Englishman in New York

I sometimes think it’s a crying shame that I couldn’t have just cloned myself when it came to having a son. God only knows what kind of whacky DNA Heidi (the missus) has thrown into the mix. She’s from about 10 countries; it’s such a mental mix the poor thing’ll probably think he’s an ostrich when he grows up. Stick with what you know, that’s what I say, and he would’ve been much better off with 100% Simon Weaver genes. Most of my ancestors come from the same muddy field in Rochdale and we are better off for it.

Think of the advice I could’ve given him.

I could have told him: “never kick a football,” as the whole enterprise would be doomed to failure from the off. “And the game is bloody stupid anyway,” I would’ve said, “what kind of cretin spends their time kicking balls around a field?” There’d be no smelly boys changing rooms, no humiliating soccer classes, no stupid Panini stickers, no shivering in the cold, and no chatting to numbskull goalkeepers between bouts of fleeing that cold, hard, dirty ball. Not for Simon MK2.

I could have introduced him to his favorite food, curry, when he was 2 instead of having him wait until he went to university at 18.

And think about Simon’s Brain? In 30 years there could’ve been a new infusion of lifeblood into the old thing. I could’ve passed the cap onto him knowing he’s got the right stuff upstairs to keep it ticking over in style. Billy’s Brain? It just doesn’t scan.

I could perhaps have also warned him about the futility of such narcissistic fantasies as wishing he could clone himself.

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Listen to ‘Rocky Dennis’ Farewell Song’ by Jens Lekman.

Buy Oh You’re So Silent Jens

So pleasant that after listening to it you’ll want to curl up in front of a nice fire, eat mince pies and talk about pretty things for the next 3 months solid.

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Jared Diamond is a clever man. This much is obvious. I recently came across an article written by him a while ago entitled ‘The Worst Mistake in the History of the Human Race‘. When Diamond says things like that, he’s not being sarcastic, or cute, or about to launch into some trite childhood reminiscence. No, he’s being totally serious.

So what’s the mistake, you’re wondering. Farming, that’s what. The first farmers (and many subsistence farmers today) had a substantially worse standard of living than their hunting and gathering contemporaries (including poorer health, shorter life spans and less leisure time). The first European settlers crossing the great plains in America often remarked how lazy the native populations were, but the locals were well fed and enjoyed doing whatever it was they did between hunts.

The one big direct advantage of farming had over hunting and gathering was that it allowed higher population densities. Eventually that led to surpluses, division of labour, technology and civilization, but it also allowed for social hierarchies, which resulted in one group of people dominating another. Farming may have led to the invention of the washing machine, but only after enabling the subjugation of women.

There are plenty of people who want to go back to this kind of ‘natural’ living, or at least the kind of social structures it produced, but it’s too late of course, Pandora’s Box has been opened. Before farming there was no political power to be grabbed and there was no ‘progress’ to be made. Nowadays it’s a utopian dream to imagine that if one power structure is removed it won’t be replaced by another one, as if everyone would just unilaterally agree to mind their own business. So what we’re left with, since some bright spark decided to scatter a bunch of seeds ten thousand years ago, is arguing over the least worst way to organise our lives, or have them organised for us.

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Drama critic Terry Teachout appears to be in fine form after his illness:

I already knew one thing that was at least as important: whatever the verdict, I wasn’t going to give up without a fight. I have music to hear, plays to review, paintings to see, etchings to buy and treasure, a book to finish writing, a blog to keep, dozens of friends who claim quite convincingly to love me, and many, many memories, a few dark and desperate, far more full of light. In the last few days alone countless things have happened, small and large, that make me want to cling as fiercely as possible to whatever time remains on the ticking clock whose face I cannot see. I have felt this way once before in my life, in the months immediately following 9/11. It took nothing less than a congested heart to make me feel the same way again.

I particularly enjoyed this:

Two minutes later a two-man team of paramedics was slapping an oxygen mask on my face and slipping an IV into my right arm.

“So you’re a drama critic, huh?” one of them asked as they carried me down the stairs. “My grandma is coming to town for Christmas—I want to take her to a show. What do you suggest?”

“Oh, definitely The Trip to Bountiful,” I said, my voice muffled by the mask. “I guarantee she’ll like it.”

Link here

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As I was making my way across London on the Tube the other day I couldn’t help but notice how nice it smelled. That’s right, the Tube. I was standing on an escalator at Waterloo Station and it smelled of rubber and aluminum and people. It reminded me of a time still not too long ago when London was home.

Yesterday, walking to a friend’s home in Leeds, I caught another familiar smell. This time it was the December air in Leeds, heavy with damp earth and grass. It never really occurred to me until now that the air here is a constant reminder that wherever you are in Great Britain, you are never further than 65 miles from the sea.

If I catch any more familiar smells, I’ll be sure to let you know.

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To learn all you need to know about science you just need to watch advertisements. The best science brains of today are all trying to find the most effective protein for hair strengthening, and, fortunately for us, the Pantene Foundation provide the public service of keeping us up to date with this research. For truly radical science, though, you need look no further than S.C. Johnson’s Glade Scented Oil Candles.

At first glance, the advert (or commercial, if you prefer) on TV gives us nothing new: you light the candle, the wax melts into an oil and your house stinks like a tart’s bra for three weeks (or, more specifically, ‘Dewberry Dream’). There’s a lot of guff about a specially designed cotton and metal wick, and a hot plate, but the truly revolutionary new technology is saved for the end (they know how to build tension, these advermetising fellows) when the voice-over giddily tells us that ‘when the oil is gone, the candle goes out’.

They’ve done it! Who would have thought that it would have been a commercial smell company, rather than NASA or someone, who came up with the world’s first NOT-EVERLASTING CANDLE. If only they’d had this technology in the Middle Ages, they could have avoided all that expense on snuffers, and avoided all that misery they’re so famous for (although those dreadful snuffing unions would have no doubt tried to get them banned).

Now that S.C. Johnson have released this technology into the public domain, there is no stopping it. I guarantee that by this time next year Subaru will be bringing out a car that when the gas is used up, the car STOPS RUNNING! I, for one, cannot wait.

(Incidentally, I noticed on the Glade website that they have trademarked the phrase ‘Scenterior Design’.)

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How much do you tip a delivery guy? Can someone tell me what is acceptable as I keep cranking up the amount I give them and I’m still not getting any smiles.

When I first came here I thought a couple of dollars would be enough (I’m talking about $20 orders here). Then I started to feel bad and put it up to $3, then $4. I tried to work out how much I earn per hour then what fraction of an hour the delivery took and then I had a figure I thought was ethical. But I still feel bad giving them $5 or even $6, it’s so damn cold out there and they always look so miserable.

Any guidance on this perplexing subject would be greatly appreciated.

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I arrived in Leeds yesterday. Leeds is a large city (pop. about 725,00) in the north of England, about 5o miles east of Manchester. For such a big city it is famous for a surprisingly small number of things: a football team who used to be good and…a football team who used to be good.

At least two-thirds of people in New York who ask me where I am from either don’t know Leeds or think it has something to do with Leeds Castle in Kent, which it does not. I usually tell them that Leeds is near Manchester because everyone knows Manchester. This is not good if you come from Leeds.

There is a particular rivalry between people from Leeds and people from Manchester. I’m not sure that anyone really knows why. Manchester is in Lancashire and Leeds is in Yorkshire and that seems to be reason enough.

People from Leeds are fiercely proud of their city. Until I left home I thought it was normal for everyone to be proud of where they were from. Then I met people from small towns and villages dotted around the UK and I discovered that many people are not at all proud of where they are from.

People from Leeds are rightly proud of where they are from because it is one of the best cities in the UK. But then again, I would say that, because I am from Leeds. As a Loiner (a person from Leeds) I can’t think of anything worse than living in Manchester.

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I normally wouldn’t post a personal gripe on a conservative blog, but since my friend and site proprietor, PD Berger (as Paul now prefers to be addressed), has written his share of intimate confessions here, I figured he wouldn’t mind if I do the same.

After nearly five years in a steady, meaningful relationship, I recently found myself thrust back into the singles scene. As a Jew in New York City, it was my religious duty to blow the dust off my suspended JDate account and start meeting women again.

As a cartoonist, I figure I should use humor as my weapon of choice in capturing the attention of prospective dates. For some reason, this approach is not working. Below is an excerpt from my latest blog entry, “Into the Void“:

My sorrowfully ineffective method has been to start with a humorous reference to their profile, to show I was actually paying attention. For your enjoyment, I’ve compiled a select list of actual clips from letters I’ve sent to other JDate members. Invariably, I get no response.

Tell me, would you write back?

To the psychologist:
Can I book an hour of couch time?

To the entrepreneur who quit law school and her job on Wall St. to start a cookie company:
Subject: I did it all for the cookie
Message: Wall Street, law school, now cookies. You’re in it for the DOUGH!

To the “Vice President with Looks”
I typically only date Presidents but I would be willing to lower the bar and make an exception here.

To the girl who, well … I can understand why she didn’t write back:
If we went on a date I think I could overcome the fact that you bear an uncanny resemblance to my sister.

You can read the rest here.

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This was the sight that met me when I arrived in Richmond this morning.

I have not been to bed (or to sleep) since Friday night. It’s now 6pm GMT, Sunday.

Resizing this image and posting from my friend Liz’s couch has just taken the better part of an hour (image has been resized again, Monday 7.45am GMT) . I really need a new laptop.

First impressions?

It’s warmer here but damper. Male Londoners take a lot more pride in their appearance than New Yorkers. They seem to have a particular affinity for shoes. It doesn’t matter what they are wearing, their trainers are immaculate.

I am shabby, tired and unshaven. Dinner is in the oven.

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December 10, a full two weeks before Christmas, and I am already setting off on my holiday travels. I’ll be in London in the morning. Lucky sod, I know.

I’ll be dropping in occasionally to post from London, Leeds, Copenhagen and, hopefully, from my final destination in Jutland (pictured left) if I can adapt to dial-up!

To plug the many gaps over the coming weeks I have re-enlisted the help of my friends who so ably stepped into the breach during the summer…two Englishmen and an American in New York Simon’s Brain, The Old Brain Pan, and Lowercase L.

By now they should need no introduction, except to say that like the Fantastic Four each has his own special powers: Simon, of Simon’s Brain, has the power to mesmerize with photographs of baby Billy, if that doesn’t work then Nick, of The Old Brain Pan, uses his power of argument to convince the bad guys to change their minds, and if all else fails William, of Lowercase L, uses his powers of dysgraphia to prevent the baddies from ever writing signage coherently again.

It is perhaps fitting that this Fantastic Four is comprised of only three, although if you count me I suppose that makes four. But what on earth my super powers are I have no idea. See you in England and Denmark!

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