American Idiot on the Road
Long before Green Day sang of my trials and travails (see "How I became the Jesus of Sloburbia") I was an American Idiot on the Road (A.I.R.) And I did it in typical, boorish, bumptious American fashion: I brought twice as much clothing as I needed, and only half as much cash. I drank, I wenched, I recited poetry, threw darts, wenched some more, and got kicked out of hotels all over Europe -- essentially the same thing I did at home, in the Great White Underbelly of Sloburbia. (GWUS)
Still, I managed to photograph a good many people and places (many of them clothed) in their summer finest. I walked in the footsteps of Burns oe'r aul Scotia's hills an' dales; I read, wrote and recited by the pond in Dublin's St. Stephen's Green; I followed the trail of Jack the Ripper in Whitechapel, drank in the same bars, loitered on the same corners, and lurked in the same alleys and gritty, grotty, blood-spattered backstreets of Spitalfields. I always stayed long after the tours all left, and was on my own -- even missing the last bus home to Northwood and having to spend many, many a dark hour in that formerly festering slaughter pen (which today is, sadly, clean, orderly and full of curry shops). But no prostitutes (BNP).
Now, I'm sober. I no longer drink (NLD). Instead, I quaff coffee, walk all over (eschewing busses, cabs and the like), snapping photos, taking notes and generally blending into the background as much as possible (I don't even recite any longer). I know: how unAmerican of me. But I'm no longer the ugly American; now I'm just the Idiotic American Shutterbug with a Functioning Memory. (IASFM) And F-stop.
Next up: the American Civil War (or War Between the States) battlefield of Gettysburg, PA. Two days and nights on the field, staying in haunted hotels, going up hill and down dale. There, Ghosts Walk, Money Talks and Cameras Balk on certain fields both day and night. A most sincerely, genuinely, No-BS haunted, creepy, awesome place. Which we shall share anon.
And on and on and on...