Hill Slug Chronicles: Robots, Underwear, Guitars, Paintings, Dogs, Parrots, Trees

Hampstead Heath, London

13 March 2017

We went to the Science Museum to see the robots. I was delayed by a ring of bikes above the entrance.

Called "Bicycle Tour," it was taken from the museum's collection and organized by color. Who does that? Organize by age, function, price, or material. But color? Sheesh.

An ancient Raleigh Record was the first bike I could identify.

Farther along was a silver fixie with fluted tubes, like my Colnago Master. But there were no identifying decals, nor was there the cut-out signature Colnago clover on the underside of the bottom bracket.

A streamlined black Lotus hung next to an ugly white thing.

Then there was this old thing,

with a hammock for a saddle:

This antique has no pedals.

Right. Enough of that. Let's see some robots.

First up, a silver, automated swan that was designed to preen and catch fish. An automaswan?

And then, room after room of robots that all strove to look human.

Heh. Remember these?

This one plays jazz. Sure. Why not?

The thespian robot ran through a recorded script, complete with hand gestures. Designed to react to the apparent age of its audience, it is programmed to modify its routine. We must all look the same; in the few minutes I spent in the crowd, it repeated, "shiny happy people" three times. Okay. It likes R.E.M. Whatever.

We moved on to the Uncanny Valley:

Yeah, me too.

Why give this one a face at all?

A group of kids interacted with a kid-sized robot.

Look, Ma! No face!

I must have missed the part where the exhibit explained why we feel the need to make robots look human. Jack bought the museum catalog for the exhibition. Maybe it's in there.

Meanwhile, there's this thing in the upstairs main hall:

And this kinetic sculpture was pretty cool:

Outside, there was a queue a block long to get into the Natural Science Museum.

We mused that it was good to see so many people in line for the mooseasaurus. We didn't go in.

We went instead across the street to the Victoria and Albert Museum because there was an exhibition on underwear, and, really, one ought not pass that up (although I almost did when I saw the price of entry, because I have body image issues and I knew that anything I saw inside would only make me feel like more of a misshapen lump than I already to).

I didn't take any pictures.

Here. Go take a look. I don't need to see it again.

I did need to see the Chihuly again, hanging like the Sword of Damocles over the information desk and thumbing its glassy nose at the churchy stuff on the far wall:

Out on the street again, as we made our way towards the second location of Jack's favorite Sampler wine bar, we passed a misfire mashup of modern and Art Deco:

Close up, it's not so bad when you can't see the concrete:

For dinner, we met up with three of Jack's friends from his stay at Oxford University. We ate at a gastro-pub, under the protection of a moose.

We spent far too much time trash-talking Trump. I spent some time trash-talking academic science culture. I learned new Scottish slang. I already knew the c-word is used like a comma, and that it refers to anyone, male or female, good or bad, depending on context. The word doesn't carry the weight in Scotland that it carries in the States. So feel free to call Trump a "nae-mates c--t."

We walked back to John and Susanne's house, where Susanne went off to sleep and Jack, Chris, and John played guitars.

I used to like singing along, but as my hearing got worse, I trusted what I heard and how I sounded less and less. I haven't tried to sing around friends for years. But last night, with my new cyborg ears, I did sing a little. I also recited Garden State Stomp from memory and read them the lyrics to Screenwriter's Blues.

By the time we finished up, took a bus back home, and got ready for bed, it was after 1:30 a.m.

So when we finally got around to breakfast, it was almost noon. I wanted to try a local independent coffee shop we read about at a bookstore. Called "Attendant," it's situated in a former public men's bathroom.

Yes, those are urinals, and yes, that is an old cistern on the wall.

And yes, they do very good coffee. I started with an Aeropress and went back for a pour-over. The oatmeal was the best I've had in ages.

When I went to the counter to order the second cup, I wound up in a conversation with the fellow in the black shirt, who runs training sessions for latte art. No, really. He gave me his card, which leads to this page, which has nothing but the logo that was on his t-shirt.

Anyway, we talked for ten minutes about coffee. I'd noticed that the number of indy coffee shops has exploded since I was here a little over a year ago. He agreed, telling me that the hipster lifestyle helped that, along with the anti-corporate movement in general. His mission, he said, was to get people to drink better coffee.

I suggested that there are two types of coffee drinkers, or two reasons to drink coffee: for the caffeine, and for the taste. He said, "Well, my first two cups of the day are for the caffeine. The second, I'll want something with more taste, like an espresso. For my third..." At this point I was more focused on the number than the content of the cup and lost the details. "For my fourth, I'll..." Again, how many cups in one day? "And for my fifth, then I'll try something strange and interesting."

From our table in the corner, Jack gestured that my pour-over was ready, and the art bar fellow let me get back to my second cup.

It is a rare day that the sky is clear over London. This is the BT (British Telecom, but nobody calls it that) Tower behind a beetle-thing building:

We took a tube and then a bus to the northern end of Hampstead Heath. First up was the Kenwood House where, at entrance, we were warned of an apparent bollard uprising.

Inside were more portraits than I had patience for, but at least the docents were knowledgeable and amusing.

And there were paintings of cows. You know I had to stop for those. I pretty much have to, don't I?

Finally, we started our walk to the top of the heath. The rhododendrons were in bloom:

There were more dogs than people on the heath.

And, boy howdy were those dogs having a grand old time in the mud left over from yesterday's rain. If there was a puddle, there was a dog in it. If there was a spread of mud, there was a dog scampering through it, or, better still, rolling around in it.

I continued my fascination with bare trees.

More muddy pooches:

A doggy scrum:

The view of London from the top of Hampstead Heath:

More tree obsession. Bear with me on this one. I spent a long time with this tree.

Whoa! What was that green thing that just flew past?

I took a flier, went into digital zoom, and hit the shutter. I couldn't even tell if the birds were in focus.

Parrots?!? Yes. Feral parrots.

Back to the tree.

Jack, meanwhile, was trying to figure out how to get us off the heath and to the Keats House.

We'd gotten ourselves off-course. We doubled back along a different path and headed downhill, past a patch of asters.

The Keats House was closed. We went to a pub instead. We sat outside, which seemed like a good idea until the over-friendly stoner at the next table wouldn't stop talking to us. He had to know what we thought about Trump. "He's a weak little man," I said, hoping that would be the end of it. I really didn't want to talk about this again. When he let on that he didn't like the "changes" in the makeup of the London citizenry, I did my best to end the conversation.