Werewolves of London? More Like Slim-Hipped, Baby-Gapped Dorks

I don't have a pulse for London just yet. I left two days ago, though, and now that I'm happily situated in the weirdness of east Berlin again, I think I ought to string together a few shallow, caustic observations while they're still fresh.

First, I need to get this off my chest: for roughly a four month period in high school, I thought that the chorus to Warren Zevon's "Werewolves of London" contained the phrase "where was the thunder" instead of the slightly more sensible "werewolves of London." 

Barbican Centre which I obviously kept calling Barbecue Center with a thick country accent just to piss people off. It's beyond excellent and that staircase is why I came to London. Seriously.

Barbican Centre which I obviously kept calling Barbecue Center with a thick country accent just to piss people off. It's beyond excellent and that staircase is why I came to London. Seriously.

Second, it's amazing that 616 Londoners once managed to get themselves killed by cholera because I couldn't find a water fountain anywhere. Ironically, I finally found one at the international terminal at Heathrow on my way out of town. Speaking of Heathrow, it takes roughly one month to get there from the city center because the Underground (which occasionally goes overground, but also isn't the same as the train--which occasionally goes underground) stops every 60 feet and travels at a top speed of 11 mph. It's not a hectic, go-fuck-yourself experience like catching an uptown train in NYC, though. It's actually pretty quaint because there's no cell service for most of it and people read newspapers(!). Newspapers are everywhere. 

A picture of my multiple personalities--and also one of my favorite photos ever. 

A picture of my multiple personalities--and also one of my favorite photos ever. 

Third, everyone in London is either getting sick or recovering from a sickness. I was lucky enough to join this club within 96 hours of arrival--at which point I was briefly exposed to the strange healthcare system. It's supposed to be like free or something but it's pretty much a 22 year old who reads aloud the warning panel on the British wannabe-DayQuil before they hand it over. Whatever. My fault. I probably shouldn't stay up until 3 am ingesting actual poison so that I can briefly pretend to not be a semi-agoraphobe.

Skeptical man in middle is skeptical.

Skeptical man in middle is skeptical.

Fourth, British men are your textbook example of, ahem, smol boyes [sic]. They've got the fancy haircuts and they obviously know how to type "tailor" into Google Maps, but at the end of the night, they just seemed to be a bunch of slim-hipped, Baby-Gapped dorks who want to show off how smart they are--which is bullshit because it was my strategy first.

Me at a bar keeping an eye on the smol boyes.

Me at a bar keeping an eye on the smol boyes.

Fifth, I inexplicably started shooting photos of people in London so I extend my heartfelt thanks to the Royal Family for briefly granting me the title of Nearly Human.

"In the girls' faces I see softness, beauty, the shiny and relaxed eyes of wealth, and the vital capacity for creating problems where none exist." - Rick Vigorous in David Foster Wallace's  Broom of the System

"In the girls' faces I see softness, beauty, the shiny and relaxed eyes of wealth, and the vital capacity for creating problems where none exist." - Rick Vigorous in David Foster Wallace's Broom of the System

A birb in Barbeque Center

A birb in Barbeque Center

Tate Modern

Tate Modern