Out of blasted remains of a novella about thirtysomething vampire ponies and the ashes of countless deleted attempts rises a new post. Gaze upon it in awe before you return to checking for important farm related updates on facebook.
The provision of time off from work for underlings is right up there with universal suffrage as incontrovertible evidence of the decline and decay of our civilisation. However as an underling with no particular love of a civilisation that counts reality TV and Ikea amongst its greatest works, I was finally persuaded to take some leave and 'go tourist'. It is at least partly because of this that I have not written for so very, very long. I'm sure you've been spending your time productively, carrying out abortions, treating people with respect regardless of their sexual orientation, reading Harry Potter and doing all the things that make you good little Satanists.
Of course holidays come in two flavours in Freedom. By which I mean that here the term 'holiday' refers only to special events, such as Thanksgiving, Christmas, Presidential Colorectal Surgery Observance Day and Token Apology to Decimated and Blighted Native Peoples Afternoon. Instead the word 'vacation' is used for the type of holiday favoured by my tea obsessed countrypersons: namely a fortnight trying the skin's tumour defenses in the vicinity of bodies of water containing salt, chlorine and lager, perhaps separately, while sleeping in a forgettable yet delightfully functional concrete tower. Happily I can report that I recently partook of both types of holiday. If I'm using 'partook' correctly anyway.
Deciding to forego the chlorine, 'Sometimes Friend and Now Girlfriend' rented a house on the Outer Banks in North Carolina and invited me and four others to help stay in and pay for it. If not jumped, then we certainly all moved as far as a keyboard and responded to the email, at the chance.
The journey to the house was somewhat long but for the most part compensated us by offering up spectacular panoramas of chain restaurants and billboards, broken only by the occasional glimpse of fields or trees. A transition occured near the coast though, as the billboards became more regionally focused, championing boiled peanuts, homemade fudge and wholesale seafood or espousing the wonders of local eateries. It seems that a strange code is adhered to when opening a restaurant on the Outerbanks: one must perturb, if not obliterate, potential customers' expectations by giving the establishment either a puerile name or at least one that features the word 'dog'. So it is that the hungry traveller is invited to partake of delicacies at "Awful Albert's", "Froggy Dogs", "Franks Dogs", or "Famous Dogs". However to truly excel, it is necessary to consider the possibility of selling t-shirts incorporating the name and this is why "I got my crabs at Dirty Dick's" is proudly displayed in letters six foot high by the side of the highway.
We reached our destination after weathering a great deal of tourist traffic and a sign at the end of the village that encouraged us to "Dare to dream the impossible dream", by owning one of many immensely similar beach houses. In fact the village, though mercifully less developed than the coast to the north, appeared to be entirely composed of holiday homes built on stilts to discourage nature's pesky attempts to reinstate aesthetics. Interestingly (I don't mean that) Rodanthe was the location of a 'major motion picture' several years ago and while driving down we expected that at any moment a wild and confused Richard Gere would burst out of the low scrub punctuating the sand dunes that bracketed the road, his glorious grey mane resplendent in the sun, before meeting his maker on the front of the car at 65 mph.
Our accommodation turned out to be very pleasant, two streets from the beach, large and airy, with charming decor. As we penetrated further into the house tastefully understated images of killer whales, fish, lighthouses, boats and parrots cheerily assaulted us at every turn, their astonishingly vibrant colours giving the comforting effect of being molested by the cast of Sesame Street while trapped inside a giant kaleidoscope. Only the plastic fish staring out accusingly from their imprisonment in the clear acrylic toilet seats prevented us from running to the bathrooms and voiding ourselves in terror.
Apart from a bedroom, a considerable collection of dvds and a wealth of indispensable fake nautical items, an open plan lounge and kitchen occupied most of the top floor, offering views of the ocean and beach houses through its large windows. Admiring the sweeping vista, I stopped to look at a large black dog padding the top deck of a neighbouring house. "Look at that huge dog", I murmured, drawing one of my companions over with a grunt of interest. As she stood next to me, the dog's presumed chaperone, a flabby teenage boy with formative breasts, appeared from around a corner and strode out to the middle of the deck, gazing across a small patch of scrub towards the row of houses along the beachfront. Noting the towel around his waist we speculated as to his state of dress. As soon as I had finished proferring the opinion that he was certainly wearing trunks, the boy turned his waist slightly towards us and unwrapped his towel, proving me thoroughly incorrect. We recoiled as one.
After this auspicious beginning we decided to drive to the nearest almost-town and buy some groceries. Hampered by the leathery old people and other newly arrived holidaymakers clogging the aisles, we searched for necessary foodstuffs hidden amongst a distressingly large quantity of self-administered enema kits. A mystery perhaps equal to this stock buying policy was that of the uniformly Russian staff. Who were they and why had they come here? Where the hell did they live in this land of beach rentals and campgrounds?
On arriving back at the house it was quickly determined that with a mixture of cunning, guile and unwavering paranoia, we had managed to lock ourselves out, by setting all the security latches and leaving via a door that didn't have a keyhole on the outside. Bravo.
After deciding to split up and each try a different door, I managed to gain entry first when I declined to use a credit card and instead managed to insert my more flexible medical insurance card between the door and the frame, flipping the latch. Thank heavens for the absence of a social healthcare system.
Beach holidays are all about unnecessary discomfort. The discomfort of sunburn, of sand in every item of clothing, of chaotic packs of yelping children armed with sharp plastic toys and above all the discomfort of flailing about in the largest body of urine on Earth, rife with fishhooks and jellyfish. One of our party took such offense to the jellyfish that he began a vendetta with his specially procured diving knife. He also slept wrapped in a tarpaulin, but I suppose we must each choose our own path through life.
Despite these obvious drawbacks, beaches are confoundingly popular with humans, who can be found collapsed at intervals along the sand, or tirelessly trudging along the ocean front in pairs, scouting for possible mates. Freedom is in the midst of an ongoing process to rob women of all clothing while reinstilling Victorian values in men, so that male swimming attire continues to expand its coverage, current fashion being for shorts to reach beneath the knee and no doubt they will take the form of a baggy tube extending from the eyes to the toes by then end of the decade.
We didn't spend the whole time lounging about on crushed rock and sea creatures, cooking in the rays of our burning star. Oh no. Instead we elected to drive to the next island, taking in the tallest lighthouse in Freedom and a ferry trip en route. That particular day started well, with our designated driver attempting to reverse over me as I was about to get into the car.
At Cape Hatteras lighthouse I was grilled by a park ranger on my choice of trousers instead of shorts and on where I had procured my hat. Then we waited at the foot of the lighthouse with a group of excited children and parents for our turn to climb the large number steps to the top. While one ranger warned us about the high temperatures and narrow staircase in the lighthouse another was gently prying an obese and sweat soaked couple out of the entrance. They politely and profusely thanked her for the use of her emergency water. Not long after this happy event was complete, it was our turn and we were motioned inside.
As children launched themselves to the top in devastating blasts of noise and methane, I started my ascent, hugging the wall. Buffeted by ruddy faced balloon people and their mercilessly energetic progeny, I finally gave the lie to my aspiration to reach the top and let vertigo halt me at the second landing, waiting there for the others to return from their trip to the promised wasps' nest at the top.
After taking the ferry to Ocracoke Island we visited the shortest lighthouse in America, which unfortunately vistors aren't allowed to climb, or esle I would have had a chance to indulge in a false sense of achievement. I'm sure I've been up taller ladders.
On the way back there was a queue for the ferry, as everyone adhered to tradition and tried to head home at the same time. Stationary on the blazing tarmac, we watched from our car shaped oven as a bright pink man with a belly hanging to his knees repeatedly circled his car, before become delusional enough to encourage his daughter out and into the sight of ravenous seagulls. 'Sometimes Friend' helpfully yelled at him that feeding the seagulls wasn't allowed, but he took no notice.
Sitting in the small air conditioned ferry lounge on the way back, we looked out across the bay and tried to ignore a kid with a knife standing on the observation deck outside, grinning maliciously at us and stabbing the glass. I think the knife was plastic. Maybe.
The day finished well when we were cut up by two teenage girls in daddys' car, leading to our female passengers insisting on screaming "Whores!" out the window at them as we overtook. This distracted the driver enough to make him forget to move back into the correct lane, and an amusingly high speed head on collision was only avoided when everyone else in the car yelled at him in panic.
Aren't vacations fun?
I was going to write something about the Fourth of July here, but it's bedtime, so you'll just have to wait. Again.
Who can? The Vatican.
You heard me.
