The Net Dog Blog

Once again I've become lax in my blogging duties. It's just that I haven't really had much to write about lately. Believe it or not there hasn't even been much for me to bitch about.

Last night some friends and I went to the movies to see "Me, You, and Everyone We Know." It was one of those films that the critics love and that us regular people watch and go "What the hell was that?" Not exactly the movie to go see if you want a little excitement ... or if you want to stay awake. Honestly the critics probably didn’t like it either. I think movies like that are made to make those artsy people feel intellectually superior to the common folk. "You mean you didn't see the subtle undertones of blah blah that reflected the human condition? It must be above you. " Blah blah blah. Give me a plot and maybe an explosion or two.

It's not that it was a terrible movie. It just seemed rather pointless ... and a little disturbing. I wont give too much away. I'll just say "I want to poop back and forth. Forever." Vile.

I've found that if I look long enough even I can find something to watch on British television. The other day I recorded a compelling documentary on Channel 4 that examined the dichotemy that exists between a person's private life and their public persona. That's right. I watched "Britney's Redneck Roots." It was basically about how you can take the girl out of the trailer park but you can't take the trailor park out of the girl.

I remember a time when Britney Spears was the shit, so to speak. She was everywhere. If you flipped on the television, turned on the radio, or opened a magazine you were likely to see or hear Britney and more than likely she was half dressed and panting to some bubble gum pop. She was a pop goddess. The good Southern Baptist girl who dressed like a stripper. The Virgin Whore. Seems like we don't mind that so much when the girl is 16 but when she's an adult it's trashy.

During the last year, Britney has reminded us over and over of her Louisiana roots. She smokes, drinks, does drugs (allegedly) and has bad skin! Her marriage to a childhood friend was annulled within 55 hours. Nine months later, she married a backup dancer who had a child with another woman and was expecting another. Britney was going crazy ... and we loved it!

Now I'll admit to being a celebrity sadist. I've always said that laughter though someone else's pain is my favorite emotion, but even if I wasn't a meanspirited person, I would find it hard to feel sorry for the Britneys, Whitneys, and Mariahs of the world. They wanted fame and they got it. The good with the bad. They realized that you can't be America's sweetheart and a crack whore at the same time.

We love to set somebody up on a pedestal all the while looking for chinks in their armor. Tearing a celebrity down is just as fun, if not more so, than building them up. It's like Celebrity Bowling ... set 'em up , then knock 'em down.

Maybe I'm a spoiled American but I have to say that customer service in London leaves a lot to be desired. Case in point, back home, in Louisville, when you go to the grocery you can expect the cashier or a bag boy to ask "paper or plastic?" and stow your groceries accordingly. In London, however, not only will they not bag your groceries they will stare at you like there is something wrong with you until you've bagged up every item yourself.

This afternoon, after a quick run, I decided to pick up Blake's dry cleaning and pop into Iceland (a very low rent grocery store ... think Sav-A-Lot or Aldi) to pick up something for dinner. I only bought a few things: chicken breasts, some yogurt, lettuce, sorbet ice cream bars (yummy), and a couple 2 liters of Diet Coke. Not a major purchase, but I didn't want to have to carry more with my hands already full of dry cleaning. As usual I was having trouble opening those stupid plastic bags and instead of helping me the cashier announced to the other cashier "I'm going on my break" and left me there struggling. "Some customer service you have here," I said, under my breath. I would have said it louder but I didn't want to get shot.

You can also not expect to be asked if you want a refill on your soft drink in a London restaurant. If they do choose to ask, be sure that you will be charged for another soft drink. No Free Refills!!! I can just hear my cheapskate friend Jim saying now "I'd just get water," but if you order water here you get, you guessed it, bottled water... which you have to pay for. The only good thing I can say about this is that if we go out to eat before a movie I won't drink too much and have to pee two or three times during the show.

I'd like to bitch about something for a minute. I know that this will surprise you as I am usually one to let things slide off me like water off a duck's back. It's true. Anyway, yesterday Blake and I went to see Charlie and The Chocolate Factory at the Odeon movie house in Leicester Square which, funny enough, is pronounced "Lester Square" but that is a gripe for another day. I'm not going to complain about the movie. It was quite good. Johnny Depp was a very creepy Willy Wonka in a Michael Jackson sort of way and the Oompa-Loompas were very amusing as well. Although I did think those children didn't deserve what happened to them ... they deserved much worse.

No, my complaint was the seating. Apparently you can't go to a movie in London and just show up and sit down where you like. All the theaters we've visited so far has assigned seating. The only benefit I can see to this is that you don't have to show up a half hour before the show to find a seat. However the problem with this is it is pretty much guaranteed that you will be sitting next to someone. The theater could be half empty (which it was today) and still everyone is crammed together like popcorn munching sardines. The woman seated next to me sighed throughout the movie. I have no idea why. The woman to Blake's left was fat. Really fat. Like "wash yourself with a rag on a stick" fat. I remember this one time flying back from Atlanta I was seated between two of the fattest men in the world. Immediately after take off they fell asleep and rested their heads on my shoulders. Nice. I just love sitting next to someone who oozes over the armrest into my personal space.

Another problem is because you don't have to show up early, people tend to show up late. Why not? The usherette will be glad to find your seat for you and shine her flashlight right in my eyes at the same time. Everybody wins!

I'm just glad I didn't have to pee...

This past Sunday, Blake and I headed down to SOHO to attend their little Pride celebration. Aside from the restaurants putting tables out into the street, thereby getting in the way of the men drinking in the streets, SOHO Pride was pretty much just like any other night out. Actually there were so many straight women milling about that I felt like I was back home at The Connection!

Billed as "The West Ends Gayest Square Mile", this was basically just a big street party. Unfortunately the streets were so packed with people (and tables) that a person couldn't do much more than stand in one spot and drink ... which is exactly what we did.
Speaking of drinking, I have recently been introduced to the pleasures of cider. Mixed drinks are so expensive plus all that orange juice gives me reflux (god I'm getting old) and I've never been a beer drinker, so I figured I'd give beer's fruity cousin a try. I really like it. It's very refreshing and, P.S., I look like I'm drinking beer so I feel just a smidgen butch. Of course, saying "smidgen" will cancel out any butchness that drinking something that looks like beer would give me.