How do I always find myself in the same hostel coffee house in London wired on caffeine writing deadjournals? Oh, right, I like the familiar.

-Dreamt last night I had my own fancy office. Alex came to visit. He had a shaved head and had gone from anorexic to muscular. (cause: ponderances of very muscle-y people and whether or not anyone from high school will look like that. also, lots of people in england/ireland have shaved heads)
-Running around Irish cliffs and being charged by cows
-Following a ram and ewe in the Irish hills for 20 minutes, constantly wondering if the ram (who kept stopping, turning around, and staring me down) was going to charge)
-Two german Steph variants (“You want the spaghettis?” is the cutest question ever)
-Lent being over so I can over indulge on coffee
-I am back in London which is far easier to deal with than beautiful scenery when you are gripped with whateverness
-Agh 10 seconds so much has happened I COME HOME IN LESS THAN A MONTH

-Here I am sitting in that same cafe as always, sipping free tea. A short time ago I was at a Border's sipping Starbucks and reading Adrian Tomine's Scrapbook (It's a graphic novel/I'm a suck weasel), and before that I was across the street at Foyle's (another bookstore) in “the Cafe” sipping organic fruit juice and eating quiche. A book I read recently called watching the English used the phrase “knit your own tofu” in regards to a liberal stereotype. I immediately thought of Amber, who I do not know well.

A while back Mandy posted pictures of Banksy's work. His stencil of a little girl with a heart shaped balloon is a five minute walk from here. As is the site of the first, actual, original Globe (and the Rose). There's also the Southwark Cathedral, The Borough Market, The… you get the idea. I love England. In Brookings I am a five minute walk from… the high school.

Today I straddled the Prime Meridian. I have a thing for big, imaginary lines representing zero. Greenwich is a pretty swell place, not at all mean. I had a good time, but was somewhat bored by the Maritime museum.

All those arty queers out there should probably go see Tarnation, but art films have a way of avoiding the midwest… so good luck. It features a soundtrack with a lot of Low, not to mention a Magnetic Fields song or two. It's a self portrait documentary of Johnaton (the filmmaker) about his crazy mother Renee. In high school Jon and his boyfriend Mike directed a musical version of Blue Velvet.

I saw this in a fancy theatre with only one other person in Notting Hill this afternoon. Sadly, the other person was not Hugh Grant.

I am going to miss being able to see independent films when they come out. On that note, the director of Storytelling and Happiness will soon be bringing out Palindromes which looks equally amazing.

I am a character in Adrian Tomine's sketchbook… as are many naked asian women (to that effect, perhaps I am a character in Tucker's sketchbook too).

London makes me feel good. Good enough to spend money. Ooh la la. Two more nights until Birmingham, then three weeks until home. Super perfundo on the early eve of your day and such.

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