I live in a one bedroom flat on London's east end. It sounds posh right? Don't be fooled, it's a dingy little hole of a place situated on top of cafe that actually is posh. I'm sure the last people who lived here left because they got tired of watching the rich sophisticates sitting along the sidewalk sipping their tea and lattes and whatever else it is they sit there and sip with their black rimmed glasses and sleek hairdos. The best ones, though, are those who try to give off the impression that really, they are streetwise, they are tough, they are poor, they are one with the common man. Well all this would be true, I mean, just looking at them walking down the street with their unkempt hair and worn corduroys and faded denim jackets you'd think them a regular at some smoky pub on the other end of the city who'd caught the wrong train. But after some careful people watching I'm sorry to report that this is not true, rather sadly, these people are merely students and posh lawyers in disguise. In fact, right next door lives a couple who seem to only be together for the show of it, who dress in this similiar mock fashion - the corduroys, the denim jacket - only on weekends. During the week, however, they leave at 9am together in a black taxi done up to the nines in blazers and dress shirts, heeled shoes, up-done hair, looking quite well groomed, and quite, well, posh.
But enough of that. You may be able to tell I'm not a London native, nor a U.K. native but rather an American, imported on a budget airline some years ago after graduating from a college I'd rather not mention, nonetheless think about. I remember the night before I left, sitting in the room that branched off of our living room in our house in New Jersey reading "Generation X" by Douglas Coupland and trying desperately to stop being reminded of the movie "Office Space" with Jennifer Aniston in whenever he referred to office cubicles and "veal fattening pens". Not that Office Space or Generation X are horrible works of art. In fact, Office Space was one of my favorite movies at the time and might still be if I could find a shop that has it around here. Just that, in the movie, there was a bit about wearing "pieces of flair" in the movie and...well, nevermind. Anyway, I was sitting there, trying to concentrate on my book, while my parents sat in the other room watching one of those sleazy American videos of stupid things happening to people, taped on home camcorders, which would make me laugh if it weren't for the added "boing!" and "splat!" sound effects. My parents however are laughing so loudly that I can hear them over the music playing on my headphones. My mother's laugh is high pitched and she sounds as though she's being slain by a masked murderer but laughing through the entire process of brutal mutilation. My father laughs loudly and even though I can't hear it, I know he's clapping his hands and slapping his knee which is what he always does when he finds something incredibly funny. The only time he laughs like this is when watching: Monty Python and The Holy Grail, Ace Ventura, National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, and America's Most Embarassing Funniest Bloopers Uncensored blah blah blah...
Eventually I can't take the suspense and wander into the room to see exactly what is so funny. On the screen a little boy is lying on his back on the linoleum of a kitchen floor holding a toddler above him, who I assume is his relation in some way. The toddler is wearing a shirt and a diaper and the boy is holding him above his head. The toddler is let down and sits on the boy's face (now it's time for the announcer to give things away: "He can really say this is the first time he's been shitfaced") and as the toddler rolls off the boys face, the boy jerks himself into a sitting position, gets up, and runs to the corner, with shit on his face. This could probably the best visual representation and apt metaphor I've ever seen for the lives of some of the people I've known in the past. And what they've done to me, or vice versa.