To all my friends and family along the US east coast, I hope you are safe, dry and out of harm’s way.

I really missed America today. Then I read this Huffington Post story — 45% of Student’s Don’t Learn Much in College — tracking mid-stream results from the US Collegiate Learning Assessment. AP reporter Alan Scher Zagier’s first stop for the story was my alma mater, the University of Missouri.

Not too surprising. In 2009, a Missouri court upheld the right of private company Tan Time to operate tanning beds in the university rec centre until Dec 2010. Read this and don’t let UK universities follow suit.

If you’ve never heard of Missouri or the wonderful musical technology that has helped Cher, T-Pain, and countless popstars croon like a robot, check out the Gregory Brothers’ latest addition to their Youtube series  Auto-tune The News.

This video uses content from TV network KMBC in Kansas City, Missouri. A true and beautiful portrait of middle America.

President Obama today announced the repeal of ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’, a policy passed in 1993 which banned US soldiers from discussing or displaying homosexuality.

Later, Obama called for restraint and cooperation from the new republican majority elected to sit in the House of Representatives this spring. “With greater power, will come greater responsibility,” he said.

Now I swear I’ve heard that somewhere before — click here

What an amazing week: first Thursday’s 10,000-strong student protest on Parliament Square, and capping it off on Sunday night, Miley Cyrus, 18-year-old pop sensation and star of Disney series Hannah Montana, caught hittin’ the bong!

http://www.tmz.com/2010/12/12/miley-cyrus-smoking-bong-video-salvia-pot-marijuana-filming-movie-shoot-so-undercover-louisiana-tish-cyrus-mom/

Protesters threw paint and kicked Prince Charles’s car, then attacked Top Shop. What’s next on the anarchist hit-list — Toys’R'Us?

Here’s how it happened:

I spent today at the protests. I arrived at the UCL Union building in Bloomsbury at 11am where the first few hundred protesters gathered. I found a space in the crowd, next to a 20-something looking girl in a black hoodie with a black scarf pulled over her face. In her right hand was a plastic shield with screws protruding from the front. Her friends smelled of beer.

“You never know when you’ll need it,” she said.

I nodded. Every so often enclaves of the predominantly late-teenage crowd broke out in a coordinated chant. A portly guy started one in which he subtly transformed the Deputy PM’s name into an expletive: “Nick Clegg! — Nick Clead! — Nick Clead! — N’Dick Clead! — DICK HEAD!!!”

At the risk of sounding like a conservative, proto-geriatric American fart: it was no wonder young people erupted in violence.

The march had no structure, no real organisation, no over-arching theme, and lacking most, no parliament-addressed petitions for protesters to sign. When results from the Commons vote circulated through the crowd, thousands of disappointed, cold, hungry, toilet-deprived kids who whose hopes of participating in something larger than themselves were dashed — so they wandered to Oxford Street.

And whose motorcade should happen to be there at that precise moment, but Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall on their way to the Paladium!

From the Commons hiking tuition fees to Prince Charles driving to shake hands with Andrew Lloyd-Weber is a massive leap over already tenuous ground, but an attack on Top Shop? Sounds like the kids, anarchist or otherwise, needed a hot sandwich and a hot mug of herbal tea.

On the other side of the debate, the coalition Government don’t deserve a prize for clear communication. They have yet to articulate how increased university tuition would play out in students’ financial futures. How many pounds will students pay each month and for how many years? How much interest will be charged on their debt? If a graduate earns a £21,000 salary and loses his job, does he have to keep paying? Most importantly, what is the end game — completely scrap government funding for university fees? If so, what are the tangible benefits to such a move?

Tonight, police herded young people out of the kettle in Parliament Square. Cleaners will arrive tomorrow morning and erase all evidence of a march. No-one can predict the actions of a mob, but had the Government articulated responses to questions like those above, and had demonstrators — students,  NUS members, socialists, and unionists — thrashed out a joint petition to present to MPs, I wonder how many young people could have returned home with sense of continuity and purpose, rather than hurling paint at Prince Charles’s car and smashing up the Kate Moss collection at Top Shop.

Today marks two weeks back in London from New York. Dorrie and I are settling into the new flat in Nunhead, South London. Getting used to the neighborhood and unpacking boxes. But this time I don’t have to pack again. I’m an immigrant!

Jon Phillips is coming to visit next week. Says he’ll get me into a convention on the future of the internet on Monday.

There’s a creepy play on Radio 4 with a drunk Scottish farmer protagonist who crucified an owl to lift a curse on his family and has a confessional relationship with his pig, Mr Gonads.

15 days till Dorrie and I get married! What a week.

I’ve posted links to stories and articles I’ve written this year on the PUBLISHED WORK page. Check them out!

OK, I’m going to start updating this thing more than once a year. I would’ve updated more since this time last year had everything not taken off at the same time!

After the February 2009 post I finished the translation, applied for a Rotary Scholarship, drank coffee, got a pay-check, flew to London to visit Dorrie, took an entrance exam for an NCTJ journo course in Wimbledon, passed the entry exam, visited stately homes with Dorrie on a tandem bicycle, applied for a job at Japanese Mission to UN in NYC, and flew back to Missouri.

The day after I arrived, the Japanese Mission called to invite me for a job interview either that day or the next. So I booked a round-trip flight, packed a suit and tie, flew to NYC, interviewed, drank with Jason Stanley and Julia Mushalko, and flew back to MO never having gone to sleep.

The day after I arrived, I interviewed for a Rotary Scholarship, received a call for a second job interview at the Japanese Mission. So I basically re-lived the previous week — I booked a flight, packed a suit, flew to NYC, interviewed, drank, and didn’t sleep. The next day, the Mission called and offered me a job. I accepted, flipped out, went to Union Square and giddily drank coffee, met friends, drank beer, and flew back to Missouri.

It was June 15. The Mission had said my job started July 1. This time I packed my possessions into two suitcases, and flew to NYC for the third time that month, and booked myself into a youth hostel in Harlem for a week while I searched for an apartment.

Dorrie was going to arrive and stay for a week before my job started at the Japanese Mission. So I walked across Harlem and Queens eating deli sandwiches and meeting Jason Stanley at a bar called The Gaf in Chelsey each night.

A french woman named Dawn from Craigslist answered my email and I moved my things to her flat in Carroll Gardens in Brooklyn with a little fire escape overlooking the street. Dorrie flew into Newark the next day and I met her at the airport.

We took the subway to Brooklyn together and had an enormous brick of lasagna at a restaurant a few doors down from the flat. The lasagna was cold in the middle and we told the owner who brought the brick back ten minutes later, then later gave us a consolatory brick of chocolate cake. Dorrie and I ate it all and couldn’t sleep that night because our stomachs were so full they barely left space for our lungs to function.

Dorrie flew back to London and I moved to Woodside, Queens where I’d found a three-month sublease on a railroad apartment. That night I discovered I was not living alone. I went to get a glass of water from the kitchen sink, turned on the light, and was greeted by dozens of antennaed insects on the counter. I vowed to kill them all.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I jolted awake at six am and moments an itchiness crept over my entire body. In the bathroom I saw that my arms, legs, chest, back, neck, and face were covered in large red welts that itched more than anything I’d ever felt.

When I disassembled the futon in the bedroom, black tick-like bugs crawled out in scores. I vowed to kill them all, too.

Wikipedia said that my flatmates were German cockroaches and bedbugs, both of which were infesting New York in numbers unseen since the 1800s.

Work at the Japanese Mission to the UN began the following week. I showed up in a two-piece suit hiding the itchy spots that covered my body.

For the next three months, I performed a series of extraordinarily mind-numbing administrative tasks and occasionally suffered verbal lashings from a crusty accounting head.

I called exterminators who told me my landlords were legally obliged to pay to kill bedbugs. After four or five calls, my aging Italian landlady returned my call. She blamed me for bringing the bedbugs to the building. I shouted into the phone in Italian “Non c’e nella baggaglia!” which is grammatically terrible, but the landlady reflected on it for a moment then said she would get her friend Joey over to my place.

He appeared that Friday with a courier bag and sprayed BB-killing dust all over my apartment. BBs are what I called the bedbugs. We’d been living together for months, after all. Before Joey left, he warned me never to go into the bedroom again unless I wanted to get bitten.

I moved onto the vinyl-covered couch — supposedly BBs can’t burrow into them — and washed my clothes in hot water, drank with Jason on the weekends, and planned my escape from the Mission. I loved the endlessly pulsing City.

After the sublease with the BBs I found another sublease in Jackson Heights. Late one night I took the R train home from Steinway. I stepped in and sat across from a pudgy Latino guy. He was the only other person in the carriage. As the train pulled out of the station, a six-inch kitchen slid off the man’s seat onto the floor.

I began speaking to the man about Queens. He was manic, so I tried to keep him talking about harmless things like parks and restaurants and fruit. It worked, but for some reason the train had started running express, roaring past stops and stranding my in the carriage.

I thought of running to another carriage, but didn’t want to turn my back to the crazy man. I thought of punching the man, but if I went for him, he could reach for the knife. He was completely gone and wasn’t even blinking. I kept his gaze locked on me and off the blade at his feet.

The train began to brake. The man snapped to and grabbed the knife. He came toward me making little stabs. “You got any f***ing money?!! HUH?!!” he said.

I stood, took up my backpack and after that I don’t know what happened. The next thing I remember is walking on the platform to the conductor’s carriage. I told the conductor about the knife man. “Motherf***er! OK, stay here” the conductor said, stomping out of the carriage. Two other men were there. They asked if I was OK. I don’t remember what I said.

The train began rolling in the opposite direction as before. It stopped at Queensborough Plaza and I got off and sat with a homeless man on the platform. I asked if he would pray with me. He declined. I tried to recite the Lord’s Prayer but couldn’t remember beyond “thy kingdom come, thy will be done…”

The homeless man told me I’d be all right. Soon after a train arrived and I took it home.

The next day I took a train to Poughkeepsie to meet my sister, her boyfriend Kon, and my mother. Kon grew up in Queens and Chelsey. I told them what had happened and how much it surprised me because New York City had until that point been “like a big hug.” Kon laughed.

In January 2010, I was offered a placement on a journalism course at Lambeth College in south London. The next day, I quit my job. Three weeks later I flew to London and I’ll have to tell you the rest later!

I’ll start posting weblinks to any stories I publish. If you’ve gotten to the end of this post, congratulations!

I found it! Pit Stop! Here’s the commercial I appeared in last year for D&H Drugstore in Columbia, MO: http://www.youtube.com/watch?gl=GB&v=XYhtrq636TM