Stalkings...

Celebrity Stalking is not something I would say I have engaged in. I mean, sure, who hasn't stood outside of Selma Blair's house with a roll of duct tape, a bundle of zip ties, a kilo of Swedish Fish and a jar of Peanut Butter. But that isn't stalking. That is just something to do on a Wednesday night. I am talking about following a celebrity in the media to the point that the most obscure reference sends you into fits. 

My list of "celebs" that I have met outside of a proper event is pretty small. In fact it is two people long and both happened when I was living in Salt Lake City. 

Ron Eldard: He walked into a shop where I worked. The exchange went like this. 

Me. "You look like that guy that used to be on Men Behaving Badly." 

Him. "I am that guy that used to be on Men Behaving Badly." 

Me. "Cool. The show has gone downhill since you left." 

Him. "Rob is a great guy, I am sure he will do just fine." 

Me. "What are you doing out here in Utah?" 

Him. "Shooting a film." 

Me. "Cool. That will be $9.50. Good luck on the film." 

Keene Curtis: He too walked into a shop where I worked. 

Me. "You look familiar. Where do I know you from?"

Him. "I was on Star Trek and on Cheers." 

Me. "Ah yes, Cheers. You ran the restaurant upstairs." 

Him. "indeed."

Me. "Here are the knit caps you were asking after, let me know if you need anything else." 

Nothing out of control, no one got drooled on or attacked. It was a very civil encounter both times. 

Later, when I started working in the bookshop, I adapted the same attitude when it came to the famous authors that came in to sign books. They were just working stiffs like me. They got up in the morning and ate Shredded Wheat (or whatever) nothing different than I did. No reason to get your pants in a bunch because they get hounded by the press more than you. 


All that being said, I was walking down the street coming out of Stanford's in Covent Garden when a man in head to toe black walked past me. Black shirt, black jeans, black shoes and Aviators. (If not for the aviators, I might have looked away. But I can't stop looking at them after my last post) He looked familiar to me for some reason, then it dawned on me that it was Kiefer Sutherland. I had heard he was in town. As I am sure everyone else that gets the metro does. The Paps followed him around and took his pics after a long night out. 

C'mon people. Leave him alone. He is just like you and me. He goes out for the same reasons I go out. He is having a good time. He isn't hurting anyone. If I took your pics after a rough night out at the pubs then put them all over the Sun, you would freak out! But he just takes it in stride. How many times have you needed a mates help to get to the bus? Or passed out on the tube and missed your stop. Or stood outside your flat with your keys in hand trying to figure out which one it was that worked the door and how they got so heavy all of sudden. If only you could take a little nap, you could get the key thing sorted out in a couple minutes. Okay, that last one might just be me. I was fine after that nice man from the bar up the street woke me up by ruffling my hair. I just needed a little break.


Anyway. So I saw Kiefer and tweeted that I had seen him in London. (Not the neighborhood. See? That is me being kind.) Maybe 30 minutes later, a stranger tweeted to me asking if I had spoken to him. What? Why would I have spoken to him? I don't know him. I know OF him, but that is all. We aren't on a first name basis. No offense to the nice woman that tweeted me, but I didn't chase him down and ask him for a photo. He might have said yes, but then I would have been the schmuck that bugged him when he was just out looking for a ... I dunno. Lunch? A book? New sunglasses? 


What ever it was Sergeant Roebuck was out looking for, I wasn't about to get in his way. I have shot him in the head on accident so many times, he might have been a little upset at me. You may be the type of person that runs up to celebrities on the street and asks them for autographs and pictures and what not. Hell, you might wear gold Aviators for all I know, I am not that guy. 


P.S. How KICK ASS is that shot of Keene Curtis? The bald head and awesome mustache? The Turtleneck and Leather Coat? RIP, Mr. Curtis.


P.S.S. If you notice, both Ron and Keene were in Men Behaving Badly. That is crafty use of the IMDB folks. Crafty   

Ow Ow Ow.

Did I mention that I started running? Not as though someone is chasing me, although I suppose it will come in handy when the situations comes up. Running to get in (better) shape. I am not exactly sure why I chose running. I could have done swimming or rowing or dwarf tossing, but I went with running. I think you need special equipment for dwarf tossing. Namely, a dwarf that is happy to get tossed. Man, that sounds dirty-- I have been doing it for a little while now but with all the free time I have now that I am not working full-time, I have been going (almost) every night. That should mean I get better at it, right? That is what I thought.

My last few runs have gone like this:

• • 9.4 Kilometers in an hour. Happy. Excited. Tired.
• • 4 Kilometers in 35 minutes. Dejected. Exhausted. Frustrated.
• • 6 Kilometers in 40 minutes. Frustrated. In pain.
• • 9.6 Kilometers in an hour. Elated. Sweaty.
• • 6 Kilometers in 35 minutes. Serious pain. Very frustrated.

The last run was last night and after zipping through my first 3 K in 15 minutes something went wonky in my leg and I had to limp the last few Kilometers until I just stopped. I am no expert on anatomy, I only know it from the artist’s perspective and knowing how to draw a leg from the knee to the ankle doesn’t really tell you what is going on in there. The part that is hurting me is in the middle bit where there are no joints, no muscle connections (that I know of), just skin and bones. So, what the hell, Mr. Leg? Why are you acting up?

I think I am going to give him the night off and see if a rest sorts him out.

I realize that I am being overly dramatic. Having a wee bit of pain in your leg when you run is nothing like those hardcore footballers that get hurt on the pitch. Although, maybe it is. Perhaps the feeling that Francesco Totti feels when he bumps into Thierry Henry, collapses on the grass and screams like a teen-aged girl at a Twilight premier, is the exact same feeling I had last night. I did walk to the side lines (of the gym), stretched a bit, then walked home. Just like a proper footballer. Minus the screaming and rolling about on the grass trying to convince the ref that I was wronged by the treadmill. Is that why they have running coaches? Do they teach you how to flop on the ground and get a yellow card for the treadmill? I need to get one of those, then.

With any luck, my leg will sort itself out and I can continue my running endeavors. I have boosted my average speed in the last week and with luck, I can get back out there to lend my support to my friend Sarah who is running a half marathon. She is well ahead of me in her training.

As an aside,  Gimp Flipper is a great band name. 

A public service announcement.

Lets talk about sunglasses. It is getting warm here in the UK, the sun has decided to burn through the cloud layer and there are distinct moments when I am outside that I think, "Wow, I almost need my sunglasses out here today." Then I look around at the people I am walking near and I see that they all have sunglasses on. I also see a disturbing trend that I can not abide by. Can't do it. I tried, I really really tried. But I just can't get there.

What am I talking about? Aviators. Not the nice men and women that drive our sky-buses around. I am talking about the sunglasses. The ultra mirrored, shiny, metal-framed wonders that are perched on the faces of thousands of people out there. Here is where I come in. I am not sure the people that are out on the streets today know the rules about Aviators. "There are rules", you say? Why yes. Yes, there are. I am so glad you asked. Before I get into the rules of wearing Aviator-style glasses, please allow me a moment to give you my Top Five people that wear this style of glasses. This list is in order of magnitude based on the likelihood of people wearing these things on their face.

Number 5. (people LEAST likely to wear the glasses) Pilots. You would think that people that fly planes for a living would wear the glasses that are named after their profession, but you would be wrong. Pilots, -real pilots, mind you- have to actually see what they are looking at. I am not just guessing. I know a real pilot.

Number 4. Paedophiles. This really isn't funny. But if you are trying to hide what you look like from unsuspecting victims children. A big pair of glasses is the best way to go. Add in a navy blue baseball cap with a NY Yankees logo and you can just get arrested for walking outside. In fact, when I googled "Gary Glitter" (convicted paedo) I got this image back. He might have ruined it for all of you.

Number 3. Ironic Hipsters or Scenesters. You know who I am talking about. But to be fair, I think even the Hipsters have moved on. Thick Plastic Frames seem to be more their thing nowadays. They are only wearing the glasses because their parents don't understand them, or to hide the tears. Why are they crying? Because their skinny, black jeans are too tight. Also, they are only wearing the glasses "Ironically". This means they know the glasses look stupid, but they wear them anyway. Hipsters tread a fine line with the Number 1. They can easily tip over the edge.

Number 2. Highway Patrol Officers. For some reason, they love the things. I think because not being able to see their eyes gives them a sense of authority. Although with the conception of Reno 911, and the lovable Lt. Jim Dangle, I think even they are moving to a different style. I don't know that for certain. It has been awhile since I got pulled over by one. I have left my speeding days behind me in my 20's.

So that leads us to the number one. The people most likely to be seen wearing Aviators. Guesses? Thoughts? Should I just tell you? Okay. Keeping with format.

Number 1. D-bags. Oh, come on. You knew it all along. You looked at the pictures before you read the words. You can see that the example guy is a total D-bag. If not from the striped out Mustang (sorry Tom), then from the personalized plate. "Ya Bro"? I assume that "Brah" must have been taken and he had to settle for his second choice. Should we move on to the overly deep V neck? The greasy hair? The Moccasins? The skinny, black jeans? Over-sized belt buckle? The duck lips or the hand thing --it is almost a finger gun, almost a Jesus blessing. Perhaps he is just reaching out for help. He WANTS us to pull him away from this life of D-Baggery that he has fallen into.

I know I might be going against the whole Free Will thing. People can wear/act/do whatever they like. but they should also know that there are consequences. A life of Baggery can easily get you on a TV program like Tool Academy. Nobody like the D-bag. That is why the word is an insult.

Sorry. I got a little carried away with the listing and forgot to list the rules. They are simple. Wearing Aviators will make you look like one of the above characters. Girls can fall into these categories just as easy as guys.
So here are the rules: Ah, screw the rules. Putting Aviators on will make you look like an arse. There are LOADS of other styles to choose from. Do yourself (and us all) a favor and pick one of them. Or don't, I am happy to make fun of you as you prance about Brompton Road in your over-sized Chrome glasses.

This is the end ...

Can you hear Jim Morrison singing? Me either, but that is because I am listening to Dash Rip Rock sing I Saw the Light. Very different, but still apt in this case.

Today is my last day at work. As you have read earlier. I quit my stable job in internet marketing to dive head long into ... well, nothing really. I have no real designs on anything beyond Easter. (Thanks to Esther, for the ultra-creepy image of Zombie Christ. That is going to carry me through)


I am headed to Phoenix, AZ to visit the family and get some Vitamin D. The lack of sun in London is giving me rickets. In the great American Easter Tradition, we are planning on coloring eggs and getting hammered. Last year we drank Skittles Vodka Martinis while we colored eggs. Whew. That is something you should all try once, be very careful though, they end up tasting like liquid candies and after your 5th or 6th one, you might be puking the most beautiful, technicolor vomit you have ever seen. Try it out, but you have been warned.

There is a new baby girl in the family this year. My little brother just had one (Okay, it was his wife. Get serious) a couple months back. Her name is Quinn and this will be her first Easter. I spoke to her dad the other day and was told that the men in the family get a couple hours to take care of her while the ladies have some spa time. I think the plan is to dress her up and go get her picture taken. As the proud uncle that I am, my plan is to get her pic taken not in the typical "look how cute I am in my bonnet" style. I am thinking we dress her up like a little zombie and take pics of her. Personally, I think that is hilarious. Even Zombies get to go on holiday right?

I will check back in after the Holiday. I have my fingers crossed for some time to cook in the coming weeks. I have heard tale of a roast pork belly recipe somewhere on the webs. I am sure I will have to try it out. The world is a better place thanks to pork and thanks to good friends for all the words of encouragement. I promise to keep in touch.

A begining of sorts.

I did it.

I am not talking about inventing the greatest tool in singing technology since yodeling*, that has been done. I am talking about quitting my job. I did just that. On Tuesday, March 23rd, 2010. I sent an email to my boss and my boss's boss outlining my intent. Starting on April 1st, I will be joining the other 7.8% of the population that is out of work. I am not sure yet what I am going to do for a job. I am pretty certain I need to find something to do with my time. I am not good enough to go busking yet -- although if they just let me play About a Girl, Blister in the Sun and Baba O'Riley, I could do it -- so I am certain I need to find a new job. Maybe the Times needs a restaurant critic for two weeks. I happen to know theirs is getting married this month. 

I am taking suggestions. If anyone feels like they know what is best for me. I am willing to hear them out. Until then, I am going to be practicing my guitar skills. Maybe add in a little AC/DC to the Mix. No one can resist the power of Back in Black.

* Inward Singing is the greatest tool in singing technology since yodeling. It was invented by Jack Black of Tenacious D. Warning before you click the link. He curses a little. Shhh....

Eating (you're doing it wrong)

Most people get teeth when they are about one, right? I know you lose that set and get another, but for the most part, you have teeth your whole life. You start using them, figuring out what you can and can't bite through pretty early. You gnaw on the sofa, you get yelled at. You bite your sister, you get grounded. Chew through a lead, you get shocked. That sort of thing is normal for people.

So why is it, that after 34 years of using these 'teeth things' that I have in my mouth, I still don't know how to use them. Here is what I mean; Last night, I was loading the dishwasher after dinner and nibbling away on the bits that I had left out while I ate dinner. --For the record. Dinner was actually cooked by me and was not a Ready-Meal. I read Recipe Rifle, I know my way around the kitchen. It might have just been Stir Fried Veggies and with Noodles, but still.-- There I am putting dishes in the washer and crunching on some veg that were still in the pan, when I forgot how my teeth were supposed to interact with the rest of my mouth parts.

As I leaned over to add the last yellow plate into the machine, a jolt of fire shot through the left side of my face. Oh SHIT! am I having a stroke? That is on the left side, right? Strokes are on this side? Maybe I have been shot? What happened to me? What could cause me this much pain? It all seems to be coming from the corner of my mouth.... Probing with my fingers, I found the source. I had bitten a hole in my lip large enough to slot a coin into.

And this isn't the first time. About twice a month, I bite a hole in my face but normally it isn't this large. I don't have Freddie Mercury teeth. They are normal, American teeth. They wore braces a couple of times to get nice and straight, so they don't poke out in a funny way. I am fairly certain my lips are not too small for my mouth. They cover my teeth unless I am smiling a lot. I also think they are not too big. They don't stick out like Bubba's from Forrest Gump. They aren't in the way or anything but for some reason, every so often, when I am eating, I forget to not take bites out of my own face parts.

That can't be normal, can it? I know lots of other people and they aren't eating themselves as an after-dinner treat. And the worst part is this. Now that I have eaten half my lower lip, it has swollen up to almost double, but just on the one side. Not only does this make me look like I have half a Trout Pout, as if I got scared after the first injection and told the doc to stop. Like a 1/4 Lindsey Lohan. Not only that, but BECAUSE that part of my face is now fatter than the rest, it sticks out and gets in the way of that same flesh-hungry tooth. I have bitten the same damn spot three more times.

On a brighter note, I am embarking on a mission to try all the pub nachos in my neighborhood. Because I am certain that is the secret to getting thin for the summer. Eating Nachos with loads of Sour Cream, Guacamole and melted cheese and washing it all down with two pints of the finest bitter in the pub. Why two pints? Because I will forget the nachos if I have four. Or I will bite through the fork, or my upper lip, or the glass because I am still not sure how these "teeth" work.

P.S. Thanks Esther for adding me to your blog roll. Hope the hen party was fun.

Visits to my Kids. (and by kids, I mean clients)

I am sitting on the train on the way back from a great visit to two of my client sites. Well, I am not sitting on the train just now. I was sitting on the train while I was writing this. I am sure you made the distinction; I am only making certain you were aware.
Today, (see above) I was lucky enough to tour the properties of Limewood Hotel and Whitley Ridge.  They are nestled in the New Forest, just the other side of Southampton. If you get off at Brockenhurst, just ask the cabbie at the station to take you there. He knows right where they both are. Limewood is a brand-new, five-star, uber-awesome* property with a kitchen run by Alex Aitkens and the nicest staff. Also, I am not sure if is the company uniform, but jeans tucked into tall, brown, leather boots and a cropped, brown blazer seemed to be the order of the day. And it was working for the ones I saw, let me tell you.

Limewood is the epitome of relaxed elegance. Deep, cushy sofas that swallowed your bum, placed in just the right spots around the common rooms. Multiple fireplaces were softly smoldering away, filling the whole place with the warm scent of wood smoke, sage and flowers. Although I think the flowers were doing their own thing and just got roped in. The meeting room I was in for most of the day was professional without being stodgy with a massive flat screen for me to plug into and (GET THIS!) free wifi. Let me back up and say that again. Free Wi-Fi. The last time I was in a hotel that had free Wi-Fi, the signal strength was only rivaled by the water pressure in the shower. Which was a lot below "great". This was AMAZING!

Lest it sound like I was only at one place today, at the end of the meeting, I hung out with the lovely Lora from Whitley Ridge. She and I share a love of great food, great wine and brown liquor. As I told her, we are going to get along great. Lora is the GM of Whitley Ridge and she gave me a lift to her property that is just down the road from Limewood. It is actually closer to the Brockenhurst station. She drives a hot little MR2 that she zips around on the twisty, country roads. Exhilarating, not scary, there is a difference. Whitley is in the middle of some changes from What it Was to what it is Going to Be. The main areas of the property have been renovated and the rooms have been updated. Lora has a larger vision she is working on and we are going to get there.

Whitley really is its own place, relaxed to be certain, but in a very different way to her sister property.  Whitley sources its food locally. Not local as in, “I bought this from the Tesco in town”. If you order eggs for breakfast, they will have been from the chickens that live on property.  The coq au vin will be as well (The cockerel gave his all for the dish.) Veggies are coming from the garden out back and the menu gets tweaked every few days based on what they have on. They don’t get everything from the property, but it all comes from nearby. When you go, order the pork dish and then ask what the name of the pig was. I bet you James will know. It will have come from the farmer up the road and butchered by another local. Your salad will have been grown on site and picked by one of the staff. The Mother's Day Menu looks amazing.

I am looking forward to staying at the properties (just need to book my rooms) so I can sink into one of the massive beds, lounge in the courtyard with a cup of tea –or a glass of whiskey-- and read a book, far away from the worries of my Monday-Monday job. I know, I know, escaping your job at a client site is probably not the best idea. But I am willing to try. From what I saw of the properties today, and from the people I spoke with, any time spent in these properties is going to be sheer joy. I am going to have to fast for the week before I go. Otherwise there is no way I am going to be able to eat everything I want to. There are 20 different after dinner drinks I need to try in the drinks cart at Whitley. I better pack my English liver. My American one won't be able to keep up.



*You try stringing three hyphenated adjectives together; I know Uber-Awesome is redundant.

**Oh, and thanks to the properties for letting me steal images off  of the sites.