As Long As You Brush Me

Every day, I wake up to gently place Justin Bieber in my mouth. I move him back and forth vigorously until a fine white lather encompasses my teeth and then I spit it all out, take a deep breath and think about what life has done with me. 

I mean, if I could afford the 6 pound toothbrushes at Superdrug I wouldn't have to buy the children's Bieber brush from 99P. For some reason soft toothbrushes can't be found except in pharmacies over here, like some sort of specialty item. People care about their teeth, man. The UK needs to take note. So anyway, I want a special toothbrush and so you could take it as a symbol, if you like, of me wanting a job. The day I get Bieber out of my mouth, the day I pull him from my lips and slam him upon the counter top and say "NO MORE!" is the day I've got things going the way I want them.

I could try to wax philosophical over my trials and tribulations, joys and victories over the past few weeks and months but instead I'd rather just make fun of duck boats catching on fire and stuff like that:

So here's a duck boat on fire :

When Marine and I take our walks along the Thames, we often point out the indigenous, amphibious landing craft that is the Duck Boat to each other with great smiles upon our faces. It is a sort of bird watching, you could say, and we just love spotting the world war 2 era duck boat and its wonderful yellow plumage.

The most interesting thing about the duck boat is that all of its passengers look either completely terrified or confused. In fact, the only time I think I've ever seen a duck boat full of people that looked reasonably happy was when they had not yet entered the water and were instead being driven safely across London Bridge. Even the post-bathing duck boats are full of what I would call more or less "victims" who look as if they've been pulled from a faulty rollercoaster. I've never been on one but I'm almost positive that there's a moment as the duck boat enters the water where the engine starts to chug and choke on sea water, emitting various diesel fumes, and the passengers exchange nervous glances suggesting something like "Did we bring enough ammunition" or "This is still operational, right?"

The answer is no; no it isn't, as the engine on the duck boat above appears to have received a mortar blast from the past. According to the Guardian, everyone on board had to bail, including a pregnant woman who suffered "some smoke inhalation". Oh dear. The UK seems to take on US traits by the day, let's hope lawsuits are not one of them or we won't have any more terrified duck boatees to point at on future romantic walks.

Funny thing, walks. London's huge but most of my walking is kept local. I keep trying to tell myself that all I have to do is get on a bus and I'll be in a whole new crazy area to check out, but some times the idea just feels so daunting. It's all those days spent back in America, I think. Spending all that time in towns where a car was necessary and people treated you like you were abnormal if you didn't want to drive. Now I'm in the perfect place but have the old world mentality. Only one way to fix that: head out on a god damn duck boat and post some incredibly fabricated CV's! And then bailing before we get anywhere near the Thames.

Britain needs better weather

I meet Marine every night after work, and most days at lunch. I walk her home or bring her food. I figure it's the least I can do considering I still don't have a real job. Today, I didn't realize that she had to pull the stay-after shift or whatever name they give for "You pulled the short stick, bitch" -- meaning she had to stay behind to answer phones and so I idled around outside her place of work reading some library book I'd picked up. I figured out what was going on after calling her and so I got all pissy and left for home. You can walk your own way home! Well, that's what I thought. Then...

On my way home I stopped in front of McDonalds to cross the street, 4 lanes of traffic total, to see a young woman attacked across the road from me. Like all fights, the first 3 seconds were entertaining and a sort of contact-adrenaline burst set in just watching from afar. 

10 seconds into the fight I realized the girl was being swallowed up in a gang of others and was beginning to get beaten down with various hair pulling and kicks to the head and body. I couldn't see anyone moving anywhere and a voice inside my head just kept saying "Surely someone is going to stop this. Stop this! I can't, there are cars coming. Someone will stop this? Surely." No one did however, so as soon as the vehicles stopped to watch I began to move across the road, juggling my library books in my hands along with my beer, my drink of choice on a hot summer's-- and--errr, -- well, winter's day. By the time I got to the other side and had played Frogger the girl was bleeding and was surrounded by a group of other people who were still doing nothing except watching, while the girls who did it all scampered away. The apparent instigator was pulled away by her friends, screaming her lungs out while they, in turn, screamed at her to run.

All I could imagine was my stupid pasty white ass in that mix of weaves and long nails, getting cut to shreds, and it was definitely what I was going to do if I could get across the street. I don't know who stopped the fight but I hope an adult stepped in because what I did see was just pathetic. No one doing anything. The girl on the ground had friends ready to help her away, but not to help her during the fight. Those are what I like to call "shitty friends". I believe I've heard of fairweather friends, etc -- these were just shitty friends though. And when she stops spitting blood she needs to get some new ones. I didn't think she would want to hear about it then so I headed home.

Sirens began to ring and I walked away shaking my head. How stupid, glad it's over. Thank baby jesus. They headed past me, though -- so I assumed it was just another ride to the hospital, something unrelated but not... What's this though? No, they stop meters down the road from me. More flashing lights. There I see a bicyclist, a woman, on the ground with emergency personnel scattered about along with a car windshield. Someone keeping the woman's neck in place, her helmet still on and her bike thrown to the side of the road. I didn't want to look, I felt like it was rude. Especially since she was still comatose. I just kept walking but made sure to make a face like "Ouch, that must smart. That's too bad!" just so people around me might know that I wasn't a bastard.

I wondered what was going on with the world until two men in front of me started to push each other around a bit. One of the men picked up a bag of trash and threw it at the other who blocked it and then began to curse at the other man who quickly scampered away to the laughter of many other Jamaican men standing nearby, watching. Probably for the best that Trash Thrower scampered, as Trash Receiver appeared to be pulling out a blade attached to his car keys (I still don't see how this can be safe if you want to unlock your car AND keep your testicles, but each to their own sliced bollocks as they say). 

This is all happening next to police officers who are directing traffic because of the bicycle accident. I figure nothing else can happen because they're there but I turn the corner and hear a big "OOoooh!" as if a blow has been struck. I head back -- I mean, shit, at this point why not? --  in time to see Trash Receiver being pulled away before things can escalate and the police are forced to get involved. I don't want to be no snitch so I scamper off, yo!!!

Why today? The funny thing is, living in the center of Brixton, I KNOW WHY today. It's because it's beautiful outside! That's it, that's why! And it's the first day in a long time. Any time Spring starts to show its face, I've realized, I'm destined to hear sirens and kids fighting, if not even adults. This all continues until they get tired of it or the sun drains them and they chill out. People simply get excited, is all I can figure, and they resort to childish stupidity. That's literally it. You don't need a psychologist or sociologist to figure it out, people get sweaty and they are not used to it.

Britain needs better god damn weather and it always has, and this is why the Nazis could never conquer the isles. That's right, I made that leap. Post done.

Recently

I've done a bad job at keeping up to date. I have tried to remedy this a bit by buying matching journals for Marine and myself last month. She has done a better job than I.

When I first saw the notebooks at Poundland, the two in nice hardcovers and shrink wrapped together, the idea struck me. Two note books? Why, there's two of us! Ah-hee-hee!
"We are going to keep a journal of every day!" I told her excitedly, on returning home. "Even if it's just the weather. It's good for you... it'll be interesting later!"
"Later, when?" she asked.
"Later! For ourselves... or our grandchildren." I said all of this with confidence but had only read the idea sometime before and decided it sounded nice. If I could get Marine to do it then that meant we would both be pulled into it and she would make me do it. That's how things work when you're married.

She reluctantly agreed after some prodding and eventually she was doing better than me. Her whole book is almost full now, albeit with long, large, curling loopty-loops of cursive -- but it is full.

Myself? Not so much. I am trying though, because I think there is some sort of value in it. To look back and see your days are boring. To look back and find them interesting. To look back. Just that -- because I often find myself so at-odds with the person I once was, cursing myself and asking myself why, why I had done this or that.. something I couldn't imagine myself doing now. Why did I do what I did? I remember the events, but not necessarily the thinking. This could be a way to figure out why I hold so much resentment towards myself, not to mention others. Memories fade, but fortunately ink does it a lot slower. So I'm trying.

Our friends Jarrod and Tiffany visited in March. We were happy -- elated -- to have them in the area for the week, but I wasn't sure what we might get up to. Things are limited when you're broke and it's hard dealing with friends in that state. They are in vacation mode while you remain in broke-ass ghetto mode.

I started giving English lessons and for a good month or two I had a group of 3 Catalonians requesting classes nearly every day until they got jobs or otherwise, and with them went any money I was bringing into our household. Marine's always there and always on duty thank sweet Jesus. And fortunately, our friends have kind hearts as always, and they treated us to an Indian dinner among many other treats, so we could all enjoy ourselves. Gifts of the white trash variety were even brought (as per my request)  -- Velveeta cheese and Beef Jerky. Friends, food, beer? I was in heaven.

I've been moving all of my life, so you would think I'm used to the idea of saying goodbye and moving on... Even I think about it. Why I haven't become immune to saying those words to those I care about and love, why "goodbye" remains such a painful word.

The answer is simply because it doesn't really get easier, ever. Over time the feelings dull and perhaps you get used to the idea of the pain, but things never get better. They just are what they are. You try to find new friends but often ask yourself what the point is in the end, as you will undoubtedly be saying those words again to them as well. It was the same in my youth and now it is the same in my adult life.

I, of course, have the chance to change things now. I could try to live wherever I would like to. There are always drawbacks -- my life is here now, with my wife, where she is making her career. I have few friends. That is my fault. I have left a trail of them across the United States and into Europe and across to the UK. I have friends who love me and who will help me but no one to come running if needed. No shoulder to cry on. Sometimes I wonder if I would have had that if I stayed in one place. I know at heart I'm a nomad, but what have I missed because of it?

I still don't know. I have my wife, my ultimate best friend, the person to whom I am attached forever. Our bond is stronger because of my lack of friends,  I imagine.When Jarrod and Tiff left, after halving a box of wine with Tiff, of course I was in tears of sorts. Perhaps not huge snot-ball tears, but they were there. I wasn't sure why, though. I've dealt with this shit before! I had to ask myself again, Shouldn't it get easier over time? Why the hell is this hitting me now? It came out of nowhere, those cunting tears.

Seeing how life could be with friends around, hanging out, joking, spilling your guts over tough situations and getting good feedback, the type of stuff you need to keep yourself together -- all the things I miss and would love to have... a normal life... was all realized in one week seeing them again and then suddenly it was gone.

I don't regret travel. I just wish I could bring everyone with me. That'll never happen, and at least we have the internet, but it's not the same. And at the age of 29 finding new friends, the type you can trust to the end, feels almost impossible.

I don't think I will move back to the US despite having family there. I don't get along with half of them and I never got along with most of my countrymen in the south, at least. Where I belong is in limbo. It was how I was created and where I will remain. I just wish it were a lot easier.

The weather today is 36F, large snow flakes falling upon our faces when we walk here in Brixton. I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing for the second day in a row, at 8 am. Unknown number. I answered once only to find a female voice with a London accent asking Hello and if I was there. I hung up. My landlord wants back rent, I'm sure. Or maybe it's a job offer and I'm just too much of a coward to answer. My day is spent at the library reading, searching for jobs. I am hungry but don't want to eat. I'm tired but don't want to sleep. I'm thirsty, so I'm going to go have a beer.