11/27/1989

London is a boring and expensive place as Maura and all of her friends have a paper due on Keats and all of them are going nuts. We went one night to pub crawl Soho. Many many yuppie pubs, most with signs like “No soiled clothes or shoes”, so that leaves me out. Drinking pints as fast as they, Maura and Samantha, can drink half glasses. Into this one crazy place, they go first, and I get frisked by some goon, and he getting pissed off and me also. Winds up he taking my Swiss Army knife and, man, did I kill my pint. And theirs, also, as Motorhead blasting and punks everywhere. Out into the street and to another, the last, and we actually got seats. And they with their half glasses soon getting hit on by two “rugby players”. So, I like the gentleman bum I am get up and get half glass of Guinness, as my head is swimming by now. Come back to table and kill it in one hit. And rugby boys getting even closer, so I go to the gents and come back ready to go, so we go and howling thru the streets, just totally going off.

Next night, I slept most of the day and did the dishes.

Sunday night they still doing papers. I bummed £10 from Maura to go get drunk for everyone in the flat building. I meet a Moroccan, who tells me for no apparent reason about how his wife fooled around/fucked his buddy, an American Viet Nam vet, and all all all all, and his Saudi friend, who hates Saudis. Fun night, as I started the musical entertainment off with depressing Cure.

Today sleeping past noon and actually saw the sun come up as I couldn’t fall asleep. Listening to Michael’s tape and posting 12 postcards and 4 letters. In Ashe’s, drinking a pint and eating some kind of crazy Arabic food. Catching up on my journal. My hair is starting to dread. Ever notice that baby cries do not have an accent? They all sound exactly the same.

Samantha and I visited the Tate Gallery a few days back and I saw the honest to god original of “Metamorphosis of Narcissus” by Dali. So smoothly the shapes and colors blended together, and it was much better than any print of it that I have ever seen.
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We also talked of the lame style of black lines on a white background with blue or red squares, and how Warhol knew that this was shit art and his soup cans are just a big joke to make fun of that abstract style {edit: see Mondrian}, and about how art was being led down hill because of architecture, and we made fun of modern sculptures by saying that the temperature/humidity meter was far more interesting, and saw several great works of art and just about all of Tuner’s shit because she has to do a paper on it. Heading back, the Tube station has copies of famous paintings on the walls and one was “Metamorphosis of Narcissus” and we laughed.

Tonight saw me going to an underground show, a secret show, for a band called Loop. Man, they sucked. Picture a long haired Robin Hood looking guy singing and playing lead guitar while Frank Zappa plays bass beside him. The drummer bit, as did the rhythm guitar. And the average age of this “secret” show was about 18. I stayed for 3 1/2 songs and had to leave. In the Tube, a bum called me over and we started singing “We all live in a yellow submarine” and I am getting very good at causing people to check their wallets by walking just too close.

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