Reading Comedy Festival, baby!

The Reading Comedy Festival kicks off on Friday, Sept. 21. It includes stand up and other comedy shows and plays. I'm psyched as comedy holds a special place in my heart dating back to my days of minor immersion in the U.S. comedy world by way of performing stand up (as a hobby), interviewing comics for newspapers and doing PR for comics (also as a hobby on the side of my "real" job as a journalist). My relationship with comedy is a bit love/hate, as once you've seen a lot of comedy, you spot the hacks much more quickly and it takes more to impress.

But comedy still holds a special place in my heart, and it's worth it to take advantage of seeing a few of these shows if you're in the Reading area. A couple that I'm looking forward to are:

• Insomnababble, Oct. 5
• Jo Caulfield and Friends, Oct. 18

There are many more shows, but as much British stand up isn't to my taste (or perhaps the universal problem that there are far more bad comics of any nationality than good ones), these are the couple that seemed they might appeal to me. Stay tuned for my take on some differences between U.S. and UK humor!

An area blog log

Some local bloggers focus on life in Reading, whether it be good restaurants or area history. If you're curious about what's going on in this town, check out:

Reading Roars and West Reading Times (I learned about the latter from a post on Reading Roars -- gotta give my props!).

And while not a blog, the community speaks out at the Reading Town Forum.

Another blog of interest is I Hate First Great Western. The author doesn't live in Reading, but she does live in the area and she speaks out against the shoddy service of FGW (a train company that is the main option for getting to many destinations -- including London -- from Reading). I'm still appalled that FGW will only let disabled travellers who use a mobility scooter bring the scooter aboard if they can *carry* it on. As if. This particular problem isn't her concern (poor service is), but anyone who's willing to stand up to "the man" and fight is all right in my book, and it's something not many Brits seem to do. I get the feeling that demanding good service is considered pointless, obnoxious, and possibly even American-ish (and thus to be frowned upon). That's just my early impression as a newcomer here; either way, if you're curious about if it's really that wonderful and easy and cheap to get around England using public transport, as people always tell Americans is the case, take those tales with a grain of salt and check out I Hate First Great Western. On top of it all, it's a well-written site. Kudos, girl, and keep up the good work!

Another site generated by a local is Strategikon. It's not about the area, though; I'm including it merely because it's a new site of interest by a Reading academic who also happens to be an American expat. It focuses on all things involving politics and strategy, mostly involving American politics and figures. Get your learn on at Strategikon!

Mmm ... sweet tater fries

Now in a break from my regularly scheduled lack of interest in doing or discussing things related to domestic chores:

Tonight I stretched my limited culinary repertoire to include a new dish: oven-baked sweet potato fries. Dipped in a mix of olive oil and spices, baked for 30 minutes at 450 F (about 230 C), and eaten with enjoyment by me and the hubby (who did the peeling and slicing of the potatoes, 'cause that's way too much effort to create a meal in my book). Served with steak. Mmmmmm.

I followed the directions for which spices to use from this recipe, and the tips on how long and at what temp to cook here.

Uptown Friday night

I fulfilled my wifely duty last Friday, and I have to say, I really enjoyed it. My "duty" is the thing where I convince my husband to actually get up off the couch and go out to DO something.

I'm not saying that he's lazy, because he's not. When he's on the couch, he's working. He may have his shoes kicked off and his feet up, but he's either grading papers, or writing his next book, or reading various things to stay informed on topics related to his field. While being able to do a fair portion of your work from home is good work if you can get it, it's still work -- work that tends to linger into the evening hours when typical instincts say it's time to relax.

And it's not like I want to go out all the time, either -- we're happily entrenched in "boring married couple" mode and I'm not looking to switch gears. But I do like to get out occasionally, especially as we're new to this city and there's a lot to explore.

We don't do typical nightlife. Usually when we go out, it's to the park or the library or the grocery store -- and it's in the cloudy, cool light of day. Not too exciting, but it's still getting out and seeing a small bit of the town. But Friday night I amped it up a notch: we went to the theater. Sure, it was a small venue apparently operated by the local town government, but it had everything I like: close, cheap (£6), music, dance, a sexy male lead. I'm all over that.

We went to see Mephistopheles Smith at the South Street theater in Reading. The show is a sexy, irreverent, irreligious hour with an evangelist who preaches the positives of hell, accompanied by his two "devilettes". It was written by Richard O'Brien, the man who wrote "The Rocky Horror Picture Show," which happens to be my favorite musical.

The theater was small and nothing fancy, but served the purpose and had a little bar in the back. The event was one more thing reminding me of how different the UK is from the U.S. -- an event sponsored by a city government in the U.S. would NEVER have a show encouraging people to indulge their vices and look forward to hot times in hell.

Paul Roberts played the title character, and by the end of the show I thought he was quite hot, and it had nothing to do with his being the ruler of hell. That's how I end up feeling for many men who can sing or play an instrument well, which my husband thinks is funny but, like most men, also gets a tiny bit jealous of how much women dig musicians. It's not like I went on and on about it, but still, I did take notice. And it's not like Sweetie didn't comment on the cute "devilettes," so there. Not to mention one of them even pulled him out of his seat to dance in a scene, and I can tell you, that was the first time I ever saw him dance. He's no Fred Astaire, but he had plenty of good humor and gave it a rhythmically challenged go with a smile on his face.

Roberts really belted out the songs in true rock fashion, and we gladly shelled out £5 for a CD after the show. Unfortunately, none of the three songs I liked the most were on the CD, and the songs were sung by the previous cast -- the male vocalist did a much softer take on the songs, and it just wasn't for me. Not to mention the CDs looked like they'd been made on someone's home computer, self-printed labels and all. (FYI, the photo at the top of this post is actually of the previous cast, as I couldn't find a picture of the current cast. Indeed, all promotional ads I saw for this show had pictures of the old cast, which tells me this was a low-rent deal where the current cast is probably just doing a few shows -- a month at Edinburgh Festival Fringe and a few cities.)

Low-rent aspects aside, it was a fun show with great singing and we left smiling. Then we turned up the heat on our Friday night out on the town by going to Sainsbury's (grocery store) for some bottles of cheap wine. We made it home by 10 p.m. Oh yeah, we painted the town red.

All in all, it was a hell of a night.

Lament for the Sunday paper ritual

Oh, how I miss it. I woke up this morning, clinging to a waking dream of being able to step outside the door and scoop up a thick Sunday newspaper, darting back inside before the neighbors could see me in my wrinkled Old Navy sleep pants and T-shirt.

I'd go inside and climb into bed next to Cutie-Pie and we'd snuggle under the covers and divide up the sections. He'd skip straight to the opinion section to mull big issues and world events, and I'd grab the A section and make a show of reading through the headlines before tackling my real first choice: the sales papers. Because I care what's going on the world, but the sales at Target have more of a direct impact on my life. Besides, Sweetie will discuss the news with me while I browse the Lifestyle section.

In my fading memory, the Sunday paper is thick, heavy. There is section after I don't know how many sections, and that's before I pull out the hefty plastic bag holding all the sales papers and the Sunday magazine and whatever else sold some ads so they stuffed that in, too. I worked Sundays in the States, so we only got to enjoy the luxury of curling up together over the paper a few times that I happened to have the day off. We looked forward to a time when I would have all Sundays off and we could talk over the news and sales and new books and movies in bed on a Sunday morning (or afternoon) and get our hands stained with newsprint and tickle each other as we swapped sections and know that it was $1.50 well spent.

Now we live in England. I have all my Sundays off. But the Sunday paper isn't the glorious event here that it was in the States. At $4, it isn't cheap, either. It isn't even delivered to our home.

Sweetie went to a news agent when we got here (that's your basic news stand with mags, newspapers, fatty snacks and overpriced soft drinks). He was told you can get papers delivered at home, but it costs more than buying it in the store and apparently isn't done often as you see no ads for home subscription here, no papers awaiting readers on neighbors' doorsteps. And there goes part of the joy of the Sunday paper, being that it was a bargain and you could collect it at your doorstep without having to get dressed, brush your tangled locks, go out and generally wake yourself up more than you wanted to on a lazy Sunday morning. It usually cost less to have it home delivered in the States, or at the very worst, it was the same price as trudging out to buy one in a store or newspaper box. Not so here. If you can manage to get it brought to your door, you apparently pay more for the privilege.

And it's not much of a privilege, considering the Sunday papers here. They've pretty much all gone to tabloid format, one big section that I'm sure is easier to read on a train or bus or carry home from the store as you walk several blocks with the groceries you have to go buy every few days because the refrigerators here are too small to load up in one big shop.

So dividing the sections is out, unless you buy the Sunday London Times, which is the only paper all week where the Times isn’t a tabloid. And there’s no comics. And the sales papers, what a luxury we took for granted all those years! There are no sale papers in the British newspapers except for ones about pricey furniture, no coupons, no way to discover huge rebates at electronics stores on items I never knew I wanted until I found out it was only $20 after rebates. They have sales here, but not big ones, no we've-got-to-rush-out-and-get-that ones, not the ones that stores have when they've got a huge country of competitors breathing down their necks. England's a small country; you can pay either twice as much for things as you would in the U.S. or you can leave it on the shelf. Those are the choices, and the stores don't care much which way you decide. Shoppers are a captive audience competition-wise on most things. No need for big rebates and coupons, this is England. You're not going to get it so shut up already.

And so it's Sunday morning here; I'm not at work, I'd love to be snuggled up with my honey chatting over the news and comics and sales and tickling each other. But that's not the English Sunday morning. Instead, we each turn on our laptops and browse the news. Not that I'm missing out on chances to snuggle and talk and play with my sweetie, we do that every day. But a leisurely morning taking apart a big, juicy virgin paper waiting to be defiled by our eager hands isn't part of our Sundays like we dreamed. Did you know that an inexpensive, thick, sale-paper laden Sunday paper delivered to your door is part of the American dream, the American way of life? Neither did I. But it is, and I miss it.

Music to my ears

On Wednesday, Hubby and I hit a local pub for a little live music. It was just the kind we love -- close and free! It was in the 3Bs pub in Reading Town Hall (and it still cracks me up that there is a pub in town hall!).

The show consisted of a pretty young singer, her sound equipment, and some CDs for backup music. Rochelle Parker had a nice voice and even some good original songs, though most of her sets were covers, which is what most crowds want to hear in a bar. Wait, did I say crowd? More like about 10 people.

One of the 10 was a rather drunk bloke that for some reason I had thought was a masculine woman with a short haircut ... until he came over, leaned on the back of my chair, and began loudly giving his critique of the show! He hated the singer's voice, said she had no stage presence, but sure, he'd f*** her! Those where his words, that he repeated a few times. My husband and I just said we liked the show and then tried to ignore him. Which was hard, as there was a bit of a BO issue. Ugh.

But he finally wandered off to harass others, and Hubby and I just enjoyed having a drink and listening to music in a low-key atmosphere. It was nice to get out, something us homebodies rarely do.

English summers are not so hot

Summer finally appears to have settled over England. And "summer" for this country means that it's in the upper 60s most days, sometimes drifting gently up to the mid 70s, accompanied by a cool breeze. On Sunday it hit 80, but the cool breeze was still there, and it was overall very pleasant. To me, at least. I spent most of my life in Alabama, where currently in the central part of the state the temperature is 97 degrees -- but feels like 104. Which means that the "summer" weather here is what I used to refer to as "winter" (before I moved to D.C., anyway).

I still wear a light denim jacket every time I go out (and sometimes a hat to hold heat in my noggin), except for the day it hit 80. A couple of weeks ago we went to the park, and it was so cold (by our standards) that we left quickly. As we lay on our blanket shivering and trying to enjoy the free concert before the chill chased us away, I looked around -- one man was wearing shorts, a T-shirt and eating ice cream! I had on full-length jeans and my jacket and it was still too cold for me to handle. Hubby was chilly too, and wishing he had brought a sweater.

My British friend, Shaun, recently wrote me that it's too hot for him now that "summer" has arrived. Wow. One could draw from this that people really do get acclimated to the weather, whether it's the heat of Alabama or the icy cold of Alaska. But it could also mean the Brits are some type of sophisticated cyborgs whose circuitry quickly overheats in the sunlight, causing them to require cooler temperatures or else suffer system overload. It could happen. ;>