Unlimited Asshatery

Pretty much everything John (old engineer I used to rent from) told me about HR people has been true. So's everything a hippie told me back in Dec. 2003. Their impressions about how Seattle (and the crazy/stupids who live here) works has been dead on. I just got off the phone with an HR headhunter (we call 'em vendors). Here's the gist of it (with witty embellishments):

"Um, are you a technical writer?"
"Yes."
"Does it say that on your resume?"
"Did you read it?"
"Oh, no. Wait. Oh, I'm looking at it now. But do you have any samples?"
"My online portfolio is listed on my resume. At the top. There's a hyperlink. Just click on it."
"Oh! Okay. But do you have Microsoft experience?"
"Are you looking at my resume?"
"Wait. There it is. Yes, that's at the top."
"How long have you been out of work?"
"Over a year."
"Wow! Are you on leave or a vacation?"
"Ever heard of the Great Recession?"
"Oh yeah, right."
"Well, there's a lot of tech writer positions out there right now."
"Really?! Awesome, where should I look for them? Because I've been staring at the same job postings on the state Worksource site since December. And some of the postings on Craigslist are starting to grow moss."
"So you are looking for work?"
"No, I thought I'd just laboriously post my resume (after re-writing it six times) on Monster and endure endless moronic phone conversations FOR FUN."
"Do you want to work as a permanent at Microsoft or just as a contractor?"
"They ACTUALLY HAVE permanent positions for tech writers AVAILABLE? Great, sign me up."
"Wait, oh yeah, my boss is saying 68% of their jobs are contract only."
"Ya don't say?"


And this was one of the smarter ones I've dealt with. HR twits are kinda like mosquitoes and wharf rats. We don't really need them. Human existence would trundle along just fine without them.

All this over health care?

Anybody who thinks the faux protests going on in this country are over health care is asleep.

The last time we heard the phrase 'state's rights' was right before the South seceded from the Union and started the Civil War.

Sorry, teabaggers, states don't have sovereignty, only nations do. Where would Arkansas be without all those FEDERAL farm subsidies? Where would Texas be without endless FEDERAL corporate subsidies to its oil refineries? Where would North Carolina be without all those FEDERAL military bases? How about Florida without FEDERAL GOVERNMENT subsidies to its massive corporate orange growers?

George Carlin was right. Let's put all the Right-wing wackos in a big fenced-in lot and once a month we'll toss a few tons of raw meat and more gun ammo over the fence.

You can't secede from the American government, you dumb asses. You don't have the money and you clearly don't have the brains.

I miss chickens

In the past, I've had occasion to live in a rural setting with farm critters roaming about. Last time I was down on the farm, was in Australia in 2003. I stayed with an earthworm entrepreneur (I'm so not making this up) at his drafty, sprawling, ranch house 17 miles outside of Perth. He owned chickens (which he neglected), six sheep, a spoiled ugly pitbull and a lovely cat named Bella. There were also emus -- we called them Emu Raiders -- who lumbered into the yard late at night and destroyed clothes lines and trampled laundry. Occasionally they devastated the passionfruit vines and devoured the tomatoes.

But the chickens were the best. They began making that weird groaning noise every morning at 5 a.m. They provided eggs and were diligent bug killers. When I was working in the garden, (which was pretty extensive), they would follow me and if I came across a huntsman spider or a Madagascar cockroach, they would run over and dutifully kill and eat it. One of the chooks as they say in Oz, used to follow me around the neighborhood when I went for walks. She would trail behind me clucking worriedly. It was cute.

I really miss the eggs. And the poultry companionship.

Joined the Pity Party

My rejection is vaguely famous.

I guess I have some idea what the dolts on American Idol feel like when Simon tells them they're too ugly to sing.

Random beauty

I just couldn't let the week slip by without showing some of the art this pro did for the cover of the latest Stranger. If you live outside the Seattle area and don't get the Stranger, that's a bummer. Because Jon McNair is super cool.

It's like Maurice Sendak meets Carl Jung meets Robert Smith when he's extra depressed. It's just screaming cool.

Rapture time?

I always wondered if one of Roland Emmerich's over-the-top disaster flicks was gonna come true in real life.



Personally, I was a bigger fan of "The Day After Tomorrow". I liked the idea of tornadoes eating Los Angeles in revenge for the billions of tons of air pollution that city has dumped on us all.



But lately, I'm starting to wonder: what if the end of the world is a double-feature?

Chilean earthquake photos.

No thank you, really.

The hits just keep on coming over at AlterNet News:

Many women are happy without kids. They'd be even happier if they weren’t reminded all the time how unhappy they should be.



Ummm, didn't Ally (I-Never-Eat) McBeal ... adopt???

Gee, why doesn't this suprise me?

Pancreatic Cancer Linked to Sodas
Study Says 2 Sodas Per Week Raises Pancreatic Cancer Risk
By Kathleen Doheny, WebMD Health News

Feb. 8, 2010 -- Drinking as little as two soft drinks a week appears to nearly double the risk of getting pancreatic cancer, according to a new study.

"People who drank two or more soft drinks a week had an 87% increased risk -- or nearly twice the risk -- of pancreatic cancer compared to individuals consuming no soft drinks," says study lead author Noel T. Mueller, MPH, a research associate at the Cancer Control Program at Georgetown University Medical Center, Washington, D.C. The study is published in Cancer Epidemiology, Biomarkers& Prevention, a journal of the American Association for Cancer Research.

Cancer of the pancreas was diagnosed in about 42,000 people in the U.S. in 2009, according to American Cancer Society estimates, and about 35,240 deaths from the disease were expected. The pancreas lies behind the stomach. It makes hormones such as insulin to balance sugar in the blood and produces juices with enzymes to help break down fats and protein in foods.


Whole story here


* * *

Let's see what did my vegetarian friend, Richard, tell me way back in 1991? "HFCS fries your pancreas."

And what'd my holistic doctor tell me in the same year? "Eating a lot of sugar causes your pancreas to 'mis-fire' which causes the liver to dump too much insulin into the blood which creates hypoglycemic symptoms, which then leads to eating more sugar."

And soda pop containing HFCS is THE biggest culprit because HFCS is in liquid form so it reaches your stomach lining and then your blood stream in a fraction of the time it takes, say a cookie, to reach your blood stream. And HFCS inhibits the body's ability to produce leptin, a hormone that 'tells' your brain you are full. Essentially, your body can't tell the difference between consuming a half can of Coke, Pepsi or 7-Up and drinking an entire 6-pack. It feels the same.

I have been a lobbyist

Where's my expensive car, paid dinners, etc? Oh yeah, that'd be the pharm/gun/oil/death lobby in Washington, D.C.



But we did get free sandwiches. And buttons! And I now know who at least one of my state legislators are. And his office was really, really small.

Little Anderson

I've always been a little behind the curve on social trends and gadgets which is why I am just now (pregnant pause) discovering the marvel that is Anderson Cooper!

If you haven't read this guy's Wikipedia profile, please drop everything and go immediately to that site and look him up. I'm 90% sure Danielle Steele herself wrote the first five paragraphs of this silver-spooned queer's bio. It's To Die For!!!


Anderson and "friend"

Mum was THE Gloria Vanderbilt. Daddy died when Lil' Andy was a pup. And his older brother jumped off the terrace of the Vanderbilt penthouse apartment due to ... a drug allergy?! In an early attempt to "deal" with the losses in his life, Lil' Andy went to Africa and caught malaria. OMFG, this guy is the DEFINITION of drama.

Andy wandered woefully between the dizzying world of being a male model (gay) and going to Yale where he joined a secret society ala George Bush (SCREAMING GAY). Later he once again hit the rock bottom of despair and self-doubt (or was it loathing) when he took pictures of dead people in Rwanda during the genocide for his "own personal album."

If John Waters and Ed Wood mated and produced a genius drama-writer child? That child could not have dreamed up this super freak. Cooper's celebrity freakiness crushes all other celebrity freaks COMBINED. Couch-jumping Tom Cruise has NOTHING on this queen. All the former-child-star-turned-liquor-store robbers combined can't touch this freak's freakiness.

And what's a closeted, uber-rich gay boy's life without, yes, a stint in the Company aka the CIA.

AND, (there's always an AND with Anderson) while visiting Vietnam in the 1990s, he claims he learned Vietnamese and snuck into Myanmar/Burma to film interviews with locals.

I have to pause now because I'm having a celebrity freak-out orgasm.

(PAUSE)

I'm just wondering: when will the alien abduction stories emerge?

Fun with flea abatement

Greetings fans (all three of you),

So the wonderful, needy, overly affectionate kitty went back the Seattle Humane Society today looking a hell of a lot better than he did when I picked him up. They were about to foist another kitty-in-need on me for another 14-day "fostering" session but I begged off saying I had to do something about the fleas which were now happily residing in the shabby old carpet in my tiny apartment.

I mentioned that I'd been using baking soda and diatomaceous earth and that the fleas just sorta laughed that stuff off and I asked if there was something between baking soda and a RAID flea bomb which I didn't want to do as you have to like go check into a motel for a few days until the Sarin gas wears off. Somebody said something about 'boric acid' which you can get in powder form some where and it's only mildly toxic to people-n-pets but apparently way more irritating to fleas, the Star Trek Borg of the parasite world ('resistance is futile!').



So off I went to the vast, depressingly empty Factoria mall and at Petco I let a cashier talk me into "Zodiac Carpet and Upholstery Flea Powder". Remember that name, folks, because it should have had A GIANT BLACK SKULL on the front of the can and they should have called it "Ode 'de Love Canal" or "Essence of Linfen" (Linfen is supposedly the most toxic city in China).

The truly witty part in this purchase? The effing can said something like "may treat a 200-400sq ft area". Fuck me running. It should have said: "To kill everyone at Safeco Field during a game, open can, and run away very fast."

This shit was so bad, I'm pretty sure if Keith Richards snorted a line, he really would die ... or at least have a bad cold for a week.

I put a small half-circle of the crap around the bottom of my bed frame as that was Valencio's favorite napping//lurking area. I then began the 4-hr task of washing every piece of linen I own including all the towels the cat had bedded down on and all my sheets, duvet, etc.

I came back upstairs and about then I noticed the paint-peeling vapors from this small line of powder in the carpet. I had already opened all my bay windows, cranked the fan, etc. The directions said "allow to sit for 60 minutes or over night". If I had actually let it sit over night, I'd be dead right now and the powder would have burned a crescent-shaped hole thru my floor!

Instead, I immediately vacuumed the shit up and desperately started sprinkling baking soda everywhere the nuclear waste had been. There were multiple sessions downstairs cleaning my vacuum, knocking crap out of the now pretty trashed HEPA filter, wiping every part of the vacuum down with Orange Clean and water, etc.

Finally, after five hours of living inside a freezing wind tunnel, the vapors seem to have eased off. I took a long shower and will have to wash the Agent Orange out of my clothes tomorrow and dust every single freaking surface in my apartment.

A quick look at the can, which is bagged up and going in the trash tomorrow says:

Linalool 2.5%
piperonyl butoxide .5%
pyrethrins .075%
Nylar pyradine .020%
"other" 96.9%

Yummy!

I'm sure this stuff wouldn't fly with the cocaine crowd but if you like a good gas huffing or glue sniffing high, this stuff will do the trick. I'm still dizzy and confused.

And if even one flea egg hatches and I get one more bite after this AND I grow gills or a hand-shaped tumor in the middle of my forehead, I am so suing "Zodiac".

Year of the Turd

I nominate 2009 the year of the turd. For me personally, this year has been fecal from start to finish.

• Really blew out my back in January and had to fight to get an MRI,


• nearly bled to death in June right before my birthday,


• got a stress fracture in my foot apparently from just walking down the street,


• had a second (or fifth?) bad back episode in May,


• a surreal heatwave partially melted my building's roof,


• had a creepy, damaging visit from an un-welcome relative,


• had scary (albeit successful) surgery in October,


• and then worked for these Conservitards on a seasonal Xmas job,


• and through it all I was chronically un- or under-employed all the way.

Now if I just had some cat litter sprinkles to go on top. Bon voyage 2009, it's time to flush the toilet on this crap year.

Dances with Smurfs!

Best psychedelic-CGI flick EEEVER. And Lindy did a far, far better job writing a hilarious review than I ever could.



And Cameron's latest entertainment juggernaut has all the right-wing nuts snarling about the 'overt pro-environment message'. Let's hear it for decadent Hollyweird!

Days like these ...

... I especially miss being in Oz. Why right now it's probably 87 F in Sydney and I could be engaging in croc dangling.

Cage of Death designed to thrill, not kill

The Cage of Death at Crocosaurus Cove is a popular tourist attraction / AAP

(And fuck you, Rupert Murdock, I'm pinching one of your slave's pics.)

Smug Marrieds?

The above is from Bridget Jone's Diary where the author Helen Fielding called her married friends Smug Marrieds because, ummm, well they are. Or they tend to be.

I ran into this phenom yesterday at my final writing class meeting at Hugo House. We read a short, short story by S.L. Wisenberg called Brunch. It was humorous and sardonic and originally ran in the New Yorker.

Anyhoo, afterward, everybody (all the Smug Marrieds in the room) were moaning about how 'bitter sweet' and 'lonely' the story was. Hello? I'm sorry. Was your day of Sesame Street-promoted sunshine canceled? Or as the hipster druggie across my hallway would say: "Welcome to America."

Yup, some of us go through life experiencing multiple relationships at different times that start and end for all sorts of reasons, not all of them logical or even our fault. Woe unto us the risque, the (dangerously?) adventurous, the sexually experienced. What un-ending horrors our lives must be! (or is it whores?)

I loved what cynical old Hanif Kureishi said about this: "... people marry when they're at their most desperate, that the need for a certificate is a sure sign of an attenuated affection."

Chance of Frogs

Just remembering what a mind-blowing film this was when I first saw it. And now, 10 years later, I'm lucky enough to own it on DVD.



On the 'Making of', Paul Thomas Anderson looks like he's about 18 years old.

On my All-Time, Top 10 Movies List.

The membrane of perpetual stupidity

I'm okay with fundamentalist Muslims that want to live in the 7th Century. Really, it's okay. It's a free planet -- issue fatwas, kill school teachers, beat women for walking unattended down the street -- you Muslims party like it's 780 A.D.!

But when modern American males starts believing a ridiculous myth (thanks, abstinence education!), I must don my feminist cape and do something.

Listen up, boys and girls. The hymen. The so-called proof of a young girl's virginity? It doesn't really exist. Yup, there is no penis-proof membrane of pink tissue guarding the entrance to a teenager's vagina. Isolating and pointing out a hymen at the entrance to an organ that is a mass of folds, lips and membranes is like pointing out one damn pedal on a big clunky flower. And technically, that's not her vagina, it's just her vulva. The vagina is an internal canal, like the colon, and can only be seen with a speculum and a light.



And if a girl is in the unlucky, tiny minority and has a complete hymen, guess what happens when she's 11 to 14 years old and Aunt Flo starts visiting? She will have to have that pesky hymen lanced by an MD or she will suffer a build up of menstrual fluid, become very sick and probably DIE.

Why the fuck would anyone wish this deformity on their girl child?

I had a hippie neighbor when I was a teen growing up in Nevada. Said hippie neighbor loaned me an awesome book. It was called Our Bodies, Our Selves and it calmly explained there are different kinds of hymens and about a third of girls don't have a hymen at all. (We can only wonder how many dead teens there are in fundamentalist Muslim countries thanks to complete ignorance of this simple medical fact.)

As a teenager, my experience with this little flap of tissue was pure annoyance. The first time, I had no pain, barely bled and was super bored because the dude was a lousy lay. The second time, I bled again and was anything but bored. I was happy my hymen had receded never to be heard from again. Amen and pass the condoms.

The hippie neighbor told me she went through years of uncomfortable sex with her troll of a husband until she finally had her first kid. Then the pain was gone and she finally got to half-way enjoy herself. Again, why in the entire fucking world would anyone want to go through painful sex?

For the odd caveman out there (I'm assuming they read) who's scratching his brow and wondering about his pleasure via tightness, may I suggest a sex doll with a permanent hymen or a Fleshlight. Because if/when you're fucking an actual virgin, she likely will be as stiff as a board -- possibly from mild pain -- but mostly scared thanks to all the mental baggage attached to the mythical First Time. You know, as stiff and lifeless as a sex doll.

Here's a few FAQs:

1. Can using tampons remove or destroy a girl's hymen? Yes and no. Depends on whether or not she has one. See the above.

2. Will using a vibrator or dildo break a girl's hymen? An external vibrator? No. A dildo? Yeah, probably. And good riddance if you ask me. The person best suited to popping a girl's cherry is the owner.

3. Can falling on the top bar of a bicycle or riding a horse cause a girl to lose her hymen? I've seen this myth perpetuated on TV shows and I've yet to meet a OB/GYN who will say 'yes' to this one, so I'm saying 'no'. Unless the bike or the horse's saddle is fitted with an upright dildo, I don't see HOW this could happen. More likely, if a girl falls onto the top bar of a bike, it will cause bruising and bleeding of the vulva, the lips that form the outer most part of the vagina.

4. Can an MD or gynecologist tell whether a girl is a virgin just by examining her and looking for a hymen? No!!! In fact, when female children are molested or raped, doctors look for other signs of penetration such as scraping or bruising along the vaginal canal. The absence of a hymen is not conclusive proof of sexual assault in court.

Now, everyone please follow me, the 21st century is right up here on our left.

Uh, you have to actually leave The Past to see it. It's the up-coming part of human history that comes with space ships, genetic research, drastically improved public health, a shocking lack of superstition and little or no interest in useless flaps of genital tissue.

Cry for the rapist?

When I was in elementary school, the Manson Family was always in the news in California.

A few years after Sharon Tate was murdered, insult was added to injury of the collective California psyche when Roman Polanski was charged with rape.

In true southern California style, Polanski was viewed as this flamboyant, big shot Hollywood director and the judge who tried his case was seen as a 'square' (Conservative) who clearly had an ax to grind with the decadent Hollywood scene.

Polanski's lawyers, and apparently the man himself, had no qualms about playing the Jew card. Polanski, like many European immigrants of his generation, is a survivor of the Holocaust. Apparently a year in hell absolves one of later devilish behavior. Too bad nobody explained this to Khmer Rouge survivor and Oscar winner, Haing Ngor, so he could run out and rob some banks or liquor stores before his murder in 1996.

Of course, everything surrounding the Polanski case -- including the (now deceased) judge's very unprofessional bias -- is yesterday's news. Even the rape victim, Samantha Geimer, now a woman my age, wants the whole thing to go away. (She's been paid shut-up money and was given a 'formal' apology by Polanski years ago).

There's been a lot of talk about preferential treatment of celebrities like Polanski. But what about preferential treatment because of race and the class status incurred by fame, not just celebrity?

Imagine if Polanski were an African immigrant from Rwanda, a Tutsi man who survived the genocide of 1994. Now imagine this African rising to some prominence for his inventive, yet mainstream films in Hollywood. Now imagine this black filmmaker one night lounging in the hot tub of his mansion overlooking Sunset Blvd. Imagine this black filmmaker drugging and sodomizing a 13-year-old child. Now imagine the child is a boy.

Still want to dismiss Polanski's criminal charges?

Dick Lit

I've been in a sci-fi writer's group for over a year and garnered some awesome friends who are eagle-eyed readers, thoughtful critics and open-minded ... normal folk.

Awhile back, I had to temporarily run the writer's group by myself. It was fun at first but after a couple of less-than-great meetings, I started to feel psychically drained.

There's something about the genre of science fiction, aka speculative fiction, which seems to bring a specific type of crazy out enforce. They're almost always white and male and anywhere from Baby Boomer old to Millennial twentysomething.



At the meetings, a predictable scene plays out. A guy (usually wearing mis-matched fleece and khakis) shows up with a slightly creepy smile on his face clutching some tome he has self-published. He'll eagerly tell everyone he spent $5,000 getting it published (an amount equal to a nice used car).

I've yet to see one of these self-published novels that looked good enough that I'd actually pick it up in a bookstore. Usually the cover is glossy, the paperback is over sized and there's some lurid color scheme surrounding a title that over uses all the words they tell you to never use like: space, death, god, stars, love or alien.

Mr. Self Published has brought it to show everybody he's serious about this writing thing, it's not just a hobby! Depending upon his level of crazy, the guy will either tell us the basic plot ("it's about a guy who travels thru time with the help of aliens to rescue the space program from mind-reading CIA agents disguised as runway models"). Or if he's really nuts, he'll smile coyly and tell you it can't be summed up, you must read the entire 750-page doorstop.

During the meetings, we bounce around the room doing an impromptu meet-n-greet where everybody will give their first name, mention what they're reading and what they're working on. Usually Mr. Self Published will interrupt with snarky remarks so the whole process takes twice as long as normal.

About 30 minutes in, maybe while we're talking about "World War Z", Harry Harrison or the next comicon, Mr. Self Published will pick a fight. He'll snicker loudly at the meek college girl who says she loves Terry Brooks and is writing her own fantasy story. Or someone will say something about Ursula LeGuin and he'll pipe in with "Oh, the feminazi ... I mean feminist writer".

Or if he's like the winner I dealt with, he'll take the discussion of post-apocalyptic sci-fi (something both Margaret Atwood and Cormac McCarthy have dabbled in) to interject his theory on human extinction and why using nuclear weapons in the Middle East is a cool idea! The fur will start to fly and then Mr. Self Published will gloat, safe in his delusion of superiority, 'cos ya know, he already wrote a book predicting all this.

These freaks like to attack women authors, even roaring successes like Joanne Rowling.

I have yet to meet one of these trolls who did not use the slur chick lit; which is applied to any novel, play, script or short story ever published by a writer with a vagina. Don't expect Mr. Self Published to actually have read anything by a female author. He's way too busy and women authors just don't interest him! (This includes everyone from Joan Didion to Virginia Woolf). Mr. Self Published and his ilk are the reason why women's literature programs were invented.

I've coined a new phrase for this group of socially stunted bigots. (DISCLAIMER: as usual this applies only to some men, not all 4 billion of you.)

Dick Lit.

I define it as sci-fi or speculative fiction that has several specific elements.

Dick lit must adhere to the uber-geek norms for science fiction already set down by their favorite homophobic, misogynistic authors. It must have a machine, it must involve the hard sciences and it must involve space in some way like the launching of a futuristic space ship (think: erection).

Dick lit must have an average-looking male protagonist who is deeply misunderstood by everyone around him. A hero who everyone has failed to recognize as a genius (every cardboard character Michael Crichton ever invented).

Dick lit must have a female character (nothing but dudes would be gay), possibly extra terrestrial or part cat, who is overtly feminine and exotically beautiful in a sort of dominatrix way but who, weirdly, recognizes the genius in the story's hero and either strives to help him in an appropriately subservient fashion or, works against him since all girls are duplicitous.

At some point in the story, the female character, despite her extraterrestrial-ness or over-powering wiles, will get stuck, lost, arrested, kidnapped, gagged, brain sucked, encased in dry ice or put into a chemically-induced coma. Then, surprise, the misunderstood genius hero will come to her rescue. This will happen because from birth, we are all read stories and taught that women are people whom things happen to and men are people who do things.

Dick lit has to have action because stories where people just sit around and talk are lame, like most books women authors write. Those are just people sitting around and talking, right?

Dick lit can have sex scenes as long as they’re non-sentimental and brief, because damn it, the hero has work to do! He can’t be bangin’ intergalactic babes all day like Capt. Kirk. And there should be some weird distancing aspect to these sex scenes like sex with zombies or sex with She-Rah the raging lesbian from planet nine so if the hero has to break things off with her, it’s okay because he’s not emotionally attached, it was just random humping like on that video game, Grand Theft Auto.

Finally, the hero has either some sort of special power or a special machine for kicking ass (think: getting back at anyone who picked on the author in school).

I strongly urge every female reader and author out there to start using this cool new pop culture term at any given opportunity. Like if your boyfriend starts rambling about Peter Parker’s special powers in Spiderman, interrupt him by saying “Oh, you mean like dick lit!” Or if he begins to rant about how they got the warp drive configuration in the new Star Trek flick wrong, say: “Dude, that’s such a dick lit thing to say!”

Dodgy London

I went to the UK for the first time in December 2003. I spent my first week "abroad" holed up in Friend One's house down in Somerset; rural, southwest England. He graciously drove me and a couple of others to see the sites -- Glastonbury, Bath, Dorset.

In the second week of January, Friend One drove me (and another holiday visitor) up to London. I then stayed with Friend Two at his tiny flat in east London, in one of poorer parts of Essex.

Ilford's main features were a giant 12-story heroin rehab facility two blocks from the "town centre" overlooking the rail station and a sea of curry shops and convenience stores predominately owned by Pakistani or Indian first-generation immigrants.

A day after I got to Ilford, the Ricin Scare happened. I perched on Friend Two's sofa, watched Sky News, cleaned his apartment and nursed an appallingly bad flu cold before I started venturing into central London via the train. (I kept a death grip on Friend Two's digital camera the whole time I walked miles in the artic weather taking pictures of everything because I didn't really have any money to do anything else.) I heard stories about the crime rate in the UK having increased 300% in the last decade and saw some crazy take downs of perps by meaty, humorless Met officers ... and they do carry guns.

Now the criminal hazards of life in London have popped up again, in a very glamorous way with a jewelry heist. Just so happens one of the suspects was apprehended at a house in Ilford.



And the jewelry robbery itself happened not too far from where I had to go to get my plane ticket changed at a BA office on Oxford Street.

Weird.