Tag Archives: England

Traveling the world with the most enthusiastic/obnoxious photography subject EVER.

I have about an hour to write this. This is going to be word-short and photo-heavy, my little potato pancakes.

NOW I WANT PANCAKES DAMMIT.

OK, so a looooong time ago, I was all, “Where are my photos of my trip to Europe back when I was a young and still-not-yet-disillusioned kiddo?” and thought they were lost to the ages but then I found them in a bag of things my mother brought me a couple years ago. When I was all, “MOM! Why didn’t you tell me those photos were in there?” she said, “I put those in there? Why would I have done that?” so I think Mom is losing it.

There were ALL KINDS of goodies in the bag. Therefore, you get:

PHOTOS OF AMY BEING A DORK AT A YOUNGER AGE IN VARIOUS LOCALES

today.

You can see how my hair has gone through many iterations. Also, my eyebrows used to be OUT. OF. CONTROL. And I still like making faces in photos just as much as I did back then.

Let’s see what we have first, shall we? It’s not just Europe in here, you guys. It’s ALL the locales.

Oh, I should warn you, these are terrible because I don’t have a scanner so I took ’em with my cell phone.

Who can guess where I am. Anyone? Anyone? Red rocks? Pretending to look for alien life forms? No one? Really?

SEDONA!

This was from a trip my brother and I took to some place in Sedona where there were spaceships. There was a sign that said not to climb these rocks. I did it anyway. Then I made this face. I think I was probably about 24 here.

Please note the flannel shirt; it was the late 90s, so I thought I was Kurt Cobain, still, apparently.

I’m not sure what’s up with that hair. It’s not my hair color, and I guess I was going with shoulder-length that year.

This is 20-year-old-Amy pretending to be shocked at the news that King Arthur is dead. This is apparently King Arthur’s tomb. I don’t know how they know such things, either. The internet tells me I was at Glastonbury that day, apparently. I don’t remember anything about this trip at all. Do we think I was drunk? It’s a possibility, kiddos.

This is 20-year-old Amy again, pretending to be depressed that this super-historic rock is cracked. The back of this photo says “Amy is sad that the Anesbury stone is cracked” and it looks like I wrote that on there in the dark. Let’s see what this “Anesbury stone” is and where I was that day. OK, apparently it’s “Amesbury” and it’s a town close to Stonehenge. I remember going to Stonehenge. I wanted to see Druids but there weren’t even any Druids, it was super-depressing. Why were we hanging out with this stone, I wonder? Man, I’ve forgotten a large chunk of my 20s.

HOW CUTE AM I HERE SERIOUSLY. I want to hug myself, I’m so damn adorable. OK, so this is 20-year-old-me standing on either side of the international date line in Greenwich. Again, I don’t have a single recollection of being in this place, so it’s a good thing I have this photo. AND I AM SO CUTE IN IT. That’s a good smile. As you can see, I have an army-navy black trenchcoat here. This was before the trenchcoat mafia so I was safe, I guess. Also, I miss that sweater, it was super-comfy.

Ooh, now we’re skipping into the FEW-CHUR. I’m 28-ish here. Mer and I went to California for a trip. This is me outside of the Winchester Mystery House. That house totally gave me the shivers. This is pre-shivers, though. I’m not even making an obnoxious face here, so that’s a nice change for me.

This might be my favorite. This is me in Berlin. Dad, when I was little, used to say “CHECKPOINT CHARLIE!” a lot, so when I got to Berlin and there was a whole Checkpoint Charlie museum, I was so pleased I did a little dance. Then I had my photo taken with this odd look on my face to show him I was here. This was 18 years ago and I still have that shirt. And I still wear it, too. That shirt was a good investment. I can’t say the same for the eyebrows, though. WHO TOLD YOU THOSE WERE A GOOD IDEA, AMY?!?!?

I don’t know why this is so yellow, either. The hell, phone-camera? This is young Amy doing some sort of flamenco dance outside of a tall archway. As you can see, I am wearing a skirt. And Doc Martens. As one did in the 90s. I know, I am quite fancy. FINE, I will look up where this arch was. The back of the photo says I am at the Colosseum in Rome. I think this photo looks like Instagram before Instagram existed. I WAS AN INSTAGRAM HIPSTER! I don’t remember visiting the Colosseum in Rome. OH WAIT NO I TOTALLY DO. There were cats. CATS EVERYWHERE. And one of the guides was all, “They live here, don’t touch them.” Well, THAT’S sad.

This is another photo of the trip with Mer. Mer, I miss you the most right now, by the way. We are at Haight Ashbury. However, someone stole the “Haight” street sign so I assume anyone expecting to turn at Haight would be lost. All we could find was this Ashbury sign, and someone said, “Yeah, this is Haight Street, people are always stealing the sign.” Jeez, how about a little peace, love and understanding, you thieving asshole? Anyway, these jeans were a mistake. They came pre-ripped-up and after about three washings they fell apart. They fit really well, though. I’m not even acting like a goon in this one. Mer brings out the LADY in me.

That is all the photos of me. Well, there were a lot of photos of various pieces of architecture, so I was all, WHO CARES ABOUT THOSE. No one, is who. Why weren’t people taking more photos of me? I’m really the most awesome. With the faces and poses and such.

I will leave you with this, because just seeing it again made me laugh and laugh:

When we were in Paris, I needed an adventure so one day I left the city all on my lonesome and went to Rouen, which is a pretty little town not too far away. It’s where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake. That’s not WHY I went there, I’m not like a Joan of Arc fetishist or anything. I just wanted to get out of Paris and have a solo adventure, is all.

Anyway, this was a Joan of Arc wax museum, only everything was falling over, and it was terrible, and at one point, one of the figurines had a Hanes sweatsock unceremoniously plopped on its hand. Like it was a sock puppet, I guess. It wasn’t on purpose. I think some kid did it. But it struck me as hilarious, so I seriously had to lean against the wall and laugh until I almost cried. SWEATSOCK! I apparently did not take a photo of the sweatsock, or it didn’t come out. A LOT of my photos did not come out. Remember back in the day when you didn’t know if your photos would come out, like, when you used FILM and you HOPED and you PRAYED they would? I don’t miss those days at all. Not even a little bit. I love digital, me. Instant gratification!!!

I hope you have enjoyed today’s installment of Amy Takes You Around the World and Makes Faces in All the Different Places. I’m pretty sure I have more of these photos so can totally do another one of these someday when I have like an hour before bed and nothing else to say.

Happy weekend, all! Remember: the rules for a good photo are location, light, and lunacy!


An open letter of apology to London

Dear London:

Listen, I’m really sorry.

The other night, #MittShambles started trending on Twitter. I’m usually really out of it, news-wise, so I of course had to research what the latest Mitt-tastrophe was.

Guys! YOU GUYS! I gots me a street named after me, yo!

Oh, holy hell, London. I am so, so embarrassed. Seriously, I’m glad I don’t have to look any of you in the eye today, because I’d be as red as a beet.

Oh, so embarrassed.

Oh, wait, maybe some people are as out of it as I am, news-wise, and are wondering what went down. Because I love you, I’ll fill you in.

On Thursday, Mitt Romney (who will be running as the Republican Presidential candidate here in MERKA later this year) went to London. It was ostensibly as a fundraiser – there are a lot of rich American Republican businessmen living and working in London, and he was having a $75,000 a plate fundraiser for them (or, I guess, for himself) – but while there, he decided to show the Londoners what it would be like once he’s elected President, by doing some speechifying, and some interviews, and meeting with some fancy London bigwigs. Easy enough, right?

$75,000 a plate? Better come with a home, a hot man, and a European tour, buddy.

Oh, no, not at all easy. Not at ALL easy. Yikes.

Listen, I’m not great in front of people. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I often start running off at the mouth because my nerves get the better of me, and I say very stupid things that are not at all indicative of me as a person. I think a lot of people do that. It’s not just me. I’ve seen more than enough bad speeches to know I’m not the only one petrified in front of people saying stupid things. That said: the man is trying to be the leader of the United States. THE WHOLE UNITED STATES. OF MERKA. You kind of have to be good at speeching to lead the country.

In case you’re not aware, the Olympics are going on in London. Well, when Romney was there, they were about to begin. They were one day away. FURTHERMORE, in case you were ALSO not aware, Mitt Romney was the chief executive of the Salt Lake City Winter Olympics in 2002. So Romney, I guess, thought it was ok that he got all judgey-judgey about the way the London Olympics were being run and set up and such. You know. As you do. When you’re trying to make a good impression in a foreign country.

Bill. Aw, Bill. Remember the speeches he used to give? *swoon*

Shit, did I mention how embarrassed I am, London? Let me reiterate. I’m so embarrassed. So, so embarrassed.

So first, Romney started saying shit like the London Olympics might be in trouble because of security concerns, and that it was “hard to know just how well it will turn out.”

He also said there were “a few things that were disconcerting” about the Olympic preparations. “The stories about the private security firm not having enough people, supposed strike of immigration and customs officials, that obviously is not something which is encouraging.”

And then I just…kept talking? And talking. And talking some more.

UNGH, ROMNEY, MAYBE YOU COULD JUST SHUT IT NOW? NO? THERE’S MORE? EFF.

(In news of the BURN!, David Cameron – he’s the Prime Minister, come on, you know this – said “We are holding an Olympic Games in one of the busiest, most active, bustling cities anywhere in the world. Of course it’s easier if you hold an Olympic Games in the middle of nowhere.” HA HA! Listen, the Brits are pretty polite. This is a TOTAL burn. This would be like if a MERKAN said “SUCK IT ROMNEY YOU PODUNK ASSMUNCH.” Only with more middle-fingering. And we’d probably shoot him in the face.)

Good one, Cameron!

Then Romney was all “oh, oh shit, did I do that?” and backpedaled with a sweeping “um um um any little boo-boos will be overshadowed by the extraordinary demonstrations of courage, character and determination by the athletes.” (Everything in that sentence up until “overshadowed” I made up. Also, that’s not an apology or even a backpedal. That’s a privileged kid who doesn’t know how to say he’s sorry who realized people are mad at him attempting to save face. And failing. Miserably.)

I kind of imagine it like this, only without the awesomeness of Fred Willard or “A Mighty Wind.”

In additional news of the “what the eff?” Romney also:

  • forgot the name of Ed Miliband, the leader of the Labour Party, and in order to save face, called him “Mr. Leader” (his name wasn’t like Muhammad Hosni El Sayed Mubarak or something. It was ED, for the love of Pete. You can’t remember Ed? You high or something, Romney?)

    It’s ED, Mr. Romney. ED. TWO EFFING LETTERS.

  • Met with the leaders of MI6, but obviously was SO STOKED that he got to sit at the cool kids table for two minutes and maybe also thought he was in maybe a James Bond movie that he TOLD EVERYONE. I wasn’t aware of this, but apparently MI6 is England’s Fight Club? And you all know the first rule of that, right? Shit, Romney. I’m pretty sure Goldfinger’s under your bed right now or something ready to suspend you over a tank full of sharks while he tells you about all of his evil plans and schemes, giving you time to escape, if you’re wise enough to use it. (Isn’t Goldfinger a James Bond badguy? The one with the scary grill? He is, right? I think I remember Dad making me watch that once. OH SHIT FINE I looked it up and his name was “Jaws” and he was from the movie The Spy Who Loved Me. I really dislike James Bond movies. They’re all the same to me.)

    I AM COMING FOR YOU ROMNEY.

    Also, I guess there’s another secret service called MI5, and he also met with them, and one of Romney’s advisers spilled the beans about that, too. (I’m getting the feeling that a., maybe all these secret societies shouldn’t meet with any yahoo running for president of MERKA, and b., Romney and his people were totally narcs in high school. Or hall monitors or something. Something asshatty.)

  • He also said he was really looking forward to watching volleyball from the “backside” of Downing Street which made a lot of British people giggle because that totally means bum, you guys. BUM! (Also, who even uses backside in that sense? Weird. Unless it’s a rich person thing. Is it a rich person thing? I wouldn’t know. Romney would.)

    Here is the backside of a hedgehog. Hee! Backside!

  • One of his advisors said that Obama didn’t understand America and Europe’s shared “Anglo-Saxon heritage.” Some news outlets are saying that Romney himself said this; some are saying an advisor said it. Either way: RACIST, YO. Because Obama’s got African-American heritage, he can’t understand the troubles we seen, can’t understand our sorrow? Please excuse me while I laugh myself into a hernia.

Londoners were really, really disgusted with Romney.

OK, London? Listen. I’m so sorry. I want to make it very clear: MITT ROMNEY DOES NOT REPRESENT ALL OF US.

Mitt Romney is a bullying rich boy. (Seriously, if you take nothing serious from this entire post, click on that link and read it. And then share it with people who vote in America. Yeah, it’s a story for another blog, one closer to election, I’ll talk more about it then – but we’re one election away from this man being our president, my fellow Merkans. Someone who not only bullied gay teens in school, but someone upon whom it made NO IMPACT. He DOESN’T EVEN REMEMBER DOING IT. He calls it “pranks and high jinks.”) Someone on Twitter the other day compared him to a middle-aged Patrick Bateman from American Psycho. I don’t know if there’s been a more apt comparison since he poked his Whac-a-Mole head out of the ground to try to be the next GREAT BIG LEADER OF MERKA.

Put your head back in your hole, Mole. We don’t need you here. We have a hammer in case you pop up again. Whack. Whack.

I’m so sorry he came to your lovely city in the middle of your lovely country and he shit all over you while you were preparing for this gigantic event that you’re probably all nervous about. I’m so sorry that some of you are all “you bloody Americans!” and all stompy-stomp and giving us dirty looks. I’m so, so sorry.

We’re really not all that backward and embarrassing. I promise. Gah, I’m just beyond embarrassed. HE DOES NOT SPEAK FOR ALL OF US.

I just found this a few minutes ago. Apparently, Romney’s not going to apologize. It’s all on me. (Did you all know about this?)

NO APOLOGIES! THE GREATNESS OF MERKA!!!!!1!

I have no idea how the election’s going to shake out. I really don’t. I’m petrified about it, to tell you the truth. Because I don’t want a gay-bashing, jingoistic, bullying, glad-handing rich boy running my country. Please don’t think I do, London. As much as all of you, I wish he’d never opened his mouth when he was across the pond; he makes all of us look bad.

I lived in London for 5 months in college. Your city was a city of wonder. There was always something to see and do and it was so bustling and so thriving and so beautiful and I wish I hadn’t been so homesick because I would have been able to appreciate it more. You have wonderful theater and actors and movies and art and architecture and history (and oh, oh, oh, how much do I miss being able to stop into the store and buy a Flake bar whenever I want one? SIGH) and I’d give my EYETEETH to go back and visit you again now that I’m wise enough to look at all you have to offer with my grown-up, much less eye-rolly…um…well, eyes, I guess.

I’m seriously drooling right now.

Please don’t judge us by our most asshatty denizens. We have such better people to offer.

Please accept my most abject apologies. If it helps at all, I am happy to come over. I would remember Mr. Miliband’s name, I would totally zip my lip about meeting with your secret agent men, I’d never mock your abilities to have the Olympics there (because, honestly, I don’t know anything about the Olympics) and I would totally never mention the ass-side of your buildings. I can be a lady when I need to be. Totally can. I think you’ll see I’d be an EXCELLENT ambassador of awesome. I’d leave and you’d be all “GO GO MERKA!” and it would be the best thing ever.

Send that plane ticket on over. I’d be happy to stay at a mid-range hotel. The chocolates on the pillow don’t have to be that fancy. I’d settle for a Flake bar.

And listen, London: I’m so sorry. Seriously. Here is black and white picture of Benedict Cumberbatch with facial hair. He is one of my favorite products of yours. Can you look at him and be mad at us? Can you really? I can’t. I look at him and my mad-feelings just melt away. Just meeeeellllltttt away.

With all the apologies in the world, plus a few more, and a very red face,

Love, Me.


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