The Buck starts here…

There is a nuclear power plant about 10 miles from where I live. It has 2 huge chimneys which constatly exude gas of some kind, and you can see it for miles around. 20 minutes ago when I was walking home from my weekly seminar, the noise began. It started quite quietly but swiftly began to get louder. The birds stoped singing. It was a low droning sound with a quality I would describe as apocalyptic if i was feeling particularly dramatic. Let’s go with foreboding instead. I looked around me, but there was nobody in sight. A car shot past. Were they escaping to a nearby bunker? I started to think about all the alien invasion movies I’ve seen over the years. There’s always a heroic figure like Jeff Goldblum. I could be the Jeff Goldblum of Pennsylvania. I started to think about all the post-apocalyptic movies I’ve seen over the years. There’s always a lovable rogue like Kevin Costner. I could be the Kevin Costner of Chester County.

My pace quickened as I came closer to my house. Was anybody else hearing this? Had they already been abducted? Would a nuclear meltdown be a precursor of an indian summer? I shouted for Sabine, my housemate, as I entered the building. Perhaps her head would have turned green. Perhaps mine already had and she would scream in alarm. She appeared through a doorway. She didn’t look any greener than usual. Maybe there’s a bunker in the house I dont know about. Maybe there’s a playstation down there. Maybe it’s all going to be ok.

It’s all going to be ok. It was a monthly drill. The music of meltdown happens every month. I will live to eat another enchilada. I will live to see Tottenham lift the Champions league. I may live to be Kevin Costner…

The more eagle-eyed amongst you may have noticed that my most recent post has vanished. It involved Gartie the Garter snake who lives around my house, and Ratty the Rat who is now sadly no longer with us. Due to a server error at my blog host, Their stories are now erased from history. I have posted some symbolic pictures below.

I was sitting at this very computer preparing to begin my regular evening ritual of reading the following days British newspaper. Then some friends popped round to see if I fancied going out for a drink. How could I prioritise the battles of Blair over the pints of Pennsylvania?

The car almost full, we stopped outside aother house, called “Emerson” to pick up Benjmain, who had gone in there to borrow some mone from his brother. As our car came to a halt, the fire alarms started. I went into Emerson, and headed immediately for the basement, where the community’s pottery studio was located. Perhaps the kiln had overheated? One of Emerson’s coworkers, Mia, was standing by the control unit trying to shut off the alarm. Benjamin appeared from behind me, and showed me the source. He had come in to a darkened basement and reached for a light switch. Or what he thought was a light switch…we found a screwdriver and managed to reset the alarm manually. Anyway the really surreal (perhaps scary is a more apt word) part of this whole event was that despite nearly 5 minutes of loud noise and an occasional flashing blue light, only 2 of the students in the house had actually left their rooms…

…A couple of hours later and we were stopping at the “Wawa” gas station to grab a bite to eat on the way home. There was a large sandwich counter, and a young dude with an exceptionally fuzzy moustache manning it. I decided that it was a good time for my first Philly cheesesteak. I know, I know. I should have waited until I could sample the real deal from one of the joints in Italian south Philadelphia. But I was hungry. And my stomach is a persuasive organ.

I asked Fuzzy for my sandwich and he pointed me to a touch-screen computer in front of the counter. I started pushing buttons, making choices. Then out came a printout of my order and Fuzzy got to work. Now I have no problem with technology where it’s appropriate. But there was me and there was Fuzzy and there was not another soul within 30 feet of the sandwich counter. Could he not have just taken my order, as sandwich makers have taken orders from hungry consumers since first the Earl of Sandwich did create this culinary delight? Has society really got to the point where interacting with a computer in a gas station is preferable to actually talking to a human being? And is the Wawa computer a friendly machine to talk to? Fuck no! It’s mean. It asked me if I wanted sauteed onions on my cheesesteak and offered “no” as the only response. Now I’ve never eaten a cheesteak before. How would I know that they sometimes come with sauteed onions? Well that arse of a computer saw fit to let me know exactly what I was missing. No explanation. No little message saying: “There are no sauteed onions tonight because Fuzzy is a lazy git who never got round to making them.” Nothing.

As it goes, my cheesesteak was rather tasty. And Emerson didn’t burn down. So a good night all in all.

American deli’s know the key to a sandwich lovers heart. Not only do they stack ‘em thick, and cut ‘em slick, but it’s all served on a bread roll they call the ‘hero”!! There’s no greater sandwich-related feeling than sinking your gnashers into a roll that’s more heroic than Superman doing charity work. And you can look at the food in your hand and tell it that it’s your hero without speaking symbolically. And what’s best of all is that I’ve saved half for my dinner!

And because great things congregate together, just a brief stroll from what may be the greatest deli on earth (appropriately named “Garden of Eden”) is a garden of a very different kind, one that may turn out to be one of my favourite places to hang out in New York: The doggy enclosure, where cute canines come to meet old pals, make new ones, run around breathlessly after balls, sniff other kinds of balls, and generally have a great time. One bitch was getting rather a lot of attention from some of the guys. She turned them all down though, perhaps preferring the regulars from another enclosure further uptown. You’ve gotta admire it when a chihuahua tries to shag a doberman. THAT takes balls! A rather dopey looking basset hound followed his leisurely crap on the ground by trying to shovel the dirt over his product, and missing it by at least 3 feet. A golden retriever stood on his back legs for a dance with his owner, before going back on all fours to be chased by a vigorous white dog of unknown breed.

And now after a brief subway ride, I’m back at my girlfriend Jane’s apartment in Brooklyn. And it’s sandwich time. Some of those dogs sniffed hopefully at my sandwich. But they’re gonna have to stick to pedigree chum. This baby’s all mine!

I should have been halfway to America by now. A few glorious days in the New York summer with my wonderful girlfriend Jane, and then off to rural Pennsylvania to live & work as a volunteer for a year. Instead, today sees me in drizzling downtown Dublin, with 1 half-hearted nights sleep in an airport behind me, and another looming ahead. As is basically always the case with these shenanigans, the whole bloody farce is my fault. In a misguided effort at saving money (which I may – barely – do), I booked my flight to New York from Dublin, via Heathrow. “Ah” people would say when they heard of this idea, “so you’ll be skipping the 1st leg and just getting on the plane at Heathrow.” Och, if it were only so simple. A remarkably silly airline rule forbids you from doing this. So I had to get a cheap flight to Dublin, fly back to Heathrow, and then get on the plane to JFK. All well in theory, and only adding 3 or 4 hours to my day. Then it dawned on me that there wouldn’t be enough time in Dublin to move my bags across. Thus I put back my flight and have a whole day in the capital of the emerald isle. At this point, I feel I must share with you a favourite joke of John, an Irish pal of mine: “Why is Ireland’s capital the biggest in the world?” “Because it keeps on Dublin and Dublin.”
I emerged from the airport bleary-eyed and reclothed in hastily grabbed winter clothes from my suitcase, a piece of pie in my hand. This will be the last piece of my mother’s food I will eat all year, so I enjoyed it accordingly, and made an appropriate amount of mess. Walking the streets of the city in search of a coffee/couch combo I spotted a sign advertising “free stress tests”. Investigating slightly closer, I realised that this was a Scientology thing. I’ve seen similar offers for stress tests in Brighton, but never really thought about taking one. To be frank, most of my knowledge of Scientology comes from South Park, which isn’t overly sympathtic to it. So I rang the bell and went in. A young, friendly Irish fella greeted me and I sat down. He brought out a strange looking red box with dials on the front. Two cords came out of the box and they were attached to 2 hollow metal cylinders, which he instructed me to hold. I asked him how the machine worked, and he explained that our minds are outside our brains and that pictures from our past kindof float on the outside of our bodies. When you summon up an image that causes you stress, there is a noticeable difference in the electric output coming out your body, as shown on the dial. So far, so odd. He asked me to think about people I knew, about my new job, my old job, my girlfriend, my family. I did so. We did this for maybe 2 minutes. Then he told me that I didn’t seem stressed at all. “Whatever you’re doing, keep on doing it.” He said. He didn’t once mention Scientology. He didn’t offer me leaflets or tell me I needed to invest lots of money in a self-help program. I sat and waited for him to try and proselytise me. He never did. I thanked him for his time and left.
And now it’s time to leave this internet cafe and explore Dublin a bit more. Maybe even shoot on over to the Guinness factory for a pint of the black stuff.

Peace,

Bucky.

Now even the clumsiest pisshead can be Wayne Rooney….

These pictures were taken last night at an enormous pyrotechnic show – part of the Brighton Festival. Tens of thousands of people came to Preston Park to see Groupe F: the people responsible for the millenium celebrations in Paris, and the opening ceremony of the Athens Olympics. The most awe-inspiring section (as hazily depicted in the 2nd photo here) featured a man in a suit covered in lights dancing around a massive inflatable world. Spectacular.

I am sitting in a park in Brighton. I am minding my own business. I am reading the newspaper. The serious bits, not the sports. I can hear rustling in the bushes. I attribute it to the scurrying of small mammals. Then I hear a loud squeak. I turn to see something rolling down the slope towards me. At first I think it may be a mouse. It is not a mouse. It is a frog. I look up to where this frog’s short roll began. A squirrel is sitting there. I poke the frog with my foot. It does not move. It’s eyes are open. But it is dead. The squirrel has killed the frog. I wasn’t even aware they were in the same food chain. But I have heard the squeak of death.
I start to walk home. A cliche happens. A dog is barking furiously at a postman. Is it the red bag that sets them off? Who can tell..

The adoption by a country of a “national” animal is a strange business indeed. Whilst Australia has plumped for the fairly prevalent kangaroo, and Nepal has the ubiquitous cow, the constituent nations of the United Kingdom have chosen to be a little more adventurous. Wales have opted for the dragon. Not just any old dragon mind you, but the Red Dragon. If you’re going to go mythical, why not be specific. Scotland have gone even further off the scale with the unicorn. Unicorns dont exist. They never have and, barring an exceptional feat of equestrian cosmetic surgery, they never will. So the small Scottish childs request to see her national animal is referred to the picture books. The English animal, however is viewable in a zoo, and as part of a trio upon the shirts of the football faithful: The Lion.

Whilst the Lion may be the official numero uno, it is the red squirrel that takes the ye olde england nostalgia gong. Tis a sad tale. About 100 years ago, England (and indeed the whole of Britain) was home to lots of red squirrels. They squirreled about doing delightful squirrely things and eating lots of nuts. Then somebody imported a load of grey squirrels from the USA and they have been gradually eating the native reds out of tree and bush. Anyway, my point is I’ve never actually seen a red squirrel. And they may be extinct before I ever get around to it. How wonderful it was therefore to see one of their grey cousins entertaining tens of millions of people around the world last night…

I had gone to the Franklin Tavern to meet my friend Henry and watch Arsenal vs Villareal in the European Cup semi-final. Aside from the big picture of him on the outside wall, any references to Benjamin Franklin had been erased in the pubs move to chain-dom. On the whole I hate chain pubs. The decor is bland, the atmosphere shite, and some stupid management directive means that the staff have to remove the drip trays in an effort to save about 30p in spillage over the course of an evening. On the flip side – big TV’s and very cheap beer, especially by Brighton standards.

The game had barely got underway when a 23rd player took took to the pitch…

Players and fans alike stopped to marvel at his speed and off-the-ball style. The ref looked baffled. Should he show this young intruder the red card? Was there a dedicated team of squirrel catchers amongst the Highbury stewards? The squirrel eventually left of his own volition, possibly to hitchhike to Birmingham where a far more exciting match was in progress. But the drama had not yet passed. The Squirrel, seemingly with no tree to climb and no nut to crack, made an encore appearance to the cheers of the crowd. Speculation was rife withing the Franklin’s walls – and, I would suspect, across the globe – as to what would happen if he scored a goal. Would it count? More macabre possibilities involving squashing and posts were also raised, but I shall not lower the tone by discussing them here..

Homeward bound I bounded to seek out a footnote to this delightful tale. My housemates had obliged. Here is my plea to humanity: Let us make a switch. Save the red squirrel, and the grey squirrel, and in fact all animals faced with extinction, eviction and 15 minutes of fame. Instead let us all combine to eradicate this planet of bicarbonate of soda flavoured toothpaste. It is just wrong.