I apologize for the long hiatus, friends. The last couple weeks have been a shit storm;  Kevin Smith-like in nature.

In late July, I found out I was being transferred to London by my job.

By early August, I was here, fresh off the plane like an eager American rube ready to find the first single man with decent teeth, foreskin, good hygiene and a manor home. I moved from my beloved Astoria apartment of four years in just two weeks—said adieu to many dear friends, and parted with most of my crap; which consisted off way too many clothes, books, movies, and differing types of tea.

I found a charming flat in the posh end of Notting Hill; easily the nicest place I’ve ever lived and by far the most expensive.

I went to Paris on the Eurostar with my Mom, am pretty sure I caught a bad strain of swineflu on said train, suffered trashy night clubs in Shoreditch with American friends on Holiday, made some bad decisions, ate fantastic curry.

August was a good month. Scary, but full of promise. As promising as moonlight in a martini. (Moonstruck quote I can’t take credit for. Thanks, John Patrick Shanley.)

Work issues complicated things and back stateside was this Bridget McJones for five weeks of melancholy and resentment.

Only good things that came from the five weeks of limbo was catching a dear friend’s play and a dear friend’s nuptials back in New Amsterdam. Everything else from mid September to mid October can go into the internal file of “bad weeks/bad behavior/drunk in parents’ basement yelling about socialism.”

All that kvetching off my chest, I got back to Blighty last week and wanted to share some observations as an ex-pat that have been surprising to me.

1. Americans living and working in London are EVERYWHERE.

Maybe it’s my neighborhood, but everywhere I go I hear accents like mine and it’s comforting and disconcerting at the same time. Like eating mushrooms and have your dog speak to you.

It also brings to mind the old WWII saying the Brits had for us Yanks:

“Oversexed, overpaid, and over here.”

2. London cab drivers are the best cab drivers in the world.

Firstly, they know how to get anywhere. Which is impressive in a city where locals get lost on the confusing, narrow, medieval streets. Apparently, they have to pass some psychotic street/directions test which is like taking the LSAT to become certified to drive a PT Cruiser, all day.

Secondly, they’re extremely friendly and English is their first language. Call me a xenophobe, and believe me, I’ve been called worst, but it’s refreshing to get into a cab fall down drunk and have an intelligent, polite conversation about Obama or Gordon Brown or the cabbie’s last trip to Florida with the missus.

3. British TV is really limited

Almost 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, these are the shows you can find on UK basic TV.

a) Cooking shows

b) House flipping shows, home improvement, antiques roadshow et al

c) documentaries

d) wacky reality TV

On the five free channels I get in my flat, I can consistently watch a cooking show, a house selling/improving/bargain basement finding show with annoyingly perky presenters and equally dour real folk, a documentary on being obese in Sheffield, addicted to smack and about to bear a third child at the age of 20, or Scary Spice moving to the midlands with a poor family trying to help them get off the dole and become functioning members of society.

With the exception of CSI: Miami (Where’s Joel McHale, when you need him?), Murder, She Wrote (IT’S ON EFFING EVERYDAY)Friends repeats (kill me), Ugly Betty (euthanize me), True Blood Season 1 (a haven from the storm), or The Simpsons (always safe), I get very little variety aside from the occasional movie. This past week included Cutthroat Island, Superman II, The Rugrats Movie, and Blade II. And that Matthew Broderick movie from the 80’s with the monkeys.

I may have to break down and get cable soon.

4. The London Underground smells like pee and gives you black boogers

You get spoiled in NYC with air conditioned trains, only going down or up one level, and consistent service unless you live in Brooklyn.

In London, while they have a much more organized, easy-to-transfer anywhere system, the trains are constantly not running. And you go into the bowels of the earth (hence the black bogeys) and most trains are stuffy and smell like pee. I blame the pee smell not on bums, but on unwashed genitals.

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That being said, it’s great to be back. I love cinemas where people don’t talk, free museums, easy and affordable access to the rest of Europe and mild autumn/winter weather where it doesn’t get much colder than 50 degrees fahrenheit, ever.

I hope there is still time to meet my very own Mr. Darcy and start talking with a fake British accent, like Madonna.

Cheers!

PS. Discussed this with a fellow ex-pat last weekend…no Americans here speak with a British accent. Idioms change, but not pronunciations. You can take the girl out of Northeast Ohio, but you can’t take the Ohio out of the girl. Shame on you, Madge!

Anyone else think light-on-the-teeth-but-heavy-on-the-gums Miley Cyrus sounds like Marge Schott did it with T-Pain?  

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Really.  That voice (to borrow a word from the Cyrus Family vernacular) AIN’T good, it’s just well produced.  Once again, proof positive that money can buy you anything.

 p.s. Ms. Montana also suffers from a dash of click here.

Spiky hair.  Is this really still a thing?  This weekend, on the disabled list with a cold, I watched a record amount of reality television.  And guess what?  Yes, apparently spiky, immovable, needle sharp hair is still a thing.  Style advice to all you

tools,  

celibates,  

Amazing Racers,

and why-are-they-famous?-looking-for-lovers:  

If I can see your scalp through your hair gel,  

your hair is over 2 inches tall and you resemble the Slim Jim mascot,

or you’ve gone for the full on Pinhead look,

it’s probably time ease off that tube of LA Looks, because there’s a right and a wrong way of doing everything and you, you’re so far on the wrong side, you’re giving America a bad name.   

This also applies to anyone going for the “wet look.” You’re not fooling me. 

Apparently the best thing since sliced meatloaf with a heaping side of mashed potatoes is “The Biggest Loser”, an inspirational television program that shows how a group of overweight Americans shed the 300 pounds they gained over the last 20 years by working out 15 hours a day while living in a hermetically sealed ranch with relentless trainers and professionally made organic food.
I’m all for a show with a positive message. Not really, but it sure passes the time while I wait for a new episode of “The Hills” to start. Quite frankly, I have a problem with the entire message of the show if we’re being honest here. First of all, since when is exposing one’s pancake size nipples really necessary in order to promote health and healing? Can’t people get weighed in behind a curtain or something? Or wear skin tight unitards , maybe with advertising on it? 

Another reason I think the show sucks is that it is completely unrealistic to expect average folks to do these extreme exercises in everyday life. I have yet to see the person climbing up an escalator the wrong way with 40 pound sand bags attached to their belts or pulling boulders through the dessert with a defibrillator stashed nearby. Although sometimes this old Asian guy in my neighborhood runs through the streets without shoes on. He’s like a local hero.
Finally (and most importantly) the contestants are WAY too emotional. Look, I know that it’s really trying to withdraw from sugar and not be able to comfort yourself with a few enchiladas and a box of wine when you’re feeling blue, but everyone is crying all the time for no good reason whatsoever. Whenever it’s time to send someone home, every single person gets hysterical. You would think they were shipping a person off to Treblinka instead of back home to face their fully stocked refrigerators and TGIFriday’s coupon book based on these reactions. The person just goes home! At least they can take solace in the fact that the better part of America won’t see their floppy boobies anymore. Really— how do you go back to work after doing THAT? If I was a contestant’s coworker, I would constantly be all like “I’m really proud of Donald, but I never had any idea how big his tits really were!” Sorry, I’m an asshole.
I commend these people for exposing themselves inside and out for the sake of improving their lives, as well as letting NBC exploit their pain and suffering to promote the benefits of 24 hour gym facilities and Jillian Michaels’ workout videos .  If they can do it, then so can you! Just keep your shirts on, por favor!

It seems that film careers tend to take one of three routes – 1) Start on a killer television show and get catapulted to movie super stardom (see: the George Clooney Trajectory model).  This is the preferred mode of travel. 

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The less desirable and now more prominent 2) Bust out of the gate starring in movies as a young up-and-comer and then after you’ve been long gone and almost forgotten your agent gets you a killer guest spot on a good television show to be followed by a regular gig on your own show (see: the careers of Christian Slater, Chris O’Donnell, Charlie Sheen, Ducky, Keifer Sutherland, Rob Lowe…well, basically the entire Brat Pack).

Finally, and this is perhaps the most difficult 3) Marry the two (see: the caeers of Alec Baldwin, Martin Sheen, Sally Field).  Star in my favorite television show, or play the President in every thing EVER, and moonlight in films as just the right character role.

However, in the past 2 years a remarkable 4^th career trail for actors has emerged: THE COMEBACK, or as the kids are calling it these days (and by kids I mean, myself after 2 glasses of malbec) “the full on Mickey Rourke.”  This new path is trod with comeback stories like no other.  These are stars who suffered ridonk success (women, alcohol, drugs, like a “Behind the Music” special all before the age of 21) over a decade ago, fell completely off the map and then reinvented themselves into some freak character that is totally different…and let’s face it a little more appropriate.  Mickey did it with The Wrestler, and it = Oscar nom.  Jackie Earle Healey did it with Little Children and again = Oscar nom (and the role of Freddy Krueger in the new Nightmare on Elm Street - or as I call it, “a movie I will never see because the preview made me cry”).  It begs the question, who is next?  The answer is clear.  Emilio Estevez.

EMILIOoooooo. The Mighty Duck Man himself.  This guy hasn’t done squat in about a decade (the exception being his writing, directing and starring in Bobby.  What a piece of poo that was - like we are to believe Lindsay Lohan even knows who Bobby Kennedy was.  FAIL)!  Bobby  was atrocious, except for Emilio!  I admit, I found his broken down stage husband about the only tolerable or half-way realistic character in that giant turd of a fictionalization based on real life events.  This character encapsulated what Mr. Kirby “the Kid” Clark-Bombay must feel EVERY DAY since 1993.  Walked over, out on, around, and uncredited for being killed in the first 10 minutes of the highly profitable Mission Impossible trilogy.  Let’s find him more to award-worthy fare! 

Emilio has the pain, the sweat and tears to do something REALLY GREAT.   Imagine him as the creepy child-molesting murderous neighbor in The Lovely Bones, the Jewhunter with a lust for blood in Inglorious Basterds, ummm…Julia Child!!!  All of these roles have Oscar written all over them and he’d KILL in any of ‘em.  I am just begging him not to go the way of his father, brother or even fellow ex-lover of Paula Abdul and get hooked on the small screen, because, Emilio, baby, you’re a star.  

Has Henry Thomas’ character survived a single movie since E.T.: The Extra Terrestrial?

No, really…