But when they say "All is lost," All is not lost...

Understanding is standing under, looking up, in my perception, to learn from others who can teach.

I find myself in a 24 hour restaurant. Another day, another dollar spent. Today was supposed to be “day off.” Day off of what? I’m alive, aren’t I? Day off of living? No one really has a day off. Day off of work? My bills don’t pay themselves, buddy. Until I can I live go a day without thinking only this much more in debt, would it be wise for me to stop working? Day off so I could work do laundry? Sorry, I have to do laundry on days I work because the clothes don’t get clean because I asked them to not get dirty. And I’m sorry if this bugs you, Rob, but I’m not lazy enough to spray Windex on my apron to clean it. I think that’s pathetic.

I think the life that so many of my co workers lead is pathetic. What’s the point of having a job when you go out and spend your money on drugs and whores? What’s your contribution to this evil we name and accept as society?

As much as I am saddened by its decline, I accept that society exists, and although I would like to remove myself from the horrors it creates, I accept that by my sheer existence. I am the guy who understands Procul Harum. I hate the BP executives and their greed. I perpetuate the problems. I, unwillingly and begrudgingly, support and strengthen society.

As much as I am saddened by its decline, I accept that society exists, and although I see myself run from it, I embrace it. I see that the only way to change a system is by being a part of it. I do what I can to make others lives better, and by extension, it makes my life better. I am the guy who enjoys listening to Ke$ha. My greed rivals the BP executives. However, I don’t want my actions to rape the earth. I, willingly and wholeheartedly, support and strengthen society.

I realize that those two previous points are contradictory, but they exemplify the eternal paradox of my life. 

I spend my life trying to understand. Understanding life. Understanding God. Understanding that I am not the person people think I am. Understanding why people think I am better than I am. Understanding why others ignore humility.

Where I work now, I have problems. I am ostracized for embracing intelligence. I am rejected for thinking. For some, it concerns because I am not normal. For others, it concerns because I am a threat to them. I can’t just do everything they ask, without question. For the rest, it annoys. If they proclaim no one leaves until all the work is done, and I ask later why someone left, when the other two were still working.

If Heaven is where everyone puts others first, then living is the hard part. Death should be celebrated. 

England, Pt. 1

I got to London, and the first exciting part was getting lost. The group bought tickets to the Queen’s Theatre, and were going to see Les Miserables. Even though I have never been to a Broadway-esque place, or seen a musical live, or even read the book, I decided to not go. I know, passing on a good free option. I got lost. I started out for the Royal Albert Hall. All I knew was that it was right across Hyde Park. I turned right and it was left. Or vice versa. I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. I called Dad, and he Google Earth’d the part of London I was in and got me to Hyde Park. HYDE PARK!

Live 8 was in Hyde Park. Pink Floyd reunited at Hyde Park. Richard Ashcroft came and played with Coldplay in Hyde Park. Paul Mc-Frickin-Cartney and U-frickin-2 played Sgt Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band in Hyde Park. And, most importantly, people reaffirmed what democracy was- citizens joining together and telling politicians to do what we want, not the assholes running corporations want.

I turned on Coldplay, U2, and the Beatles on my mp3 player and ran, skipped, jumped, and smiled the whole time through Hyde Park. I saw The Serpentine and the Round Pool. And then, the Chapel. The Royal Albert Hall. I cried. I hugged the building. I called my grandmother and told her I was there. (She didn’t care.) I went inside and bought the cheapest ticket with the best view and went to the café. I ordered the stuff I could afford- a piece of pie and a glass of wine. I had to be somewhat posh. It was, of course, not sold as “pie” and “wine.” It was in the menu as “Rich chocolate marquise with berry compote” and a glass of “Mouton Cadet Rose.” It was chocolate pie, with some orange up top, and berries on the side, with a very, very nice rose. And then I went to my seat, and met some really cool people. That part seemed to be a running theme for this whole trip. Julie took her two daughters, Emily and Charlotte, to see Ronan Keating. Apparently, Ronan was very popular with girls and gays in Britain. We talked about how “not posh” “the whole lot of us” were at the “poshest event in Laaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnddddddddaaaaaaaannnnnn.” We threw lint on the old ladies below us. House lights dimmed, and a beautiful string quartet started playing. I cried some more. The acoustics, God. Thankfully, he played some covers. And, in the encore, we started an air band in the Circle. Julie (the mother, mind you) was air synth and vocals. Emily was air drums, and Charlotte was air bass. Of course, I was guitar. Fun night.

The next thing worth writing about was Cambridge. And not even that much was cool. I walked around the Cambridge University Press Bookstore, only to find out that the books were actually printed in New York. Bummer. We were on this tour of Cambridge University, but I got really cold, and had to pee, so I stopped touring. I stayed at the Eagle, where we were going to come back to for dinner, and started drinking. I sat and talked to Tom, and some of his friends. We talked about accents, and that’s it. I mean, we were all joking around, and this was probably the closest I got to mentioning that we kicked their butt in ’76. I had a Philly cheese steak for dinner. (just kidding. But I can’t even remember what I had. Seriously, not that memorable.)

After we got back to London from Cambridge, we were free. I went to Euston Station to buy my train tickets for the next day. I stepped out for a smoke, because you can’t smoke in the Underground. I walked over to an out of the way corner, and smoked totally alone. On my way back in, I saw this guy walk to where I was, and pull a gold pack out of his pocket, and light up. I walked back over, and lit up again. I started talking to him about cigarettes, and he was smoking Benson and Hedges. Just talking to him, it was obvious this conversation was going to outlast a cigarette. I asked him if he had time to grab a pint before his train left. He had “loads of time,” so we went in to the bar there. I was still on a Guinness kick, and we sat and talked. Somehow, philosophy entered the conversation. He must have mentioned his undergrad major was philosophy, and that he read a lot of works. I must have said that I used to read philosophical works for free time, and he got this weird smile on his face, one that I recognized as one often found on me. He pulled out a book of Kant’s essays, and said it was his “light reading for the trip home.” I got the same smile on, and it was because I love Kant.

After he said he was going to Manchester, I did the most stupid American thing I did on the trip. I asked him if, since you’re from Manchester, did he like Oasis. He turned and pretended to punch me. Great guy. We still email.