Respect Authority

Two days ago, artist and apparent soap fetishist Stuart Semple released 2,057 smiley-faced clouds into the miserable gray wash the British call “sky.” The clouds, made up of helium, biodegradable soap, and vegetable dye, floated past the Tate Modern and Southbank before dissolving into the air after 30 short-lived minutes. Frankly, I’m not sure if seeing a few of these hovering next to my face on the way to work would come across as anything other than smug. Like, “Hah hah, I’m a cloud, I never have to work! See things in me!”

The project, intended to inject a little cheer into the dreary London skyline, was certainly unique. However, the artist probably could have made people even happier if he just threw all the money these blissfully ignorant clouds cost into the air instead. Not as cute, maybe, but after using that free money to buy a few beers, everything else starts looking cuter anyway.

And while they may have elicited a few unsuspecting chuckles at the time, now just imagine if all of those little happy clouds had anthrax or nerve gas mixed into their sudsy solution. The clouds and even great Allah himself might be smiling now, but they’re the only ones!

So yeah, the clouds were a real gas. But only in time will we see which definition of the word really best applies. Smile, we live in such a wonderful world!

Gay bars, no matter where you are in the world, are no place for politics. Even if it’s three thirty in the morning and the staff is telling you to leave. No, in fact, especially if it’s three thirty in the morning and the staff is telling you to leave. A lesson I tend to forget. And admittedly, the more drinks I consume the faster I become the cynic, as I was tonight with the intelligent remark, “Honestly, James, I’m going to get an absentee ballot, but it doesn’t mean anything. It just doesn’t. I’m from New York, Obama will get New York.” My roommate, Bridget, doesn’t like this.

Cut to twenty minutes later and I’m phoning my straight English mate, James, who is now standing outside Heaven in Charing Cross. James doesn’t seem as nervous as he should over the phone, as he is about to descend into the depth of trannies, glitter, bad music, and perhaps, date rape, and I’m trying equally hard to sound calm as I bury the fact that I am completely lost in central London. Bridget has left me, and she’s the clever one who knows London, whereas I know nothing. I am about to start my second year here and I’m lost. I had been home in Brooklyn for most of the summer and this was my first night out since touching down in The Big Smoke, as they call it. (Incidentally, I thought this “Big Smoke” thing meant Heaven when I originally heard the term and replied, “I’m sorry, I don’t believe in Heaven, so I can’t answer that question.”)

I was drunk… a bit high, yes, but also completely flustered by the argument I had just had with my roommate as a result of my callous opinion on the upcoming election. Ultimately, it ended with a shove and one of us storming off, but that’s not important. After the kind old man helped me up, I was off to save James from the impending doom that awaited him. I was right off Picadilly Circus, so that meant if I walked in the direction of Leicester Square and Charing Cross I would be at Heaven in no time. Read More ›

A Bowl of Cheerio is London Correspondent PJ’s regular column about his experiences as a lifelong New Yorker, born and raised on good American values like reality TV, pop music and gin, in jolly ole’ London. PJ isn’t officially our “London Correspondent,” but he’s taken it upon himself to both live among Brits AND attend acting school, thereby ensuring a bounty of witty commentary. A Bowl of Cheerio will appear every Monday, with other contributions in between since we all know the British do whatever they want (just look at Prince Charles.)

Check out my fortress of solitude:

New Hotness

Now check out what I used to take:

Old and Busted?

Between the two, it’s hard to choose which one I prefer, until you put me in the front seat on the second level of a double decker bus. Then it’s a landslide, London wins. If this were Transformers, and they could reassemble their parts to create mega-robots that battle to the death, I think it would be an even draw. But I have yet to witness this.
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