The Buck starts here…

Hoctor is one of those strange crossover names you dont quite know what to make of.  It’s a bit like Doctor and a bit like Hector, but ultimately it isn’t really either of them.  I met my 1st Hoctor a couple of days ago.  I wasn’t expecting to meet him. I wasn’t expecting to ever meet anyone called Hoctor.  That would have been sad.  But it matters not.  I arrived at my friend Alex’s house in Crouch End for an evening of Taco madness and was welcomed at the door by a very excitable little cat.  Hoctor the Cat.

After what may in fact be the most thrilling game of football on the x-box ever (Tottenham 5 – Barcelona 4), I crashed out and prepared to awake anew for the glory of Wednesday.  I have always considered Wednesday to be unique amongst all days, because not only is it the middle of the week, it is also spelt so absurdly differently to how it is pronounced that one has to ask what the Anglo-Saxons were thinking & drinking when they came up with it.  Language is a strange thing.  The Anglo-Saxons were no doubt a strange bunch.  But Hoctor is just a damn cool cat. 

There were two Hoctor-related incidents that gave me much joy on Wednesday.  The first involved a fake mouse.  It wasn’t the greatest specimen of fake mouse.  Certainly nothing as intricate as the one below.

 In fact, it looked more like a small rubber ball.  But Hoctor is young and adventurous.  So adventurous in fact that he spent an enjoyable hour stalking this small rubber ball across the floor.  Recalling the killer instincts of his savannah-dwelling cousins, Hoctor would lie in wait for the small rubber ball, bide his time, and then POUNCE!!  It was a privilige to see the man in action.

This was merely a light appetiser for where Hoctors curious nature would lead him next.  Hoctor had zeroed in on the fireplace as a source of adventure and entertainment.  He sniffed around a for a minute or so, and then decided to go for the plunge.  Long dark tunnels are always too tempting for intrepid explorers like Hoctor to resist.  And so he set off on the long expedition to the top of Chimney Mountain.  To the land of Terrace Roof, where the air is clean and the view is green.  I couldn’t say for sure how far little Hoctor got.  Armchair voyeurs such as myself are not qualified to pass judgement on brave creatures such as Hoctor who endeavour to go where no feline has gone before.  But I think he must have dislodged a bit of soot, because he came scrabbling down again in an awful hurry – slightly blacker, slightly wiser, and a legend forever.

The British Government has decided that, for tax purposes, Christmas 2006 will be celebrated on July 16th.  Nah, I’m joshing with you.  But I did go to a “St Patrick’s day festival” in Central London yesterday, a full 5 days before St Patrick was born, died, made a saint, killed a dragon etc. (I admit that my only knowledge of this Irish holiday is that people drink stupid amounts of Guiness and wear silly green hats).  The free leaflet that listed all the bands I’d never heard of, singing songs I couldn’t hear because some cheapskate buraeucrat didn’t hire enough speakers, had a little message from Red Ken, London’s mayor, harping on about London’s diversity and how happy he was to be putting on this shindig on St Patrick’s day.  Except…it wasn’t St Patrick’s day.  Oh well.

So my first impression upon arriving back in Britain after 6 months or so abroad are that it’s grey.  And cold.  And I was quite happy about that – I got to put on my coat and my gloves and and my hat and wander around feeling chipper.  The British are better about feeling chipper than any other country in the world.  It’s all bound up with our love of tea.

Mildred:  “Hello Agatha, you’re looking quite chipper”

Agatha: “Yes Mildred, I’ve just put the kettle on.  Would you like a cuppa?”

4 hours after touching down at Heathrow, I pulled on my Tottenham shirt and walked up the road to my mate Dave’s house. Dave has a satellite dish that picks up signals sent from North London and then sends them right back to North London. Then we watch them on his telly.  Great stuff.  Tottenham were, however, beaten by the champions Chelsea in the last minute of the match.  This is a sad thing.  I was sad.  Dave was sad.

So yeah.  Back in Britain.  Although this is technically a travel blog, it will continue as long as interesting things happen and I deem them worthy of typing out and uploading to the web.  If no new posts appear, it will be because no interesting things have occurred and I am sitting in a large purple crate knitting the worlds second biggest poncho.

Mildred:  “Agatha, are you an octopus?”

Agatha:   “I feel poncho-tastic”

I had an interesting flight from Hanoi to Bangkok this afternoon. The carrier was AirAsia, a no-frills airline that spans across south-east Asia. The flight was only an hour & a half long. And after attempting to sell merchandise and warm Coke from the trolley (which must have taken all of 4 minutes), the air hostesses had precious little to do…which is why they invented the AirAsia competition!!!

Instaed of seat numbers (it was a first-come, first-served deal) our boarding passes had a “seq” number. Dont ask me what “seq” stands for. I haven’t got the foggiest…”Serious Ethical Quandry”? “Seat Ergonomically Quantified”?? “Stupid Englishman’s Questions???” The competiton was based on these numbers. I guess you could compare it to a game of Bingo. For those readers unfamilar with the game “Bingo”, a complete set of rules can be found at: http://www.us-bingo.com/bingo-rules.html For those readers unfamiliar with the campfire song “Bingo” a complete set of lyrics can be found at: http://www.scoutsongs.com/lyrics/bingo.html For those readers unfamilar with the Pornstar “Bingo”, a complete set of pictures can be found at: http://www.spiegel.de/img/0,1020,359346,00.jpg ……

So, the game. Instead of the traditional lots-of-balls-mixed-up-randomly-with-ugly-bloke-making-crap-puns method of picking a number, the masterminds at AirAsia had opted for the pretty-stewardess-picking-numbers-off-the-top-of-her-head-and-yes-I-do-mean-that-
metaphorically-rather-than-literally method. We sat, we waited, and some geezer in row 27 won a small AirAsia bag filled with goodies I can only dream of, probably couldn’t identify, and almost certainly dont need anyway. Then some lady in row 31, and so on & so on till all the goodie bags were gone.

Aha. But before I could put my headphones back on and let Stevie Wonder fill me with, er, Stevie..a final round was announced. An exclusive AirAsia pen had been located by the crew, and the fun was going to continue, even if the pilot’s checklist did have to be filled in with lipstick. And this time, no “seq” numbers were involved! The coveted prize would go to a passeenger based on merit! An actual “Question” would be asked….

“Where does AirAsia begin daily flights to on March 1st?”

I’ll forgive you for not immediately knowing the answer to that one. It is, in fact, Krabi. I’ll forgive you for not immediately knowing where Krabi is. It is, in fact, in Southern Thailand. This information was helpfully printed on the back of the card that explained how we would survive if the plane came down in water (yeah right), and how we would survive in the event of a herd of goats going on a kickboxing rampage against the left wing of the plane (could happen..).

My hand shot up in less time than it takes for you to have read this sentence. No, quicker than that. Quicker. Quic. Q. That fast. I was right near the front too!! They couldn’t have missed me…but they did!! In fact, they couldn’t decide on a winner and went & asked a whole other question!! A bloke in row 11 got that one. He came to the front to collect his pen. We all applauded. It should have been mine. I should be twiddling it between my fingers right now!!

Fortunately, I’ve just booked another AirAsia flight, to take me to Chiang Mai on Wednesday. I am gonna be so quick on the draw, I tell thee. That pen will be mine! [evil laughter] Wa ha ha ha ha. [End evil laughter]

I stand in a crowd of people watching a conveyor belt go round.  There is an air of anticipation.  Cases & bags begin to appear, as if by magic.  “Is that my black case?” a geezer asks. “No it’s mine” replies a lady in a mink coat. “Er, actually that would be mine” says a gent with a walking stick and a Sesame Street tank top.  That’s the problem with black cases.  Lots of people have them.

I dont. I have a rucksack. A backpack.  I watch the conveyor belt – hypnotised by its soothing motion, mesmerized by the way it stops bags from bumping into each other (an infared beam methinks).  The crowd thins.  People start to wheel their little black cases away.  In the travelling days of yore, only the biggest black cases had wheels.  Now, the manufacturers put wheels on cases the size of a box of cheese.  A small box of cheese.  Camembert. Mmmmm…

I stand alone. My fellow luggage luggers have departed.  The conveyor belt contines to turn.  A solitary black case sits on it, revolving again & again & again.  It isn’t mine.  Mine is a rucksack.  A backpack.  Mine isn’t here.  the conveyor belt stops.  I sigh.  A lady escorts me to the lost luggage desk. it isn’t far –  Hanoi airport only has 1 conveyor belt.

I fill out a form.  She asks me what colour my backpack is.  I’ve carried that backpack pretty much every day for the last 6 & a half months.  What colour is it?? How in the name of David Hasselhoff am I expected to remember that?  I leave the airport bagless, and resigned to wearing the same pair of underwear for the 4th consecutive day.  The Hoff would be ashamed.

I wake up this morning in my father’s polo shirt.  I look rather dashing. I can so pull off the doctor look.  I call the airport.  My bag has arrived.  While I was painfully running through L.A airport to make my connection on Saturday night (see below), the baggage transfer people must have been having a quick game of ker-plunk.  I’d call it irony, except my chest hurt too much. Oh how I yearn for fresh underwear…not long now…

My journey began last Wednesday afternoon, when I boarded the train in Charlottesville, Virginia – heading for Chicago.  The train is called “The Cardinal”. Sadly it wasn’t dressed in pink.  They did serve microwavable chicken wings though.  Piece of advice – sticky wings on rocky train = messy meal.  I should have stuck to the reheated hot dogs.  Thursday morning saw the arrival in Chicago.  Food courts in train stations & malls in the U.S have a wonderful habit of giving away free samples to entice customers.  At the station in D.C there must have been 50 or so food outlets & a hungry traveller with diverse tastes could conceivably have had a little of everything for nothing. Or they could, as I did, be hooked by the first sample & look no further.

The people who sold Chinese food at Chicago had it down to a tee.  Their cry of “yummy yummy!” (repeated every 30 seconds) had the punters rolling in. Never was a marketing cry more apt – my meal was, indeed, both yummy & yummy.

On my Thursday afternoon train to Galesburg, Illiniois,  I was sat next to an evangelical christian fresh out of rehab.  She grabbed me on my way out & exclaimed to the carriage that Jesus was master of the universe.  I’d always thought it was He-man.  Doh!

Friday’s travelling was relatively short.  Only 8 hours in a van, with my girlfriend Jane & a  DVD for company. “Angels in America” has Meryl Streep playing a hassidic rabbi, and Al Pacino doing that shouty performance he’s brought to pretty much every role since he portrayed Michael Corleone.  It’s good though.  Really top-notch.

Which brings me to the strange day-non-day-hey-where’s-sunday day.  It all began swimmingly.  My flight from Kansas City to Dallas was delayed.  So I fell asleep in the departure lounge.  I woke up & everybody was gone.  Oh dear.  Luckily, I stumbled on just before they could slam the door and show me up for the plonker I am.  Then, Dallas.  I sat down in the lounge next to a dude with spandex shorts and an afro.  After 15 minutes of people coming over to shake his hand & have their picture taken with him, it dawned on me that maybe he was famous.  The lady next to me informed me that he’s Richard Simmons – a well known exercise guru, America’s equivalent of Mr Motivator.  Here’s a pic of Rich looking groovy….

I met Mr Motivator once a few years ago.  I was even on TV with him.  Rollerblading.  I dont rollerblade so much these days.  Perhaps I’ve lost my motivation!

So, the plane sat in Dallas for 3 hours, queueing to get “de-iced”.  This meant that my comfortable 4 hour layover at Los Angeles was reduced to less than 10 minutes.  Which meant I had to run my arse off.  And damn did that hurt!  I like running.  Anything betwen 10 & 100 metres is just great.  But ever since I came 290th out of 300 in the Camden cross-country in 1996 my stamina has been, frankly, a bit shit.

15 hours after nearly giving myself a coronary in L.A ( & leaving my jacket at the x-ray machine) I arrived in Hong Kong.  I met my parents, but then found out that I couldn’t get on the plane to Vietnam with them because it would take my bags too long too be shifted.  So I have to wait 6 hours till the next flight…

But its all good.  I haven’t slept in the same bed for 2 consecutive nights since last Monday & Tuesday.  I haven’t slept in a bed at all since Friday night.  I haven’t slept, period, in He-Man knows how long.  It’s Monday, but it feels like Saturday.  That whole international dateline thing still has me as confused as a herring in a fruit salad.

But a happy herring nonetheless…adieu..

It’s taken me a while to come to terms with my addiction. I used to be a casual user. If I was home on a Saturday night then a quick fix would do for me. Occasionally I’d go fetch some papers on a Sunday morning..

But since I left England 6 months ago its spiralled dangerously out of control. Which is how I find myself in a coffeeshop with a borrowed laptop in Charlottesville, Virginia at 8.30am on a Sunday morning. The (news) papers just dont do it for me no more. I want to keep track of my football team, Tottenham Hotspur (Spurs), live. Och. The lengths obsessional sports fans go to for that mysterious enigma that is live sports coverage. I had to walk half an hour across thick snow to make it here this morning. Am I crazy? Delusional?

Of course, it is soddy sod the silly sod’s law that the more effort you have to put in to get live coverage of your chosen sports event, the less of that event you’re actually going to catch. And darn it if proving soddy sod’s various laws isn’t one of my eternal strengths. So, I sit down bleary eyed with a cup of coffee only to find that none of the internet radio stations that cover English football are working. This is sad. But my pain can be relieved so easily by a good result in the game. You may be delighted to hear that Spurs took the lead in the 38th minute & still held it in the 88th. You may care more about the rate at which Dulux dries. You may be very sad & dissapointed to hear that Spurs then gave it all away to an equaliser on 89. You may care more about the relative speeds of earthworms & cockroaches.

So, onwards & upwards. Or backwards & bedwards as the case may be.

Ok…I know that that was a particularly crap joke. But it happens to be true. My wardrobe in a backpack is slowly expanding however. I came into possession of a brand new lime-green t-shirt the other day. It was a gift from a bunch of anti-Bush activists who were here to, er, march against Bush and stuff… Truth be told, the geezer wanted to give me a whole armload of shirts to take back to england, together with numerous wristbands (“You guys do wear wristbands in the UK right??”). Now I have no qualms about being anti-Bush. I’ve even donned a monks costume and marched through the streets of London myself. But as the evening wore on it became clear that I was in the company of some fairly wacky paranoid conspiracy theorists. So I made my excuses and went to drown my brain in the product placement advertisers wet dream that is American televison.

Oh, and how. I wonder how British TV viewers would react if they were exposed to the sheer depth of commercial immersion that confronts one over on this side of the pond. You might think that inserting adverts in between the end of a program and that programs credits might be a bit silly, especially when another advert break comes after said credits. You’d be right. Sports lovers might also get slightly exasperated when trying to watch the superbowl, a very BIG american football match that was played a few days ago. American football by its nature seems to be rather a stop-start sort of a game with innumerable excuses for the players to stop and give each other hi-fives. Challenging the ref’s decision, re-challenging the tv ajuducators decision, time-outs, bottom of the fourth, top of the twenty-seventh… If you add the halftime show by an increasingly geriatric looking rolling stones, you have on your hands a sports match that lasts about 3 & a half hours. And thats a long time….

Which is why I was very happy that, for me, the superbowl was no more than background entertainment for a far more interesting sporting event: a game of poker. While tapping ones chips, lifting pizza to ones mouth, and occasionally standing up at crucial moments may not constitute sufficient physical exertion to elevate poker to the olympics anytime soon, it remains a jolly engaging pastime. Plus, when one is playing with a bunch of guys who grew up here in D.C, there’s plenty of scope for some fascinating stories…

Of which I will mention just one. “John” – whose name has not been changed because its a pretty common one, used to be friends with the former Vice-President’s Al Gore’s son: Al Gore junior (They must have had a real hard time coming up with that one..) And one day whilst playing with young Gore, John felt the need to move his bowels. So he went into the Vice-presidents house, sat on the Vice-presidents toilet, and used what apparently is particularly pleasant vice-presidential bog roll. Oh how humbling it feels being THAT close to someone who was THAT close to a toilet that Dicky Cheney has sat on…

Hope everyone is well.

Bucky

The salsa was hot, and I was sweating slightly. I stepped off the dancefloor & dipped a tortilla chip in a pot of red sauce. The salsa was hot, and I was sweating slightly. I put down my tortilla chip & stepped back onto the dancefloor.

I had signed up for a trip to a salsa club/mexican restaurant at my hostel. 500 people can stay here at any one time, so you’d think there’d be a big demand for such a trip. Mine was the only name on the form. So a local girl – Anahita – who had volunteered to lead the trip, and I, set out uptown on the famous “El” railroad.

The demonstration of the steps was fast-paced. I kept up as best I could, but memories of being moved to the back of the stage during a high school musical due to my atrocious dancing kept coming back to haunt me. Dont get me wrong, I love to dance. But in a more free-spirited, non-step oriented way. Still, I was determined to try.

Of course, all this exercise was bound to get me thirsty. So I asked the waitress for another glass of water ( I had drunk one before the music had begun.) She told me that she was not permitted to serve tap water after the music & dancing began. Only bottled water. I went to the toilet and filled my glass up from the sink. And started to think about capitalist greed & the politics of water…

I spent a fair bit of dosh in that mexican jaunt tonight. And I might well have spent more had they not been such greedy, exploitative assholes. It’s not as if they dont have a tap. Or even that they have one but consistently dont serve water from it (although in my book that’s still pretty shitty). No. They took a conscious business decision to take advantage of the fact that when people dance they get thirsty. They’re not alone of course. I’ve been to several clubs in the U.K where the cold water taps are switched off, forcing people to buy especially small or incoveniently shaped bottles of mineral water. My friend Anna Cook told me a story once about trying to get a glass of water at a bar, only to be told that they had no glasses. Yes, a bar with no glasses. Like a rodeo with no horses, or a theme park with no rides. All really profitable enterprises. So Anna sighed and asked for a glass of Bourbon & coke. Lo & behold the barman reached for a glass. “Hang on” said Anna, as he reached for the JD. “Now can you fill that glass with water instead.”

The politics of water also take place on a much larger scale. From arguments between Israel & Syria over rights to the Sea of Gallilee to the recent poisoning of a river in China – water is used as a political tool and a political weapon. Sure, in mine & Anna’s case the purpose is just to squeeze a few extra bucks from the consumer’s pocket. But what if I didn’t have a few extra bucks? What if I decided to just forget my thirst and keep on dancing? What if I then collapsed from dehydration and died right there on the dancefloor, salsa pumping above my corpse? You can ask “what if” till the crows come home to roost. But as long as greedy businesses and self-interested nations continue to use this precious & universally owned commodity for profit & power these questions will remain. I’m going to go & get a drink of water now. It’s free. For how long?

There’s a 2-year wait to get on the Oprah Winfrey show. So I went to see them film Jerry Springer.

Oprah gives dvd players, caviar, & monte cristo’s to her audience. Jerry gives beads.
Oprah’s set is sparkly & has luxurious soft sofa’s for Tom Cruise to do his thang on. Jerry’s place is made to look like a dirty warehouse.

But hey, an hour’s queueing has gotta be preferable to 2 years. Although I guess you could accomplish a fair bit in a two-year queue. You could read the whole of Lord of the Rings without getting distracted for starters. Going to the loo might present a slight problem, but I reckon Oprah’s on hand with perfumed paper bags. The woman thinks of everything.

So I manage to get a seat on the stair. The chairs go to the people who had the foresight to book ahead. And those called Claire. People called Claire always get given a chair. I know that don’t seem fair. But I swear I don’t care. So there I was sitting on the stair. Jerry comes in & does a few minutes stand-up comedy. He’s ok. You can tell he’s done the same shtick 1758 times before though. We (the audience) are then given the rules: Dont swear, cheer a lot, boo even more, dont swear, dont swear, pump your fist and chant “Jerry” whenever prompted by the dude in the headset at the side of the stage, and dont swear. The word “Titties” apparently counts as a swear word. We were instructed to use “boobs” or “breasts” instead. I have no idea who decides that “boobs” is more acceptable than “titties”. But I envy them their job no end. Long conference calls regarding the advisability of recommending to T.V stations that “schlong” is better than “dong” is an easy gig to be sure.

The 1st guest appears. She tells a complicated story which boils down to the fact that she (who will hereafter be called female F1) wants her husband (M1) back. The trouble is M1 is now with F2. And F2‘s ex M2 is currently dating F1. You following? of course this all leads to fisticuffs between F1 and F2 and then more fisticuffs between M1 and M2. The two M‘s also feel the need to take off their shirts while fighting. One could almost imagine that this whole spectacle was genuine were it not for the sounding of a boxing round bell which signals the participants to get stuck in. That, and the fact that when the lights go down and the cameras switch off – everybody suddenly feels a whole deal calmer. That, and the fact that I saw F1 and F2 hugging in the corridor after the show. That, and the fact that I then saw F1 being paid for her dramatics.

The second set of guests involved a guy who had cheated with the babysitter. Apparently he really liked her “titties”. She even showed them to the audience. What lucky, lucky people we were. When all the fighting was done, and the umpteenth commercial break had been made. (Jerry walks off. Jerry walks on) it was time for questions. We were instructed to boo bad questions and tell the bad questioner to “go to Oprah”. This we did. Most of the questions revolved around the fact that M1 had a tiny head and the guy who porked the babysitter had a silly beard and dodgy teeth. Then Jerry gave his “final thought”. This was basically that love is strange and unconscious. Again, this was the 1759th time.

So what can I conclude from my afternoon with Jerry? If there’s one thing, it’s this: The world actually has less ridiculously stupid, ugly & vain people in it than one might imagine. Coz if there were so many, they wouldn’t need to hire actors to come on Jerry Springer. Is that true? I have absolutely no idea. But Chicago sure is pretty. Great pizza too. Gonna go get me some.

It all began a couple of weeks ago when I first arrived in the city of Lawrence, Kansas. As my girlfriend Jane drove me across town she told me not to look to my left. I didn’t.

Several times since then we would be driving and I would receive similar instructions. Although obviously since Jane’s journey’s are not 1-way, I would sometimes be asked not to look right. I didn’t.

And then there was yesterday. While Jane was at work, and with a neat handwritten map created by her Dad, I set off for my destination. I was excited. I had heard both good and bad things. Overwhelming good reviews indicate a lack of adventure. Not on this jaunt.

I came down the street and saw the sign glowing above me:

I felt a sense of pride. There were other Bucky’s in the world. And some of them made hamburgers! I went in and ordered a quarter-pounder Buckaroo. Yes. It was really called that. I also ordered some onion rings. They were ok. However the Buckaroo was almost certainly one of the most vile burgers I have ever eaten. The meat was grey. I took a picture. The computer is being difficult with me. You’ll just have to imagine a grey burger.

Tomorrow I leave Lawrence to see my friend Anne in St Louis – 6 or so hours away by train. My eyes will be peeled for other Bucky-themed eateries. Or drinkeries. I’m not too fussed. Awoooga.