Trilling Adventures

When one finds oneself in a strange and mystical land, one expects a certain amount of Language Barrier issues. If the geographical tables were turned, it would be a well-meaning Korean making whole conversations out of ‘Hello!’, ‘Sorry!’, ‘Thankyou!’, ‘Delicious!’, ‘Toilet!’ and/or managing an infant’s grasp on counting numbers.

Rebounding off this situation when in the company of native English-speakers, you would imagine that coherent and intelligent conversation would flow enthusiastically, if not maniacally. You would imagine.

Having just returned from a debauched weekend of Chili’s fried animal, undecanted whiskey (who needs glasses?) and Channing Tatum, I feel that I have been initiated into the coping mechanism of my fellow westerners: they make noises at each other instead. In much the same way that any species’ mother knows its infant’s cry, each member of the crew has their own noise to punctuate conversation.

Aaron/Lori: U-Ugh! (something between ‘I’ve stubbed my toe’ and ‘I’m reaching climax’)

Hailey/Juri/Meg: Dr-r-r-r-r-r-r… (the love-child of a distant pneumatic drill and a peturbed Chewbacca)

Other noises include sad whalesong, atonally lyricising hot pocket… , standing by a nearby window and crying America! Caw-caw!, diminuitising any stressful situation by explaining that ain’tnobodygottimeforthat , turkey gobbling, breathy honk-honks, – etc. etc. Miraculously, these did little to prohibit any actual conversation, and did indeed seem to fuel much of the afternoon’s/evening’s/night’s/morning’s/afternoon’s activities.

Any fears of my RAF coat coming across as douche-tastic/ tactless on the US base were allayed quickly, and I had many-a opportunity to brag mercilessly about Grandpa Roy Cumberlidge’s WW2 escapades – hence the jacket, ladies and gents. The usual deep philosophising was had with total strangers, courtesy of Mr. Ethanol, and the usual battering of senses was had the following day. Of course, if there’s one thing the Internet needs more of, it’s people whining about hangovers.

Pointing blame.

This coming weekend brings the celebrated return of my other lady, Ms. 60D, whom I will be retrieving from the repair shop and fondling lovingly in as public a space as possible. If you don’t know who she is, you will have to live with the misunderstood innuendo. For the meanwhile, Meg’s Mr. Sony has served admirably – but the somewhat lessened cam-erection has been a worry of mine this past fortnight. Watch this space for amateur pretentiousness – coming to a blog near you soon.

Juri’s drinking technique baffles us.