(First sent: 17th December 2009)
Good afternoon you rare, rare people,
So just when you thought you had done your penance and gotten rid of me, here I am like an evil pixie of hate to sign off on the greatest email series since a climate change scientist emailed his boss to tell him to 'keep it quiet, but go ahead and turn on the electric heater, I've got good news'.
I've been home for a couple of weeks now, and despite the weather in this country making me check to see if I have any blueprints for an ark to hand, things have been going well. I've been catching up on some Christmas shopping and only the death rattle, grim faced, onion sucking assistants in the Bullring have even come close to replacing my cheer with humbug.
The far off land of Amerikazakstan now feels like a distant memory. Not because of the time that has passed, but just because that sort of alcohol intake will do that to a brain, pickled like a dead rat in a cider barrel.
To help me reclaim the past and regain those far off memories, I've been transporting all the previous emails in this series onto my new blog page (http//asavagereservation.blogspot.com) so go take a look. All future musings will be on there, so this message really does represent the last of the series. You lucky people. Really lucky. Feeling lucky? No? Well, bah!
My faith that you, dear reader, represent an elite group has been somewhat shaken by looking over some of the stories of Americanada that you have sent for me to distribute to the group, it's felt like a group therapy session for the criminally insane, orchestrated and presided over by an abashed priest. I have no idea which way to look... well, actually I do.
The first one that caught the eye was this delightful tale of battling hunger in the US:
"The best I ever saw was a picture of a 90 year old granny in the hall of fame for taking on and completing the 72oz steak challenge in Amarillo Texas. I'm sure there's some joke in there about a good gumming! :)"
In my life, I have never made, or even thought of the possibility that a steak challenge would lead to fame, but clearly for the elderly of Texas consuming the livestock is worthy of hero worship. I'm just amazed she resisted riding the thing around the place until her hip bones rattled out of their sockets.
Here's a gem:
"Have I never told you about my 6 days in a Texan prison face down in a pillow!"
Thanks for that one. Sometimes the words 'mark as spam' don't really get close enough. But it's not all cultural missives. Some of your tales are beautiful in their simplicity:
"Deep in rural England a young American service couple came to live. They were red necks from Alabama. One day while out for a walk they found a small creature and returned it to a safe place. Feeling full of well being they called in for coffee and related the story of how they returned the lost turtle safely back to the river. We later found one poor drowned tortoise."
See how even nature suffers for the American dream. But that's not all. I like the following tale very much...
"We got to Salt Lake City and were staying at a campsite. We asked them at the reception desk about getting to downtown which was probably only 3 miles away. One of the guys said he'd give us a lift in so we were delighted.
As we pulled off he started explaining how Salt Lake City is the headquarters of the Mormon church (which we knew) and how he was going to give us a tour of the city (all the Mormon hotspots!). As he did so, he gave us a well rehearsed hard sell of why we should convert. My brother-in-law thought it'd be hilarious if he thought he was getting somewhere. Which only added to his enthusiasm.
Then he pulled up outside the main church place and arranged for some 20 year old who was there on a mission for a year to give us the tour. Poor girl had a glazed look on her face and was clearly brainwashed but we politely followed her around and tried not to get sucked in as we got the hard sell again. At the end they were quite forceful and even the "We're from Ireland and really Catholic" / "my mum would have a heart attack" lines didn't work.
We got brochures on how to save ourselves and weirdly enough souvenir pens. We were picked up by the same guy and brought back to the campsite. We spent the rest of the evening drinking tea i.e. wine out of our mugs (its a dry state) and left very early the next morning hoping my mum appreciated not getting a phone call home to say I wasn't coming home because I found God."
The best part of that tale is the last paragraph. I love the idea that saving yourself comes in the shape of a handy souvenir pen. He moves in mysterious ways...
But not as mysterious as....
"Our taxi driver in Memphis told us a charming story about when he got into bed late at night, "popped it in" and realised it was his wife's mother."
Words fail me. So I'll hand over to someone else...
"Steve and I were driving from Houston to Austin and we stopped at a 'traditional' Texan truckstop where the locals regarded us with some curiosity. Never had my stereotypes regarding Texans been so acutely realised, there was one guy sat in the corner who was actually wearing denim dungarees with no shirt underneath, and a trucker cap that was probably advertising some flavour of agricultural paraphernalia.
He regarded us as you might something that you dig out of your nose. Despite this, the waitress was fairly friendly and tried striking up a conversation (reproduced verbatim):
W: So, where y'all from?
Me: Wales
W: Whut?
Me: Wales. It's a country.
W: (Blank look)
Me: Next to England
W: Uh. Are y'all from London?
Me: Er, yes, quite near (in Texan terms, just down the road)
W: So, y'all visi-tatin' over here?
Me: Yes (No, I am actually Texan. I just pretend to be British to stand out from the crowd)
W: Well y'all enjoy...here (do you actually know where you live?!)
And so forth. All this was conducted under the withering glower of Bubba T. McSorley in the corner, so we thought we would make our exit before he started threatening us with his pet Gator. We politely passed up a slice of the local delicacy, namely some sort of pie made of congealed fat, and took our leave."
Nice array Texas baiting in this one. I love it. Not a good idea to bait the Texan though. If they get cornered they can peck and become quite vicious, so it's always best to use a muzzle.
Here's a tale of how a quiet conversation on America by brother and sister can get out of hand:
"Me to My Brother: "So, how awesome was America? Honestly words can't explain how awesome it is there!"
My Bro: "Yeh, it is amazing but (in a very loud voice...) how annoying is it when they say "have a nice day!"...its like even if you said "oh my nan's just died they would just be like "oh that's nice dear...have a nice day!"
Joe: "Ash did you realise there is a table of Americans behind us?"
What are the chances hey???!!! How dare they. Not even having the good grace to announce their presence before commencement of the wine and cheese course? Those sneaky devils.
So that is indeed that. Thank you all so much for being on the business end of my American ramblings over the past 6 months. I loved every minute of it, and I was so happy to get so many nice messages from you all. Remember I am still alive and want to hear from you. America. It's the greatest country in the world. Apart from England. Ohh, and Canada's nice. So's Germany.... Hmmm. Not so good an ending now. Perhaps it's best just to say; America. It's a country.
In the end though, the whole thing is probably best summed up with the final message:
"I've racked my brains for two days attempting to find some form of America related wit to regale you with, and although I can think of a few- I think my stories are much better sampled over a bottle of wine- so we'll keep it that way, yes?"
Can't think of anything I'd rather do.
For the final time,
Byeloveyoubye. xx
Tuesday, 29 December 2009
USA Email Series 25: Beans on Marmite toast, a brew, a five hour bath and a curry
(First sent: 5th December 2009)
Hello, good evening and welcome,
So it goes, and so it went. Today's mail will be the final one from me Stateside, with only hours to go before returning to England, to the joys of the world cup draw, to beans on Marmite toast, to beer that doesn't taste faintly of wee, to a week long bath, to food that tastes of anything but sugar, to DVDs and sleeping.... but also to triple the price, to six months of winter only followed by 'the rainy season', a pneumatic drill and ripped up concrete, to 5 channels...
As you can tell, I'm in a bit of a puzzlement about it all really. I miss home very much. I miss England and my family and friends, but equally I'm aware that this was the trip of a lifetime. This was the adventure that I was going to be telling my kids about in years to come, then having to tell it again when they get a bit older and can fully appreciate the joys of taxi drivers asking about 'big melons' and exactly what an 'itwatophone' really is. To have done it at all was incredible, for it to be over is leaving me starring at the walls and puffing out my cheeks like a Texan trying to decipher the instructions for a DVD player. Or trying to decipher anything not written in crayon.
All that is left for me to do is to try and break it all down into segments I can comprehend, such as:
1. Number of miles travelled: I started to work this out a while ago in preparation for this email and it took bloody ages. I hope that there isn't some sort of 'ap' that can be downloaded into your cranial cavity to do this all for you, otherwise a good few hours have been wasted actually doing math(s). As far as I can figure it, I've covered in the region of 23,165.4 miles since leaving Balsall Common. That's approximately a tenth of the distance to the moon. Neil Armstrong would have taken five years to get there if he'd had to use the bloody greyhound.
2. State lines crossed: Lots and it's probably impossible to say once you add in the travel I did by air, but I've stayed the night in at least 12 separate states. I'm thankful that I've crossed many wonderful and beautiful states on my routes. And Texas.
3. National parks visited: A grand total of 4 which isn't that many really, so I feel a bit bad. I might have to come back to this place someday...
4. Beers consumed: This is a ridiculous question really. None. American beer doesn't count, everyone knows that. However, that said, a quick mention of 'Blue Moon' wheat beer. Good stuff.
5. Favorite words invented in previous emails: itwatophone, globalwarmifier and cheapobumojet.
6. Most commonly used phrases in weekly emails : 'Truly', 'like a...' and 'haunted' spring to mind. Truly wonderful words, like a haunted dictionary of fun.
7. First random sight: Cricket being played in flushing meadows New York City. I saw this sight from the back of the shuttle bus within 10 minutes of arriving in the states. Cricket. I ask you.
8. Final random sight:A lady singing show tunes in French by the trolley station, whilst performing a puppet ballet. I would also like to stress that it isn't over until I leave the country, so something might, and probably will, top that.
9. Songs discovered lurking in the backwaters of my ipod during trip: 'King of the Rodeo' by The Kings of Leon, 'Black Swan' by Thom Yorke, 'Forget myself' by Elbow, 'A certain romance' by the Arctic Monkeys, 'One of these days' by Doves and the entire Squeeze back catalogue. Cheers boys.
10. Greyhound buses operated by incompetent drivers: Only one that I can think of, but I have nightmares about how many there actually were who could barely speak that probably just got lucky. In fact the whole of the American road using populace should get special mentions for simply surviving. They're on the phones, drinking, eating hoagies, everything other than watching the road. Even the mirrors have 'OBJECTS IN THIS MIRROR ARE LARGER THAN THEY APPEAR' written on them. How sick is that? A mirror that tricks you? American drivers do well every day they are above ground.
11. Number of cards received from shady blokes in Vegas soliciting on behalf of ropey looking hookers: ....well, of course, I didn't keep any of them so it would be impossible to tell. 54.
12. Most satisfying sandwich experience:This is one of those categories where everyone is a winner, like 'Best Actor' at the Oscars, or 'Least enjoyable film starring Nicholas Cage', but a special mention goes to the fried shrimp Po'boy in New Orleans. Heartattackinducingly good.
13. Most impressive view: Top of the Rock in New York, White Sands in New Mexico, Yosemite in general, or the Pussycat Dolls bar in Vegas? Decisions, decisions...
14. Hostel beds that were totally inadequate for my needs: Surprisingly few, but you'd have to go some to beat the glorified cat box that I was given on my first night in Memphis. At $18 it was overpriced by a good $17.
15. Most expensive single night in hostel: Never be in want of a bed in America in August or you are left with $50 private rooms or the street to choose between. It was a close run thing. A harsh lesson, well learnt.
16. Worst hostel operated by insane Norman Bates lookalike: Let me see if you can guess.
17. Number of Aussies who can out drink me: The real answer is 'all of them' but that is not restricted to countries. It's just everybody in the whole world. Including in utero foetuses.
18. Favorite museum: I should be discussing some po faced seat of learning, like the Smithsonians or MoMA, but it was the Museum of Cartoon art in SF. I'm just a sucker for that stuff and it's so interesting. But on the plus side, due to the many galeries I visited on my travels I can now successfully identify the work of Alexander Calder and have seen Nighthawks and American Gothic in the flesh (in the paint?). But which is better: high art or low art? It's all art with a capital 'F'.
19. Most random museum: The Museum of Death in LA. I have seen the guillotined head of an 18th century rapist. That is not a sentence that I ever thought I would write, but there it is... right above this one. Look at that... ho hum.
20. Days before Converse All Stars finally gave up on me: Ahhhh, my mighty All Stars. Bought in New York on day 3 and they will be on my feet when I land in blighty. Big hole in the bottom and replacement pair already purchased to see me through past Monday, but these pumps have traversed bars and nightclubs, white sands, beaches, toilet floors, dive bars and fancy restaurants. They've seen the sun rise and the stars above. They've been cleaned and have been filthy. Frozen and warm, stinky and new. One day they will be museum pieces. In the worst museum of all time. Next to the Museum of Death that is.
21. Least favorite companion: I've met some great people, some of whom I'll keep in good contact with no matter how far they are away, some I like very much but am unlikely to see again unless coincidence takes over - that is the way of the world. I have been amased at what fun the travelling community is. No ego, no money, no selfishness. But, that said, I do have one thing to say: Daniel, you are an arse. Please. Go. Away.
22. Number of dodgy poems attempted:There's at least four masterpieces under construction, currently very well disguised as absolute tosh. Half a film as well, but I've got high hopes for that one.
23. Overall favorite city visited: Not very fair. Just as Spengler remarked to Venkman; 'It's not the girl Peter, it's the building' so it is true that 'It's not the city, it's the people'. Concrete, glass, bins and bums do not give this place it's charms. It's only the people that I've met. So to New York, Niagara, Buffalo, Chicago, Boston, Washington, Seattle, San Francisco, Yosemite, Santa Monica, Los Angeles, San Diego, Tijuana, Las Vegas, El Paso, San Antonio, Austin, New Orleans, Memphis, Nashville, Denver and all of everywhere in between... I love you. See you again someday.
So that's about it from America. Thank you all for coming with me and keeping me sane over the last six months. I hope your Christmas plans are going well, and I'll see you shortly for the final mail in the series, when it will mostly be over to you for your American adventures. I have been receiving a torrent of literally... some messages, which I will compile after my beans on Marmite toast, a brew, a five hour bath and a curry.
Thanks for listening. Enjoy the film.
Byeloveyouallverymuchseeyousoonforachristmasaleifyoufancyitbye. xxx
...It was indeed odd to have written this mail and the whole idea of not being in America, eating meat between bread for breakfast, sleeping in a bed that didn't seem to be designed for the purpose of hurting me was something I was struggling to cope with. Not only that, but I wrote it this month. By now it all feels like a world away and my feet begin to itch once again. Not for travel you understand, just the athlete's foot kicking in. That pair of converse all star pumps lasted me precisely 181 days and are now sitting in a shoebox at the end of my bed. I'm pretty sure that they have set some kind of endurance record for canvas shoes, but such a category does not exist in the Guinness Book of Records, so their immortality and fortitude is only recorded here...
Hello, good evening and welcome,
So it goes, and so it went. Today's mail will be the final one from me Stateside, with only hours to go before returning to England, to the joys of the world cup draw, to beans on Marmite toast, to beer that doesn't taste faintly of wee, to a week long bath, to food that tastes of anything but sugar, to DVDs and sleeping.... but also to triple the price, to six months of winter only followed by 'the rainy season', a pneumatic drill and ripped up concrete, to 5 channels...
As you can tell, I'm in a bit of a puzzlement about it all really. I miss home very much. I miss England and my family and friends, but equally I'm aware that this was the trip of a lifetime. This was the adventure that I was going to be telling my kids about in years to come, then having to tell it again when they get a bit older and can fully appreciate the joys of taxi drivers asking about 'big melons' and exactly what an 'itwatophone' really is. To have done it at all was incredible, for it to be over is leaving me starring at the walls and puffing out my cheeks like a Texan trying to decipher the instructions for a DVD player. Or trying to decipher anything not written in crayon.
All that is left for me to do is to try and break it all down into segments I can comprehend, such as:
1. Number of miles travelled: I started to work this out a while ago in preparation for this email and it took bloody ages. I hope that there isn't some sort of 'ap' that can be downloaded into your cranial cavity to do this all for you, otherwise a good few hours have been wasted actually doing math(s). As far as I can figure it, I've covered in the region of 23,165.4 miles since leaving Balsall Common. That's approximately a tenth of the distance to the moon. Neil Armstrong would have taken five years to get there if he'd had to use the bloody greyhound.
2. State lines crossed: Lots and it's probably impossible to say once you add in the travel I did by air, but I've stayed the night in at least 12 separate states. I'm thankful that I've crossed many wonderful and beautiful states on my routes. And Texas.
3. National parks visited: A grand total of 4 which isn't that many really, so I feel a bit bad. I might have to come back to this place someday...
4. Beers consumed: This is a ridiculous question really. None. American beer doesn't count, everyone knows that. However, that said, a quick mention of 'Blue Moon' wheat beer. Good stuff.
5. Favorite words invented in previous emails: itwatophone, globalwarmifier and cheapobumojet.
6. Most commonly used phrases in weekly emails : 'Truly', 'like a...' and 'haunted' spring to mind. Truly wonderful words, like a haunted dictionary of fun.
7. First random sight: Cricket being played in flushing meadows New York City. I saw this sight from the back of the shuttle bus within 10 minutes of arriving in the states. Cricket. I ask you.
8. Final random sight:A lady singing show tunes in French by the trolley station, whilst performing a puppet ballet. I would also like to stress that it isn't over until I leave the country, so something might, and probably will, top that.
9. Songs discovered lurking in the backwaters of my ipod during trip: 'King of the Rodeo' by The Kings of Leon, 'Black Swan' by Thom Yorke, 'Forget myself' by Elbow, 'A certain romance' by the Arctic Monkeys, 'One of these days' by Doves and the entire Squeeze back catalogue. Cheers boys.
10. Greyhound buses operated by incompetent drivers: Only one that I can think of, but I have nightmares about how many there actually were who could barely speak that probably just got lucky. In fact the whole of the American road using populace should get special mentions for simply surviving. They're on the phones, drinking, eating hoagies, everything other than watching the road. Even the mirrors have 'OBJECTS IN THIS MIRROR ARE LARGER THAN THEY APPEAR' written on them. How sick is that? A mirror that tricks you? American drivers do well every day they are above ground.
11. Number of cards received from shady blokes in Vegas soliciting on behalf of ropey looking hookers: ....well, of course, I didn't keep any of them so it would be impossible to tell. 54.
12. Most satisfying sandwich experience:This is one of those categories where everyone is a winner, like 'Best Actor' at the Oscars, or 'Least enjoyable film starring Nicholas Cage', but a special mention goes to the fried shrimp Po'boy in New Orleans. Heartattackinducingly good.
13. Most impressive view: Top of the Rock in New York, White Sands in New Mexico, Yosemite in general, or the Pussycat Dolls bar in Vegas? Decisions, decisions...
14. Hostel beds that were totally inadequate for my needs: Surprisingly few, but you'd have to go some to beat the glorified cat box that I was given on my first night in Memphis. At $18 it was overpriced by a good $17.
15. Most expensive single night in hostel: Never be in want of a bed in America in August or you are left with $50 private rooms or the street to choose between. It was a close run thing. A harsh lesson, well learnt.
16. Worst hostel operated by insane Norman Bates lookalike: Let me see if you can guess.
17. Number of Aussies who can out drink me: The real answer is 'all of them' but that is not restricted to countries. It's just everybody in the whole world. Including in utero foetuses.
18. Favorite museum: I should be discussing some po faced seat of learning, like the Smithsonians or MoMA, but it was the Museum of Cartoon art in SF. I'm just a sucker for that stuff and it's so interesting. But on the plus side, due to the many galeries I visited on my travels I can now successfully identify the work of Alexander Calder and have seen Nighthawks and American Gothic in the flesh (in the paint?). But which is better: high art or low art? It's all art with a capital 'F'.
19. Most random museum: The Museum of Death in LA. I have seen the guillotined head of an 18th century rapist. That is not a sentence that I ever thought I would write, but there it is... right above this one. Look at that... ho hum.
20. Days before Converse All Stars finally gave up on me: Ahhhh, my mighty All Stars. Bought in New York on day 3 and they will be on my feet when I land in blighty. Big hole in the bottom and replacement pair already purchased to see me through past Monday, but these pumps have traversed bars and nightclubs, white sands, beaches, toilet floors, dive bars and fancy restaurants. They've seen the sun rise and the stars above. They've been cleaned and have been filthy. Frozen and warm, stinky and new. One day they will be museum pieces. In the worst museum of all time. Next to the Museum of Death that is.
21. Least favorite companion: I've met some great people, some of whom I'll keep in good contact with no matter how far they are away, some I like very much but am unlikely to see again unless coincidence takes over - that is the way of the world. I have been amased at what fun the travelling community is. No ego, no money, no selfishness. But, that said, I do have one thing to say: Daniel, you are an arse. Please. Go. Away.
22. Number of dodgy poems attempted:There's at least four masterpieces under construction, currently very well disguised as absolute tosh. Half a film as well, but I've got high hopes for that one.
23. Overall favorite city visited: Not very fair. Just as Spengler remarked to Venkman; 'It's not the girl Peter, it's the building' so it is true that 'It's not the city, it's the people'. Concrete, glass, bins and bums do not give this place it's charms. It's only the people that I've met. So to New York, Niagara, Buffalo, Chicago, Boston, Washington, Seattle, San Francisco, Yosemite, Santa Monica, Los Angeles, San Diego, Tijuana, Las Vegas, El Paso, San Antonio, Austin, New Orleans, Memphis, Nashville, Denver and all of everywhere in between... I love you. See you again someday.
So that's about it from America. Thank you all for coming with me and keeping me sane over the last six months. I hope your Christmas plans are going well, and I'll see you shortly for the final mail in the series, when it will mostly be over to you for your American adventures. I have been receiving a torrent of literally... some messages, which I will compile after my beans on Marmite toast, a brew, a five hour bath and a curry.
Thanks for listening. Enjoy the film.
Byeloveyouallverymuchseeyousoonforachristmasaleifyoufancyitbye. xxx
...It was indeed odd to have written this mail and the whole idea of not being in America, eating meat between bread for breakfast, sleeping in a bed that didn't seem to be designed for the purpose of hurting me was something I was struggling to cope with. Not only that, but I wrote it this month. By now it all feels like a world away and my feet begin to itch once again. Not for travel you understand, just the athlete's foot kicking in. That pair of converse all star pumps lasted me precisely 181 days and are now sitting in a shoebox at the end of my bed. I'm pretty sure that they have set some kind of endurance record for canvas shoes, but such a category does not exist in the Guinness Book of Records, so their immortality and fortitude is only recorded here...
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
The Yule Blog
Hello Yule Blog,
Just as the skull of a drink driver hurtles towards a windshield, so too we hurtle towards the weekend, chewing up the remaining days of advent, before being regurgitated all over Christmas's new frock. If you thought "The climb" was about as entertaining as trying to remove a bear trap from your calf, just wait until you have heard "Driving home for Christmas" for the 78th time while trying to get home from work in the kind of weather that would have Ray Mears running out of ideas faster than Chris Langham's publicist.
I suspect that most of you are going to assume I'll spend this blog cynically ruining Christmas, claiming I hate it, fetching a gun, locking people in a basement and generally showing as much Christmas spirit as a fire in an orphanage - how wrong you are. How wrong are you? Loads. I bloody love Christmas, every nut crackingly festive bit of tinsel, every Rick Waller creating mince pie. I get so excited, it makes me want to baste your turkey, readers. Don't let me. The restraining order remains.
I love it so much that you'll find no mention of wattle necked, gristle armed women wandering around the Co-Op, arguing viciously over which brand of fags says "Christmas" to them. There's going to be literally no talk of pathetic, whimpering 'Santa's' with twelve pence Aldi red outfits, pretending to be the wacky one at the Christmas party before going home to drink a bottle of Toilet Duck and await the host of angels. There will be nothing said of the hour long TV specials of every ratings reaping show, reworked for Christmas so that all your least despised telly funnymen do something slightly different to what you'd expect or worse, reel off an abortion of weak jokes and gurning song and dance routines that would have Eric Morecambe ripping his own fingernails off in fury. All filmed live before a studio audience. In August.
No. In fact this year, I am embracing Christmas with a new found joy. The sort of joy that I seem to see quite a lot on the face of the overly cheery old man who hides in a cave inside my local shopping mall, wearing a false beard and trying to get near to children. He seems happy. So he should be, for 'tis Christmas. Time to forget the wrangles that separate family members for the entire year leading up to the event and then forgetting that a bottle of rum might be an inappropriate gift, especially as Uncle John's managed to get down to two AA meetings a week since he had the new liver.
Christmas is also a time for children. A time for them to demand, and receive, everything their little commerically active minds take a shine to. And, it's a time for grown ups to get dewy eyed over the sight of several tea towel headed 6 year olds trying to remember the words to 'Little Donkey', a song so adorable that it seems only to exist for the purpose of making parents weep. I've never seen or heard anyone over ten singing that song. Probably wouldn't have the same emotional impact hearing it on "Meatloaf's Christmas Carols - from Hell".
While watching a fine production of 'A Christmas Carol' last week I was reminded again of not only how funny kids are, but that the spirit of Christmas remains. Just as the ghost of Jacob Marley made his first appearance to warn Scrooge of the haunting that will follow, a little girl behind me turned to her mum and loudly asked; "Is the ghost going to kill him mummy?". Her mum chuckled a bit and whispered back; "No dear, he's going to teach him the meaning of Christmas". The little girl immediately countered her mother's preposterous suggestion: "No mummy. The ghost's definitely going to kill him."
So, probably like most of you, my fridge is slowly filling with tasty looking goodies that become ever more tasty looking the more you are told that you can't have them. It's the only time of year that you have a fridge literally bursting with treats that may well give you gout just by looking, and yet for lunch you have to make do with a piece of stale bread and a fig. Even the 'sod it, it's nearly Christmas' box of Celebrations that were opened ahead of time are down to the bloody Topic's. When can I eat the cheese, the Pringles, the sausage's wrapped in bacon (pork wrapped in pork. Genius), the dry roasted peanuts? Tell me when. WHEN??? Friday? OK then.
So, trim the cake, lick the stamps, oil the chimney, stuff your granny and have a ruddy nice time. You probably deserve it. I doubt it, but I'll let you get away with it. Make sure you save me a slice of cake. Not a bit with marzipan on it though, or I'll cut your retina out with a bit of shattered bauble. Good. Like I said, Merry Christmas.
Byesebye xx
Just as the skull of a drink driver hurtles towards a windshield, so too we hurtle towards the weekend, chewing up the remaining days of advent, before being regurgitated all over Christmas's new frock. If you thought "The climb" was about as entertaining as trying to remove a bear trap from your calf, just wait until you have heard "Driving home for Christmas" for the 78th time while trying to get home from work in the kind of weather that would have Ray Mears running out of ideas faster than Chris Langham's publicist.
I suspect that most of you are going to assume I'll spend this blog cynically ruining Christmas, claiming I hate it, fetching a gun, locking people in a basement and generally showing as much Christmas spirit as a fire in an orphanage - how wrong you are. How wrong are you? Loads. I bloody love Christmas, every nut crackingly festive bit of tinsel, every Rick Waller creating mince pie. I get so excited, it makes me want to baste your turkey, readers. Don't let me. The restraining order remains.
I love it so much that you'll find no mention of wattle necked, gristle armed women wandering around the Co-Op, arguing viciously over which brand of fags says "Christmas" to them. There's going to be literally no talk of pathetic, whimpering 'Santa's' with twelve pence Aldi red outfits, pretending to be the wacky one at the Christmas party before going home to drink a bottle of Toilet Duck and await the host of angels. There will be nothing said of the hour long TV specials of every ratings reaping show, reworked for Christmas so that all your least despised telly funnymen do something slightly different to what you'd expect or worse, reel off an abortion of weak jokes and gurning song and dance routines that would have Eric Morecambe ripping his own fingernails off in fury. All filmed live before a studio audience. In August.
No. In fact this year, I am embracing Christmas with a new found joy. The sort of joy that I seem to see quite a lot on the face of the overly cheery old man who hides in a cave inside my local shopping mall, wearing a false beard and trying to get near to children. He seems happy. So he should be, for 'tis Christmas. Time to forget the wrangles that separate family members for the entire year leading up to the event and then forgetting that a bottle of rum might be an inappropriate gift, especially as Uncle John's managed to get down to two AA meetings a week since he had the new liver.
Christmas is also a time for children. A time for them to demand, and receive, everything their little commerically active minds take a shine to. And, it's a time for grown ups to get dewy eyed over the sight of several tea towel headed 6 year olds trying to remember the words to 'Little Donkey', a song so adorable that it seems only to exist for the purpose of making parents weep. I've never seen or heard anyone over ten singing that song. Probably wouldn't have the same emotional impact hearing it on "Meatloaf's Christmas Carols - from Hell".
While watching a fine production of 'A Christmas Carol' last week I was reminded again of not only how funny kids are, but that the spirit of Christmas remains. Just as the ghost of Jacob Marley made his first appearance to warn Scrooge of the haunting that will follow, a little girl behind me turned to her mum and loudly asked; "Is the ghost going to kill him mummy?". Her mum chuckled a bit and whispered back; "No dear, he's going to teach him the meaning of Christmas". The little girl immediately countered her mother's preposterous suggestion: "No mummy. The ghost's definitely going to kill him."
So, probably like most of you, my fridge is slowly filling with tasty looking goodies that become ever more tasty looking the more you are told that you can't have them. It's the only time of year that you have a fridge literally bursting with treats that may well give you gout just by looking, and yet for lunch you have to make do with a piece of stale bread and a fig. Even the 'sod it, it's nearly Christmas' box of Celebrations that were opened ahead of time are down to the bloody Topic's. When can I eat the cheese, the Pringles, the sausage's wrapped in bacon (pork wrapped in pork. Genius), the dry roasted peanuts? Tell me when. WHEN??? Friday? OK then.
So, trim the cake, lick the stamps, oil the chimney, stuff your granny and have a ruddy nice time. You probably deserve it. I doubt it, but I'll let you get away with it. Make sure you save me a slice of cake. Not a bit with marzipan on it though, or I'll cut your retina out with a bit of shattered bauble. Good. Like I said, Merry Christmas.
Byesebye xx
Friday, 18 December 2009
USA Email Series 24: Trousered, waffle, sausage patties and Bob
(First sent: 02 December 2009)
Greetings my little dears,
Oh, father time, how your wispy beard and cruel beady eyes mock us, your minions, and slaves. Just like Autumn fades into Winter, so my seemingly interminable travels will come to an abrupt and miserable end. All that lies before me is the abyss of home, reality (whatever that is) and thoughts of a lifestyle more mundane than an evening rearranging CDs with Gordon Brown, where the only distraction being his wandering, haunted, glass eye.
But somehow the dream, although weak, lives on in Nashville where this week I have been casting my roaming satirical (non glass) eye across its vista of charms. Again.
Returning to the same city has been a unique experience as (save for a few, all too short hours in Chicago on a layover from Denver) I've always headed onwards, blinkered, taut trousered and sparkle toothed, never back. But there was a good reason for doing so - Thanksgiving. Nothing like a celebration that romanticises the screwing over of an indigenous population to warm your cockles. And boy, after the Denver air, did my cockles need warming. Certain 'things' were starting to retreat back into my body like a turtle's head in a sandstorm.
Quite why Americans choose to base their most recognised holiday around a celebration of the settlers policy of deception against their Native American hosts, is a mystery to me. Imagine if every year in England we gathered our nearest and dearest together to have a big old 'Highland Clearances Festival' or sent cards wishing elderly grandparents 'Happy Indian Railroad Week' or 'Invention of Concentration Camp-a-mania', but that is pretty much what is done here.
For those of you who have no idea what I'm waffling on about (impossible to imagine) Thanksgiving is a time for all Americans to give thanks for their lot in life, but it's a festival based around the fabled story of the Plymouth settlers sharing the feast from their first harvest festival on foreign soil.
The parts that are left out of the story is the systematic disenfranchisement of the entire Native American population from their homeland. Somehow, these bits don't really sit too well with turkey and football, so Thanksgiving is now largely a secular celebration of, well, everything. So long as 'giving thanks' is covered in gravy or deep fried in meaty, glistening fat, it's all good.
For a nation with so little history, it's not really surprising that America has so many national holidays to compensate them for their lack of days off in their basic job packages. Most Americans stare at me with uncomprehending, sparkle eyed awe when I tell them of the far away land of Englandshire with it's 25 days of annual leave, a working health system and bread that is not enriched with sherbet. That revelation is immediately followed by them checking their pulse and consoling themselves by imbibing the 6th sausage patty of the morning.
My own Thanksgiving experience was a helluvatime and a real community affair. We woke at dawn and, much like Christmas, investigated some of the finest American brews of the era (both kinds of beer - bud and bud light) and bringing in the emergency tables from the shed. It's not that easy to balance 2 bottles of Budblueribbon on a table top while carrying it across a gravel driveway. Looked like the Chuckle Brothers re-enacting swan lake on ice. While on heroin.
Everyone in the hostel pulled together and discovered their war time spirit of mucking in and making do. After the required amount of time (3 to 4 and a half hours depending on the size of the bird and the alcohol intake of the chef) and after a quick speech of thanks from the hostel owner, we troughed like sweating heaps of blubber on the feast that had unfolded. One of us became diabetic at the table, four people had a stroke and I needed the assistance of a plunger to push the final piece of stuffing through my heart before it caused it to pop in my chest like a cherry in a microwave.
After the feasting was concluded and a large scale communal nap was had by all (in a heap) we absconded into town for some much needed refreshment. Despite it being quiet downtown, we had time to enjoy the myriad delights of scantily dressed waitresses dancing on the bar, which all sounds very glamorous, if not for the fact that at least one of them was texting at the same time and both had a look on their face that said 'if I have to spend one more second of this tedious life here, then I will weep into my own sparkly bra' before looking for a nearby penknife to jab into the lurching eyeballs of the nearest drooling musclebag waving a dollar bill in her general direction.
After that, we headed for a well known local dive bar where the music was rumoured to be excellent. Despite the extraordinary long walk through the kind of weather that would make Frosty the Snowman book a flight for Fiji just to get some feeling back in his toes, we heard it was great from our Dutch tour guide from the hostel. However, when we finally got there we found it totally closed with no hope of re-entry. Dutch guide, meanwhile, was so drunk, she proceeded to lie face up in the middle of the road in the hope that this would flag down a taxi. The Dutch. God knows how they get so wacky when thy spend so much time in coffee shops.
After all that fun, carbs and delicious sweatmeats, there couldn't possibly be time to be doing anything else. Perhaps we will find some respite from this ridiculous email? No. No you wont. Read. This. Stuff...... NOW.
1. Discussed 'sexy time' with random Dutch people (no partaking though, just revelling in the pronunciation of scchhhhheeexiii ttthhhyyymmee
2. Imagined the lyrics to incomprehensible Kings of Leon songs and sang them around the hostel all day.
3. Once we finally got into the bar that was closed on Thanksgiving night, we met the friendliest bar owner in the world. Robert owns 'Bobbies Idle Hour' bar on Music Row here in Nashville, and this giant of a man (across between Mick Fleetwood, Father Christmas and a cheeky uncle at a wedding) provided beers and country singing all with a sly grin plastered all over his mush.
4. Headed out to Norm's River Roadhouse which is literally in the middle of a field outside Nashville. At first I was sure the only drinkers would be cattle, but the bar was filled with country music fans coming to listen to the bedazzled crooners. The place was perfect, a true American roadhouse experience.
5. Saw a solid 20 minutes of evangelical TV. Every time a blue jacketted Roy Hudd lookalike bellowed something from the Bible at his petrified congregation, the referenced passage was displayed in the bottom left hand corner of the screen (for those playing along at home) right next to the phone number tat you call with details of how to make a donation (all major credit cards accepted). I almost herniated with laughter.
6. Hit the record shops and bought back issues of Rolling Stone and felt about 12% cooler for fifteen minutes.
7. Had fun at Tootsies bar for an evening of ales and music only to discover that the Aussie girl with us did a spot on impression of a mouth organ and proceeded to get up on stage and demonstrate for the bemused crowd. It's amasing what being blond lets you get away with.
8. Sat around one night and, bored, proclaimed: 'lets go bowling'. We rocked up to the bowling alley for a few sweet frames of bowling. Stephen and I were immediately embarrassed by the girls who irritatingly, despite spinning round on their run up, throwing it between their legs and generally larking about comprehensively outplayed us...
9. ...until the final frame when Steve defied the odds and hit 3 strikes in a row. We exploded with amasement, until...
10. ...up steps Adams with a strike...
11. ...and another. Can I do three? Is this the greatest moment of my life?
12 ...no, it isn't. 9 down, one left standing. Damn you universe.
13. But it was enough to come from nowhere to snatch victory. IN YOUR FACE WORLD!!!
14. Remembered it was only bowling and to grow up and stop taunting everyone and running around the bowling alley with my shirt off, spinning it around my head.
15. Watched an episode of Bewitched where the she-devil patronises the arse off some black people. Practically an incitement to riot.
16. Have just watched a few minutes of the most disturbing thing I've ever seen on television. 'Worship for Children' which was seemingly created in a basement with a budget of 12 pence, includes such gems as Gary and his friend called Bob. Bob is a balloon. With a face drawn on it. Gary then takes his seat among 3 small boys who are encouraged to sit on his lap and talk to Bob about Jesus, while Gary sings songs (in his shirt and tie) while grinning a suspiciously wide grin and clicking his fingers. Chilling.
So that's me for now. I'll be pushing one more mail out, like a sparkling word-turd, before the end of the week to sign off this series and the final, final, mail will be just around the corner when I pack up my crayons and get back to England. Be brave. I'll be home soon.
So, for the penultimate time while I'm in America:
Byeloveyoubye.xxx
Greetings my little dears,
Oh, father time, how your wispy beard and cruel beady eyes mock us, your minions, and slaves. Just like Autumn fades into Winter, so my seemingly interminable travels will come to an abrupt and miserable end. All that lies before me is the abyss of home, reality (whatever that is) and thoughts of a lifestyle more mundane than an evening rearranging CDs with Gordon Brown, where the only distraction being his wandering, haunted, glass eye.
But somehow the dream, although weak, lives on in Nashville where this week I have been casting my roaming satirical (non glass) eye across its vista of charms. Again.
Returning to the same city has been a unique experience as (save for a few, all too short hours in Chicago on a layover from Denver) I've always headed onwards, blinkered, taut trousered and sparkle toothed, never back. But there was a good reason for doing so - Thanksgiving. Nothing like a celebration that romanticises the screwing over of an indigenous population to warm your cockles. And boy, after the Denver air, did my cockles need warming. Certain 'things' were starting to retreat back into my body like a turtle's head in a sandstorm.
Quite why Americans choose to base their most recognised holiday around a celebration of the settlers policy of deception against their Native American hosts, is a mystery to me. Imagine if every year in England we gathered our nearest and dearest together to have a big old 'Highland Clearances Festival' or sent cards wishing elderly grandparents 'Happy Indian Railroad Week' or 'Invention of Concentration Camp-a-mania', but that is pretty much what is done here.
For those of you who have no idea what I'm waffling on about (impossible to imagine) Thanksgiving is a time for all Americans to give thanks for their lot in life, but it's a festival based around the fabled story of the Plymouth settlers sharing the feast from their first harvest festival on foreign soil.
The parts that are left out of the story is the systematic disenfranchisement of the entire Native American population from their homeland. Somehow, these bits don't really sit too well with turkey and football, so Thanksgiving is now largely a secular celebration of, well, everything. So long as 'giving thanks' is covered in gravy or deep fried in meaty, glistening fat, it's all good.
For a nation with so little history, it's not really surprising that America has so many national holidays to compensate them for their lack of days off in their basic job packages. Most Americans stare at me with uncomprehending, sparkle eyed awe when I tell them of the far away land of Englandshire with it's 25 days of annual leave, a working health system and bread that is not enriched with sherbet. That revelation is immediately followed by them checking their pulse and consoling themselves by imbibing the 6th sausage patty of the morning.
My own Thanksgiving experience was a helluvatime and a real community affair. We woke at dawn and, much like Christmas, investigated some of the finest American brews of the era (both kinds of beer - bud and bud light) and bringing in the emergency tables from the shed. It's not that easy to balance 2 bottles of Budblueribbon on a table top while carrying it across a gravel driveway. Looked like the Chuckle Brothers re-enacting swan lake on ice. While on heroin.
Everyone in the hostel pulled together and discovered their war time spirit of mucking in and making do. After the required amount of time (3 to 4 and a half hours depending on the size of the bird and the alcohol intake of the chef) and after a quick speech of thanks from the hostel owner, we troughed like sweating heaps of blubber on the feast that had unfolded. One of us became diabetic at the table, four people had a stroke and I needed the assistance of a plunger to push the final piece of stuffing through my heart before it caused it to pop in my chest like a cherry in a microwave.
After the feasting was concluded and a large scale communal nap was had by all (in a heap) we absconded into town for some much needed refreshment. Despite it being quiet downtown, we had time to enjoy the myriad delights of scantily dressed waitresses dancing on the bar, which all sounds very glamorous, if not for the fact that at least one of them was texting at the same time and both had a look on their face that said 'if I have to spend one more second of this tedious life here, then I will weep into my own sparkly bra' before looking for a nearby penknife to jab into the lurching eyeballs of the nearest drooling musclebag waving a dollar bill in her general direction.
After that, we headed for a well known local dive bar where the music was rumoured to be excellent. Despite the extraordinary long walk through the kind of weather that would make Frosty the Snowman book a flight for Fiji just to get some feeling back in his toes, we heard it was great from our Dutch tour guide from the hostel. However, when we finally got there we found it totally closed with no hope of re-entry. Dutch guide, meanwhile, was so drunk, she proceeded to lie face up in the middle of the road in the hope that this would flag down a taxi. The Dutch. God knows how they get so wacky when thy spend so much time in coffee shops.
After all that fun, carbs and delicious sweatmeats, there couldn't possibly be time to be doing anything else. Perhaps we will find some respite from this ridiculous email? No. No you wont. Read. This. Stuff...... NOW.
1. Discussed 'sexy time' with random Dutch people (no partaking though, just revelling in the pronunciation of scchhhhheeexiii ttthhhyyymmee
2. Imagined the lyrics to incomprehensible Kings of Leon songs and sang them around the hostel all day.
3. Once we finally got into the bar that was closed on Thanksgiving night, we met the friendliest bar owner in the world. Robert owns 'Bobbies Idle Hour' bar on Music Row here in Nashville, and this giant of a man (across between Mick Fleetwood, Father Christmas and a cheeky uncle at a wedding) provided beers and country singing all with a sly grin plastered all over his mush.
4. Headed out to Norm's River Roadhouse which is literally in the middle of a field outside Nashville. At first I was sure the only drinkers would be cattle, but the bar was filled with country music fans coming to listen to the bedazzled crooners. The place was perfect, a true American roadhouse experience.
5. Saw a solid 20 minutes of evangelical TV. Every time a blue jacketted Roy Hudd lookalike bellowed something from the Bible at his petrified congregation, the referenced passage was displayed in the bottom left hand corner of the screen (for those playing along at home) right next to the phone number tat you call with details of how to make a donation (all major credit cards accepted). I almost herniated with laughter.
6. Hit the record shops and bought back issues of Rolling Stone and felt about 12% cooler for fifteen minutes.
7. Had fun at Tootsies bar for an evening of ales and music only to discover that the Aussie girl with us did a spot on impression of a mouth organ and proceeded to get up on stage and demonstrate for the bemused crowd. It's amasing what being blond lets you get away with.
8. Sat around one night and, bored, proclaimed: 'lets go bowling'. We rocked up to the bowling alley for a few sweet frames of bowling. Stephen and I were immediately embarrassed by the girls who irritatingly, despite spinning round on their run up, throwing it between their legs and generally larking about comprehensively outplayed us...
9. ...until the final frame when Steve defied the odds and hit 3 strikes in a row. We exploded with amasement, until...
10. ...up steps Adams with a strike...
11. ...and another. Can I do three? Is this the greatest moment of my life?
12 ...no, it isn't. 9 down, one left standing. Damn you universe.
13. But it was enough to come from nowhere to snatch victory. IN YOUR FACE WORLD!!!
14. Remembered it was only bowling and to grow up and stop taunting everyone and running around the bowling alley with my shirt off, spinning it around my head.
15. Watched an episode of Bewitched where the she-devil patronises the arse off some black people. Practically an incitement to riot.
16. Have just watched a few minutes of the most disturbing thing I've ever seen on television. 'Worship for Children' which was seemingly created in a basement with a budget of 12 pence, includes such gems as Gary and his friend called Bob. Bob is a balloon. With a face drawn on it. Gary then takes his seat among 3 small boys who are encouraged to sit on his lap and talk to Bob about Jesus, while Gary sings songs (in his shirt and tie) while grinning a suspiciously wide grin and clicking his fingers. Chilling.
So that's me for now. I'll be pushing one more mail out, like a sparkling word-turd, before the end of the week to sign off this series and the final, final, mail will be just around the corner when I pack up my crayons and get back to England. Be brave. I'll be home soon.
So, for the penultimate time while I'm in America:
Byeloveyoubye.xxx
USA Email Series 23: Cobwebs, hairlines, limbs and a giant bear.
(First sent: 22 November 2009)
Hey there,
As we all know and are painfully aware, life is a series of crushing defeats followed by the really terrible parts. Normally, our everyday routine is about as much fun as slipping on wet bathroom tiles and smashing ones jaw against the side of the bath. Oh, the rapture of waiting for trains in damp morning air only to arrive at cold and damp offices to be surrounded by ox faced, cobweb haired, bin bag eyed cretins, eager as puppies to discuss the thrilling X-factor results or to quote endless episodes of Gavin and Stacy towards us as we secretly consider if smashing our own forehead repeatedly against a computer screen would restore the ever decreasing sensations in our numb and passive brain. You know, an absolute bleedin' hoot.
But in amongst all this tooth grinding monotony, we still search for those silent moments of tranquillity and beauty that can remind us that it really is all worth it, even if the happiness is only a fleeting distraction from pushing handfuls of broken glass into our own eyes. We search, but rarely find, such moments in our lives and instead reduce our own expectations and over the years become content to settle for a nice bottle of wine, a warm fire, a cigarette or a pipe full of crystal meth (each to their own).
When I was very little, I remember that no number of Transformanintendo games or G.I. Bin Laden action figures could be half as exciting as looking down onto my blue school jumper and seeing a ladybird had landed on it. The hours spent chasing it around, trying to get it on the end of my finger, then watching it walk over my hand are hours I will never have again. Nowadays, I'd be just as likely to curse the insect invader and flick the thing off me before returning to a po-faced conversation about the state of the American health care system. Like a twat.
But even as my expectations of satisfaction recede like my hairline, I find myself in gawping awe when a moment of real happiness comes along. So infrequently does it happen, that I go in search of it, to the far flung corners of Ameicaville and to the heart of some of the great places on Earth. And Texas.
But man made structures are not enough. After a while I get comfortable and complacent even in this environment, of non-stop fun and am left wide eyed and ashen faced looking for my new sense of purpose. Where oh where could it be? Beer? Well maybe (let us not write off beer as a solution just yet. Let's leave it in the 'maybe' pile).
But you've gotta get out there man! Change your scene, dudealicious. Half of the point of this whole trip was to encourage me to throw of my cynicism and regain the sense of awe that is so refreshing (and by 'awe' I don't mean cooing over the speed of a friends wireless connection or a new town centre roundabout). Being able to experience the greatest cities on earth has given me that sense, and now this week, I've been experiencing how the great Rocky Mountains can give you not only a new lease of life as well as a new definition of the word 'cold'.
It's safe to say that not only did I refresh myself mentally for the home straight of the journey, but I also nearly lost the tips of all my limbs and extremities to the cold, which would be a terrible shame especially for my.... use of the ATM (no, I am not going to go into THAT area in this email you sick puppies).
Lucky for you, I'm not going to go into gushing thrall over the mountain range itself (you can guess), I'll save that for when I get back and bore you all to tears until you feel the need to nail my tongue to a bit of rock and throw it off the nearest bridge.
However, I know I'm raising the big questions here (chortle), but I think that it's probably worth all the muck and gravel and neon strip lights, if it encourages us to go outside at least once a decade and, when we finally do get out of our comfortable hovels, to have fun reminding ourselves how small we really are and to bloody well enjoy ourselves.
Although it's true that surely no sane person would live out in the woods or the hills permanently, mainly because most of modern life is much better than the alternative ("sure, please take my central heating, socks and interweb away from me. I'd love to have wooden teeth, no personal hygiene and to kill squirrels for sandwich meat. Yes indeedy do") we remain lucky to at least have the opportunity to stand in front of a ruddy great mountain occasionally and whisper 'holy shit'. Even if it is to a seven year old, leading to an 'altercation' with an enraged parent. Tender moments like that. It's what it's all about.
Well I hope that I didn't sound too much like some terrible 80's band, clenching their fists and buttocks while singing a song about seizing the moment or making it happen: 'You've got to reach up high, And then maybe go outside, You can have it all, Now touch my behind...'. (Hit written all over it) but I hope you got some sense of what a few hills and a bit of scenery can do.
And so it brings me, armpits sweating with excitement to a brand new feature of this weeks emails. It might look and sound like the usual round up of guff and happenings from my USAdventures, but I can assure you it's the all new: ROUNDUPATHON!!!
1. Arrived in Denver, walked 15 minutes in the right direction the hostel, then got cold feet and hurried 2 miles in the wrong direction. Called a bloody cab after face went numb.
2. Overcame vertigo to traverse the highest suspension bridge on the bloody planet. Kiss my face.
3. My 2 day journey to get up here included a layover in Chicago. It felt like visiting an old friend... that had become cold and grey and vengeful. Come on Chicago - all year summer please.
4. Heard two locals re-enacting the whole of 'There will be blood' just for kicks.
5. Watched a band that had been assembled that day (from an ad on the Internet) fully kick arse. Sounded great.
6. Liked Denver free shuttle bus very much.
7. Finally caved in and had a shave. I'm a traitor. The hair stays though.
8. Got my cold weather gear from the bottom of my pack at last. Thank the lord I bought that base layer.
9. Denver has a lot of public art, especially around the museums, but it's on a massive scale, so it really works well. My favourite is the giant bear looking into the convention centre.
10. Found my flight info to get me home. Goody gumdrops.
11. This hostel is a dump: nothing works, one shower, holes in the walls..... but it's $18 so who cares?
Well, I see your eyelids drooping and your heads getting heavy, so for now I say 'goodnight'. One last thing, my final email is approaching so anyone with any other stories to share with the group, even if they are short, borderline vulgar, or legitimate terrorist threats, please get them to me. It couldn't be easier. I wont even know if they're apocryphal, so get moving so I can put it together when I get back and wind up this series with your compiled bile.
Take care my lovelies - and see you soon.
Byeloveyoubye. xx
...of course, no one sent me anything else to add to the final mail of the series. Probably because they couldn't even understand that that was what I was asking for. Why be direct, when you can be as obscure as a guff in a wind tunnel?...
Hey there,
As we all know and are painfully aware, life is a series of crushing defeats followed by the really terrible parts. Normally, our everyday routine is about as much fun as slipping on wet bathroom tiles and smashing ones jaw against the side of the bath. Oh, the rapture of waiting for trains in damp morning air only to arrive at cold and damp offices to be surrounded by ox faced, cobweb haired, bin bag eyed cretins, eager as puppies to discuss the thrilling X-factor results or to quote endless episodes of Gavin and Stacy towards us as we secretly consider if smashing our own forehead repeatedly against a computer screen would restore the ever decreasing sensations in our numb and passive brain. You know, an absolute bleedin' hoot.
But in amongst all this tooth grinding monotony, we still search for those silent moments of tranquillity and beauty that can remind us that it really is all worth it, even if the happiness is only a fleeting distraction from pushing handfuls of broken glass into our own eyes. We search, but rarely find, such moments in our lives and instead reduce our own expectations and over the years become content to settle for a nice bottle of wine, a warm fire, a cigarette or a pipe full of crystal meth (each to their own).
When I was very little, I remember that no number of Transformanintendo games or G.I. Bin Laden action figures could be half as exciting as looking down onto my blue school jumper and seeing a ladybird had landed on it. The hours spent chasing it around, trying to get it on the end of my finger, then watching it walk over my hand are hours I will never have again. Nowadays, I'd be just as likely to curse the insect invader and flick the thing off me before returning to a po-faced conversation about the state of the American health care system. Like a twat.
But even as my expectations of satisfaction recede like my hairline, I find myself in gawping awe when a moment of real happiness comes along. So infrequently does it happen, that I go in search of it, to the far flung corners of Ameicaville and to the heart of some of the great places on Earth. And Texas.
But man made structures are not enough. After a while I get comfortable and complacent even in this environment, of non-stop fun and am left wide eyed and ashen faced looking for my new sense of purpose. Where oh where could it be? Beer? Well maybe (let us not write off beer as a solution just yet. Let's leave it in the 'maybe' pile).
But you've gotta get out there man! Change your scene, dudealicious. Half of the point of this whole trip was to encourage me to throw of my cynicism and regain the sense of awe that is so refreshing (and by 'awe' I don't mean cooing over the speed of a friends wireless connection or a new town centre roundabout). Being able to experience the greatest cities on earth has given me that sense, and now this week, I've been experiencing how the great Rocky Mountains can give you not only a new lease of life as well as a new definition of the word 'cold'.
It's safe to say that not only did I refresh myself mentally for the home straight of the journey, but I also nearly lost the tips of all my limbs and extremities to the cold, which would be a terrible shame especially for my.... use of the ATM (no, I am not going to go into THAT area in this email you sick puppies).
Lucky for you, I'm not going to go into gushing thrall over the mountain range itself (you can guess), I'll save that for when I get back and bore you all to tears until you feel the need to nail my tongue to a bit of rock and throw it off the nearest bridge.
However, I know I'm raising the big questions here (chortle), but I think that it's probably worth all the muck and gravel and neon strip lights, if it encourages us to go outside at least once a decade and, when we finally do get out of our comfortable hovels, to have fun reminding ourselves how small we really are and to bloody well enjoy ourselves.
Although it's true that surely no sane person would live out in the woods or the hills permanently, mainly because most of modern life is much better than the alternative ("sure, please take my central heating, socks and interweb away from me. I'd love to have wooden teeth, no personal hygiene and to kill squirrels for sandwich meat. Yes indeedy do") we remain lucky to at least have the opportunity to stand in front of a ruddy great mountain occasionally and whisper 'holy shit'. Even if it is to a seven year old, leading to an 'altercation' with an enraged parent. Tender moments like that. It's what it's all about.
Well I hope that I didn't sound too much like some terrible 80's band, clenching their fists and buttocks while singing a song about seizing the moment or making it happen: 'You've got to reach up high, And then maybe go outside, You can have it all, Now touch my behind...'. (Hit written all over it) but I hope you got some sense of what a few hills and a bit of scenery can do.
And so it brings me, armpits sweating with excitement to a brand new feature of this weeks emails. It might look and sound like the usual round up of guff and happenings from my USAdventures, but I can assure you it's the all new: ROUNDUPATHON!!!
1. Arrived in Denver, walked 15 minutes in the right direction the hostel, then got cold feet and hurried 2 miles in the wrong direction. Called a bloody cab after face went numb.
2. Overcame vertigo to traverse the highest suspension bridge on the bloody planet. Kiss my face.
3. My 2 day journey to get up here included a layover in Chicago. It felt like visiting an old friend... that had become cold and grey and vengeful. Come on Chicago - all year summer please.
4. Heard two locals re-enacting the whole of 'There will be blood' just for kicks.
5. Watched a band that had been assembled that day (from an ad on the Internet) fully kick arse. Sounded great.
6. Liked Denver free shuttle bus very much.
7. Finally caved in and had a shave. I'm a traitor. The hair stays though.
8. Got my cold weather gear from the bottom of my pack at last. Thank the lord I bought that base layer.
9. Denver has a lot of public art, especially around the museums, but it's on a massive scale, so it really works well. My favourite is the giant bear looking into the convention centre.
10. Found my flight info to get me home. Goody gumdrops.
11. This hostel is a dump: nothing works, one shower, holes in the walls..... but it's $18 so who cares?
Well, I see your eyelids drooping and your heads getting heavy, so for now I say 'goodnight'. One last thing, my final email is approaching so anyone with any other stories to share with the group, even if they are short, borderline vulgar, or legitimate terrorist threats, please get them to me. It couldn't be easier. I wont even know if they're apocryphal, so get moving so I can put it together when I get back and wind up this series with your compiled bile.
Take care my lovelies - and see you soon.
Byeloveyoubye. xx
...of course, no one sent me anything else to add to the final mail of the series. Probably because they couldn't even understand that that was what I was asking for. Why be direct, when you can be as obscure as a guff in a wind tunnel?...
Thursday, 17 December 2009
USA Email Series 22: Refrigerating Borneo, inverted houses, big screen entertainment and bleeding stumps
(First sent: 16th November 2009)
Greetings,
America... Ahhh. AMERICA. *Trumpet fanfare* AMERICA ooooohhhh yeaaaaahhh, home of the greatest entertainment available to humankind. A place where the neon of the Vegas strip illuminates the sky, where the Hollywood sign glitters on the horizon overlooking the dreams of so many who seek fame and fortune, where platinum and gold line the walls of the Country Music Hall of Fame, like stars in a summer nights sky and since 1989, the home of another premium entertainment resort: DOLLYWOOD.
Yes, by venturing around 3 hours East of Nashville you have two choices - either a visit to the beautiful and remote Smokey Mountain national park or a trip through the town of Pigeon Forge to visit the glamorous and distinctive Dollywood theme park. Yesterday, I chose the latter. Now before I begin my comments on Dollywood itself (and I will, at length) a word about Pigeon Forge should set things up nicely for the trauma that follows.
Pigeon Forge is a town described to me as 'the Vegas of the South' which, given Las Vegas' knack for ensuring no cultural event is untackificated, the idea of it's Southern equivalent gave me enough chills down my spine to refrigerate Borneo. As it happened, driving through it, is to hate it. God awful tourist attractions such as split level go-carting, 24 hour mini-golf and laser quest are surrounded by tat shops and cheap motels that have the local bums rubbing their hands with glee at all the 'outatowners' they can freak out in one single place.
However, so far so normal. I mean, it was hideous and crazy, but not in a new way. If you could only see the things that I have seen, you'd realise that tat and fuzzy neon is nothing new. I was a little bedazzled by the upside-down house that sits just off the freeway. It says something for the people who make it their business to visit a house that has been completely inverted rather than explore the vast miles of unspoilt beauty that the surrounding Smokey Mountains offers. But, as I am one of those morons, I can only say this: at this point my Dollywood based excitement was still riding high and it all felt like a necessary evil.
And so, with a deep sense of trepidation, I will now try to describe how bizarre Dollywood is. I have tried to block it out of my mind, but I am seeing this email as a group therapy session to help me get over it.
The history of the place is noble enough. It started as a regular theme park, called Silver Dollar City Tennessee, but falling attendance and huge losses meant that this small attraction neared closure. Reluctant to let her fellow Tennesseans lose their jobs Dolly Parton stepped in with ready cash and in 1989 the park was renamed 'Dollywood'.
With that type of star power, how could it fail? Mention the name Dolly Parton and you are immediately put in mind of the high camp, high glamour, heavy chested, good time girl of Country and Western. Surely when this glitz is combined with theme park cheese, you would have an entertainment spectacular on your hands. It can't fail to be the Mecca for fun all over the South.... It can't fail... Can it?
Oh. Yes. It. Can.
We began to suspect that we might have been ripped off when, upon entering, we were greeted by the sight of a large plastic potato. Were assured by the accompanying literature that this was a replica of the biggest potato ever grown in Memphis state fair history. Now that's big screen entertainment.
We proceeded and it became clear that the entertainment on offer was a little restricted. Restricted to eating. Despite arriving as the doors opened, as we walked through we were amazed to see three chinned human sofas tucking into breakfast nachos. It was the first damn thing they did. By now I really shouldn't be surprised, but surely they could have just walked around a bit first. Or rented a scooter to do the hard yards for them - it's their choice.
Along with an infinite number of places to refill your arteries, there was also places to empty your wallets and fill your arms with high quality tat. Yes, every item was available... as long as it was made of wood, and made badly. Why not finish off your trip to Dollywood by bringing home your own wooden birdhouse? Or a delightful handmade broom? Or a rocking horse? Why not? Why?
This was all against a backdrop, not of Parton-esq glamour, but of what appeared to be a rather run down Wild Frontier era theme park with the words 'Dollywood' nailed to the majority of non-wood wormed surfaces. Indeed, it was part mall, part food court, but also part zoo? Well, yes, there was an area where you could witness sad looking bald eagles held in captivity under a huge net in the back of the park. Obviously, this is an interesting exhibit for hunters looking to ID their next crosshair pinup, but the link to Dolly Parton? No idea. All this and we hadn't even got to the rides yet. Oh lord, I wish we hadn't.
Wandering over to the first of them we waited, white knuckled, for the fun to really kick in. The first place we hit was 'Fire Truck Indoor Coaster: Take a wild ride on the fire truck through a real fire.' The blurb said this was a 'Medium thrill ride', so surely a good place to start. As we waited we began to question the logic of handing our safety over to the hands of the hunchbacked, knuckle toothed, gurning imbecile who ran the thing. It appeared that his only coherent thought was to yelp 'Fire in tha hold' whenever a new set of thrill seekers set off.
The indoor roller coaster, would be more accurately described as a slow moving train ride round a dismal waxworks interrupted by a single drop, which increased the pace from 'anemic' to 'slow', before being spewed out the other side and back into the daylight.
There was one good ride and it went suspiciously fast (like it was out of control). In fact it was so good we immediately went on it again. Other than that, there is literally too many odd things to mention here before my fingers turn to bloody stumps bashing them all out (highlights include: the graveyard inside the park, the singing, haunted, waxworks of elderly gospel singers, the ridiculous heap of chips that formed a dinner, the museum of Dolly's life that was basically stuff she'd cleared out of her attic that had been barely arranged behind a bit of rope). That said, I do need to talk, at length, of the floor show.
Dollywood puts on four shows a day at this time of year, called Christmas in the Smokies which is a showcase of Christmas songs and cheer performed by rather sad and hungry looking Broadway cast off's Cheshire catting their way into the hearts and minds of the locked in audience.
The plot was clear enough - it's Christmas. They live in the Smokies. They sing about it. The weirdness begins as the cast sit in a circle and advise the audience that the real meaning of Christmas comes from the scripture. I'm aware that Christmas is a religious festival, but the sight of fourteen grown men and women prancing around the stage like X-Factor cast offs with huge Bibles in their hands, whilst a lady with three inches of stage make-up depicts the Virgin Mary dancing with Gabriel, my eyebrows don't so much raise as rip from my face and hit the ceiling like bleeding caterpillars. The point at which the cast then don some suspiciously Klan like white robes and perform the final number about Christian supremacy, I become aware that despite it's charms: Dollywood? It's time to leave.
And so that was that, and after such a long diatribe on the joys of the Dollywouldn't, I feel it only fair to lead you immediately into my list of some of the other things I've been doing this week. Wont you listen as I tell my tale, a tale that definitely doesn't include any wise men at all.
1. Am becoming increasingly alarmed by Facebook trying to match me up with 'Christian Singles' in my area. Purely because my status is listed as 'single' and I'm on the buckle of the Bible belt, they assume that I'm trying to nail God bothering local hotties.
2. Visited Percy Warner Park in Nashville. Threw a football around in a beautiful park with some locals and travellers, whilst the sun set over rose red trees. We walked, we chatted, we talked about our loves and our fears. Ahhh, the memories.
3. Rode in a big truck. Much better.
4. Wished a slow and painful death on Taylor Swift. I swear that Nashville is sponsored by that Giraffe necked, owl faced Britney Spears of country music.
5. Admired my mate Stephen who was supposed to be travelling the country but has been in Nashville for 6 weeks. He gets a free bed in exchange for painting murals of country stars on the wall of the hostel. He spends the rest of the time quoting movies with me and generally freaking out the other guests.
6. Was forced to listen to some god-awful flirting at 4 in the morning between two recently spit-swapped travellers.
7. Laughed heartily at the quick wit of Nashvillians. As the romantic conclusion of 2012 played out (yes, I went to see it. Yes, it was pish), two of the prettier and racially compatible stereotypes flirted (gotta love Hollywood) as the world went to pot around them. The key romantic line was delivered and just as I was about to push my fingers deeper into my throat, a shout from the audience turned vomit into chuckles;
Stereotype 1: After all this, perhaps we could share dinner sometime?
Stereotype 2: (with a saucy look in her eye) Is there anything else we can share..?
Guy in audience: SPIT AND GAME!!!!
Pleasant to know that the more po-faced Hollywood becomes, the more creative it's hillbilly audience (in a side note, Thandie Newton should consider legally changing her name to Stereotype 2, just so she can be more easily recognised on film credits. Either that or Shrubbery Newton - just to accurately reflect the wood content.)
8. Watched a half decent film about trying to make it in Nashville that starred River Phoenix, brooding his arse off. Jonny Depp would be in serious trouble if he had survived. Can anyone else spell murder? You can? Clever you.
9. This morning's USA Today has a particularly ugly cover star. His face looks like it's been fashioned out of mashed potato with a sledgehammer. The owner of said face? Jamie frigging Oliver. He's here at last to spread his smug cockney charm like herpes across the USA. Suddenly I can't wait to leave.
So that's pretty much all she wrote for this week. Off to the snows of Colorado later, for which I am ill prepared. However, if I invest in some long johns and whiskey, I should make it. If I get into trouble, they probably send those St Bernard's out to get you. Are you supposed to eat them? Yeah...
Until next time...
Byeloveyoubye xx
Greetings,
America... Ahhh. AMERICA. *Trumpet fanfare* AMERICA ooooohhhh yeaaaaahhh, home of the greatest entertainment available to humankind. A place where the neon of the Vegas strip illuminates the sky, where the Hollywood sign glitters on the horizon overlooking the dreams of so many who seek fame and fortune, where platinum and gold line the walls of the Country Music Hall of Fame, like stars in a summer nights sky and since 1989, the home of another premium entertainment resort: DOLLYWOOD.
Yes, by venturing around 3 hours East of Nashville you have two choices - either a visit to the beautiful and remote Smokey Mountain national park or a trip through the town of Pigeon Forge to visit the glamorous and distinctive Dollywood theme park. Yesterday, I chose the latter. Now before I begin my comments on Dollywood itself (and I will, at length) a word about Pigeon Forge should set things up nicely for the trauma that follows.
Pigeon Forge is a town described to me as 'the Vegas of the South' which, given Las Vegas' knack for ensuring no cultural event is untackificated, the idea of it's Southern equivalent gave me enough chills down my spine to refrigerate Borneo. As it happened, driving through it, is to hate it. God awful tourist attractions such as split level go-carting, 24 hour mini-golf and laser quest are surrounded by tat shops and cheap motels that have the local bums rubbing their hands with glee at all the 'outatowners' they can freak out in one single place.
However, so far so normal. I mean, it was hideous and crazy, but not in a new way. If you could only see the things that I have seen, you'd realise that tat and fuzzy neon is nothing new. I was a little bedazzled by the upside-down house that sits just off the freeway. It says something for the people who make it their business to visit a house that has been completely inverted rather than explore the vast miles of unspoilt beauty that the surrounding Smokey Mountains offers. But, as I am one of those morons, I can only say this: at this point my Dollywood based excitement was still riding high and it all felt like a necessary evil.
And so, with a deep sense of trepidation, I will now try to describe how bizarre Dollywood is. I have tried to block it out of my mind, but I am seeing this email as a group therapy session to help me get over it.
The history of the place is noble enough. It started as a regular theme park, called Silver Dollar City Tennessee, but falling attendance and huge losses meant that this small attraction neared closure. Reluctant to let her fellow Tennesseans lose their jobs Dolly Parton stepped in with ready cash and in 1989 the park was renamed 'Dollywood'.
With that type of star power, how could it fail? Mention the name Dolly Parton and you are immediately put in mind of the high camp, high glamour, heavy chested, good time girl of Country and Western. Surely when this glitz is combined with theme park cheese, you would have an entertainment spectacular on your hands. It can't fail to be the Mecca for fun all over the South.... It can't fail... Can it?
Oh. Yes. It. Can.
We began to suspect that we might have been ripped off when, upon entering, we were greeted by the sight of a large plastic potato. Were assured by the accompanying literature that this was a replica of the biggest potato ever grown in Memphis state fair history. Now that's big screen entertainment.
We proceeded and it became clear that the entertainment on offer was a little restricted. Restricted to eating. Despite arriving as the doors opened, as we walked through we were amazed to see three chinned human sofas tucking into breakfast nachos. It was the first damn thing they did. By now I really shouldn't be surprised, but surely they could have just walked around a bit first. Or rented a scooter to do the hard yards for them - it's their choice.
Along with an infinite number of places to refill your arteries, there was also places to empty your wallets and fill your arms with high quality tat. Yes, every item was available... as long as it was made of wood, and made badly. Why not finish off your trip to Dollywood by bringing home your own wooden birdhouse? Or a delightful handmade broom? Or a rocking horse? Why not? Why?
This was all against a backdrop, not of Parton-esq glamour, but of what appeared to be a rather run down Wild Frontier era theme park with the words 'Dollywood' nailed to the majority of non-wood wormed surfaces. Indeed, it was part mall, part food court, but also part zoo? Well, yes, there was an area where you could witness sad looking bald eagles held in captivity under a huge net in the back of the park. Obviously, this is an interesting exhibit for hunters looking to ID their next crosshair pinup, but the link to Dolly Parton? No idea. All this and we hadn't even got to the rides yet. Oh lord, I wish we hadn't.
Wandering over to the first of them we waited, white knuckled, for the fun to really kick in. The first place we hit was 'Fire Truck Indoor Coaster: Take a wild ride on the fire truck through a real fire.' The blurb said this was a 'Medium thrill ride', so surely a good place to start. As we waited we began to question the logic of handing our safety over to the hands of the hunchbacked, knuckle toothed, gurning imbecile who ran the thing. It appeared that his only coherent thought was to yelp 'Fire in tha hold' whenever a new set of thrill seekers set off.
The indoor roller coaster, would be more accurately described as a slow moving train ride round a dismal waxworks interrupted by a single drop, which increased the pace from 'anemic' to 'slow', before being spewed out the other side and back into the daylight.
There was one good ride and it went suspiciously fast (like it was out of control). In fact it was so good we immediately went on it again. Other than that, there is literally too many odd things to mention here before my fingers turn to bloody stumps bashing them all out (highlights include: the graveyard inside the park, the singing, haunted, waxworks of elderly gospel singers, the ridiculous heap of chips that formed a dinner, the museum of Dolly's life that was basically stuff she'd cleared out of her attic that had been barely arranged behind a bit of rope). That said, I do need to talk, at length, of the floor show.
Dollywood puts on four shows a day at this time of year, called Christmas in the Smokies which is a showcase of Christmas songs and cheer performed by rather sad and hungry looking Broadway cast off's Cheshire catting their way into the hearts and minds of the locked in audience.
The plot was clear enough - it's Christmas. They live in the Smokies. They sing about it. The weirdness begins as the cast sit in a circle and advise the audience that the real meaning of Christmas comes from the scripture. I'm aware that Christmas is a religious festival, but the sight of fourteen grown men and women prancing around the stage like X-Factor cast offs with huge Bibles in their hands, whilst a lady with three inches of stage make-up depicts the Virgin Mary dancing with Gabriel, my eyebrows don't so much raise as rip from my face and hit the ceiling like bleeding caterpillars. The point at which the cast then don some suspiciously Klan like white robes and perform the final number about Christian supremacy, I become aware that despite it's charms: Dollywood? It's time to leave.
And so that was that, and after such a long diatribe on the joys of the Dollywouldn't, I feel it only fair to lead you immediately into my list of some of the other things I've been doing this week. Wont you listen as I tell my tale, a tale that definitely doesn't include any wise men at all.
1. Am becoming increasingly alarmed by Facebook trying to match me up with 'Christian Singles' in my area. Purely because my status is listed as 'single' and I'm on the buckle of the Bible belt, they assume that I'm trying to nail God bothering local hotties.
2. Visited Percy Warner Park in Nashville. Threw a football around in a beautiful park with some locals and travellers, whilst the sun set over rose red trees. We walked, we chatted, we talked about our loves and our fears. Ahhh, the memories.
3. Rode in a big truck. Much better.
4. Wished a slow and painful death on Taylor Swift. I swear that Nashville is sponsored by that Giraffe necked, owl faced Britney Spears of country music.
5. Admired my mate Stephen who was supposed to be travelling the country but has been in Nashville for 6 weeks. He gets a free bed in exchange for painting murals of country stars on the wall of the hostel. He spends the rest of the time quoting movies with me and generally freaking out the other guests.
6. Was forced to listen to some god-awful flirting at 4 in the morning between two recently spit-swapped travellers.
7. Laughed heartily at the quick wit of Nashvillians. As the romantic conclusion of 2012 played out (yes, I went to see it. Yes, it was pish), two of the prettier and racially compatible stereotypes flirted (gotta love Hollywood) as the world went to pot around them. The key romantic line was delivered and just as I was about to push my fingers deeper into my throat, a shout from the audience turned vomit into chuckles;
Stereotype 1: After all this, perhaps we could share dinner sometime?
Stereotype 2: (with a saucy look in her eye) Is there anything else we can share..?
Guy in audience: SPIT AND GAME!!!!
Pleasant to know that the more po-faced Hollywood becomes, the more creative it's hillbilly audience (in a side note, Thandie Newton should consider legally changing her name to Stereotype 2, just so she can be more easily recognised on film credits. Either that or Shrubbery Newton - just to accurately reflect the wood content.)
8. Watched a half decent film about trying to make it in Nashville that starred River Phoenix, brooding his arse off. Jonny Depp would be in serious trouble if he had survived. Can anyone else spell murder? You can? Clever you.
9. This morning's USA Today has a particularly ugly cover star. His face looks like it's been fashioned out of mashed potato with a sledgehammer. The owner of said face? Jamie frigging Oliver. He's here at last to spread his smug cockney charm like herpes across the USA. Suddenly I can't wait to leave.
So that's pretty much all she wrote for this week. Off to the snows of Colorado later, for which I am ill prepared. However, if I invest in some long johns and whiskey, I should make it. If I get into trouble, they probably send those St Bernard's out to get you. Are you supposed to eat them? Yeah...
Until next time...
Byeloveyoubye xx
USA Email Series 21: Rusting knives, temper tantrums, the squirrel-o-meter and looking into the abyss
(First sent: 8th November 2009)
Greetings,
Like being stuck in a time warp, the summer is still clinging on grimly and refusing to segway into autumn. I know that one day I'm going to wake up to find 28 inches of deep set snow and the itch at the end of my nose turning out to be a gnawing frostbite that leaves the tip resembling a bears finger. Until that day, I'll content myself with sipping a cold glass of water whilst reading my book on the decking outside the hostel. Now if somebody would just go and get me a bloody sandwich, I might even be put in a good enough mood to start complimenting people on this email (but I wouldn't hold your breath).
Travelling from Memphis up into Nashville proceeded with no little stress, mainly because the wonders of the Greyhound bus transportation system once again leaving me searching for a rogue transient to insult, just so he would plunge a rusting knife into my cheek so as to distract me for one second from the awfulness of my plight.
I've ranted on this topic before, which is a shame really. Sometimes one should really save their pent up rage until they really need it. The first whiff of danger came early in the shape of our driver. He left us with literally no confidence whatsoever as we left Memphis late in the first place because he had neglected to park in the correct spot and the Greyhound staff had no idea the bus had arrived. He was dimly apologetic and as he made his sight and in no way convincing apology, I regarded his jowly features. His face was unusual and pockmarked by crags, so that he resembled a statue of a loaf of bread fashioned out of porous rock, sculpted by a blind alcoholic.
In total we were three hours late as our fearless driver decided to play 'chicken' with a large tyre that was abandoned in the middle of the road before realising, it seems only too late, that a tyre is an inanimate object (despite its intellect surpassing his own) and this was one battle he was unlikely to win. I seriously doubt if that man manages to win many of the daily battles in his life such as 'putting trousers on', 'making coffee' or 'not spending three hours head butting large pieces of concrete to see who cracks first'.
Sensing the whiff of danger and harnessing the extensive training delivered in both days of Greyhound Driver School, he pounced into evasive manoeuvres to avoid the tyre....
Oooh, no. Wait. I've got that wrong. He just drove over it. He then looked surprised that it had become lodged under the bus and was being pushed along the road by the axle of the vehicle. I would like to point out that this was an empty stretch of freeway, in case anyone wishes to leap to the defence of Greyhound drivers and suggest he could not have avoided it. This was a bloody large tyre too. God knows how it was on the freeway to start with. Probably some kind of 'Extreme sport' that will be appearing on ESPN 1354 in the new year.
After an initial scan by the bus driver and an attempt to push it clear with what I can only describe as a twig, he called for the mechanics who we were assured would be with us in thirty minutes. Two hours of waiting for them to show up and remove the tyre, (probably by throwing everything in his tool box at it until it popped) we were somewhat restless in the cheap seats (every seat) especially as our driver wasn't telling people with connections any information at all and just seemed very pleased that he would be collecting overtime money for his extended trip.
This feeling was made worse when one of the passengers approached the driver to ask what the hell was going on, only to be ordered to the back of the bus in the manner one might reprimand a 4 year old who demands a new Girl's World Head by throwing a tantrum in Toys R Us. Needless to say, when you patronise a mid forties, six foot four inch Amish guy, he ain't going to get up off the bloody floor and wait for Christmas.
As if to underline how ridiculous his response to our growing frustration was becoming, Mr Bus then proceeded to get on his mobile and loudly tell his superiors at the office that due to this childish altercation he no longer felt comfortable driving us and for them to send a new driver before we could continue.
I was watching with growing, wide eyed wonder at the escalating idiocy and trying to calculate how long that little changeover would take, only to see my amazement trumped once again, as the bus driver (still on his phone) walked to the back of the bus right through the middle of his irritated (and obviously not that intimidating) charges and do what a man has gotta do: lock himself in the toilet.
Yes, a man of approximately 50 years in age felt sufficiently threatened to lock himself in the toilet. Now. This wouldn't be so odd if we were seriously turning nasty and sharpening our teeth into fine points and breaking out the pitchforks and flaming torches. But trust me, this wasn't the set of a Biggie Smalls video, with people getting 'up in his grill' or preparing to 'pop da cap in his ass'. However, just to prove to you all just how docile we were, all I can say is this: I felt comfortable. I am the biggest coward ever and my built in 'run like a squirrel-o-meter' wasn't even on it's 'Code red-neck' setting.
We all looked at each other. We all, first, wondered if he just needed the loo. We waited. Messages that people could hear him arguing with his office filtered to the front of the bus. The suggestion of a hijack was made (Squirrel-o-meter upgrades to 'Amber'). Suggestion laughed off as the bloke who made it only had one foot and felt he needed the brake to ensure some safety (probably would go for that guy over our driver anyway - at least he would be alert). It became clear that unless he was really scared it was unlikely he needed forty five minutes to clear his bowel.
Eventually, he reappeared, obviously having had to describe exactly why he felt threatened and unable to continue to Nashville and being laughed at by his office and told to get the hell on with it, walked calmly to the front of the bus and off we went. The rest of the drive passed off with little incident, other than the fella sitting next to me continuously blithering on the whole way about how the world will end in 2012.
This theory he could support. It may come also as a surprise to you all that the devil is already among us. His theory was that as Mr. Obama is neither fully white, nor fully black this is evidence sufficient for him to believe he is the anti-Christ, here early to presumably check out the wine and cheese section of the menu before his 2012 feast of souls (Funny, my squirrel-o-meter seems to have burnt itself out from beeping repeatedly).
Well, after all of this giddiness, who wouldn't need a cake? Lucky for me that this hostel in Nash Vegas has a resident baker called Phil who prepares a minimum of 4 baked items per day (today: Cinnamon rolls and two apple pies). This has two advantages: 1. I don't have to spend so much on food, and 2. I get some natural, fruit based goodness inside me to delay colon cancer for another week.
Since being in Nash, I've had salad 3 times, fruit, fresh orange juice every day and not one single burger. My body has practically fallen in love with me, and I can't feel the throb in my kidneys anymore, like they were about to pop like a water balloon thrown by a bully at point blank range into the weakling child's weeping eye. Poor Mr. Liver has had a pretty easy time of it as late as well, so he might need some punishment before Music city is all played out.
So, with that in mind, you can take a closer look at my antics over the last few days in Memphis, as we ponder anew the week that was in my roundup of risible roamings. Come look into the abyss - and remember if you look into it, the abyss looks back at you... then kicks you in the goolies and runs away.
1. Went to visit the king in Gracelands and was slightly humbled by it. It's a large house but homely. You could actually see a real family living there, and it was a sweet and lovely place - a little bit tacky but a home. If you have a desire to feel like the apocalypse wouldn't be a bad thing, you can watch 'Cribs' on MTV and compare this homely feeling to the grotesque homage to commercial frippery that modern celebrities call their homes. Graceland isn't stylish (carpeted ceilings; nice) but it certainly isn't anything other than someones home.
2. Got a picture with Elvis. Even though he's under a bit of concrete he's looking good, all things considered. Actually, it felt a tiny bit weird to have a picture by a grave, but when will I get another chance? I don't think he'd mind, but it's not his problem anymore.
3. On Beale street I ate the kind of pork topped nachos that I could see myself marrying.
4. Had lots of fun just wondering the street and just diving into any bar that seemed to be playing good stuff
5. Had a very odd feeling at the Civil Rights Museum which is also the site of the murder of Martin Luther King. Being that close to history is disorientating.
6. Noticed that the man on the front desk of the hostel in Memphis was there 24/7. The man never sleeps, silently keeping watch over us, being a bit gruff, having limited English.
7. Most of my old counterparts at the Hostel I worked at in San Diego bid a fond farewell to the US. It's official now - I can never go back there. It just wouldn't be the same.
8. Noticed that I have yet to purchase a cowboy had. Not sure if this is something that can or should be rectified, but I fear it would be a shame not to.
9 Third night in Nashville and a campfire was lit. Obviously, marshmallows, beer pong and country tunes followed swiftly behind, before the whisky and flatulence were brought out (If you haven't seen Blazing Saddles, you've probably never lived).
10. Noticed that a full rack of ribs probably isn't very good for me, but does wonders for cultivating extra chins.
11. I'm getting quite a lot of wide eyed and respectful looks from people, when they ask me how long I've been out in the US. People are either in awe, or can't believe someone would be stupid enough to sleep in hostel beds for 5 months.
12. Watched a duck parade. A parade. Of ducks. Now that's big screen entertainment.
13. Saw some pudgy faced, knuckle eyed, absolute grunting hole of a man insult some street performers in Memphis, for no reason that I could figure. He did this right up until the point when they came over and he realised they were much bigger than him. I'd have given them an extra dollar for hitting him.
So there we are my lovelies. That's you almost up to date. I'll have a few more days larking about in Nashville before I move on. If anybody has any suggestions for places to head to before I depart these shores in a month, then give me a yell. Failing that, I might head to Portland and Salt Lake City. For no good reason at all. One month to go before I'm right back in your face, gettin all up in yo grill and dat.
Keep it real homeprides,
Byeloveyoubye xx
...how quickly a month passes...
Greetings,
Like being stuck in a time warp, the summer is still clinging on grimly and refusing to segway into autumn. I know that one day I'm going to wake up to find 28 inches of deep set snow and the itch at the end of my nose turning out to be a gnawing frostbite that leaves the tip resembling a bears finger. Until that day, I'll content myself with sipping a cold glass of water whilst reading my book on the decking outside the hostel. Now if somebody would just go and get me a bloody sandwich, I might even be put in a good enough mood to start complimenting people on this email (but I wouldn't hold your breath).
Travelling from Memphis up into Nashville proceeded with no little stress, mainly because the wonders of the Greyhound bus transportation system once again leaving me searching for a rogue transient to insult, just so he would plunge a rusting knife into my cheek so as to distract me for one second from the awfulness of my plight.
I've ranted on this topic before, which is a shame really. Sometimes one should really save their pent up rage until they really need it. The first whiff of danger came early in the shape of our driver. He left us with literally no confidence whatsoever as we left Memphis late in the first place because he had neglected to park in the correct spot and the Greyhound staff had no idea the bus had arrived. He was dimly apologetic and as he made his sight and in no way convincing apology, I regarded his jowly features. His face was unusual and pockmarked by crags, so that he resembled a statue of a loaf of bread fashioned out of porous rock, sculpted by a blind alcoholic.
In total we were three hours late as our fearless driver decided to play 'chicken' with a large tyre that was abandoned in the middle of the road before realising, it seems only too late, that a tyre is an inanimate object (despite its intellect surpassing his own) and this was one battle he was unlikely to win. I seriously doubt if that man manages to win many of the daily battles in his life such as 'putting trousers on', 'making coffee' or 'not spending three hours head butting large pieces of concrete to see who cracks first'.
Sensing the whiff of danger and harnessing the extensive training delivered in both days of Greyhound Driver School, he pounced into evasive manoeuvres to avoid the tyre....
Oooh, no. Wait. I've got that wrong. He just drove over it. He then looked surprised that it had become lodged under the bus and was being pushed along the road by the axle of the vehicle. I would like to point out that this was an empty stretch of freeway, in case anyone wishes to leap to the defence of Greyhound drivers and suggest he could not have avoided it. This was a bloody large tyre too. God knows how it was on the freeway to start with. Probably some kind of 'Extreme sport' that will be appearing on ESPN 1354 in the new year.
After an initial scan by the bus driver and an attempt to push it clear with what I can only describe as a twig, he called for the mechanics who we were assured would be with us in thirty minutes. Two hours of waiting for them to show up and remove the tyre, (probably by throwing everything in his tool box at it until it popped) we were somewhat restless in the cheap seats (every seat) especially as our driver wasn't telling people with connections any information at all and just seemed very pleased that he would be collecting overtime money for his extended trip.
This feeling was made worse when one of the passengers approached the driver to ask what the hell was going on, only to be ordered to the back of the bus in the manner one might reprimand a 4 year old who demands a new Girl's World Head by throwing a tantrum in Toys R Us. Needless to say, when you patronise a mid forties, six foot four inch Amish guy, he ain't going to get up off the bloody floor and wait for Christmas.
As if to underline how ridiculous his response to our growing frustration was becoming, Mr Bus then proceeded to get on his mobile and loudly tell his superiors at the office that due to this childish altercation he no longer felt comfortable driving us and for them to send a new driver before we could continue.
I was watching with growing, wide eyed wonder at the escalating idiocy and trying to calculate how long that little changeover would take, only to see my amazement trumped once again, as the bus driver (still on his phone) walked to the back of the bus right through the middle of his irritated (and obviously not that intimidating) charges and do what a man has gotta do: lock himself in the toilet.
Yes, a man of approximately 50 years in age felt sufficiently threatened to lock himself in the toilet. Now. This wouldn't be so odd if we were seriously turning nasty and sharpening our teeth into fine points and breaking out the pitchforks and flaming torches. But trust me, this wasn't the set of a Biggie Smalls video, with people getting 'up in his grill' or preparing to 'pop da cap in his ass'. However, just to prove to you all just how docile we were, all I can say is this: I felt comfortable. I am the biggest coward ever and my built in 'run like a squirrel-o-meter' wasn't even on it's 'Code red-neck' setting.
We all looked at each other. We all, first, wondered if he just needed the loo. We waited. Messages that people could hear him arguing with his office filtered to the front of the bus. The suggestion of a hijack was made (Squirrel-o-meter upgrades to 'Amber'). Suggestion laughed off as the bloke who made it only had one foot and felt he needed the brake to ensure some safety (probably would go for that guy over our driver anyway - at least he would be alert). It became clear that unless he was really scared it was unlikely he needed forty five minutes to clear his bowel.
Eventually, he reappeared, obviously having had to describe exactly why he felt threatened and unable to continue to Nashville and being laughed at by his office and told to get the hell on with it, walked calmly to the front of the bus and off we went. The rest of the drive passed off with little incident, other than the fella sitting next to me continuously blithering on the whole way about how the world will end in 2012.
This theory he could support. It may come also as a surprise to you all that the devil is already among us. His theory was that as Mr. Obama is neither fully white, nor fully black this is evidence sufficient for him to believe he is the anti-Christ, here early to presumably check out the wine and cheese section of the menu before his 2012 feast of souls (Funny, my squirrel-o-meter seems to have burnt itself out from beeping repeatedly).
Well, after all of this giddiness, who wouldn't need a cake? Lucky for me that this hostel in Nash Vegas has a resident baker called Phil who prepares a minimum of 4 baked items per day (today: Cinnamon rolls and two apple pies). This has two advantages: 1. I don't have to spend so much on food, and 2. I get some natural, fruit based goodness inside me to delay colon cancer for another week.
Since being in Nash, I've had salad 3 times, fruit, fresh orange juice every day and not one single burger. My body has practically fallen in love with me, and I can't feel the throb in my kidneys anymore, like they were about to pop like a water balloon thrown by a bully at point blank range into the weakling child's weeping eye. Poor Mr. Liver has had a pretty easy time of it as late as well, so he might need some punishment before Music city is all played out.
So, with that in mind, you can take a closer look at my antics over the last few days in Memphis, as we ponder anew the week that was in my roundup of risible roamings. Come look into the abyss - and remember if you look into it, the abyss looks back at you... then kicks you in the goolies and runs away.
1. Went to visit the king in Gracelands and was slightly humbled by it. It's a large house but homely. You could actually see a real family living there, and it was a sweet and lovely place - a little bit tacky but a home. If you have a desire to feel like the apocalypse wouldn't be a bad thing, you can watch 'Cribs' on MTV and compare this homely feeling to the grotesque homage to commercial frippery that modern celebrities call their homes. Graceland isn't stylish (carpeted ceilings; nice) but it certainly isn't anything other than someones home.
2. Got a picture with Elvis. Even though he's under a bit of concrete he's looking good, all things considered. Actually, it felt a tiny bit weird to have a picture by a grave, but when will I get another chance? I don't think he'd mind, but it's not his problem anymore.
3. On Beale street I ate the kind of pork topped nachos that I could see myself marrying.
4. Had lots of fun just wondering the street and just diving into any bar that seemed to be playing good stuff
5. Had a very odd feeling at the Civil Rights Museum which is also the site of the murder of Martin Luther King. Being that close to history is disorientating.
6. Noticed that the man on the front desk of the hostel in Memphis was there 24/7. The man never sleeps, silently keeping watch over us, being a bit gruff, having limited English.
7. Most of my old counterparts at the Hostel I worked at in San Diego bid a fond farewell to the US. It's official now - I can never go back there. It just wouldn't be the same.
8. Noticed that I have yet to purchase a cowboy had. Not sure if this is something that can or should be rectified, but I fear it would be a shame not to.
9 Third night in Nashville and a campfire was lit. Obviously, marshmallows, beer pong and country tunes followed swiftly behind, before the whisky and flatulence were brought out (If you haven't seen Blazing Saddles, you've probably never lived).
10. Noticed that a full rack of ribs probably isn't very good for me, but does wonders for cultivating extra chins.
11. I'm getting quite a lot of wide eyed and respectful looks from people, when they ask me how long I've been out in the US. People are either in awe, or can't believe someone would be stupid enough to sleep in hostel beds for 5 months.
12. Watched a duck parade. A parade. Of ducks. Now that's big screen entertainment.
13. Saw some pudgy faced, knuckle eyed, absolute grunting hole of a man insult some street performers in Memphis, for no reason that I could figure. He did this right up until the point when they came over and he realised they were much bigger than him. I'd have given them an extra dollar for hitting him.
So there we are my lovelies. That's you almost up to date. I'll have a few more days larking about in Nashville before I move on. If anybody has any suggestions for places to head to before I depart these shores in a month, then give me a yell. Failing that, I might head to Portland and Salt Lake City. For no good reason at all. One month to go before I'm right back in your face, gettin all up in yo grill and dat.
Keep it real homeprides,
Byeloveyoubye xx
...how quickly a month passes...
USA Email Series 20: Brown liquid, no necks, a solid basis and a years supply of hairnets
(First sent: 4th November 2009)
Good evening my friends,
And lo, it is with a mixture of regret, sadness and unerring terror that I leave Louisiana to head north(-ish). Destination: Memphis. As I write, I am sitting very comfortably indeed on the Amtrak train that is not only nutter free, but equipped with cavernous leg room and a cafe that serves up a brown liquid not dissimilar to coffee (NB, EU regulations refrain me from actually calling it coffee, but it's pretty close indeed).
It's been quite some time since I've splashed out on the comparative comfort of the train. Funds, schedules and a general tight arsed attitude meant that the Greyhound became the go-to choice for this weary traveller, but for once, like a shimmering beacon, the train came up with a decent price to match anything the Greyhound could offer and I was scooped up into a mythical world of reclining chairs, flushing toilets and rancid sandwiches for a sky high fee.
Travelling by Greyhound really is the pits, crammed into the tin casket, gasping for air like floundering codfish and being slowly refrigerated by the militant air conditioning policy. With these wonders to distract you, it's easy to forget that there is always a very strong possibility of the person sitting next you wittering on and on for the entire journey until you are left broken and sobbing, hoping that we might be approaching an American Air force base selling tickets for one of their popular 'Torture planes', which rank rather highly with me as an Easy Jet-like 'alternative' to bus travel.
Although technically heading North, it's important to point out that I remain firmly in 'The South', which I place in inverted commas, as many visitors from Northern states to New Orleans see 'the South' as a disparate nation, cut off and independent (or isolated, depending on your outlook) from the rest of the country, and the locals seem more than happy with that arrangement. Obviously, the events surrounding Katrina help to solidify this bullish viewpoint in the minds of the residents of New Orleans, but I think it's a harsh indictment on the richer states that they view 'The South' with such head pattingly patronising terms.
You can really only judge a place by the people who inhabit it and the experiences had. I'll freely admit that there is no way I'd walk alone around certain parts of New Orleans after dark, but that was true of New York. I'll also freely admit to being a middle class traveller who can drop in and out of a place on a whim and write a good 750 words trying to sum up an area for the amusement of chuckling readers from back home.
However, the people I met, who are proud residents of this city, are warm, funny, talkative and brash. After the hurricane, only about 55% of the people came back (this was a stat supplied by a tour guide who teases alligators with sticks, so perhaps not a very solid basis), which means that the people who do live in New Orleans must either love the place, or have so little that they can ill afford to leave and so must make the best of it.
So the 'us vs. them' attitude is most acutely seen in the reactions of the Northern state tourists who come into New Orleans - gawping at the broken houses of 9th street, turning their noses up at the ramshackle outskirts and pouring shoddy drinks down their throats and vomiting on the pavements of Bourbon Street. So it's all a bit like Telford town centre on a Friday night really. The locals need the tourists to survive, the tourists peer down their noses at the locals. It's a social melee that makes for a fun old cocktail of delights when some over zealous, bum wettingly irritating, college no brain, bowls into town to go looking for the booze.
I was lucky enough to be here over the Halloween weekend which offered some surreal images and, despite my initial thoughts that it might serve up more gaudy, guffawing, knucklefaced, square necked morons than a rodeo held in the playboy mansion, I had a wonderful time. My costume was thrift store based and my superb collection of $2 rags were only bettered by the make-up supplied by a hostel worker who is studying to be a Hollywood make-up artist. I went as The Joker (Heath Ledger version, as Jack Nicholson can never be topped, or imitated, by a mere mortal such as myself) and actually troubled some of the younger children on the street who were a bit freaked out by me, which is obviously the sign of a GREAT costume.
So, with my senses overloaded from the dizzying sights of Bourbon street, I begin my long journey North. The weather will be getting colder and colder from here on in, so expect my smugness to die down a little in future mails.
Picture me rummaging around the nether regions of my pack for a long forgotten hoodie to keep me warm as I huddle, Nanook like, under the wafer thin blankets dished out in a windswept hostel. I'll probably have visions of ghosts long departed appearing at the window, while you readers have my only my weekly roundup to haunt you from the past. Why not take a dip into my memory pool and have a good old rummage?
1. Overheard some guys from Alabama having an intellectual debate in the hostel on international and domestic travel - key quotations:
"Where you been then?"
"Hey, you got nothin' on me I been to LA"
"You aint never been to LA?"
"Sure I have: Lower Alabama"
I wasn't sure whether I should be very afraid, or worship at the feet of a comedy genius.
2. Went on an excellent swamp tour, headed up by Captain Jack, who knew everything worth making up about the swamp. The big 'gators are hibernating now, but some of the smaller ones came out to play, as well as a huge number of turtles who are so common, you stop noticing them after a while.
3. I then got the opportunity to hold a baby one after the tour, and I'm not sure who was the more afraid. Very soft skin though, the baby alligator. Someone should really think about making some items of clothing out of them, they'd make a killing. Hmmmmm...
4. Enjoyed a truly spectacular Po-Boy sandwich. Fried shrimp on french bread with all the sauce, hot and spicy fries, pickle... mmmmm-mmmm. I took a picture of it. I might take it to Vegas and marry it.
5. Met so many lovely people at the New Orleans hostel. Especially Earl. This is a guy who lives in the hostel and is so funny and warm that it's impossible not to like him immediately. I worry though because the guy is surely involved in developing a new brand of advanced medical science by attempting to use alcohol to systematically disassemble his liver without extracting it from his body. A sample exchange went along the lines of:
E: I'm so drunk. I really am
R: I can see that, Earl. So what have you been doing today?
Together: DRINKIN'
If it weren't so very sad that a lovely man will most probably kill himself it would be comic. But unfortunately, it's not. It's just heartbreaking.
6. We just pulled into Yazoo City, Mississippi. Wicked.
7. Bade a fond farewell to my short term travelling companion, Tyler. It was a bit weird to have an actual companion for the travelling side of the trip, as I mostly meet people when I get to a new town, then head in different directions. Nice while it lasted.
8. Found out that the selection of tat that I sent home by Fed Ex has been stopped by customs which will largely lead to a series of lengthy phone calls to dimple headed automatons telling me to 'have a nice day'. I guess that when you mail a package to yourself from the other side of the world, it looks a bit odd, but I can already envisage my furious phone calls. Damn you international border control for keeping our country safe - I just want an easy life.
9. Urggghhh, not so wicked. Yazoo City looks like one stop short of the tenth level of hell.
10. Favourite Halloween costumes: The complete set of Ninja Turtles (including Splinter, who, for those of you born earlier than the 80's, was the mystical leader of the Turtle brood. Who was also a mutant rat. Yes, it was crap), Rainbow Bright, anyone in a catwoman suit, and the bloke who came as a shower. Can't really explain that one, but I do have pictures to verify.
11. Had Mardi Gras beads launched at me from the balconies overlooking Bourbon Street. I found out that it was tradition for any well endowed female to respond to this by pulling their shirt up and treating the locals, to the sounds of much whooping and clapping. I found a slightly less favourable response when unleashing my puppies, but memorable nonetheless.
Well, that's pretty much all the news that's fit to print at the minute. I'm still getting the odd American based story from those with tales to tell, but there are some sorry and glaring omissions from people who I know could spin a good yarn. Time is on your side, but don't miss out. Write in within the next 20 minutes and you will also take away this beautiful 24 piece dinning service, as well as the mop and years supply of hairnets. Don't miss out on this fantastic offer.
And until next time; stay safe, miss you all.
Byeloveyoubye xx
...this mail represents an alarming foray into a sort of dim witted social commentary, but seeing as how I wrote it, I totally love it. In other news, the reason that Earl was always drunk is that he is actually dying, so is living out every moment exactly how he wants - with no regard for the rules. This news is very sad and I shall always remember him fondly for taking a bedazzled traveller under his wing and being very funny indeed. Cheers Earl. Hope the bar is well stocked, wherever you are heading...
Good evening my friends,
And lo, it is with a mixture of regret, sadness and unerring terror that I leave Louisiana to head north(-ish). Destination: Memphis. As I write, I am sitting very comfortably indeed on the Amtrak train that is not only nutter free, but equipped with cavernous leg room and a cafe that serves up a brown liquid not dissimilar to coffee (NB, EU regulations refrain me from actually calling it coffee, but it's pretty close indeed).
It's been quite some time since I've splashed out on the comparative comfort of the train. Funds, schedules and a general tight arsed attitude meant that the Greyhound became the go-to choice for this weary traveller, but for once, like a shimmering beacon, the train came up with a decent price to match anything the Greyhound could offer and I was scooped up into a mythical world of reclining chairs, flushing toilets and rancid sandwiches for a sky high fee.
Travelling by Greyhound really is the pits, crammed into the tin casket, gasping for air like floundering codfish and being slowly refrigerated by the militant air conditioning policy. With these wonders to distract you, it's easy to forget that there is always a very strong possibility of the person sitting next you wittering on and on for the entire journey until you are left broken and sobbing, hoping that we might be approaching an American Air force base selling tickets for one of their popular 'Torture planes', which rank rather highly with me as an Easy Jet-like 'alternative' to bus travel.
Although technically heading North, it's important to point out that I remain firmly in 'The South', which I place in inverted commas, as many visitors from Northern states to New Orleans see 'the South' as a disparate nation, cut off and independent (or isolated, depending on your outlook) from the rest of the country, and the locals seem more than happy with that arrangement. Obviously, the events surrounding Katrina help to solidify this bullish viewpoint in the minds of the residents of New Orleans, but I think it's a harsh indictment on the richer states that they view 'The South' with such head pattingly patronising terms.
You can really only judge a place by the people who inhabit it and the experiences had. I'll freely admit that there is no way I'd walk alone around certain parts of New Orleans after dark, but that was true of New York. I'll also freely admit to being a middle class traveller who can drop in and out of a place on a whim and write a good 750 words trying to sum up an area for the amusement of chuckling readers from back home.
However, the people I met, who are proud residents of this city, are warm, funny, talkative and brash. After the hurricane, only about 55% of the people came back (this was a stat supplied by a tour guide who teases alligators with sticks, so perhaps not a very solid basis), which means that the people who do live in New Orleans must either love the place, or have so little that they can ill afford to leave and so must make the best of it.
So the 'us vs. them' attitude is most acutely seen in the reactions of the Northern state tourists who come into New Orleans - gawping at the broken houses of 9th street, turning their noses up at the ramshackle outskirts and pouring shoddy drinks down their throats and vomiting on the pavements of Bourbon Street. So it's all a bit like Telford town centre on a Friday night really. The locals need the tourists to survive, the tourists peer down their noses at the locals. It's a social melee that makes for a fun old cocktail of delights when some over zealous, bum wettingly irritating, college no brain, bowls into town to go looking for the booze.
I was lucky enough to be here over the Halloween weekend which offered some surreal images and, despite my initial thoughts that it might serve up more gaudy, guffawing, knucklefaced, square necked morons than a rodeo held in the playboy mansion, I had a wonderful time. My costume was thrift store based and my superb collection of $2 rags were only bettered by the make-up supplied by a hostel worker who is studying to be a Hollywood make-up artist. I went as The Joker (Heath Ledger version, as Jack Nicholson can never be topped, or imitated, by a mere mortal such as myself) and actually troubled some of the younger children on the street who were a bit freaked out by me, which is obviously the sign of a GREAT costume.
So, with my senses overloaded from the dizzying sights of Bourbon street, I begin my long journey North. The weather will be getting colder and colder from here on in, so expect my smugness to die down a little in future mails.
Picture me rummaging around the nether regions of my pack for a long forgotten hoodie to keep me warm as I huddle, Nanook like, under the wafer thin blankets dished out in a windswept hostel. I'll probably have visions of ghosts long departed appearing at the window, while you readers have my only my weekly roundup to haunt you from the past. Why not take a dip into my memory pool and have a good old rummage?
1. Overheard some guys from Alabama having an intellectual debate in the hostel on international and domestic travel - key quotations:
"Where you been then?"
"Hey, you got nothin' on me I been to LA"
"You aint never been to LA?"
"Sure I have: Lower Alabama"
I wasn't sure whether I should be very afraid, or worship at the feet of a comedy genius.
2. Went on an excellent swamp tour, headed up by Captain Jack, who knew everything worth making up about the swamp. The big 'gators are hibernating now, but some of the smaller ones came out to play, as well as a huge number of turtles who are so common, you stop noticing them after a while.
3. I then got the opportunity to hold a baby one after the tour, and I'm not sure who was the more afraid. Very soft skin though, the baby alligator. Someone should really think about making some items of clothing out of them, they'd make a killing. Hmmmmm...
4. Enjoyed a truly spectacular Po-Boy sandwich. Fried shrimp on french bread with all the sauce, hot and spicy fries, pickle... mmmmm-mmmm. I took a picture of it. I might take it to Vegas and marry it.
5. Met so many lovely people at the New Orleans hostel. Especially Earl. This is a guy who lives in the hostel and is so funny and warm that it's impossible not to like him immediately. I worry though because the guy is surely involved in developing a new brand of advanced medical science by attempting to use alcohol to systematically disassemble his liver without extracting it from his body. A sample exchange went along the lines of:
E: I'm so drunk. I really am
R: I can see that, Earl. So what have you been doing today?
Together: DRINKIN'
If it weren't so very sad that a lovely man will most probably kill himself it would be comic. But unfortunately, it's not. It's just heartbreaking.
6. We just pulled into Yazoo City, Mississippi. Wicked.
7. Bade a fond farewell to my short term travelling companion, Tyler. It was a bit weird to have an actual companion for the travelling side of the trip, as I mostly meet people when I get to a new town, then head in different directions. Nice while it lasted.
8. Found out that the selection of tat that I sent home by Fed Ex has been stopped by customs which will largely lead to a series of lengthy phone calls to dimple headed automatons telling me to 'have a nice day'. I guess that when you mail a package to yourself from the other side of the world, it looks a bit odd, but I can already envisage my furious phone calls. Damn you international border control for keeping our country safe - I just want an easy life.
9. Urggghhh, not so wicked. Yazoo City looks like one stop short of the tenth level of hell.
10. Favourite Halloween costumes: The complete set of Ninja Turtles (including Splinter, who, for those of you born earlier than the 80's, was the mystical leader of the Turtle brood. Who was also a mutant rat. Yes, it was crap), Rainbow Bright, anyone in a catwoman suit, and the bloke who came as a shower. Can't really explain that one, but I do have pictures to verify.
11. Had Mardi Gras beads launched at me from the balconies overlooking Bourbon Street. I found out that it was tradition for any well endowed female to respond to this by pulling their shirt up and treating the locals, to the sounds of much whooping and clapping. I found a slightly less favourable response when unleashing my puppies, but memorable nonetheless.
Well, that's pretty much all the news that's fit to print at the minute. I'm still getting the odd American based story from those with tales to tell, but there are some sorry and glaring omissions from people who I know could spin a good yarn. Time is on your side, but don't miss out. Write in within the next 20 minutes and you will also take away this beautiful 24 piece dinning service, as well as the mop and years supply of hairnets. Don't miss out on this fantastic offer.
And until next time; stay safe, miss you all.
Byeloveyoubye xx
...this mail represents an alarming foray into a sort of dim witted social commentary, but seeing as how I wrote it, I totally love it. In other news, the reason that Earl was always drunk is that he is actually dying, so is living out every moment exactly how he wants - with no regard for the rules. This news is very sad and I shall always remember him fondly for taking a bedazzled traveller under his wing and being very funny indeed. Cheers Earl. Hope the bar is well stocked, wherever you are heading...
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Film Review: Where the Wild Things Are
Afternoon Kenny Bloggins,
Attached is my film review of Spike Jonze's new film. Why not take a read, go see it, then tell me how wrong I am before coming over to my house to spit in my face? Go on. It'll make you feel better.
Where the Wild Things Are.
Childhood nostalgia has, for many years, been a well mined area for Hollywood to exploit for commercial gain. The film adaptations of most of the Dr. Seuss works as well as versions of beloved children's television series such as Thunderbirds and Inspector Gadget were designed to tap into these shared recollections. Upcoming retoolings such as the A-Team and Knight Rider confirm that the trend will continue for a while yet, presumably until there is nothing left to film and everyone has to go back to making original cinema.
Repackaging nostalgic gems has been at the heart of blockbuster season again this year, with the G.I. Joe action figure getting the celluloid treatment. This followed on from the commercially successful, but almost unwatchable, Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. This tactic is aimed at the 25 - 30 year old movie going public who remember the subject matter from their youth and will curiously buy a ticket to see if the old magic can be recaptured on screen.
It's not surprising that in the current film making climate, where studios are looking after their budgets very carefully, Hollywood is not willing to take huge risks. As well as film versions of TV and literary classics, there are umpteen remakes of previous hit movies, exploiting movie going experiences previously held dear by film goers. These tactics mostly result in comforting profits, but films that are less than compelling artistically. The studios are looking after their financial success but flirting with creative bankruptcy.
So it follows that beloved children's literature will get the same treatment. Spike Jonze's adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are arrived on our screens to take us back to the world created in Maurice Sendak's beautifully illustrated book about an imaginative little boy called Max.
This very short tale tells of Max being sent to bed early as punishment for creating havoc in the house. In his sulk, he imagines himself transported away from nasty parents, to a forest world, where wild and incredible beasts roam. He quickly befriends the Wild Things who make him their king and Max and the Wild Things play in the forest, before Max eventually returns home to family and to his supper, which was still warm on the table.
The task in adapting this, mostly illustrated world, into a full working screenplay was no mean task in itself, especially as the source material contains fewer than 350 words. It has to be mentioned that the adaptation itself caused some post production controversy, leading to various re-shoots and issues with the Studio before it was finally released. Spike Jonze wanted to direct a very stylised and adult opus on the nature of childhood that made the studio wary of the film's commercial potential, as they saw the source material as something to be aimed solely at the children's market.
Despite these wrangles, you feel that Jonze stayed true to his vision, as the resulting film is difficult to categorise and it wrestles with who it's aimed at. Children will definitely enjoy the ideas of travel, fun and danger that come from Max's journey to the land of the Wild Things, who are all realised amasingly faithfully by the creators at the Jim Henson Workshop.
Yet the film does contend with some adult themes from the outset that the youngest of children might struggle to sustain interest in. In fact some of the issues are ones that will leave adults scratching their heads and wondering if the comforting children's story they remembered had such an intricate subplot the first time they read it.
The film begins with Max (newcomer Max Records) struggling to find meaning in a world that is changing against his will. In his heart he is still a boy, wanting to immerse himself in the world of the imagination and the world of play, yet he is growing quickly and finds himself in the awkward stage where the agonies of puberty are just around the corner and the veil of childhood is just beginning to lift. Max's sister is growing into her adolescence and her smashing of Max's fort sanctuary shows her disregard for his world. His mothers dating and work commitments mean that she can no longer devote herself to him as she did when he was younger.
His changes even manifest themselves physically, as when an argument between mother and son erupts he bites her, as he probably did as a younger child, yet now his growing physical strength causes him to hurt her sufficiently for him to be punished. Max's world is no longer one he can understand, and the spectre of age reveals many truths that he wished he could hide under the cloak of childhood fantasy. In a science class, his teacher reveals that one day the sun will die reflecting the notion that his endless summer of childhood will soon be replaced with the agony of puberty, lingering on the horizon.
Max reconciles this changing world by retreating into his imagination and creating the fantasy land of the Wild Things, his own personal Never Land, where he is the king and can run free all day with his friends. However, it's no coincidence that, like in Peter Pan, the Wild Things perpetual youth gives them the qualities of children we, as adults, prefer to forget - insecurity, arrogance, fear, frustration, bullying.
In Carol (voiced by James Gandolfini) Max finds a kindred spirit, the creative force of the group, with whom Max can live out his fantasies. Yet their relationship turns sour when Carol's childhood selfishness causes him to hold onto things too hard. As Max explores a desire to make new friends or act independently, Carol can no longer reconcile his friends divided interest.
When another of the Wild Things, KW (voiced by Lauren Ambrose), branches out of the insulated world to find a new path, Max begins to see how the adult world can hold as many possibilities as dangers. The more Carol becomes embittered and the spectre of his violence grows (echoing Max's own violent and selfish actions in the early part of the film), Max is shown the dangers and limitations of remaining a child forever.
Much like Wendy realises that Peter Pan remaining forever a boy condemns him to isolation, so too Max's own journey gives him the space he needs to understand that by remaining a child, he too will be stranded on the metaphorical 'island' of the Wild Things.
These subtle comments on the nature of childhood serve to pull apart myths about the wonder of youth and Jonze's use of a famed children's book that is tied up in many of the audience's own nostalgia's is an excellent mechanism to do this. The director entertains us by expertly depicting the freedoms of the imagination and evoking the exuberance of youth that for many people, the original book represents, then reminds us, much like Peter Pan does, that childhood can be spiteful, hierarchical, bitterly conservative and violent. He reminds us that to remain in this world isolates us forever.
Overall, this film wrestles successfully with both the freedoms and limitations of living in a world constructed solely in the imagination and the cruel necessity of growing up. As such, the film may never find the niche audience that the studio was looking for.
Despite this, it cannot be argued that Spike Jonze's picture doesn't both entertain and raise questions that the audience will struggle to reconcile. Wild Things has at least tried to re-establish the creative integrity of the Hollywood machine, giving it at least one hero to show for its efforts.
Attached is my film review of Spike Jonze's new film. Why not take a read, go see it, then tell me how wrong I am before coming over to my house to spit in my face? Go on. It'll make you feel better.
Where the Wild Things Are.
Childhood nostalgia has, for many years, been a well mined area for Hollywood to exploit for commercial gain. The film adaptations of most of the Dr. Seuss works as well as versions of beloved children's television series such as Thunderbirds and Inspector Gadget were designed to tap into these shared recollections. Upcoming retoolings such as the A-Team and Knight Rider confirm that the trend will continue for a while yet, presumably until there is nothing left to film and everyone has to go back to making original cinema.
Repackaging nostalgic gems has been at the heart of blockbuster season again this year, with the G.I. Joe action figure getting the celluloid treatment. This followed on from the commercially successful, but almost unwatchable, Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. This tactic is aimed at the 25 - 30 year old movie going public who remember the subject matter from their youth and will curiously buy a ticket to see if the old magic can be recaptured on screen.
It's not surprising that in the current film making climate, where studios are looking after their budgets very carefully, Hollywood is not willing to take huge risks. As well as film versions of TV and literary classics, there are umpteen remakes of previous hit movies, exploiting movie going experiences previously held dear by film goers. These tactics mostly result in comforting profits, but films that are less than compelling artistically. The studios are looking after their financial success but flirting with creative bankruptcy.
So it follows that beloved children's literature will get the same treatment. Spike Jonze's adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are arrived on our screens to take us back to the world created in Maurice Sendak's beautifully illustrated book about an imaginative little boy called Max.
This very short tale tells of Max being sent to bed early as punishment for creating havoc in the house. In his sulk, he imagines himself transported away from nasty parents, to a forest world, where wild and incredible beasts roam. He quickly befriends the Wild Things who make him their king and Max and the Wild Things play in the forest, before Max eventually returns home to family and to his supper, which was still warm on the table.
The task in adapting this, mostly illustrated world, into a full working screenplay was no mean task in itself, especially as the source material contains fewer than 350 words. It has to be mentioned that the adaptation itself caused some post production controversy, leading to various re-shoots and issues with the Studio before it was finally released. Spike Jonze wanted to direct a very stylised and adult opus on the nature of childhood that made the studio wary of the film's commercial potential, as they saw the source material as something to be aimed solely at the children's market.
Despite these wrangles, you feel that Jonze stayed true to his vision, as the resulting film is difficult to categorise and it wrestles with who it's aimed at. Children will definitely enjoy the ideas of travel, fun and danger that come from Max's journey to the land of the Wild Things, who are all realised amasingly faithfully by the creators at the Jim Henson Workshop.
Yet the film does contend with some adult themes from the outset that the youngest of children might struggle to sustain interest in. In fact some of the issues are ones that will leave adults scratching their heads and wondering if the comforting children's story they remembered had such an intricate subplot the first time they read it.
The film begins with Max (newcomer Max Records) struggling to find meaning in a world that is changing against his will. In his heart he is still a boy, wanting to immerse himself in the world of the imagination and the world of play, yet he is growing quickly and finds himself in the awkward stage where the agonies of puberty are just around the corner and the veil of childhood is just beginning to lift. Max's sister is growing into her adolescence and her smashing of Max's fort sanctuary shows her disregard for his world. His mothers dating and work commitments mean that she can no longer devote herself to him as she did when he was younger.
His changes even manifest themselves physically, as when an argument between mother and son erupts he bites her, as he probably did as a younger child, yet now his growing physical strength causes him to hurt her sufficiently for him to be punished. Max's world is no longer one he can understand, and the spectre of age reveals many truths that he wished he could hide under the cloak of childhood fantasy. In a science class, his teacher reveals that one day the sun will die reflecting the notion that his endless summer of childhood will soon be replaced with the agony of puberty, lingering on the horizon.
Max reconciles this changing world by retreating into his imagination and creating the fantasy land of the Wild Things, his own personal Never Land, where he is the king and can run free all day with his friends. However, it's no coincidence that, like in Peter Pan, the Wild Things perpetual youth gives them the qualities of children we, as adults, prefer to forget - insecurity, arrogance, fear, frustration, bullying.
In Carol (voiced by James Gandolfini) Max finds a kindred spirit, the creative force of the group, with whom Max can live out his fantasies. Yet their relationship turns sour when Carol's childhood selfishness causes him to hold onto things too hard. As Max explores a desire to make new friends or act independently, Carol can no longer reconcile his friends divided interest.
When another of the Wild Things, KW (voiced by Lauren Ambrose), branches out of the insulated world to find a new path, Max begins to see how the adult world can hold as many possibilities as dangers. The more Carol becomes embittered and the spectre of his violence grows (echoing Max's own violent and selfish actions in the early part of the film), Max is shown the dangers and limitations of remaining a child forever.
Much like Wendy realises that Peter Pan remaining forever a boy condemns him to isolation, so too Max's own journey gives him the space he needs to understand that by remaining a child, he too will be stranded on the metaphorical 'island' of the Wild Things.
These subtle comments on the nature of childhood serve to pull apart myths about the wonder of youth and Jonze's use of a famed children's book that is tied up in many of the audience's own nostalgia's is an excellent mechanism to do this. The director entertains us by expertly depicting the freedoms of the imagination and evoking the exuberance of youth that for many people, the original book represents, then reminds us, much like Peter Pan does, that childhood can be spiteful, hierarchical, bitterly conservative and violent. He reminds us that to remain in this world isolates us forever.
Overall, this film wrestles successfully with both the freedoms and limitations of living in a world constructed solely in the imagination and the cruel necessity of growing up. As such, the film may never find the niche audience that the studio was looking for.
Despite this, it cannot be argued that Spike Jonze's picture doesn't both entertain and raise questions that the audience will struggle to reconcile. Wild Things has at least tried to re-establish the creative integrity of the Hollywood machine, giving it at least one hero to show for its efforts.
Monday, 14 December 2009
USA Email Series 19: Radio silence, bits of wood, clockwork teens and my return date confirmed
(First sent: 29th October 2009)
Ahoy there, landlubbers
...and then there was: AUSTIN.
As you can probably tell from my radio silence over the last week, I have been assaulted by Austin like a newborn fawn that has just escaped from the womb just in time to be confronted by a dirty great hunter ready to pop the top off my mum's head with his shotgun like a one eyed hobo opening a coke bottle with his eye socket.
I haven't visited Austin, so much as been attacked by it but some great friends and great times have been had along the way. There have also been a reasonable proportion of outrageously grating, squawking, cretins typical of the sort who have illuminated my path throughout this country with their great bumwads of "insight" and "wit". However, this week I will make some attempt to focus on the positive side of things stateside, while only briefly zipping up the comforting sleeping bag of my rage and fury and wondering if humanity has only managed to stave off a man made apocalypse on purpose, to ensure I remain at fever pitch.
The town of Austin itself is a curious mix of influences that can, most obviously, be seen in Mexican inspired architecture and food and the Texan micro-breweries, sports and curb-knawingly dense locals. But, there is a cross cultural, as well as ethnic, divide which isn't only seen in the strained relationship between Texans and their Mexican roots but, as this is a University town, between Texans and the growing populace of intelligent and diverse people coming to the city and getting everybody spooked.
This growing city is developing as one of the cultural hubs of the US (much like Seattle was in the 1990's) meaning the "vibe" of the place can feel more like California than Texas at times (I'd like to point out here that, usually, anyone using the word "vibe" I would advocate being placed in a bath filled with wet concrete under a selection of heavy scaffolding while I loosen the nuts and bolts, but I make an exception because a) you all know what I bloody well mean, and b) I couldn't care less. Ahhhh, I feel the comforting arm of hypocrisy around my shoulders).
So in exploring the town, I have been joined by a squad of people who, between us, managed to pretty much take over the entire hostel and certainly add something different to the cultural melee of Austin. Well...only if sitting on your arse all day like flaky high school drop outs whilst secretly wishing the guy with the guitar would like their weapon of rock forcibly inserting up his rectum.
Why is it that every gathering of twenty something's now must include some trilby hatted, crooning mannequin, awaiting others to confirm their depth of musical understanding and commenting that any miscellaneous band are 'awesome, but I prefer their early stuff'. Presumably everyone else in the world finds this mildly less irritating than having their spine shattered with a bit of old wood, but not bloody me matey.
So we passed the time by enjoying the hostel's wonderful setting on the edge of the river, talking crap and telling jokes, whilst the evening was spend exploring the varied live music on offer in the town centre. That and crashing sorority parties hosted by over privileged, dancing clockwork teens in outfits tighter than what is medically acceptable for allowing productive bowel movements.
Unfortunately, these college imbeciles provided less intelligent conversation than a sandworm, but for some reason, their toothy grinned, embattled optimism was actually enjoyable if only to watch as, one by one, they fell on their own swords and passed out in pools of various bodily fluids whilst still humming Jay-Z tunes that must play on a constant loop though their 2-D minds. You have to admire people who use the word 'party' as a verb then are destroyed by eleven.
I find that pattern repeated more and more frequently throughout my travels in the US - people get ready, get perfumed and booted and then flake out by twelve, only to proclaim how 'wild' they are. If going 'wild' is to be running around, head butting concrete beams, pissing in the street and hollering like wolves at the moon, then, by jingo, wild I am not or ever want to be.
It was impossible not to have fun there, meeting as I did, several lovely people who took me under their wing, ensured I was fed and watered and generally having fun. We bonded and, despite our differences in background, experience, taste and ability to cook gumbo, we formed a tight band. Unfortunately, I'm sure that as we grew into a squad of about twelve people, we probably alienated other hostel dwellers. I would probably be announcing the unrelenting imbeciles who took over the hostel, if I were on the outside looking in. But I wasn't, and history is always written by the winners. Apart from Iraqi history, no doubt.
And, lo, the east wind did blow and it was time to leave for New Orleans. So far, the 'Big Easy' (not Ulrika Johnson - it's a real place! Can you imagine that! - exclamation mark used for purposes of sarcasm) has not revealed its charms to me in full, but I suspect that much like the downtown 'Hustler' bar, it wont take too much coaxing.
Well, I have had some busy times and am delighted to unveil their wares for you now, in the section of the mail I like to refer to as 'The Roundup'. Now, I'm aware that this would be a pretty oblique title for it, so I also refer to it as 'padding'. Which one is best? Neither, clearly, so I might end up calling it Susan and having done.
Goddamn email. Millstone around my neck. It's all your fault....
1. Really enjoyed the Viva la Vida festival in the centre of Austin. We were driven there by a very camp man, who did nothing to repel the stereotypes by confirming he was a masseuse. No 'extras' available (but I'm sure he has his price) despite the implied debt a free lift implies. The festival was a precursor for the 'Day of the Dead' so was defined by wonderful Mexican artwork, dancing, skeleton costumes and beautiful, red hot, foodstuffs.
2. Went to see Ghostbusters at the cinema. I say again. I went to see Ghostbusters at the cinema. Doesn't. Get. Any. Better.
3. ...or so I thought. It was in a movie theatre that sold beer, food and encouraged you to 'Quote-a-long' to the best lines in the movie. I swear, if I had wanted to, the whole thing would have been reeled off my tongue. Thankfully for everybody's sanity, I refrained.
4. Watched the largest colony of bats in North America head out at dusk from under a massive bridge in town. Impressive, but dusk once again foiled my attempts to take decent pictures. I swear, when the ozone layer finally collapses from excessive pollution, at least the extra light will make for an extensively recorded apocalypse.
5. Played 'shuffleboard' which is not some kind of homosexual prison slang, but a game similar to bowls in rules, but played on a board that is similar to a small bowling alley. Good fun, but entirely pointless.
6. Acquired a travelling buddy for the trip to New Orleans, which would have been fun, were it not for the awfulness of Greyhound journeys. I think I was about 20 minutes from losing the will to live. In fact, I'm pretty sure my brain has an 'auto destruct' as I swear I could hear ticking and 'abandon ship' warnings coming from inside my brain.
7. Declined the invitation to crash a frat party, only to be told later that the party contained real livestock as part of it's 'Cowboy' theme. Trying to release the frightened beasts from their over privileged, idiothole, captors might have been the highlight of the trip.
8. Received several complements from old school cowboys on my tan leather jacket. It will be burnt upon return for exactly that reason. Although it could be that my resemblance to cattle simply stirred the Texan into romantic thoughts.
9. Visited the woods. Not sure I ever came out.
10. Watched the parade at 'Viva la Vida' only to be pelted with hard boiled sugar sweets by little children dressed as skeletons. A whole new realm of bizarre.
11. Wished my big sister a happy birthday.
12. Made laundry my priority, only to fail at every turn.
13. Managed to FedEx some stuff home. My pack has gone from 'bigger than Jesus' to the weight of a starveling kitten.
14. Started a new book, only to be fairly embarrassed every time i whip out 'Lolita' on the bus. I don't want to be on the business end of a Texans ire for thinking I'm a 'petterass'
15. Was impressed by the lad who chose to sleep on the jetty rather than pay for another night in the hostel. I need to 'man up' and get into the wild.
So that be your lot for now guys. Thanks for the steady stream of American based musings from you all. They range from 'amusing' to 'funny' then all the way back to 'bloody brilliant'. Any of you, for whom your messages fall into the latter category might well find your tales reproduced in these mails as my own work. Because I Bcc you all in, you can complain, but frankly you might as well try to repel a hurricane by shouting at it. No-one will ever know.
See you next time. Don't have nightmares.
Byeloveyoubye xx
...I really loved Austin and was sorry to leave. Although my thoughts on New Orleans will be in the next mail, Austin was a better time for me. I made a group with some other travellers and we got each other through the day by waking each other up, deciding who's turn it was to cook and get beers. Then we'd crash on the lawn while we decided what to do that day. It was a good time and hopefully I'll be able to keep in touch with them all...
Ahoy there, landlubbers
...and then there was: AUSTIN.
As you can probably tell from my radio silence over the last week, I have been assaulted by Austin like a newborn fawn that has just escaped from the womb just in time to be confronted by a dirty great hunter ready to pop the top off my mum's head with his shotgun like a one eyed hobo opening a coke bottle with his eye socket.
I haven't visited Austin, so much as been attacked by it but some great friends and great times have been had along the way. There have also been a reasonable proportion of outrageously grating, squawking, cretins typical of the sort who have illuminated my path throughout this country with their great bumwads of "insight" and "wit". However, this week I will make some attempt to focus on the positive side of things stateside, while only briefly zipping up the comforting sleeping bag of my rage and fury and wondering if humanity has only managed to stave off a man made apocalypse on purpose, to ensure I remain at fever pitch.
The town of Austin itself is a curious mix of influences that can, most obviously, be seen in Mexican inspired architecture and food and the Texan micro-breweries, sports and curb-knawingly dense locals. But, there is a cross cultural, as well as ethnic, divide which isn't only seen in the strained relationship between Texans and their Mexican roots but, as this is a University town, between Texans and the growing populace of intelligent and diverse people coming to the city and getting everybody spooked.
This growing city is developing as one of the cultural hubs of the US (much like Seattle was in the 1990's) meaning the "vibe" of the place can feel more like California than Texas at times (I'd like to point out here that, usually, anyone using the word "vibe" I would advocate being placed in a bath filled with wet concrete under a selection of heavy scaffolding while I loosen the nuts and bolts, but I make an exception because a) you all know what I bloody well mean, and b) I couldn't care less. Ahhhh, I feel the comforting arm of hypocrisy around my shoulders).
So in exploring the town, I have been joined by a squad of people who, between us, managed to pretty much take over the entire hostel and certainly add something different to the cultural melee of Austin. Well...only if sitting on your arse all day like flaky high school drop outs whilst secretly wishing the guy with the guitar would like their weapon of rock forcibly inserting up his rectum.
Why is it that every gathering of twenty something's now must include some trilby hatted, crooning mannequin, awaiting others to confirm their depth of musical understanding and commenting that any miscellaneous band are 'awesome, but I prefer their early stuff'. Presumably everyone else in the world finds this mildly less irritating than having their spine shattered with a bit of old wood, but not bloody me matey.
So we passed the time by enjoying the hostel's wonderful setting on the edge of the river, talking crap and telling jokes, whilst the evening was spend exploring the varied live music on offer in the town centre. That and crashing sorority parties hosted by over privileged, dancing clockwork teens in outfits tighter than what is medically acceptable for allowing productive bowel movements.
Unfortunately, these college imbeciles provided less intelligent conversation than a sandworm, but for some reason, their toothy grinned, embattled optimism was actually enjoyable if only to watch as, one by one, they fell on their own swords and passed out in pools of various bodily fluids whilst still humming Jay-Z tunes that must play on a constant loop though their 2-D minds. You have to admire people who use the word 'party' as a verb then are destroyed by eleven.
I find that pattern repeated more and more frequently throughout my travels in the US - people get ready, get perfumed and booted and then flake out by twelve, only to proclaim how 'wild' they are. If going 'wild' is to be running around, head butting concrete beams, pissing in the street and hollering like wolves at the moon, then, by jingo, wild I am not or ever want to be.
It was impossible not to have fun there, meeting as I did, several lovely people who took me under their wing, ensured I was fed and watered and generally having fun. We bonded and, despite our differences in background, experience, taste and ability to cook gumbo, we formed a tight band. Unfortunately, I'm sure that as we grew into a squad of about twelve people, we probably alienated other hostel dwellers. I would probably be announcing the unrelenting imbeciles who took over the hostel, if I were on the outside looking in. But I wasn't, and history is always written by the winners. Apart from Iraqi history, no doubt.
And, lo, the east wind did blow and it was time to leave for New Orleans. So far, the 'Big Easy' (not Ulrika Johnson - it's a real place! Can you imagine that! - exclamation mark used for purposes of sarcasm) has not revealed its charms to me in full, but I suspect that much like the downtown 'Hustler' bar, it wont take too much coaxing.
Well, I have had some busy times and am delighted to unveil their wares for you now, in the section of the mail I like to refer to as 'The Roundup'. Now, I'm aware that this would be a pretty oblique title for it, so I also refer to it as 'padding'. Which one is best? Neither, clearly, so I might end up calling it Susan and having done.
Goddamn email. Millstone around my neck. It's all your fault....
1. Really enjoyed the Viva la Vida festival in the centre of Austin. We were driven there by a very camp man, who did nothing to repel the stereotypes by confirming he was a masseuse. No 'extras' available (but I'm sure he has his price) despite the implied debt a free lift implies. The festival was a precursor for the 'Day of the Dead' so was defined by wonderful Mexican artwork, dancing, skeleton costumes and beautiful, red hot, foodstuffs.
2. Went to see Ghostbusters at the cinema. I say again. I went to see Ghostbusters at the cinema. Doesn't. Get. Any. Better.
3. ...or so I thought. It was in a movie theatre that sold beer, food and encouraged you to 'Quote-a-long' to the best lines in the movie. I swear, if I had wanted to, the whole thing would have been reeled off my tongue. Thankfully for everybody's sanity, I refrained.
4. Watched the largest colony of bats in North America head out at dusk from under a massive bridge in town. Impressive, but dusk once again foiled my attempts to take decent pictures. I swear, when the ozone layer finally collapses from excessive pollution, at least the extra light will make for an extensively recorded apocalypse.
5. Played 'shuffleboard' which is not some kind of homosexual prison slang, but a game similar to bowls in rules, but played on a board that is similar to a small bowling alley. Good fun, but entirely pointless.
6. Acquired a travelling buddy for the trip to New Orleans, which would have been fun, were it not for the awfulness of Greyhound journeys. I think I was about 20 minutes from losing the will to live. In fact, I'm pretty sure my brain has an 'auto destruct' as I swear I could hear ticking and 'abandon ship' warnings coming from inside my brain.
7. Declined the invitation to crash a frat party, only to be told later that the party contained real livestock as part of it's 'Cowboy' theme. Trying to release the frightened beasts from their over privileged, idiothole, captors might have been the highlight of the trip.
8. Received several complements from old school cowboys on my tan leather jacket. It will be burnt upon return for exactly that reason. Although it could be that my resemblance to cattle simply stirred the Texan into romantic thoughts.
9. Visited the woods. Not sure I ever came out.
10. Watched the parade at 'Viva la Vida' only to be pelted with hard boiled sugar sweets by little children dressed as skeletons. A whole new realm of bizarre.
11. Wished my big sister a happy birthday.
12. Made laundry my priority, only to fail at every turn.
13. Managed to FedEx some stuff home. My pack has gone from 'bigger than Jesus' to the weight of a starveling kitten.
14. Started a new book, only to be fairly embarrassed every time i whip out 'Lolita' on the bus. I don't want to be on the business end of a Texans ire for thinking I'm a 'petterass'
15. Was impressed by the lad who chose to sleep on the jetty rather than pay for another night in the hostel. I need to 'man up' and get into the wild.
So that be your lot for now guys. Thanks for the steady stream of American based musings from you all. They range from 'amusing' to 'funny' then all the way back to 'bloody brilliant'. Any of you, for whom your messages fall into the latter category might well find your tales reproduced in these mails as my own work. Because I Bcc you all in, you can complain, but frankly you might as well try to repel a hurricane by shouting at it. No-one will ever know.
See you next time. Don't have nightmares.
Byeloveyoubye xx
...I really loved Austin and was sorry to leave. Although my thoughts on New Orleans will be in the next mail, Austin was a better time for me. I made a group with some other travellers and we got each other through the day by waking each other up, deciding who's turn it was to cook and get beers. Then we'd crash on the lawn while we decided what to do that day. It was a good time and hopefully I'll be able to keep in touch with them all...
USA Email Series 18: Norman Bates, pit helmets, Paint the World and sandy sliding
(First sent: 20th October 2009)
Saddle up you beautiful people,
Welcome all to this week's round up of my Texan adventures and, like a cowpoke in a brothel, I've come over all giddy at the prospect of sharing my wealth. The wealth of experience that is, that comes from spending any time in the lone star state.
This week I marvelled at the natural beauty of Texas whilst travelling through the huge landscapes, that go from horizon to horizon at times. It truly has beautiful views that bowl and rise across the horizon,giving the impression of passing through a desert of heaven.
Surely nothing can spoil the majesty of the jagged mountains of the Rockies, speckled by hawks and vultures that frequently hover above an unseen prey? Of course something can, and that's the unrelenting titery of the people who live here.
It's not that Texans are all bad, just living on a different plain of reality to the rest of America and the whole world. Hollow eyed and no necked, the average Texan wanders around, their minds seemingly struggling to comprehend the sights, colours and shapes their eyes provide, and after some confusion, settle on tethering their insecurities to semi-annoyance that such inconveniences as 'other people' and 'other ideas' exist and wrestling them to the ground then riding them around like cattle at a rodeo.
Take, for example, the owner of the hostel I'm staying at. Not withstanding that he lords over a hotel / hostel riddled with cats and peeling paint, he possesses the charm and easy going demeanour of Norman Bates having just lost a scrabble competition with one of the cats. He is a man of such petty annoyances that the inconvenience of people actually wanting to stay at his hostel, manifests itself daily in his fury.
The first indication of his fury came as I attempted to secure the whereabouts of his hostel. Alone and confused, I called him from the bus:
Me: I'm a little confused, which stop do I need to get off at?
Bates: (suffering sigh, followed by an inaudible..)New Bruninininnnfsffet (sic) and Carson.
M: Sorry..?
B: (pause, for effect) 'Humph' NEW....BRUNS....FELT....AND....CARSON
The self satisfied tit might have well have added "AM... I... GOING... TO... QUICKLY... FOR... YOU". I held my tongue
M: So that's New Brunsfelt and Carson, thanks very much.
B: Yes, hurry up, it's nearly time I left.
M: I'm on the bus now.
B: whatever, just make sure you are here before eight.
Charming.
Nothing like a warm welcome to a new city. So, I arrived (well before eight, despite temptations to wait outside until 5 to, just to make sure he didn't leave on time) and we began the tooth pulling that was checking in.
B: Name?
M: Richard, Richard Adams.
B: No. (What do you mean 'no', YES, THAT IS MY NAME) Reference number?
M: Sorry, I booked through Hostel World (a website for travellers)
B: 'humph' Well, sign in here.
M: This page?
B: Noooooo... this one...
And so it went on. The full process took about twenty minutes and I signed in on a grand total of three of the little pages of his book as he had no idea where to put me in his little book. Frankly, I was amused by his ever growing annoyance, which he seemed to think was somehow my fault. You should have seen his face when I enquired if there was Wi Fi. You'd think I'd just asked him to gold plate my room and allow me to use his open mouth as a toilet.
But my hatred of the Texan isn't restricted to stormin' Norman. Upon checking into a hostel that can only be described as a trainee prison, I was confronted with Rob. A Texan who actually frightened me with the singular determination that he was worthwhile. We chatted. Actually, he talked. And talked. I learnt, with some difficulty (due to his non stop monotone, white noise voice) that he was a poet so I cheerily declared that I went to school in Stratford. He immediately disappeared to his room and reappeared with about forty lovingly printed copies of some of the worst poetry this side of the Vogon's.
It was dross of the highest order. Really, really terrible. But being the polite chap that I am, I read with interest and learnt that he sells these around the town and his inspiration comes from the scriptures. It was the kind of poetry that imbeciles write for chav weddings. I think that a bit of sick came up in my throat when I read the one titled: LOVE. He pointed out that it was merely 'PART 1' ...don't you threaten me.
But, you have to admire the guy. Despite little or no talent, he was persistent in his efforts to sell me some and as I left for the night, he stated 'We'll don't say I didn't give you the chance to buy some. I always try to cut a deal' I'd rather he'd cut out the part of my brain that stores memories with a rusty masonry drill.
I don't mean to sound like a pompous asshole, scoffing down my nose (which I probably do, however, it's my email, so get bent) but there's something about people who choose to spread their life out to total strangers the second they meet them that makes them about as warm and cuddly as a razor blade flavoured hot chocolate. He was so assured that he even asked me if I had heard of him in my studies. Are you kidding? It would be like spending a term studying the jokes on lolly sticks, or a fine art student majoring in 'street vendors'. "No", I replied. "I hadn't".
The self assured nature of Texans that rubs me so far up the wrong way it practically puts me into orbit is true of in most of them that I've come across. From the bus driver who repeated EVERY message eight times, each repetition getting gradually slower, to ensure they were conclusively patronising, to the store clerk who insisted that the bus stop I needed was in precisely the wrong place. Physically, they are all identikit versions of each other. Not exactly fat but perfect rectangles, like they have been prepared for stacking and shipping off to the next town in the back of their monster trucks; trucks that, by the way, are seriously called names like 'Avalanche', 'Ram' and 'Rancher'. I was waiting to see a Ford 'Hugecock' or a Chevy 'Daterapist' chug past but I'm sure they are in production.
However, there is one exception to this rule. Just one. His name is Antonio. Although he lives in Texas he is originally from Kansas (which explains a lot) and for no reason at all took it upon himself to guide me around El Paso. We saw beautiful sights, mountains and the 'Amaaaasssssiiiinng' (sorry) New Mexico national park of White Sands.
OK, so he kept telling me how his girlfriend was 22 (he is at least 55), and that his Chinese girlfriend (another one - god knows how) had an excellent body (uuurrrrggghh. Get the drill again) but his wit and passion for the area he lived in was infectious. And the guy wore a Pit helmet. All the time. Without irony. A genius among psychopaths.
So, that's about it for today. Antonio and I are off to get married now, but before the nuptials perhaps you'll take the time to peruse my list of happenings from this week? Or perhaps not...
1. Was alarmed to read 'Missile test centre' on the way into the national park. My ability to run like a squirrel from danger at a moments notice might not be enough, especially with the American Army pastime that is 'friendly fire'.
2. Visited the Alamo and was a bit surprised that the 'battle that symbolises Texan strength'(TM) ended with everyone getting massacred by the Mexican army. Hmmmm. History isn't what it used to be.
3. Was overwhelmed by how good the El Paso art museum was. For a tiny, run down, town it was superb. I had a lovely chat with a very fat lady in the gift shop to boot.
4. Was underwhelmed by the 'History of El Paso museum'. I learnt they have an airport, and it's good for planes to land in. Whoop. De. Fookin. Do.
5. Noticed that, uniquely in San Antonio, only the ethnic minorities ride the bus. Everyone else has massive trucks. It's INSANE.
6. Was appalled by a sign outside a hardware shop that said 'Paint the World' and had a picture of a pot of paint being poured on top of a globe. The climate change crisis hasn't yet reached Texas it seems.
7. Perhaps this attitude problem is to do with Texan history, where I learnt that, after various battles with Mexico, it became an independent state with their own army. Maybe that has lead to a defiant attitude ('Don't mess with Texas') and feelings of separation from the rest of America and indeed the world.
8. Or perhaps they're just wankers.
9. They do have a lovely library in San Antonio and a beautiful city with some of the best architecture I've seen so far. A striking mix of Mexican influences and modern functionality. Or something.
10. My hostel in San Antonio can generously be described as 'crap'. It's attitude is summed up by self righteous messages (probably typed by Norm himself) such as 'This hostel has been established since 1983 with no help whatsoever from state or government funds'. A sad fact that would have had me weeping into the threadbare carpet or slitting my wrists into the filthy sinks were it not for the fact that they actually charge for the rooms. Poor them. No funding apart from the rates that they charge. Boo, and indeed, hoo.
11. Noticed the 'Davy Crockett Hotel'. Ah, dear, sweet America. Cashing-in as art form.
12. Had a lovely stroll around the river in San Antonio. Like I say, it is a lovely city. Apart from the people.
13. I can't do justice to my trip to White Sands with words. It was formed as the land dropped to form a bowl, about 10 million years ago, creating a crater surrounded by mountains which slowly filled to form a lake. The surrounding rock was eroded over time to form a seabed of gypsum and, now that the sea has dried out, what remains is miles and miles of sand dunes of pure gypsum. The shadows and sweeping curves against the backdrop of the mountains was superb (and made for some delectable pictures) especially at sunset...
14. ...and also, when sliding down them on the sledges that Antonio brought with him. Told you he was a legend. The sight of him bombing down a dune head first and crashing out will live with me forever. Genius.
15. I am experimenting with facial hair (what there is of it). Pictures coming up on facebook for you to add comments to. I might turn it into a Big Brother style vote on whether it stays or goes. As if I had any interest in your opinion anyway. HA.
So that's your lot. Ranting but secretly delighted with everything, I continue apace. Next up is Austin for what promises to be a very different and altogether more liberal side of Texas. Austin is famous for it's excellent music scene and I hope to God that the hostel is better. Can't be less welcoming than this toilet.
Until then, as always...
Byeloveyoubye. xx
...I met a Japanese gent in Denver who had been there and had also met Antonio. He was dragged into Mexico to meet his 'girlfriend' at the local strip bar. Funnily enough, my new friends English seemed to fail him when I asked what he got up to that night. Amasing how that happens...
Saddle up you beautiful people,
Welcome all to this week's round up of my Texan adventures and, like a cowpoke in a brothel, I've come over all giddy at the prospect of sharing my wealth. The wealth of experience that is, that comes from spending any time in the lone star state.
This week I marvelled at the natural beauty of Texas whilst travelling through the huge landscapes, that go from horizon to horizon at times. It truly has beautiful views that bowl and rise across the horizon,giving the impression of passing through a desert of heaven.
Surely nothing can spoil the majesty of the jagged mountains of the Rockies, speckled by hawks and vultures that frequently hover above an unseen prey? Of course something can, and that's the unrelenting titery of the people who live here.
It's not that Texans are all bad, just living on a different plain of reality to the rest of America and the whole world. Hollow eyed and no necked, the average Texan wanders around, their minds seemingly struggling to comprehend the sights, colours and shapes their eyes provide, and after some confusion, settle on tethering their insecurities to semi-annoyance that such inconveniences as 'other people' and 'other ideas' exist and wrestling them to the ground then riding them around like cattle at a rodeo.
Take, for example, the owner of the hostel I'm staying at. Not withstanding that he lords over a hotel / hostel riddled with cats and peeling paint, he possesses the charm and easy going demeanour of Norman Bates having just lost a scrabble competition with one of the cats. He is a man of such petty annoyances that the inconvenience of people actually wanting to stay at his hostel, manifests itself daily in his fury.
The first indication of his fury came as I attempted to secure the whereabouts of his hostel. Alone and confused, I called him from the bus:
Me: I'm a little confused, which stop do I need to get off at?
Bates: (suffering sigh, followed by an inaudible..)New Bruninininnnfsffet (sic) and Carson.
M: Sorry..?
B: (pause, for effect) 'Humph' NEW....BRUNS....FELT....AND....CARSON
The self satisfied tit might have well have added "AM... I... GOING... TO... QUICKLY... FOR... YOU". I held my tongue
M: So that's New Brunsfelt and Carson, thanks very much.
B: Yes, hurry up, it's nearly time I left.
M: I'm on the bus now.
B: whatever, just make sure you are here before eight.
Charming.
Nothing like a warm welcome to a new city. So, I arrived (well before eight, despite temptations to wait outside until 5 to, just to make sure he didn't leave on time) and we began the tooth pulling that was checking in.
B: Name?
M: Richard, Richard Adams.
B: No. (What do you mean 'no', YES, THAT IS MY NAME) Reference number?
M: Sorry, I booked through Hostel World (a website for travellers)
B: 'humph' Well, sign in here.
M: This page?
B: Noooooo... this one...
And so it went on. The full process took about twenty minutes and I signed in on a grand total of three of the little pages of his book as he had no idea where to put me in his little book. Frankly, I was amused by his ever growing annoyance, which he seemed to think was somehow my fault. You should have seen his face when I enquired if there was Wi Fi. You'd think I'd just asked him to gold plate my room and allow me to use his open mouth as a toilet.
But my hatred of the Texan isn't restricted to stormin' Norman. Upon checking into a hostel that can only be described as a trainee prison, I was confronted with Rob. A Texan who actually frightened me with the singular determination that he was worthwhile. We chatted. Actually, he talked. And talked. I learnt, with some difficulty (due to his non stop monotone, white noise voice) that he was a poet so I cheerily declared that I went to school in Stratford. He immediately disappeared to his room and reappeared with about forty lovingly printed copies of some of the worst poetry this side of the Vogon's.
It was dross of the highest order. Really, really terrible. But being the polite chap that I am, I read with interest and learnt that he sells these around the town and his inspiration comes from the scriptures. It was the kind of poetry that imbeciles write for chav weddings. I think that a bit of sick came up in my throat when I read the one titled: LOVE. He pointed out that it was merely 'PART 1' ...don't you threaten me.
But, you have to admire the guy. Despite little or no talent, he was persistent in his efforts to sell me some and as I left for the night, he stated 'We'll don't say I didn't give you the chance to buy some. I always try to cut a deal' I'd rather he'd cut out the part of my brain that stores memories with a rusty masonry drill.
I don't mean to sound like a pompous asshole, scoffing down my nose (which I probably do, however, it's my email, so get bent) but there's something about people who choose to spread their life out to total strangers the second they meet them that makes them about as warm and cuddly as a razor blade flavoured hot chocolate. He was so assured that he even asked me if I had heard of him in my studies. Are you kidding? It would be like spending a term studying the jokes on lolly sticks, or a fine art student majoring in 'street vendors'. "No", I replied. "I hadn't".
The self assured nature of Texans that rubs me so far up the wrong way it practically puts me into orbit is true of in most of them that I've come across. From the bus driver who repeated EVERY message eight times, each repetition getting gradually slower, to ensure they were conclusively patronising, to the store clerk who insisted that the bus stop I needed was in precisely the wrong place. Physically, they are all identikit versions of each other. Not exactly fat but perfect rectangles, like they have been prepared for stacking and shipping off to the next town in the back of their monster trucks; trucks that, by the way, are seriously called names like 'Avalanche', 'Ram' and 'Rancher'. I was waiting to see a Ford 'Hugecock' or a Chevy 'Daterapist' chug past but I'm sure they are in production.
However, there is one exception to this rule. Just one. His name is Antonio. Although he lives in Texas he is originally from Kansas (which explains a lot) and for no reason at all took it upon himself to guide me around El Paso. We saw beautiful sights, mountains and the 'Amaaaasssssiiiinng' (sorry) New Mexico national park of White Sands.
OK, so he kept telling me how his girlfriend was 22 (he is at least 55), and that his Chinese girlfriend (another one - god knows how) had an excellent body (uuurrrrggghh. Get the drill again) but his wit and passion for the area he lived in was infectious. And the guy wore a Pit helmet. All the time. Without irony. A genius among psychopaths.
So, that's about it for today. Antonio and I are off to get married now, but before the nuptials perhaps you'll take the time to peruse my list of happenings from this week? Or perhaps not...
1. Was alarmed to read 'Missile test centre' on the way into the national park. My ability to run like a squirrel from danger at a moments notice might not be enough, especially with the American Army pastime that is 'friendly fire'.
2. Visited the Alamo and was a bit surprised that the 'battle that symbolises Texan strength'(TM) ended with everyone getting massacred by the Mexican army. Hmmmm. History isn't what it used to be.
3. Was overwhelmed by how good the El Paso art museum was. For a tiny, run down, town it was superb. I had a lovely chat with a very fat lady in the gift shop to boot.
4. Was underwhelmed by the 'History of El Paso museum'. I learnt they have an airport, and it's good for planes to land in. Whoop. De. Fookin. Do.
5. Noticed that, uniquely in San Antonio, only the ethnic minorities ride the bus. Everyone else has massive trucks. It's INSANE.
6. Was appalled by a sign outside a hardware shop that said 'Paint the World' and had a picture of a pot of paint being poured on top of a globe. The climate change crisis hasn't yet reached Texas it seems.
7. Perhaps this attitude problem is to do with Texan history, where I learnt that, after various battles with Mexico, it became an independent state with their own army. Maybe that has lead to a defiant attitude ('Don't mess with Texas') and feelings of separation from the rest of America and indeed the world.
8. Or perhaps they're just wankers.
9. They do have a lovely library in San Antonio and a beautiful city with some of the best architecture I've seen so far. A striking mix of Mexican influences and modern functionality. Or something.
10. My hostel in San Antonio can generously be described as 'crap'. It's attitude is summed up by self righteous messages (probably typed by Norm himself) such as 'This hostel has been established since 1983 with no help whatsoever from state or government funds'. A sad fact that would have had me weeping into the threadbare carpet or slitting my wrists into the filthy sinks were it not for the fact that they actually charge for the rooms. Poor them. No funding apart from the rates that they charge. Boo, and indeed, hoo.
11. Noticed the 'Davy Crockett Hotel'. Ah, dear, sweet America. Cashing-in as art form.
12. Had a lovely stroll around the river in San Antonio. Like I say, it is a lovely city. Apart from the people.
13. I can't do justice to my trip to White Sands with words. It was formed as the land dropped to form a bowl, about 10 million years ago, creating a crater surrounded by mountains which slowly filled to form a lake. The surrounding rock was eroded over time to form a seabed of gypsum and, now that the sea has dried out, what remains is miles and miles of sand dunes of pure gypsum. The shadows and sweeping curves against the backdrop of the mountains was superb (and made for some delectable pictures) especially at sunset...
14. ...and also, when sliding down them on the sledges that Antonio brought with him. Told you he was a legend. The sight of him bombing down a dune head first and crashing out will live with me forever. Genius.
15. I am experimenting with facial hair (what there is of it). Pictures coming up on facebook for you to add comments to. I might turn it into a Big Brother style vote on whether it stays or goes. As if I had any interest in your opinion anyway. HA.
So that's your lot. Ranting but secretly delighted with everything, I continue apace. Next up is Austin for what promises to be a very different and altogether more liberal side of Texas. Austin is famous for it's excellent music scene and I hope to God that the hostel is better. Can't be less welcoming than this toilet.
Until then, as always...
Byeloveyoubye. xx
...I met a Japanese gent in Denver who had been there and had also met Antonio. He was dragged into Mexico to meet his 'girlfriend' at the local strip bar. Funnily enough, my new friends English seemed to fail him when I asked what he got up to that night. Amasing how that happens...
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