm in a franchisey-looking pub near the Tower Bridge, Wednesday, my last day here. Just coming off a week of unreality as escorted by
cazling (hostess in possession of the unquestionable mostess) and mon couer samdonne, infinitemonkeys and heyiya and some fantastic, hard-rocking good times with Sarah-Jane, a dual-citizenship top mate from back when we were six years old. And at the same time I'm looking to get back to LA, you know, where everybody knows my name, or at the very least where my outgoing combination of brashness and sincerity is seen as friendly (as opposed to just terribly gauche, or, you know, threateningly offensive). In LA when I'm washing my hands in the ladies' room, next to another lady washing her hands at the adjacent sink, it goes like: I say "hey" and she says "hey" and then there's a "how's it going" sometimes even followed by a "I am in the process of ditching my date" or "I hope they don't tow my car" (this is me, spitballing typical LA convo), and then we dry our hands and go our separate ways, right? Anyway it turns out if you do this in a surprisingly non-touristy subterranean wine pub near Covent Garden, the lady in the loo will look hard at the floor, not say a word, and brush past you like you might be trying to corner and kill her.
But the point of all of this, the culture-clash punchline, is Hamlet, up in Stratford-Upon-Avon, me full of glee and no idea of the appropriate way to show it.
( i knew him, horatio )
And on the other hand, I'm going to attempt to get out there and see the show again next year.
*
