It seems like my trip to London happened ages ago, and not just a few weeks back. I was there just before Halloween, and the weather was so blissful and warm that I was walking around in a t-shirt. A t-shirt! Say what you will of global warming (and the ultimate demise of frogs, polar bears, and humans) but at least it’s made fall in Britain downright pleasant.

I spent some time down at the Occupy London protest, and walked along South Bank and across the Millennium Bridge. Don’t worry, though – I still managed to waste that sunshine by spending plenty of time indoors, too, wandering through museums and shopping. Here are some of my favorite snapshots from the trip.

1. One-Eyed Falcon, The British Museum.
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   Wanna know how it happened, kids? I'll tell ya. It was a Red Ryder BB gun, with a compass and this thing that tells time.

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2. Bashful Aphrodite, The British Museum.
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   Oh, please, stop acting so surprised. You obviously posed for this.

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I visited Occupy London on an unseasonably warm and sunny day in late October. In a paradox that is no doubt indicative of who I am, I stopped off at St. Paul’s Cathedral, where the Occupy protesters were gathered, before heading off to Spitalfields (the famed shopping district).
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There are some arguments that will consume you. They will take over your entire mind and body, so that you find yourself shaking with rage, unable to think of anything else. Your hands clench into fists, your teeth gnash together, and you are filled with anger and the conviction that DEAR GOD YOU ARE RIGHT AND THEY ARE SO, SO WRONG.

This is a story about one such argument.

I don’t remember how it began. Few great battles in history have marked beginnings. We say it was the assassination of Ferdinand, we suggest that it may have been the killing of Crispus Attucks and four others on a chilly night in Boston, but we are only guessing – trying to add sense and order to a situation where there likely isn’t one. Where there is only chaos and conflict.

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“Um, do you feel anything?”

“I feel my boogers drying up.”

“This feels weird.”

“Yeah.”

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It's official: The Clink is not now, nor has it ever been, a good place to visit.

I am easily scared.

The first time I saw The Sixth Sense, even though I knew the twist thanks to a big-mouthed teacher of mine, I nearly peed my pants. Thankfully, as far as you know, I did not.  And once, years ago, Rand and I spent the night at a hotel near the Oregon Caves that was supposedly haunted. I literally spent the night with one eye open, convinced that if I closed it, I’d wake up dead (in the early morning hours, this logic made sense).

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Last night I penned this:

It's true.

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From my trip to London last spring, in much quieter times.

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Like most of you, I’ve been following the news about the riots in London. I’ve seen the photos. I’ve searched through news articles. I’ve poured through the twitter accounts of my friends across the pond, all in an attempt to figure out what the hell is going on over there. And there’s so much I want to say, but I’m not sure where to start.

I’m tempted to begin by yelling at the tribes of young, embittered idiots who are running through the city and destroying everything in their path, like a pack of deranged locusts. Though instead of corn, they’re seeking out electronics. I want to slap some sense in them, and remind them that they are from the country that invented manners (and a healthy disdain at a lack of said manners), and their behavior is completely unacceptable. I hope that in a few days’ time, they’ll look at the burning wreckage of their city, and they’ll understand that they’re the ones who will have to live in it. It’s the societal equivalent of rubbing a dog’s nose in its mess.

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