2012 Opening Cere-moan-y

Or, Why I feel Completely and Totally Justified in Dreading/Boycotting the London 2012 Olympics.

Before I go into my (completely justified, research-backed) good old-fashioned bitch-and-moan against the games, I'd like to make one thing clear: I love my city, and I love a good party. I love having excuses to party in my city. Which is why I love my birthday, and Christmas, and New Year's, and Halloween, and even flipping Guy Fawkes night, even though I don't really know what it's celebrating (something about Parliament not getting blown up?)... but you'll notice, all these parties have something in common-- they don't send the entire nation into a debt spiral from which only the rich and powerful can escape unscathed while the rest of us attempt to shove ourselves onto hopelessly overcrowded tube cars with hoards of sweaty tourists who don't know that you're supposed to STAND ON THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE BLOOMIN ESCALATOR so the commuters who are running for the next train like their job depended on it (because it probably does) can WALK ON THE LEFT!!

I realise that my last 2 blog posts have also been rants of a sort (though, might I point out, also completely justified), and I fear that you, my reader(s??), might think all I do all the time always is rant. I do not. (Though don't get me started on booty shorts.) There are lots of things I *don't* want to rant about because they are functioning perfectly well and are not in need of a good verbal slap upside the head. Maybe my next post will be all about how flipping cute my dog is just to prove that there's more to me than bitching. But for now, the Olympics must be addressed. Because when the hoards arrive and I'm spending my morning commute squashed into some confused Games-goer's sweaty armpit, they're going to be glad I got my ranting out of the way now.

Let's start with the 'Get Ahead of the Games' posters - brought to you by the 'Mayor of London' (as if he has to take public transit anywhere, ever). For you non-Londoners, these posters are stationed handily throughout the city - on bus shelters, on buses, in Tube stations, in Tube cars, basically you can't shake a fucking stick without hitting one - and contain helpful hints to avoid the crushing influx of tourists London is about to experience. My personal favourite encourages commuters to get off a few stops early and walk the rest of the way to work. What a splendid idea! I'll just turn my 45-minute commute into a 2-hour bus-train-stroll combi! Are you freaking kidding me? Make the tourists get off a few stops early and walk-- what better way to see more of the city than schlepping from Heathrow to Highgate on foot??

Now moving on to the Brand Police - basically an army of lawyers and copyright experts (is that a thing?) who will be hitting the streets to make sure that unauthorised businesses (a.k.a., everyone except McDonalds and Coca Cola) aren't utilising any of the 'official' Olympic words. You know, branded words. Words like 'silver,' 'gold,' 'bronze,' 'summer,' '2012,' etc. These same Brand Enforcers have also banned the sale of chips (fries) within the Olympic park by any restaurant except McDonalds. Nothing says 'authentic British chips' like the fries served by a US-based fast-food corporation!

But all that pales in comparison to my personal favourite dick-move made by Olympics officials: Calling British soldiers up from leave to help with policing the games because the security company hired to do the job CAN'T DO THE JOB. I've said it before and I'll say it again: ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME.

Not to mention that I happened upon a comment about how the Olympics 2012 logo looks like Lisa Simpson giving head, and now I can't unsee it.

I asked Florence how she felt about all this, and all she had to say was:



Well-put, Florence. I think that pretty much sums it all up.

UPDATE: So I must say, my daily commute during the Olympics has not been the hideous hellhole of an experience I was afraid it was going to be. It could be because I don't commute during rush hour, or it could be because I'm not anywhere near any of the Olympic sites, or it could just be because God has seen fit to smile upon me and grant me this blessing, but if anything, the Tube has actually been *emptier* on my way in to work the last few mornings! (Honestly I think it's just because everyone in London with a bit of sense in their head and some annual leave still left to take has f***ed off to other countries.) But whatever the reason (his heart or his shoes, the Grinch stood there on Christmas, hating the Whos.... no?), I've managed to get a seat every single day (without having to shove aside any old ladies or pregnant women). WOOP. In regards to my other Olympic complaints, I really have nothing to add except this.

Obligatory post on the London Riots - From Where I Stand

First I will ease everyone's mind by assuring you all that this Not So Quiet American is (so far) safe and well amidst the unrest that is currently plaguing my beloved city. One of the benefits of living in an underground bunker on the edge of a posh neighbourhood at the top of a hill is that most looters really can't be arsed to go so far out of their way to wreak havoc. (Though I am thinking of utilising the situation to convince my landlord to let me get a dog, for protection purposes and all. I have already named said imaginary future dog Valentina Bellissima James, Teeny Billie James for short.)

Anyway, given the preponderance of both news and opinion pieces on the riots, I didn't really intend to add to the pile by writing on it myself. I figured everything worth saying was already being said by someone better at saying it than me. But I was wrong. Because in everything I've come across about the riots, I feel like something very obvious is being ignored: The Middle Ground. Maybe it's because The Middle Ground doesn't make for good headlines, or punchy snap judgements, or nicely drawn lines in the sand that you can stand on either side of. Unfortunately for everyone (myself included) who sometimes wishes things were painted in nice clear shades of black and white, the middle ground is often where the reality of things can be found. And I am pretty convinced that this is the case with the London riots.

Yes, the burning and looting is about chronic economic oppression and community disenfranchisement and inequality and unemployment and slashed benefits. It is about people who can't afford to consume being bombarded on a daily basis with messages of consumerism, overt and subliminal. It is about this tension between societal fantasy and economic reality finally boiling over in a very nasty way.

But guess what? It is also about greed, and opportunism, and violence for the sake of violence. It is about an unfortunate situation being hijacked and used as an opportunity to acquire material goods and vent garden-variety angst. Mob mentality is a well-documented and frightening phenomenon, and I am willing to bet that a good percentage of the people who chose to throw petrol bombs at police cars and torch businesses did so just because they felt like it, and because everyone else was doing it, and because this mob mentality provides invisibility and invincibility. I am willing to bet that a lot of the people in these mobs weren't thinking about social disenfranchisement so much as they were thinking that it might be a good time to anonymously smash up a Curry's and make off with a new flat-screen.

So let's acknowledge both sides. Let's acknolwedge that something is seriously f***ed-up in our society and the time has come to do something about it. Let's acknowledge that slashing public funds and youth programme budgets and health services is maybe not the best way of pulling ourselves out of economic ruin.

But let's also acknowledge that disenfranchisement or not, mob mentality or not, people make choices. Usually, these choices have reasons behind them; there is a socio-psychological explanation for most things that happen and most things that people do. Remembering this allows us to stop ourselves from demonizing the people and the choices they make, because we glimpse the reasoning, however flawed, behind them. But let's not forget that people do, in fact, make choices. The people rioting in the London streets, however disenfranchised or frustrated or ignored, made the choice to smash in the high street windows, set their neighbours' houses on fire, and destroy livelihoods. And the truly sad thing is that the bulk of the effects are being and will be felt not by the upper classes and government officials supposedly being demonstrated against, but by regular Londoners who may be just as marginalised as the rioters. Just because you refrain from demonizing someone doesn't mean you let them off the hook. The people wreaking havoc in the streets of London are not innocent victims of oppression, whose actions are to be defended at all costs; nor are they mindless, soulless perpetrators of violence at which we should feel free to direct or project our own anger and fear over the occurrences of the past few days. They are people: people who made choices to destroy and take things that weren't theirs to destroy and take, for various assorted reasons which humanize but do not vindicate.

So let's acknowledge that the riots of the past few days are indeed symptomatic of a greater societal ill that desperately needs to be addressed; but let's not kid ourselves into thinking that this great societal ill has somehow eroded free will and left rioters with no other choice than to burn and steal.

I don't doubt that this Middle Ground approach is going to attract a fair amaount of ire from both sides of the Line in the Sand. And to said hypothetical ire, I say: Balanced, greyscale viewpoints are often not very popular. They tend to avoid demonization and offer no scapegoat or easy answers. But to be quite frank, I don't think any easy answers exist here; and from where I stand, looking for them is bound to lead to one extreme or the other.

Operation Golddigger

So, my adoring public (read: 2 people) has been clamoring for a new post, and since so much has changed in my life over the past couple of months I feel it's only fair to give the people (read: those 2 aforementioned people) what they want.

You may recall from my last post that I was unemployed, living in the ghetto, and on the verge of full-blown alcoholism. Well I am happy to report that I have got two out of those three things sorted! That's right, I have moved house and am now in gainful employment. Hurray! I'm working (on a temporary but indefinite contract) as a research secretary in the Forensic Psychiatry Unit of Queen Mary University of London/St. Bart's Hospital. It sounds fancy but really, I am just the Unit Bitch. It's fine though, because achieving employment meant I could finally (re)-fulfill one of those all-important Milestones to Adulthood (no, I haven't got a dog-- there will probably be skywriting and a press release when that happens); but I am once more LIVING ALONE. And loving it. A stupid amount. Going back to living alone has done for me what Ecstasy does to drunken ravers: made me want to hug everyone I see, and then drink lots of water. Haha! Kidding about the water part. But anyway, after sacrificing my personal space (and a great deal of my sanity) in order to afford London for the first year and a half that I lived here, moving back into a place of my own has been a dream come true. I found the perfect little studio/one-bedroom in one of my favourite neighbourhoods, and am currently in the process of making it into The Cutest Flat Anyone Has Ever Seen.

I am also in the process of doing all the boring, tedious things associated with moving house, like waiting around all day for a furniture delivery (it never arrived), and registering with my local GP. The latter I did this morning, and in the process discovered a whole new area of London that I am obsessed with. As I walked up the street perpindicular to my flat, I could feel the atmosphere around me getting incrementally more posh with each step, until I started seeing houses that weren't attached to each other, which in my London mind is pretty much equivalent to the height of luxury. Then, I started seeing chandeliers through the windows of front rooms and I heard a small voice in my head whisper "You belong here." As if that weren't enough, halfway up the road I ran into a woman walking her beagle-- BEAGLE-- and I had my Revelation of the Day: I was going to be a golddigger. It really seems to be the way forward in these uncertain economic times, and besides, I like older men. Unfortunately, about a block later I discovered a fly in the ointment: I may be too picky to be a golddigger. There was a gentleman walking on the other side of the street and I thought, "Aha! My first prey!" ...Until I came up alongside him and realised that his look just didn't really do it for me-- his hat was just a bit too red and didn't really go with his three-piece suit. So for now, I guess I'll just ensconce myself in my little one-bedroomed Moroccan-themed nuclear bunker (did I mention I live in a basement flat?) on the edge of Poshville and wait for someone wearing a three-piece suit sans red hat to come along.

My love letter to a city

Dear London,

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways... (I'll get into how I *don't* love thee some other time, like when I've just climbed up and down 400 steps just to get in and out of the tube station, or when I've been waiting for the 168 bus for 15 minutes and then one comes and doesn't let anyone on because it is rush hour and there is no room, or when I've gone into 27 different stores looking for those little clear plastic hair-ties I like and STILL haven't found any)... but for now, let me tell you how I love you...

I love that I have gotten everywhere I need to go over the past week and haven't had to use a single mode of transportation other than walking. I love that I can walk ten minutes down my street and find an H&M, American Apparel, and (just discovered) a Whole Foods (even though I cannot currently afford to actually GO to any of those places). I love that on the same street as Gap and Baby Gap, there are also about 14 different tattoo and piercing parlors. I love that you have stores that are tights/leggings boutiques SLASH piercing parlors. I love that I can walk into Camden Market sporting two facial piercings and a tattoo and be one of the most conservative/mainstream-looking people there. I love that people tell me they like my accent, even though I don't have an accent and clearly THEY are all the ones with accents. I love that you have universal health care. In fact, I love it so much I almost feel as though I should injure myself just so I can feel I've taken full advantage of the system (I said *almost*). I love that I can walk home at night from a mile and a half away and not feel as though I am in imminent danger of getting shanked. I love that I can buy wine in pretty much every store I go into. I love that you have washing machines in pretty much every flat. I love that everything is a tiny and adorable version of itself (just like me!)- tiny fridges, tiny boxes of juice, tiny strawberries, TINY BOTTLES OF WINE (they could fit in my purse... not that I've tried...), tiny cups of tea with tiny little hats and jackets to go with (to the uninitiated, hats and jackets are what I call lids and sleeves). And let's not forget clothes! I have finally landed in a country where they make tiny and adorable clothes. A.k.a. clothes that fit me. THANK YOU LONDON.

Oh London, so many things I love about you... please remind me of all of these when next I have to walk a mile home in the driving rain, or when I decide to ride the tube during rush hour and end up with my face smashed into someone's deodorant-less armpit, or when I have to write an 8,000-word essay on international law (though that's less to do with you as a city and more to do with me as a heroic human-rights-type person- YOU'RE WELCOME, international community)...

Anyway London, thank you for being your fabulous self so that I can be my fabulous self without getting looked at funny.

XOXO,
Joce

Walking that thin line between love and hate...

Today whilst attempting to open a bank account here in London, I wrote the following snippet-- behold, a snapshot into my mind in the midst of breakdown (and please excuse the colorful language)--

"I hate this g****** country. I hate bureaucracy. I hate that I can't open a g****** normal-ass bank account without producing two thousand kinds of documentation and a blood sample. I want a nap, some g****** funding, a puppy, and a strong drink. And then I want to find a store that sells some g****** down comforters, sheets that don't feel like sandpaper, and a pharmacy that stays open past noon. And I would like someone to introduce this country to some m-f 3M hooks."

Okay, so I don't actually hate this country. In fact I kind of love it. But there comes a point where a girl has simply had enough of red tape and being lost and not knowing what the hell people are saying even though supposedly they're speaking the same language, and said girl starts to wonder why the hell she ever left a place where she already had a bank account and an apartment (not a flat-ha) and knew what things were when she walked into a grocery store.

So what did I do in the midst of aforementioned mini-meltdown, which might I add took place in the middle of a bank? Well to my credit I did not curse at the bank staff or start crying or storm off. Instead I just sat down. On the floor. In the middle of an HSBC branch. And wrote the aforementioned curse-laden entry. And if you think sitting down in the middle of a bank doesn't sound all that radical, clearly you've never been to the UK. They adore order here. It is almost like a religion. You don't cut the queue, you don't stare at people at the street, and you don't sit down on the floor in public places. They didn't quite know what to do with me. People just sort of skirted my general area the same way you would circumvent the general area of a mad dog.

One brave employee finally came up to me and asked if I was tired of standing, to which I replied that I was "tired of a great many things." (Some of you may not know this but I tend to get just the teensiest bit dramatic when I'm upset.) Thankfully my new bank friend Kofi wasn't too fazed by my American weirdness (though in this case I don't even know if I can use American as my excuse-- it might just be Jocelyn weirdness), and decided to be a gentleman and sit on the floor with me while he tried to explain the idiocy of British banking (turns out American banking is its own kind of idiocy- more on that later).

Thankfully, by the time Kofi and I had finished our chat, I had calmed down enough to appreciate the walk back to my flat and the colorful array of shops I pass along the way: "Secrets" table-dancing cabaret, "Transformations" she-male boutique (their words, not mine), not to mention the multi-pierced man trying to foist fliers for a tattoo parlor on me (because maybe if it's two-for-one, suddenly that super-classy serpent tattoo will seem like a good idea)... And suddenly I was back in love with London.