In yet another act of unwarranted benevolence, Bruce and TOSH (here after referred to as BrOSH ...or maybe TOce, er.... uh... ya... like I said- Bruce and TOSH) conveyed your humbel* author with great speed and unremitted personal expense into the Atlantan auto-male-storm, arriving in times-very-nick to slip the surly bonds of Earth**.
Observation #1): that was a kick-ass sentence.
Observation #2): the Atlantan Aerodrome is one big hamster tube. Had I any young, I would have felt compelled to eat them on the spot -not as any sort of socio-political statement, but as a vehicle of the full expression of the artistic intent of the Great Architect and the fulfillment of divine expression***.
Now, as some of you may have deduced from my as-of-late overcast disposition, I have, rather cunningly, been turning forward my clock 30 minutes every day for the last few weeks State-side in order to orient myself with The Orient, so that, in the spirit of any good Subject of the Queen's redundant Christening of dog and manservant at The Alter of Efficiency, Efficiency!, I might arrive in Byzantium running full-steam-ahead. Alas, the place of repose provided for my assent and conveyance was cursed with 50 channels of on-demand entertainment, including moving map with ground speed and air speed plus temperature and wind velocity and direction provided in both mph and kph and Fahrenheit/Celsius, so that, presumably, I might provide informed council to the pilot and flight crew. Curiously, no method to directly contact the pilot was provided -a strange oversight, considering the attention paid to stratospheric edibles and courtesy toiletries including pillow, blanket, travel-toothbrush, night mask, and, yes, socks. How did they know?
Arriving in London fog at dawn, this would commence the only day lit portion of the journey: a 12 hour lay-over**** featuring a 2 hour, 30 kilometer bus ride between the bicameral Heathrow/Gatwick airport cluster.
Observation #3): the British seem unduly impressed and self satisfied with displays of Homesian logic and deduction, making a point of indicating their presumption of my nationality before I could practice my Southern Drawl or drawn on my untapped reserve of Californian Surfer Dialect. Being of far less sophisticated American Mongrel stock, I resorted to picking out the Brits by using the only two clear indicators presented to my impaired faculties: the presence of woad and weather a look of contempt and condescension was the response to the blue-blood litmus test question of "Don't you just hate the new Doctor?"
Observation #4): the police carry machine guns. Surely years of emasculated feelings due to being restricted to cracking skulls with a length of hickory primed local law enforcement to respond to the threat of terror by embodying terror themselves. Informed by resent events, I struggled with the choice of laying down and getting shot politely or doing a Beep-Beep! Vrooooooom! impression if confronted by the Guardians of the Public.
Observation #5): it is hard to see a European car and not start cooing, "Ohhhh, how cute!". Really -I challenge you.
Observation #6): as if it wasn't clear from their roll in world history, the Brits are completely sociopathic. It is now clear to Your Narrator that the British Tea-Time civility is nothing more than a vestigial mask, a bit of sophistry indulged in nationally in attempt to occult the nature of their underlining... nature. To point: put a Brit in a car and all traces of social grace evaporate, ready and willing are they to commit any manner of aberrant behavior in the name of self interest. Yes, yes, I see you in the back protesting: how does that make them unique? I beg you to sit down, honored colleague, and deport yourself as one fit to share company, and all will be made clear -I assure you. After perpetrating any number of heinous deeds and breaches of auto-edict, once ensconced well to the front of the Möbius Strip that is M5, all traffic slows to 80% of the speed limit and each duty minded Subject of The Queen maintains 3-5 seconds of distance from one another- this on a highway of luxurious proportion with toy sized cars which on any American would read the speed recommendation, double it, and convert to miles. Perhaps the answer to this socio-paradox lies in Observation #4
The British version of industrialized air travel is even more Byzantine than the heights achieved in Atlanta, and for this critic, excessive; being an American, I appreciated these gross proportions- in a Heronamous Bosch/Dante's Inferno kind of way. Endless corridors and switch-backs, dead-ends and too-narrow-do-not-passages were my canvas, the stage on which I struggled, Dung Beetle like, with an overburdened luggage cart. With this bit of performance art complete, I would attempt -and fail- to sleep, in no small part to Observation #4.
Observation #6): the nice people of the British Customs Service don't really want to know the truth when they ask about the purpose of your trip, so don't go into detail about meeting your prospective in-laws- just LIE, like everyone else, and say, 'tourism.'
Another amazing/impossible flight into darkness; despite having not slept in 36 hours, I will spend the time aloft searching the night for the campfires of the human tribe. They are everywhere, wondrous and terrifying.
* humbel used with intent to avoid impinging on the privilege of those who rightly hold the title humble.
** the bonds being surly- no impugning of Earth's character is intended or should be inferred.
*** I've forgotten what I intended, sorry God.
**** 'lay-over' is a complete misnomer due, in no small part, to Observation #4.
Observation #1): that was a kick-ass sentence.
Observation #2): the Atlantan Aerodrome is one big hamster tube. Had I any young, I would have felt compelled to eat them on the spot -not as any sort of socio-political statement, but as a vehicle of the full expression of the artistic intent of the Great Architect and the fulfillment of divine expression***.
Now, as some of you may have deduced from my as-of-late overcast disposition, I have, rather cunningly, been turning forward my clock 30 minutes every day for the last few weeks State-side in order to orient myself with The Orient, so that, in the spirit of any good Subject of the Queen's redundant Christening of dog and manservant at The Alter of Efficiency, Efficiency!, I might arrive in Byzantium running full-steam-ahead. Alas, the place of repose provided for my assent and conveyance was cursed with 50 channels of on-demand entertainment, including moving map with ground speed and air speed plus temperature and wind velocity and direction provided in both mph and kph and Fahrenheit/Celsius, so that, presumably, I might provide informed council to the pilot and flight crew. Curiously, no method to directly contact the pilot was provided -a strange oversight, considering the attention paid to stratospheric edibles and courtesy toiletries including pillow, blanket, travel-toothbrush, night mask, and, yes, socks. How did they know?
Arriving in London fog at dawn, this would commence the only day lit portion of the journey: a 12 hour lay-over**** featuring a 2 hour, 30 kilometer bus ride between the bicameral Heathrow/Gatwick airport cluster.
Observation #3): the British seem unduly impressed and self satisfied with displays of Homesian logic and deduction, making a point of indicating their presumption of my nationality before I could practice my Southern Drawl or drawn on my untapped reserve of Californian Surfer Dialect. Being of far less sophisticated American Mongrel stock, I resorted to picking out the Brits by using the only two clear indicators presented to my impaired faculties: the presence of woad and weather a look of contempt and condescension was the response to the blue-blood litmus test question of "Don't you just hate the new Doctor?"
Observation #4): the police carry machine guns. Surely years of emasculated feelings due to being restricted to cracking skulls with a length of hickory primed local law enforcement to respond to the threat of terror by embodying terror themselves. Informed by resent events, I struggled with the choice of laying down and getting shot politely or doing a Beep-Beep! Vrooooooom! impression if confronted by the Guardians of the Public.
Observation #5): it is hard to see a European car and not start cooing, "Ohhhh, how cute!". Really -I challenge you.
Observation #6): as if it wasn't clear from their roll in world history, the Brits are completely sociopathic. It is now clear to Your Narrator that the British Tea-Time civility is nothing more than a vestigial mask, a bit of sophistry indulged in nationally in attempt to occult the nature of their underlining... nature. To point: put a Brit in a car and all traces of social grace evaporate, ready and willing are they to commit any manner of aberrant behavior in the name of self interest. Yes, yes, I see you in the back protesting: how does that make them unique? I beg you to sit down, honored colleague, and deport yourself as one fit to share company, and all will be made clear -I assure you. After perpetrating any number of heinous deeds and breaches of auto-edict, once ensconced well to the front of the Möbius Strip that is M5, all traffic slows to 80% of the speed limit and each duty minded Subject of The Queen maintains 3-5 seconds of distance from one another- this on a highway of luxurious proportion with toy sized cars which on any American would read the speed recommendation, double it, and convert to miles. Perhaps the answer to this socio-paradox lies in Observation #4
The British version of industrialized air travel is even more Byzantine than the heights achieved in Atlanta, and for this critic, excessive; being an American, I appreciated these gross proportions- in a Heronamous Bosch/Dante's Inferno kind of way. Endless corridors and switch-backs, dead-ends and too-narrow-do-not-passages were my canvas, the stage on which I struggled, Dung Beetle like, with an overburdened luggage cart. With this bit of performance art complete, I would attempt -and fail- to sleep, in no small part to Observation #4.
Observation #6): the nice people of the British Customs Service don't really want to know the truth when they ask about the purpose of your trip, so don't go into detail about meeting your prospective in-laws- just LIE, like everyone else, and say, 'tourism.'
Another amazing/impossible flight into darkness; despite having not slept in 36 hours, I will spend the time aloft searching the night for the campfires of the human tribe. They are everywhere, wondrous and terrifying.
* humbel used with intent to avoid impinging on the privilege of those who rightly hold the title humble.
** the bonds being surly- no impugning of Earth's character is intended or should be inferred.
*** I've forgotten what I intended, sorry God.
**** 'lay-over' is a complete misnomer due, in no small part, to Observation #4.
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