30 October, 2005 | 2 Comments

Back in August, before I left Boston, I mailed seven heavy boxes of books to London. These were my favourite books, culled from a rather large collection. I could only afford to send the boxes via M-bag, which meant they’d be shipped by sea and arrive within four to six weeks. I honestly never expected all of the boxes to arrive. It pained me to part with them at my local Massachusetts post office.

Four weeks later, three of the boxes turned up on my London doorstep. Then NOTHING for weeks. I thought my fears were confirmed (because who really has faith in any government agency?) but then lo and behold, this past week the remaining four boxes arrived, battered and bruised. To my surprise, the books inside the tattered boxes were in perfect condition.

27 October, 2005 | 4 Comments

English majors, brace yourselves! Charles Dickens’s doorstop classic Bleak House has been lavishly adapted for BBC One. The first instalment of FIFTEEN episodes airs tonight. After the hour-long debut, the drama will be shown in 30-minute increments spread out over the next seven weeks. Crikey! The BBC is hoping viewers will get hooked on the soap opera format, which mirrors the way the novel was originally serialized. Dickens published Bleak House in nineteen separate instalments, each one ending with a cliff-hanger to keep ye olde Victorians hungry for more.

Andrew Davies, who wrote the screenplay for the beloved adaptation of Pride and Prejudice starring Colin Firth, is the evil genius behind the Dickens extravaganza. He also adapted Bridget Jones’s Diary, but we can’t hold that against him – I’m sure he was hard up for cash or forced at gunpoint. Anyway, the cast of practically thousands features Agent Scully, aka Gillian Anderson, in a leading role as Lady Dedlock. I saw Anderson, who now lives in London, interviewed on a chat show a few days ago. She has taken to speaking in a British accent in real life. How pretentious!

A final note to my American friends who are weeping over the Dickensian fun they’ll be missing: Don’t fret. Bleak House is co-produced by WGBH Boston, which means that in no time it’ll be shown on a Masterpiece Theatre near you.

27 October, 2005 | 2 Comments

26 October, 2005 | Comments

I moved across the Atlantic but apparently it wasn’t far enough to escape news of Atoosa (rhymes-with-Medusa) Rubenstein. My friend W e-mailed me this article from yesterday’s New York Observer. Um, thanks. I worked for Atoosa about six years ago. I’m over it now, but only because of some therapy and a hefty dose of psychotropic drugs.

The New York media gives Atoosa a lot of ink because, well, if they don’t cover stories that are completely irrelevant, how will we ever find out about them? It seems that Atoosa, editor of Seventeen and founding editor of CosmoGIRL!, now has her own reality show on MTV wherein the contestants vie to be on the magazine’s cover or some such crap.

The interesting part of the story is that Atoosa, the wild-haired Iranian-American Republican from Long Island, the human wrecking ball of teenage self-esteem, has finally gone over a cliff of megalomania and delusion from which there may be no return. Next stop, Bellevue?

From the Observer:

At age 19, she visited a psychic, who predicted that young Atoosa would have a big media career. “I do feel like it’s my destiny,” Ms. Rubenstein said.

(Was this the same psychic who told George Bush to invade Iraq? Oh wait, that was God. Nevermind.)

In the article, a former colleague muses:

“The magazine is really a cause for her,” said a former employee. “If you are not completely committed and enveloped in the same cause, it’s very difficult to survive.”

In the same queen-of-the-world vein, Atoosa started a campaign when she was at CosmoGIRL! to put one of her readers in the White House by 2024. I guess if that happens, it’ll be the president wearing thong underwear, not just the interns.

To be fair, Atoosa’s new show, Miss Seventeen, does have feminist overtones. The Observer describes it thus:

A trailer showed 17 nymphs comically squealing and brawling in a Manhattan loft apartment. “I hate girls who dress like sluts,” declared one. “You’re the fakest person here!” screamed another.

Though the show centers on a group of whippet-thin bimbettes fighting to be on the cover of a fashion magazine, it’s about soooo much more than that:

Ms. Rubenstein wanted to make clear that Miss Seventeen is not all fun and froth, that increasing the awareness of social causes among her readers is a major priority of hers. “My process, no matter what I work on, has the same end result and vision,” she said. “And that end result and vision is to bring truth to young women in their lives.”

You know, this would be hilarious if Atoosa wasn’t dead serious. Instead it’s just frightening. And sad. And did I mention frightening?

Atoosa, my sista, I know you were ordained by God to lead teenage girls into a zit-free Promised Land, where no one has body hair and Jessica Simpson is on the currency. I’m totally convinced of it, I swear. But you know, I think you need to get some help pdq. Soon it will be too late. Not too long from now you could find yourself the leader of a tiny rogue nation, surrounded by a chic Cosmogirl army aiming their pastel-colored nuclear warheads at the non-believers. Then you’d have the U.N. breathing down your neck, not just evil feminists like me. Is this the kind of future your psychic predicted? No, I don’t think so.

25 October, 2005 | 2 Comments

Apparently, the United States and Britain are two quite bloodthirsty cultures. I left the US, where Law & Order, CSI and a million other shows about murder and mayhem fill the airwaves practically 24/7. Well, the UK is no different. The people here seem to have the same unquenchable thirst for television shows about psychos, murderers, rapists, terrorists and every other kind of crackpot imaginable. Most of the primetime dramas here revolve around the police, private detectives, cold case squads or lawyers. Within the past few weeks I have seen a woman murdered and her face completely sliced off; a man beat his wife to death with his bare hands; a serial killer drowning multiple women in a surprisingly graphic fashion; children watching their parents being tortured; children being murdered; and then there was the dead man who was tied up and placed on his kitchen counter with an apple stuffed into his mouth, like a pig – needless to say, he had been tortured first. To justify their existence, these shows tend to cast themselves as a learning experience for the audience, as if any daft television show can teach us something profound about the nature of evil.

Of course, the only reason I know about these shows is because I was watching them, natch. But I am growing tired of brutality-as-entertainment. Why is it so popular? As a wise man once said – and by wise man I mean Russell Crowe in his Oscar-winning performance in Gladiator—“Are you not entertained?” Well, yes, I guess we are. And that’s disgusting.

23 October, 2005 | Comments are off

I popped out to the ubiquitous supermarket Tesco this evening to buy a few things. Incidentally, 1 out of every 8 retail pounds in the UK is spent at Tesco! I’m not a huge fan of the store and prefer to shop elsewhere, but alas, I was too lazy to walk to Sainsbury’s.

The tiny Tesco Metro in Russell Square is usually mobbed with tourists and students, which is why I loathe it so. Tonight was no different. There was a group of German tourists who seemed to be on a sugar bender, grabbing Krispy Kreme donuts and chocolate bars. It was all rather unpleasant.

I needed eggs. It’s strange, but British grocery stores (or at least those in London) don’t refrigerate their eggs. Cartons of eggs just sit out on the shelf next to the cans of soup. I think this is odd. Anyway, I bought Tesco brand fresh barn eggs and the carton says: “Fresh Eggs Laid by Hens That Are Free to Dustbathe and Perch in Barns.” How’s that for detail? And what does “dustbathe” mean?

I was going to purchase the other brand of eggs, but that carton said: “Fresh Eggs Laid by Hens That Flirt, Drink and Do the Cha-Cha-Cha Every Night Until Dawn.” For some reason, I didn’t think those would taste as good.

20 October, 2005 | Comments

20 October, 2005 | Comments

From my experience, British people are remarkably polite. A shopkeeper may say “thank you” 17 times before you leave their store. I’ve had taxi drivers treat me like their long lost daughter. Once when I was standing outside my building holding a map, a stranger stopped to ask if I was lost. But when it comes to travelling the city streets, by car, by foot or public transportation, British courtesy flies right out the window.

That charming English businessman wouldn’t think twice about body slamming you into the ground if he’s trying to catch a train at Waterloo. Cars rarely stop for pedestrians waiting at a crosswalk (excuse me, zebra crossing). Even in gruff ol’ Boston, drivers usually stop, but in London, even if you’re in the crosswalk, cars don’t slow down (often, they accelerate!). And never in my life have I encountered such aggressive behaviour just walking down the street. Sidewalk etiquette usually dictates that people walking in the same direction stick to one side of the sidewalk; those walking in the opposite direction walk on the opposite side. However, in London this rarely happens. The sidewalks are a free-for-all. It’s not uncommon for a person to walk directly at you, forcing you to move aside. And if you’re not walking fast enough, the person in back of you might walk two inches behind, like a tiny poodle nipping at your heels, until you move aside and let them pass. Come on, people! Even New Yorkers don’t behave this way!

I don’t know what to make of this Jekyll and Hyde aspect to the London personality. Perhaps the relative anonymity of travelling the city streets provides an outlet for pent-up rage and hostility. It could be the same instinct that prompts drivers in LA to shoot each other. Whatever the reason, I’ve taken to listening to my iPod when I go out walking. It’s a very effective way to zone everyone out.

19 October, 2005 | 2 Comments

In a misguided attempt to win over her London neighbours, American stick insect/movie star Gwyneth Paltrow has trashed the British capital in the new edition of Marie Claire magazine. Paltrow, who won an Oscar in 1999 for being thin and having famous parents, complains to the American version of the fashion rag that she hates London’s “cold and depressing” weather, its dirty streets and its lousy customer service. She would have complained about the food but she’s never tried it.

Her Majesty apparently longs for the U.S., where the streets glisten and salespeople are never rude. Only last month, Paltrow told the Toronto Globe and Mail that she has a European sensibility and didn’t want to live in America anymore, saying, “Bush’s anti-environment, pro-war policies are a disaster.” However, unlike in Britain, American drugstores stay open 24 hours a day. And that’s what really matters.

16 October, 2005 | 2 Comments

I’ve been in London for a month now, but until today, I had avoided browsing the bookshops on Charing Cross Road. Even though it’s only about a 20-minute walk away, I didn’t want to face the temptation. Imagine a crack addict going on vacation to…Crackville. You get the idea.

When I lived in London in the late nineties, my favourite bookstore was Silver Moon, a woman’s bookshop. Not surprisingly (given the four-story Borders superstore that has sprung up on the block), Silver Moon is no longer there…or is it? I went to Foyles, across the street from Borders, and nestled in a corner of the third floor is the new Silver Moon. They claim to be Europe’s biggest “woman’s interest” bookshop, which is actually quite sad considering how small the new space is. They stock the same irreverent knickknacks (t-shirts, postcards, key chains) alongside a huge selection of Virago paperbacks and feminist books. Foyles has made Silver Moon the repository of all gay, lesbian and feminist books in the store. Given that Silver Moon is no longer a separate shop but a section of a larger bookstore, I feel conflicted about this “separate but equal” method of book shelving and all that it implies. (This is an ongoing topic of debate in the literary community and I won’t delve into it now.) On the flip side, if it weren’t for the separate section, many of the wonderful books I saw for sale would probably not be available in the store at all.

I left Foyles/Silver Moon without buying anything. I was very proud of myself. Then I stopped into Blackwells and walked out with…19 novels. Yes, you read that correctly. The shop had a special “buy one get one free” special going on Penguin Classics, my favourite imprint for classic novels. Up until now I have been getting all the books for my PhD research at the library. I will continue to get many if not most of my books at the library, but I do need my own personal copies of certain books. I need to write in them and refer to them over and over again. I need to own them. But books in the UK are insanely expensive, which is why this 2-for-1 sale was so exciting. Right now my research is focused almost entirely on Victorian literature, and so I picked up a selection of major works written by the Brontës, Austen, Dickens, Eliot, Hardy and Thackeray, all for the equivalent of $120. Yippee! My new little friends are already nestled on my bookshelf, as you can see in the photo. Sweet dreams, my angels.

15 October, 2005 | Comments

Has bird flu mania hit U.S. shores yet? Here’s an easy way to tell: Has Fox News Channel created a bird flu theme song with accompanying scary graphics?

The news media in Britain has certainly whipped the public into a frenzy over bird flu. From watching the news on the BBC, it seems that millions of people are on the verge of being wiped out, with at least 55,000 of those in Britain. There’s been an outbreak of bird flu in Turkey and now Romania. Though humans in those countries have not been infected, the media is charting the virus’s route across Europe, where most countries are stockpiling potentially useless anti-viral medications. The U.N. warns that 150 million people could be killed in a global outbreak, though the World Health Organization thinks that figure is way too high.

A panelist on one news program I watched wondered what would happen if a vulnerable region of the world, such as Africa or the Middle East, were hit with a human outbreak of bird flu first (migratory bird patterns make this a likely scenario). Would wealthy countries give up their supplies of drugs or horde them and watch millions die? Let’s just hope we never have to find out the answer to that question.

13 October, 2005 | Comments

The Northern Line (part of the London Underground system) is currently not running. Grrrrrr. I had to get to Waterloo to catch a train this morning (imagine the scene: pouring rain) and ended up having to cab it. I avoid taking cabs because they cost a fortune. On the bright side, the cab drivers in London are extremely friendly. They always call me love or darling. Is this sexist? I don’t know, but I like it.

My cabbie this morning wanted to discuss all things American. Here’s a gem: He didn’t think there were many poor people in the U.S. until he saw the coverage of Hurricane Katrina on the news. He was shocked to see so many people living in poverty. How could such circumstances exist in America? The questions continued: Why do most of the Americans he picks up hate Bush? Are Southerners still racist? Wasn’t I too afraid to come to London after the terrorist attacks? Do I like the New England Patriots?

All in all, just some light cab chatter…

12 October, 2005 | 3 Comments

So I have this intolerance to dairy products. I gave up the bovine sludge a little more than a year ago and I have never felt better. Milk does not do a body good. The majority of people on the planet do not consume products derived from cow’s milk. Cow’s milk is for baby cows, dammit.

One of the hardest things about settling in London has been figuring out what I can safely eat. (I also don’t eat red meat, which complicates matters even more.) It turns out that the Brits put dairy in, well, just about everything. For example, there’s this little habit of buttering bread before making a sandwich. If you buy a ready-made chicken salad sandwich, chances are there’s butter on the bread. Lots of other products you would never suspect contain dairy as well. Coca-Cola with cream, anyone? (Okay, I made that up.)

Luckily there are a lot of vegans and vegetarians in London and little shops selling my kind of food abound. I recently stumbled upon a product line called Stamp Collection, bearing the visage of none other than actor Terence Stamp. I, like most younger people, associate him with the transsexual he played in The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. Apparently he was quite hot stuff in the sixties, but all the while it turns out the poor guy couldn’t even eat a piece of toast for breakfast. He had a crippling intolerance to wheat and dairy. In 1994, he started Stamp Collection, which sells loads of yummy dairy- and wheat-free products such as chocolate, pasta, bread, crisps, cheese and more! I quite enjoy the orange-flavoured dark chocolate bar.

In a 2002 article in The Guardian, the reporter describes what it’s like eating out with Stamp:

By now Stamp is taking delivery of his main course, a Dover sole, and we have a crisis looming. The waiter is quizzed about whether there is butter on the vegetables and has to check with the chef and have them replaced. Then there is a sauce alarm. The tartare clearly contains cream, so he orders horseradish. Now, even I can surmise this too will contain cream, and after it has been dolloped onto his plate he checks it out with the waiter and it has to be ceremoniously scraped – every last tiny little scrap – off the plate. He’s perfectly polite about it, but there is something very driven and joyless about this whole eating regime.

So to all the people who complain about eating out with me – I’m not so bad, am I?

10 October, 2005 | Comments

I must tell you, it’s wonderful to be living in a country that values literature. Tonight The Man Booker Prize was awarded to John Banville for his novel, The Sea. The award ceremony was broadcast live on BBC Two. Yes, that’s right: The Booker was awarded on primetime TV. Can you imagine the Pulitzer Prize for literature being awarded live on NBC in the United States? Well, that’s just a silly question.

Before the big announcement was made, the TV audience was treated to taped interviews with the authors. Then a narrator read sections of each book while actors – yes, actors – silently acted out the scene being read. That was a bit odd, but so what. The bookies and literary experts thought that Barnes would win, and barring that, Ishiguro or Smith. Alas, a real long shot took home the prize. But I don’t care who won. I’m just happy people care.

7 October, 2005 | Comments are off

Another stop on the tour of the neighborhood, my lovelies. Today it’s Russell Square, the second-largest square in London and the beating heart of Bloomsbury. The square was laid out between 1800 and 1814. English majors will remember it as the stomping grounds of the Sedleys and the Osbornes in Thackeray’s novel Vanity Fair.

“Considerable time has elapsed since we have seen our respectable friend, old Mr. Osborne of Russell Square. He has not been the happiest of mortals since last we met him.”

In 2002, the square was re-landscaped according to the original early 19th-century plans:

Anchoring the north end of the square is the grand Hotel Russell, built in 1898 by Charles Fitzroy Doll:

T.S. Eliot worked in Russell Square as the poetry editor of Faber & Faber:

Lots of other famous people have lived in Russell Square too, such as:

Given the square’s popularity as a meeting place for gay men to have sex, Russell Square is now locked up at 10:00 each night. Please note that in your guide books.

6 October, 2005 | 1 Comment

Speaking of Big Brother (see my previous post), Britons are the most watched people on the planet. There are about 4 million CCTV cameras operating in the United Kingdom. That’s nearly one for every 14 people. This tiny island nation contains about one-fifth of the world’s CCTV cameras. It’s impossible to walk around London without seeing them everywhere. I set out to take a photo (above) and didn’t have to walk far.

The average Londoner gets recorded by cameras 300 times a day. So you can forget walking down a deserted street while picking your nose – some government drone in a cave underground will be watching and laughing. Many European countries and the United States and Canada have strict laws regarding the use of CCTV. In Britain, no such privacy laws exist. Though there are groups campaigning against the use of CCTV, its prevalence seems to indicate that on the whole, Britons don’t mind being under surveillance while out in public.

The widespread belief is that CCTV prevents crime and other anti-social behaviour. (Cameras on roadways are used to catch those who drive in the bus lane or whose car registration is expired.) Camera usage flourished after bombings by the IRA in the early 1990s and will surely increase because of the terrorist attacks this summer. Images of the suicide bombers captured on CCTV throughout London, in tube stations and in drugstores, have been broadcast around the world.

CCTV mania extends to the private sector as well. I bought a printer the other day at a big computer superstore. When I was at the till, I put back an item I decided I didn’t want. Only when I got home did I discover that the cashier had charged me for it by mistake. The next day I returned to the store to explain what happened in the hopes of getting a refund. The manager told me the process would take hours because they would have to find the CCTV footage from the time I visited the store, then watch it to verify my claims. However, given that I “looked honest,” he decided to forego this arduous procedure and give me my money back. Whew.

I must admit that I find the usage of such cameras to be extremely creepy. It makes the city seem like a police state. What, pray tell, would George Orwell say?

3 October, 2005 | 1 Comment

My PhD research takes me to the library in Senate House, where the central administrative offices of the University of London are located. Senate House is on Malet Street, with the back entrance located right off Russell Square. It’s a rather ugly building, tall and white and somewhat phallic looking. I will be spending a great deal of time scouring its dusty shelves.

Senate House has achieved a level of notoriety because it was most certainly the model for the Ministry of Truth in George Orwell’s novel 1984. During World War II, Senate House served as the Ministry of Information, where Orwell’s wife was employed. Senate House could also be viewed from Orwell’s flat.

From 1984:

1 October, 2005 | Comments

This afternoon I was at the theatre, darlings. Originally performed in 1958, Epitaph for George Dillon has been “unjustly neglected,” according to The Guardian, and is now revived at the Comedy Theatre on the West End. The play stars Joseph Fiennes (Elizabeth, Shakespeare in Love) and Francesca Annis (who is probably most famous in America for her May-December romance with Joseph’s brother Ralph Fiennes). I knew I wanted to see the play after watching an interview with Annis on television. At 61, she has had a long and distinguished career in the theatre and in smaller films. Unlike many British actresses, she said she made the decision early in her career that she would not go to Hollywood, because to do so would mean becoming a sex object valued more for looks than talent. Bravo! I was so pleased to hear a respected actress discuss this issue. When so many others sell their souls (Minnie Driver, where are you?), it’s great to see a woman who still has artistic integrity – and a thriving career, unlike most over-50 Hollywood actresses.

Epitaph for George Dillon was written by John Osborne and Anthony Creighton before Osborne hit it big with Look Back in Anger. It’s the 1950s and George Dillon (Fiennes) is an unemployed actor and playwright who moves in with the Elliot family. Mrs. Elliot sees George as a replacement for the son she lost in the war and allows him to sponge off the family while he pursues his art. George’s contempt for (and fear of) the suburban values of the Elliot family explode in a powerful scene between he and Mrs. Elliot’s sister Ruth (Annis), which was wonderful to watch. Ruth wants George to admit he is a failure as an artist. George replies that he has not failed, but is “waiting for success.” Success does come, but at a price. The play raises many interesting questions about the nature of art and the artist, about what constitutes success and failure and “selling out.” It was a wonderful play with a stellar ensemble cast.