More about Life

Because it was one of those classy hotels with foreign staff, we got a free newspaper. I don't remember which one, but as I remember being in a good mood, it was certainly not the Daily Malice.

I must have been in a good mood as we went shopping. And to prove that even the Gods were smiling down on us that day, as we shopped, we encountered a small camp where some young, attractive things thrust Wii controllers in our hands and commanded that we play a few games of Wii Sports. Not only that, but, if our fumbling yielded the high score of the day, we would win a Wii of our own. And because Odin was very pleased with the shelves he'd made that day, we did get high scores. However, this was quite early morning, long before lunching kids came by and no doubt trampled all over our high scores. Tsk, kids today. Trashing their elders and betters' computer game scores. When I was a young'un... oh, yeah, I used to do the same.

We had lunch at "Eat," one of those mid-market sandwich chains. The mildly pretentious order of a name made me yearn for a bar called "Drink!" an escort service called "Girls!" and an Irish Brothel called, "Feck!"

Eat's wares were very good and reminded me how great the competition is for sandwiches in London. People don't think of the sandwich as a typical London food, but sandwich places probably outnumber all other types of eatery. I have no statistics to back up this claim, but this is a blog not an encyclopaedia. If you do demand information to back up what I say, I'll have you know all relevant data is available in the only source I know and trust, More's Uncyclopaedia.

The area of our hotel is one where Japanese restaurants are locked in some kind of monumental battle. Each restaurant tries to out-psych the other by having a name that sounds most like a martial art. Nobu, Roka, Umu, Zuma. Actually, that makes no sense as, given my ignorance, most Japanese words sound like a martial art. Sushi. Teriyaki. Sake. Any one of these would beat me in a fight. I can see the proponents standing before me taking poses and naming them. "Raw Fish Roll." "Soy Sauce Cow." "Liquid Alcohol Rice."

The reason we were in London this weekend was for a wedding. Friends and former flatmates of mine were tying the knot after years of living in and around sin (and before that, East Acton).

Many, many moons ago, myself and a young trekkie called Norm joined forces with a couple of lasses who we'd met through improv and moved in together. It is the stuff that makes sitcoms. It also makes dramas. And occasionally horror stories. This was something of all three made into a musical and directed by Richard Curtis and David Lynch. Well, amidst the clutter and fallings in and out, romance bloomed for two of the household. And I don't mean myself and Crash Bandicoot, although me and that guy... we shared some times.

The wedding, like all good weddings, was a chance to meet up with people you hadn't seen for millennia. In fact many of people at the wedding I knew, it was almost like wedding in my own family.

Mitsubishi. Sanyo. Honda. "Off-Road Bike." "Wide-Screen, Surround-Sound Display." "Four-Door Family Hatchback."

I'd met Norm through a guy called Dave who ran something not unlike facebook, but way before that. This was before the web. Possibly even before the internet. As I recall it, messages were carried by young street urchins for a shilling a packet. Well, Dave started one of the longest-running internet communities on a thing called Mono. It was one of the first places I let stuff I'd written leak out. The fact that the crazy people there liked it helped me form the belief I'm not bad at it and kept me from being the greatest IT consultant the world has ever seen.

Back at the wedding, there was great food, cake, antipodean balloon artists, many, many old friends and a band that played covers. (Although they played them a lot more faithfully than I like my covers. To me covers, should be ironic or played in a completely different style to the original. But then, I'm wrong on quite a few things.) Cath and I hung out with those who refused to leave until the band had to pack up and the inflatable dingos started deflating.

Sayonara. "One Hand Wave."

Labels: Anthropology, Computers, Drink, Food, Games, History, Improv, Movies, Music, Travel, UK

The usual breakfast maid must have been off today as the coffee was very weak indeed. Or they were expecting British people.

Apres le breakfast, we walked to the end of the hotel grounds and hopped over a disused gate onto a quiet country road. At the end of that, we recalculated and realised the forest we were heading for was further than anticipated, so decided to head up a narrow wooded path. But this soon began showing signs saying, "Private Property," or the French equivalent, and something about dogs. The signs were hand-written, which is always more ominous. After all, people who can afford fancy signs almost certainly have them there to keep you away from their nice stuff. Signs daubed on rough offcuts of wood seem to say, "please don't tempt me."

There was thick woodland all around us, but we found no paths in. The only one we did find ended in a small flat area of overgrown grass that was circled by bags on sticks. All very Projet De La Sorcière Blair.

We headed back along the country road. It took us to the outskirts of the village. At one point, we stopped off at one of those French cemeteries filled with concrete houses and ornate family tombs. In France, the dead often have better homes than many of the living.

One of the great finds this trip was cabécou, a goat cheese that Catherine does very well with. She has problems with cow's milk and sometimes even milks from other dairy creatures. She's not tried aphid milk. Once we found the main part of the village, we hunted around for places to buy this cheese in order to bring it back home and feast on it for the limited period it would keep.

As well as an inordinate number of hairdressers, the town has a vast collection of immobiliers, or estate agents, or (if you are American) real estate agents. I like the suggestion in "immobiliers" that they actually try to stop you moving.

Back at the hotel, our room was being cleaned so we sat and ate chocolate, watching the stream and admiring the bamboo forest. We were somewhat surprised to see a bamboo forest in Europe. Our conclusion was that the owner misses the colonial days of Vietnam or is harbouring a strange and terrible beast from South East Asia. (Perhaps a Malaysian vampire, a Myanma mummy or a Kung Pao Panda.)

After taking showers (pictures withheld) we wandered back into town. We made some young lass's day by spending a small fortune on French glamour in her cute little boutique and in return she told us her aspirations and long-distance relations. We then wandered and settled down by the riverside to paint and write. The sun was out, as it had been most of the day, and the scene was very conducive to artistic pursuits.

However, as we walked back, the rain started to do its thing. I also realised I was a little sunburnt. I burn very easily. My skin has the sunscreen factor of tissue paper. It is made almost exclusively of photolopustre cells that go instantly from bright off-white to a scary shade of lobster.

For dinner we ate at a place we'd seen earlier whose name I don't seem to have written down. However, I noted what we consumed because it was sumptuous: duck gizzards, filet mignon, cabécou, caramel d'Espelette (which I believe were something like caramelised hash browns). For dessert we had pear in wine and a great fruit and sorbet.

One of the key local fruits is the walnut. They use it to make cakes, oil and a great liqueur that we managed to have before pretty much every meal. If it had been available, we'd have had it at breakfast as well.

Wandering back past the Irish bar, we became fully aware of its lack of Irish credentials. The bar was open weekdays and nights, except Friday when it was only open during the day. Saywhatnow? An Irish bar that's not open Friday nights? Are they teetotallers? Is it a kosher thing? We were perplexed.

We walked back through the grounds of our hotel. One old stable had been converted into a games room and inside stood a fine table tennis table (where one could play table tennis tennis). The building was locked, although I'm sure we could have got the key. The trouble is it was so eerily dark and quiet in and around the almost certainly haunted stable, that we decided not to play. Instead we went skinny dipping at the old abandoned quarry. (That last bit wasn't true: we actually simply went to bed at the top of the old, old house.)

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Europe, Food, Movies, Shopping, Sport, Travel, Wildlife

Somewhat refreshed from a few hours' sleep, I grabbed some breakfast and wrote a note to the cleaner to explain the damp toilet roll in the bin was not the actions of hedonistic rock'n'roll stars hell-bent on trashing the place. I think the fact that otherwise the place was pristine should have made that clear.

The toilet roll incident was caused by a dodgy toilet roll holder that upon first touch sent the brand-new toilet roll flying into the toilet bowl. It was such a perfect action that I wondered if I was on Candid Camera. Had the toilet roll started rapping round me and dragging me into the toilet, I would have wondered if I was on a Japanese hidden camera show.

Our cab driver was from somewhere in the middle of the 21st Century. He had a futuristic Bluetooth ear piece with which to make calls. When we asked if we could swing by an open Borders, he used his GPS system to find one and also get the number to call up it. When he got no answer he called a nearby Barstucks to see if they knew when it was opened. It seemed the numbers could be automatically transferred from the GPS to the phone. There was even a webcam which was presumably for video surveillance. The guy was clearly some kind of spy. Probably working for the Indian security services. He was far too helpful and efficient which had to be a cover for some sort of shenanigans. It was certainly a lot of technology to use to replace our lost copy of Bitch magazine.

Like spies posing as taxi drivers, some airports are amazing centres of efficiency and organisation. Seattle is state-sponsored chaos. But it did have a "family washroom." I'm not sure what a "family washroom" is and how it differs from a regular washroom. I guess it means the graffiti is clean. It’s clearly another example of wholesome American values. The family that pees together...

We had a little time to check out the gift stores and chuckle at the latest novelty gifts such as Titanic ice-cube moulds and a Barack Obama cleaning bar called "The Audacity of Soap."

Having gone through the several layers of security, we were in the tunnel going to the plane and here found yet another layer. Customs officers were randomly stopping people to check if they had $10,000 or more on them. I think I've explained before that US Customs has a huge budget to justify.

-

The Delta safety rigmarole is still my personal favourite of all the safety rigmaroles I've seen. It starts with a casual pilot telling you to pay attention and it is filmed in the style of a movie trailer. It features an Angelina Jolie clone in full close-up and a comedy, bald, bearded, fat man. At one point the comedy fat man smiles and his teeth ping. During the video, the captain has time for a sex change. You can see it here.

The choice for in-flight food was the same as it always is now: Chicken or pasta. This still bugs me as they are far from mutually exclusive. Next time I'm asked, "Chicken or pasta?", I'm saying, "Yes."

On the long, flight, I managed to watch some previously unseen (by me) sitcoms, Big Bang Theory (which I enjoyed*), and Chuck (which I barely remember*); I got some writing in, did a crossword and possibly snatched a five minute nap. Not quite the best method for beating jetlag, but it's slightly better than the rockstar method of drinking way too much and urinating in the aisle.

(* - that's the extent to which I'm reviewing them.)

The one thing I didn't find space to mention was Cath's underlying fear for this whole trip regarding Swine Flu, or as they still call it in the Netherlands, Mexican Flu. People have been encouraged to drop the name Mexican Flu because it somehow associates the disease with Mexicans. Instead the preferred name is Swine Flu, despite associating the disease with the golden animal that gave us ham, bacon, gammon and pork scratchings. So basically, for the entire trip, Cath had in the back of her mind a fear of coming into contact with Mexican Flu. A fear, that right up until the end seemed thankfully unfounded. That was until we got on the plane. As Cath sat there hoping the seat beside her would not be filled, it became filled by a man who boarded the plane carrying a huge sombrero and who proceeded to sniffle the entire flight. This is not a joke. If you had to draw a cartoon of "Mexican Flu" it would be a man with a sombrero and a runny nose. This is exactly who sat next to Cath for 9 hours. It only could have been worse had he had a pig under one arm and a Chinese bird under the other.

Labels: Americas, Anthropology, Drink, Food, Movies, Transport, Travel, TV, US

At the beginning of last month we got a little booklet announcing a new TV channel here in the Netherlands. From the pictures it was clear we would see a lot of air-brushed teens wearing too much make-up and often dressed somewhat sexily. All, right! Except, of course, that it's actually the Disney channel.

Time was that The Disney channel would be filled with cartoon dogs, ducks and mice. Now, the schedule seems to be clogged up with something called, Hannah Montana. Which is something of a porn-star name, you have to admit. I do know who Hannah Montana is. At least I know every toy store I go into has tall section filled with pink crap with her face on it. For those of you in blissful ignorance, allow me to shatter that. Hannah Montana is the pop-star alter-ego of an ordinary, American school girl in a hugely successful US TV show. I also learnt from Cath, who is in charge of celebrity gossip in the house, that the girl playing her is not some nobody plucked from obscurity, but the daughter of the man who recorded "Achy Breaky Heart." Yes, that man was allowed to procreate! Five times according to Wikipedia.

It's shocking how airbrushed the young, white leads are in all these shows. (The black characters only seem to peer out from behind the white ones so it's hard to see how airbrushed they are.) I guess Disney has always been peddling fantasy, but when the fantasy was a mouse surrounded by dancing brooms or a cartoon princess adapted from a fairy tale, it seemed harmless. But when the canvas is a teenage girl onto which some cartoon vision of beauty is painted, it becomes a little disturbing.

What's even more disturbing is that this is a complete rip-off of my own idea, that I tried to peddle to Disney and they turned down. It was called Hannah's Montanas and was about an ordinary school girl who by night was a hugely successful porn actress. More news once my court case has finished, More vs The Frozen Remains of Walt Disney.

Labels: Americas, Anthropology, Movies, Music, TV

Canada is the US's personal New Zealand. On the surface, Canada looks very like the US. Same roads, same street signs, same stores, same clothes. Only a slight preponderance for beards gives you a hint at the vast difference that lies beneath the surface.

First thing that caught our eyes as we drove along the highway was a mega mosque. This is the equally vast equivalent of the American mega church and confirmed our suspicions that Canada is in fact a Muslim country.

There are several subtle differences that we immediately noticed with the Canadian way of doing things. Their traffic lights do a strange flashing green light thing that seems to mean, "go, but I ain't taking responsibility." Also there seems to be a conscious effort to make blocks of flats and other tall buildings ugly.

After driving into the core of Vancouver and finding our hotel, we headed out for food. We had received a recommendation from one of Cath's colleagues. A place called "Sanafir" which is a Silk Road / fusion restaurant. Basically you are served a series of dishes based on points of the Silk Road which connects the Middle East / Mediterranean and Asia. It was great, enormously tasty food served by Bond Girls. I kid you not, all the women were supermodels in their own unique interpretation of the tight, black uniform. Any one of them could have met James Bond at the roulette table and ended up back in his hotel room, chastely under the sheets not realising this was their last night on Earth.

The street that the restaurant was on was one of the major going-out / shopping streets in the city, despite being in the process of being dug up. (If that's not too many "beings.") There were lines of young and enthusiastic "pimplies" lining up outside all sorts of pubs and clubs getting ready to shake their pimples to the music of their choice and maybe even, if their luck held out, meet another like-minded member of their sect and press pimples with them.

We passed a great human statue. Normally, I have a problem with human statues as the only real skill involved is being able to keep still. Personally, I feel if you have this skill, then buy a camera and produce great wildlife photography or buy a gun and become a sniper. Don't clutter up the streets. It almost only becomes acceptable when the outfit and makeup is intricate and, when there is movement, it is done well and in keeping with the theme. But in general, anyone with a few motors, some Mechano and a cloak could build a machine that does exactly the same thing; freeing the human version to go and work in a salt mine or something like that.

In Amsterdam, especially, the art-form has been lost. If you go to Dam Square, you'll see scores of "human statues" but instead of standing still in an intricate outfit with painted skin and stylised hair, you'll see middle-aged men in ill-fitting rented costumes, standing fidgeting on a box. However, sometimes they are so bad they become fantastic. (This is Rule 9 from Ed Wood.) My personal favourite is a man with middle-age spread, a Batman suit and a bored, dejected expression on his face. Only the truly ironic (or a rose-tinted child) would want their picture taken with this guy.

On one corner there was an enthusiastic troupe of Christian street thespians performing for a small group of mostly other Christian street thespians. I think they were re-enacting the parable of the non-Samaritans who passed by on the other side rather than help an ailing art form.

Labels: Americas, Anthropology, Art, Food, Impro, Movies, Religion, Travel, US, Wildlife

"Anywhere I go, a fly girl will please me," NWA

Having checked in online, we didn't have to queue up at the check-in desk at the airport. However, as we had bags to check, we had to perform a queue up at the baggage-drop desk. The baggage-drop desk is a check-in desk relabelled "baggage-drop desk" at which you queue in exactly the same manner as you did when it was a check-in desk.

We were checked in, sorry: our baggage was dropped by Mevrouw Room (or Mrs Cream, which is clearly a name from some novel). After this we went through the security check, which is still called the same thing, but is now a much longer process.

Since shoes have been thrown at the last US president and belts have killed several actors and rock stars in hotel rooms, both are now considered deadly weapons and must be x-rayed. I am dreading the day terrorists hijack a plane by strangling the pilot with a pair of underpants. In fact in the 1974 sexploitation classic Deadly Weapons, I'm pretty sure Chesty Morgan kills a man with her enormous boobs. If the FAA in the US ever see this movie, I expect that boobs over a certain size will have to be kept in a resealable plastic bra.



After the regular security comes the extra travelling-to-the-US security, which employs the same travelling-to-Israel security techniques of X-raying things a second time and asking a lot of questions. They don't really listen to the answers, I've notices, but, I guess, to your nervousness in answering.

NWA is currently undergoing an identity crisis and can't decide whether it's called NWA or Delta. I think it should call itself something even more hip-hop like NWA vs Delta Posse featuring The KLM Crew.

The plane was from NWA, but the safety rigmarole (video) was from Delta. I hadn't seen Delta's safety rigmarole before; it's cute. In it a chirpy actress with an LA smile perkily tells you all the ways to avoid death. Or at least things to help you feel you can avoid it. It doesn’t help fill you with confidence when your ticket says, Destination: SEA. I preferred my first ever long-haul ticket that proudly proclaimed, Destination: SIN.

Labels: Anthropology, Europe, Movies, Science, Transport, Travel, US

Coping with long-haul flights is different for each person. Catherine can often manage to sleep on planes, especially in her ear-plugs, eye-mask and mind-shield. I can rarely it. Even with less than four hours sleep under my lids I still was not able to drop off on the plane. Two large coffees didn't help matters. But then being stuck on a plane is a good chance to catch up on the three W's: watching, writing and reading.

Out of curiosity, and the fact I've watched all the others, I took in Quarter of Sausages (also know as The Bond Conspiracy). In it, Jason Bond moods and broods through a succession of killings frequently juxtaposed with similarly dramatic performances (operas, fiestas and other fights). Bonds are a lot more psychological these days and villains no longer want to take over and/or destroy the world. In Question of Sportsnight, the secret organisation (excitingly more spectre-like than Spectre ever was) wants to get in on the lucrative game of utilities management. Anyone who didn't already think that water providers were more evil than al Qaida of Saudiarabia can feel a Quantum of Smugness.

In all, Quest for Seweragerights is enjoyable and somehow gritty yet over the top at the same time. Three Roger Moores out of 5.

Sitting in a plane, you can't help but get a glance of other people's screens. These, half-glimpsed images (always from the same small subset of films) often get merged in the mind and you wonder how you missed the subplots in the film you saw about the street kids in India and escaped cartoon zoo animals. Personally, I think this would have made a much better film (worthy of 4 or even 5 Roger Moores) and would be called Quantum of Slumdog Madagascar.

The second film I watched was Suspect X, a Japanese cop drama starring your favourites: Masaharu Fukuyama, Matsuyuki Yasuko and Tsutsumi Shinichi. A repressed yet somewhat tense story where emotions are kept in except for the odd crime of passion or vent. In the end, love wins over science although this being a Japanese film not in a happy singing-dancing way but in an "everyone's doomed to a life of depression" sort of way. Two Masaharu Fukuyamas out of 5.

Sometime during the films, the cabin crew offered "doody free" items. Implying everything else they offered so far had been filled with faeces.

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Language, Movies, Science, Transport, Travel, US

Notice the UFO in the above picture. Is any more proof needed?

We grabbed our breakfast from the hall and then headed out. There was a whole saga in searching for a stamp. We gave up for then, but eventually had word that there was a post office beneath Macy's. We wandered down to Market Street via a somewhat dodgy area. There were many beggars and at one point a guy had fallen out of his wheelchair. Two motorcycle cops were already on the scene and taking charge firmly but friendlily. We caught the historic Tram Line F where old trams (not just from San Francisco but also from other cities are run for the use of locals and the joy of tourists. We caught it in a bad part of Market Street but it meant the tram was not too busy before the stop where all the tourists get on it. The line goes to the end of Market Street and then heads up along the harbour. We went to Pier 33 as the night before we'd booked tickets to go to Alcatraz.

Once the last place you might want to be sent, now huge queues of people wait to get on the boat to go there. The island is prime real estate; plumb in the middle of the bay with great views of both bridges and of the city itself. The trip over is quick, and the boats are large but full. You need a couple of hours to really do the island properly, even though there is much of the island you can't get to, either due to renovation / dilapidation or because birds are nesting. The island is prime nest site for gulls, guillemots and other sea-faring birds.


Most people start with the short film giving an overview of the history. It was originally made by or for the Discovery Channel and I had seen it before as it was somewhat familiar. So I even knew vaguely about the Indian Occupation which Catherine didn't. This, for those of you who didn't know was in 1969 when a group of Native American activists took over the island as a protest about the generally dreadful treatment they were receiving and had been receiving since the first boat load of immigrants piled into the country. In particular it was against a kind of forced integration that was in action at the time.





Wandering around the island is pleasant and no doubt good for you. But the most interesting part is the audio tour of the prison itself. Ex wardens and former prisoners tell you what was where, what it was like to be there, and about the various escape attempts. Some of the latter were studies in patience and ingenuity.




We took the ferry back. This is the only way if you discount swimming which is ill-advised because the waters have treacherous currents and sharks. The sharks however are only vegetarian, which means they kill you by boring you to death about how they don't eat meat. (Only kidding. Smiley face.)

San Francisco is one of the few major cities that still have abandoned harbour warehouses. In many other cities these have all been converted from crummy, rat-infested eye-sores to some of the most expensive places to live in the city.

We headed over to Chinatown. Actually half the city could be called Chinatown, but we were heading to the bit that has most of the restaurants. It was curious to hear the children on the bus all speaking Chinese to each other. It's not what I would have expected, but it was nice to hear. I don't hear enough Chinese these days except from random conversations on the train via the airport and from my Shanghai neighbour at work.

We ate in a Vietnamese restaurant that we think was called Pho or Golden Flower. I know, go to Chinatown to eat Vietnamese is a bit like getting French food in a Tapas bar, but Amsterdam is short of Vietnamese places. Keeping with the Asian theme, we went on to the famed Japanese Tea Garden. However it was shut.

That evening we decided to check out the real nightlife of the city. We took the old-fashioned tram to Castro, the lively gay side of town. Even for a Wednesday it was pretty happening. A few restaurants were open but we decided to look for our light supper in another part of town, supposed to be the main going-out centre, the Mission District. We walked there, avoiding dark streets, and for those of used to the scale of Amsterdam maps, it was a touch further than anticipated. The Mission District is a going-out sort of place, but it's also a bit down-at-heel. It's supposed to be good for bar hopping, but it's not like there is a line of bars, you have to know where the next one is. Most bars and restaurants were closing as we were arriving. The only clearly open eatery was a Mexican fast-food 'restaurant' (it had a counter and no chairs as far as I could see) which was packed and needed a security guard. The two guys who went in as we passed smelt like they had come from a cannabis sauna. They seemed to be in good spirits.

We also passed a guy who was dressed a pimp. The very stereotype of a pimp. If you'd have seen him in a movie or gangsta rap video you'd have said how clichéd surely pimps don't dress like that any more. I'm not saying he was a pimp, I'm only saying he dressed like one. And the girl on his arm dressed like a ho.

We realised a snack would not be forthcoming without queuing for a long time behind two guy who could be classed as a class-C narcotic. We bought some nuts and hailed a taxi. The taxi sped through the city and afforded us our first Bullitt moment. A Bullitt moment can only happen in San Francisco on those streets where the roads slope up or down but are level for an intersection. It's when you go too fast on the up or down and it causes a bit of a suspension crunch you hit the flat. I was so happy to have had this experience. Someone should start a Bullitt tour, so that any tourist can experience this (as well as a few key sites from the movie).

Labels: Anthropology, Fashion, Food, History, Language, Movies, Transport, Travel, US, Wildlife

Sleeping was not as easy as you'd think. The hotel had one of those air conditioning systems that works by loud mechanical gears, clunking pistons and turbines from the days before oil. We found out in the morning it is possible to switch it off, but then of course everything heats up because LA is all about sunshine and chaos. It's hot and sticky.

Those of you who complain about the size of UK Sunday Newspapers should get a US Sunday Paper. There's enough written material here to keep you going a whole month. And enough wood to build a shed.

The hotel had a buffet breakfast like most hotels. It was pretty good with a fair selection. Best of all was a make-your-own-waffle machine. However, this was so popular you could never get to it for kids.

The morning concierge also had that actor look. It's pretty safe to assume everyone in LA from the road sweeper to the mayor is an actor. It should be noted that even the state governor is an actor. (In the loosest possible meaning of the term - he's actually only a bodybuilder who can read out lines, but in Hollywood, anything goes.)

We took a walk around the area. It was not the movie-star part of Beverley Hills, but a highly Jewish area. With kosher delis, Hebrew schools and groups of men walking around dressed in black with big hats covering little caps. We stopped in Label's (probably pronounced "Labelle" rather than "label") for so-so coffee and coffee cake. I liked the coffee cake, but it was perhaps a bit early in the morning for sponge. Cath said it wasn't at all what she thinks off when she thinks of coffee cake. The guy seemed to mutter when we only ordered coffee, I think annoyed that we didn't order any of their staple sandwiches.

A number of years back, a friend, Carolyn and I staged a few cultural exchanges. She came to London and I went over to see their three capital cities Washington DC, Disneyland and Universal Studios. Since then she's been married, separated and now moves in theatrical circles.

Carolyn and her friend Arjay had agreed to show us about a bit. As they were running late we decided we had time to feed Catherine. We went to "Factor's Famous Deli" which was closer, bigger and better labelled than Label's. We sat in the nice garden whilst Cath had a great ALT (Avocado Lettuce Tomato) on rye bread (of course) and I had a very decent cup of coffee (decaf as there had been much "caf" at breakfast). This meant we were a little late getting back and nearly missed the friends. But eventually we got together and drove to some of the places to see and be seen in LA.

First off was the Santa Monica Pier a popular tourist and pleasure zone. Off the pier is the beach front. The beach is beautiful golden sand made 1,000,000 degrees by the sun. Near the pier is Muscle Beach, made famous because here men and women with bizarrely formed pectoral muscles would perform amazing feats of sand-kicking.

Although we had been hoping for stars, the beach is more for your regular people, so we saw only one instance of over-the-top breast enhancement. We saw none of what we were really hoping to see (and something a lot of guys are apparently getting) butt implants.

Dogs were very much in evidence. LA is dogtown. People have all shapes and sizes of them. There is a tendency for the smaller more effeminate dog especially wearing a designer dog T-shirt, but you can also see many of the super-large variety often filling the back of a large pick-up truck.

We moved on to the Venice area named after the canals there. We didn't see any of those, but wandered down a street famed for its quirky shops and good eateries before popping in for some good old up-market slash quirky versions of regular foods. I had a pretzel burger which proved that sesame buns or wholemeal rolls are still the top thing to put burgers in and not pretzels. But you can't blame them for trying.

Along the beach a variety of stores and home-made stalls appealed to the hippy in all of us. And also the fashion victim in all of us, as the ultra-tight leggings painted made to look like jeans proclaimed. People sold their wears or set themselves up as human guitar-wielding jukeboxes. One man declared that he would insult anyone anytime for a fee. We nearly took him up on it.

Once again the so-called beautiful people were less in evidence. But then it was Sunday and they were probably in Church. Or at kabala school. Oh hang on, that's Saturday.

It had been nice to see Carolyn again, even for a short amount of time. We shall have to make sure it can happen again soon.

At night, back at our hotel, the streets were patrolled by gangs of men in black coming and going, possibly to their gang head quarters, or "sinnergogs." We had planned to go out and watch some sketch show performed by improvisers or some other Sunday twist on improv or just find a haunt to hang out with the stars, but tiredness due to obscene heat (in my opinion, not Catherine's) took over and we collapsed on the bed.

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Fashion, Food, Impro, Movies, Transport, Travel, US

It was one of those days that starts like this: We got up, had breakfast, went shopping and then it was 4 pm. Catherine at least got some new shoes and sun glasses out of it. I got a cosmetics case. A big sturdy, manly cosmetics case in which I will keep razor blades - but still a cosmetics case. After lunch, it was time to drive through the erratic Dallas Saturday afternoon traffic to begin the rest of the day, which was very different to the start.

It started with our plane to Los Angeles being delayed on arrival at our end. Once it had gotten there and they had loaded us on, they reported a technical problem with the cargo hold. This didn't take as long to fix as we had thought, but we were then already quite delayed.

LA is a sprawling mess but somehow looks like Christmas from the air at night. It is to my knowledge the most chaotic city in the world. At least outside of Asia. It's like people refuse to organise anything there, but leave it up to people to sort it out for themselves. The roads are madness as everyone fights for themselves with practically no public transport to speak of. As a result merely retrieving your bags at the airport is mayhem. Even this simple thing is chaotic in LA.

However, it being LA, their airport offers some great people watching. Cath observed a typical producer type shouting down the phone because there wasn't someone there to meet him with a card with his name on it. "I pay a lot of money for this service..." he L.A.d. I noticed a tall, model-proportioned woman in a designer yellow tracksuit looking suitably aloof and far too well made up for someone who just got off a plane.

The car hire shuttle buses jockey for position – there are so may of them. Other airports have one shuttle that takes you to each of the lots. LAX (it certainly does) lets all the companies fight it out amongst themselves. Even we knew in LA you need a car. Despite the mayhem on the streets, there simply is no other way to get from A to B in a city where A and B are the other end of the alphabet to each other. The Hertz shuttle bus took us to every terminal and then slogged its way to the Hertz lot. Here we fought through a ridiculous array of counters to find one taking people, albeit in a short-tempered way. What didn't help was that a flight from China had just arrived and people were having to decipher Chinese Driving licences. Especially difficult without any recognisable letters and the fact Chinese dates are written year-month-date (largest first, just like their addresses). Our server warmed to us when she discovered Cath had moved away from the US. There was an almost dreamy look in that weary eye.

The drive was suitable chaotic. Trying to find our way amongst the Saturday-night traffic, along the badly kept roads, using the poor signs and inadequate maps. We made numerous U-turns and once, drove over an area not for such an action just to avoid coming off of the freeway into a bad area. Gangland, if movies are to be believed.

Somehow after a few false turns (including U-turns, M-turns and 8-turns), we made it and arrived at our hotel in the heart of LA's rich district, Beverly Hills. It should all be plain sailing now... No of course not. We drove down into the heart of the building and then realised there was no way up for people not yet checked in except the steep, narrow car lane. So we drove up and let the valet deal with it. We were now in the hotel. What could go wrong? Well, this: The hotel had one room left that they were reserving for us. It was "blocked." "What?" said we. "Blocked." It wasn't clear completely what happened. The actor behind the counter (I'm not kidding, he really was an actor who having been in a Tony-award winning play in New York had relocated to LA to get into movies) explained that someone had called and "blocked" the room. The supervisor, who didn't appear to be an actor but a hotel man, although had a good face for The Sopranos, came and after a call to the manager (mysterious and unreachable – it could have been Marlon Brando) and then IT (probably all Bollywood stars) said that someone had the room open on their screen and so this had blocked it. To solve it, the man who was waiting for his follow up to his roll as younger brother in Surfing Mumbai reset the system (for the hotel itself or the Marriott chain as a whole was not clear).

It was all very interesting, but not at one a.m. when all you wanted was a bed. Sleep, perchance to dream... Oh, no, now all these actors have got me at it.

Labels: Anthropology, Movies, Transport, Travel, US

Another night where we slept from something like 10pm to 5:30 am. This sort of thing is only possible for us through jetlag and living with people who keep similar hours naturally, of their own volition. It meant it was easy to catch an 8:30 train.

American train carriers assume that their passengers have never stepped on a train before. In fact some of their instructions suggest their passengers have ever even dressed themselves. They explained several times how to walk on a train, how to get on and off and even said things like "If it is not your stop, please do not get off the train." A lot of this was done by a man with an overly dramatic voice of the type usually reserved for security announcements.

The train snaked its way through the countryside stopping at various places including the presumptuously-named Centralia. It's not quite clear what it as in the centre of. The bit the train station is in is a dump, but it can only be presumed a place with a name like Centralia has a nice bit. The train didn't stop at Kent, which looked nicer and had a much better name being where I was born and the name of the greatest Swedish band ever.

As is the common practice on so many forms of transport, headphones were available for those who were so bored they needed to watch the selected movie. The choices for these things tend towards family. It happens that watching these movies is actually improved by not having the sound as well. I watched and actively avoided the sound to something called Fools Gold with something called Mathew MacGonehew (?) in it.

After a few short hours, we arrived in Seattle and nabbed a taxi to our airport as we'd heard public transport in Seattle was not to be relied upon.

Seattle is the birthplace of Grunge. And Microsoft. Our hotel was far from Grunge, being a water-front 5-star hotel in which Catherine was attending a conference. I was being a conference husband. But also soaking up the information to be found there as a future employee of Catherine's growing empire. I think I'll be on the janitor and kitchen maintenance team, that way Catherine can force me to clean, tidy and wash dishes.

We dumped our bags and checked out the facilities. No trouser press, but an iron and board. We were offered a balcony and took it because you would wouldn't you. However we never once went out on it as (a) the weather was nearly always drizzly and (b) it was about the size of one chair, had we had a chair suitable to be taken out there. It would have felt cramped with both of us standing out there.

After this, we wandered around the famous Pike Market area. It's more grunge. It's a little bit hippy, a little bit earthy, and a little bit touristy. There are many craft stalls and stores. We checked out the belly dancing section in one. Catherine claims she would like to belly dance, if only she had a belly. It's also difficult as all of the outfits are made for women with chests that would be dangerous in a built-up area. We stopped in a popular poster and vintage magazine store. There were many posters from olden days, particularly wartime when it was fine to call the Japanese "Japs." There were posters from forgotten movies with titles something like "Revenge of the Creepies" and "They Returned From a Place Beyond the Known Frontier." There were also old magazines such as Life and Time from lives and times long since past. My favourite was a copy of Life with a picture of Rock Hudson in 1950s swimwear that stated "Hollywood's most handsome bachelor." You know I don't think he ever did marry.

Outside a small Starbucks a group of what appeared to be street people sang a spiritual a cappella style to much appreciation. It was very pleasing on the ears and made you think that maybe there is something in this old religion thing after all and that it's not true the Devil has the best music.

We had lunch in a middle-eastern café, so it told us, and had middle-eastern wraps, so they told us. American is the place to find the world's cuisine converted into wraps. After this we went luggage shopping for many, many hours. It was a long time to spend in a shop only to come away with a box on wheels. We followed this with a well deserved decaffeinated homochino. Well that's what I had. Catherine went back and looked in Macy's for more boxes on wheels.

Seattle features a lot of French restaurants. And more surprisingly, a lot of French written on the signs of such and similar shops. Perhaps because of their proximity to Canada. Or maybe Seattle was originally called Seattlé? (Ed: Actually Seattle was named after Chief Sealth a local, well, chief.)

That evening we took a taxi to a desolated area to the Vietnamese area. Saigon circa 1968 was less depressing than the particular area we arrived in. But around corners were several restaurants. We walked into one that intrigued us called the Tamarind Tree. It was a sort of nouveau Vietnamese mixed grill. The food was good, but more reinterpreted Vietnamese than the real deal we had been hoping for. But it was certainly busy and well designed if that's what you want from a restaurant.

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Food, History, Movies, Transport, Travel, US

According to the calendar the longest day is about a month away. Calendars, of course, never take into account personal travel arrangements. Friday 30 May lasted something like 30 hours. A large chunk of the day was spent squashed into seats on a flight we very nearly didn't get. A combination of packing delays, tardy metros and a little bit of Cath's suitcase handle breaking mid rush meant we were arriving at about the time the baggage check should have closed. Fortunately the train was bang on time, and some random hero helped Cath up the rolupulator with her bag. (I know that's my job, but I was rushing ahead trying to save another part of the day.) Skipping the queue and blagging our way into the business class drop-off area, we came through and even had enough time to pick up some gift goodies. The panic was over. And believe me, panic it had been for a while.

A direct flight from Amsterdam to Portland, Oregon is about 10 or so hours. To pass the time in the tiny seats, the airline provides one of those new, impressively-featured entertainment systems that never work first go. After "what we call a soft reboot" which took 20 minutes, the system was up and running. It was handy because while Cath took the sleeping option, I took the barely-successful nap and two-movie option. I watched Bullitt because San Francisco was to be one of our ports of call plus you can't really get too much gritty Steve McQueenness. Then later Juno because nothing else looked remotely good. The latter was edited for content for airlines. Which usually means all references to plane crashes, hijacking, food poisoning are removed; as well as bad language, sex and violence. There were quite a few over-dubbed ridiculously mild expletives and sentences cut in half to remove bad words. It was a pooping shame as in many cases the whole gosh dagnagnit rhythm and sometimes the jigging meaning was lost. Juno is actually a love story following the cycle of a pregnancy and seems to say love is more important than babies. Which isn't biologically true, but may as well be given there is a baby mountain. This is probably one of those movies that everyone get's confirmation of their beliefs from. Like visiting Jerusalem: No matter what your faith, it'll get reaffirmed their. Certainly mine did, and I'm a cynical atheist.

Labels: Movies, Netherlands, Religion, Transport, Travel, US

My brother gets by pretty well with his Italian, picked up over the years. Neither Catherine or I had any experience of it before, but were able to understand quite a bit considering. Catherine spent a few years on Spanish which helps; we both studied French which is useful; and Italian has a pretty simple grammar, a frequently familiar vocabulary and pronunciation that is pretty straight-forward and actually related to the spelling compared to say English or French.

It was quite refreshing to be somewhere where people generally only know a couple of words of English. It was remarkable how well we could understand and how well people could understand us. Mind you we only knew a few words which were all pretty basic. Catherine took to it especially well, and I made her official translator. It helped that most of the time, we had my brother and his girlfriend around.

Fashion is a big thing in Italy. That morning a stylish septuagenarian friend of the family wandered into the house. She told my brother's girlfriend that if she was her daughter she would cut off her dreads as they are no longer fashionable. She told her sister that she was to dark to be fashionable, being as she was a sumptuous chocolate colour. Cath and I weren't brought into the conversations, but I doubt we would have come out well. I miss the days of heroin-chic, when I, pale and emaciated, could was in vogue.

To avoid such human follies, Cath and I went for a walk along the river. It was getting towards midday and the sun was pretty darn relentless. Still nature continues unperturbed by the things that make us weary. We passed several all-black bees and some others that were black except for a sleek, yellow mark. Very stylish. Even the bees are chic here. Although I had expected the neighbour to reappear and tell the bees that all black was so last summer and they should get into the retro craze of orange and black stripes.

Several butterflies fluttered by gaily and crickets ground their legs musically. But for us the midday sun was getting too much, and we turned back to the shade of the house.

Later, once the sun had eased off, Keean was rested and fed, we drove to the seaside. It's not too far, but Keen hates being confined, so car journeys can be fraught because he has to be strapped in his chair by law (the law applies to all babies, not just Keean). Often they are a battle to keep his attention away from the fact his mother or father is in the front and not next to him and that he is strapped into a chair. It's hard work as babies have the attention spans that make teenagers look like research scientists.

The family has a flat very close to sea side. With five minutes walk you can be on the gorgeous sandy beaches around Tirrenia. This part of the beach is privately owned and you must pay money to have a spot there. So for a couple of thousand Euros a year, you have your own changing closet and a fixed umbrella you can call your own. It seems a lot, but the beach is gorgeous and divided between a large family, it's not much to have a guaranteed spot on a beach that if public would be swamped at the height of summer. It does mean this beach can be a bit snobby, and sitting there amongst the holidaying middling-to-moderately-well-off Italians, I have never felt so pale in my life.

This picture is one of Catherine's favourites. She seems to think it looks like it's from a James Bond movie. It's the sunset that does it. Without that it would look like a scene from The Thing that Came out of the Swamp and ate Tijuana.

We even had a chance to look after Keen today. The parents went shopping and we watched him in the pool. As stated before, the little tike loves all things splashable, and for the first 20 minutes he was as happy as Larry (the merlamb). But with time came the realisation, we were not his parents. Once he realised this, there it was very difficult to stop him screaming. Looking at next door's pool would work for a few seconds, so would kicking a ball up the driveway, but soon he was back to screaming. I felt bad as it was during siesta time and lots of people take them during the day here.

It's not easy to deal with screaming children. Logic states that considering he wasn't really going to stop screaming until his parents arrived because nothing else was going to comfort him, you may as well shut him in a box to keep the sound down. But there seemed to be an unidentified flaw in this and an objection on emotional grounds, so we soon rejected the idea.

For dinner we have various vegetarian dishes, including spelt (an ancient form of wheat), whilst Keen spread his pasta over his face and table. He was perfectly content now he had his folks.

Labels: Anthropology, Fashion, Language, Movies, Travel, Wildlife

We awoke early due to our bodies being on a different time zone and found a cold and damp day. Not what one expects from Texas. Especially when the Netherlands was sweltering in an early, lengthy burst of sunshine. This is clearly not global warming, but an example of the under-reported phenomenon of Global Swapping where one part of the world exchanges its weather with another.

The majority of the day was spent pottering in the great British tradition. Catherine had notes from her conference to type up on coaxing Google robots into your interlair and other such things I'll never understand. Meanwhile I had several words to put to paper some of them quite long and appallingly misspelt.

The main order was the day was the Fourth Annual African-American Educators Hall of Fame, a well-attended event held in large hall on the grounds of a big church. We were there as Catherine's grandfather was being posthumously inaugurated into the Hall of Fame for outstanding services rendered to education especially during times when education was not always easy to get or give in certain sections of the community.

There was a bit of build-up and introduction, then after a prayer, which I am sure was made up on the spot as it included the line, "oh, er, and God bless all the little children," we ate. It was after the food that the core of the ceremony itself took place. As well as Catherine's grandfather, there were 10 other inductees (one of whom was picking up last year's award) and they or their living representatives sat along the stage next to a picture of the recipient.

There was a multimedia section with an audio-video display explaining each inauguratee's achievements somewhat briefly and followed by a confusingly edited interview. This was my favourite bit because it was so superfluous and badly done. Superfluous as the information bit was simply a voice-over recorded by one of the two presenters currently on stage. Superfluous because the images were simply a picture of the person floating it around the screen using 1970s video techniques. It was the same image as the one used on the stage. Just two pictures would have made it seem worth-while, but instead the same picture kept coming at you or sliding from the side or fading in and out. The interview was superfluous as the interviewer was the same guy, and the interviewee was on the stage. But what really made it for me was the fact the voice-over sounded exactly the same as Criswell, who you will know if you ever saw an Ed Wood movie.

There were 11 inductees and several other special merit awards. On top of this, pretty much everyone else in the room had to at one point stand up and be acknowledged - the older and frailer someone was, the more often they had to stand up. With all this it ran a little long yet only offered the tiniest glimpses into each of the candidates' lives. But isn't that the nature of the award ceremonies? And fortunately most people kept their acceptance speeches short and informative. But there was information to be gleaned about these 11 people, some of whom achieved great things and often at a time when just to achieve what we would consider normal things took a great deal of effort and determination.

The whole event had a sort of church fete feel and was sometimes a bit haphazardly executed. In fact I recall almost exactly the same event in the film, Coming to America. But you couldn't fault its earnestness or its aim. And quite frankly I would have been sick if it had come anywhere near the sweet slickness of the Oscars. Although it did nearly reach it on the congratulate everybody front.

It was rounded off with a rousing chorus of the African-American National Anthem. It was the first that I had heard that such a thing existed. It caused me a moment of consternation about whether I should stand and sing. After all, if the British National Anthem was played, I would be reluctant to stand up and sing. I would only do so because of peer pressure as in if the whole room was British and doing so. If another country's anthem was playing I would resolutely stay seated even if I was the only non-citizen there. Here, however, to remain seated would seem insulting; to stand up and sing seems presumptuous. But this wasn't an anthem for a nation as in physical country sense, but as in body of people, in particular a much put-upon ethnic group.

Like a lot of national anthems it's really just a hymn. It starts very uplifting, as it should, but it ends with a good, solid dose of God. Being a hymn, there is always that problem that all hymns (and national anthems) have: Even with all the words in front of you and the tune playing, you still have no idea how to actually sing it. In hymns words are stressed, elongated, shortened, sung higher, sung lower, sped up and slowed down all to a random pattern only known by the singers. There is never any indication or logic on where to do all these different things. You just have to know. In fact even if you do know a hymn, but then go to a different country or denomination and they sing the same hymn, they will have a completely different way of singing it. You can try to guess but you'll be wrong, and find yourself half way through a "lord" when everyone else is speeding through a "giving me his salvation;" or you'll be getting to the end of a constant, high-pitched line about angels being high and wing-ed, when everyone else is at the start belting out a "holy" that lasts four minutes and covers 5 octaves.

Anyway, I digress. The evening was an education and nicely outside my normal sphere of experience. It's not often I get to witness firsthand an (admittedly atypical) slice of Black American Christian life, being as I am a White European Atheist. As Criswell once put it, "Can you prove that it didn't happen?"

Labels: Anthropology, Movies, Music, Religion, Travel, US

The Netherlands is one of those small countries were within a couple of degrees of separation you know pretty much everyone. In fact if I go out in Amsterdam for more than a couple of hours and don't meet or see someone, I feel something is wrong. Also it often happens that on the flight I am taking or at the airport I bump into someone with whom I am familiar. This time I was recognised by a stewardess from a combination of the easylaughs shows and last year's Theatersports Weekend. We didn't get to talk too much as she was at work and constantly had to dish out things to people to take their minds off the fact they are defying some of the most immutable laws in science.

One of the best things that has been developed for airline passengers is the map that allows you to follow the flight. It doesn't serve any real purpose, but it really gives you a feeling you are involved. Makes you feel that you are not being carried around like freight but that you are part of the navigation crew. The other great thing is the digital film system that allows you to select a film to watch and start watching it when you want to. Not only that, you can pause it and speed past the bits life is too short for. In the old days (and on older aircraft), there was one big screen at the front which showed some inane family movie usually starring Macauley Culkin. The flight map is itself is not often much of a lesson in geography, but it shows interesting things, such as reminding one that the name Aberystwyth (Wales) is so long it almost covers up the town of Shannon (Ireland). I have often wondered in long nights in the air whether the inhabitants of Shannon have ever requested that the inhabitants of Aberystwyth shorten or move their name.

1 minute reviews:
Black Dahlia: Necessarily simplified version of the James Ellroy novel. Adequate, modern stab at Film Noir lacking substance but containing Scarlett Johansson.
On The Waterfront: Classic, noirish, small-time gangster film that offers some excellent performances and a pretty realistic story almost until the end.

Coffee at high altitudes tastes like mud. I have had the coffee on a variety of airlines, at a variety of heights, and every time it tastes exactly like mud. I assume there is nothing the scientists can do to make it taste anything like coffee. Things do not bode well for serious space travel.

Labels: Comedy, Drink, Movies, Netherlands, Travel, UK

Now for those of us who know full well that Jesus was an enigmatic, errant rabbi whose story got blown all out of proportion (not to mention superimposed over other, earlier stories) should be heartened by the apparent discovery of Jesus' family tomb. However, I'm somewhat sceptical. "What's new?" you say.

The chance of finding one specific family tomb out of the many, many that must have existed seems unlikely. Even my limited knowledge of the times makes me realise that there were hardly any names back then (partly because vowels had not been invented). Half the girls were called Mary, for instance. So I do not buy into the uniqueness of the collection of names argument which states, 'what is the chance that any other Mary, Mary, Jesus and Josephs were all buried together?' It's a bit like unearthing the tomb of Sharon, Darren and Kev in Ancient Essex.

I haven't yet worked out what the "DNA" argument is for it being Jesus, et al. Who would you compare Jesus' DNA with to prove it was Jesus? I guess Princess Diana, if you follow that path. Again, I think that is just wishful thinking. However if the body WAS Jesus, then we should be examining very closely the DNA right now because 50% of it is God's! This means that if this was Jesus, we could use cloning techniques to create a genetically-modified semi-Deity. (Assuming nobody had any ethical objections to this.)

James Cameron is also an unlikely theo-archaeologist. Although he does have some credentials. He has filmed in the formerly lost tomb, The Titanic, and shares some credit for discovering the cursed artefact of Leonardo Di Crapio. And I am sure the description of Armageddon in the Bible was not unlike Terminator 3. He even filmed an undersea convent drama, The Abbess.

As for whether this is the tomb of Jesus and his family, a) we'll almost certainly never know for sure; b) plenty will fervently believe this no matter where the evidence goes because they want it to be so; and c) even more will always deny it because their belief structure won't allow it to be so.

If this really was Jesus and we were tampering with his body and tearing apart his religion, wouldn't he'd be turning in his grave? Obviously he's not; he's lying out on some archaeologist's slab and absolutely not turning as we would have heard about it by now.

So not much good can come out of this, I say, as the yea-sayers can never be proved right, and so have nothing really to use against the religious, and the deniers would not be swayed by any scientific evidence anyway. In fact, there really is only one thing left worth doing:

One morning, before the scientists clock in, the body should be removed. On the slab we should sit a 30-year-old, bearded, middle-eastern man in white robes who will smile benevolent at everyone who comes in the room. After a while, he should get up and say something profound yet mysterious (like "Mr Peter More dot com") and walk out. Religion has its place, science is very, very useful, but nothing, and I mean nothing, beats a good prank.

Labels: History, Movies, Religion

All this talk about cowboys put me in mind of the Lone Ranger. The Lone Ranger summed up the typical cowboy attitude to Indians. Or Native Americans as they call themselves now, I think to stop people asking them for curries. Even though the Lone Ranger had a sidekick - a very capable sidekick as I remember: the sort of Indian who could put his ear to the ground and tell you how many horses were going along, how far away and in what direction - he treated him terribly. For a start he called him Tonto, Spanish for stupid. There is no way the Lone Ranger would not have known this, as he would have encountered many comedy Mexicans during his time on TV. "Oh No-o! My seegar haas set fire to my sombreero!"
Secondly, he had a sidekick, right? A sidekick who was with him much of the time, right? Then why the Jeez was he called the LONE Ranger. He wasn't lone. He had a partner, sorry, sidekick. With the emphasis on the word 'kick' it would seem.

One more question: does a gay cowboy have a same-sex pardner?




"My name might be 'Stupid,' but at least I would never wear a cactus on my head."

Labels: Movies

Over here in Europe (or Yurp, as I understand it is pronounced), we have a little difficulty understanding the fuss around Brokeback Mountain. It is hardly the first main-stream film to deal with homosexuality, although its predecessors are easily counted on one hand. The fuss is mainly because of the suggestion that cowboys can also be gay. Cowboys!

It seems to me that the image of the cowboy is one that many Americans have of themselves. That they are a nation of untamed individuals together trying to forge a life on a new frontier surrounded on all sides by hostile Injuns (whoever the current Injuns happen to be) out to git’em. These days this is far from the truth, even the surrounded bit. Yet this image explains the prevalence of off-road vehicles in built-up areas.

The fact than any all-American cowboy could be in anything less than a red-blooded, straight-shootin’, straight-lovin’ heterosexual, is abhorrent. Meanwhile in Yurp, we have always had our suspicions about the sexuality of cowboys.

All that tight jeans, boots, leather, spending so much time out on the prairie together, a bunch of men camping out under the stars, hands never that far away from some sort of phallic weapon, etc. Cowboys also traditionally get very angry at these suggestions, which is the first sign of a repressed sexuality.

So over here in Yurp, the question is not “Why would they make a gay cowboy film?” But “Why haven’t they made one before?”

John Wayne (real name Marion) definitely walked like a man who had spent too much time in someone else's saddle. Any what is more exciting to gay men than a mysterious, silent stranger? Like that of Clint Eastward's character in "A Fistful of Dollers," whoever Dollers is.

"Are you laughing at my donkey?"
"No, signor, I was checking out your ass."

And how those clichéd lines would have been improved...

"This bar ain't big enough for the two of us. Shall we go next door, they have some intimate booths in there."

"Sundown, at the old cemetery. And bring a friend."

"I'm gonna mount my trusty Steve."

In fact there was one time Hollywood let the underlying homosexuality of cowboys shine through and that was "Paint Your Wagon." But it just went to show that cowboys aren't the type of gays who are into showtunes. Hollywood misfired.

Of course now this film is a success, get ready for a deluge of gay films. Hollywood isn't really one for breaking down social barriers, but it knows a bandwagon when one trundles past festooned with multicoloured sequins. Although I am not expecting any time soon the movie, "Mohammed: My Gay Life."

Suggested listening: Cowboys Are Frequently, Secretly Fond of Each Other by Pansy Division and now Willy Nelson.

Labels: Anthropology, Art, Europe, Movies, Religion, US

Part 185 of a continuing series of unexpected films watched (or part watched) in German:

South Park Der Film

"Fick dich und halts maul Onkel Ficker"

Labels: Movies

The last time I was in the US was some nine years ago. I was approaching a town called Charlottesville in Virginia when the radio news announced that Christopher Reeve had been involved in a horse-related accident in the town of Charlottesville, Virginia. It was quite disconcerting. I always somehow felt somehow responsible. Slowly, over the years, I put those thoughts from my mind.

Not long into my arrival back into the US for the first time since then, the TV announces that Christopher Reeve has died. Now tell me I am not to blame! The first thing I resolved to do when I get back is have my blood tested for high levels of Kryptonite.

Labels: Movies, Travel, US

Running through some of the poorer areas of San Diego is a train line. It’s called a trolley and is more like a metro train or a tram than a train. One line goes all the way down to the border with Mexico. It is this line we took. Partly for the experience and partly because the border to Mexico is not the place to park your car. And driving over there isn’t the thing to do, either.

But as it happens Tijuana is so much on then border, that you can calk over there into the centre of town. The walkway over the border is a horrible ugly concrete affair in the style of 1960s shopping centres. It takes you zig-zaggingly up and over the border and then down again in the same style. No photography is allowed in the walkway, which is a pity as it is an area of outstanding national ugliness.

Tijuana has two sides. There is the sleazy tourist-trap area where every shop sells souvenirs from classy sculptures by local artists (rare) to tacky sombrero ash trays (very common). There are so many of these shops all selling pretty much the same thing, that after a while it becomes impossible to know what to by.
The other side of town is the sleazy part where drink and prostitutes are cheap. It’s a popular Batchelor party destination for Californian men, the same way Amsterdam is for British men.

We only went to the tourist part of town. Walked past and into the shops selling various grades of objects emblazoned with Tijuana. Sometimes people tried to entice us in with everything from lies (“Everything today one Dollar”) to humour (“Please come in and let me rip you off”). Maybe as much as a fistful of dollars changed hands to get a few little gifts and to have lunch serenaded by a junior mariachi band, but that was it. There really isn’t so much to see in Tijuana itself. It’s a place to go to say I’ve been to Mexico and to buy the sombrero ashtrays to back it up. You don’t go there to get a taste of Mexican life - this is a border town, it ain’t typical.

Getting back was quite straight forward. There was a worry about my status. But my password was already stamped; it’s not uncommon for tourists to pop into Mexico for the day, or even a few hours as in our case.

That evening we dined at Ruby’s Diner. It’s an old-style diner set in the 50’s or 60’s (I’m a bit vague because they are). It’s the kind of place you don’t get cutlery because everything comes in a bun. But it’s better quality than stuff that usually comes in a bun. Ruby was represented by a 20ft waitress suspended over the bar. The so-called ‘Skirt of Damocles.’

To appear useful, I went along to mein hostesses acting workshop in the evening. As it happened they were short of one actor and I helped by reading his role. Fortunately the role was of a tough, American, action-film hero, so it was a clear case of type-casting.

Labels: Drink, Movies, Travel, US

This is an odd film. A series of episodes and slices of quirky life, in which a plot is discovered quite late, but is really not so consequential to the piece. It was nice to see a film where all of the main characters were such utter odd-ball weirdos. It was amusing and interesting, but it didn’t grab me nearly as much as I would have liked it to. There are some good moments and some nice lines: “I caught you a delicious bass,” is delivered as a kind of nerdy chat-up line. I’m going to try it next time I get a chance. It’s a pity I went to Coronado beach before I saw the film, otherwise I could have used such a line and landed me some one just like Marilyn Monroe. Or at least like Joe E Brown. Conclusion: this is a film you may or may nor like. It depends on your taste. I have heard of people loving it. I thought it was diverting and sufficiently different to recommend it, although it was a little unsatisfying.

Labels: Movies

This is a sequel. That doesn’t mean it is a bad film. Being a sequel doesn’t always mean that. It just means that sometimes what often happens, you are made to feel cheated about something from the first. Usually this is the romantic interest. Usual story: In film 1, as well as defeating bad guys and saving world / school / Christmas (delete as applicable), said hero falls in love with someone. The end, after said planet / institution / season have been saved, the hero pops off sunsetwards with said love interest. Now comes the sequel. Hero needs a reason to act despite being felicitously happy with said woman / man / porpoise. Thus the usual answer is to kill her / him / it off. Thus giving the man reason to act and, frequently, the chance to fall in love all over again.

I haven’t seen any of the original versions of this film, but was given a summary by a friend which in the end wasn’t necessary, as the film gave its own quick-cut summary. The basic story is man with memory loss tries to find out and then come to terms with what he did. He used to kill people for a dirty branch of the CIA. He was very good at it, and is still the master of any situation. He won’t call anyone unless he can see them. It would make him an irritating friend, but a great guy to have in a crisis. And being trained by the CIA and authored by Robert Ludlum, his life is just one big crisis followed by another.

The film is shot in wobble-cam which helps make everything more exciting because it’s like you’re there being wobbled around or running with him. The car chases are spectacular and really show that cars are so much tougher in films than in real life. I was particularly impressed at the resilience of Russian taxis. Forget Volvos, these are the new ‘tanks on wheels’, able to stand anything you can throw at them.

The Bourne Supremacy is an exiting piece of film not stupid but not so believable. Likely to spawn several sequels: Bourne Again, Bourne: Free and of course the prequel: Bourne Yesterday. You chuckle derisively, but can you prove it will not happen?

Labels: Movies