tubes under ground

I had a job interview in London last week. Rather than worrying about the interview itself, I spent my energy worrying about getting myself from the innards of Dorset into London and then across town on the tube. All the while I had to think about what the commute would be like from my future London flat to said place of potential employment. It is going to take most of forever, but it will be a step up from my current commute, which is a bear. I am not exaggerating, it is a classic pain in the ass. There are boats involved. One of them only holds about 50 cars at once and pulls itself through the water by large chains. All this, and I still worried about having to take the tube.

Here’s my biggest tip if you have never taken the London tube before: do not use a black and white computer print-out map of the tube to find your way. The colors mean something, they aren’t just some fun spaghetti rainbow. So when I was trying to figure out what stop I needed, and the polite woman stuck in the ceiling said “change here for Jubilee line”, I had ten seconds to decide what to do. I grabbed my black and white map thinking, “Jubilee. This sounds familiar. Is this actually what I need, or is it just some term that bounces around London and therefore seems vaguely useful but really isn’t. I bet it has something to do with the Queen. Better stay where I am.”

There is something about the mechanical closing of the tube doors that causes you to have the epiphany that you actually needed to get off there. Those bastards are laced with insight, and it sprays out at you right when there is definitely no getting off. So I got off a stop too late and proceeded to follow the signs to get to the other side of the tracks to go back the other way.

This is where the tube REALLY starts to mess with you. It takes so long to cross back over, and getting there is so complex, that once you end up on the other side you totally can’t tell that you’ve moved at all. I was honestly standing there looking across the track and trying to remember where the vending machines were in relation to where I was standing, and what posters were there, and I got really pissed off when I realized that everything is completely the same. I think even the people were the same. It was like that scene in “Being John Malcovitch” where John Malcovitch goes through the portal to his own brain and everyone in there has his face and all they can say is “Malcovitch” over and over.

It was a combination of that, and this (ok, ALOMST. If David Bowie were there it would have been AWESOME. But minus the stripey baby, he's just weird.)



I got there fine, all went well, blah blah. Londoners and English people in general like to bark about how unreliable the tube is. I don’t doubt that it might be questionable, but the widespread complaining about it seems to have affected the atmosphere all throughout the underground. When I was there, everything was operating normally. AND THEY WOULD NOT STOP TELLING ME THAT. I swear every ten seconds polite-trapped-in-ceiling-woman had to let us all know, “The underground system is operating a normal service on all lines.” If you listen to her closely, you can hear a proud and content tone in her voice, and it starts to worm its way into your head and you walk around feeling proud of the tube and content that it works. Not my country, not my city, and I was wandering around feeling like I was somehow responsible for the marvelousness of the system. Go me.

And you know, this is totally the equivalent of those WWII posters that were apparently in the tube everywhere back in the day. You know, KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON. I love those posters. I have one. With that woman telling everyone that the underground is functioning, London has replaced the posters with a more subtle and slightly creepier system. I say bring back the posters. They are friendly and pretty and I don’t have to wonder where my complacency comes from, I can stare it in the face.

some stuff about some humor

I am sitting here trying to gather my thoughts, which usually isn't that difficult, but our neighbor seems to be tap-dancing on the goddamn wall. Since our houses are connected, this is a major pain in the ass. In addition to this, my adorable husband seems to have taken his inner monologue and turned it inside out. As I am usually the one accused of doing this (not by him, but by any individual who has been in my presence for more than five minutes) it causes a unique reaction. The traits I possess myself, when displayed in other people, simultaneously invoke endearment and annoyance. I've done enough reading in my life to understand that this is apparently common to most of the human race.

It is because of this that I have both a serious love and serious limits with British humor. The line sits somewhere between "The Office" and "Borat". I think it settles just this side of "Peep Show"? But I love "Mitchell and Webb", and they are the equation that brings "Peep Show" to life.... argh. This is so complex. Why the hell is this so complex.



British television has a knack for bringing to life that unique reaction that explains EXACTLY why my husband doing what I usually do to unknowingly annoy people makes me feel like a yin-yang on crack. On the one hand, there is that comforting and relatable familiarity about everything. You feel like you could dive into the moment on the T.V. screen and be at home there. Even when you aren't from Guildford (where apparently everyone in this whole country comes from) and you've never seen people on BBC breakfast go on and on about nothing in particular, you still feel like you could be one of those really englishy English people in some comically embarrassing scenario involving too many peas. I love it already, and it isn't even real.

I'm not even joking about this - there is an actual famous comedy sketch where someone goes into a shop and is chronically misunderstood. He says one thing, the shop owner thinks he's said something else, and for all I know no one is speaking English the whole time. And I laugh at it nonetheless. It is still funny to me and I have no idea what the hell is going on. Something about forks. Or candles. Candle forks, whatever. I love these people. They make hilarity out of absolute air.



But then there is the other hand. The other hand involves showing the populace what happens when you take the bits everyone can relate to and amplify them. This is where I get caught. The comedy sketch or show or film starts out with characters that you empathise with, laugh with, and then things BUILD. And then they pull crap that you would never pull. But they TAKE YOU WITH THEM nonetheless. How the hell do they do this? I end up empathising with some magical relatable assholes. Then I get to a point where I can't tell who I am laughing at more: the crappy individuals on screen, or myself for being such an idiot for emotionally following them into some antics that I would never normally follow them into.

I'd put a youtube clip as an example, but that would defeat my point. You have to watch the full episode of whatever to truly get to the point where it all falls in place and you are deeply embarassed for the characters.

This is why British humor is so effective. If you get that far into the whole thing, you are laughing in multiple dimensions. The reason I get part of the way in and then can't deal with it is because I take a moment and analyze the crap out of whatever I am watching. It only takes a few seconds and you start mentally backpedalling. British humor does not accommodate this. You have to just go with it, or you're fucked. The funny is gone. And then you are just uncomfortable, and the British people you are watching the funny shows with get to laugh in three dimensions - at the show, at themselves, and at you for sitting there like a tosser and being embarrassed for people that don't even exist.