Sonnet XI

Whew... did I ever slack on this one. I meant to post this entry oh... about a month ago. Sorry. Not that anyone is probably still reading my blog. So... I thought I would finally write a sonnet about my place of work, simplehuman. It is a great place to work, especially because it is so unique. As evidenced by my sonnet about its location, Goring. Anyhow, our little office consisted of me (well, not anymore, but at the time this sonnet was penned), Leeanne (her surname is Strange, so any references are not meant to be derogatory), John S., Brad, John P., and Kevin.

To Serve Man 1
Our office space is a little folksy.
We make steel bins and dishracks efficient.
Your calls are met by Leeanne's "Okey Cokey,"
A Strange Brit who loves Lionel and Legend.

Each day she teaches John of proper tea
As he works to settle accounts and bad debt.
If this were Brooklyn, Flaco he would be
And Brad, El Chino, she Roja, I bet. 2

Many days were spent emailing to Joe
with revisions to dot co dot uk
And fighting with Satan, my silent foe,
"Sam why don't you call me?" I often would say. 3

The jokes of John and Kev could ne'er offend,
Nor simple plaints of humans that we tend.

1. Okay, so I broke form yet again. All of my other titles have alluded to poetry or major works of prose, but I think the Twilight Zone is pretty poetic. Especially this episode.
2. My job before school was at Cumberland Packing Corp., in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Most of the people I worked with spoke Spanish as their first language. They love to nickname people based on their appearance (e.g., Flaco is "skinny", Roja would be "red," and El Chino would be "the Chinese").
3. Joe was the web designer I worked with, Satan... another person I worked with who shall remain nameless, and Sam was a buyer at a British department store chain.

Sonnet X

Alright, no more avoiding actual sonnet production. Finally, here is the latest proper entry. Not last weekend but the weekend before (I'm a little behind but I intend to write like the Dickens in the next couple days...) I went to Dublin. It was very fun, but very whirlwind. I got on the train from work to head to the airport and realized I had forgotten my passport. Doh. I went home, picked it up, headed back for the airport (and this interlude was not as easy as it sounds) and missed my flight. It was on Ryanair. As Niamh says, Ryanair are a bunch of bastards. And British airports don't work like American ones. None of this straightforward, go to the counter, they'll help you out stuff. There are multiple counters, and some move, and it was generally an extremely frustrating experience culminating in the purchase of the Most Expensive Ryanair Flight Ever. But at least I had a wonderful time in Ireland with Joe and his cousins, Helena, Niamh, and Aisling. And I maybe lost about two years of my life over this weekend due to lack of sleep and abundance of drink...

The Late Aisle is Not Free, or An Immodest Proposal

I nearly lost my mind when I realized
I'd left my passport back in Littlemore.
In Dublin hap'ly hitched Helena's ride
Post butting heads with Ryanair 'till sore.

The daytime passed quickly with all we saw.
The library's must smelled like an old friend;
The bog people inspired a gasp in awe
And Guinness pouring down my throat: sweet end.

The nights' activities were livers' test,
As tipsily we walked over our host
To Dakota, through Leggs and more (I guess)1
The fog cleared by Manhattan's eggs and toast

When finally I lay my body down
My dreams fondly recalled this bumpin' town.

1. Leggs was definitely one of the more random stops we made. It is a wine bar that is open late night. It has cheap wine that costs alot of euros, and everyone is walking around the bar with several bottles of this cheap wine.

Sonnet IX

I alluded to the pedophile bike way back when, so now I will finally actually write a sonnet about it. The bike I am now using was Brad's ex-girlfriend's when she visited last summer. Maryn is about half my size, though, and apparently likes her bikes to be small, too. We refer to it as the pedophile bike because it looks like it should be ridden by an eight year old. Jessica pointed out that all it needs are those little streamers coming off of the handles to complete the whole theme. But, it works, and strangely enough, no one seems to want to steal it.

Jabberwocky 1

On bike with wheels the size of two hedgehogs
I'm quick as crawlies high on opium.
Three "gears" I shift, observers all agog;
No bursts of speed, nor any respite, come.

Whilst slogging over High Street I observe
The many pairs of eyes all looking on
In question or pity, I can't be sure.
Did I eat cake, or she drink some potion?

Although we appear a curious pair
I cannot deny our special friendship
As bravely over Queen's Lane she does bear
Me past mad coaches to go on train trips.

I can't believe when her chain was unclapped
No carpenters attempted a kidnap.

1. Lewis Carroll, author of Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, both supposedly written for a little girl, attended Christ Church college in Oxford, like Jessica, and he was a don there.

Sonnet VIII

This weekend I attended the V Festival at Hylands Park, a two day long concert with IMO a really cool line-up. The acts I saw: Orson, The Cardigans, Keane, Beck, Radiohead, Fatboy Slim, the Dandy Warhols, Gomez, Matisyahu, Starsailor, Morrissey, Groove Armada, and a little bit of the Divine Comedy, Paolo Nutini, The Charlatans, The Feeling, The Delays. And we danced some to DJ's as well. Yes, so, I was really tired at the end of said weekend. Pictures will be posted shortly - just have to get them from Joe, the only one of us who brought his camera. Some things I learned:

1. Beck and Morrissey are just inherently, innately cool in their beings. Beck's act involved marionettes dressed like him and his band on a little stage that did the exact act they did and had a very funny video montage of said puppets "behind the scenes" at the V Festival. What is funnier than puppets propositioning women and visiting port-a-potties? Morrissey was dressed all in black and his band in all white suits without shirts. That is hot. And his backdrop was a huge picture of Oscar Wilde.
   
2. Wellies are the bomb and give you a bizarre sense of well-being when playing in mud. They also make you a really good dancer.
3. Virgin is made up of evil marketing geniuses that can bleed you dry of all your money and you will smile and ask for more. Examples: a "parking pass" that comes with your very expensive festival tickets but then - surprise - turns out to require a 10 quid payment when you arrive; a festival lineup and venue that are very lengthy and confusing but, again, no publication of said lineup or map of venue is made available to you without another 10 quid investment from you. However, these Virgin people are not operational geniuses by any means, and this festival, if experienced by Kumar Rajaram, would inspire a flurry of overhead projections with process maps and various qeueing possibilities.
4. People are filthy animals when isolated for a couple days with only port-a-potties and various mind altering substances on which to subsist. And I would like to give a quick shoutout to the guy who urinated next to me while we were standing around waiting for Radiohead to start, our chav-ish football hooligan neighbors who blasted radio 1 at ungodly hours of the morning, and the overly amorous couple in the tent next to us. Thanks for making the festival even more memorable.

Endymion (For Music)1

We pitched our tents on high lands. Clouds pour'd down
So we did shower pounds upon the shop
And Cosy Camper's funky wellies found;
Gazebo, chairs, and ponchos were our crop.

We whet palates with Red Bull, vodka, beer;
Thus fortified we sailed o'er waves of grain
And entered harbors beat by deep waves clear;
The diverse sounds, rhythmic, entrancing, rained.

Ears Beckoned by puppets with humor dry
And pipes blew keen notes deep from iron lungs.
Tents sheltered sparks that when stoked did flame high;
hymns fanned, and Dirty Harry, touch of sun.2

We hung it up, the DJ, hats, V Fest;
To bathe post days long revelry is bless't.

1. Wilde's poem alludes to that of Keats.
2. These two lines refer to the Puma stage, which was housed in a big circus tent and was where we saw Matisyahu, Fatboy Slim (who ended with a cool mash-up of the Gorrillaz song Dirty Harry and his Praise You), and Groove Armada.

Sonnet VII

Everyone keeps asking me about my internship. I just can't imagine why. At any rate, I thought I would work up to a sonnet about simplehuman with one about my daily drive to simplehuman's office in Goring-On-Thames, a cute sleepy little village in south Oxfordshire. Picturesque, certainly. Bustling metropolis, certainly not. Each day we tend to see some repeating characters whilst riding along in Brad's BMW, like the roadkill that seems quite prolific in England or the guy on his motorcycle wearing all his high visibility (aka day-glo) gear that is so popular in this country. There is a trio of silver Mercedes' that sit parked in our parking lot that are owned by the Peruvian Connection people (no joke, that is the name of their business; I guess they didn't even want to try to dispel the sketchiness). Across the street is Jan-Marie bakery where we eat often since there is not much choice. And of course, Golden Balls roundabout. Brits just seem to have a good sense of humor, don't they?

The BavarianMotorWorkotica

With morn's curtain I don my day's costume.
Our chariot alights for Goring town
And slowly characters their marks assume.
The scene is set by Golden Balls turn 'round.

The divo takes the stage on his white steed,
His high vis vest aglow in sun's bright wash.
Next Road Kill One and Two, no lines to read.
The fox and hound's direction: "Just look squash'd."

The final act takes place on quaint small paths;
The silver Benz perform our journey's taps.
Facade of Jan-Marie, who'll break our fast,
Appears as over cobblestones we clap.

The jasmine takes its bow in gentle breeze.
Thus ends the matinee; next, Zoo Story.

Sonnet V

So this timeI wanted to introduce you to where I live - the Littlemore section of Oxford. I live in St. George's Manor (pictured), which sounds fancy (and is very nice - I swear) but used to be a mental hospital. Again, I must request you refrain from the obvious quips that are probably popping into your mind right now. Not surprisingly, there is still a working mental hospital across the street. In fact, just before I got here, one night Brad was awakened by one of the residents from across the street smashing the windshields of all of the cars in our parking lot with a blunt object. When that got tiresome, he came in the propped open main door of the complex (needless to say, it isn't left propped open anymore). He happened to come right up to our flat and sat there trying to bash in the front door. Jessica slept through the whole thing. And, as a note, I have been trying to run more here so the jogging path I usually follow is the towpath along the Thames. So here is a sonnet about Littlemore. And I hope it is not perceived as flip or callous about the very serious and soul-wrenching reality of mental illness because it is not at all meant to be offensive. It is just a sort of literary trope if you will spurred by my location.

The Faerie Queene

The Manor of St. George, this title's true?
The Madness of King George a name more apt,
For sirs we have: Quixote-like he slew,
But dragons slain in vain - all have hubcaps.

The facing hospital, our manor's twin
is known for fare - try friday's fish and chips. 1
I think the fish must purr in whispers thin;
"The pub will clear your mind," declare their lips. 2

Alas, I find I too fall under spells
When jogging down the path through fields so lush.
I see the sprites - they leap across bluebells,
by cows, down streams, up locks, in golden brush.

I think one reverie upon these shores
Would drive any to dream a little more.

1. One of Jess's friends told us to go have lunch in the hospital's cafeteria on Friday for fish and chips. He said its really tasty.
2. One time Jess had rounds in the hospital and later on she saw one of the patients at the pub down the street.

Sonnet IV

This weekend involved three quite different social scenes: the play on Friday, the Army Ball on Saturday, and a dinner party on Sunday in London. All interesting and fun in different ways. So, the Army Ball entailed a trip with Jessica to Temple Herdewyke and the army base there to hang with some British officers. It was a fancy dress ball (fancy dress in the UK refers to a costume party) with the theme "Shipwrecked." We were invited by Jess's friend from uni, Nic (her nickname is Knickers. And that is called alliteration, though not a very talented example and entirely coincidental), now an officer in the army. What else can I say? It lived up to its potential for being really random. I found the best dress ever at this vintage shop; it had nothing to do with conventional shipwrecks but based on my viewing of The Tempest the night before I became inspired to make a Forbidden Planet reference with my personal theme of spaceshipwrecked. Aww yeah.... obscure Shakespeare fifties sci fi reference + random seventies-ish dress, water pistol ray gun, and sticky glow in the dark ceiling stars in hair = a damn good costume. To see more pics, click on the photo above. I would tell you all about the dinner party on Sunday but then I would have to kill you.

The Odyssey

The Army Ball approached and what to wear?
Nic's notice did not give too much detail.
The costume Knickers planned: a pirate pair.
"And could you nick syringes?" she emailed. 1

That afternoon we cycled with great haste,
Our mission quite simple for these two pros.
The vintage stores threefold did yield a clue;
The museum, the toy store: treasure troves.

At Temple Herdewyke we truly shone.
Anne Francis lost in space, my sci fi twist.
And Jess a siren freshly quit her stone,
Her song the sailors' ears could not resist.

The booty on this isle was such a draw
We both went home attached to monkey's paws.

1. Nic asked Jess to get her syringes to give a "more authentic British beach feeling" to the party decor.