Buenos
Ding-Dong-Diddly Dias,
This is third in a series of what were weekly, now
bi-monthly, reports from across the pond. It is then,
by implication, also the last in the series, since the
warden's granted me a full pardon, my sentence has
been curtailed and I'm a-goin' home. Work (such that
it was) will end on Thursday June 20th. WooHoo.
First, a quick weather report. Since the snow-bound,
rain-infused and abortive attempt to visit the Grand
Canyon, this sun-drenched valley has enjoyed, or
endured, what a weatherman laughingly referred to as
"unseasonably warm" temperatures. Last Tuesday week
broke the city's all time temperature record for that
day in history at 105, a full 10 degrees above what
they usually get. Now, it hits triple digits as a
matter of course and nobody seems to care. My luck
just gets better. Still, mustn't grumble, it cools
right down to about 75 at night.
I must confess to being desperately pathetic when it
came to providing myself with adequate entertainment
over the last couple of weeks. In fact, this is the
reason I haven't mailed anyone for a while. Yet again
I buckled and gave in to my base instinct to zap
aliens and invested have invested in another game.
What is even sadder is that I knowingly bought one
that is, in almost all respects, identical to the one
I only recently used to kick collective commie ass
(local vernacular). Most weekdays were spent, once
again, saving the Earth's populace from a new and more
deadly threat than ever before, the great and very
evil Brotherhood of Nod.
The weekends have been used (equally wastefully)
trying to rebuild my now tainted reputation at the
local bar. I no longer drink so much that I fall over
on the way home. I now take a paper to read at the
bar, which tends to slow the drinking down a little.
It also annoys the hell out of the locals, who can't
quite work out why anybody would want to read, let
alone a newspaper. On reading it, I could actually
see their point.
It seems that along with all the other labour saving
devices that the yanks seem so fond of, the media has
attempted to become effort-free too. News is either
local or national but never international, presumably
to ensure the reader get a nice, warm, fuzzy feeling
of familiarity with the subject matter. Every
statement in it is explained to death - town names are
qualified by the state in which they reside, celebrity
names are followed by condensed biographies (Oh, THAT
Anthony Hopkins) and any attempt at humour is killed
at birth with a gentle but thorough explanation of the
joke at hand. Still, four pints in and it doesn't
really matter what the paper says. I get to a stage
where reading a particular word or phrase will start
my mind wandering off on a tangent, while my eyes
continue to doggedly pass over the words on the page
until they realize nobody's listening.
Still, I get to talk to different people there,
despite my best efforts. Last time, I got talking to
a bloke called Brian who was also from out of town,
Alaska actually. Turned out Big cigar smokin' Bri was
an A-10 Tank Buster pilot, the very same type of plane
that helped coin the phrase "Friendly Fire" in Kuwait,
if memory serves, but I didn't mention it. Nice
enough bloke, nicer than some South African git who,
earlier in the evening, insisted on leaning on my
shoulder at regular intervals and asking "What
y'readin' fur?". Git. Death's too good for him.
I actually made it back to Ol' blighty weekend before
last, which was nice. Janine and I spent it drinking,
shopping in Bond Street (window shopping as it turned
out), drinking and eating well (with drinks). Anyone
who finds themselves in the vicinity of Herne Hill
should really try the Three Monkeys, a restaurant that
does Indian food, reminiscent of Café Spice Namaste
(of Battersea and Tower Hill). Have a look at
TopTable.com for details. Check me out, Scottsdale's'
very own A.A.Gill
Speaking of Indians, the native American variety at
least, I treated myself to an afternoon at the local
Wild West recreation type theme park thing, called
Rawhide. It was, after all, a bank holiday weekend,
which meant an entire day extra to kill.
After you park in its ample car park and pass numerous
pioneer-style wagons with advertising emblazoned on
the canopies, you cross one of those covered "Madison
County" type bridges, filled with the sound from a
perpetually looped tape playing the theme from
Rawhide. I felt really sorry for the guy giving out
site maps at the bridge's far end, he must sleep at
night with the words "Rollin' Rollin' Rollin'" running
relentlessly through his mind.
There were the usual, but nevertheless impressive mock
gun-fights, with assorted falling to the ground,
falling from carts to the ground and falling from 20ft
roof tops to the ground. Three attempts were made on
the Wells Fargo offices that afternoon and three times
the gang failed in suspiciously similar circumstances.
The Wild West was obviously overrun with persistent
but unimaginative bandits and policed by cunning but
slow law men.
I continued up Main Street, whose naming seemed
redundant since it could have been more accurately
called Only Street. Still, it was all very authentic
and even had jug-band music surreptitiously piped
wherever you went. Halfway up the street, someone
describing herself as "Pistol Packing Paula" was
announcing that her show was to start in 5 minutes. I
made my way to the area to which she'd directed the
crowds and found a small, six-inch high wooden stage.
In front of it were four empty rows of hay bales that
were to act as seating, optimistically arranged in a
semi-circle so that the entire crowd could see Paula's
skillful demonstration. I stood in the shade of the
"Pan for Gold for $1" stall, which was right next to
Paula's spot.
By the time the show eventually started, Paula's
audience consisted of me, a guy stood in the shade
next to me who hadn't realized that Paula was on, but
was happy to cool his hands in the panning stream
anyway, and two 5 year old kids. They sat next to
each other but 3 hay bales from the front of the
stage, obviously so as not to draw attention to
themselves.
As she started her show, Paula pulled the pistol from
her right holster, twirled it around her finger flung
it in the air a bit, twirled it a bit more and then
deftly returned it to its holster with an encouraging
"Yeah!". The kids and I golf-clapped politely and
Paula, being the professional that she is, took a bow
and then attempted to wow her appreciative audience
and really turned up the juice by doing exactly the
same thing, but with this time with both pistols.
Mid way through this seemingly endless gun-twirling
tirade, one of the kids stood up and said to her
"Where's the Train?". She looked a little shocked, as
we all did, but she kept twirling and asked him what
he meant, to which he said "You said that there was a
train ride." The kid was either totally insane, or
his dad had lied to the kids to make them sit still
for a minute or two. They seemed to think Paula was
the entertainment for the crowds waiting to get on a
train roller coaster. Refusing to be phased, Paula
continued her gun twirling while giving the 5 year-old
directions on how to get to the train ride, nodding to
indicate the approximate direction.
I felt sorry for her, so I stayed until she'd
finished. Don't know what I expected, I really don't
know what the kids expected, except for a train ride
obviously.
More enjoyable was the authentic Native American hoop
dancing. A young lad in feathers and warrior dress
used small hula-hoops to make shapes around his torso
as he danced and jumped around. He made those "get
the hoop off the chain" type puzzles look simple as he
intertwined the hoops around themselves and himself,
while at the same time jumping and dancing to a tune
that some old toothless squaw chanted while she beat a
drum. I think "tune" is being kind, since it required
the drum to be hit with the same 4/4 rhythm throughout
its entirety and the only lyric was "Ya" repeated
infinitum. The lad seemed to like it though.
He manipulated the hoops and put them around his
shoulders and made all sorts of impressive shapes with
them while a toothed squaw called out the names of the
displays. There were arrangements such as the Bird,
the Flower and the Rock, all very impressive. "Has
Many Teeth" went on to describe an arrangement of
three spheres that "Jumps to Crap Song" had cleverly
made (using 5 hoops per heavenly body) as The Sun, The
Earth and The Moon. Once the arrangement had been
completed, The Moon unfortunately collapsed and a wry
giggle was to be detected mid song in "Drums
Constantly Despite Being Smacked In Mouth"'s voice I
suppose you had to be there, which I'd recommend.
Finally, indoors, there was a play - a one-man show
where the man in question was supposed to be Buffalo
Bill (1846 - 1917), or William Cody to his mates. The
play wasn't really a regular part of the park; it was
just doing a 6-week run there before going on to
bigger and better places. I could see why someone
would want to get some practice in presenting it
though, I don't know how he managed to remember an
hour's worth of talking with no other actors to feed
off or to give him a rest, while still keeping it
interesting and entertaining. It was informative too
- I didn't realize Bill only died in 1917; he was a
state senator and a successful showbiz bod, all after
having being an Injun-scalping rootin-tooting wild
west type person. Hey ho.
So, that's it for the final installment of "Tales of
the Unexcited". As I mentioned, my time here's done
on Thursday June 20th. From here I'm flying out to LA
to meet Janine there, since on the Friday morning we
are booked to fly to Mexico for a week's holiday.
We'll use Guadalajara as a base and hopefully get to
see some Aztec (or is it Mayan?) pyramids (are they
close at all? - will have to find out), drink lots of
tequila and Corona and meet a plethora of amigos and,
by all accounts, a good few mouthy, overweight, loudly
dressed gringos too.
We're booked to fly back to LA on Friday 29th and then
straight out from there (with 2 hours to spare) to
London. Not that interesting, but the funny bit is
that I'll be using my work-paid ticket to get back, so
even though we'll be on the same plane from LA to
London, I'll be in business class and Janine will be
in steerage.
Mmwwuh... Mmmwwwuuh... MmmWwwaaaHahahahaaaaaa. Hmmmm.
Have promised to smuggle the odd bottle of wine to the
back of the plane already.
So, we'll be back to London for good on Saturday June
30th. Looking forward (lots) to seeing y'all.
Anyone fancy a Guinness?
Paul.
(a.k.a Wob)