Brit

She is quite literally poised above my head with a sharp implement (pencil) pressed against my scalp. This must be against some law or other. It is a SATURDAY NIGHT, and she wants us to stay in the dorm and get our shit together with the blog. I have not written for over three weeks, and am oh so penitent. As punishment, she has forbid me control of the music; we are listening to the Animal Collective radio stream on Last.Fm, and some hideous things are filtering through - currently that Wavves mess, previously Panda Bear, gah gah gah. Once upon a time she let me have my fill of Simon & Garfunkel to nurture the creative founts, or Fleetwood Mac or R.E.M, or any of the bands she loves but pretends not to. Neither is my concentration aided by the amount of times per minute a door slams in Sequoia, nor the amount of times an unnamed individual at the other end of the corridor achieves orgasm. Please Reed, stop supplying the students with free condoms. For the rest of their lives, in the (gasp) real world, they will no doubt take it for granted that a little bag of johnnies exists in every bathroom and public toilet. And when one isn't there, they will look around in a perturbed sort of way for the nearest H.A to bait for this injustice. The poor H.A - house advisor - on our floor in Sequoia has a white board stuck on his door for requests and notices, but it is mainly devoted to a running commentary on the condom situation, or lack thereof, in the bathroom. BUY YOUR OWN BIRTH CONTROL YOU LAZY LAZY HUMAN BEINGS. Or at least make the effort to go to the health center. And, while you're briefly considering things of this nature, maybe take the meagre width of the walls into account, and please don't think that having sex in the shower cubicles is appropriate when some of us are brushing our teeth.

And oh my god the SHOWERS, that's another rant altogether. Each cubicle has cultured its own happy ecosystem of body hair, discarded food stuffs, and ants. The idiot found a pitted date in the end shower the other day. Hair hair hair, though, is my primary complaint. Balls of it waft around like tumbleweed, and I retch to look at the walls.

The idiot tells me that I'm being middle-aged, and that my job is not to whine and moan about the nice dorms we have been given at vastly reduced expense. So - what in three weeks to talk about? A lot has been going on. Last weekend, she and I and Gianmarco and Aurore went to a screening of the Oscars at the Bagdad Theater, which involved a lovely bucksome compere (day job in burlesque) saying silly things during the ad breaks, and awkward moments when Portlanders were given the opportunity to make their own acceptance speeches. In the real Oscars, meanwhile, Christian Bale looked as if he forgot his wife's name, and The King's Speech won all the important ones. The idiot felt genuinely patriotic, especially amidst the toddler grumbles of many surrounding Americans who think that British movies should be in the foreign language category. Colin Firth gave an exemplary speech, I thought. Later on, an email from the mother stated, 'Biz [ie. the idiot], you are True Brit', which is the sort of heinous pun-crime parents over 50 can just about get away with (but not really). Afterwards, the four of us went to Fred Meyer for a rice puff, trail mix, ginger beer and dried apple chip dinner, which seemed an appositely glam end to the evening.

Hey, by the by, who knew Christian Bale was such a geezer?! And what a beard! I think the idiot has spent most of her life assuming his American-ness, so the accent came as a bit of a surprise. Gianmarco had to look him up on wikipedia to persuade her that he really is British after all. Shiiiiit. And as it turns out, she too is most definitely ...True Brit. With regards to blood, there was never any question - 1/4 Scottish, 1/8 Irish, remainder English - but her susceptibility to the Portland charm has been rather 'gooey love affair' over the last few months. At one point she sounded pretty adamant about moving out to the Pacific NW after graduating, and growing cider apples for 'hard' cider. But when the right person says the right things (remaining nameless), she is a fickle idiot. Americans are nice, but Brits are cool. S'just how 'tis. She and I even make time for the Craig Charles Funk and Soul Show (BBC 6Music online) on a Saturday morning, English evening, for a dance and nostalgic transportation back to her second year dishwashing job at Frank's Bar.

And thank god they don't have Monster Jam in England. Well, they probably have it in Norfolk, but Norfolk is different. She dragged me along to a Monster Jam outing with the International Society, and the less said about it the better I think.

Before I go to bed, the idiot wants me to plug a blog called Far From Home, which is written by her friend Olivia. There is an excellent picture of American 'dancing' a few posts down. That's another aspect of England the idiot prefers - the lack of expectation when it comes to being sexy, and the knowledge that to 'dance' can just mean bob about a bit, smile benignly, hope for the best.

Consette x

PS. Some great things on the internet that were introduced to me recently:
1) GREAT GATSBY PLATFORM GAME FOR NES.
2) DRUNK HISTORIES.