Adventures in Mediocrity
Springtime for Hitler
To the theatre on Tuesday with my latest squeeze, the Doctor, for the opening night of The Producers. Tony Award-winning Nathan Lane and Hollywood's Matthew Broderick? No, I'm A Celebrity-winning Joe Pasquale and panto's Allan Stewart.
The Doctor had spring this on me at the last minute and despite not being a huge fan of musical theatre I agreed to go. (The Doctor claims not to be a big fan either but that DVD collection tells its own story.)
Afterward he asked if he could smugly tell me "I told you you'd like it".
Well, yes and no.
I do like the big production numbers like Springtime for Hitler but I find the solos and duets a little boring. If there are no flashing lights, counter-melodies and jazz hands, I find it hard to concentrate. That said, I did have a good night, despite the tired hurdy-gurdy Swedish jokes and Pasquale's risible Amercian accent.
Hands up if you Hate 20Six
It just deleted my last entry before I could even get it posted. Actually, that might have been my computer's fault but there's no need to apportion blame where it belongs when you can irrationally blame a shitty blog site.
Leon v The White Beast
My foster-cat Leon has been a bit skittish about going outside ever since the first time I let him out and he disappeared for 24 hours, so whenever he shows any inclination to go out I've got that door open in a flash.
He went out last night just before I went to bed.
Then at about 12.36am I was awoken by the most unearthly howling. This was not the low, plaintive moan he usually employs when he wants something. No, this was a loud, high-pitched neighbour-wakening shriek. That went on and on and on. Terrfied of what was afoot, I quickly jumped into a pair of mismatching shoes and dashed to the external back door.
To discover the jet-black Leon engaged in a tussle with his arch-nemesis (and supsected cause of aforesaid skittishness), a large, ugly, mean-looking pale feline, known only as the White Beast.
As far as I could tell, Leon was giving a good account of himself in this inverted battle of good v. evil. Nevertheless, I leant a hand and chased the White Beast off. No so brave now!
Leon hasn't been back out since then.
Cultural Learnings of America
Cars - by God, that is a nation built entirely around the motor vehicle. So much so that I wonder how they would cope with out them. I think their economy and society in general might collapse. Imagine they had to pay what we do for petrol and not a quarter of the price.
I realise it is only relatively recently that it became illegal here to use a mobile whilst driving but it was still a strange sight to see there. I took four cabs in my time there - on all but one occasion the driver answered a call whilst driving.
Commercials - there are a lot of these on US TV. A lot. And they come without warning. One minute you're watching some instense drama and then suddenly, it's the new Subaru or a cure for Restless Leg Syndrome.
In the mornings, every other commercial is either for a car or a car dealership. In the afternoons it's all prescription drugs that you are encouraged to ask your doctor about. Of course, the first five seconds of these commercials is given over to the benefits of the drug, the remaining 25 seconds to listing the people it may not be suitable for (generally expectant mothers and people with liver problems) and the various and usually numerous side effects - my favourite was the sleep aid that listed as its only side effects "May cause tiredness or drowsines."
Fast food also features heavily.
News - they have a lot of news. Almost as much news as they have commercials. And in an attempt to compete with the other news stations, it's all very sensationalist reporting. They seem to have a lot of very right wing pundits, next to no foreign news (unless it relates directly to the US) and a curiously editorialised approach to stories - here Iran's nuclear enrichment programme is presented as a possible cause for concern; there, it's presented as the opening gambit of the Third World War.
Throwaway Society - in my hotel in Miami breakfast was served on a plastic plate and juice in a polystyrene cup. At the end of the meal, everything, cup and plate included, got thrown away.
Meat - almost as much as they love cars, this nation loves meat. I'm always astounded how awkward it is being a vegetarian in America. It's next to impossible to buy so much as a sandwich that does have meat in it. At my hotel in Palm Beach everything on the breakfast menu included meat (generally of the pig variety). When I asked for just some scrambled eggs and toast the waiter felt compelled to double check that I didn't want ham, bacon or sausages.
Grits - a curious food substance. Not at all what I was expecting and to be honest, not very tasty.
The Year of Weddings Draws to a Close
I am now five for five with weddings this year.
After a few days in Miami Beach, I headed north to Palm Beach, where my Amercian friend Z was getting married at the lavish Ritz-Carlton Hotel.
When I asked the manager of my hotel how to get to Palm Beach he started rhyming off road directions. I had to stop him and point out that I didn't have a car. He gave me a look of incomprehension bordering on distaste and told me "Well then I can't help you." His only further advice was to get a cab. I don't care what kind of exchange rate we're getting to the dollar at the moment, there was no way I was taking a cab all the way to Palm Beach.
Instead, I took a cab to a railway station in Miami ($31) and then took a one and a half hour train journey to Palm Beach ($5.50). My hotel was really more of a motel, one that had seen better days. I might use the term faded glory but glory would probably have been a bit generous. Nevertheless, it was clean(ish) and had air-conditioning - when you have a pathological fear of being too hot and borderline OCD, those are the two most important things. Plus, it was right on the beach (sadly their beach access was out of commission because the bottom part of the stairs had been damaged by a storm - I had to use the public access! The indignity) and they upgraded me for no real reason to a suite with a king-size bed. The only downside was that the suite was right next to the bar. And I mean, right next to - I walked out the door of the room and I was in the bar.
The next few days were spent relaxing, reading and struggling with the heat and humidity - and getting my feet burned (they puffed up in a delightful old lady fashion). Plus, of course, there was the rehearsal dinner to attend and then the big wedding itself. I have to say, the Ritz -Carlton West Palm Beach is one of the most lavish settings for a wedding I've ever had the pleasure of attending.
I had been a little worried beforehand about the wedding as Z would be the only person I knew there - I've never even met his fiancée before. Several people suggested I should wear a kilt to attract attention. In that heat and humidity there would have been no way I could have worn a heavy woollen skirt and knee-high woollen socks. But I didn't need to. Everyone was all over me and my delightful Skatch accent like a rash. "You've come all the way from Skatland?" I couldn't have been made to feel more welcome.
Barring any sudden annoucement between now and the end of December, it looks like I've attend my fifth and final wedding of the year. Phew!
Pirates and Gators
I spent my first full day in Miami Beach wandering down the boardwalk (how terribly Americano) along the beach and staggering through the Art Deco district in the unspeakable heat - some 30C+, unseasonably warm even for south Florida (Georgia has recently had to declare a state of emergency due to the lack of rain and dwindling reservoir levels, compare to our summer). In my dazed state I was mugged by a tour agent and soon found myself signed up to two tours.
The first was a tour of Miami itself. Now I love a city bus tour but this tour was by bus AND boat. I almost wet myself. However, I was met in the hotel lobby by the bus driver who greeted me by doing some Gary Coleman/Mr T crossover impression, repeating over and over again "What you talking about?" What the fuck are you supposed to say in these situations? I just stared at him till he led me to the bus. Sadly things didn't get any better when he kept making odd burp-like noises into the microphone and then exclaiming "Who said that?" Everyone else on the bus seemed to think he was quite a character. I was the only one with a slightly sour expression on my face. Which got sourer when he pointed out the gay beach and then made a lame and predictable comment about not bending down to pick anything up on that beach (presumably anal rape in public is quite commonplace). However, he then showed us where Gianni Versace got shot and I cheered up a bit.
Then it was onto our boat - decked out to look like some pirate adventure ship - for a tour of Biscayne Bay and a chance to see the houses of the rich and famous. All to the tune of UB40. Except when passing the house of a particular singer and then we would get a burst of one of their songs. Enrique Iglesias must love that. As well as his house we got to see his father's, Don Johnson's, Ricky Martin's, Antonio Banderas & Melanie Griffith's, Will Smith's, Shaquille O'Neil's, The Rock's, Rosie O'Donnell's and Gloria Estefan's. Not content with current houses, we also got to see houses previously owned by Frank Sinatra, Cher, Vanilla Ice, Madonna, Liz Taylor and Al Capone and even a plot of land with no house on it yet, owned by Tiger Woods.
The following day was a trip out to the Everglades National Park where we got to go on an airboat tour. It was great fun although they did have to provide us all with ear-plugs. We saw turtles and alligators and various wading birds. Apparantly gators only eat once a year or so, hence why they are "so doggone mean" our guide Chuck drawled. Disappointingly, there was no sign of Gentle Ben.
Yes, this is an alligator
Bienvenidos a Miami
Well, got to Florida safe and sound.
For reasons I'm never quite sure of, I always get a little anxious when I travel alone. The flight done from Glasgow was the usual cramped affair and I got to sit next to a unshaven fellow emitting a sour smell of stale booze and fags. The flight from Heathrow was far more satisfactory: the chair next to me was empty so I got to spread out and my initial gasp of horror when I thought there might not be seat-back screens proved unfounded and I spent most of the trip engrossed in a variety of films and TV shows.
Immigration wasn't the ordeal it normally is and passing through customs, I think the official must have misread my form as he said "Welcome back sir."
I had been expecting Florida in October to be warm - say about 26C. However, the heat hit me as soon as I stepped out the aiport. It was 30C and this was at 7pm. I was soon in an air-condition cab with a Haitian driver who told me "OK baby, I got it." when I explained where I was going. Three seconds later she screeched to a halt after being beeped by another cab driver, then opened her door and screamed "The light! The light!" at him. When he passed her she rolled down her window to make sure he had got her point.
Soon enought we arrived at the Art Deco Ocean Spray Hotel in Miami Beach - clean and air-conditioned, my only two concerns - and there was just time to catch an episode of "Heroes" before falling asleep.
TV Repairman
My hand-me-down TV has started making a peculiar hissing noise. However, I'm too frightened to get it fixed given that this chap was the man that fixed it previously.