In honour of his impending return (or not)...

... I give you a camp picture of Mr Lucien, gawd bless him. He loves his pets.

More updates to come...

I'm back...

...and gosh i'm tired. But the blog doesn't end here: stay tuned for updates on the trip to new york, an all star charity event, the most boring baseball game in the world, & more.

By the way, I smell bad, and my innards are in a state of turmoil, thanks to a cheese steak sub (i think)...

Drywall Dave is dead

this man's hat is older than most children

I wake up on a strange couch, the daylight streaming into my screwed shut eyes, my tongue ashen and huge in my mouth. I check my watch (still there), wallet (likewise) and kidneys (sore but present). I try opening my eyes and see a vast protuberance looming in front of me.

It's a triffid. No, wait, it's a hookah, which explains why my mouth smells of burnt roses. I check my watch: 0830. I've been asleep 3 hours. I sit up and get my bearings, and stagger down the corridor to find Mr Lucien, hoping-but-not-really to find him inflagrante delecto. No dice: he's curled up on a comfy bed [this prime sleeping spot snaffling would turn out to be a theme]. I wake him and inform him that we're going back to the hotel, to enjoy another hour's kip before we have to check. Somehow, the big man's managed to secure a 12.30 check out for us, which makes things a lot more civilised. Lucien writes a note for Kathleen, having run out of silk hankies and a small cake (these being his usual calling card when sneaking out of an alien apartment). Being no fun, he refuses to allow me to draw a tiny cock and balls on the note, this being my calling card. On we go, down in the elevator and past the contemptuous glances of various concierges, and we're away in slumber land for a few precious moments more.

We had arranged that afternoon to meet up with 'a bunch of people' at No Way Jose's at around 1400, for today was Cinco De Mayo, a Mexican holiday that they don't celebrate so the Americans do, and do so with gusto. With this in mind, we left DC at noon, a schedule that immediately but us at a disadvantage. After picking up Ethan (nicknamed Wilson... I was told why, but I've forgotten), going to Taco Bell (a long held ambition of mine. It's not an especially lofty one, but it meant that i could strike it off the list. I think my obsession with it stems from the film Demolition Man, when Nigel Hawthorne takes Stallone out to dinner in the future, and it's really fancy... Well it wasn't), getting back, showered, walking down to the light rail and walking across town, it was four o'clock, and the one guy, John, who ad turned up at two, had a hammered girlfriend to contend with. She was called Bobbie, and since that appears to be my handle over here, we formed an impromptu loose association. We had a hand signal and everything.

Notice how the mouth forms an 'o', cleverly forming 'bob'

Sadly John had to take her home shortly after this picture was taken....

At about 1930, refreshed with and tasty tacos, I got the whim that i hankered after a more authentic American drinking experience (though what could be better that appropriating another country's holiday, a la St Pat's day and then going a bit mental about the whole caper? I suppose that i hadn't considered this option, but hell, i was tired and needed somewhere where we could find a seat).

We went off looking for a place called Vinnie's or something of that ilk, but were soon enticed into a place that didn't seem to have a name, but it did have 2 inhabitants. One was a terrified looking barmaid (her first night), and a rangy broken down looking man, who turned out to be called Elaine, a 50 year old lesbian who used to work in construction. She soon taught me how to play video poker (being mindful to kick me off the machine as i neared her high score), and told some stories. Pointing to a faded tattoo of a heart on her left arm, she said, 'Dry Wall Dave gave me that 20 years ago. Still, he's dead now.'* She also beat Lucien one handed at pool, while we cheered on (me especially who had laid down $5 and given odds of 4-1 that Elaine would prevail).

This for me, was the highlight of Cinco De Mayo. I got meet a few of Mr Lucien's old high school chums, including Tony Difranco, a short Italian man who is Deputy campaign manager for a Democratic nominee for city mayor, Kiefer Mitchell. He bought some shots in a bar filled with assholes, so i decided to campaign on Kiefer's behalf; Tony gave us stickers and everything!

When we were done harassing strangers, we got some food, or as I like to call it, THE BIGGEST MOST GIGANTIC PIZZA YOU EVER SAW. I put a tenner next to it, in order to grant you some idea of scale, but it barely does it justice. Mr Lucien ate most of it. He now weighs 300 lbs.

*Apparently not

Dooder da Judas, hotel/motel Holiday Inn & hookahs

3rd May:

The day begins with general confusion and chaos. I am hungover, and Lucien is all agog because we have been done over. It all started the previous night, before the punching of eyes and general bally-hoo. We were standing in the square, and all of sudden, Mr Lucien looks uneasy, even more than normal. I ask him what's up, and he replies that he has a sudden feeling of foreboding, like something bad is about to happen. I pass it off as the usual sort of nonsense that he comes out with, and we, or at least myself, think nothing more it.

Come the next morning, there's a message from Dooder, Lucien's friend in DC, and our host for the evening. But no, it's not to be, as our spot (I hesitate to call rightful, but...) has been taken than none other than Bridget, Lucien's ex. Apparently, it's not such a good idea anymore, though Dooder does ask Lucien if he should bring Bridget to the party (Lucien's answer; a curt and righteous 'No'.)

Well, this just wouldn't do at all, we had big hopes for this party; Lucien was even going to buy a book, and I was going to try and draw pictures of genitals in it. Pfft. Then it occurs to me, that in the haze of drunken conviviality the evening before, no doubt brought on by those evil Resurrection beers that I had pledged to pay for a hotel room, fully confident in the knowledge that our accommodation was watertight.

I am such an idiot sometimes.

One Google search and two phone calls later, I had secured us lodgings at the Chevy Chase Holiday Inn, for the princely sum of $129 + tax. Still, with the favourable exchange, I could book the whole place out and not have to worry.

After booking the hotel room, we scramble as quick as we can to get to DC and catch some sights before having to go to the party. So, a mere two hours behind schedule, we were off!

One man with many wives lives here

So we high tail it to dc, takes about an hour, the highlight being this insane looking Mormon church looming over the trees like something out of the wizard of oz. There must be a lot of money in polygamy
It's about 1500 by the time we check in. We're about 5 minutes from Friendship Heights metro station, but it takes us twice that to work out the ticketing system, which asks you how much money you have and then tells you how far you can go. The metro tunnels are supported by identical concrete moulds, and the cars have a weird 1960's vibe about them, as well as carpeted floors. Which is lovely, but a touch optimistic...
We alight from the train and look to head to The Mall, which is where all the sights are (Capitol Building, Washington Monument, etc.) I confidently point out the direction, only for it to turn out to be entirely the wrong one, which we only notice about half an hour later. With me feeling suitably chastised, we hail a cab to where we're going, grab a few snaps and then head off in search of the Holocaust Museum. By the time we get there, we've got maybe an hour, which sadly isn't enough to take it all in. It's a labyrinthine building, a little hard to navigate (though maybe everyone else found it easy, it's just that Mr Lucien and I were having an off day in terms of spatial awareness). I would recommend it to anyone going to Washington, but perhaps not as a pre-party venue.

So we took the Metro back up to Chevy Chase - apparently the town precedes the '80's comedian - via a bookstore to pick up a guide to Egypt for our hostess Kathleen. A quick shower, iron and brush up later, and Mr Lucien & I were transformed into spry young gentlemen fit to grace any soiree. I was disappointed, however, when I saw that Mr Lucien had chosen not to grace the inside cover of the gift with a crudely drawn picture of genitalia, but rather with an inscription: a missed opportunity, I feel.

Holiday Inn were kind enough to provide us with an iron, so I volunteered to do our shirts, whilst Mr Lucien washed the grime of the day off in the shower. Fifteen tough minutes later, he comes out the shower and informs me that his shirt, which I had been struggling with valiantly to get the creases out of, was linen. Bah.

The party was round the corner, in a 7th floor apartment, which had great views of more apartment blocks. We were greeted by a wholesome scene of polite young Americans sitting around over drinks and nibbles. The hostess, Kathleen, whom Mr Lucien had known since college, introduced to her parents, which lead to the following exchange:

'Hello, I'm Ed Wood.'

'Edward who?'

'What?'

'Nothing'

Sigh. Anyway, Mr Wood was a devoted wine buff, and was kind enough to share his knowledge with the group, as well as his wine. I got quite tiddly... We met some lovely people, and it showed why the Americans love Tony Blair; you can get away with murder ('moidah') in this place, if you have a British accent. The party broke up around midnight, and 7 of us piled into a cab (7!) went to Buffalo Billiards. The polite young people from before had transformed into shot drinking maniacs, and when we got to the bar, it was my round. Lucien suggested 'Washington Apples', which were tasty, and a bargain at $6 each. (There are some pictures from this bit, but they're on Lucien's camera; i assure you, they're all perfectly civil...)

The American drinking experience mirrors that of the Brit. Drink 'til you can't feel feelings anymore, and then go and eat something, preferably meat based and cheap. So, we went to here. It was an incredible sight, two storeys packed full of drunkards, ploughing through acres of flesh and fries. It brought a tear to my eye, though that may have been due to chili sauce on the burger.

Mr Lucien and I were lucky enough to be invited back to the party venue, which was long deserted. Some dude called Drew turned up at 5 in the morning, hoping to get some kind of booty call before he set off to Guatemala to set up safe soccer fields for disadvantaged children. I told him that the last time I was in Guatemala, I was hunting the deadliest prey of all...Mankind. I don't think he took it too well, but I found it amusing. At that point, a someone said, 'let's get a hooker', and my ears pricked up. Sadly, it turned it to be merely a hookah, an elaborate Arabian smoking apparatus. I mused upon the trouble that homonyms can create, and the work of John Locke, and then I passed out on the couch.

'Ack! You punched me in the eye!'

May 3rd...

Once up and ready to go, we jumped in Lucien's car, which needed a bit of a boost from the cleaner (God bless you, Sue), and went across to Madeleine's school, Bryn Mawr ('Big Mountain' in Welsh, apparently). She teaches 4th grade, which is 10 year olds I think. I was to be part of Show & Tell, as the pupils were doing projects of various countries around the world. I prepared for it by quickly researching why the UK drives on the left, as well as the recipe for haggis (sheep's heart, liver and lungs, cooked in it's own stomach; as tasty as it sounds...), and was therefore able to reel off little nuggets about home. I'm not too sure if they'd want me to be an ambassador. It was a really nice experience, with 30 sets of wide eyes staring up at me and asking if I'd ever been to Guatemala... Bryn Mawr is a private school, and they'd spent their money wisely. All the kids were on Apple computers... staggering.

Everybody likes chocolate, right? Well, I got paid for the privilege, and in the process possibly violating the terms of my stay. If any immigration officers are reading this, I was coerced into it.
It all happened (like the best things do) in the Mall. I was keen to see this fine American tradition, in the place of it's birth; apparently, the guy who designed Central Park in NY also designed America's first strip mall, right here in leafy Baltimore. I had a list of things to pick up, including Ipods, football cleats and Croc flip flops, so we bounced across to Towcson Mall and started shopping. At the mall, we were accosted by a kindly gentleman, who turned out to be a black version of Willy Wonka, offering us riches and chocolate. He invited us into his den, not far from where he accosted us. Once we were seated, he soon had to nip off to get the forms for the market research we were to conduct. I had feared that i would at some point on my travels, find myself in a windowless office being interviewed, by an official, but never did it cross my mind that it might be with regards to my preferences on chocolate. I had to pretend to be 35 in order to qualify take part in the survey: I am pleased to report that Mr Lucien failed to qualify at all, and had to watch, dolefully, as I enjoyed not one, but two sample sized bars of some kind of peanutty chocolate snack. I was skilfully guided by my interrogator as the answers that his paymasters desired, and we were done in 10 minutes. I was relieved, upon reading the form that i was asked to sign at the end, that i hadn't been tricked into joining the Marines, which i hear is a tactic that they are considering employing soon. I was dispatched out of the office, but not before i picked up the sum of $2 for my thoughts. Delightful.

After that, we headed on other to a sporting goods store to try and find some cleats for me. We met up with Lucien's uncle Mike, who guided us across the road to a Mexican restaurant were two things occurred:

1. We watched him eat an incredible amount of Mexican food, with running commentary on the spiciness of the food and forecasts of what said food would do to his digestive tract in the next 12 hours.
   
2. We saw one of that fattest men that i have ever seen. I was sadly unable to get photographic evidence, but be rest assured that the man was a veritable colossus. To our untrained eyes, the man looked like he could have cleared 550 lbs. Awesome.

Later that evening, Lucien's bud Troy invited us round for drinks and nibbles before heading off for a free concert hosted by a college radio station round the corner from where he lives. Sadly as we turned up 2 hours late (which would become something of a default setting for us), we missed the concert. However, the night was still young, and we went off a few blocks away to the Brewer's Art, where a few pints of something called Resurrection were enough to nearly do me in. Troy, dressed in under armour and board shorts (which, for a 250 lb guy, was surprisingly a good look for him), and now styling himself 'T-Roy', insisted we charge into the swanky bar nearby on the 13th floor of a nearby hotel. I was to gain us entry by being British and pretending to be a concert pianist. It seemed to work, and over a pricey round of drinks we were able to gaze out on the restrained majesty of the Baltimore skyline. I couldn't really take it, having temporarily lost my sight thanks to the ale at the previous bar.

After about an hour, we hit the road, and in our efforts to get Troy and his fiancee home, I sustained an injury, where upon he punched me in the eye. Admittedly, we were grappling at the time, and it is really my fault due to my not wearing of protective goggles. Troy's lawyers have asked me to write this; America really is a rather litigious society...

Hi buddy!

'You could just draw a cock'

2nd May: So after a bacchanalian first night, I woke up at 0700 beset by fear, loathing and jet lag. We decided that we would drop into Annapolis, a short drive away and look at the pretty boats and whatnot in the harbour. However, Mr Lucien's car was dead, and despite our best efforts to charge it the previous day, it refused to budge. We elected to lounge around the house until Mrs G. got home that afternoon.

Upon reaching Annapolis, we had a little walk around, checking out the pretty harbour area, and then headed over to Pusser's bar, which despite its odd name, was in fact the hotel bar of the Marriott. We discussed our upcoming trip DC for a little walking around and then onto a the birthday party of 'Pickle Girl' (I don't really have space on how she got her nickname, but I've also forgotten her real name. Anyway, I think Mr Lucien likes her, and is intending to use me a an uber-wingman, what with me posh accent and all).

Over a plate of oysters, shrimps and calamari, we wondered what gift we could possibly get her. Pickle Girl does intend to travel, possibly to Egypt, so a guide book to there, perhaps with a nice inscription from Mr Lucien would be a thoughtful and sensitive gift. I then pointed out that we could quite easily ruin that by marking out on Post-Its the places in the book where Mr Lucien has had torrid sex with a variety of prostitutes and n'er-do-wells, with perhaps short discriptions of the partner and the act. In addition to this, instead on the inscription, he could simply draw a picture of a large penis on the inside cover: the perfect gift.

'po-dunk-a-dunk-dunk'

Blimey, what a start to the holibobs... After i finished witerring around on the blog, Lucien deigned to get up, and sprang into action. A mere hour and half later we were ready to set off, we merely had to charge up the attery in his car with a fool-proof spangly new portable battery charger, which, in fact, didn't charge it a jot, it just sat there letting out a timorous beeping and annoying me. We elected to take the train into downtown B'more instead. I packed a daysdack like any good boy scout in preparation for our adventure. After about 20 minutes hike, followed by a 30 minute train rde, we alighted at Camden Yards, by the Orioles stadium. I was starting to flag from the nefarious effects of jetlag, and needed a boost.

This was rapidly provided by the consumption of a dozen oysters washed down with a frosty beer at the Cross Street Market. Now I felt tired, but slightly drunk and horny. Mr Lucien advisedly kept his distance. We chatted with some old timers hanging out at the Oyster Bar, who used to work as stevedores on the docks. Upon finding out my nationality, one of them, after trying out his British accent cmmended on our Sceptr'd Isle's television output, specifically, 'The Last of the Summer Wine'. Bizarre.

We were in the Federal Hill district, called so after the massive Civil War era fort that used to dominate the skyline of Baltimore. Now, it's all disused cannons, joggers and ducks:

We hiked on over to Slainte, an Irish bar in Fells Point to catch the excellent advert for English football that was the Chelsea-Liverpool semi final. While the game was low in quality, the atmosphere was electric, with knowledgeable US fans, mostly donned in the red of Liverpool, bellowed abuse at the big screens. All that walking had made Mr Lucien and I peckish, so I ordered the local delicacy of a crab cake sandwich, while he had fish and chips, washed down by several Amstels (which were on offer, you see...) The bar was manned by a sweating, Irish, many-armed Hindoo god of a barkeep, who whirled like a dervish taking orders. Sitting at the bar, we were soon flecked with the sweat of his exertions, while our necks were routinely moistened by a fine mist of saliva as drunken Yanks prostested or cheered at the happenings onscreen.

Three tension filled hours later, we emerged blinking into the sunlight and elected to go to No Way Jose's, a Mexican bar (obviously) that my companion had been banging on about in the weeks leading up to my arrival here. We took hunkered down to 20 chickens wings, accompanied by $3 margaritas (I maintain that the salted rim of the glass traditionally served with this drink is to mask the taste of it, but I am -forcefully- assured that I am mistaken in this apprehension). With our tummies still rumbling, we decided to order a $20 pitcher of margaritas, which came with 4 fajitas thrown in to sweeten the deal. If we had any plans to slip off into the night to another venue, these were soon thwarted by dint of the fact that were now too corpulent to move any great distance, such was the volume of food that we had consumed.

Fortunately, we were situated with friendly people (one of whom would turn out to be an insane depressive Iranian day-trader) and the bar was staffed by the perky and effervescent Tori, an old friend of Mr Lucien's from when he used to live around the corner. She resembled one of the Williams sisters, but wth the advantage of not looking scary. She had, she said, but 2 steadfast rules in her life; 'Stay black, and die'. What a coincidence! I had the pleasure of informing her that this was my newly adopted motto, which she found amusing for some reason, as she di when I passed favourable comment on her 'po-dunk-a-dunk dunk'. It's all down to the English accent apparently.

Admire my new chins/ This man was in 'Homicide'

Airplane updates

Oh ,yeah, 2 quick things...

1. I had the perfect companion for the flight: a guy who didn't speak much English and kept wordlessly feeding me chewing gum. We're engaged to be married in the Autumn.

2. I snapped the plug off another headphone cord. I was, suffice to say, peeved.

I'm away now to wake up Lucien by throwing books at him. Knowledge is power.

This is Weinski the cat, who not only scratched me, but rudely awoke me form my slumbers: though English in origin, she appears to having taken inspiration from Baltimore's most famous literary son, E.A. Poe, and turned into a nefarious hell-cat

Well, we're here. I'm in Baltimore, the city with highest incidence of syphilis and heroin dependency in the US, as well as the third highest murder rate. So, in many ways, it's just like Norwich. The city has a social marketing campaign entitled 'Believe', where the phrase is emblazoned upon billboards, buses and trash cans. This is presumably meant to assuage the drug taking and murdering. I wish them luck...

It's 830 local time, and I've been up for 2 hours, having been bundled awake by Weinski the cat and Lucy the dog. Nothing like a smackdown with the Giordano menagerie to kick start your day. I'm staying here, in a lovely leafy neighbourhood with Lucien's lovely parents Joe and Madeleine (who sadly has no myspace to link to), on a comfy air bed in the same room as Lucien who SNORES LIKE A CONCERTED AND DEDICATED DEFORESTATION PROGRAM (I'm typing this on Lucien's computer, hoping to wake him up, but no avail, apparently he sleeps the sleep of the righteous).

We have a relaxed day ahead of us, popping d to the city, maybe find a bar that's showing Chelsea-Liverpool. While my companion slumbers, I shall spend the morning practicing sounding more British, dropping words such as 'crikey', 'blimey' & 'buggeration' into the conversation. This in turn will encourage strangers to buy me drinks and show me their scars. When they tire of this, I shall roll out my Simon Cowell impression, who is apparently very popular over here. With my jeans hoisted up to near-nipple level, I shall spout disdain at my fellows, and the lap up the applause and resultant additional drinks.
Ta-ta for now...

0930 district line

Loads of (well, two) women doing their make up on a train so bumpy that it's hard to type this. I applaud them for their skill and dexterity, yet gently chide them for looking a bit slack.

travelog no.1

Travel log 1600/30/04/07

The journey begins poorly: the train is disrupted due to engineering, and terminates in whitham, rather than London, meaning I've got to take a coach, adding 45 minutes to the journey. The train carriage is populated with people whom normally wouldn't bother me, but having fallen back into a state of nicotine dependence, set me on edge. Wittering phone users, cooing couples and (admittedly muted) children who simply irritate me to look at.

Additionally, on the way back from a grubby toilet, I catch the cord to my spangly new headphones & rip the plug off. They're salvageable with the purchase of a new cord, but that's going to be hella irritating tomorrow morning... EDIT: a quick call to my brother establishes that he has such a cord at his residence, and that he will permit me to use it. Huzzah! Family connections finally pay off!

The point of all this strange, dry prose above is to mask my mild yet palpable nervousness. For some reason, I've a fear that I won't be accorded entry to the US: maybe it's got something to something to do with a recent episode of Boston Legal that I watched this week where the Shatner character mistakenly gets placed on the No-Fly List. Shatner has taught us many valuable lessons through the medium of television, and should be heeded.

1630

Now on a bus sparsely populated with fellow refugee travellers. I'm not saying it's like Darfur, but the fact remains that we are peoples displaced by the whims of those in power, i.e. whatever faceless bureaucrat that decides to carry out works on the track every Sunday.

The coach is driven by an ugly lady driver. How come, air stewardesses aside, one never sees attractive females working in the employ of public transport? There should be some kind of benchmark overseen by a committee made up of publicly appointed officials. Though thinking about it, they'd probably botch it as they have the railways. Mind you, I have sympathy for our half troll chauffeur, as she was accused of breaking the law by an irate motorist stuck behind the convoy of four coaches parked by the rail station. The confrontation was brief and relatively mild, but none the less contributed to my general sensation of unease. I am wearing my seat belt, and rapidly growing weary of the talkative Japanese couple seated near me. Today, hell is other people, and I miss my noise cancelling headphones more than ever...

Arrival at camp w/ droogs