More Video Dreck From My Past

Yes, I'm getting a bit carried away with this digitizing of my sordid past. Continuing in my current vein of crass video narcissism (see my MySpace blog for some show clips I posted the other day), here's a few bits of various things I made for video production classes in college. Why should you care? Hey, I ain't forcing you to click them.

No, they're not art, just the last-minute hack jobs of a talentless young punk- but they still make me laugh. And it's been so many years since they've seen the light of day (rightly so). Man, the equipment these were edited on is about today's equivalent of a little Flintstones bird chiseling them onto a rock. And how about that sweet Character Generator! I'd also like to point out that this was all done before I got into theatre, so I didn't have any "real" actor friends to help me out....

Enjoy. Or not. Just don't say I didn't warn you.

Anyway, the first clip is a provocative documentary about a famous American tragedy. With the arrow in the middle, the still image on this looks a bit Magritte, doesn't it? Incidentally, our teacher was Dr. Hart, who told us not to put his name on our stuff- so of course we did.



The next clips are part 1 and 2 of my 12 1/2 minute epic, "The Shirt". I think about 25% of it is the credits. I really should have used a tripod once in a while on this one. And yes, I did get a shot of gas prices specifically so that twenty years hence, we could look and marvel. It stars my friend Matt, who now works at the Stanford Linear Accelerator Lab and still has that same beard. Lecram claims that he actually saw "The Shirt" when it was shown on the local access cable channel. That would have been.... 1988? Good God.





And finally, we continue the theme of clothing adventures.

London Tales, Parte the Fyfthe

Apparently, something I said in the previous post caused a few of you to believe it was the final installment. Please. Have I said anything about going back to the airport? Have I yet gone into excruciating detail about how many steps I took from the security gate to the plane, the angle of my seat, or the declination of the sun at the time of departure? I say nay! Your wishful thinking has brought you to naught. There's still more to come, my children. Live with it.

Thursday, Sep. 21, 2006. John, Jeff and Alan sure got a lot done in three busy days. In fact, most of the important and/or obligatory sights and tasks have been accomplished:

Big Ben, check.
Buckingham Palace, check.
Stonehenge, check.
Getting Sick to Death of Each Other After Being Together 24/7, check.

Perhaps that's overstating it a bit- or maybe not.... Suffice it to say that when Thursday arrived, it was obvious we all were in the mood to do our own thing, which was just fine. I had the itch to go exploring around a bit on my own and looking at things that I didn't necessarily want to drag my poor friends to. Jeff had a similar itch (though not from any intimate contact between us, I just want to clarify that), and Alan decided to spend a quiet day in the flat and conserve his energy- after all, he did have a performance that night. So off went Jeff and I, and Alan stayed in with the satellite TV.

Speaking of, British TV- what little we watched- felt a lot more familiar than I thought it would (and not just from watching plenty of it all my life). For that matter, it all felt very familiar. Beyond the obvious differences- older buildings, different money, steering wheels on the wrong side- I was struck by the fact that I never truly felt like I was in a foreign place. I'm sure language was the major factor- I could read all the signs and pretty much understand everyone- but there was a deeper commonality that I didn't quite expect. It was all so... comfortable. Notable exceptions (as in things I never quite got used to): 1. Tipping. Okay, we finally figured out you don't tip the bartender, and you do tip the waiter, or...no wait, the tip is included in the bill... or is it? Aw hell, just give them a couple pounds and let's go.... 2. How early things closed. You're telling me I'm in one of the great cities of the world, and just because it's midnight, I can't get a beer OR a train home? 3. The street system. Oh my GOD.

I've been to Europe before. I know what the streets are like. I knew what they would be like in London. I looked at enough maps of them. They're part of the charm of the city. I know that there are worse cities. And yet.... oh my GOD. For someone who not only prides himself on having a good sense of direction, but also has an emotional need to at least have some idea of where he is and where he's going (geographically speaking, of course. Anyone who knows me realizes that has nothing to do with how I run any other part of my life), the streets of London can be maddening. The seemingly random layout is bad enough- in almost any spot in the US, for example (okay, maybe not Boston), I know that if I turn right enough times, I'll probably get back to where I started. In London, that might happen, or you might end up in Wales. Hard to say. But the street names make it worse- or rather, the proliferation of them. When even the major thoroughfares sometimes change names every block, it can be a bit disorienting. It's historically fascinating that in 1116, King Norbert the Addled decreed that a road would be built in a straight line from the tip of his nose to the far end of his peacock aviary, and that it would be forever known as Great Pimpsnell Acre, but it's a pain in the ass when you're trying to find the Tube station. And yes, the street signs are quaint and beautiful, but you'd never know because you can't find them. What street are we on? I don't know, is there a sign? Might be on a wall, might be on the curb- see anything? Oh wait.. *squint* I think I see something on the second floor over there- but is that for THIS street? Don't get me wrong, I also love London's streets, names, and signs for all their idiosyncrasies, much in the way I love a heavy downpour or a thick fog- wonderful if I'm not out in it trying to get someplace. That said, I'd go back and face them again in a heartbeat.

Well enough of that rambling, I say. Let's get on with other ramblings, shall we? Again, as always, click the photos for larger images.

The first destination I had in mind was Greenwich, which had a two-pronged appeal for me: my geography nerd needed to go to the Royal Observatory and visit the Prime Meridian, and my mass transit nerd needed to ride the Docklands Light Railway to get there, one of several transit entities that our travel cards were good for. I knew it would take a while to get out there, one of the reasons I didn't drag the other guys along.

Checked the map pile,



and headed down our street, Cambridge Gardens, on a lovely last day of summer.



Thursday was probably the sunniest and warmest of all the days we were there- which also made it the stickiest. Never stopped sweating that day. Never.

Made my way via Tube to Canary Wharf, which along with the rest of the Docklands area is a major urban redevelopment scheme. You know, old derelict warehouses make way for shiny office towers and condos, that sort of thing. Got on the DLR, went under the Thames, and popped up in old town Greenwich.




Apparently there's a problem with itinerant ice cream.






The original Cutty Sark, now a tourist attraction. Yes, the same one as on the Scotch. Unfortunately damaged by fire only last month.



Note the Starbucks on the left, about as close as you can get to the Cutty Sark.




I'm not sure I even want to know what this sign means.




Looking up at the Royal Observatory. The hike is steeper than it looks.




Looking back to where I was. Canary Wharf towering in the background, including the three tallest buildings in the UK.



The Millennium Dome! There it is! I thought maybe they tore it down or something! It was never mentioned in any of the literature, and it turns out it's because it really isn't used for anything these days.



Looking back toward central London and the Glass Vibrator.



The Courtyard of the Royal Observatory museum. For those of you who aren't dorks, the Prime Meridian is the line which indicates zero degrees longitude, dividing the Western and Eastern Hemispheres. Being an arbitrary line (unlike the Equator), Prime Meridians used to grow like weeds, but in 1884 the Brits won at an international conference (the French abstained and continued to use their own for decades). The grand legacy of this monumental decision is that in 2006, the old guy walking through the gate would come to visit wearing that hat.



The clock that doesn't photograph well shows Greenwich Mean Time, the worldwide standard based on the Meridian. Up until 1909, it was known as Greenwich Nice Time. Again, the French abstained.



The red line which marks the Meridian continues through the courtyard and divides me by the crotch. I've positioned myself for the "I'm in two hemispheres" shot using proper directional orientation, with North being up- but I still can't manage to hold the camera straight.



Took a look around the grounds, the free museum full of cool old astronomical devices (got a single blurry shot off before being told "no photos"), and visited the gift shop to purchase the obligatory Prime Meridian fridge magnet.

Hail Britannia!!





My geography jones satiated, I left Greenwich and went back toward the center of town. Got a good look at the Globe Theatre, a replica of the one from Shakespeare's day, built near the site of the original. Didn't see the show, though.



Crossed the Millennium Bridge toward St. Paul's Cathedral.



The Tate Modern art gallery. The barge says, "I Eat Rubbish!"



Went into St. Paul's and marveled- but no pictures allowed. Here's a couple so-so ones from the outside.





Went to Hyde Park to seek out Speaker's Corner. Oh, the madness and chaos, the sweet, sweet flowing mead of pure freedom! The guy in the middle- damn, he was a real firebrand.



Yeah, what I didn't know is that the action only happens on Sundays or something. Oh well, you can still get ice cream. But it better not be itinerant, you young punks!

Walked through Hyde Park where there were plenty of folks out enjoying the warm sunshine.





Saw the Royal Albert Hall. You know, as in how many holes it takes to fill.



Looking directly across from the entrance, you see this:



I think it's another Starbuck's or something.

At this point, I had pretty much run out of time. We had all agreed to meet at 6:00 in front of the Mediterranean place across from the Freddie Mercury Statue, so we could find some dinner and then head over together to The Wheatsheaf, the pub where the "impro" was happening. I had hoped to go back home to take a shower and change, which I now desperately needed after a lot of hiking around on a hot, sticky London day. But no time, so anyone near me was just going to have to suffer. After a cramped and stuffy Tube ride which included sitting stalled underground somewhere for a good ten minutes, I finally popped up by Jeff, Alan, and Freddie, only a few minutes late. We found an Indian restaurant that hit the spot, and off we went to The Wheatsheaf.

We were greeted by a cool little pub downstairs and a- well, a rather warm little performance space upstairs with a few rows of chairs set up. Met the guys from Grand Theft Impro, and then left Alan to prepare while we had a pint. The room started to fill (okay, it only took like 16 people) and eventually it was standing room only.



Neat windows- note they are open in a vain attempt to cool down the room.



The blonde in this photo is named Pippa- a friend of the group who I met later. I thought she said "Pepper"- with appropriate accent- until I saw her on Alan's friends list. I'm dumb.

The show was fun, the guys were talented, and Alan definitely held his own. A couple of the best moments came out of his American-Not-Quite-Being-Familiar-Enough-With-the-Local-References-ness. I was proud of our boy! I wish I'd gotten more photos or some video, but I didn't want to be obnoxious for the people behind us (who were sitting on a table).



After the show we knocked back a couple with the boys and their friends downstairs, then the guy who seemed to be in charge of the group (the bald one in the photo who isn't Alan) invited us to join them as his guests at a private club he belonged to- apparently these are common in the UK as traditionally being the places to go for legal after-hours drinking. This particular club was an actors' club, underneath a nearby theatre. The walls were covered with decades worth of playbooks, photos, and autographs of well-known stage actors- very cool. Didn't see anyone famous, but there was a bizarre moment when one of the waiters started doing an impromptu drag show or something to the great glee of the regulars- my memory is surprisingly fuzzy on that particular event.

Anyway, enjoyed the comfy confines of the club until 2 AM or so, and then came the challenge of getting home. Tube's closed, cabs are expensive- although I think I would have been perfectly willing to pony up the dough at that point, but then somebody suggested the bus.

The bus? We hadn't attempted a bus yet. Our passes were good for them, and I was curious- after all, these were the REAL modern London double-deckers, not the tour buses we'd been on. But we didn't know the routes or the schedules, and it's 2:30 AM, and... well, it was kinda scary! Where would we end up? But that's the kind of thing we were in London for, right? The adventure of riding a bus in a strange city in the middle of the night? Well okay then...

Off to the nearest bus stop to join the other late night stragglers and examine the daunting route map, trying to make sense of where we were going. I think we picked a route that looked reasonable and was supposedly running, but after waiting for what seemed like forever, we decided on the spur of the moment to get on a bus that- well, I swear it said "Notting Hill Gate" on it, but two buses came at the same time and maybe we got on the wrong one... Anyway, I knew where Notting Hill Gate was, and although it wasn't quite where we needed to go, I figured it was at least in the right part of town and we could make our way from there- better than nothing. Got on the bus, headed upstairs- gotta go upstairs! (it's enclosed) Hung out and enjoyed the ride, but kept an eye on where were going as best I could with the tiny bit of tourist knowledge in my brain. Okay, doing fine, having a good time- okay, here we go around Marble Arch, and... um.... why did we turn this way? Okay, we're okay, it's fine... um... maybe....hmm... This is about the time I began to realize that we were going... someplace else. Maybe we would have eventually made our way back to Notting Hill Gate, after all that's what it said on the front... didn't it? Oh God, this is not the right direction and we're not turning.....

"Guys?"

Sleepy looks of delayed interest.

"I think we need to get off this bus."

Slightly more interest.

"Now."

Heightened interest, tinged with concern, followed by action.

Off the bus we go, to- where? We find our spot on the pocket map- sort of- we're not that far from home, but it's not quite clear how to get there. At least it's the sort of neighborhood that- well, let's just say that if you're going to pick a spot in a foreign city to be lost at 3 AM, you could do a lot worse. You could also do a lot livelier- not much action, as in obvious ways of getting the hell out of there. So we started hoofing it in the general direction of what looked like more action, debating what we were going to do. We finally decided to just grab a cab- easier said than done in this damnably quiet upscale area. So we kept walking. Eventually we found a stray cab- making three new forms of London transport I could cross off my list in one day. Turned out we were no more than a five-minute ride from home, so we actually did okay in picking that bus- but God only knows what remote Scottish fishing village we would have found ourselves in if we hadn't jumped ship.

The following video is NOT how this particular night ended, but so many others did- Ladbroke Grove station, our local stop which was the alpha and omega of almost every adventure. Nicely capped off by a clairvoyant Alan moment.



THUS ENDETH PARTE THE FYFTHE

London Tales, Parte the Fourthe

Okay, so now I'm actually getting harassed about finishing my London blogs, so here we go. If you want to see how it's REALLY done, check out Blake's Liverpool blogs. They're entertaining, concise, and he got them all done quickly- you'll never come back to my blog again!

All right, let's get down to it. As always, click the pictures for larger images. Wednesday, Sep. 20, 2006. London, England. You might think that we would get more acclimated to London time as the days went by, and maybe we were- but the fact is we were exhausted and sleeping later each day. Good thing we got most of the heavy-duty touristy stuff out of the way in the first couple days, and we were able to start relaxing a bit. There were only three things on Wednesday's agenda: the Tower of London, seeing a show, and meeting up with a friend of Jeff's for a quick dinner in between. So, eventually we got going, and hopped on the Tube in the general direction of Leicester Square, which is near Piccadilly Circus, which is near the previously mentioned metal boobies.



Why Leicester Square, you say? Because that's where the discount theatre ticket booth is, just like the one in Times Square NYC- we knew we wanted to see some kind of stage show that night, we just didn't know what. Sure, we'd looked at the literature, thought this or that looked interesting- got to the booth and decided on that most quintessentially British piece of theatre, "The Producers". Hey, it was cheap, we hadn't seen it, and it wouldn't tax our tired brains- plus it was playing at the Drury Lane Theatre! (Okay, the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane- and it's actually like half a block from Drury Lane). I've spent my life hearing about that theatre, and Drury Lane- you know, muffin man and all that. Tickets in hand and our evening plans set, off we went in the direction of the Tower.



I mentioned previously that the Tower of London was one of my favorite sights on the trip because it was unexpected. I'd heard from various people- including Alan, the only one of us who'd actually been to London before- that the Tower was a must-see, and I did want to see it, but the only things I really knew about it were that it had a lot of historical significance, a lot of people had been executed there, and it contained the Crown Jewels. We'd already been by it several times during the trip, and it looked cool. But I wasn't prepared for the real thing.

The direction we came, the first thing you see is a piece of the original Roman wall of Londinium.



Coming from a town where the historical sites are often along the lines of, say, the bus stop bench where William Saroyan used to sit and throw things at hapless newsboys, I found that wall pretty impressive. Then you see the moat. Note the workman in funny white overalls.



Sure, it's all just grass now, but it's a damn moat. That's just plain cool.



We walked around and got some shots along the river side of the Tower:

Tower Bridge.


London City Hall. The Mayor himself called it a glass testicle.



And then if you turn 180 degrees, you see the Glass Vibrator. I like this photo because you see so many centuries in one shot.



Rarrr!!



As you cross the little bridge where the ticket booth is, you see your first Beefeaters hanging around. This is touristy as hell, but great. Gotta get the photo:



We happened to get there right when one of the free guided tours was about to start, so we figured we might as well go along- the deciding word being "free". This was our guide (no, not the same Beefeater as in the last photo):



He was bloody hilarious. You could tell he'd done this a thousand times and had his schtick down pat, but it was still fresh and entertaining. His delivery and timing were so good, I assumed that this was just a typical actor's costumed day job (the kind where you might get a call from Jon Budd saying "Anyone wanna make 40 bucks at the Tower of London tomorrow?"), and that at night he probably performed with an improv troupe in some dive called "The Giggle Shack". But no, it turns out the Beefeaters are the real deal- they are all British military (our guide told us he fought in the Gulf War, although presumably not in this uniform), and this is their assignment- the Queen's guard detachment at the Tower. And they live there on the grounds, with their families. Yes, the Tower of today is mostly a tourist attraction, but it is still a royal castle and functioning military installation, subject to hundreds of years of tradition and still-standing royal decrees. Such as: from 10:00 every night until um... I don't know when in the morning, the gates are locked and nobody- nobody- goes in or out. I don't know how thoroughly that is observed in emergencies, and perhaps it's all a bit overplayed for the tourists, but they do have an onsite doctor that lives there in order to take care of problems at night, because the residents can't leave. It was hearing that kind of thing and realizing that this place was a living, working community in its own little world that really started to hook me.

When you first walk inside the outer walls, it still looks like a fortress- albeit with employee parking lot.



But then you pass into an open common area that, frankly, is surprising and even charming.











Green grass, quaint residences, a beautiful old chapel, the enormous and scary ravens that are kept there for good luck, and in the center is the White Tower, the original castle that dominates the complex.



The tour was just a quick overview and then we wandered on our own- oh, and if you're wondering, our guide never said why they're called Beefeaters, so Jeff and I asked him- and he said they really don't know.

We went into the building that houses the Crown Jewels, and that was pretty amazing and cool- literally cool, being conspicuous as the only building there with air conditioning. There's an imperial shitload of priceless items in there, but to see the really good stuff, like the actual crowns, they stick you on a conveyor belt like at the airport, so you don't stand in a clump and gawk- and no photos, please. That was all well and good, but I loved just wandering around the rest of the grounds exploring- Alan and I found a little staircase where you go up inside the outer wall and then walk around on the top, seeing such brilliant sights as people's actual laundry hanging out to dry (I guess there was never any Royal Decree for dryer hookups).









I just thought it was the coolest thing that I was seeing the wet socks of the people who really lived in the Tower of London- totally unexpected. Every nook and darkened cranny had a sign telling what happened there, who was imprisoned in this room, etc. The White Tower itself is mostly filled with a massively cool collection of weapons and armor, and then on the bottom floor you can get ice cream.

The only drawback of our visit was that we were kinda pressed for time- we didn't get there until the afternoon, it closed at 5:00 (the guard shooed us out by jingling his keys and saying, "Time for the ghosts to come out and play"), and we still had to meet Jeff's friend (I can't remember his name) in time to have dinner and then make the show. So, we bid our reluctant goodbyes to the Tower (I could have kept wandering around there all day) and off we went to Covent Garden.

Figuring out how the hell to get to Covent Garden.



I still haven't quite figured out what Covent Garden actually is. I guess it refers to the district/neighborhood, but seems to have more meaning than that. Someone can explain it to me later. Anyway, that's where we were meeting Jeff's friend (God, what was his name?)- it's near the theatre and where he works. We popped up out of the Tube into a narrow warren of crowded pedestrian streets, filled with tourists, shoppers, and after-work pubbers.



While Jeff went to call what's-his-name, Alan and I grabbed a pint at the nearest pub. Just as with every other pub on the block, the crowd spilled well out the door. I've never quite understood the big deal about being able to drink in the street- I'm perfectly fine drinking inside, where my pain and shame is hidden from the prying eyes of passersby- but Alan was giggling like a schoolgirl, he was so happy. Okay, maybe he didn't actually giggle, but I'm telling you, inside he was a slumber party.



We met the Nameless One, joined by a coworker. But this is Jeff, not the coworker. The coworker was female. Jeff is not.



For the sake of convenience and time, we ended up eating in the second floor (or first floor, if you're a Brit) dining room of the same pub we were already patronizing. And as everywhere else, our traditional English pub food was served by traditional Eastern Europeans with thick accents. Most everyone went with the fish and chips, but for some reason I went with the bangers and mash- again. It was like the third time in as many days that I went with the sausages. Freudian? You tell me. All I know is that they kept sounding good- and they were good, but after that night I was so done with the bangers. Never did get around to having fish and chips while I was there, either.

Anyway, finished my banging and off we went down the street to the theatre. What an amazing feeling to be in one of the premier theatres of London- and watching gay Nazis, no less.

I don't have any photos to contribute here, so I'm infringing on some copyrights instead. Here's the theatre:



Here's a photo which absolutely does not do justice to the inside of the theatre, but you can kinda see about where we were sitting at the bottom of the shot:



The show was fun- wasn't familiar with either of the leads, but the guy who played Max was Cory English (an American, ironically) who was Nathan Lane's original understudy, and Reece Shearsmith of the British comedy troupe The League of Gentlemen was playing Leo. We laughed a lot, along with the rest of the audience who seemed to mostly be American tourists.

These are the guys we saw:



Two major drawbacks to the theatre experience- one was the floor that raises about an inch as you go into the Gents, calling to your toes like sirens beckoning sailors to their doom upon the rocks. Despite the enormous "Watch Your Step" sign, I neglected to do just that, and paid with voluminous pain and embarrassment. The other was the lack of Royal Air Conditioning in the Royal Theatre. It wasn't unbearable, but it was certainly warm.

This is a good spot to talk about the weather, don't you think? It was sunny almost the entire time we were in London, sometimes without a cloud in the sky and very warm. Even when it got kind of cloudy and cool, the rain kept avoiding us. Perfect for touring around, but by the end of the week, I was getting a bit antsy- I'm in England, for God's sake, maybe the only time I'll ever get here, and I'm not even going to get a little rain to make the experience authentic? Well, it finally rained on Friday to my relief- but we haven't gotten that far yet. However, the most important thing to say about the London weather is that I felt like I never really stopped sweating. I knew it would be humid, and I've traveled in many humid climes- I wasn't miserable, but dude, I'm from Fresno. It just didn't feel right. Add that to a crowded Tube train during rush hour, and I was a walking deodorant commercial half the time. Anyway-

So, show's over, it's about 10:00 or so, and now what? Time for some phone booth fun, of course! Oh, the wacky hilarity! We were brilliant that night, my friends- a true work of street art. But this is the only shot I have- Alan has the rest, so you'll just have to imagine it for now.



We found a pub around the corner and had a pint or two. For a country that likes to drink as much as the UK does, they sure close their pubs early. Like 11 or 12:00 early. Used to be the law, now it seems to be loosened, but as far as I could tell, most of them close then anyway. So, we closed down that pub.

Now here's a tiny twist in the story: through buddies back home, Alan had been put in contact with some London improv troupes (or "impro" as they call it there- apparently too busy to bother with the "v"), the idea being to maybe see a show or something. Well, the first or second day we were there, somebody from one of these groups got in touch with Alan and said, "You wanna perform with us Thursday night?" After we picked Alan up off the floor and put his soiled pants in the wash, he heartily accepted and then had it exciting/terrifying him for the next several days (at least that's my take on it- maybe not terrifying, but you know). The reason I bring this up is that the pub where the impro was happening the next night was not far from where we were, so we decided to go find it to be sure we'd know where we were going when the time came.

So off we went down Oxford Street, counting two Subways in one block- did I mention the English obsession with Subway? As in sandwiches? In our travels, we quickly observed that everywhere you look in London is 1. a Subway or 2. a KFC. I saw more of both in my few days there than in the rest of my life combined. Anyway, we were in a two Subway block, found the pub, and as each moment passed, my desire to call it a night grew ever stronger. I was exhausted, it was late, everything was closed- I can't speak for Alan, but Jeff could obviously have stayed out all night. I was just about ready to head back by myself, but somebody brought up the idea of food, which sounded like a decent idea- found an all-night Mediterranean-ish walkup where, if you looked across the street, you saw this:



I know you can't tell, but it's a big-ass statue of Freddie Mercury. Sweet. Anyway, somehow we went home after that. I think. Whatever. I'm done with this post now. I'm going home.

The thing I love about this photo is that we're each thinking exactly what you think we're thinking.



THUS ENDETH PARTE THE FOURTHE