London in the Spring of '11 (demo tape)

I’d only been in the country for three hours, and I spend $100. I’m gouged by our dollar’s relative worthlessness, my inability to calculate simple equations in my head, and not booking bus tickets weeks in advance. But I’m here now and that’s what matters. I have a few thousand dollars that I saved from unemployment checks that’ll need to last the whole summer. But hell, a 6.5% beer only costs $3.30 here, and you don’t have to tip. I can survive on beers and kebabs.

I was lured by an advertisement to drink a berry flavored beverage called Ribena that touted it’s fizziness. The drink did not live up to my bubbly standards, and the flavor was awful. I ordered an “egg mayonnaise baguette.” I hoped that it was an egg salad sandwich. It was. I cut my lip on the baguette. “egg mayonnaise and blood baguette.”

The German hostel employee was impressed by my California driver’s license. I told her that I surfed everywhere and hung out with movie stars. She took my joke to be an expression of American arrogance. Outside the hostel I offered cookies to a Spaniard in Spanish. He declined in English. My sister asked loudly if I was trying to make friends. I was embarrassed so I punched her in the stomach. I apologized instantly. That night I had heavy dreams because I felt bad for punching my sister.

There was vomit on the steps of the Oxford University Press. Britain’s drinking culture gone too far, or a message from rival academics? British teenagers wearing track jackets were rapping the lyrics to a medley of Notorious B.I.G. songs.
An actor who had a featured role in Top Gun told us we could afford houses along the Bulgarian Riviera. You could pay $13,000 for a house outside of Varna that had no toilet, if you want plumbing that’ll be an extra $100,000.

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An ugly baby with bow-legged scowled at me as I walked to the cafe around the corner.
I ordered daal, roti, and a Pepsi with ice. The employee had never heard of ice.

An Indian grandmother kissed her grandson. A painter stood next to his neighbor as she complimented his work. A little boy drank a juice box while singing a song into his mother ear. A dreadlocked dad makes sure his kids are taking turns on the spiral yellow slide. A park ranger walks across a field to pick up trash with a claw. A West Indian nanny pushes a fair-skinned baby through the center of the park. A sweatshirt waits for its owner.

A fair is in the process of setting up. An image of Liam Neeson is painted in one of the trailers. For five pounds you can ride the Kansas City Ghost Train. “London’s Number One Twister is 100% Turbo Charged.”

A white woman in blue is explaining a workout routine to black kids in red who are sitting down. A woman in an electric chair is riding through the park giving directions to a couple. She is playing dub reggae and has a small dog by her feet. This world’s most unique soundsystem. A man is chasing two dogs: Skelly and Lula. Down the block I pass a restaurant called “Aunty Fatty’s West Indian Take Away.”

I guess my writing is like Balzac, in that I document the moment. Oh look that guy’s wearing a Santa Monica Polo Club sweatshirt.

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I am pissed because it costs one pound to take a piss at the the Trocodero. I found ten p on the floor, so it’s only a ninety p investment. This place smells like teenagers. I went to the TGI Friday’s across the street and to the Sega Experience. I was here as a teenager.

In Leicester Square Spanish tourists are excited to read a menu in Spanish. Japanese tourists are buying a rap CD from guys holding boom-boxes on street. The square is closed in preparation for the Olympics. I walked passed a restaurant called "Leon". I've been to that restaurant in America, it's called "The Professional."

Americans are taking pictures of historic sites with antiquated cameras. Japanese tourists are taking pictures with devices that I've never seen before. A woman wearing a hijab is posing for photos in front of demonstrators who’ve occupied a square. The peace protesters are demanding that NATO “Free Iran”, which probably wouldn’t be a very peaceful process. Beneath Big Ben an Italian girl is being yelled at by her mother while she eats a McDonald’s Filet-O-Fish sandwich. In front of The Palace of Westminster I told my sister that my favorite member of Parliament was George Clinton. My sister didn't understand my joke.

A man from Tehran is selling London souvenirs. A Chinese tourist in gold lamé jumpsuit dragging her mother across the Westminster Bridge. A woman is wearing a pot-leaf bandana. Beautiful girls in head scarves wearing tons of makeup are thoroughly amused by a Charlie Chaplin impersonator. There is a long line at the Tesco Express across the street from Big Ben. A Canadian dressed like a hipster is wearing a t-shirt that says he loves Jesus Christ. A group of kids with cerebral palsy sit in wheelchairs with smiles on their faces as they’re handed tickets to the aquarium.

A woman who shaved the side of her head is holding a Madame Tussaud’s tote bag that says “Plastic Ain't Fantastic.” A group of French secondary school students are wearing bobby helmets and jester’s hats emblazoned with the Union Jack. Biracial French teenagers are casually dressing like the hippest American models in SoHo. The rest of the world has to compete with the fashion sense of French teenagers.German students are wearing Korn jerseys and singing folk songs. They are more orderly than their French counter-parts.

At a farmer’s market a baker asks a charcuterie employee for change. She asks what’s in his cup.

“It's only Magner’s, but I had three shots of Sambuca earlier.”
“That's broken Britain for you.”

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People are staring at the sky, as jet fighters fly over Covent Garden. Is this a Blitzkrieg? Multi-colored smoke billowed from the engines. A Chinese tourist applauds at the fog of blue, red, and white. The Union Jack as a cloud to celebrate the queen’s birthday.

I’ve celebrated my birthday here. I turned 20 at the Wagamama tourist-trap beneath this plaza. I ordered Udon that time. This time I got a rice dish and some miso soup.

We buy some artificial banana candies at a confectionary. Then walk east. There are thirty pro-Assad protesters in front of the BBC offices at Aldwych. With signs that read:

“How much Syrian blood is on BBC Arabic hands.”
“We pay licence fee for fairness not incitement.”
“We support our president.”

They blame the BBC for either the spinning the “Syria is in chaos” story. Judging by their numbers, and the short duration of the protest (it lasted under two hours) they represent an elite Syrian expatriate minority with ties to the al-Assad regime, because like he’s totally a dick right?

Inside the Hunterian Museum I’ve been staring at the remains of a seven-foot-seven-inch Irish giant, and the tiny body of an Italian dwarf. My skeleton is the average of both. Medical students are learning about a disease that makes bones look like branches. Life would be complicated if you had this ailment.

My sister tells me the that “something really important happened here, like they filmed a Hitchcock movie or something.” She is a tenuous tour guide, never quite sure what exactly happened, but aware that something notable occurred in this spot. This could be the business model for an abstract tour agency.

At the Starbuck’s an Eastern European manager is yelling at another girl from another Eastern European country because she hasn’t done a thorough enough job cleaning the floors. “Oh, I didn’t realize I had to.” That’s the same excuse I use.

An old Scot wearing a kilt is babbling nonsense as he gets off the bus. His breath smells like he operates a distillery inside of his esophagus.

The child of West Indian parents points at our bus and walks towards it. His mother says this isn’t the right bus. Teenagers sitting in front of me are planning a party in the Midlands. They hate buying booze in London. They make a sex joke about Lady Gaga: “poke her face.” They say that Tom’s a nice bloke, and that Jackson will probably never pay. Behind me a North American girl who’s been in the country long enough to feign a British accent is making dinner plans on her cellphone. “Alrighty, see you tonight.”
She just came from a job interview at an art gallery. I wonder if she’s an illegal immigrant. I wonder if Jackson is really a flake. I wonder which bus that family was trying to get on.

We jump off the bus in front of the George Orwell. It’s raining so we decide to take cover in a pub. We’re the first customers of the day. I order a pint of lager for myself and a cider for my sister. British pubs are always on corners, which means the light enters making the space really pleasant for an afternoon. American bars are always dank places with few windows. Puritans escaped these publicly drunk Britons to force their descendants to drink in hidden rooms.

I pick up some swill magazine called GonzoWorld. It’s published by K-Swiss’ advertising budget. I'm sure Hunter would have looovvved this. My sister brings over a game of Scrabble. She tries to get points for the word “Lou”. I say it’s spelled “Loo” unless you’re referring to a toilet at the famous Parisian museum. The bartender laughs. Making jokes is really easy: Just say the synonym and don't spoil punchline.

We’re invited to a house party. In the front of the bus a man is wearing a pink tutu. Upstairs a girl with a buzzcut is wearing pink pants she has a tattoo of a tooth on her neck. An Autistic kid asks his foreign mom questions that she doesn’t understand. This is our bus stop.

Beautiful bohemians are wasted after a day drinking wine in London Fields. They let me control the music on Spotify. I become a terrorist by attempting to sabotage their party by searching fro my favorite worst songs. “Allstar.” “Every Morning.” “Butterfly.” It doesn’t work. They sing along. We dance to California party music for the rest of the evening.

I was drunk and stumbly and demanded fried chicken. East London has more southern fried chicken chains than the American South: Carolina Chicken. Tennessee Fried Chicken. Dixy Chicken. Southern Fried Chicken. I wanted the best so we went to Perfect Fried Chicken. I ordered chicken and chips from an employee who I suspected was from California. I requested that he reveal the truth about his origin. Where are you from? San Diego? Oakland? Irvine? He said no!!! I’m from Pakistan, then asked me to leave the premises.

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I argue with my sister about the merits of Rothko inside the Tate Modern. “It’s just a box” she says. I say “it’s a transcendental experience.” Even though I’m paraphrasing what I read in the program, I agree. Downstairs a man in leather pushes his lover’s wheelchair through the Tate Cafe. Outside a school group of teenagers from Madrid are wearing pot leaf jerseys and hats that say “Legalize It.” I wonder if their teachers aren’t paying attention, or if Spaniards have such a permissive culture that they allow their children to wear tacky-ass clothing.
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New construction surrounds a brick house that was built during the 18th century. Condos grow from the concrete like pods in a science fiction film. I could never live here, unless I became a vice president at a multi-national bank. Maybe after the apocalypse, we’ll be able to squat here.

In a tunnel, a Turkish man in flannel coat plays the accordion. I notice that his instrument was made by synthesizer magnate Roland. I store that tidbit of information in my memory bank.

On the train Iggy Pop is advertising car insurance. He’s a better spokesman than a British gecko. Across from me a couple is breaking up. In a French accent she yells “you don't listen to me!” They get off at my stop and walk in opposite directions.

Near Hackney Central, a shoeless Vietnamese woman is yelling at everyone in her native tongue. Passersby look perplexed. We don’t know what’s happening. In front of a Vietnamese market a man has his head down. I think she’s yelling at him. Down the block I think a man is giving a loud religious rant in Arabic. As I get closer I realize he’s speaking Hebrew into his Bluetooth. How often are Israeli contractors confused with imams?

In front of the bar a guy in tight pants is walking down the street holding a doll house. I order a beer and sit by the window. A group of lesbians dressed like 80s rappers walk passed me. Jay-Zs first verse on a remixed track with ODB comes on the stereo. I remember that I love music. I love travel. I love people. I love friends. I love new experiences. I love making things. I love a lot. This makes me reflect on my life as a prolific but unknown artist. What narrative am I really weaving?