INvMe

Dear Blog,

Every time I come to a new city I wish you had arms to hold me with, Blog. Seem to get a tad lonely in a new place traveling all by my lonesome. Jim Morrison was right about strange places. I know, we barely know each other and this has been a very one-sided relationship; will I ever find a message from you in my inbox?

Had a dream the other night. Shouldn’t have been scary really, but I sat up and screamed, actually screamed (then hid under the covers, hoped the Russians in my dorm room thought it was the guy in the bunk below me). I was being chased by a pigeon who was bent on pelting me with shit. In the dream that is. Been racking my brain as to what it all meant. The only thing shit-tossing brings to mind is blogging… so here we are.

The last while has been more about visiting with friends than seeing the sights. I have some kick ass quality friends, and it’s a shame that I have to cross the pond to see them. Oh, and they have arms, Blog, to hold me with.

London. The Big Ben fiasco ended well. Met up with my friend eventually. She being from Slovenia and I being from back-scratchin’ Saskatchewan, we hadn’t seen each other since the Garifuna days on the northern coast of Honduras, of course. And why not meet up in London? Makes perfect sense.

Spent time ’round Bricklane, Camdentown. Some funky hang out spots and a few vintage clothing stores. An entire day riding the Underground in search of a piece of Banksy’s work. No luck whatsoever, but the chase led us to some areas I’d have not otherwise seen. An immigrant neighborhood with a busy marketplace. Burkas, socks and sandals, a BBC shoot, shady salesmen, buskers, cilantro, semi-legal sim cards, Indian food. It was great, but even better to catch up with Tjasa (the Slovenian Bohemian).

Thame. Left London to visit the family Mackenzie. Made me miss Ellis (the ten pound nephew). Incidentally, watching the potty-training process is quite entertaining, particularly when the little guy looks spot on like his father and speaks in a British accent. ‘Daaaady, I’ve poop in my pants….’ Other memorable smells include beer puke on the back of the bus to Oxford. Not from our troath’s, mind you.

Felt like home, and it was quite nice to spend time with three generations of a family that made me feel like one of the clan. Families, I read not long ago, are like brownies. Mostly sweet with a few nuts. To the kids I must have been the nut; ‘Mummy, where is the silly man?’ All in all it was nice to see the parents Mackenzie who, fortunately, have not changed one jot since the messy didgeridoo-days on Waskesiu beach.

Bournemouth. Hit up the south shores of England to see an old classmate who has been living in these parts for about seven years. To be frank, I wasn’t too sure as to what to expect from it all. Our days studying all things Audio/Visual were nearly ten years back, and we weren’t exactly thick as thieves back then. Dear God Blog, I haven’t laughed so much in ages as I did those few days in Bournemouth. It was grand, as they say, and I needn’t have worried.

Went on a couple driving tours of the area. Corfe Castle, I’ve concluded, must have been named after the noise pneumonia makes when it’s mad. Destroyed by Henry VIII after too much Jesus Juice, I’m told. Highcliff area, where we saw some surfers and the product of inbreeding (which is not in any way exclusive to Highcliff). Great conversations and tasty wine, a bit of Spinal Tap and even a two-person dance party. Eighties Brit-pop is severely underrated, really gets the illiac wings going. It was tough leaving but had I stayed I may have developed some serious smile wrinkles.

Glasgow. Back to the lonely hostel life and frown wrinkles. Glasgow is home to Saskatoon’s most popular barman, Grant Martin. I have to be honest, the city didn’t really do it for me. Didn’t give it a real chance though, the bird dream had me dodging pidgeons the entire time. Went to King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut for some live music (this is the primo joint to go to for such things I’ve been told.) The warmup acts were brilliant, but the headliner was about as pleasant as scab salad. Also, you should be aware that putting 400 Scots in one room smells a lot like B.O. and rank vagina. I digress. King Tut’s is where Oasis first got signed to a record contract. I found this particularly humourus as I’d just read an informative article called ‘How to Punch Oasis in the Face.’ You’ve come a long way, Oasis.

So I now find myself in Edinburgh, and I like it (sorry Grant). Thank God I’ve finished this damn blog, Blog. I can now go out and do things without fretting over cramming it all into one letter. I’ve already edited out the Kazakhstanis and the gymnasts. Another time perhaps.

Keep it real, Blog,

theroyalwee