Now It Hits? Really?

Would you believe that, for a couple of days there, I was beginning to regret booking a trip to Italy for break? Would you believe that, after six weeks of not caring a lick about home, one package of spiders could imbed a thorn of longing in my heart? Well, guess what, it can. I opened a package from my aunt to find a Halloween greeting card with three comical paper spiders linked by a chain enclosed. If that wasn't bad (or great) enough, I got another package from my mother with a small assortment of Halloween themed treats such as ghost-shaped marshmallows and candy-corn. I hung the spiders from my window the moment everything was unwrapped and tore through the goodies like a withdrawing addict goes through cocaine.
I should tell you that, due to my whirlwind trip to Italy, I will be missing my favorite holiday of the year. Surmounting even Thanksgiving, with all of my aunt's exemplary cooking, Halloween stands as my all-time favorite holiday and the English don't celebrate it properly!!! These morons let the really little kids have all of the fun and refuse to dress up or to even put out decorations in many cases! No place here seems to celebrate that ghoulish, romantic night as we Americans do. I mean, how can you go a whole year without dressing up in some amazing costume and pretending to be someone or something else for a while? How deprived these students are, that they can't even put on a costume during the last school day before the big night! I suppose that I'm spoiled and have taken for granted all of my years of masquerading as anything from an elf to an executioner during this time, but this just feels all wrong! Alas, that this whole nation must be so damnably serious! Okay, they can be crazy too, but they are totally missing out! The only thing that's preserving my sanity is that I got to dress up as Gandalf for a play at school last winter. At least some of the guys in the dorm are getting into the spirit. Two of them bought a pumpkin each to carve a few days ago and I couldn't help commandeering one poor guy's gourd to satisfy my craving. I didn't have my customary set of tools, but we made do. Hopefully the housemaster will let us leave them on a windowsill. I had everyone save the seeds for me to cook and share later, as they are delicious when cooked in the oven with olive oil and salt, and put them in the fridge until I could get the supplies. Today, however, I discovered that some idiot threw them all out! I don't know who did it, but why would you waste good seeds!? Actually, why would you look in the fridge, see something that is not yours and that you can't eat yet, and then throw it out? To put it delicately, that did not make me very happy.
I was beginning to regret passing up Halloween, but honestly, how many chances will I have to go to Italy? Not many! I can still have Halloween next year and go all out to make up for this year's deficiency. I got over the homesickness thing in a matter of hours and then realized that it was actually much cheaper to take a week-long trip to Italy than it was to go home. I plan to visit Rome and Venice while I'm there. The person I'm traveling with wants to go to Florence, and I normally would too, but we would only have a day to look at it if we went, part of which would be spent on a train, while also cutting into our time in Venice. I've heard amazing things about Florence, but I want to see as much of each city as possible before leaving so that I don't have to backtrack if and when I return some day. I've heard repeatedly that you can see everything really great in Venice during two or three days, so I'm hoping that I can convince her to spend two days there instead of just one. Did I mention that I'll be traveling with just a girl and myself? No? Well, I haven't actually met her yet, so I couldn't tell you a thing about her. She's come over from America on the same scholarship that I have. I'll keep you posted on that little adventure. Oh, and I'm trying this networking system for travelers called "Couchsurfing" for the first time. It's a really cool way of getting to spend the nights for free somewhere while also getting to know your host and everything that they can tell you about themselves and the area. However, one of the people that we were scheduled to stay with had to cancel on us on Tuesday. I only discovered this after going to watch the competitive house plays until 9pm and thus had to send out a slew of new couch requests that night. I was up until about 3am typing them all out, as they needed to be personal and polite to catch the hosts' attentions and give them some idea of why they would enjoy my company. I forfeited any attempts at homework an hour after that and crawled into bed around four o'clock. The next day was much the same, except that I had to perform in one of those plays and then go to my room to make up for all of the work I'd fallen behind on, including university applications, and walk about like a zombie. I feel sorry for the guy who had to sleep in my room that night, as I was up until 3am typing again. To make matters worse for him, I started sleep talking. I forgot to tell you guys that I have a tendency to do that. I have been known to talk, walk, dress, sing, and even whistle in my sleep. Don't ask me why or how. I've been like that for my whole life. This night, however, I was vaguely aware of my mutterings as I started tossing and turning. I can't remember what or why, but something startled me. I sat bolt upright in bed and rammed my forehead into the bulletin board that hangs on the wall beside me! Even that didn't wake me up though! I touched my forehead, felt something sticky and warm, muttered "Is that blood?" and then fell back to sleep. Pain can't keep me down! However, I was walking around for a couple of days with this cut on my forehead that made me think of Indians every time I saw it.
Speaking of house plays, bravo to those involved.  I saw some good stuff, some *ahem* not so good stuff, and almost everything was funny, be it for the wrong or right reasons. Also, props to those guys who had the bravery to cross-dress for their plays; you really milked the parts. One shemale in particular deserves recognition as one of the best drag queens I have ever seen. I'm not sure if this is a complement Peter, but you could have strutted your stuff at any gay pride rally. One thing I am sure of, though, is that I never want to meet this guy/girl/thing in a dark alley while he/she/it is wearing such a getup!
Performing is fun and all, even if you're not very good, but I think that I get the most enjoyment from the rehearsals and especially the mistakes. There was one night where we were going through tech and lighting cues and the lead girl had to recite a monologue. While she's doing her thing on stage, pouring her heart into her words, the stage goes black and a spotlight opposite of where she is standing appears. She dashes for it and starts saying her lines again, but before she can get three words out, the regular lights come on again, except for where she's standing! In the dress rehearsal, during a mad scramble to get offstage, particularly to get off of the sinfully comfy couch that was onstage, one of our guy's flip-flops broke and went flying through the air to land near the back of the stage, far behind him in full view of the phantom audience. Rather than risk the wrath of our director, he slunk away. As I watched the rehearsal, though, a movement caught my eye. I turned and saw a hand peeking out from underneath the rear curtain. It crept forward, inching toward the flip-flop as a tentative fox might when approaching food while people are watching. His hand felt around a bit, sliding about like a cat's paw does when it's searching for mice. The hand bumped the flip-flop and froze. Its fingers wrapped around the shoe, slowly withdrew, and disappeared again. I think that only a couple of the others saw this, but we that did all cracked up. I swear, half of the mistakes that occur in rehearsals could easily go into a sketch show!
Now the plays are over, the troupe has disbanded, our lives go on, and I've got a whole mess of work to do for university applications before I leave for Italy. I have no idea when I'll have internet access again, so I should get this all done ASAP. I hope that you enjoyed the entry and that you might send me some comments and, even better, criticisms. Have a good night y'all!

I Am Terrible At This Weekly Posting Thing

You know how I said that I would post on every Friday around 9pm if I could? Well, as you can see, I have not kept to that very well, between play rehearsals, homework, and me being an absent-minded doofus. I'll try to reform, but no promises. Matt, if you're reading this, here you go! Sorry to keep you in such suspense.
Note: This is the third time that I've been sick since I got here. Aside from being in a new country with tons of new pathogens, I'm really gaining a firsthand perspective on the adage stating that guy's dormitories are just huge petri dishes. Some of these guys are just, well, guys. I really can't find a better way of describing it. So illness has been a real downer, plus the lack of sleep from trying to throw together a trip to Italy for half-term, leaving me drained of my usual exuberance.
Anyhow, as I mentioned last week, I tried my hand at archery, rifle shooting, and fencing. Archery I was fairly experienced at, consistently hitting within the red ring with the school's considerably lighter bows (28-pound draw as opposed to my 50), and thought myself well on my way to improvement. That was before the school's coach noticed me. Looking at my stance and posture, he found five mistakes right off the bat. He corrected them, explaining why each adjustment would make me a better archer and consistent with my shots. I soaked it all up like a sponge and followed his instructions with enthusiasm. I nocked an arrow, drew back with his lessons fresh in my mind, readied myself, loosed the shaft, and missed the target. I think that I must have left about a foot of air between the backboard and where my arrow flew. I gave the coach a look and he said "Okay, that was a bit far to the right, but the point is that you'll be consistent, so you can compensate and adjust your aim now." If by "compensate" he meant "struggle to regain the accuracy that I had had with my previous technique while failing to come near the bulls-eye," then he was dead on the mark. By the end of the night, not including my first two volleys which were uninhibited by technique, I only hit the center circle once and dotted the target with such random holes and marks that I could have sold it as a sculpture in tribute to Jackson Pollock. If it wasn't for the instructor's logical explanations and how each of them made perfect sense, I would have started ignoring him half-way through. However, as the man could explain each detail of the technique's rational to me, I will trust his judgement that I will improve much faster now, though the evidence informs against him.
Regarding shooting, there's really little to say. I hit the target and beat everyone in my group by a hair's breadth (133/150 points when rounded down), but then noticed how I was nowhere near as skilled as any person (or most of the kids) on the squads. Simple as that. Fencing, however, proved to be more intriguing than the other two, as I had never fought in such a way before. For one, I was told to stand on the heel of my front foot. This goes against everything I've ever learned from dance or Bridgewater, which stated that I must stay on the balls of my feet. I mean, for fencing it works, but for anything else, it would compromise my balance and send me sprawling if I happened to take a misstep or make any mistake. Then, after about five minutes of the instructor fixing my stance and a myriad of other things, I realized that there was a steady trickle of younger kids coming into the room. I finally asked the coach where the people my age were and he said "Oh, well the time tables got a bit shuffled, so the younger kids are taking lessons now. You're a beginner though, so this could be really good for you!" Thanks. You just put me on par with a bunch of prepubescent girls, half of which can't stop giggling long enough to get their gear on. Real self-esteem booster coach! The man was quite kind and a good teacher, but I wish that someone had told me beforehand so that I could have learned among my peers. It didn't help that the girl that had to spar with me (age twelve? thirteen?) seemed too afraid, or perhaps too guilty, to attack an older, newbie guy. The poor kid only stabbed at me four times, scored only once, and suffered a counter-attack that was sevenfold as vicious as hers (so probably about as aggressive and effective as a chihuahua with a Napoleon complex). As soundly as I "beat" her, I'm sure that the girl could have cleaned my clock with her sword any day of the week if she wasn't inhibited. Why else would she have all of her own equipment if she wasn't taking it seriously or had skill or at least experience? Younger though she was, her ability would probably have trumped my thirty minutes of holding an épée without her even breaking a sweat. Afterward, the coach found me and told me that, for someone who had never fenced before in his whole life, I was pretty good and would probably do well to join the older group. Yay! Now I can be totally humiliated and thrashed by people that I'll see during school! That wasn't supposed to be sarcastic, by the way. I'm a fan of the "sink or swim" learning method when it comes to sports.
Apparently here, nobody looks forward to the school's open houses (aka "Open Days"). I was a tour guide at my last school and enjoyed showing visitors around campus, chatting with them, and giving them some insider's info that some of the teachers probably wouldn't want me to say (such as "Our football team only started winning games these last two years after about two years of no victories" rather than "our football team is definitely improving"). A part of me was looking forward to open day. However, as I am new here, I was relegated to my dorm where I got to tour one family around for five minutes. Other than that, I sat around with a few other guys and the house mother for over four hours, chatting and sometimes trying to get some university application stuff done. During this time, someone started asking the foreign students about what language they dreamed. Most said that half of their dreams were in their native language and half in their other language(s). One of the Germans said that, when they dream in English, the dreams are more absurd and fantastic, while the ones in German are realistic. Everyone was rather perplexed as to why, but I have a theory. His unconscious mind probably has to work twice as hard to dream in a foreign language, especially one as hard as English, so perhaps his mind is so focused on making sensible speech that it lets the dream's continuity and realism lapse. Along the same lines, it could instead be that his analytical mind is so focused on coherent speech that his creative mind is less inhibited by rational, mundane thought processes and allowed to flourish. Opinions anyone? I'm curious to know if you guys have any thoughts on this. Aside from that conversation and making an obscene number of crepes that night with the guys in the dorm, Saturday was a bit of a bust.
I discovered that one of the universities that I'm applying to doesn't require anything from my current school, as I already graduated in the U.S.. I could include grades and recommendations from my current teachers if I wished, but it would only supplement my main application. If the other universities are of the same mind, I might just tell half of my homework to go jump off of a cliff! A lot of this stuff is really interesting and I've got teachers giving me additional work that piques my curiosity, but some of it I've already studied before and/or have no use for. Instead of taking my media industry homework seriously, I could spend more time working on my middle-ages independent study or on my fiction writing. That might irk the teachers, but I'd honestly get a lot more out of this year.
Speaking of extra work, I've been helping someone with their IB math homework these last two weeks and I found that (I can't believe I'm saying this) I miss calculus and trigonometry. They're like puzzles that work a different part of my mind. When I don't have to do it every night for homework, it's actually kind of a pleasant pastime. Never thought I'd actually enjoy math...
Which reminds me, I haven't been homesick once. I find this particularly odd as, last time when I was away from home, I was gone for two weeks and became pretty morose toward the end. It's been, what, five weeks now? Terrible as this sounds, the thing I miss most is my dog Thurber. Neither my parents, nor my friends, nor memories of my old school strike a sharp pang of longing in me, miss them though I do. Talking to one of the day students that shares my room, he said it was probably because I'm having a good time. That's probably true. Each time I got homesick, I spent days on end with minimal structure or work, as I was at summer camp or in rural Virginia, yet I was still having fun. However, there was little challenge to it. Complain as I might about homework, I actually do enjoy my studies. I'm like a boarder collie. I need work. I need occupation. Otherwise, I start gnawing on the furniture.
Okay. I know that this entry was a bit helter-skelter, but honestly, this week was unexciting with only these events punctuating the monotony. If Shakespeare is right and fate is like a wheel, where things get worse before they get better, then perhaps this week will be an improvement! Until then, if you have comments or criticisms that could make this blog better, then please contact me! I wish you a good week and hope to write you on Friday!
P.S. I just found out that the school blocks my blog between 11pm and 8pm, so late night entries like this (11:34pm) will have to be late if I can't quite make this window of opportunity. Either way, it should be my job to get this done.

To Those Who Wait

First of all, I am terribly sorry for postponing this post twice to those four or five people who actually read this thing. I think that I should start treating this as an actual commitment with a specific time that I need to write it in. Yeah. We'll say 7pm on a Friday is when I'll write it.
Second: I was totally right to wait the extra couple of days before writing this entry because Gay Pride at Chester was nuts! I mean, really, who wants to hear about a week when the most significant thing I did was drop my Sociology course when I could be talking about cross-dressing nuns singing to a crowd of bible-thumpers across the street?
So, skipping the long stretch of bus rides and introducing a chubby little boy to the notion of cabrito tacos with green chili (good stuff), I arrived in Chester to meet with the friend from school who had invited me to Gay Pride in the first place. I waited, leaning against a shop's brick wall, scanning the crowd and taking in the sights when I noticed a guy and girl walking toward me. The guy was wearing a plastic, pink fireman's helmet, pink foam finger, and a white and purple rugby outfit. It was only when he was close enough for me to make out the gay pride flags drawn on his forehead, each cheek, and each arm, that I realized that this was my friend. A good start to the day? I wondered.
I want to establish something here before I continue: I am straight. I am about as straight as a steel construction beam. I've had enough ignorant imbeciles call me gay (also unfounded) in elementary and middle school that I don't need that sort of garbage rumor spreading in this school or anywhere else. That won't end well for anyone. I can promise you that.
The point is that where I'm from, it doesn't matter if you're gay, straight, bi, or of indeterminate gender, it's just plain fun to go to these sorts of rallies, support their rights to choice, and just watch all of the crazy stuff that goes on. There's a place called Provincetown at the very tip of Cape Cod in Massachusetts where I believe the majority of the population is homosexual. If not, it is still one of the most popular vacation spots for homosexuals during the summer, which means that every Saturday night during the summer is just a huge party with street performers and God knows what else there. For us Cape Cod folk, it's a pretty normal, touristy thing to go and have fun at these. I only found out when I got back to campus that the same is not true of England. Well, I guess I'm a maverick. Deal with it.
I discovered that my friend is rather well known and fairly popular in Chester pretty quickly. Just walking the three blocks to the rally (which had apparently been going for over five hours by the time I arrived at 3pm), he must have stopped seven or eight times to chat with groups of people. One of these groups pointed out my first "Bible Basher" of the day, who stood above a sign, shouting abuses at almost everyone passing by. The guys in this group were saying how much fun they were having messing with the ignoramus and, as I passed the man, I noticed that they had managed to plant on his yellow-jacketed back two bright red "We're Here, We're Queer, Get Over It" stickers. I gave them a silent applause for that. I only wish that I could have found them later to ask what else they did to the guy, which was hopefully nothing drastic.
We arrived at the town hall to find the street impassible with the crush of at least two hundred people. All around were shops and stands selling themed goods. My friend took a look at me and said "You need some color" before he and his partner in crime dragged me to a stand and notified me that they would be spraying my hair red. To say that I resisted would be a blatant lie. I always wondered what it would be like to be a red-head, even if I did resemble a fire truck.

Regarding the rally itself, I must say that the first bit of the performances that I saw were pretty boring. The entire thing was like a small concert set up in front of the town hall with people packed close to the stage and picketing Protestants behind them (At least I'll assume they were Protestant, considering that Brits say "Bible Basher" which, according to Wikipedia, is typically a Protestant of some sect) and most everyone cheering for one drag queen after another. The only consistently good bits were when the hosts (hostesses? Don't know what a cross-dressing guy would want to be called in this situation) came onto the stage and had long strings of banter and occasionally insulting the crowd. Aside from that, things only got interesting an hour later after a couple of people did a Michael Jackson choreography routine.

 This was followed by a Lady Gaga impersonator (a guy?) lip-sync "singing" to "Poker Face," and an act I that didn't really watch (for noticeable reasons if you look below), which was interrupted by a Brittany Spears impersonator (definitely a guy) singing, you guessed it, "Hit Me Baby One More Time."

After this appeared the cross-dressing nuns who sang pop versions of hymns directly to the bigots in the back while doing, well, more unsavory things with their fake (and thankfully hidden) breasts.

The crowning number, though, was a troupe of five absurdly dressed men dancing and strutting to "You Can't Stop The Beat."

Next was a brush with fame from visiting celebrity Stacey Jackson (apparently 2nd on some Canadian music list) who, while good, I was not terribly impressed with, but to each their own, right? The best part, in my opinion, came next when a P!nk imitator arrived on a three-wheeled motorcycle flying the Gay Pride flag and then sang through most of P!nk's hits. She actually had a far better tone quality than the original and her style was far more musically interesting and versatile. If only I could remember her name so that I could recommend her...

Her performance was when the crowd's energy really cranked up. Already, many people had been using the event as an excuse to be a little bit crazy, and my friend and his buddies were keen to set the example, but the P!nk tribute was an absolute blow-out release of excitement, noise, and general fun for all present.

After that some woman named Amelia Lily showed up (she apparently finished in third place on "The X-Factor) and sang. That's all I'm going to say about her (not that great).
Things wrapped up soon after that and I found myself getting my ID checked at the door of a gay bar/club called "The Old Queen's Head" about two hours later. This was where we saw the most extreme drag queen of them all (she/he must have been wearing five-inch platform heels) who was stunning (in every sense of the word, both good and bad) to behold.

 This bar was also where I met the people who I would spend the rest of the night with. My friend introduced me to a group of another four of his mates there and we all hit it off. Some time after our meeting, I split from my friend and headed with three girls to a normal, perfectly straight club/bar known as "Off the Wall." On the way, though, I had the bizarre fortune to almost litterally run into another guy from my new school. I was walking backwards and chatting with the girls when I turned around and he and I locked eyes. Both of us stopped half-way through our steps and stared at each other for a good four seconds before it finally sank in and we both burst out laughing. Seriously, what are the chances of meeting in a city about thirty miles from the school? Shame I couldn't remember his name for the life of me.
Anyhow, we got to the bar where I met yet another great guy who was eager to introduce me to English drinking, as he himself was a bar tender. This guy and my other new friends introduced me to the joys of VK (which, I discovered about two minutes ago, is considered a "girl's" drink. I couldn't figure out why the bastard was snickering when I ordered a second), spiced rum and coke (not the narcotic), "Sex On The Beach" (Don't ask me, I'm not even sure what's in it, but it's good), and asking the bartender to mix together whatever they think might be good (tasted like a Shirley Temple with Jaeger), and renewed my disgust for tequila twice. Now, again to you sketchy boarder-line stalker university admissions people (who in theory wouldn't even find this and know it was me, right? Wrong.), that may sound like a lot for a newbie, but trust me, it was in moderation. I could still do tricks and sleight of hand with my ring by the end of the night, dodge and dance through a crowd, and carry everyone the drinks of everyone else at once. I only felt a little buzzed, inclined to dance all night, and once compelled to sing "I Don Quixote" in the street. The closest I came to any confrontation was when, as I was dancing with a couple of girls I'd never met, I felt a hand slide around the back of my neck.
I froze. The grip was loose, so I felt no immediate threat. Nevertheless, I turned very slowly to find myself face to face with a guy leaning over with a drink in his other hand and (I think) smiling. Whether that smile was friendly, mocking, or anything else, I couldn't tell. He said something about my dancing as I gingerly peeled his hand off. I gave him a thumbs up and a soft pat on the back and he seemed happy until, as I was leaving, he tried to return the thumbs-up with the wrong hand and spilled his drink all over himself. Poor chap. I think that he might have been just a little sloshed. I'm going to use that guy as my reference point. If I'm not stumbling, getting "friendly" and grabby with strangers, and/or spilling my drink, then it's a semi-stable night. Great evaluation point: Waking up without even a hint of a headache (which I did, to all of you really helpful, but somewhat frightening admissions sleuths).
The next morning, I wandered around the city with my original pal and properly soaked in the eclectic blend of buildings. All around us, there was this pastiche of architecture from Roman, to pre-gothic, to modern times, creating this strange effect of feeling out of the time-line. I felt as if I, in my t-shirt, jeans, and Toms, were an anachronism within such an antiquated city. I could talk for longer on that, but I'm going to call it a quits here.
 The entry has been far too long as it is, but, as I said, there was a lot to talk about. This week, I have set myself up to try my hand at archery (fair past experience with minimal formal instruction), rifle shooting (held a rifle three times in my life), and fencing (never have even touched an epee or a foil, but I'll be glad to make a fool of myself for this one. I've wanted to try fencing since I was a little kid!) and just generally getting "trounced" by other, more experienced members of the school, so that ought to be fun! Good night!

Give Me A Couple of Days

This week went by in a blur. In all honesty, I didn't even realize that it was Friday until about 1:30 and I question whether Wednesday even happened. The week was unremarkable, with the exception of going to see Wicked the musical Tuesday night. The show was fantastic and followed in the tradition of The Phantom of the Opera, as in it revolved around intricate, breathtaking sets, and elaborate, opulent costumes. Certainly worth seeing.
Now, while this past week was far from extraordinary, I am going to Chester tomorrow to see how these Brits show gay pride. Apparently there's some sort of rally or festival going on this weekend. I expect that it shall be much like what we would get in Provincetown in Massachusetts on a weekly basis in the summer or what you'd find in a Twilight movie. Anyhow, in lieu of either writing about an average week (boring for me) or about random philosophical musings (boring for you), I ask that you give me a couple of days to go experience something a little off-kilter. I shall relate my findings on Sunday night and give a full report! Besides, it's almost 1 am here and I'm not sure if I want to even try to crank out entertaining prose at this hour.
Anyhow, I'm sorry to extend your suspense, but bear with me and hope that I don't get hit on by any single gay guys. That would be rather awkward and undesirable to me, but then again, it could make for an amusing story.
Good night!