Selling out ...

Alright, I’m not sure how many of you are interested in this, and I’m sure all you other bloggers get this shit all the time, but I laughed my ass off heartily when I received this email this morning:

Good Evening,

My name is Cameron and I work for http://www.csnstores.co.uk , part of CSN Stores.com. I love your site, and think it provides your readers with fantastic content related to www.allmodern.co.uk. We are very interested in creating a mutually beneficial partnership with you. We would love to talk with you more regarding some of the benefits of working with us here are CSN Stores.
I think that one of our content specialists would love to contribute to your site, or work with you on an interesting post about www.cookwarebycsn.co.uk. I would love to provide you with an example of some of the partnership posts we have worked on in the past. I look forward to continuing our conversation and brainstorming some great opportunities for us to work together.
Take Care,
Cameron

I did take this quite seriously; for, I think it raises some very pertinent questions and starting points for the blog. After a lot of soul searching, I feel that what is really missing from L.A. Wronski: Stud Abroad, what could really take it to the next level is “an interesting post about cookware by CSN.” It just makes so much sense, and is just so damn relevant to life abroad. What are the parties like? What crazy shit did you do in Amsterdam and other places in Europe? What’s the bloody cookware like?! Enough of your blathering about drugs and alcohol Wronski, we want to know about modern furniture!

I guess I should take this with a grain of salt, for I suppose it shows that the blog’s audience is steadily increasing, or that CSN stores are lazy bastards who try to hawk their merchandise anywhere they can get a chance. For no reason other than being a stud, I would like to publicly urge my readers never to buy from this shitty company. Their products are useless and are linked with cancer. Fuck you Cameron. Sincerely ... LW

Happy Christmas (Vol. III) ...

On Christmas Eve in the United Kingdom, milk and cookies are not laid out beside the Christmas tree; rather, there is a tradition instead that the English partake in, one that I feel is very enlightening to my Christmas experience abroad. In place cookies, mince pies are left for Father Christmas; and, in the place of milk, a wee dram of Sherry is placed by the Christmas tree. In a nation of over 60 million households, it is needless to say that when Santa makes his stops in the UK, he gets loaded. Out of respect for new traditions in new countries, I, in turn, followed suit.

My Christmas day was spent with the Muir’s, family friends of over 15 years and former neighbours from way back in the 90’s; and, along with plenty of food, presents and other festive cheer, the drinks came flowing too. I think it was about 11am when we all started drinking, and throughout the day, this American proceeded to be drunk under the table by his English counterparts.

Back home, at least for me, Christmas has never been much of a drinking holiday. In my family we have mamosas with Christmas brunch, but Christmas has never been the all day fest of drinking that the English make it. Both unaccustomed and unprepared for the alcoholic marathon of Christmas, the day took its toll on me.

During (an excellently cooked) Christmas roast, I was holding my own. Both red and white wine flowed freely around the table along with plenty of conversation, jokes and food. However, after two courses and then Christmas pudding, the traditional English final course of cheese and port wine had me reeling a little bit. And by a little bit, I mean that after dinner I gave easily my poorest performance on the piano on modern record. The songs I played barely contained a discernible melody and wrong notes were rampant. As hard as I tried to fight off the port, I was defeated and my piano mini-concert sounded like shit ... everyone knew this, no one had to mention it.

In continuance and conclusion of my meditation on Christmas in the UK, the holiday abroad is not too unfamiliar. The basic elements are all there, but for a few key differences. Christmas seems to benefit greatly from being the only major holiday of the latter half of the year, and this is reflected in the intensity of Christmas spirit in daily English lives. An example of this can be seen in the nation's obsession with the "Christmas No. 1," or who is number one on the pop charts at Christmas. For some reason or another, and this reason could be nothing other than 'just because it's Christmas', it is a huge deal nevertheless. I still remember both of my Christmas number ones from over a decade ago: "Earth Song" by Michael Jackson and "2 Become 1" by Spice Girls.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of Christmas in England is its almost completely secular observance. There is little if any religious elements in a typical English celebration of Christmas, and I can corroborate that there was none in mine. It seems as if the English use Christmas as a vehicle to celebrate the end of the year in style, rather than celebrating the birth of Jesus, whom the English generally think was a nice lad, even if he was not the son of God. So why not celebrate his birthday and get ripped?

Let's get together with family, have a couple drinks ... hell, why not make a day of it? The year is almost over, so let’s spend a bunch of money on presents for our loved ones, and since we’re all in a good mood here, I guess we’ll put up with this drunk American who can’t play the piano ... LW

Happy Christmas (Vol. II) ...

The English holiday tradtion of a Christmas pantomime takes me way back, as it should; for it is primarily (if not exclusively) a children’s event. It is not unusual for English twenty and thirtysomethings to attend a Christmas panto, but if this indeed occurs, it is simply out of nostalgia and child-like Christmas spirit that they attend, not for any semblance of legitimate theatre.

Upon entering the theatre, armed with a bottle of water to combat my ever-persistent cotton-mouth, I took my seat, expecting to relive the days of my youth in England when I saw my first Christmas panto many moons ago. While the high lasted, the memories came flushing back, inciting loud laughs at cheesy jokes and the requisite, enthusiastic audience participation. For those of you unfamiliar with the basic audience interactions, I have constructed a (very unimaginative) sample:

Character: Now, where did I put my wrench?

Audience: (In unison) It’s behind you!

Character: (Looks around, cannot see it, says) Oh, no it's not!

Audience: Oh, yes it is!

Character: Oh, no it's not!

Audience: Oh, yes it is!

And so it went, back and forth for a couple hours, sprinkling in the thinnest of plot developments along the way, until the panto reached intermission.

Upon the conclusion of intermission and my re-entrance to the theatre, I found that the high I entered with originally had for the most part died off, leaving me with an hour and a half more of a panto to watch, drug-free ...

The second half of the panto, though, in hindsight, arguably funnier than the first, really dragged on without any substance-based assistance. I started thinking things like: “I am a college student, what the hell am I doing here?” and “This is embarrassing. I read books. I read books and write papers about them. What the fuck is this?” Without the novelty of watching this panto high, my nostalgic experience of childhood whimsy was shattered.

However, along with the second (I have serious hesitations about using this word:) act, there came a couple of solid jokes here and there, aimed at the older part of the audience, as pantos often cater to part of the time.

Character: (Upon receiving a huge sum of money, says to son) Now I can afford to send you to university. (A decidedly edgy joke considering that many families will be considering the serious reality of not being able to afford to send their children to university).

Also, laughs were producing through the actors constantly taking the piss of virtually every town in Norfolk (however this, I have noticed, is not exclusive to a panto, the English love ripping each other on where they are from. Seriously, no city is safe). As I left the theatre, I felt that if I had left at intermission I would not have really missed much, but I was glad I went anyway.

In my study of a typical English Christmas this holiday season, the Christmas panto seems to fall in with England’s heightened Christmas spirit; or, the notion of keeping traditions simply because it is Christmas as opposed to any capitalist revenue-based motives. In reference to my earlier rant about commercialism in American winter holidays, I do concede that a Christmas panto is indeed a business; but when I cast my thoughts back to this time last year, the nation was buzzing about James Cameron’s Avatar. How seeing blockbuster films became affiliated with Christmas, I am unsure.

In completely unrelated news, I just booked a trip to Prague over break. More to come most definitely. This winter break is really setting the stage to be an amazing time ... LW

Happy Christmas (Vol. I) ...

Every Thurday, Mercy’s student night is packed. Always. This truth is what ends up drawing a healthy drunk population to show up at this pit though their sober conscience knows otherwise. So there you are, a couple drinks deep, (most of them likely to be £2.50 jager bombs) thrust onto the dancefloor, mashed together with other drunk people, most likely getting groped. If not properly intoxicated, the unwanted thoughts and questions come back to you: ‘Oh god, whose hand is on my ass?’ and ‘I just hope whatever STD I am currently contracting can be cured with basic antibiotics.’ But, if you are drunk, you will chill out, have a drunk make-out session and, in the morning, when you have a mysterious new number in your phone, make the wise decision and do not call.

Ok, it’s not as bad as I make it out to be, but it comes bloody close. The DJ is perhaps one of THE biggest knobs in Norwich. The music he plays is the same every week, plus he changes it after 45 second EVERY goddamn time. There are some songs that cannot be ruined at a club, yet he finds a way through prematurely switching the music to the next song. Secondly, from time to time it is the basic duty of a club DJ to get on the mic and shout out some words to pump up the crowd, often being as simple as the occaisional, “Norwich make some noise!” However, the DJ at Mercy makes a botch-job of this task as well. Invariably, before each song is played, I hear: “Everyone get your arms in the air!” ‘Really?! Again? Fuck, I just had my hands up ... ok, fine!’ Or, the other even worse: “Who wants a free t-shirt?” ‘No, thank you. I’d prefer it if no one knew I came here, let alone would I advertise it.’

Ok, it’s not as bad as I make it out to be, but it comes bloody close. The DJ is perhaps one of THE biggest knobs in Norwich. The music he plays is the same every week, plus he changes the song after 45 seconds EVERY goddamn time. There are some songs where the only way to ruin them is to not play all of it, the DJ at Mercy is particularly adept at this task. Secondly, from time to time it is the duty of a club DJ to get on the mic and shout out some words to pump up the crowd. Often, this can be as simple as the occasional, “Norwich make some noise!” However, give the DJ at Mercy the mic and all you'll hear before every song is: “Alright, everyone get your arms in the air!” ‘Really?! Again? Fuck, I just had my hands up ... alright fine!’ Or, the other even worse: “Who wants a free t-shirt?” ‘No, thank you. I’d actually prefer it if no one knew I came here, let alone would I wear that t-shirt.’

This last Thursday, after a healthy (and perhaps not long enough) absence, I went to Mercy (Or, I say ‘went,’ but this is incorrect; for, Mercy is not a place that one ‘goes’ to, but rather a place that people ‘end up’). With the end of the academic semester in sight, and the (now) undeniable fact that the 35 pages I have due in a week will not write themselves, I figured that perhaps I should blow off a bit of steam before buckling down (for the first time all semester) and do some bloody work.

The night as a whole was one of the better Mercy experiences (no gropings) and soon I could tell the reason why: it's Christmas. With this upcoming week being the last week of classes for the term, this Thursday was a 'last hurrah' of sorts for students to let loose and get into the holiday spirit a bit. Christmas music was mixed into the evening's playlist, there was a mince-pie eating contest (yes a bit lame, but it wasn't too bad) and generally everyone was in a festive mood. It strikes me a bit odd that for a nation of such invariably secular religious beliefs is as enthusiastic as they are towards Christmas.

It is hard to put my finger on exactly what it is, but Christmas and Christmas time in England is a much bigger deal than in the states (my initial guess is a build-up of holiday sentiment resulting from the absence of Thanksgiving). In America, Christmas has become so private and commercialized, whereas, here there are some things that cannot be exploited for profit, traditions (even despite secularization) that prevail and define the holidays for this nation.

An example of this was Sunday night, where my flatmates and I cooked a tremendous Christmas roast, something I had never done before in uni. All the food was there, from beef to gammon to (my favourite) Yorkshire puddings, all staples of a Christmas that the English keep a healthy distance away from consumer markets and commercialism. It seems that these types of non-commercialized traditions take place at Thanksgiving in America, while Christmas then becomes a capitalist free-for-all.

This December, instead of flying home, I am staying in England for the holidays with family friends from when I lived in England as a young lad. I cannot wait for this holiday of all holidays in England, the experiences I will have and lessons it will teach me. More to come ... LW

You'll never walk alone (pt.2) ...

On Wednesday, Novemer 10^th, a new level of my relationship with Liverpool Football Club was started: I saw them play live. I was there in the stands, with uncompromising attention, etching into my memory the evening’s 90 minutes in the very same manner as I did those many years ago on that fateful afternoon that I became a Red. But this time, the names were not Fowler, McManaman and Rush, but instead Gerrard, Torres and Reina, who before me trotted out onto the pitch, prepared for their day’s work.

From the stands, I witnessed it all. Gerrard’s inextinguishable desire to perform, Carragher’s organization of the back four, Lucas’ skilled possession (a rare performance of quality from this typically shit player) and Torres’ pace and eye to finish which scored the match’s opener.

In the second half, Wigan drew the scores level. From this, Liverpool pushed forward, looking for that second goal that would win the game for them. This effort was primarily driven by team captain, and Liverpudlian himself, Steven Gerrard, who worked incessantly towards the common target of getting his club their much needed three points. At the age of thirty, the display that Liverpool's talisman put on at the DW Stadium was absolutely timeless. There seemed not a moment in which Gerrard seemed to stop giving his all, leaving no doubt in his teammates’ minds who their captain was and why. Similarly, he showed to supporters at the grounds that only the Reddest of blood ran through his veins.

As fate would have it, near the game’s end (79^th minute) Gerrard was played through on goal, by means of a clever flick from Torres, with just the keeper to beat. Gerrard’s shot was drilled past the keeper’s outstretched right hand, aimed intently on the far upper 90. The ball screamed towards the goal, but was aimed perhaps just a bit too high, for it struck the bar and plummeted straight downwards hitting the ground about 6 inches shy of the goal line.

The game ended in a 1-1 draw, and as I left the stadium, I was reeling a bit from the two points lost, as well as feeling a bit disillusioned that my first Liverpool match was not a win.

As I mentioned earlier, to analyze one’s relationship with football and their club is to more closely analyze one’s life. The act of being a football supporter is an inseparable aspect of a true supporter that one cannot segregate the fanaticism from anything else. As for me, the relevance of football to my life appears unmistakable. Along with the steam that has gathered in my support for Liverpool, my relationship with England grows in accordance. Let’s make a timeline.

1995-1997: These two years I spent living in England. I was undoubtedly a Red as I was an English resident. Looking back, my support for Liverpool was a defining feature of my two years' experience.

1997-2005: Residing in America. I was playing football, but ceased to be a supporter of any team. America's stubborn ignorance of the sport proved contagious. Sure I would watch the World cup, but I was a shell of the supporter I used to be.

2005: Champions League Victory. The resurge begins. After this match (the last of the season) I put forth a dedicated effort to catch up on the years that I had missed, trophies won and players come and gone.

2006: 3-week summer visit to friends in England. I was back in England for the first time in 9 years. Now competent in the sport, I easily conversed with my old friends, who had kept loyal to the game throughout those years I had missed. My dues had been paid, and I was now on the level of the game's most ardent supporters.

2009: 6-week summer course in England. Though I flipped through The Sun daily to read the latest transfer rumours (this summer was easily the craziest transfer period in modern football), these six weeks reconnected me with a different, somewhat forgotten, old friend: England. The course was spent in London for the first half, then finished in northern England, after a 190-mile hike across the nation, coast-to-coast. Easily one of the most memorable and happiest times of my life, and when I came back to the states, I was firm in my decision to study abroad again in England, but this time for a full year.

2010-2011: One year study at University of East Anglia, Norwich, UK. Includes many trips to the pub to watch Liverpool games, a trip north to see Liverpool play live and very little time spent in class.

With these revelations in mind, it seems that my support for Liverpool acts as a direct symptom of my love for England. After I watched that fateful match in 2005, I knew that Liverpool was calling me back to them, calling me back to being a Red, once again. To be honest, it was fate that I even knew the match was being played, let alone that I realized it in time to cut school and watch it. And of course, there was magic in the air that inspired the greatest of comebacks, making Liverpool champions of Europe for the fifth time in the club's rich history. But was this game really just about Liverpool? Or was it that England too was calling me back. I could have read that article and been apathetic. I could have said, 'That's nice for them, but I've moved on.' But I didn't. I knew the importance of this game, and what it would mean to me, so I cut class and saw it. There was indeed something, something deep, something ingrained into me those many years ago that called out, that called me back to Liverpool ... that, ultimately, called me back to England.

As I think about the fateful cup finals in '96 and '05, I see a similar thread of fate that starts with Liverpool FC in '96 and ends with me, here in England, once again ... LW

So uni ...

I glance down at my mobile: ‘12:05,’ it reads. “Ok, so where exactly is the rest of my class?” I start to wonder as I sit down on a hallway bench right outside the empty classroom in which my creative writing seminar is scheduled. But still, there is not a stir inside this classroom. Due to the university’s bizarre scheduling of all pm class at ten minutes past the hour, I still have five minutes until class actually starts. “Well, I guess people must be cutting it pretty close” I start to think.

But people are not just cutting it close. Neither the professor nor the other fifteen students in my poetry module are on their way to class at all, and I know this. I know this because the same exact freak occurrence happened last week, at the exact same time, in the exact same hallway, involving me sitting down on the exact same bench, outside the exact same classroom reaching the exact same conclusion: “Well, I guess class must be cancelled today.”

But no. “There’s no way that class could be cancelled two weeks in a row and I don’t get one email, before or after class, letting me know about it” I start to reason. But, at the moment, with no other viable possibilities present in my mind, I resign to believe again in my hypothesis. Sheepishly, I stand up from my bench, put on my hat and jacket, and begin the walk back to my flat.

On the walk back, I start calculating the increasing number of weeks it has been since I have been present at this poetry seminar: “Ok, so we had a reading week the week before last, so I know for sure there was definitely no classes that week. Then last week, I showed up and hung around for twenty minutes and nothing was going on, so I’m almost positive seminar was cancelled that week. And then today, if seminar is indeed cancelled, this will be the third week in a row that we didn’t have class.” I am suspicious: “This number does seem a bit high,” I start to think. Given that I am traditionally accustomed to classes meeting up to three times a week, the possibility of going almost four weeks without class meeting seems impossible. I have reached my the door to my building, turn the key and start up the stairs, headed to my room where I will, just like last Monday, check my email to see if I have a notification from my professor notifying me of our seminar’s cancellation.

But there is no email, and I knew there would not be. Flustered, I check the course register online to reassure myself that the class itself has not been cancelled for the year (for this seems to me to be the next most probable option I can think of) and indeed it has not been. Then, I check the course outline to see if perhaps the missing weeks are explained there, but again this yields no results. Now perhaps a bit paranoid, I examine the course information, to double check to see if I had indeed been slumped on a bench outside of the wrong classroom for two weeks in a row. I found that I had not been incorrect.

“Damn,” I say aloud. “What could it be?” I thought. Exasperated, I slump down on my (horridly uncomfortable) bed. Then it hits me. I rush back to my laptop and read once again the course information. Finally, all is revealed. “Holy shit, Luke” I think to myself in disgust, “you’re officially a dumbass!” I check my mobile. ‘12:35,’ it reads. “Ok,” I think to myself, while doing some quick math “I have 25 minutes to get to my poetry seminar ... that should be enough time for a cup of tea.”

As I put the kettle on, I realize the pathetic truth behind the events that have just transpired: Due to my absence from class for over two weeks, I had forgotten the time that it meets. And the most depressing part? It’s November, late November ... LW

You'll never walk alone (pt.1) ...

Whenever an author (not sure if I’m calling myself that) writes about football, it is a deeply personal experience. For a true fan of the beautiful game, one’s passion for football and their club of choice is as inseparable from themselves as the act of breathing. Therefore, when an author writes about this game, whether it be Hornby or McGinniss, what they are really writing about is themselves. (For example: in his memoir Fever Pitch, Nick Hornby concludes that his obsession for Arsenal as a youth was a fairly direct product of his parents divorce and filled an uneasy time in his childhood ... it's a good read if you're up for it). As I am both an avid football supporter and abroad in England, I feel it is necessary to write some sort of meditation on this game that I love, and what it really means to me. I am interested in my roots as a football supporter, but what I am more interested in is the way football has affected my life and whether or not, like Hornby, my passion for football can be used as a lens to aptly view myself and my life. With that said, here we go.

The first football match I had ever seen was on May 11^th 1996, the FA Cup final between Manchester United and Liverpool Football Club. Though being six years old at the time, I remember this game vividly. I was watching it at home with my dad, brother, sister and a couple of friends. All of the previously mentioned people, save for my dad, was supporting Manchester United. I had a decision to make, one that (little did I know at the age of six years) would affect the rest of my life and, in terms of the nation I am currently living in, is among the biggest decisions one ever makes. Basically, in England, supporting a football resembles marriage more than anything else. The only difference between the two is that every English lad is loyal to their football clubs.

I chose Liverpool, and with that moment, my 15 year relationship with this club was forged. Over the next two years I spent in England, I became as ardent a Reds fan as there ever was. Fowler, McManaman, Barnes and Rush were not just names to me anymore, but living Gods, whose grace and skill on the football pitch earned them an amount of admiration that I could never fully repay. Liverpool became a close friend, an ideology and a way of life for me. Looking back, at this age, if someone were to tell me that I would someday stop being a Reds fan, I would have probably told them to 'fuck off.'

When I came back to the states, I was still playing the game. I was a quick pacey winger with an eye for the assist. I was full of potential, potential that I might add amounted to a very average high school career, but the game was still close to me nonetheless. However, being a football supporter became harder in states. Where football was far and away the sport of England, in the states football became crowded out by the NBA and NFL. Americans did not grasp the subtleties and grace of the game and soon the names of Fowler, McManaman and Rush slipped from their perches as gods and the passion they previously inspired in me merely turned into nostalgia for those long forgotten days of my youth.

Then, in May of 2005, as quickly as Liverpool entered into my life, it came roaring back. Turning through the pages of Sports Illustrated, reading up on the upcoming NBA playoffs, I came across an article telling the story of an underdog team that made it all the way to the Champions League final. This team was Liverpool. They had fought their way through the group and knockout stages to play AC Milan in the 2005 Champions League final. I knew that I was lucky to have even heard about this game, so I had no choice but to watch. Due to the time difference of the game being played in Instanbul, I cut out of school early to watch it.

The first half did not go well. Actually, this is an understatement. It was horrible. With 45 minutes played, Liverpool went three goals down and there looked to be no hoisting of the cup possible after the other 45 were complete. But losing in the final in this disgraceful manner was not on the cards for this fateful evening. In the second half, Liverpool’s talismanic captain, Steven Gerrard pulled one goal back with a cleverly placed header. Then, Vladimir Smicer’s left-footed rocket beat AC Milan’s Dida to his far post (this is easily Smicer’s greatest accomplishment as a Liverpool player, for he was sold weeks later). Then Xabi Alonso converted the rebound of his saved penalty to level the scores at 3 all. When the game remained level after the additional 30 minutes, penalties followed. As fate would have it, Liverpool’s keeper, Jerzy Dudek demonstrated incredible heroics, saving three of AC Milan’s four penalty attempts. Liverpool prevailed, completing the greatest comeback in a cup final ever in one of the most memorable game ever played. The relationship that was forged 15 years ago, was now cemented, permanently and forever.

Since then, I have been through it all with this team. I have been there for the highs: 2006 FA Cup final (perhaps the most dominant and clutch single player performance in a cup final by Steven Gerrard) and the lows: 2007 Champions League final loss, narrowly missing the Premier League title in 2009, the tyrannical reign of Hicks and Gillett and currently sitting in 9^th place while losing to shit teams like Stoke while talentless shitheads like Lucas play 85 minutes and then get sent off (not that I’m bitter or anything). I have seen players come and go. Some good, that I didn't want to see leave (Xabi Alonso, Mascherano, Peter Crouch) and some not so good (Robbie Keane, Craig Bellamy, Alberto Aquilani). I've seen the manager who has been at the helm of Liverpool since 2005 leave and a new one arrive. But, despite these many changes, the old dictum invariably holds true: "Once a Red, always a Red." Though the likes of Alonso and Crouch have moved on, they are still Reds to me, similar to how I once lost my passion, only to gain it back again.

But, as I mentioned above, this entry is not really about football, but my life. My life, in which football plays some allegorical part in shaping who I am. As I scan my brain for overarching conclusions and moments of clarity, stay tuned for part 2 ... LW

No direction home ...

To pick up where my last entry left off, the paper that I hastily completed in the morning of the day of its submission subsequently enabled me to skip a week of classes. The purpose of this was to travel to northern England to visit a good mate of mine from Allegheny, currently studying for a semester at Lancaster University. Having cut myself off from the meaningless communicative platforms of facebook and skype for this year abroad (I’m writing letters instead), my visit with my friend from Allegheny has been the closest interaction with anyone from back in the states.

My mate, who, unlike me, had been keeping closely in touch in with ties in the states through the more up to date and technological means, had a lot of news for me. For a first, he informed me of who the newly elected president of my fraternity was (by the way, he isn't even in my fraternity), which was information previous unbeknownst to me. He also informed me of other things going on back at school: who won Greek Sing, who was hooking up with who and more until I said: “hey man, sorry; but, I don’t care ... I’m in England.”

Since August, my phone has been off. If you live in the United States, you do not have my English mobile number (this includes my parents). If you have tried to chat or posted on my wall on facebook, I have not replied (birthdays being the exception). I may have commented on a status or two, but only if I cannot resist. I took myself off of the email lists of groups and clubs I was a member of at Allegheny. I do not skype.

This is not to say that I do not value my friends in the states (they are as close to me as when I left), but rather it is an attempt of mine to filter out the pointless minutia of the technological world in order to fully enjoy my year in England. Before leaving England, many questions regarding how to best stay in touch arose. Just because I can let everyone exactly what I’m doing at every second, would anyone really care to read it? What’s the point of being in England if I am just as accessible to everyone as when I lived on the second floor of the Phi Psi house? Why turn your life into a magazine, when it should be a novel? If I'm living in England, then why choose to technologically exist in America?

As my mate and I caught up on this and that, the conversation invariably reverted back to Allegheny, I grew more angry, being reminded of the annoying and frustrating factions that I very willingly left behind last spring. I said a few things. Things like: “I’m only returning to Allegheny because of its fucked up distribution requirements that make it impossible for me to graduate from Dickinson in four years.” I’m not sure how I feel about that statement now, but I meant it when I said it.

I write about two letters to people each week, not surprisingly some cannot be bothered to reply, but that’s not really the point. The point is the personal nature of writing that facebook and skype lacks. It is impossible to hand write a letter without getting 100 percent of personality and emotions through to the reader. To be honest, I find that simply writing about things I have done makes for a very boring letter, while details of how I am/have been feeling makes for a far more entertaining one. My friends can get all the specific details and epic stories when I return, perhaps over a couple beers at the bar, being that I am now 21!

If my attempts at maintaining my life’s novel format have succeeded (and that if it has taken the form of this blog), then I’d like to dedicate this chapter of it to everyone I’ve left behind and express my gratitude at respecting the communicative bounds I’ve set for myself in England. It’s not always easy, but I feel it is a vital element of my extended residence in the UK. If you’re frustrated by my reclusiveness (as many of you have privately expressed to me) send me a letter, I’ll send you one back ... LW

STUDying abroad ...

Ok, I brought this on myself.

At the time of writing, it is 12:03 Greenwich Mean Time. I’ll list a couple other important times and dates. The first: 13:30 on Wednesday November 10; the time in which I have to hand in a paper for my Modernism seminar. The second: 19:45 on the same day; the time which I and a friend have tickets to see the mighty Liverpool FC kick the sorry shite out of Wigan. The last: tomorrow November 8 at 11:00, the time in which my train is set to depart from Norwich to northern England where I will be taking a bit of a holiday this week until Saturday.

Now, you don’t exactly have to be a gifted mind to realize that, before I can board my train and piss off for the rest of this week, I first need to hand in my Modernism paper. Herein lies the problem: In addition to being 12:15 at the time of writing, as of now I have just finished a lengthy session of staring blankly at my equally occupied computer page and wondering, ‘what the fuck I am going to write about?'

Given that I need to allocate for myself about an hour to get to the train station tomorrow morning, and that the process of printing pages at UEA is about as an illogical mess as my process of writing this Modernism paper, I need to give myself about two hours to hand in this paper, get to the train station by 11:00 and board my train to Lancaster. This means two things. The first: that I have 9 hours to conceive, write and proofread a paper before I hand it in. The second: I’m a fucking idiot.

Now, university in England may be a complete joke, just an excuse for English twentysomethings to get drunk, an insulting mockery of rigorous academia, or all of the above; but, this really takes the piss. Unacceptable. Also, the fact that I have just used up more of these precious nine hours writing this blog is equally despicable and counterproductive. As I sit here in my room, listening to Passion Pit, I am contemplating two things. The first: the possibility of analyzing the apocalyptic doomsaying of Yeats’ “The Second Coming” as a prediction of the rise of facism. The second: the utter certainty of my flatmates ripping me for publishing a blog when I am supposed to start writing this paper to hand in tomorrow morning, enabling me to skip a week of classes.

At the time of publishing, it is 1:01 Greenwich Mean Time. Sleep does not present itself as a possiblity. 8 hours left ... LW

Runner's high ...

After I wake up on this particular morning, I do two things: make a cup of tea and accompany it with either crumpets or a scone. Although these three characteristics of my morning do little to differentiate this morning from almost any other English morning of mine, my subsequent activities will.I withdraw to back to my room to have another smoke; but instead of changing into a pair of cords, a flannel, my trusty Birkenstocks and heading to class, I opt instead for a long sleeve thermal, shorts and my trusty Nike (not pronouncing the ‘E’ at the end) running shoes, for today I do not have class. After I lace up the Nike’s, I leave my flat, just off campus at UEA’s University Village, and start running down Earlham Road, which leads me into the university centre. Earlham Road carries me south, through the heart of UEA’s myriad maze of elevated walkways and modern architecture and leaves me at the campus’ end, where a series of dirt paths will lead me the rest of the way along my run. The first path of the morning leads me behind UEA’s sport fields, where, if I’m lucky, I can catch a minute or two of the rugby team playing as I carry on past.

After the rugby pitch, I arrive at the focal point of my destination: UEA Lake, which sits just below of the university campus’ Suffolk Terraces, a breathtaking contrast of modern architecture set amidst the wonders of the natural world. As I have been running for while now, endorphins start to be released to my head, keeping strong my (runner’s) high. I spend several minutes and 2.3 miles (the only length of my run that I know) tracing the banks of the lake, my feet pounding on the path to the rhythms of something like Rodrigo y Gabriela’s scintillating guitar play.

After I have fully circled the lake, my path turns into a trail; and the reedy bankside plantlife of the lake changes to tall trees, thick bushes and a deep forest which I carve through as I carry along my trail. I follow this trail through the Earlham Wood, as it is called; and [...] and then push on for the remainder of my run. Feeling fresh and renewed, the forest seems somewhat illuminated now and I feel as if it breathes with me as I push harder and harder along my trail.

Marking the latter half of my run, I have reached the most difficult portion. The trail becomes muddy. With each foot forward, my Nike’s flick up a clump of dirt that splats on the ground behind me. My calves have become spattered with mud. Having been gone from my flat for over an hour now, my body reminds of the fact.

At last I emerge from the wood and into Earlham Park, running along its picturesque creek until I take on one final uphill stretch. I push harder as my legs grow weaker, but I at last reach the summit. I find the nearby street, turn the corner and I am back at my flat. I stretch. Have a shower, put the kettle on ... LW

A rekindled love affair ...

Alcohol has never been my drug. When I cast my thoughts back to my rambunctious days as a younger man at Allegheny College, and, let’s be honest, Carlisle High School, my relationship with this substance could be considered tenuous at best. To me, alcohol and I were like those two kids in your second grade class that were banned by the teacher from hanging out with each other, but did anyway, even though it always got them into trouble. Upon reviewing my experiences with this drug during the latter half of my tenure at Allegheny, I started to drift away from its practice and the crazed nights that come along with it. Why it took me this long to figure out that it is probably a good idea to actually remember most evenings, I'm not sure, but eventually the message got through.

But, drinking beer in England seemed to have a different effect on me than previous romances with this drug. In England, I have truly learned to love and respect beer; that is, real beer, ale, which is the top choice of true beer aficionados across the pond. When I consider the alarmingly poor and vile substances that would pass for beer during my days at Allegheny, I shudder with a strong buyer’s remorse. Just the idea of that thin, watery alcoholic substance known as Natural Light touching my lips makes me cringe, while the amounts I would typically consume fill me with repentance.

However, this week the Norwich Beer Festival revived a former love from the operating table of my relationship with alcohol. The Norwich Beer Festival houses approximately 3,000 different ales, local ales, non-ales and international beers every year for seven days during the city of Norwich’s nationally acclaimed ‘Real Ales’ festival. The festival is put on every year by the CAMRA foundation (CAMpaign for Real Ales), who take on the annual task of scouring the nation’s breweries in search of the kingdom’s finest ales to represent their respective breweries at the prestigious festival, known by the locals simply as, ‘Hangover Week.’

Last Tuesday (a day in which I had no class), I frequented the festival’s day session, running from early to mid-afternoon. (In addition to allocating the majority of one’s afternoon to ale drinking, it is also not uncommon for Norwich locals to take this entire week off from work in order to pursue their ale tasting). Of my session’s allocated hours of ale drinking, I spent them singularly in the local ales room, tasting everything from stouts to porters to pale ales, all from Norfolk County. Highlights include my favourite beer I have yet tasted in England, “Nelson’s Revenge” and a cracking good stout, “Old Stoatwobbler.” (And yes, I also noticed the correlation between the quality of the ale’s name and how good it tastes).

Through the consumption of many a fine ale in many a fine pub, as well as at the festival, my love of alcohol may have been partially restored from days past. If America taught me to eventually reject beer, than why did England restore my love of it? Or rather, to say it more correctly, living in England taught me to love beer, while America only taught me to love drinking. My past affiliations with alcohol brought me some fun times, sure, but regrettably few memories. And as I set off across the pond I assumed the alcoholic days of my past would be left behind, but I have become fascinated with these English Ales nevertheless. This paradoxical reality has me puzzled. With each day I spend living here, this nation has me more and more intrigued ... LW

Two things I learned at the Crystal Castles concert ...

I have heard many crazy stories about this band in performance, particularly regarding the band’s ex-heroin addict lead singer. Flanking the stage’s right hand side, there are four bottles of water and a couple towels (presumably to deal with perspiration and fatigue), and an enormous handle of Jim Beam whiskey. “Oh god. I’m in for an interesting night,” I think to myself while the aggressive sensation in my stomach starts to permeate elsewhere in my body.

The show starts. The first drum beat hits and reverberates through my substance-altered body while the band’s innovative mixer board pilot and cracked-out lead singer start putting on one hell of a performance. As my stomach starts to mellow out, the drug's feeling in the rest of my body kicks in. With each loud thump of the bass, I feel a shake all over, the drug's effect finally reaching it's full potential. The catchy riffs from the mixer board dance through my ears and around my head while the flashing psychedelic lights play games with my eyes. "Is this really happening?" I am asking myself now. The crazed lead singer seemed to be calling out towards me through her microphone, assuring me that indeed it was.

At this point in the night is where I discover the second portion of what I learned at the Crystal Castles concert: Crystal Castles are awesome. The band, which consists of a greatly skilled operator of the mixing board and a notorious lead singer who was, by unanimous opinion, “out of her goddamn mind,” put on an incredible show. Traditionally, my musical tastes, such as Michael Jackson, Bob Dylan and Prince, do not cater to this brand of electronic music, but Crystal Castles educated me immensely. Each time the heavy bass hooks would hit, sending at once the crowd up off their feet into the air, or when the partially insane lead singer would dive off the stage into the audience, I became more and more a believer.

Crystal Castles left a taste of electronic music in my mouth that perhaps will only be satiated by attending more concerts, but, hopefully, these will be concerts that I allocate substances more appropriately. I find that I am learning new things everyday ... ‘The More You Know’ ... LW

Finding the perfect word ...

It is a brisk, temperate and, for once all damn week, not rainy Sunday morning in London so, like all Sundays, I am set to commence in my weekly stroll through the winding streets and crowded city squares that make up the heartbeat of the city. From my hotel on Gower Street, I leave heading south on Tottenham Court Road and then take a quick break for a smoke, as I invariably do on these walks. I have a feeling that this one in particular will be of great quality. No particular destination is on my mind. I plan on wandering aimlessly, but with purpose, through this great city of so much character, letting my thoughts roam with the goal of coming up with one culminating statement on the city before I end my four-week Dickinson Humanities course and relocate to the University of East Anglia in Norwich on the following Wednesday.

I take Tottenham Court Road to Charing Cross Road and follow it to Liecester Square, the crime scene of a truly disappointing club I frequented the night before. From there I continue south, towards the river, the one destination that is never absent from these Sunday toke-and-strolls. I am now at Trafalgar Square, the great statue of Lord Admiral Nelson surrounded by the three great lions reminding me of England’s valour and bravery of wars past. I am standing at a crosswalk, waiting for the passing traffic to stop and for the little green man on the stop light to appear, signalling my right of passage. He appears, and I start to cross. I am a few feet from the curb, when a black Ford Fiesta comes whizzing towards me, honking its horn and runs through its red light, forcing me to step back quickly onto the curb. Filled with scorn and indignation, I search for some sort of insult that I can fling back at this disrespectful motorist. Something that will portray my annoyance, but nothing personal. Something that makes it clear how I feel about this person and their breach of societal rules, but nothing profane. The word comes. But not as a result of my search, but rather by instinct. It reaches my lips and I shout: “Wanker!”

Immediately, my indignation and sentiments of scorn and disrespect are dissolved at the hands of this word, this perfect word. My thirst for an insult towards this person was duly quenched with “Wanker,” for it proved to fit perfectly into its role. If I was in America, I probably would called the Ford Fiesta an ‘asshole,’ but this is far too harsh and I also respect the fact that I’m in public where profanity is not always welcome. The Ford Fiesta was not doing anything evil or wicked, but merely proving to be an annoyance. Not acting like an ‘asshole,’ but just being a wanker, as everyone does from time to time. The fact that I found this word instinctively now makes me feel gratitude towards this wanker, for I appreciate this opportunity to attune myself naturally to the English colloquial, even if it was just this once, before I leave London.

Chuckling a bit to myself after this comical encounter, a broad smile comes across my face as I realize I have reached my culminating statement of London. Or, it is not a statement but rather a short, individual event, so quintessentially English that I have nothing but thanks for the wanker in the Ford Fiesta as I now look back a couple of seconds after the event’s occurance. I cross the street. Contented and pleased, I decide it is time for another smoke before I reach the Thames ... LW

Mish Statement

I’ve been telling myself that I would do this for awhile, and now, it’s official, I have no excuses left. It may have been when I was talking with my flatmates about how I only have class three days a week, or that one of those days off is a Friday, or perhaps it was that I have yet to attend my Modernism seminar (at Allegheny, I would be over halfway done with the fall semester ... what the fuck?!) where I realized that I have a lot free time on my hands. The idea of writing some form travel blog for the duration of my stay in England (perhaps beyond?) seemed exciting, but time consuming. However, as much as I like an uphill argument, I find myself invariably defeated each time I attempt to enlist the “too busy” argument as an excuse for not embarking on this potentially rewarding blog.

So what will I be writing about? In short, I don’t know, but I’d like to think of this blog as the viewpoint of an American making humorous, yet socially penetrating, observations on the cultural norms surrounding me. This blog probably won’t contain all the crazy stories of the year. I won’t be writing about every time I do drugs off a supermodel’s body, about banging my TA or about one of my mates getting drunk in Amsterdam and fucking a prostitute ... you’ll have to get those stories from me personally (Eh ... maybe I'll sneak a few in, we'll see). Another reason for my choice in form is, frankly, I’m not much of a narrative writer; I’m more of an essayist, so that’s probably what you should expect.

I think the title of this blog “L.A. Wronski: Stud Abroad” is actually fairly relevant on the grounds of 1) I’m arguably a stud (just bear with me) and 2) I’m indisputably abroad and 3) isn’t the play on words with study abroad at least a bit funny? Originally, I wanted to do some sort of play on words with one of my favourite novels “Gulliver’s Travels,” but again I think that sounds more travel-bloggy (a quick heads up, I will make up words when I have to), but I think the idea of Stud Abroad focuses on what it is like to live abroad while simultaneously being a stud (a third heads up, if you’re not reading this and subsequent entries sarcastically, you should ...), which is ultimately what I aim to convey in this blog.

I hope anyone reading this doesn’t feel gypped for reading 400+ words about me starting a blog, as opposed to reading something of actual substance, but bear with me. If you have questions about being abroad and I feel I can adequately answer them in a blog, I will. If you have questions about being a stud, I will direct you to one of my many much more qualified friends to answer and will probably exclude them from the blog. In short, questions comments and feedback are very welcome, for this is a very new process for me and all opinions are relevant.

In short, I’m pretty pumped to be writing this sure-to-be-hilarious blog and hopefully it proves worthwhile to any readers. More entries coming soon ... LW