(Warning: This post is not for everyone..you’ll figure out who you are pretty fast.)

A most glorious weekend...

Since I’ve been cavorting in the grand city of London and just returned from Nirvana or Barcelona as its known to others, (momento de silenco por favor) I have noticed a shift in my attitude.

My love for meat-and most specifically -meat that hangs from a large hook has increased exponentially. I realize that is an odd statement. It’s actually been something I’ve been grappling with for a while now. Not the meat thing, but the new found love for seeing grilled meat (I will never be a PETA rep I am well aware of that) and layers upon glorious layers of dried hanging meat. Unbeknownst to me, there is no other city that loves a big roast more than London. Pig roasts are rampant in London and Sundays are the big day. I love Sundays. It’s like being a kid again and knowing that you are going to get to go on the Slip’n’Slide because it’s nice out. The large pig on the grill is my new Slip’n Slide. DISCLAIMER: I really do love animals. I am sticking to the Hat Trick of meat (ie) cows ,pigs and chickens. And I actually really love cows, pigs and chickens..(you see, it’s an internal struggle!)

Our love affair

However, I was in Barcelona this past weekend and I went to a local market. In the past, I would have scoffed and possibly grimaced internally at the poor animals that didn’t have a chance from the get-go. However, this time I grabbed my friend and said, “we must take a photo!” This photo then spurred an hour-long analytical discussion of meat. She has been experiencing similar feelings since she moved to London back in March. In fact, the Saturday before we were at an all-day roast and managed to consume almost an entire pig between the two of us. That takes talent and dedication. Now what does this all mean?

Overzealous? I think not...

I’m not exactly sure. Maybe it speaks to the laid back nature of the cultures; maybe Americans need to adopt a “when in Rome” (or I suppose London and Barcelona in this case) and open up a bevy of meat stands along Rush street; maybe the British and the Spaniards are barbaric. Whatever it is, I like it and I plan on going to many more Sunday (and Friday) roasts. I will not chronicle all of them as that would be weird.

For the meat-lovers back in the Motherland who don’t want to fly to London and pour red paint on my clothes after reading this, Paulina Meat Market at 3501 N. Lincoln Ave is a Chicago institution and has more hanging meat than you can possibly handle.

Que aproveche

Unlucky...or just unlucky in London???

London is not for the faint of heart. Or for the faint of hand.

I know that being naturally me, things generally just don’t go smoothly. And I won’t even bore you with my “detainment at the border” story. Apparently having a work visa here is really important and the border police don’t like being told “they will have a scanned copy in their inbox first thing Monday morning…” Also take note that despite wearing an oversized Bucky Badger sweatshirt and looking like you are MANY Fridays away from the age of 30, they will still look at you as if you’re personally wired up and ready to detonate in one of their British trash cans. But this blog is not about my arrival in London.

It is about how either God is trying to tell me to have some respect for U.S public drinking ordinances or to personally give me affirmation that I may be one of the unluckiest people in the world. I hope I conclude it is the former…

The group realizing that Shane was not a person they wanted to meet...

This blog is about my past Sunday. Because apparently in London, a Sunday is no different than a Friday at happy hour or a Saturday at 2AM. The British drink everyday, everywhere and at every hour. So this past Sunday I was trying to acclimate into my new British way of life and go to a pub in the afternoon, when really all I wanted to do was curl up on some sort of couch, order pizza and watch “Jon and Kate Plus 8.” But no, to a pub it was. It was that day I learned that despite a culture that brews alcoholism; the British are actually quite active. You see, they drink at the pub, but then will bring sporting equipment with them and go to a nearby park (which are all over) and proceed to play a half way decent organized game of football (the Euro kind people!!), rounders (baseball) or some other game that requires a ball. After I got over my amazement that the pub resembled more of an intramural locker room, I then noticed the intrepidness of my fellow pub goers. I saw them heading out the door, to the park, balls in hands, WITH their GLASS pint glasses. But you can’t do that…right?

Wrong. After I was given the quick 101 that it was OK to drink in public spaces AND bring the glasses from the pub.., I was quickly on board and swaggering a bit as I crossed the street to the park with a legitimate smirk on my face, feeling like I was playing hooky and talking smack (yes I did say that) about our “conservative” American drinking laws. Well that lasted for about 5 minutes.

Because all of a sudden an American football (the irony is not lost on me) flew threw the air and came down on both the pint glasses I was holding and smashed them to bits, slicing up my hand in the process. The action-hero-turned-leap-through-a-glass-window--unscathed is not something I buy into anymore. My hand bled at a scary rate. SO it was back to the pub, blood all over while my friend Liz had the unfortunate job of trying to calm me while I was pretty sure I was staring at a projectile of glass coming up from my hand. Once I was back, I heard the short order cook yell (that’s because I WAS in the kitchen with my bloodied hand) “Hey, has anyone seen that first aid kit that was supposed to be by the stove?” Dear, dear God.

Long story short, they wanted to call me an ambulance, but out of embarrassment and a desire to get away from the raw boar’s meat as quickly as humanly possible, I opted for Shane-the other cook- to assemble a bandage from an unmarked tin box and recommend the tried-and-true-method of Krazy Gluing my deep wounds together. Hmm….

My hand is much better-thank you very much-and I have no doubt I will venture out into open spaces again with a CAN of beer.

Stay tuned next week to hear about how I choked on a bacon cheeseburger as a bald eagle crapped on my head…Is London rejecting me?

The iconic phone booth we really do love.

I come to you with my head hung low. 150 Fridays implies that I should be blogging at least once a week, but perhaps a more befitting name might now be "33 every third Fridays." (somehow that doesn't have the same ring to it does it…) Please refrain from recalculating my new
age.

Alas, I am sure it's been a tough few months without my proper guidance on how to spend a Friday evening. How have you managed?

(Please note the dripping sarcasm, to which I fell inclined to spell out as 150 Fridays has been in hibernation.)

But have no fear because I am back. In a new way. From across the pond.

Yes, I am in London right now working at time.com for a short period of time. So rather than blog about Friday nights in good old
Chitown..I am going to go against the grain of my own blog and share my Friday adventures from London.

I must say my first Friday in London was um…quite a disappointment. That's because it was the Fourth of July. And to those of you who only think of the 4th in terms of no work, beer and sun, please note that I spent my 4th working, pining for the sun and realizing truly for the first time (over beers so that was good) that the British HATE the Fourth of July. It may be a duh factor, but I've never really really had to think about what the holiday signified, until I was thrust into an atmosphere with patriotic Brits who refer to THAT day as the "War of American Independence." Hmmm….interesting. Don't you mean THE Revolution… Or THE day that Uncle Sam got His groove back… SIR!?! (please say the Sir in a faux British accent, it makes the sentence way better) You get my gist.

Go ahead and salute the colors of the flag..American style.

But I must say, that being over here for the Fourth made me proud to be an American (and yes, my fellow American friend Liz and I only sang that triumph song at least 4 times walking down the streets of London…along with many other fine classics like "London Bridge is Falling Down" and "Yankee Doodle Dandy." )

It may have not been my ideal "first" Friday in the great city of London, but I must say, everyone should spend one Fourth of July abroad to gain better appreciation for our fine country. Who knew I was such a patriot (I am kind of creeping myself out actually)…and who knew that I would be frantically racking my brain one night for any remembrance of fourth grade social study lessons.

So please accept my mea culpa for being a fair weathered blogger and get ready for a great summer of the return of "150 Fridays…London style."

Cheers

A monumental love, maybe.

I popped my DC cherry. And I have mixed emotions about it.

I’ve been in DC for the past few months finishing out my Masters program at Medill. I am one of those rare people who never went to DC on the obligatory 8th grade class trip. Instead my Catholic grade school schlepped, or rather bused, all 12 of us out to Toronto (yes my 8th grade class was really small and it is really easy to be popular when there are only three other girls…in retrospect, great for the esteem). Anyway, I really, really like DC but I can’t help but sprinkle in (annoyingly I might add) when I am talking to DC residents, “Oh! But in Chicago we do YOU FILL IN THE BLANK.”

Being out here is kind of like being in a brand new relationship. The first month here I was blown away at how different it was from Chicago and all I wanted to do was spend every waking minute having mind-blowing “DC tourist days.” I couldn’t get enough of the city… and how beautiful it was… and different. It was settled. I was moving to DC and swapping Michigan Ave. for Pennsylvania Ave. I already felt more sophisticated.

Then the normalcy period hit me and I realized that the city is actually kind of small, not to mention that political talk here is as commonplace as bitching about the Cubs and we all know how old that gets. Additionally, I started to become someone I didn’t think I was. I remember alarming myself one night when I asked a friend who works for a prominent senator in all seriousness to “give me all the juicy Senate gossip.” It was a moment of self-reflection and I just turned slowly to stare out the window at lovely DC in all its glory and started to feel…um…slightly dissatisfied.

Well, that period lasted for a bit and I think if I were here for an extended period of time, DC and I would eventually break up. But for now, I am back at the appreciation stage. DC is really a fabulous city, despite the lack of hair product on the men. It takes all the will power in me not to load up my purse with gallons of Crew and pomade every weekend and start feverishly applying it to the product starved, Robert Redfordesque hairstyles that DC men (abhorrently) seem to favor.

But being out here has definitely made my heart grow fonder for the Windy City. I have spent a few of my remaining Fridays out in DC and have loved every minute of them. I think everyone should live in DC once for a period of time. But maybe like your first true love, where in your heart you always kind of want to end up with them…I too, want to eventually end up with My kind of town…

I am sure you’ve seen the AP photo of President Bush standing on a chair next to a very, very, very tall guy in a tux. Well, that guy happens to be my really good friend Dave, and yes, he really is that tall. Six foot seven to be exact.

I have to admit I am insanely jealous of him. It’s not only because he got a ticket to the coveted White House correspondent’s dinner where he got to shake the leader of the free world’s hand. It’s not only because he got to see Bennifer II up close and personal (that’s Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner for all of you not in tune to pop culture). I am not even totally jealous that he got to meet Henry Kissinger (OK that is pretty damn cool)… or pee next to a Jonas brother (for my readers who are not 16 year old girls, the Jonas brothers are another creepy trio of brothers who can sing…Just think Hanson Brothers of the Millennium.)

Dave had a 15-minute conversation with Kumar. As in THE Kumar from “Harold and Kumar go to White Castle”. Please don’t even try and pretend that you don’t love that movie…or that a new found love for Neil Patrick Harris --“NPH” -- was resurrected in a way that you didn’t think possible since the death of Doogie. That movie is pure genius and it reminds me of many Friday nights a few years ago, when I was in what you might call my “early 20s”. (Note -- since I have left my early 20s, I no longer validate that distinction. I now feel all of the 20s are equal.)

I used to live on Southport near Wrigleyville which is conveniently located down the street from…you guessed it…White Castle. That would be 3212 West Addison St. I feel no remorse for blatantly plugging the place like a publicist. Prior to living in such close proximity to the fine burger establishment, I did not truly understand the underground obsession with the place. That is until I had it one late, late night after shamelessly going to Big City Tap. Words cannot express what I felt that night and I am not even going to try. Just know that I woke up to a tower (an actual one) of burger cartons. It was beautiful.

What was even more beautiful was that Harold and Kumar came out just a few months later. It was a force to be reckoned with and so relevant to my life. How did I not think of that screenplay…it’s a sensitive subject to this day. To add insult to injury, my friend Dave actually had one-on-one face time with the man. I immediately asked if they discussed the much anticipated “Harold and Kumar escape from Guantanamo Bay”, which is yet to be released but I am sure had some relevancy given the subject and the partygoers.

To my disappointment, Dave said that Kumar stuck to much less relevant topics like the election and Barack Obama. Dave said Kumar was eloquent, intelligent and engaging. That was enough to bring me back fondly to my White Castle years and reflect on that special time in Chicago.

Oh yeah, he said Kissinger and Bush were alright too. Now if only Dave met NPH too. Actually no…my envy levels might have gone to new levels.

White Castle…may I repeat 3212 West Addison.