As I open this next journal entry, I would like to thank god that I am still alive and not rotting in some dumpster after Lukeís antics on the subway tonight. Luke called David Beckham ďa bitch.Ē For those of you who donít know, David Beckham is the closest thing to god around here. He plays soccer for the English, and his popularity in the UK is at least ten times that of Michael Jordanís fame in the early nineties. This man is an obsession, a way of life, and the cover boy for just about every newspaper here every single day. Luke decided to insult him on the day he won a huge victory for the English with a penalty kick. At first, the kids ignored it, but then they bumped into him and yelled back, and even though Luke doesnít believe me, he almost got punched in the face. I simply stood there, laughed at first, then told Luke to shut up when he placed us in danger, and finally laughed some more when he had the whole subway car chanting ďUSA, USAĒ much to our English friendís dismay. This young British chap finally relaxed after realizing that he was outnumbered, and things calmed down.
        Work was also rather enjoyable today: We watched the English soccer game for about an hour and got some free food as well. However, I am now behind in the tasks which I need to get accomplished, so that sucks. After work, and before Lukeís drunken subway antics, we visited the Tate Modern art museum. Interestingly enough, we spent a good deal of our time in the nude gallery (Donít worry Maura, the women stayed on the canvas), and then went on to see some totally ridiculous stuff which completely confused me as to exactly what art is.

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