Alexandra is Nine!

Nine years ago, the universe bestowed upon me that most pleasurable of life’s challenges—a daughter. I use my little space today to wish her happiness on this anniversary of her arrival on the planet.





Today she is nine.



Alex is beautiful and bright.
Fiery and funny. Complex and Cuddly.

Revels in attention,
Yet shy when she notices she’s been noticed.


Alex is activist and active.
Weird and wild. Interested and interesting.

Winces (whines) at injustice,
But occasionally incorrect about cause or intent.


She negotiates every judgement, and doggedly seeks answers to her questions.

All of them.

She loves music, she loves animals, she loves books, she loves us.
And we love her.

So, The Great Pontificator(?), Orator, Ego-Aggrandizer Returns

But, was what he’s got say worth the wait? Hardly. To what do I attribute my absence from the blog-o-sphere? Afterall, I have been peppered, reproached, and aye even stung by criticism for taking such a long hiatus (sounds so much more important that way, doesn’t it?) between missives. Folks were reading my feeble prose-droppings. For that I both apologize and thank you. While it was more than simple laziness on my part as I will explain in a moment, the truth-be-told, I let it go for too long.

In the past I have attributed this to my work here in England, and that still holds. However, I have had a lingering, now festering (figuratively, not literally) medical issue that has, for lack of a better word, depressed me. I usually find my own depression weak (although I am understanding of it in others) since, “it just isn’t Tom(B), you know?” It is nearly not possible in my own coding to be down for too long. Viki gets to see this (bless her) but not too many others.

But, a bit down I’ve been. Subsequent to this, I find the time that I might have spent writing my dribs & drabs with the vain hope of my own and others’ amusement--is instead spent throwing myself on the sofa (read: TV) or even to bed a bit earlier than normal to just read a book or listen to the baseball game. (A technological miracle allows me to listen the Chicago Radio Broadcast of the White Sox on AM 670 The Score via the internet. Of course due to the Sox games being played mostly at night [i.e. 1 AM or so for me in the UK] I must listen to the previous day’s game and make a heroic attempt to not look at the final score. I’ve done it, it works.)

It’s not the sort of “being down” that anyone need concern themselves with. It’s not that kind of depressed. The fact is, I have a joint/muscle problem in my legs/hips, and I am just exhausted at the end of the day. It’s the being tired and sore bit that frustrates me. So, no bloggy-tommy, for the last few (8) months.

Honestly, whenever I got the time to sit and think about it, something else would happen—then I’d end up going to sleep or something ridiculous like that.

But now, I'm gettin' all that "fixed" and find myself feeling...anticipatory.

Anyway…my blog is back up and to help the process out, I have new entry which you can see below.

Thanks for everyone who has been asking about it. It does one’s heart good.
--tomb

Be less like the Morlocks. Come up above ground!

(MORLOCKS, For those not in the know.)

Today, I realized that I did not have a map. I did not have a guide. I did not have any reference material whatsoever, beside that which was either in my head or quickly read on the wall as I passed by.

I had the London Underground memorized! The Tube network lay before me like vast plain of opportunities. No longer need I squint at little bit of folded paper, or stand at a poster for minute upon minute tracing my route. At the very least, I have developed enough confidence in the system to know that it will pretty much get me anywhere I need to go. I hop from station to station, line to line, and pop up of out the ground like an eager little mole (did you want me to say 'beaver?'). I even have the national rail system licked. Wanna go to Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool, Glasgow? Get to London Euston Station, take a Virgin Train. Wanna go to Nottingham, Newcastle, Yorkshire, etc.? Go to St. Pancras Station, take an East Anglia Train. (OK, I know there are “train-geeks” out there that will point out there are many, many other options for doing the above, and there are also many other stations to use, destinations, etc. I am just making point. Geezo!)

Recently, (let's say today…) I had to take a train up to Birmingham for business-stuff. It was on this trip that I made my realization. I simply bought a ticket and pretty much blindly (unconsciously) worked my way into London, got to Euston Station, and waited for my departure. I then woke up to the fact of how I actually got there. Basking in my new found euphoria at my London Underground skill and having spare time before departure, I stepped outside the station to get a coffee. (Yes, I could’ve had coffee inside the station but I knew there was better coffee outside. Nyah.) In my confidence-inspired bliss, I wandered outside to my coffee shop.

Then I looked around.

Then it all came crashing down upon me, like so much air explosively departing a popped balloon (read: my ego).

IS THIS ALL I REALLY KNOW?

I realized, much to my disappointment that I had no idea where anything really was ABOVE GROUND! I have no true understanding of where any of the tube stops or train stations really are—physically. I couldn’t walk from one to the other. I couldn’t wander two blocks from my coffee place and figure out where I was. (yes, I could walk backwards, duh.) Even as I travel in/out of the National rail stations on main line trains, I only see tracks. I don’t really know where Euston Station is in London, other than: “It’s a stop on the Northern Line. I can get there from Liverpool Street station, by taking the Circle or Hammersmith & City line west Moorgate, or just get of at Euston Square and walk down the street one block.” I only know that Kings Cross-St. Pancras Station is a bit south from Euston because I have to pass it on the Northern Line Underground.

I do not “know” London afterall. Oh sure, I have a few favourite haunts. The area immediately around London Bridge Tube Stop is home to approx. 6 of my 'best-pubs' (and one really good kebab-shop). Of course, I also am very familiar with the area around Liverpool Street Station as I take visitors on my “there-were-other-serial-murderers-besides-jack-the-ripper-walking-tour”. AND who isn’t familiar with the whole area around the Westminster Tube Stop? You’ve got Parliament, Westminster Abbey, the bridge, the Eye, etc. But that’s all I know, really. Everywhere else I go, I just crawl out of the ground at the Tube Station, emerge blinking into the light of the world of London-Above-Ground and look for the address of my intended destination. Usually, it’s pretty near whatever Tube Line I took. Convenient, yes, but not good for actually seeing the city around me.

I think need to spend more time above ground. I have got to walk around the city a bit more outside of the touristy areas and my favourite pub-crawls. London is a big city.

I am sure it is a wonderful place.

--tomb

National Hosiery Obsession

For those of you that know me personally, in the non-blog-world (Real World? Wow, I hesitate to use that moniker), you know that for the last few years I have going to the health club/gym and working out either at lunch time or mornings during the work week. Turns out, that this has been a real positive change in my life and I actually have become quite addicted to my workout. Never expected that, when I think about it. Mind you, this doesn’t necessarily mean I am any less of a fat-ass or significantly healthier, but the possibility is there at the very least. I do feel better overall when I work out…I guess that is all that matters.

So, being addicted to my new quasi-athletic hobby, as well as the prospect of having “big guns” and wearing tight T-Shirts for the Ladies— I sought out a Health Club near my office so I could continue my daily routine of self-abuse (a.k.a exercise) upon my move to the UK.

I found it, right on the far side of the Car Park from the office. Good location, nice staff, good equipment, free newspaper, all-in-all quite good. Fitness First. That is why I was so surprised when I noticed all the bits of black…crud…clumps…all over the floor of the men’s locker room and shower area. I couldn’t imagine what it was, perhaps mold or some sort of bizarre English fungus? Then I finally figured it out, only after I noticed on my own feet!! My gods, it’s on me…get it off!

It is lint. Yes. Lint.

The people in this country are so obsessed with BLACK SOCKS or, more accurately are so ANTI-WHITE-SOCK that the locker room is constantly covered in the lint sloughing off the feet of hundreds of black-stockinged-males. Some of them even wear dark coloured athletic socks to work out. They simply can not deal with white socks. I have no idea why.

I am an outsider here, I admit it. But, to constantly wear dark socks just seems too strange. Some will even go so far as to wear dark colours with white trainers. (Trainers = “athletic shoes” for those of you not from this small island.) It doesn’t get much goofier than that.

Next, I started to notice the black lint EVERYWHERE …in the shoe store, on the carpet at the office, drifts of it along the rails of my pub, even in my own house…next to my bed…little tumbleweeds of black sock lint. Aaaiiieee!!

I am starting a campaign. I am slowly going to introduce people here to white socks. Athletic socks, at first…but then over time, show them that they can be quite “tasteful” with converse all-star high tops (which are oddly very popular here), or very comfy on a cold winter night

The Brits don’t change too easily, though. I expect limited success. I will keep you posted.

--tomb

PS: for you long-time readers of my blog…I have an answer to the question that may have been plaguing some of you since the very birth of the blog.

It was a feather.

How it got there? I can only guess it came from my pillow. Likely, it would have been there all day too, if I had not looked in the mirror and noticed that my lower eyelashes seemed weirdly white. It didn’t hurt. Dug it out with a kleenex.

--t

Aye, a Pox be on Ye!

Before my kids were allowed in school back in the states, the school district asked if they had ever had the chicken pox. Since they had not, the school said, “Get them vaccinated.” So we did. The Doctor, who was a really nice guy, checked to see if the parents needed it too. Well—Mommy had them as a child, so did not need it…Daddy on the other hand, had never had them.

“BUT, no!” I said rather stupidly, now that I look at it in hindsight. “I will not need the vaccine! I must be immune! I must have some mysterious powers against it! I have been exposed many times as a child and as adult. Never got’em. My own parents took me to play with friends who had open sores. Never got’em. I was dating a girl in high school who had them at the time. Never got‘em. Goodness-me, if I get that vaccine, I may actually be putting myself at risk for something else! Away with you and your quackery! Be gone, and practice your craft upon another. “

So, of course, last week I got‘em. I had the chicken pox.

I was out of work for the week, quarantined from the office because I had the chicken pox. Whoa…back up, there…It was not really the mini-holiday that you might think it to be.

First, as I have mentioned previously, I actually work hard here. So being out of the office, unplanned, caused some issues. I made all possible attempts to work from home, using all the facilities that modern technology and 21st century living could provide. However, mobile phones and wireless networked laptop in my bedroom can only take one so far productivity-wise.

Second, I couldn’t really leave the house because I looked like a leper. Really. It’s not like I could pop down to the coffee shop, or bakery, etc. I had many spots my face and neck and was quite monstrous. Plus there was that “ethical voice” inside my head (OK, it was Viki) saying, “No, you can’t go to Starbucks, you’ll infect others, blah, blah, blah…”

Third, when one hears about chicken pox symptoms, calamine lotion, itching misery, etc. come immediately to mind. But none of that happened. Sure, I had lots of spots, that did indeed “scab-over” which was oh-so-very attractive. But, never itched, never scratched, was never uncomfortable…what they don’t tell you is: you get really, really sleepy. I was tired all the time. The first 2 days of my confinement, I slept something like 18 hours a day. Again, to some of you this may sound inviting even restful. To that I say, “Try it.” It gets annoying after awhile.

Fourth, the daytime is quite awful for watching anything on the TV, especially here in the UK. At any given moment I had my choice of shows about:

• buying a home
• selling a home
• fixing up a home to pawn off on someone else
• decorating a home
• gardening around the home
• cooking at home
• composting at home
• redecorating your soon-to-be-former-best-friend’s home while they redecorate your home
• finding junk to sell in your home
• buying other people’s junk for your home
• And...Star Trek. (All forms of Star Trek are on here several times during the day--OS, NG, DS9, Voyager, and even Enterprise.)

I should have taken the vaccine.

--tomb

Pub Culture. Something to Cherish.

It’s not a bar, or a club. Those exist here, true…but I am a talking about “the Pub”. The English Public House Tradition is one not to be taken lightly or for granted, even though it is quite easy to do so. After all, they’re fun, relaxing places to go have a drink and enjoy a bit of life.

Find one you feel comfortable in. I can’t define the process any further than that, except to say, when you have found your “local”, you will just feel it. I have such a place down the road from my house here. As an American living in the UK, I tried several of the local places before I felt at home. Down the road from me are FOUR pubs. All within stumbling distance from home. I did have some choice in the matter. I can now be found on a regular basis at Ye Olde Green Dragon. It is a clubhouse/Masonic Lodge/ locker room/and political forum all rolled into one 187-year-old building.

There are a variety of resources on the net about Pubs and pub-psychology and pub-culture. Try some of these:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Public_house

http://www.pubs.com/pub_history.cfm


http://www.sirc.org/publik/pub.html



But what I wanted to share with you was the importance of the pint and inspiration to converse that comes with sitting in the pub. The pint is the fundamental unit of the pub, but more importantly it is the vehicle of communication and bonding amongst the pub-goers. Ordering a pint is the start of talk with the barman. Discussing the attributes of various offerings on the draught can lead down endless roads of debate. The exact size of EVERY PINT SOLD is the subject of British Law. It is that important. NO foam, No fizziness. That is against the rules. Treat yourself to a pint of hand-pumped English Bitter. It will come to you filled completely to the top. It is incumbent upon you to take the first sip without spilling. Drippage is bad-form, old boy. If imbibed properly, the foam will appear actually as you drink down your pint. In fact, if done just right, you will see a seductive lace-garter of delicate ale-foam drift gently down the empty upper half of your glass…only to come to rest on the satin pillow-top of the remaining liquid.

Now I am thirsty.


Sitting in the pub, you can silently reflect on life if you like. But after about 10 minutes of that, somebody is going to talk you. It is a place of conversation. It happens spontaneously more so here, than anywhere else possible in British society. These are reserved people, mate. The tube is silent, the parks are quiet, the shopping malls civilized. But, on any given evening the pub is bursting with noise.

One other interesting fact I will leave you with…one that inspired me to write this entry in the first place. Pubs allow children in, if they are accompanied, don’t sit at the bar and behave themselves. I have taken my four-year-old son to the pub for a little “Daddy and Max” time. Max had never seen a pub before, but when he got inside, he sat right down, had a coke, some chips, and watched football with me. He was quiet and happy.

Then he turned to me and said, “Dad, people talk to each other here.” I said, “Yes, that’s one of the reasons they come here.”

Max asked, “Are you supposed to talk about important stuff when you come here?”

“You could. Some do.” I said.

“OK. Because this reminds me I have something important to tell you Dad.”

I am intrigued at this. “Sure go, ahead. What is it?”

Max thought for a moment and elaborated. “I saw on TV that putting butter on your food is bad and it makes you die. I saw you put butter on your toast yesterday, and I think you shouldn’t do that because you will die. Why would you do that if you die from it?”

“Did Mommy put you up to this?”

“No, I just wanted to tell you because you took me to the pub and this is where we talk.”

That day, I think Max became a bit more British than American. Partly because of his stance on dairy saturated fats, but mostly because he found his pub too.

(I still put butter on my toast, but not so much.)

--tomb

Mea Culpa. (Like you didn't know THAT was coming.)

Well, gentle readers…when last I submitted something minor for your approval, it came almost immediately after a previous submission. A mere four days had passed and BAM! –Two entries from Tommy. A veritable ROLL I was on, indeed. However, I then let a month slip by. Rested upon my figurative and literal laurels, I did. As a result of August’s blogging, I even received some wonderful contact from distant cousins of mine (on my mother’s father’s side of the family down in Tennessee, for those of you keeping score) that I have yet to respond to. I feel irresponsible and rude. Apologies are forthcoming, this I swear.

What to say that would explain my lapse?

Quite frankly, I work much harder here than I ever have before. Period, full-stop, end of sentence… I use to have quite a bit of F—ing around time of my own creation back in the states. The job was easy, I was good at it, and I was comfy--Perhaps too comfy. Here, the work is great, I love the job, but I am facing a great challenge. One that I will succeed at, mind you. I am quite good at what I do, but…my available time is no longer what it used to be.

(When I think of all the time I used to have back in Chicago to read the internet news and catch up with personal matters in the late afternoons and early evenings. Oh, the salad-days, my friends, salad-days indeed!)

I have had some great things happen here, with the ol’ career…but it sucks up vast amounts of my time and energy reserves. I give most of what’s left to Viki and the kids, who deserve it after being dragged around the world with me. (By the way, the family seems to be taking quite well to the UK. Viki has been out with other “Mums” four times this week. My kids have joined the local drama school and trampoline clubs, and have been to a variety of birthday parties since school has started. Don’t feel TOO bad for them. They are doing fine!)

Oh, and we went to Paris, as can be seen below. So that took up a bunch of time too.

I do (as usual) want to thank everyone who has been writing to me publicly and privately encouraging me to get back to work on the blog. I had no idea there were so many of you. (Even after the LAST time I took a big giant break from the blog.)

Successes at work have allowed me a certain rhythm. With that rhythm comes a bit more time to dedicate to my written pursuits.

Two entries this weekend, gang. It’s a promise I can make because I already have the second one written.

--tomb