Saturday 4 October 2003
The Wise Woman of Wigan came round to celebrate mine and the Ugly One's birthdays.
The UO had bought me a copy of 'The Singing Ringing Tree' which those of you
of a certain age may well remember from your youth.
I always thought that the tree itself was larger and more glorious, rather
than something which looked as if it had been smuggled out of Homebase under
someone's cardigan.
Wednesday 15 October 2003
The Ugly One and I were up at 6.30 with the lark and he came with me to Heathrow
(bless him). Unfortunately there were queues for all the places where you
could buy sausages so we ended up having cappuccinos in one of those fake
pub places the names of which are usually wittily designed to fit the location,
like 'The Cockpit and Sickbag' or 'The Dunny and Spake-Shovel.'
With a sense of trepidation I checked my bags in and boarded the plane, having
discovered that the metal detecting door of doom did not pick up my nipple-ring.
That didn't inspire confidence. For all I knew someone from Al-Qaeda could
be sitting behind me with a Prince Albert of Mass Destruction. I was even
more disturbed by the selection of in-flight films which boasted nothing more
challenging than 'Johnny English'
I was sitting next to a very nice woman from Virginia who showed me a map
of the US and pointed out the states which had nice scenery. Virginia and
Wyoming seem to be the places to go.
The screen on the back of the seat in front of me had a function by which
one can track the progress of the flight. As the little cartoon plane hovered
over Washington I suddenly realised that Virginia was beneath us, as were
the Blue Ridge Mountains, which I duly pointed out on the map to my companion.
'They're very beautiful!' she said.
'I only know them from the song.' I said.
'What song?'
'The Trail of The Lonesome Pine!' I replied.
'I don't know that one,' she said. I was shocked to my very core!
'It's from the Laurel and Hardy film... 'Way Out West'' I replied in a tone
which implied she should know this as well as a British person should know
Monty Python's Lumberjack song, but her eyes had glazed over and I got the
impression she'd drifted off to think about pies, or whatever the US equivalent
might be.
US immigration - as a result of 9/11 - is a bit of a nightmare. On the plane
I had to fill out a form which asked me, amongst other things, whether I had
been involved in genocide between 1933 and 1945. One has to tick a box to
answer 'Yes' or 'No'. I wonder if there are many people who, like me, have
been sorely tempted to tick the 'Yes' box.
They also asked if I had ever been arrested for an act of moral turpitude.
I remember being applauded for it at least once but there was no box for that
so I ticked 'No'.
A very nice man at Customs grilled me as to why I wanted to visit the US,
in a tone which implied that they couldn't really understand why anyone would
wish to, and then I was off to the next level of security where I had to divest
myself of coat, belt and boots, then pad in my socks through the metal-detecting
door of doom (nipple still not responding) after which I was told to report
(with my bags) to a nice young man at desk No 2, who, ominously enough, was
already wearing rubber gloves.
'Hello,' I said.
'Hello,' he said and snapped the rib of his glove against his wrist. 'I'm
just going to give you a rectal examination!'
'Oh!' I said, looking a little aghast. 'Really?'
'Nah!' he said, 'I'm kidding. I just need to look in your case.'
Boo! Why do they raise my hopes?
Finally I was allowed through and given the freedom to roam Washington airport.
As airports go, it's dull. Evil smokers like me who have been forced to breathe
nasty clean air for eight hours have to go into a glass cage in the middle
of the airport in order to have a cigarette. I think the holding cells at
Guantanemo Bay were based on this design.
After another two hour flight I landed in Orlando, and was very glad to see
Mr Soprano in his nice maroon car, ready to take me home.
Thursday 16 October 2003
I am in Florida and suffering from culture shock.
Americans are strange, but then you knew that already. Some, like Mr Soprano,
are strange in a nice way. The rest are just... well... strange.
Mr S, bless him, had recorded 'Days of Our Lives' for me so that I could catch
up with what became my favourite soap until the British Powers-That-Be cancelled
it from our schedules.
A serial killer is stalking Salem, which is always a good thing when contracts
are up for renewal.. Poor Abe Carver - who it has to be said was the oldest
and campest police-chief in the US - has been murdered. While I was watching,
someone crept up behind Jack Devereaux and hit him over the head with a glowing
brick. It was not explained why the brick glowed. It just did.
Jack - as was to be expected - went into a coma.
Since I last saw the show, Doctor Marlena Evans has acquired two extra children,
although it seems they may not actually be hers, and Philip the drippy Wet-Lettuce
has had a complete body transplant and is now not only hunkier spunkier and
un-lettuce-like, but can act!
John Black's eyebrows are still, I am glad to report, as mobile, expressive
and self-aware as ever.
Hoorah!
So... Mr S and I picked up his mate Kevin from the airport and we set off
to The Philadelphia Motel (The P-House) in Orlando. They have a nightclub,
a bar, a theatre, a restaurant, a lake, and transsexual housekeepers, so there's
something for everyone.
Sunday 19 October 2003
On the whole, I enjoyed BearBust which, for the uninitiated, is a four day
convention of gay hairy people. I bought a naked calendar for the Ugly One
and had it signed by some of the men who feature therein, and a book of Bear
Cookery, only afterwards discovering to my disappointment that there is not
one recipe for cooking Bear.
I even performed the traditional ritual of pissing on the fence of the Full
Moon Saloon which is an activity not only encouraged, but more or less compulsory.
The only low-point of the weekend was the Bear contest or, more specifically,
the compere. Bobba-Lou was a comedian so soporific that I am sure he must
have had 'May Cause Drowsiness' tattooed on his arse.
His entire 'act' was simultaneously 'signed', presumably to ensure that deaf
people were not misled into thinking his performance might have contained
some measure of entertainment value.
At this point I started drinking heavily.
Eventually the horror was over and Bobba-Lou gestured with his microphone
to the poor signer.
'Please give some love..' ('Give him some love' is a favourite phrase of Bobba's)
'.. to my friend here, who has been working really hard all evening.'
'Yes,' I shouted, 'And he was funnier than you!'
We adjourned to the P-House theatre/night club where a huge black drag queen
revived my faith in American performers. I'm not usually a big fan of drag
queens but I have to take my hat off to this one. In stark contrast to Bobba
Lou she was both professional and hysterically funny. One wonders why they
didn't just ask her to do the Bear Contest rather than Bobba Lou who I suspect
had been signed up for the event just because he has a goatee, his own microphone
and a discernible belly.
We got home to find two men - one of whom we had met earlier - entwined on
one of the beds in our room and fast asleep. I took several photographs before
waking them up. It appears that Kevin had allowed them the use of the room
before disappearing into the night.
The cheeky monkey.
When the pair woke up one of them immediately gave me his card and said 'Keep
in touch' before buggering off.
I am not familiar with this novel form of introduction. It must be an American
thing.
Tuesday 21 October 2003
I'm sure I would get lost in Florida if I hadn't had a guide. Everywhere looks
the same. Today we indulged in one of my favourite pastimes - shopping.
Over the weekend - to detox myself of some of the Fisher-Price music I'd had
to listen to - I'd bought some CDs of Marilyn Manson, Tom Waits and Frank
Zappa. Now it was time to have a look at the DVDs.
While wandering around one store my eye was caught by a brightly-coloured
case and I was drawn by a power unknown to an entire section of 1950s B-movies,
all priced at $5.95.
It was like dying and going to Heaven.
I came away with 'Rocky Jones - Space Ranger', 'The Mad Monster', 'Beast From
Haunted Cave', 'The Giant Gila Monster', 'The Wasp Woman' and 'Attack of The
Giant Leeches.'
Hoorah!
Wednesday 22 October 2003
In 'Days of Our Lives' Jack's contract remained comatose so Jennifer was forced
to switch off his winky-blinky chirpy-burpy cheep cheep beeping life-support
machine, after which old Mrs Horton was visited by the ghost of her dead husband.
Maggie, who had been suffering from amnesia, suddenly had a flash of clarity
in the final minutes and stuttered...'I remember....I know who the killer
is...'
Unfortunately, as I have to leave tomorrow, I may never find out.
Tarnation!
Tonight, Mr S and his partner Joe took me to Universal Studios to experience
their Halloween Nights of Horror. They certainly know how to put on a show.
Evil goblins and giants jumped out at us from dry-ice fog and crazy organ
music played as fairground rides circled empty in the dark.
We saw the Lizard Man, who has had his tongue split and his body tattooed
with green scales, and went on a 3D spiderman ride, which is the nearest thing
I've experienced to Virtual Reality.
Friday 24 October 2003
I bid Florida a tearful farewell and am now home after a distinctly tedious
flight through the night. I stopped off in Chicago where one is not allowed
to smoke at all and so found myself at Heathrow furiously puffing on a cigarette
at the bus-stop outside before going back in to get the Tube home.
The Ugly One was waiting for me with copious amounts of coffee. He was grateful
for his pressies, which included some night-light lamps from Mr S, a home-made
lewd t-shirt, a wrought-iron lizard and a set of Iraqi death-cards.
And people say we are difficult people to buy presents for!
