Monday, March 20, 2006


I stayed home and worked all Saturday afternoon and night. I was also up working until about 4 this morning, before teaching at 10. I don't know if this makes me a loser or a grown-up. But I got tonsa shit done, so that's good.

Sunday afternoon, after much protesting on my part, some friends drove over to pick me up for an afternoon of wandering aimlessly through St. Alban's. Our mini road trip led us first to the picturesque garden and lake areas of St. Alban's, and then, as expected, for lunch at a pub, smack in the middle of the lush greenery. After a few pints, my friend Clare suggested that we go wander around the Roman museum in order to sober up before driving home. We did so, and after about 30 minutes of looking at dusty Roman pots and dull weaponry, I excused myself to the toilet, my bladder full of Guinness.

A few moments later, upon my return to the museum's center, I found Clare, Simon and Bernadette sitting spread eagle in the middle of a giant lecture hall, which was filled - filled! - with children ages 3 to 10ish. Clare, Simon and Bernadette are all 28, a year older than myself. A special presentation had just begun, which consisted of two British men dressed up as Roman gladiators. Luckily, their costumes were much more believable than their attempts at Roman dialects. Clare, Simon, and Bernadette are all more-or-less about my 5'6 height (give or take an inch or two), so when I lay eyes upon them, they nearly blended with all the kids. Upon closer observation, though, it was obvious that three adult bodies had smushed their way into a room full of primary schoolchildren. The three of them were holding hands. I then got on all fours and crawled through the children to join my friends.

About 15 minutes later, as my friends and I were now dozing off during this excruciatingly painful acting duet of Roman history, the Roman 'actors' asked for a volunteer. I sat there questioning if this was legal, as the 'actors' were both aging British men with wrinkly knees, both wearing mini skirts, and one of whom had unknowingly flashed the audience when he bent over to rescue the sword he had dropped. Because of his age, it understandably took about three minutes for him to bend over and retrieve it, so they audience really got a disturbing show.

The man who referred to himself as Prometheus (it could've been Promorpheous or Promiscuous, for all know) said, "How 'bout you, mate? The little blond boy ova' dehh'." I followed Prometheus/Promiscuous's pointing finger, attempting to figure out which 5-year-old he had selected as his volunteer. On my left, Clare was laughing so hard her entire body shook. On my right, Simon had buried his face in his girlfriend's lap to prevent himself from guffawing too loudly. It was then that I realized Promiscuous, the man who had just mooned this group of children with his pruny arse, was pointing directly at me.

"Dude. I'm like 30," I mumbled slowly.

At which point, Promiscuous removed his authentic wire-rimmed 'Roman' eye-glasses and pranced a bit closer for a better look at me, his child of selection. At which point the four of us rose and climbed over the gaggle of giggly children as quickly as we possibly could.

And now...Clare and I are off to Montpellier for a few days. Clare chooses holiday spots on what she wants to eat, while I choose them on what I will be drinking. So, similar to our trip to Brussels last fall, for the next 72 hours, we will be the most gluttonous pair in Southern France.

The better actor, the more stupid he is. - Truman Capote