Bear Spray - The Musical

Rumour has it that there have been a lot of 'bear' sightings in my neighbourhood. I've certainly seen a lot of signs of them but I've not been cornered by one yet.

I'm not sure what I'll do if I encounter one. They say not to run. Typically I talk my way out of these situations, but I'm not sure my usual 'song and dance' is a good idea with a bear.

A Job Well Done

It doesn't matter if you're twenty-one or forty-nine, the question 'what do you do for a living?' is often asked. It's a tough one to answer for some of us, but some of the better answers are:

1) Why do you ask? This is a great response to turn the spotlight back on the interro-gator.

2) None of your god damned business. This is usually reserved for telemarketers or people you loath (see telemarketing company owners).

3) Well, I was thinking about becoming a psychologist or a serial killer. Can't decide. C'mon up to my apartment and we can discuss this in more detail. Of course, the only thing that gets killed is the conversation. Mission accomplished.

4) I'm currently an amateur musician but I'd love to be a professional musician (see cartoon). It could be your worst nightmare (Ian) or a dream come true (Wendy).

5) I'm a discouraged worker. Please don't ask me again. Lay the guilt trip back on them and likely confuse them, unless they're an economist in which case they'll be supremely satisfied with your answer.

6) Head butt them. Problem solved.

Occasionally I'll be asked 'Ian, what would be the perfect job for you'? My stock answer is "I've got the perfect job." When I was at home with the offspring my answer was accepted, but now I can't use that line because the offspring has sprung off. Quite honestly, I have never known what the answer to that question was...until yesterday.

Yesterday the light bulb came on.

I'd want to do exactly what Gary Larson did. I'd want to be the creator of the Far Side cartoons or something similar. The 'job' combines a wicked sense of wit and punnery, simple but clever graphic abilities, and a delicious sense of irreverence. I'd be self-employed too!

I can imagine no better job....for me. Sure, it would be nice to save lives (born again Christian), feed the poor (Tim Horton's drive-thru attendant), or make the world a better place for our children (diaper rash researcher), but it's better if we follow our hearts.

Cell Fish Division

It wasn't my intention to 'borrow' a New Yorker magazine cartoon and post it, bit it was so delightfully relevant that I couldn't help myself.

Just yesterday I was marveling inside my head at what I was seeing outside. Sometimes it seems like everyone (but me) talks/texts on cellphones with blatant disregard for others. For everything. No one hears the cardinal's love song or the whistling wind anymore. No one looks up.

It. Is. An. Epidemic.

This cartoon captures my sentiment perfectly. Oddly enough I was chuckling last week when I saw one of these cones on a dog. For the dog, the cone was meant to keep it from scratching an incessant itch. No different for humans, I'd say.

If I sound like I'm complaining, I'm not. This development makes me quite happy. When the world runs out of oil and electrical grids fail all over the planet, Nature Boy Varty (a fictitious descendant) will be out in the back country enjoying a hot mug of birch bark soup. And the cell phoners, what will they do? They'll be madly trying to get online with their oxymoronical 'smart phones' to see if Martha Stewart has a recipe for pemmican. She won't. By this point Martha will be cryogenically frozen and likely orbiting the sun in some far off solar system. Besides, there will be no cell service. Ha ha.

Well, that's my view of the future. We might just as well eat, drink and be merry today because life without cell phones won't feel much like life.

Note: what a stupid, rambling blog this has been. I really just wanted to re-post that cartoon.

Turn, Turn, Turn, Dammit!

Take a look at this picture. What's going on with the silver vehicle on the street corner? Looks to me like the driver is about to turn right onto Yonge Street. Guess again...she isn't.

I was walking up Yonge Street yesterday morning when I encountered this vehicle parked directly across the sidewalk. I assumed the driver would move by the time I got there. There was no apparent reason (i.e. traffic) why she couldn't. It looked like she had her right turn signal on.

By the time I was ten feet from the vehicle I could see that she was texting furiously. My first thought? You bitch. My second thought? So you and your texting was so important that you pulled over and inconvenienced everyone on the sidewalk. This is the frame of mind in which Toronto has put me. Okay, so I put myself there....under the influence of Toronto. We're just quibbling at this point.

I walked around the back of the vehicle. My outer Rhino considered flipping the vehicle over. We'll call it social justice, though it's really nothing of the sort. Sidewalk rage? Yes....that's it. My inner Rhiney senses were tingling and this is unusual. I decided to cross the intersection saying or doing nothing. I glanced back. She hadn't moved anything other than her texting fingers. Other people looked perturbed as they skirted the vehicle. I looked back again once I was two hundred feet up the sidewalk. Still texting.

So, was she a rude bitch? Maybe, but I doubt it. My last look at her, from afar, allowed me a little more detail. I noticed that her four way flashers were on. At this point it occurred to me that her vehicle likely broke down at a very inopportune moment. She was probably texting someone for help.

Did I feel badly about my initial reaction to her blocking the sidewalk? Not really. I am now a creature of the city, expecting rudeness before it happens. It was a good lesson about not jumping to conclusions before you have all the facts. What you read on the surface may be nothing like the real story. It's always good to keep digging. Find the truth. Don't assume anything and don't believe everything you (think you) see. And sometimes....be patient with others.

Now, I'd better go finish my Quaker oatmeal before I take the Rhino out for his morning walk.

Who Is Rose Otel?

All  winter long I've been watching red-tailed hawks soar past the windows of my 20th floor condo. They always seemed to be on the prowl for pigeon, then suddenly their daily fly-bys stopped in mid-March.

'What gives?' I said to myself. What I've discovered is that the hawks are now focusing their efforts on nest building and the accompanying sexcapades. I've caught them in the act, though not on digital film (hawk porn).

In this picture a hawk is building a nest on the letter 'L' of the Rose Otel building (which is actually the Primrose Hotel, Carlton/Jarvis streets). It's a spectacularly inaccessible location for anything but a hawk, Spiderman, or a daring Dobbelstyn in a cherry picker. The sign is at least 20 stories high (I can only count to four these days so I'm not sure of the exact height). It overlooks Allan Gardens. That's the park which is home to the elaborate greenhouses that were a favourite of my visiting in-laws. A favourite of mine, too. The park is home to hawk-worthy prey such as: pigeons, squirrels, dogs, dog owners, bums (often also dog owners), and at least one rat.

Has there ever been just one rat in any location? Hell, even in the boardroom of Conrad Black's Hollinger Inc. there was more than one rat. I suspect the rats come out at night to clean up whatever the pigeons and bums can't finish during the day. I suspect there are rats at Conrad's house too. Day old caviar is still caviar.



What's For Dinner, Hawky?

When given lemons, the industrious make lemonade. Those who make ratatouille must have an abundant supply of rats (or stewed vegetables).

This red-tailed hawk that I photographed yesterday had a rat in its talons. Mmmmm...rat. I suppose one does tire of squab after a while, n'est pas?

Not My Pun...For Once!

I saw this sign in the window of a University Of Toronto student residence building.. The sign is hard to read, so here it is in plain and simple type:

There was a large paddle sale at the boat store. It was a huge oar deal.

Isn't it great to know that the leaders of tomorrow, and by that I mean UofT graduates, are witty and playful with words?

If only I was a UofT graduate. Harumphhh. Wait a minute....!

Holy sweet potato....I yam!!

Searching For Sugar, Man

I saw this sign in a Toronto apartment window the other day. You just know there's a story to be told there, but what is it?

 

One can surmise that someone finally 'lost it' when they realized how much sugar they unwittingly consumed by eating cereal, drinking pop and mainlining Skittles.

 

Could you go 85 days without sugar? No sugar tonight in my coffee, no sugar tonight in my tea.

 

So, could you do it?

Entertaining The In-Laws

My in-laws, Paul and Linda, left Harvey Station (pop. +/- 2000) yesterday and flew to Toronto (pop.+/- 2 600 000).

We nearly lost Linda at the Kipling bus terminal when the bus driver drove off with her, leaving Paul and me standing on the sidewalk. I kicked the bus as it pulled away (Rhino!).

Paul and Linda are with us for five days. We've got lots of fun activities planned during the daytime. Today, for example, Wendy is taking her parents to the Toronto Flower Show. Linda will be stalking Mark Cullen, I think. That's the morning and early afternoon plan, but what to do this evening?

Wendy has some work to do this evening so I'm in charge of feeding and entertaining the in-laws. I'm not sure what we'll do. It is Friday night, after all!

Rhino Training...Not Going Well.

Pole Vaunting

Wandering around Toronto is an education that takes one from utter bewilderment to near enlightenment. That's not to say that Toronto is a city of extremes, as most things fall somewhere in the middle. That would be the case for every city, with the two possible exceptions of Las Vegas and Oromocto.

Ah...Oromocto. A military town like none other. Feel free to interpret that as you will.

I never think of Toronto as a military town though it undoubtedly sent a great many of its boys and girls to war. It must have its war memorials, statues of war heroes, and run down legions though I'm not sure where any of them are located.

I do know where the Polish Combatants Association Branch 20 is located, just on the lower flank of the UofT campus. I'll confess that I was surprised to see a building in Toronto dedicated to Polish Combatants, not that there has ever been any question that the Poles needed to defend themselves against oppression. I was just surprised to see that building here. What was even more surprising was that this was Branch 20, suggesting that there are at least 19 elsewhere.

I decided to do some research. The Polish Combatants Association (Canada) was formed by Polish WW2 veterans living in Canada. I suspect it functioned in a similar vein as the Canadian Legion, but with better perogies. I discovered that Branch 2 is in London (ON) and Branch 8 is in Ottawa. There's a web site dedicated to Polish Combatants: http://www.spkottawa.ca/english/spk_history.html#short. I'm not suggesting that you go there, but know that it exists if you want to know more.

Sadly, the Polish Combatants Association building in Toronto is now used for business receptions, wedding reception and techno dance parties. Just a hint of Vegas in that statement. Or is it sad? On the upside, if we're not creating sufficient numbers of Polish combatants to sustain Branch 20, then that's a bloody good endorsement that the war has been won.

In a similar vein, if we can't sustain the membership of the various Royal Canadian Legions around the country, then perhaps their demise is a sign of our success.

Scottish Humour?

No proud Scottish person would crack open their sporran and spend two pounds, fifty pence on a sticker, even if the sticker is awfa bonnie.

So what we're witnessing here is the car of a proud Scottish thief. To my credit, I saw this exact same sticker for sale in a Scottish goods shop in Stratford (ON). I refused to buy the sticker and I couldn't bring myself to nick it. I guess I'm prewed and onist.

For some real Scottish language and humour, check out this funny video on You Tube... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r48KA2X2Rb4

Big Foot Scene

My attraction to graffiti and wall art (i.e. murals) has only been heightened by spending time in Toronto. I get a kick out of graffiti's often irreverent nature. It's the art world's hillbilly cousin...the red head...the leper...the Republican...the artist born out of wedlock.

At some point Wendy and I will be buying a condo in Toronto. I'd like to decorate it with some lively, graffitiesque art. I might try to do some myself, or I might hire someone to create something for us. Maybe I'll find something in a gallery. I hope it won't be too expensive since I'll have to foot the bill.

I don't even know how a graffiti artist would charge for his/her work. Perhaps based on the size of the painting and the level of difficulty. Perhaps it would be based on the artist's sense of self worth or time value. I'm pretty sure that muralists charge by the square foot.

I suppose that I owe it to my readers to show the big picture. Here it is! This mural was found on the side of a martial arts studio just south the Main Street Go Train station. No doubt a muralist was hired to do the work. The eagerly anticipated word on the street was likely 'heel be here soon'.

Bad puns make me the hillbilly cousin of the literary world. I'm a red-headed, gun toting, Republican leper with a poison pen. I am the arch villian of culture.

I'm not any of that, really. I'm just a simple Rhinoceros with time on my hands, and a brain that flirts with pressing the clutch and shifting out of first gear.



Midnight At The Oasis

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nhy93ELGt5I&feature=youtu.be

Here's yet another Toronto time lapse. I started the camera at midnight on Friday, March 15 (beware the Ides!) and stopped it twenty four hours later. It's mostly darkness and clouds but a flicker of sunlight and a dusting of flurries provided some contrast.

I'll Take Brian Eno For Two Hundred Please

Never have I wanted Bob Mersereau (and Julian) to visit Toronto more than now....

I walked past a bar recently and was lured towards an intriguing looking poster in the window. I instantly recognized the British flag even though everyone knows that I don't know Jack. The Union Jack was the barbed hook that drew me close, and the wormly Queen was irresistible to a hungry monarchist such as myself (this point is both debatable and baitable). As a side note, I miss Charles. And mommy.

God save the Queen. I mean it, man.

The bar that held my attention for a few seconds plays host to a weekly British music trivia event. How I'd love to go there with Julian (who knows more than he knows) and Bob Mersereau who knows more about British music than anyone, and this includes well known British musicians such as: David Robert Hayward Stenton Jones, Eric Patrick Clap, B. George Alan O'Dowd, William Michael Albert Broad, Farok Pluto Bulsara, John Osbourne or John Lydon.

Funny that Farok Pluto Bulsara became Freddy Mercury. What on Earth was he thinking?

Teetering On The Edge Of Madness and Poetry

Our parents teach us to be careful with our choice of friends. In this picture I've captured Wendy teetering with a dangerous felon. I hoped her parents would have taught her better.

And now,madly off in all directions...

You know, I often hear people talking about that magical one horned creature that wanders through the twentieth largest island on Earth: Ireland. This cloven hoofed, storybook creature is often seen in the presence of rainbows or diminutive leprechauns (who are usually hammered). Yes, I'm talking about the uni....umm, Rhino (Rhinoceros unicornis...no kidding).

On that note, and as we approach St.Patrick's day, I offer a limerick:

Their daughter was seen on a teeter,
Bouncing a man who hates Peter,
They went up and then down,
Both wearing a frown,
They should have been far more discreeter.

Pope Theodorous I Elected In Varticon City

Varticon City officials have confirmed that Pope Theodorous Rogers the First has been elected as the new head of the Roamin' In The Gloamin' Cattle Lick Church.

White smoke was seen billowing out of the Electoral Chiminea early this morning. A large crowd of pigeons looked on in bemusement. In Varticon Square below, thousands...well, hundreds...well, dozens....well, a cardinal was seen eating sunflower seeds near a shrub.

Officials denied that Pope Rogers death four years ago would have any effect on his ability to act as Pontiff. "Just look at the competition lately" one anonymous Cardinal chirped, then was carried away by a flock of red-faced Bishops.

Condo Damnation

Toronto 'needs' another new condo development in the same way that its mayor needs to supersize his happy meals. You can't walk two blocks in this city without bumping into a new condo highrise.

Are all the condos needed? We'll see. Another raging debate revolves around the concrete jungles created by all of these towers. They are remaking the city without much, or any, green space.

Every morning I walk past the Bay Street corridor. It's just a street but people call it a corridor because it feels like a concrete canyon. The wind howls through it unnaturally. There is nothing redeeming about it at ground level. I've already told my real estate agent that I'm not interested in anything at or near Bay Street. It's that unappealing.

Just behind Bay Street, south of Wellesley Street, is a three acre parcel of land. The city plans to hand it over to condo developer. The residents of the Bay corridor want a park. If anyone in this city has a legitimate argument for developing a park, it's these people. A small park there would make a world of difference, particularly psychologically, as well as aesthetically.

Toronto, not unlike many North American bipeds, is super sizing itself when what it really needs is a salad, followed by a walk in the park. I fully expect the city to build another condo project there, thus adding another layer of fat to its already bloated carcass. It's good to see local residents rising up to confront City Hall. Or Shitty Haul....it is a tax grab after all.

A park = zero tax revenue.

A condo = millions.

Should it always be about the money? No, not this time.

RestauRHant

Toronto is a big, big city and you can find just about anything you want here. If you're interested in freckled, Jello eating, dwarf pole dancers from Papua New Guinea....well, we've got them (752 Yonge Street, doors open at 5 p.m.).

We've also got a beer swilling establishment called The Rhino. Intrigued, I stepped inside. The Rhino boasts about their world class selection of beer.

"I'll have an Assam Lager", I said to the waitress.
She looked at me like I had a horn on my head. "We haven't got any, hunn", snapping her bubbling gums and rolling her eyes.

I lost it.

Head down, I flipped a few tables. Beer was strewn everywhere. I then went out on the street and knocked over a half dozen hapless pedestrians. Don't feel sorry for them, they were texting. They deserved it. I then charged back into the restaurant through the brick wall, for effect. I could have just as easily used the door.

I rampaged my way toward the office, found the vault and cracked it open with my horn. Gold bullion and some Molson coupons spilled onto the floor so I gathered up as much bullion as I could in my muscular arms, grunted like a Wagnerian bass, and made my way back outside through my brick silhouette. Back in my rhino den, I piled my gold high, then called Peter Munk and negotiated a trade. In exchange for the bullion, the new Peter Munk Centre For International Business will now be christened the Peter Munk And The Rhino Centre For International Business. A bit wordy, true.

I should mention that this happened on Sunday. Yesterday I had a ukulele lesson.

Ever wonder what my role model looks and sounds like? Here's a Spiderman video clip from 1967. You need only watch the first minute and a half to understand my mission....to rule the world. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iqIKTQz_Xf4

Posturing About The Poster Poser

A full 99% of advertising is invisible to me, and the zillion posters plastered all over Toronto are no different (unless there's nudity, then you've got me every time!). Every now and then there's one fully dressed poster that catches my eye.


The partial poster poser pictured to my left grabs my attention every time I walk past. I can't not look at it. It even makes me write in double negatives which clearly exhibits its positive impact.


It's unfair to you, my devout two readers, that I've photographed the poster without text and as a double exposure (for artistic effect). It could have stood alone easily. That said, I don't remember what it was selling or promoting and that's because the graphic was so compelling that I couldn't break away from the man in blue's gaze.

So why did this poster hold my attention? I think the blueness of it was factor one. The second may well be that the man in the poster looks a bit like both of my brothers at the same time. He has the dastardly death stare of Dougall, yet the beardly brilliance and glassy goodness of the great Alexeyev. There's a bit of judgemental godliness there too, which doesn't negate any connection to any of the Varty siblings, myself included.

And full marks go to the photographer: excellent subject matter, excellent composition. And don't start sentences with and. And don't end them with and. You can't do that, though I can't not.

Rhinostalgia

I used to watch Spiderman cartoons when I was a kid. I suppose all sons of entomologists did. As captivating a personality as Spidey was, I, for some reason, gravitated towards the Rhino. Maybe I got that from my Mom's side of the family. I've seen her charging through the halls of PG, willing to trample or gore anyone who got in her way (especially Philip!).


The Rhino was basically a UofT graduate who went from job to job, eventually settling into a comfortable existence as a discouraged worker (described by writer Mike Conroy as "famously one of Spider-Man's dimmest villains"). He constantly needed more money to support his habits, so he donned a Rhino suit and smashed bank vaults, pierced armoured trucks, and looted. He had a fondness for gold bullion.

He also had a blatant disregard for pedestrians. For some strange reason, I seem to identify with the Rhino. Curious.




Rhine Gold

The Rhino won't be spending much more time in the zoo. As his resolve strengthens, the bars weaken. Stay tuned....

Broken Arted?

Everything in life is open to interpretation with one exception...the Rhino's disdain for rude Toronto sidewalk texters who are oblivious to anything other than their palm sized digital overlords.


Whew....glad I got that off my thick skinned, armor plated hide. Charging forward I offer this image of a snow artist. Looking down from my 20th floor 'Rhino den' I spotted someone tramping snow with purpose.

A heart! No, a broken heart!! Or could it be a fractured rack of boobs? Not likely...this is the gaybourhood after all. I'll leave it to you to interpret the artist's creation, as art should be interpreted at an individual level, not spoon fed.

You know, this is a good opportunity to think about art interpretation and art criticism. Should art critics even exist at all? Do we need them to tell us what they think or, even worse, what we should think? Perhaps all art critics should be rounded up and trampled by snow artists. Better yet, by rhinos!

Salvia Salivation and Salvation

For a few months now I've been grumbling about winter. Strictly speaking I've been whining since late November. Little did I know that the 'cure' for the winter blues was within one block of my Toronto penitentiary.

Did I say that? No. Auto Correct changed 'condo' to 'penitentiary'. Weird, huh? Sometimes technology let's us down. Sometimes.

The joyous reality of my new Toronto existence is that I live within one block of Allan Gardens, a 100 year old greenhouse complex full of exotic plants and domestic people. I went there yesterday and immediately felt the embrace of moist, warm air. My eyes saw colours beyond sidewalk silver and dog poop brown. Daffodils danced. Cyclamen cycled through my senses. Cacti caught my eye. Ouch! Even the smell of the greenhouse was tantalizingly familiar. I returned to the 1980s...the glory days of my agricultural adventures. My thumb? Once again green like an out of season poinsettia.

Glorious. Simply glorious.

Makin' Bacon, Not Music...In Stratford

I was in quaint little Stratford, Ontario, last Friday. It's the home of the Stratford Festival, North America's largest celebration of the works of Bill Shakespeare. The town is filled with charming brick buildings, cafes and restaurants, a world class theatre, roaming thespians and Harleyed lesbians, and a really great chocolate store, or ten.

Note: the part about the Harleyed lesbians was purely a work of fiction. So as not to completely disappoint, I offer you this titillating tidbit: Peter Mansbridge has a home in Stratford.

Startford is a town that I respect for a multitude of reasons, but none more powerful than the fact that they haven't 'sold out'. When you drive into Stratford you're welcomed by a sign that divulges all of those who have shaped the town. There's the Lions Club, Kiwanis, Rotary, Scouts, and even the Independent Order Of Odd Fellows. They still refuse the dependent odd fellows access to the town...good for them, I say.

What I really love is that Stratford hasn't sold out to celebrity and erected a sign, statue or space needle in deference to their most famous son: the one, the only, the now globally accessible export....none other than Justin Bieber.

No siree, Bobert. Stratford thinks/knows that the world will be more impressed to know that Stratford is home to the Ontario Pork Congress. I'll admit, I was intrigued. As I wandered the streets of Stratford nibbling on my pea meal bacon sandwich, I saw not a single reference to the Biebs. Not one.

Note: the part about eating a pea meal bacon sandwich was purely a work of fiction. Everyone knows that lesbians hate pea meal bacon.

Worshipping False Idols

Why would anyone choose to worship a so-called omnipotent 'god' that sends good people to hell for the simple act of not worshipping he/she/it who created them? Sounds like poor design to me. If that's the best that god can do, then who is the unworthy?

That's why I worship the Rhino. He's more of a role model to me. Got a problem? Simply put your head down and tackle it head on. So simple, and no need to go to church on Sunday.

Head, Abdomen, Thorax...or Beak, Gut, Stilts?

Wendy and I were walking along the side streets of Toronto yesterday having one of our usual colorful discussions. These discussions run the gamut; from household finance to the lifespan of blue cheese (how do you know when it goes bad?).

Yesterday's topic for me was body image...one of my favourites. I've been feeling abdominal bloating here in Toronto and I'd like to know why. My conclusions are typically presented to Wendy in the form of an elegant soliloquy, an animated diatribe, or a sputtering whine (like stale air leaving a balloon). My forensic conclusion was rather brief yesterday....

I blame two things:

1) baked goods.
2) me.

My love of baked goods and lack of discipline got me thinking about my body. I decided that it would be fun to try to reconstruct my body using only three items that most closely represented how I feel about myself physically. The best I could do, and I think I hit a home run, was to see my angry beak and long neck as that of an ostrich. My swollen abdomen is best represented by a chunky and ill apple fritter, and my lanky legs are akin to those of a flamingo.

So there I am. This is how I see myself. Any you? What three things represent your self-perceptions? It's a fun little exercise. In my case, quite literally, little exercise.

Randy and Anne D.....the Warhols

Wendy and I went to a party last night....as the Warhols. It was a 30th birthday party for a voice student of Wendy's held at a private residence on the 47th floor of the Ritz Carlton.

We had the option of dressing up as a celebrity/artist/musician/designer/etc from a list of the birthday girl's favourite influences. We chose the Warhols. Dressing in black was no hardship but finding Warhol-worthy wigs was a real challenge. We finally settled on mop head replacements as the most Warholesque looking rugs.

I thought we looked quite dandy. Me in every sense.

London Calling

As I was driving from Toronto to London (Ontario) I turned on the radio. As per my usual fashion, I flipped madly through the stations like someone with AAAADD (advanced adult audio attention deficit disorder).

I did manage to find some good rock n' roll radio stations, but for every one of them there was a corresponding country music station or a station playing poppy auto-tune shi....stuff.

The one song that resonated with me was London Calling by The Clash. It's a great song but it seemed so apropos since we were, in fact, being called to London. Wendy is giving a vocal masterclass at the University of Western Ontario today. I'm off to Stratford to visit a friend (note: last name not Bieber). Hopefully we'll both have a jolly good time, wot wot.

I wonder if there is any real connection between this London and that London. The river here is called the Thames....sounds vaguely familiar. I think that I might try driving through downtown at breakneck speeds in my Ford-Focus-Wagon-Aston-Martin-equivalent just to see if a bobby chases me down and gives me a right good clout with his billy club, wot wot.