Yanda Time

July 5, 2005

Being a Tourist with Godo

More Pics of Tourism with Godo

An old friend from Canada stopped by to visit for a couple of days on his way back from a business trip in Germany. Because he was a vegetarian environmentalist who used to live in the same housing co-op as Vicki, on the first night he was here we took him out drinking with a bunch of investment bankers.

I suspect he may have had a better time on Sunday night when we saw an open-air production of the Canterbury Tales. It took place in a variety of outdoor locations in Southwark, starting at the Old George Pub. James cleverly brought a blanket and a few bottles of beer which helped quench our thirst between the third and fourth acts. It was the perfect way to while away a summer evening. It was fun and mildly bawdy and there was singing and Vicki reverted to her perfoming instincts and got up on stage and danced like a chicken. She was startlingly believable in her poultryness. I fully expected to be hen-pecked when we got home that night.

I'm a bit envious of Godo. He's managed to become quite successful doing doing an incredibly useful job that he loves. He started a company called Carbon Busters which advises local governments and school boards how they can save money by being more energy efficient.

Posted by YandaMan at 11:13 PM | Comments (0)

April 17, 2005

25th London Marathon

(more pix from the London Marathon)

I'm pretty sure I could never run the London marathon. It takes place on a Sunday morning. The staggering implication of which, is that, in order to compete, you have to get out of bed early on a Sunday. Absolute madness! It was hard enough for me to grope for the remote control at 9am this morning to watch the start.

I mentioned the Sunday morningness of the event to excuse my not having any pictures of the elite runners. I intended to go down to the race to watch them but it was not to be. First, there was the Sunday morning aspect. Then, there were house guests to make grilled cheese sandwiches for. And then of course, there were various Germans my spouse needed to talk to on the phone.

It was probably for the best anyway. I felt humbled enough seeing mere mortals run the thing at a five hour pace. To watch Paula Radcliffe whiz by with a winning time of 2:17:41 would have perhaps been too much of a shock to my machismo. That works out to an average of 11.42 miles per hour. By a freakish coincidence, this is exactly my average speed cycling to work and back: 11.42 miles per hour. The woman runs a marathon at the same speed I ride my bike.

Admittedly, I have to stop for lights and have traffic to deal with. But, I only do nine miles at a stretch and then I get to have a leisurely 8 hours of rest at my desk before I do another nine back home. She does 26.2 miles in just over two hours all at once. That's just bizarre.

Three of my co-workers ran in the marathon today for the first time. I looked for them but somehow missed them amongst the 35,000 other runners.

Anita Busby ran to support Help the Hospices. So far she raised £2518.82. If you would like to support Anita, her donation page is still up at http://www.justgiving.com/anitabusby. Anita finished the race in six hours, 24 minutes.

Catherine Wingate ran to support the Parkinson's Disease Society. So far she has raised £2000.27. If you would like to support Catherine, her donation page is at http://www.justgiving.com/wingate. She finished in 6 hours, 4 minutes. She's posted some pics at http://www.flickr.com/photos/wingateca/.

Chris Mitchell ran to support the Royal National Institute for the Blind. He raised more than £1000 and finished the race with a fantastic time of 4 hours 2 minutes 41 seconds, which put him in 10,057th place.

Congratulations to all of them. Nice work.

Now, as I said, the marathon is not an option for me and my duvet. Cycling, however, is a sitting down sport. I am far more willing to get out of bed for a bike ride. And so, partially inspired by the efforts of my three colleagues, I've entered the London to Brighton charity cycle ride. It is just over twice as far as any wimpy old marathon.

So, please, if you have any money left after sponsoring folks for the marathon, go to http://www.bhf.org.uk/sponsor/yanda/ and help me support the British Heart Foundation. Heart disease is the UK's biggest killer, and I don't know about you, but the idea of dying from anything irritates me. Donate 10 quid and maybe we can all live forever.

Posted by YandaMan at 5:04 PM | Comments (0)

February 13, 2005

Of Wind Chimes and Wine Glasses

A while ago I wrote that I was worried about losing my appreciation for music or at least for going to live gigs. Thanks to Ed Harcourt, it may slowly be coming back.

I've been to two Ed Harcourt gigs now. Last night's was at the St. James Church on Piccadilly, an absolutely beautiful venue. We sat in the gallery just above and to the left of the stage. I watched from a similar vantage point at the other gig as well. I prefer it to being front and center. It has a kind of I'm-with-the-band-backstage-groupie feel to it. The other gig was at Dingwalls in Camden (or whatever it's called now). That gig was much rowdier. There was much jumping up and down and spilled drinks and shouting. Ed brought his banjo to that gig.

St. James is not the kind of place conducive to jumping up and down or rock and roll banjo playing. It's a church, after all. What made the St. James gig stand out for me, though, was the trumpet player. Now HE was rock and roll. He was totally cool. He just did his job, ignored the crowd, and played his music when called upon. And the man didn't just play the trumpet. Oh no. He also played the xylophone, the wind-chimes, and the wine glass. This last was my favourite and completely made up for the absence of the banjo.

I used to play the wine glass on occasion after a big family dinner. Unfortunately, while I enjoyed the sound, it seemed to drive the rest of the family into the kind of frenzy exhibited by dogs reacting to a noise beyond the range of human hearing.

The technique is simple but requires a certain mastery and practice. You dip your finger in the wine to moisten it and then run it slowly around the edge of the wine glass. This produces a delightful (or possibly not) high-pitched keening noise. You have to have just the right amount of wine in the glass, of course. This involves a long calibration process. The wine is carefully poured in, and then carefully sipped out until it is at just the right level. This is usually when the person doing the calibration is too drunk to distinguish between a beautiful ringing full tone and an irritating fingernails-on-chalkboard screech.

Fortunately, trumpet-playing dude was a professional and his wine glass produced the desired ringing full tone rather than the screech. Later on in the performance, when the wine glass was no longer needed, he knocked back the contents in between bouts of trumpet playing and wind-chime tingling.

The man was a consummate professional when it came to his other instruments as well. I remember one piece in particular where he hunched over, dangling the wind chimes carefully from his teeth and hit a series of precise notes on the xylophone, tingling the chimes all the while. Very impressive. I also liked the way he used a couple of empty paper coffee cups to mute his trumpet. The man is a genius. I'm confident he could produce beautiful music given nothing but a block of spam and a feather.

His coolest performance, though, was during the last song. He sat down at a bench towards the back of the stage and methodically emptied all his pockets. He then stood up, walked to the front of the stage and played his trumpety bits. When that was over, he sat back down on the bench, and searched through the items spread beside him until he determined the least crumpled piece of paper and then rolled himself a cigarette. He had just enough time to finish this before it was time for a final blast on the trumpet. Then, while everyone was taking their bows and waving to the crowd, he put the ciggie in his mouth, grabbed a lit candle and headed for the door. Now that is the kind of coolness that can make a man believe in music again.

Posted by YandaMan at 10:25 PM | Comments (0)

February 6, 2005

Roy and the Brazilians

My old treeplanting buddy, Roy, stopped by for a visit last week. Sadly, I didn't take any pictures to commemorate the event. It's probably a good thing, actually. Not that Roy isn't a good looking lad, but he's got an identical twin brother and so the photo really would have meant nothing in terms of proof. You'd look at the photo and say to yourself, "yeah, sure, it looks like Roy, but it could easily be Steve" and we'd be no better off than we are right now. You'll just have to trust me. Roy did come to visit. Honest.

It was a whirlwind tour for Roy. He was in England to pick up a Master's degree from the University of Leicester. We didn't get to spend much time together which is unfortunate because I think our minds are tuned to the same wavelength, or at least the same rough spectrum. On Friday night he met me at work and we grabbed a quick bite to eat, then joined some friends at a combined leaving do and birthday party at the Old Bank of England on Fleet street. I like Roy. He's a slow drinker, a good listener and has lived through some of my best stories. We spent a good part of the night boring people with treeplanting stories.

"...the first time I saw Russ, he was butt naked, changing the oil on a quad," Roy was saying as I returned from the bar with a round of drinks.

"Wasn't that a great wedding!" I said.

"Wedding?" asked John.

"Fantastic wedding!" said Roy. "Only no nakedness -- that I saw, anyway." He turned to me. "Hey do you remember the chainsaw breakfast?"

"Sadly, no. I wasn't there. It's a great story though."

"What's a chainsaw breakfast?" asked John.

"A chainsaw breakfast is baked grapefruit and grilled cheese sandwiches." I said. "But you have to cut them in half with a chainsaw."

"It doesn't really work very well," said Roy. "The chainsaw pretty much just mangles them up and spews them into the crowd."

"You tried to cut grilled cheese sandwiches in half with a chainsaw?" asked John.

"No, not me," said Roy. "That was Blair."

"Blair was a bit of a madman," I explained.

"Remember that truck he had..."

...and so it continued until they kicked us out at closing time.

It was too good a night to end it there so seven of us headed towards Soho with the intention of getting some Chinese food. Unfortunately, these noble intentions were thwarted by a trio of gorgeous Brazilian women being kicked out of a cocktail lounge we were passing. One of them grabbed my glasses. Another grabbed Roy by the arm and demanded he lead them to the nearest Salsa bar. The third took this as her cue to begin dancing up and down the pavement with another member of our party, Brendan.

I pleaded with the one Brazilian to give me my glasses back. Roy explained to the other that he was from Canada and didn't know the location of any salsa bars in London. And Brendan, who was the only single one in our group, shouted, "There's a salsa bar on Charing Cross Road!" and immediately flagged down a taxi.

Everyone except Roy, John, and myself got into a couple of cabs. The three of us shouted insincere assurances to the taxi people that we would see them there. We had no intention of doing so, but this is the decade of the mobile phone, and the salsa bar was between us and the Chinese restaurant, and so, after a couple of nagging phone calls, we bowed to peer pressure and found ourselves in a crowded sweaty nightclub dancing like crazed wildebeest with strange women from the other side of the world.

This didn't last long for Roy and I. We are both elderly and settled compared with most of the others in our group. Our wild time has past. As soon as we were certain everyone was mesmerised by the writhings of the Brazilians, we fled for the streets and the always entertaining night bus home.

The next morning my Karma was levelled out by a brutal hour and a half yoga class which served to remind me just how un-Brazilian I was on the lithe-omemeter.

Roy abandoned me to this fate and travelled back across the city to visit his relatives. We met up again for dinner that night and then he was gone. I'm glad we had a good night while he was here. I feel I've been a bit of a disappointment for some of my more recent visitors. My mother was here just a week before Roy, for instance, and we didn't run into a single Brazilian.

Posted by YandaMan at 6:10 PM | Comments (1)

December 27, 2004

Christmas 2004

(more pics)

Another Christmas has come and gone. We spent it in London with friends. The pics above are from a small Christmas party we had on the 21st. We had a secret Santa gift swap where each person has to bring a gift of less than £5 in value. Each person's name is pulled out of a hat and that person has the choice of any gift at all, whether opened or unopened. If they pick a gift which someone has already chosen and opened, that person gets to choose another unopened gift and open it. This means a particularly desirable gift might change hands several times throughout the evening.

I'm always amazed at which gifts are the most sought-after at these things. In this case, it was a small book of photographs of the moon. It changed hands five or six times. I can't remember who ended up with it in the end. Sadly, there was nothing truly obscene or bizarre in the mix. Next year, perhaps.

My oddest present of the year came on Christmas morning. My crazy landlord and his cuddle-kins gave me an inflatable Scrabble board. It's huge, probably about a meter by a meter by half a meter when inflated. The "tile trays" are also inflatable and attach with Velcro to the main board. The board itself and the tiles are magnetic. If I was a rock star with a mansion and a big pool and an addiction to scrabble, it would have been the perfect gift. I can just picture myself floating in my inflatable deck chair, covered in tattoos, with a thinning mullet and a pina colada, playing scrabble with a couple of bikini-clad groupies and a 300 pound drummer named Smeagal. Ah, if only I had kept up with those piano lessons when I was a boy…

Posted by YandaMan at 11:47 PM | Comments (0)

August 1, 2004

Sunday in the Park

(more pics)

Just spent the afternoon in the park with friends. It was a lovely, relaxed summer day. We brought many implements of frivolity with us including a big orange space hopper like thing which was a huge hit.

In addition to being an enjoyable mode of transport, it could be kicked around like a football, or dribbled like a basketball, and it made a very comfortable chair. One particularly good feature of the space hopper as chair is that if you creep up behind someone who is sitting on one, you can bounce them off of it and into a plate of cheese.

Posted by YandaMan at 10:11 AM | Comments (0)

July 23, 2004

Phew! They're Gone

(more pics from Tower 42)

(more pics from the Barbie)

The above are a lovely Canuck couple who have recently fled back to the homeland after several years of sucking Europe dry of culture and beauty. Their plan, as I understand it, is to raise pigeons (sp?).

In a way I'm glad they're gone. They were just too damn loveable. I never actually asked, but I'm sure most of my friends would have picked the stunning, sweet-as-a-pond-of-honey blonde over hirsute, grumpy old me. Proof of this is that they must have had a million leaving parties. Oh, actually, now that I think about it, the Tower 42 shindig was for Eric's birthday. Ha! Maybe they weren't all that popular after all.

Posted by YandaMan at 6:05 PM | Comments (1)

March 8, 2004

Lost: One obsessive passion

Of all the things to lose! Of all the cruel tricks that fate could play!

I think somehow I lost my ability to appreciate music.

I went to a gig a few days ago with my Crazy Landlord. "The best gig of the year so far!" according to him. Admittedly, it's still February but he seemed convinced it wouldn't be surpassed in the near future.

Objectively, I knew it was a good gig. The venue was La Scala which is a lovely rambling place with multiple rooms and bars and not entirely obvious traffic routes between them. I'd been there a couple of times before and we managed to find our way to this little balcony thing right above the stage. It's a great vantage point to watch a gig from.

The warmup band, Ella Guru, seemed to have an affection for funny-sounding instruments. Their eight piece band included a ukulele, a vibraphone, and a flugelhorn. And it all sounded pretty good.

Even before this the night had begun in a promising fashion. When we arrived there was a huge queue so we went to have a pint and wait for it to dwindle a bit. We popped into a bar called Sahara Nights. It was pretty much decorated as you would expect a bar called Sahara Nights to be decorated -- lots of dark corners and tassels and red velvet draperies and multiple levels and overstuffed cushions and just plain magic. Eight women were taking part in a belly-dancing class on the dance floor. Above their heads was a huge plasma screen television showing a football match. The goalkeeper had just been kneed in the face and the TV showed a close up of blood literally pouring from his forehead. Oblivious to this gruesome scene, the women below continued to writhe to Arabian pop. It was a wonderfully surreal sight. And they had good crisps.

The headliners, the band we had gone to La Scala to hear, were "The Silver Mount Zion Memorial Orchestra and Tra-la-la Band". The band was formed by one of the founders of "Godspeed, You Black Emperor". They played some really beautiful music. At least, objectively, from somewhere high above myself, I judged that it was really excellent stuff. Original, haunting, with a dash of rock and roll feedback to keep you awake. It should have inspired me. John certainly seemed to eat it up. But me, I wasn't inspired. I was mainly hot and thirsty and uncomfortable and a little bored. They were even a Canadian band. I should have pretended to be crazy about them for patriotic reasons if nothing else, but I just couldn't. Fortunately, John was dying for a drink as well and so we slithered our way through the crowd and went to the top level bar and got some water.

There are a number of booths in the top level bar at La Scala and we ensconced ourselves in one of them. Only one of the other booths was occupied - by the ukulele flugelhorn warmup band. Everyone else was crowded around the railing tying to get a glimpse of A Silver Mount Zion. You couldn't see anything from the booths, but, damn, they were comfy and there was a table to put your drink on and it was comparatively cool and you stretch out and, anyway, you could hear the music as well as you could fifteen feet away at the railing. So why not sit in the booth?

Well, because you're obviously not a real fan if you sit in the booth! You have to strain like a constipated lemming to get as close to the source as possible! That's what you do if you appreciate music.

And so that's why I'm worried. I mean I enjoyed the gig (at least once I was safely inside the booth, I enjoyed it). But obviously something has happened to me over the years. I've lost a little bit of my passion. Maybe it's down the back of the couch. Or maybe the cat ate it. But it's gone and I may never get it back.

Thank God I still care about vodka and chocolate chip cookies.

Posted by YandaMan at 11:08 PM

January 26, 2004

A Tardy New Year's Party

(more pics)

Oh dear. Very hungover today. John S had a New Year's Eve party last night. It was a rip-snorter, if a tad delayed. There was a band from the Balkans and some evil Mexicans armed with tequila and vodka who poisoned me with their accursed shot glass.

Bleurgh. That's all I can think to say at the moment. Bleurgh.

Posted by YandaMan at 12:17 AM | Comments (3)

January 18, 2004

60s Murder Mystery Party

(more pics)

We had a murder mystery dinner party last night with a swinging sixties theme, hosted by the ever-sexy Mimi the Maid. It was fun to play dress-up and everybody looked gorgeous, baby!

It was a hilarious evening but towards the end I couldn't shake the image of the "What Dogs Hear" Far Side cartoon out of my head. Except that in my head I'd retitled it, "What Sober People Hear".

I was pretty sure there were some funny, witty lines flying across the table, but I think if any sober people were listening in, most of the conversation would have sounded like "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah SomethingInsanelyHumourous, blah, blah, blah, blah".

Posted by YandaMan at 3:38 PM

Skating with Strangers at Somerset House

(more pics)

I went ice-skating at Somerset House last week. It was a last minute thing and I only knew one other person there, Kirsty the Kiwi, but it was still good to reaffirm my innate Canuck superiority in the frozen pond department.

If nothing else, moving to England has completely eradicated the inferiority complex I had back home about my poor skating ability. Yes, I still can't do cross-overs backwards, but here no one even knows what I'm talking about. I've instantly become a sporting star!

Previous Ice Skating at Somerset House Entry from 16 January 2003

Posted by YandaMan at 1:49 PM

November 14, 2003

Life Lessons: the bartender

I learned an important life lesson last night. Never ever ever make friends with the bartender. This is known as the parable of the aching head.

Now that I think about it (some details about the evening are a bit shaky), I didn't actually befriend the bartender. That grievous error was committed by a couple of friends of mine. We were all there for another friend’s 30th birthday party / leaving the UK party. As I approached the bar for the last time that evening, they were chatting to the bartender.

The man in question was a nice young Dutch lad who had come to the sprawling metropolis of London to learn to make cocktails. Sadly, his job mainly consisted of just pulling pint after pint. He dreamed of being asked to mix complicated cocktails but all anyone ordered in this particular pub were pints. He went on rapturously about one cocktail in particular, which he insisted he make for me.

It consisted of a bottle of very alcoholic Belgian trappist beer, mixed with port, grand marnier, and cognac. Some have told me the concoction sounds vile but those who have done so have not tasted this elixir. It is, in fact, delicious.

It is also very deadly. In fact, now that I think about it, perhaps my error was not in making friends with the bartender, but in somehow becoming his enemy. No matter. The upshot is that I was poisoned.

The next morning I awoke feeling not just like shit, but like dogshit. And not like a healthy solid canine turd on some bright green grass in a park somewhere, but like diuretic Dalston dogshit that has been scuffed into the pavement by so many busy uncaring feet that it is now just another stain on the pavement of an unfeeling city.

Oh my goodness, but I felt very unwell this morning.

I had left my bike at work the night before and so had to take the bus this morning. Standing at the bus stop, the prospect of riding in a swaying, lurching double-decker bus in London traffic was distinctly unappealing. I decided to walk for a bit and get some fresh air. I walked all the way to Hoxton before I felt strong enough to get on the bus.

I slumped in my seat on the bus, pressing my head against the glass. I hadn't shaved. I was pale and sweating. My coat reeked of cigarette smoke. I felt about as unattractive as I have felt I a very long time.

At the next stop a woman got on the bus who looked the complete anti-thesis of how I felt. She was gorgeous and well-groomed. Short flouncey posh skirt, high heels, perfect makeup, perfect hair. About 22, 23 years old. She looked like a model who had just fled a shampoo commercial without getting changed. She was completely out of place on the number 243 bus.

She sat down next to me and started talking to me. In my experience, this doesn’t happen on London buses. Crazy people might talk to you; drunks might talk to you – basically, people who look like I did. Well-groomed people keep to themselves or cower in fear.

“Is this bus going to Holborn?” she asked. She had an American accent.

It took about 20 seconds or so for this to register as a question directed at me. I slowly, carefully, lifted my head from the window. “Yes,” I said. Then I put my forehead back on the window.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

This time I just rolled my head so that I could look at her without actually losing contact with the nice cool glass. “Edmonton,” I said.

“I’m from Georgia,” she said. She was unrelentingly bright and cheerful. I couldn’t understand why she was talking to me. It should have been obvious I was some kind of derelict, probably a serial killer. Certainly not the kind of person a posh young Georgia Peach should be chatting up on a Friday morning.

“In the States,” she added. “But I was living in New York for a couple of years before I came here. I used to work as a gossip columnist.”

“Oh,” I said, temporarily stuck for anything else to say. “Um, I’m going to Las Vegas tomorrow.”

“The last time I was in Vegas was for Hugh Hefner’s 75th birthday party.” She leaned towards me and whispered, “it was exactly like you’d expect, except even more so.”

I just blinked and cleared my throat.

“I apologise in advance for this,” she said and pulled out her mobile phone. She then proceeded to make a series of phone calls to various friends and acquaintances. Towards the end of the last call, I heard her say, “I’m on my way to Bush House, but I have no idea where I am.”

I sighed. Obviously this was a test of my character from some higher power. I sat up properly and said, “I couldn’t help overhearing that you’re heading for Bush House. That’s where I’m headed. I can point you in the right direction if you’d like”.

“That would be great,” she said. “Thank you so much.” Then she asked me my name and told me more of her exploits as a gossip columnist in New York.

I asked if she was hoping to work as a gossip here.

“No. I mean, I’ve been to the Oscars, so I’ve done that and everything. It’s time to do something else.”

It was a surprising conversation with an unexpectedly pleasant companion and I have to admit it distracted me from my hangover. By the time we arrived at Bush House, I was almost feeling human again.

Posted by YandaMan at 9:39 PM

November 2, 2003

Partying with the Undead

(more pics)

The Halloween spirt yet lives. We went to another party last night, a vampire theme party. The hosts had done a suitably spooky job with decorations. Everything was draped in dark blue velvet or black wall paper. There was a jack-o-lantern, black cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, loads of candles, and, the piece de resistance, a smoke machine.

Posted by YandaMan at 1:50 PM | Comments (0)

November 1, 2003

Halloween on the Queen Mary

(more pics)

We went to a Halloween party last night held on a boat called the Queen Mary which is permanently moored near Thames Embankment. It was organised for a charity called Raleigh International by the sister of a friend of ours. Apparently the party raised about £1600. We didn't really know all that many people there but it didn't matter as we went en masse in a group of seven.

I easily had the most boring costume out of all of us. I just put on a bloody apron and called myself Hannibal Lector. Still, it was a better effort than most at the event.

Vicki was Emma Peel. My Crazy Landlord was a doctor. This enabled him to go up to young women throughout the evening and offer them a free breast exam. The amazing thing is that several women took the charming little bastard up on his offer. Another couple of friends came as red-faced devils, and then we had a couple of just plain freakers.

It was fun. I took lots of pictures. There was no apple-bobbing.

And, for a limited time only, there are some other pictures available.

Posted by YandaMan at 6:00 PM | Comments (0)

October 27, 2003

The Healer

You may think I'm drunk, but I'm not. I'm just in a grand mood. So put those thoughts to one side and just lay back and enjoy the ride.

I just got back from a long weekend in Germany. Right now I'm monkeying with the pictures I took in preparation for posting them on the internet for the edification of you, my gentle reader.

The picture above, however, has been lurking on my camera since 9:40 am, the 26th of August, 2003 and has only a very slight connection with Germany; the man in the picture is of German extraction. He's a good friend of mine by the name of Russel and he and his delectable bride came to visit in August as part of their whirlwind honeymoon tour of Europe. Ah what fun they had! What gorgeous weather! The missed flights! The all night bus ride to Manchester! The five hour pause in Birmingham in the middle of the night! I wish I'd had a proper honeymoon.

I was MC at their wedding. I wore an orange shirt. I got people's names wrong.

The reason I named this entry "The Healer" was in tribute to the newly married Rusty. He hates blues music and I am currently listening to the "Healer" himself, Robert Lee Hooker. Hee! Hee! If he ever reads this, he'll be so mad! I'm such a cheeky little devil. I love me.

Went to a John Lee Hooker concert in Vancouver once. Something interesting happened there (aside from Mr. Hooker being absolutely mesmerising) but I can't remember what it is. I think I went with Ken who was also at Rusty's wedding and is a man who does love the blues. Me, I go through periods of craving. Like tonight.

Ken was my copilot on my epic blind date to Halifax in 1993. In brief, I had a thing for this particular young lady. She attempted to distract me with tales of her housemate in Halifax (the other side of Canada from where we were working). I entered into correspondence with the housemate. We hit it off, postally speaking. Then, at the end of the treeplanting season, I bought a 1976 Peugeot from a friend for $200, a bottle of wine, some bubblegum, and a package of condoms (size Large). And then Ken and I drove more than 3000 miles over the course of three weeks so that I could go on a date with my postal poopsie.

Sadly, however, upon our arrival, we discovered she was in a mental institution.

But enough of that. Getting off topic. Must focus. Back from Berlin. Posting photos. Mentioning Rusty and Heidi in passing. The Healer. John Lee Hooker...

I'm kicking myself for mentioning the Healer now. I'm a bit uncomfortable with some aspects of the blogging phenomenom. In particular, the desire some bloggers have to document what albums they're listening to, what books they're reading, what toilet paper they're using, what flavour of condoms they prefer. (I mean, who doesn't use flavoured condoms? Be honest!)

Anyway, here's a lovely picture of Heidi wearing St. Paul's as a hat. Berlin coming up shortly.

Posted by YandaMan at 9:32 PM | Comments (0)

June 9, 2003

Sinead's 30th Birthday

The pix are at
/Yanda/pix/2003_06_07/

The event was made particularly raucous by the attendance of my aunt and uncle from Canada who are in their 70s and were the absolute stars of the night. They partied hard enough to shame Wayne and Garth themselves, only retiring to their bed chamber at 2:30am.

One of Sinead's prize gifts was a hair-straightener which eplains some of the rather straw-coiffed pictures in the collection. Robin was particularly pleased with his new look.

Posted by YandaMan at 7:27 AM | Comments (1)

May 19, 2003

I Danced with a Supermodel!

Photo courtesy of the Sky News site

Hee! Hee! Hee!

I managed to blag my way into the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition launch afterparty where I danced with this year's covergirl, Petra Nemcova. Above is a picture of the young lady in question as she was dressed at the time. Fortunately, I was looking pretty fine myself. I wore a pair of jeans from Costco and one of my mother-in-law's old jumpers. So, despite being twice as old as some of the women there, I fit in almost perfectly.

When I was a young spotty-faced teenager I dreamed of being at a party surrounded by dozens of gorgeous models. I'm not a teenager any more and you might expect a married man of 39 would be somewhat disappointed when he finally gets a chance to live that dream. You might expect me to feel a bit awkward and see the whole thing as a bit shallow and silly.

WRONG!

Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! It was fantastic! Holy Frigging Dip-Doodle! They're absolutely delectably GORGEOUS!

Usually I feel a bit odd going to a party where I don't know that many people. However, I've discovered it's different when the place is awash with supermodels.

It was a decadent occasion. The drink of choice seemed to be a £165 bottle of vodka served in an ice bucket with a pitcher of mix on the side. The VIP area had a line of white four-poster beds along the back wall. As soon as you entered the club you found yourself standing on a transparent dance floor. Below, two models in bra and knickers lolled around on an enormous bed. They looked at snapshots and ate sushi and waved at the people dancing above them and just hung out being gorgeous. It was all rather pajama-partyish -- except without the pajamas. It was like the best Big Brother show ever.

There was another larger dance floor where most of the actual dancing took place. I spent most of my time there, dancing, as always, like a crazed ex-lumberjack at a trendy supermodel party. Supermodels are quite lithe and uninhibited on the dance floor. Petra, in particular, was a lovely dancer. I perhaps stretched the truth somewhat when I said I danced WITH her. I didn't actually go up to the woman and proposition her.

"Please, Madam, May I have this dance?"

But she was on the dance floor and I was on the dance floor and our eyes met and she smiled at me and focused her dancing attention on me for a good fifteen seconds or so. I believe we may have even grazed buttocks at one point. Yes, I was blessed. It was cool.

I went with a few friends, one of whom left early and left his camera with me. Unfortunately, I couldn't figure out how to work the damn thing, so I only took two pictures the entire night. I was also somewhat worried about being kicked out as I suspected some of the drunken badly behaved people around me might be prime tabloid fodder, but I just didn't know who they were. I'm a bit crap at spotting British Soap Stars.

On the other hand, it was good the camera proved such a challenge as I did get to talk to a supermodel because of it. I was in one of the quiet rooms (which wasn't all that quiet) trying to figure out how to work the damn thing. I phoned my friend and held the phone to my ear with a large cushion pressed to the side of my head. I was desperate to get the camera to work at this stage because I wanted to take a picture of this woman's feet.

Yes, it sounds a bit kinky but it wasn't like that at all. The woman in question was a blonde, vaguely familiar model about of about 30 something. She was wearing a light cotton dress -- very farmer's daughter like and wispy and gorgeous. But she was also wearing these very tall, very long and pointy, very black high heels with pink and black striped socks. This made her look like an angel from mid-calf upwards and like the Wicked Witch of the East from mid-calf downwards.

So, there I was: sitting on this couch with a pillow pressed to my head and shrieking into the phone in panic while struggling one-handed with something in my lap. This attracted the attention of the Wicked Angel of the East. More precisely, it caused her to fall back on an adjacent couch laughing uproariously and pointing at me.

I was forced to explain. "It's this fucking camera," I shouted. "I can't get it to work and I really wanted to ask if I can take a picture of your socks."

"You don't want to take a picture of my face or my body?" she asked. "How novel! How original! How delightful!" she said.

And so she helped me figure out how to turn the flash on and let me snap a picture of her leg and then I put my head on her thigh to take a self-portrait of myself with the famous sock.

Just in case that sentence went by too fast for you... Yes, I had my head on a supermodel's thigh. Am I cool or what? I must be the coolest sock fetishist I know.

And then my landlord returned with our drinks and the Wicked Angel of the East began making out with her ridiculously young, good-looking, and fashionably-dressed boyfriend.

Apparently, years ago, these types of parties were the norm for my (admittedly insane and possibly prone to delusions) landlord. He used to be part of the trendy party scene in New York and partied with Heidi Klum and Tyra Banks and co.

"It wasn't about the sex," he told me. "It was just about lying naked on a bed with a bunch of models and licking champagne off each other's skin."

Yeah! Baby! Yeah!

Posted by YandaMan at 11:26 PM

April 26, 2003

Good Friday

Good Friday was a pretty lazy day. It was the day after Z-Girl's bday.

I saw J & B's new house.
And I had a picnic in the park with friends.

Posted by YandaMan at 4:32 PM | Comments (0)

Z-Girl's Bday

Walking to the party
Z-Girl Fun

It was my friend Z-Girl's birthday last week (or at least that's when she celebrated it). It was such a gorgeous evening that I snapped some pictures as I sauntered toward the venue in question.

A group of us met for a few pre-dance-like-a-maniac drinks at the CVO Firevault which is a fireplace showroom which happens to have a restaurant and lounge hidden downstairs. The concept it a bit bizarre. It was very trendy, but quite comfy nonetheless.

Afterward, we stopped off outside a pub near Carnaby Street to drop off the Girl with the Loudest Laugh in the World. It was the kind of evening where more patrons are outside in the street than actually in the pub. Nights like this make London seem the friendliest, loveliest city in the world.

After abandoning She Who Laughs Like a Hurricane, we pressed on to the Kitsch Lounge Riot which was extremely trendy and kitschy and pretentious, but also staggeringly fun and quite cool.

The rich and gorgeous were in abundance and there were a series of West End Stars with a live band singing croony Sinatra tunes and belt-out-loud show tunes. The woman currently playing Velma in Chicago at the Adelphi absolutely thrilled me with her rendition of "Big Spender" and I forced my way to the edge of the stage where I danced like a rapturous acolyte from some cult.

I think somehow the magic was within me or perhaps I just stood out so much among the trendy and moneyed crowd that I dazzled like a farm-girl in dungarees at a debutante's ball. In any case, I was almost kidnapped into the harem of an Arabian Princess. It was frightening. I was dancing away, minding my own business, when this very expensively dressed, middle-eastern woman celebrating her 40th birthday put her arm around my waist and dragged me into her circle of dancing harpies. I escaped but was dragged back in again and again.

Eventually, I fled to the bar where I bought my first and only drink at the Kitsch Lounge (£7 for a vodka and tonic, a bit rich for my wallet). Even here, my sex appeal was undiminished. The barmaid, Fluffy according to the bill, treated me like a long lost high-school boyfriend. She insisted on serving me ahead of the teeming hordes already waiting and called me "pumpkin". Yes, it may possibly have been a reference to the hue of my shirt, but equally possibly it may have been an achingly hopeful term of endearment.

Later, a man wearing a shirt so thick it could have been cut from a tablecloth – complete with champagne stains – accosted me during a lull in the music. He was smoking a cigar the size of a zucchini. He put his arm around my shoulders and shouted we were destined to be friends for the rest of our lives.

"Do you realise," he said, "that we have danced with the same six women tonight?"

I think he may possibly have meant Z-Girl and a couple of her friends and was just seeing double. I’d noticed him staring fixedly at their bottoms and other curvy bits as he lurched around the floor burning lesser beings with his flaming zucchini.

I considered staying and becoming his friend for real. I got the sense that he would have been delighted to buy me a tray of £7 drinks, but there was an evil glint in his eye that worried me. What if I said something wrong and he sent a minion to set fire to my kidneys while I slept.

Reassuring him that I loved him truly like a brother, I slowly backed away and scrambled out into the London night.

The magic was not over yet, though. I walked through the West End and found myself outside this swanky old building that had often intrigued me. It looked like a grand old gentlemen’s club out of a Wodehouse novel. I paused to try to find some sign or label that would reveal its identity. As I did so, a somewhat shaky old man stopped beside me and spoke.

"That would be the Garrick Club," he said. "Yes, sure to be it. This is Garrick street and that’s the Garrick Club."

I stepped away from the brass plate that held a doorbell and nothing more and cocked my head attentively.

"It’s a writerly kind of club, I believe. Yes, yes, many famous writers belonged to that club. And lawyers too, I believe. Oh yes, sure to be it. Lord. M– is, or was, a member. He’s dead now. Oh my goodness, he’d be an old man now if he was still alive. Sure, over a hundred at least. I used to seem him coming out of the Garrick Club many an evening."

He began walking as he spoke and I followed. We were both going in the same direction so it seemed impolite not to. He nattered on about this and that and eventually stopped again and began fumbling with his keys.

"Well," he said. "Good night to you, sir."

"And a good night to you," I said and shook his hand. He seemed a bit surprised by this but he smiled and waved just before he stepped through his door. It was three in the morning. I was standing on the cobblestones of Covent Garden and although my Audrey Hepburn wouldn’t be back in London for another two days, I was pretty pleased with the world.

Posted by YandaMan at 4:24 PM

March 18, 2003

39th Birthday Drinkage

I am now 39 years old. To celebrate this fact, I went for a wee dram or two with some friends. It was not nearly as well-planned as John's 30th just three weeks ago.

Originally, we intended to go to a pub called Filthy McNasty's. In searching the web for an address for Filthy's, I discovered that a Filthy McNasty's had just opened up in my hometown of Edmonton, Canada.

Cool! Cosmic Connection! A sign from the Gods! Unfortunately, it turned out that the London Filthy's was closed. In fact, I think what happened was that the Filthy's in Edmonton, isn't just a branch of some bigger, Filthy chain but is, in fact, the actual London pub. No doubt (perhaps as some kind of war protest) they just moved the entire pub across to Canada, leaving a hollow shell in its place.

I discovered this fact at 5:30pm and wasn't able pass the info on to the masses until close to six. In a panic, I did my best to redirect the enormous flow of humanity to the Red Lion Theatre pub which is just a couple of blocks from Filthy's. If it hadn't been for this minor burble, I feel confident there would have been thousands of people at my party instead of just the dozen or so who showed up.

But at least those dozen brave souls did find the right pub and we drank one or two pints of poison and giggled like little girls.

A photographic record of the event is below.
/Yanda/pix/2003_03_17/

And there's also a special photo album of this guy named Andrew who took about a bizillion pictures of himself.
/Yanda/pix/2003_03_17_narcissus/

Posted by YandaMan at 6:41 PM

February 23, 2003

Crazy Landlord's 30th Birthday Party

/Yanda/pix/2003_02_22/

And (oh the pain), videos at http://comps.org/jon30/

My crazy landlord, Irish John, will be 30 on Monday. These pics are of his celebration of the fact. He hired out part of the Union Chapel near Highbury. There was mountains of food. There were balloons and streamers and a bubble machine and party poppers and whistly things and a fine dj named Steve who played some very danceable tunes. I know this because I spent most of the evening dancing to them.

About 50 people showed up. The hall could have held more but John and Vicki and I benefit from a lot of room on the dance floor so it was no bad thing.

I discovered an unfortunate aspect of my personality. By and large I don’t like talking to people. It makes me nervous. I like parties and I like having lots of people around. I even like (within certain limits) conversing with my close friends and relatives. However, small talk with strangers gives me enormous feelings of anxiety. I either behave very oddly in the hopes of provoking some non-small-talk reaction or I run away in fear, usually on the idle pretense of getting another drink or waxing my moustache.

I like this last excuse because it could mean either hair-removal or hair-grooming; it’s up to the listener to decide. Admittedly, I haven’t had a moustache for several years, but it doesn’t really matter what the excuse is. It’s just a semantic signifier that although you may be a very nice person your presence makes my internal organs itch.

I think it’s mainly fear. I’m terrified that I will say something stupid or offend someone in some way or just embarrass myself. It’s a bit odd, really. Physically, I have no such reservations and will happily dance like a spastic ungulate in front of dozens of strangers. I just can’t bring myself to behave the same way with my tongue.

Most of my good friends seem to love talking to people and will strike up conversations with anyone about anything. Irish John is a case in point. He’s always talking to people and being friendly to them and flirting with world leaders and such. I’ve often thought that for a teenager he would be the most embarrassing Dad in the world.

However, as an adult, he’s a grand friend to have and I’m delighted he’s made it to 30. And so a toast. To another 30 years of nonsense from the lips of a madman, and another 30 after that. Slainte, yacuntcha!

Posted by YandaMan at 9:24 PM

January 23, 2003

EP Away Day

Went on a work 'Away Day'. The highlight of which was a lunchtime narrowboat trip up Regent's (?) canal from Camden past the London Zoo and back. I also got far too drunk at the pub afterwards. It's not entirely my fault. A friend was working behind the bar and she paid for some of my drinks. Oh, and the editorial staff of a maternity magazine bought me a drink as well for reasons that are a bit fuzzy now. I believe it had something to do with the colour of my underwear.

Anyway, aren't the narrowboat pictures pretty.

/Yanda/pix/2003_01_23/

Posted by YandaMan at 11:34 PM | Comments (0)

January 17, 2003

Ice Skating at Somerset House

Photos

Went skating at Somerset House last night. Bit odd to see so many people skating in business suits. It was quite crowded. At times, with the suits and the crowds, it felt like I was in some slightly alternate universe where London had frozen solid and the stolid English had adapted by wearing ice skates and continued to rush about their busy thronging London lives.

Posted by YandaMan at 5:55 PM

January 4, 2003

Vicki's 37th Birthday Dinner

Pix of my darling spousal unit's birthday are at /Yanda/pix/2003_01_04/.

Posted by YandaMan at 1:52 PM | Comments (0)

January 1, 2003

John's Rockin' New Year's Eve

I've posted pics from John S's New Year's Eve party last night at /Yanda/pix/2003_01_01/.

There was a large Italian contingent. I'm not exactly sure how they were connected to John or his housemates but they were damn sexy and fun. Upon arrival they fired up the stove and began cooking weird and wonderful things. Sadly, I have no pictures of the food. One dish was some kind of boiled pork thing called something like "cotechino". This is something only eaten traditionally at New Year's. Then there was "lenticchi" which was a lentil dish and quite tasty. Apparently, if you eat lentika on New Year's Eve you will get 'a lot of money' in the coming year. So that was good news. And there was a sweet bread called "pandoro" which came fresh from Verona three days ago on the plane with the dark Italian beauty who fed it to us.

Aside from cooking, they were also big on dancing and laughing and kissing. We like the Italians, I think.

Posted by YandaMan at 2:35 PM | Comments (0)

December 30, 2002

Power Lunch

There's a fancy restaurant across the street from Bush House named 'Bank'. It's usually way out of my price range, but Boxing Day week they had this incredible deal (10 quid for three courses), so I took Vicki and Dom and John there for lunch. You may think this is pretty generous, but it's all part of my Machaevillian plot to control their very souls. They owe me now. And one of these days I'm going to collect.

HA! Hear that Dom and John? Your first borns are mine to sell as cattle feed! Suckers!

Anyway, it was pretty nice. The entrees were delicious, but the starters and puddings were just fair. The carrot and coriander soup in particular could have used a bit of salt in V's expert opinion. The wine was excellent though and a reasonably priced. And it's the only place in London I've ever seen Canadian wine on the menu. They were offering shots of Canadian Eis Wine as a dessert tipple. It was tasty but pricey.