a lovely bank holiday

A few pictures to tease you, with a full update on the weekend coming soon. Till then, have a look at the Adorable English Boyfriend's blog (linked at the sidebar) for some musings on his hometown.






cheers,
HRH e. cawein

ewwww, why'd you wanna go THERE?

I'm feeling very Bridget Jones today, as my mind keeps drifting from the presentation outline I'm working on for my essay (finished yesterday at 5,207 words!) to the mini-break I'm taking this weekend with Adorable English Boyfriend to Southend-on-Sea, his hometown, to enjoy the seafront and meet his family.

We leave on Friday and we'll be gone through Sunday afternoon/early evening. He keeps telling me not to get my hopes up about the actual beach part of things, but I say as long as there's sand and water and a hint of a tide rolling in and out, I'll be happy. It's been much too long since I've had sand between my toes.

I'll definitely take lots of pictures while we're there, and hopefully a little video, too. From what I gather, Essex (the county where Southend is located) is a little like Raleigh, maybe with a hint of Frayser in places. (Sorry to you non-Memphis folks, it's the only point of reference I've got!) Whenever we've told friends we were going to Essex, they look at me like I-hope-you're-prepared-for-this.

And I think to myself, me? Prepared for Essex? I grew up in Memphis, kids. I have seen it ALL. Gold teeth, two teeth, no teeth, white trash, homeless people, people who just look like they're homeless, teenage moms, old men drinking 40s from paper bags on porches or the side of the road or hell, in the middle of the road. Once? Once I saw a homeless man on a street corner with a sign that said: "I can't lie. I need a BEER." At the time, I was young and simply appreciated his honesty. Now I know how he feels.

Then I lived in New York, where I saw people urinate in public places, and visited public places where I was sure someone had recently defecated. (That sentence will inevitably result in more confused pervy blog visitors. Hi, guys!) I watched old senile crazies have conversations with themselves that were at the very least far more sensible than conversations I've tried to have after a few drinks. I saw a midget do an impression of Michael Jackson in the subway and homeless man try to play a stolent tuba for money.

After that -- and the help of the internet -- I feel pretty confident that I've seen it all. So yes, Essex, I am ready. I just hope Adorable English Boyfriend is ready for Memphis!


I'll have pictures and tales from the eastern coast when I return to the blog, hopefully by Monday.

cheers,
HRH e. cawein

like a good politician, i occasionally keep promises

It's 3:26 and I have to pee. I've had to pee since about 2:45. At 2:45 I didn't go because getting to the bathroom in this building (the Bannerman Centre on campus, where the library and post-grad study room are) is like a brief game of Mouse Trap, and I was busy writing about Tupac Shakur's unwilling role as the face of black male America in the early 1990s.

Now that it's 3:27, I'm not going because I only have about 20 minutes before I need to pack up the massive stacks of journal articles, books and notes strewn across the table next to me and go meet Adorable English Boyfriend when he gets off work so we can go into town to run some errands before the Brunel Arts Centre's 'Cabaret' concert tonight.

So I'm here, and I have things to say, and I promised I would be a good little expat blogger this afternoon so I am. Just be aware that every word I type is punctuated by the rhythmic shaking of my leg like a 6-year-old who forgot to GO BEFORE WE LEFT THE HOUSE.

Ahem.

During our weekly phone call on Sunday, my mom lovingly admonished me for being so lax with not only my blog duties, but also keeping in touch as I once did with little e-mails a few times a week and the sporadic instant messager conversation. She said she knew it was because I was happy, having fun, because I have someone now, but she misses hearing from me.

I hope some of my few faithful readers feel the same way, and rest assured, I'm sure I miss (most) of you, too, and feel a bit guilty for my bad pen palling skills of late. I stress the word most there because with the help of my recently installed site meter, it has come to my attention that not one, but two people in the last week have been directed to my blog by Google after searching for a disgusting variety of pornographic material that shares its name with a jazz soloing technique. Though the porn type has never been blogged about here, the jazz soloing has. I imagine they were a wee tad disappointed. Whoops.

But I have a confession to make: my mom was right. I am happy. Ridiculously, unbelievably, inconceivably happy. And because this initially aimed to be a bit of a travel blog, and there's that whole thing about "when in Rome," it seems only appropriate to tell you all about just why I'm so happy here. Some might call it total cultural acclimation. I call it falling in love with an Adorable Englishman.

Before I left for London last August, my cousin, who spent at least a year or more -- memory fails me -- in Scotland while studying, told me wistfully that I should do what she'd never managed to while she was there. Hook an adorable foreign boy with a fabulous accent and keep him. At the time the advice was welcomed but seemed improbable. I was barely at the picking-up-the-pieces phase of having my heart broken, and I still couldn't tell how many pieces there were, how long it would take me to find them all, if I even knew how to put them back together again.

Most of my first few months here I spent here very much on my own; I hesitate to use the word alone, though a good deal of that time I was quite alone, too. I got some much-needed closure in October and was able to begin forcing myself, however painful, to extract a very painful relationship from my life. I worked a lot, I read a lot, I spent a lot of time in the gym, I had a drink with friends every once in a while, I explored a lot, and I blogged. A lot.

To be fair, it has to be said that there were very few times when I was legitimately sad here. I've had my moments of homesickness and other varieties of sickness, head, heart, etc. But I think the time I spent on my own in the fall was nothing but good for me. I came back to London in January energized, excited and ready to really be myself again. I was getting involved, I was going out more, I was feeling like me.

And then a chance meeting during The Vagina Monologues in February and then the birthday party of a friend in March dropped this fantastic boy into my world. Since then, it's been hard to rip myself away from him or wipe the ridiculous smile off my face long enough to contemplate something worth musing on for a few thousand words. And I won't bore you by electing to make said thousand-word-musing on the specific topic of this boy, or as he is more rightly referred to here, Adorable English Boyfriend. There's no need, and god knows I'll be home on June 20 and most of you will be forced against your will to listen to me gush in person. I won't subject you to that kind of mush twice. (Plus, if you're going to be in or around Memphis or Murray between June 30 and July 8, you'll get to meet him in person! Glee!)

All that needs to be said is that my mom was right. I'm happy. Happy in ways that, about nine months ago, I honestly didn't know would be possible for me again. When I think of where I was about a year ago -- wrestling with the decision of taking my relationship to the next level, feeling trapped, feeling scared, feeling mentally and emotionally blackmailed and verbally abused, feeling unhappy with who I was and who I was becoming -- I am immensely grateful for the time I spent getting reacquainted with the person who had been stifled, and grateful that it happened in plenty of time for that person to be in the right place at the right time. And in the right seat at the right party when the right person walked in the door.

And also about 1/3 of the way into a bottle of wine. Whoops.

When I turn in my essay next week, blogging will likely become much more regular; I look forward to it. I do miss it, too. Here's hoping you are half as happy as me, and that your travels in life may be as lucky as mine have been these past few months.

cheers,

HRH e. cawein

for tha love of $

I'm listening to Bone Thug's classic tune "For tha love of $" right now, getting myself in the zone to continue plowing through my second essay for my Music and Text class, which is due a week from tomorrow and has to be presented conference-style to my classmates and a panel of professors.

(Excuse me briefly while I shphitz.)


Anywho. Though many of you might be recoiling at the idea of listening to and/or writing about gangsta rap, it's been an incredibly interesting project thus far. It's helped by the fact that I've always been a pretty big fan of the genre, mostly the era critics refer to as G-Funk, which was ushered in by Dr. Dre's 1992 release The Chronic and continued by Snoop Dogg, Tupac, Warren G, Nate Dogg and the like through about 1997. But beyond that, I'm writing about two issues of key interest to musicology and the ways that gangsta rap reshaped them in relation to popular music in general. The issues are simplified into the terms authorship (first, does the author truly exist in art? and is our knowledge of the author significant to reception of the art?) and biography (the old life to art, art to life contiuum debate).

I should be getting back to said essay post-haste, because I need to write another 1,000 words today to be on schedule with my timeline, but I wanted to drop a quick post to say that if I manage to reach my goal by about 3 today I'll be delivering up a real meaty post, the likes of which you haven't seen since I started getting distracted by a certain Adorable Englishman who shall remain nameless. So brace yourself.

Til then, cross your fingers that gangsta rap agrees with me for the next few hours!


cheers (and PEACE, homes.),
HRH (tha mack) e. cawein

memphis mid-life blues

My final performance exam was last Wednesday, and I'm happy (and relieved) to report that it went really well and I've finally regained feeling in my legs. My program was called Songs from the South, and among the pieces I performed was this little ditty, words by me and music by my pal Sarah, who's playing guitar with me here.

The song is a bit of an homage to Memphis, through a bit of a humorous, sarcastic and satirical lens -- but of course flavored with a bit of love in the middle. I realized when watching the video that my dad has earned not one, but TWO shout-outs in this song, so congratulations, Dad! The first one references the day my dad picked me up from pre-school at UACC and told me that robbers had been to our house, and I thought he was joking. Oddly, this inability to tell whether or not he's being serious is a problem that has plagued me into adulthood. Or perhaps the real problem is gullibility. You figure it out.

The second reference is about Prince Mongo, and if you're from Memphis I need say no more; if you're not, you should google him. And count yourself lucky.

So here it is. I wish I could've gotten the whole thing on video, but I think this song was really the highlight for me, so you're getting the best of the best. Enjoy!






cheers,
HRH e. cawein

he's such a bad influence

While I'd love to opine for a few thousand words about my oldest brother Noah's recent visit to London, I know that I can sum it up in just a few sentences. He came. We drank. And drank. And then drank some more.

During the whirlwind five and a half days or so he was here we definitely operated at a breakneck pace that I'm not accustomed to. We do our fair share of drinking over here, of course, but I also occasionally take breaks to go to class, sing and write papers. Whereas while Noah was here we didn't break for anything. Even to sleep. Or pee.

So I figured I'd just give you some pictoral highlights of the week. In all, it was a ton of fun, though I was exhausted beyond recognition by the time I saw him off at Heathrow. Ah well. Nothing a little nap can't fix!











Because it was Cinco de Mayo, Noah insisted that we all do tequila shots. I opted out because clearly there had to be a photographer. And my liver was crying out for mercy.







A crazy week in just 5 days.


cheers,
HRH e. cawein

it lives!

See? Do you see how I love you? I know I've been gone far too long, so not only do I post, I post a video! This is all thanks to a very exciting gift I received this weekend from my Adorable English Boyfriend: a really massive memory card for my camera, thus allowing me to actually take a video of sizable length and therefore, video blog!

Ever since I got into Brotherhood2.0 (see the link in my blog-to-blog tourism section) I've been wanting to do some video blogging, alongside my writing of course, because without the words I may get lost in the internets, which is similar to the woods, and I was never good at directions. So every once in a while you'll be treated to one of these -- and I'm hoping to give you some tours of the places I frequent most, now that I have the power!

Enjoy the first installment! Hopefully it's not too painful -- done in two takes, because the editing program on my computer is absolute garbage. Ah well. Video! At last!

cheers,
HRH e. cawein

just as annoying as i remember

Less than half an hour in England and we already had a few beers in him. More to come.


cheers,
HRH e. cawein