Rock and Roll Field Trip, Part I



Battersea Power Station

Within a few years, this relic of London's early 20th century will officially enter the postindustrial age by being converted into a gigantic entertainment center. I made the trek down to Battersea and the environs today to get some shots of this Floydian landmark--not the best neighborhood, just yet, but well worth the really, really long walk. (At $4 each way, I have to severely limit my Underground trips while I'm here.) Anyway, I've got dozens more of these, if anyone cares.

Hail, Brittania!

The woman at passport control was very intent on checking out my
story; she really didn't seem to believe any of it despite my student
ID and the embarrasingly bad letter from the school which assured the reader that I was to be studying in someplace called "Britian" for a few months. "What are you studying again?" she asked. I hadn't really slept and was trying to say the word "law" in every phonetic variation I could think of until something finally
registered with her. "Oh, of course," she said. She wrote down "WAR"
in big block letters. Close enough.

From the frying pan into...
...well, something else. I'm not one to get too ruffled about color-coded threat levels or vague allusions to strikes on financial centers, but the CD-ROM's worth of VERY specific intel that They had on the Prudential building (and the ensuing assault rifles, concrete barriers, and dozens of extra cops installed downtown) has been enough to wear me down. (Yes, that is a direct camera shot from my back deck. See how the building has the word "Prudential" on it in giant letters? Time was, they *wanted* everyone to know that their world HQ was in Newark...)

So I'm out of here... and a good week before the Republicans take over NYC, no less.
Then again, the middle of London isn't necessarily the place to go to escape terrorist threats. But I'm not thinking about that.

Anyway, my posts for the next few months will probably become increasingly anecdotal (and photographic) and decreasingly link-y. Just warning you.

Happy Dick Day!


So His Majesty Richard Milhouse Nixon resigned thirty years ago today. Why isn't this a national holiday? Isn't this just as much an occasion to celebrate as any of our other presidential holidays? This would have made a perfect three-day weekend... but I'm reading trial transcripts instead of drunkenly toasting one of our most hated (despite what Michael Moore would have you believe, his inauguration actually drew three times as many protestors as W's) presidents. Maybe we should get a referendum going. Or just celebrate it informally. Any suggestions for the best drink with which to celebrate Dick's glorious, long-overdue departure?

Better yet, when the Vice President finally has an actual heart attack (not to be confused with the minor one we now know he actually suffered on 9/11) and finally liquifies back into the puddle of molten evil from whence he came, maybe we can make a joint holiday for both of them: Dick Day! (Nominations could also be accepted for "honorary Dicks" each year--like maybe President Grant, Benedict Arnold, or Antonin Scalia.) It could be kind of like Guy Fawkes Day. Except totally different, I guess.

"Burned Lingonberry Pancakes!"

Travis and Tore: I'm so happy that I wasn't the only dorkwad who came of age playing KQ. KQ4 is still the best ever, 'cause you got to be a hot, heavily pixellated girl in a red dress. Just so y'know, you can download KQ4 (the ultra-rare AGI version!), as well as faithful VGA remakes of I and II at The Underdogs, the biggest, best, and most slavishly detailed abandonware site EVER. (Go ahead and try not to spend at least a half-hour there now...)

Anyway, I was compelled to post today after downloading an Underdogs entry that went up the other day... The Typing of the Dead! Ever wondered what Sega's totally boring zombie shooter House of the Dead would be like if it were an educational typing game where you have to type silly phrases (see post heading) as fast as possible to make the zombies' heads explode? Well. Here it is... the only typing tutor ever to earn itself an "M" rating.

Somebody in Afghanistan hearts me!

Apparently Arab terrorists care a lot more about downtown Newark than anyone else in the United States, let alone Essex County... enough to seriously try to case it out as a truck-bombing target, anyway. It's kind of touching, really, at least until I look up and actually see the Prudential building looming large over my apartment, only one block away. Fortunately, I'm out of here for a few months after next week. So.

In other Nevarkian news, a reliable source in the Newark Law Department informs me that our more or less reliably irreponsible Mayor Sharpe James (literally the highest-paid [and probably slowest-working] mayor in the United States) was caught frequenting a South Ward brothel during a bust sometime ago. Despite his instantly recognizable face, Mayor James attempted to insist that he was not, in fact, the mayor of Newark, but rather an official with the "Closings Down" department. Yes, the "Closings Down" department. Which not only doesn't exist, but doesn't even sound like it might plausibly exist.