Just Another Blundering American

First off, had another “smells like home moment” again. Another fire. I really think I should just rename this site the “Ashtray Fires Near Old Street Tube Blog” and be done with it.

I hate what Starbucks “stands for”. I hate that they over saturate an area with stores, forcing all the other coffeeshops out of business. (Although, that fact gave us this amazing picture:)

(from http://little-people.blogspot.com/)

One of my favorites from an amazing art show from the folks at Little People

Anyway, back to the rant — Starbucks has all these things going against them. I know this.

But I still can’t help myself. The Dark Mocha Frappucino is heaven in a plastic cup. I could live off these things.

Oh, and Combos. Gotta have Combos too.

In still other news, went ice skating last week. It was the first time in probably 10 years that I’ve gone ice skating for fun (i.e., not in the suit of armor that I normally wear). It was scarier than I remember, that’s for sure. It was still a lot of fun, though. Even with the awful music being played on a far-below-suboptimal sound system.

London is a great city, especially on the rare days that actually qualify as “summer”. I love walking through the streets at lunch time (even if it’s just a quick run to the shop), feeling the sun on my face, hearing the bustle of people over the steady undercurrent of traffic and construction. It’s a city that feels “alive”, certainly moreso than Pittsburgh did.

There are always times, however, that I’m reminded of something from home. Usually this sensations take me back further than Pittsburgh, back to Greensburg, about 45 minutes to the east of Pittsburgh. This is where I grew up, and where my parents still live.

Today, on the way to lunch, I had one of those moments. I was crossing City Road, heading towards Somerfield’s, when I have a sensation that takes me back 20 years. The scent of burning autumn leaves fills my head, and I’m transported to the Mohan’s yard, one street down from mine. All the neighborhood dads are burning piles of leaves, accumulated from the trees that frame the yards. We’re playing football (American football, not soccer ), and this afternoon we are the Pittsburgh Steelers. The 1988 Steelers of Bubby Brister, Gary Anderson, and Rod Woodson, struggling their way towards what would be a 5-11 season (their worst since 1969 at the time, and still their worst since 1969). We didn’t care. Every breath pulled on your lungs with that invigorating mix of too-cold autumn air, burning leaves, and freshly-cut grass. We’d play for hours, stopping only when we were invited around the porch (we were too muddy for the kitchen) to enjoy some hot chocolate and cookies. The sun eventually went down, covering the “field” in shadows (the Mohan’s yard faced East-West, and you could see the sun dip down through the trees all the way to the horizon) and sending us home.   Mom would always yell when we came home, our newly-torn sweatpants covered in mud.   But she always let us go out the next day.

As I cross City Road, I’m wondering who would have the nerve to burn leaves in the City Limits (let alone, where would fallen leaves have accumulated enough to burn, as it is still “summer” here).   I turn the corner past Starbucks, and my question is answered.

One of the on-building ashtrays is on fire, the result of a still-too-hot fag end being thrown in.

Gotta love London.