The Ballad of Kibo and Bushi

Renting a flat in London is akin to fighting and alligator while naked and drunk. For example, when trying to rent our flat Kathryn was in the office of the letting agent (ah, yes the letting agent . . . for some reason you have to go through a middleman to get a place . . . they are of the devil) with a deposit plus three months rent: in cash. Its only a 6 month lease! The letting agent, whose blood is black with sin, insists on having a guarantor before he can rent the flat. To get that straight that is a person who will pay the rent if we don't. Oh yeah, Kathryn was in England for all of a month, she knew tons of people willing to do such a thing. She offered my left testicle. "I'll need both," replied the letting agent.

All this ado gave me the impression that this is one special flat. It is.

The flat is located in a little suburb of London called Dartford. Dartford is known for its CHAV. These are suburban kids who think that they are in the Wu Tang Clan Much like many suburban white kids state side, but funnier because they don't have any first hand experience with real American Black Thugs, but I'll save this for another day. CHAV, I later found out means Council Housing and Violent. Splendid. We've moved from Mississippi to London and all we have effectively done is swap hoodlums.

When we open the door of the place we now call home a blast of air came out that could do nothing but remind me of some very special places back in Dixie. It was the smell of trailer. A bit of explanation might be in order. You see, single wide mobile homes are built out of a material that gets its strength from a molecular bond that it forms with cigarette smoke. The resulting smell is noxious and unremitting, but it is the best defense a trailer has to a tornado. This smell was embedded in our lowly flat.

The apartment itself wasn't all that bad, but for all the trouble that the letting agency had put us to, they hadn't troubled themselves to clean it up (to many souls to collect for the devil I assume). That is what led to me finding it: the heirloom of the flat. I was shampooing a couch cushion when I found a little necklace with a little medallion that had Kibo engraved on one side, and on the other, Bushi.

This little artifact was surrounded by mystery, until Kathryn asked me what those burn marks on the floor next to the couch and bed were. Cylindrical melted carpet. hmmm. Next to a well worn couch cushion and where the bed side table ought to be. hmmm. "Crack pipe burns," I announced in my best Shelockian voice. Kathryn went to the Bathroom and was sick.

Kibo and Bushi were the star crossed lovers of Dartford. They were fed by their love of crack and love for each other and their hate for each other and by curry and by cigarettes and God knows what else. This was their home, and now it was ours. They leave big shoes to fill. Who could ever hope to amount to all that Kibo and Bushi did. The little medallion now hangs in our Kitchen as a testament to what you can become with a little stick-to-itiveness. It just goes to show that everywhere in England is historical, and through history we can find inspiration.

I Was An International Terrorist, or How I Grew to Love the English Poison Despite the Night Terrors

I could feel the stare. Kathryn has this unique way of waking me up on mornings in which I want to enjoy the glorys of morning the same way I enjoy the glories of night. She stares at me. My eyes jerk awake and there she is looking at me.

"What!?"

"Do you remember crying and whimpering in the middle of the night?"

Well, let me see. I remember the half bottle of wine, the pint at the Plough, the three pints at the Windmill before Kathryn left, and the two pints after she left (and mind you a British pint is larger than an American...no really it is). I remember the walk home and deciding that English beer must have poison in it due to my lack of vision. At this point I remember purging myself of the poison by administering the necessary first aid. Oh, the things we must do when living in the wilds outside of humanity. I remember my door, but vaguely, and that, dear reader must be where the residual poison took over.

"No, I can't say that I do."

Obviously, I attributed this woeful little outburst to the English who must have taken to a campaign of sheer malignity against one such as myself. Their fake hospitality had shown through, and I decided to no longer be found in the company of such vagabonds and scoundrels ever again. The nature of these wretches had been fully displayed and I had suffered at their hands. Just think of the consequences had I not been able to so deftly administer the requisite care to myself on the way home.

Later in the week, though, I found the true source of my midnight dismay. As you, dear reader, have probably already discerned, it was my own guilty conscience that was haunting my unconscious.

You see, I was getting out my camera, when from my camera bag fell a pocket knife that I had been looking for since early July. It seems that I with reckless disregard for the law ruefully snuck it through security with it at the Augusta Airport. Then I, with stealth like a mountain goat, again took it boldfacedly through the security check in Charlotte. Finally before boarding my plane to London, I threw caution to the wind and let a TSA enforcer hand search my bag while I stared at him with steely eyes. I, however, was too sneaky and eaten up with sin, and they all found nothing. Then I flew on an international flight with my black heart and pocket knife. One can just picture the wretched state of my conscience witnessing this sort of decietful behaviour.

So as you can, dear reader, it was my own soul, bloated with sin, crying out in the night for me to repent, and thus I have. I have ceased with my plan to board a flight with toothpaste and have re-embraced the English Poison as friend and confidant.

I hope that this little lesson shall be of service to you all as a small reminder of what the wages of sin can be. One is much better drinking in the wilds then being dragged down by a modern urban existence that can only lead to the life of a terrorist.

Dirty Filthy South

I'd been in England for maybe three hours before someone tried to identify with me, the lost and bumbling American.

"Where are you from?" asked the cab driver.

"Georgia," replied my wife.

"Oh, that's where Ludacris is from."

There it is. That what Georgia has given to the world: the ATL. Not that Georgia has a lot to offer, but surely Ludacris can't be our biggest export. Peanuts? Jimmy Carter? Hillbilly Golf Clubs? Larry Munson? Coca Cola? You Might Be A Redneck If... Jokes? Flannery O'Connor?

"And Li'el John?"

YEAHYAH! UH-HUH! and Little John.

I think the next time someone tells me they are from England I'm going to reply: "Really? That's where Oasis is from isn't it?...No, I've never heard of your empire. Was it big?"

I guess I should be glad that Kathryn and I weren't still claiming Mississippi, though.

"That's where lynching is from, is it?"

Test Test Test

Blogging and hating it. I am in disbelief that I am actually posting a test post to my blog. I hate the entire idea of "blog." It annoys me to hear it used as a verb. It is a stupid form of what not. However I can, I am, I will. Test Test Test.