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“Oh my Gawd, I love your accent.” This phrase has, and will always, induce a mixed bag of emotions that wrestle with each other inside my awkward British mind. It is, in every way, a sweet and sincere compliment.
In the small hours of April 8, ex-British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher drew her last breath. As an 87-year-old who had battled with ill health for some years, news of her last moments were cause for little surprise.
While America’s media gaze was averted from the happenings of the Senate as our homosexual brothers and sisters argued their case for social equality at the Supreme Court, President Barack Obama inked his signature upon the spending bill H.R. 933.
Same-sex marriage? Give me one good reason why not.
Everything began as normal on the day that changed the world forever. In Manhattan, busy traders, engineers, security guards, fathers, mothers, sons and daughters made their ordinary morning commute. But, as we now know, September 11, 2001 was to become the latter date on nearly 3,000 of our brothers’ and sisters’ gravestones. Three-thousand people brutally murdered in four clouds of fire, destruction and hate.
On Wednesday evening my friends and I began a small celebration. It was our friend’s 20th birthday and he spent his night—since he is a fellow Brit—not in a pub or at a club, as on his 19th or 18th, but in our apartment clasping a red cup.
“Now, please remember: The items on this counter can and will kill something if given the chance, regardless of whether you are handling the .45 caliber or the .22.”
Considering nearly half of American households tune into the Super Bowl every year, I will start by assuming many of you sat down to enjoy this year’s, where a typically hour-long game was the length of a Peter Jackson movie. The annual broadcast is saturated with some of the most expensive commercial breaks in the world and, not surprisingly, they are part of the attraction.
