The celebrations for the unveiling of Congressman Penis's Weiner have smoothly dovetailed into those for America's independence. I went down South to see Sometimes Friend and in a park on the evening of the 4th of July we enjoyed a spectacular display of fat people wearing insufficient clothing and families sporting patriotic paraphernalia manufactured in China. There were also some fireworks.
Like many apartment complexes here, mine is blessed with a small outdoor pool that opens during summer to collect beetles, ticks, incautious children and the occasional deer. The radioactive-blue water looked quite inviting, especially as the humidity here is vile, so one day I wandered over to read the rules of use.
There was a notice with the expected statement of opening hours and a reminder not to let unattended children use the pool lest they forget to surface. Otherwise the area was plastered with large signs which all had a similar theme and demonstrated a worrying lack of faith in the basic decency of my neighbours. For example:
"The New York Dept. of Health and Sanitation recommends that all those who have difficulty controlling their urinary or bowel functions wear suitable incontinence protection in addition to their bathing suit.
"Children must wear swim diapers."
"No urinating, defaecating or expectorating in or around the pool". (Expectorating? Who expected that?)
I decided not to go for a swim.
Besides Congressman Weenus's Peenor the other big news event in the New York area was the legalisation of gay marriage. Those who were against the move explained their motivations using skillfully crafted arguments such as "I'm not a bigot, I'm just a traditional American" (replace with the nationality of your choice to find the dictionary definition of bigot) or "We 're not anti-gay, we're pro-marriage" (for people who aren't gay). I suppose my problem is that I just don't hate gay people enough to deny them the rights I take for granted. But I'm sure if the Tea Party comes to power they'll set up reeducation camps to help people with problems like mine, teaching core values like homophobia 101, the dangers of mixed race marriage and how the bible shows us that public healthcare is a sin in the eyes of the Lord.
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
Sunday, 12 June 2011
The price of fish
There is some concern here over the rising cost of the petroleum derivative known locally as 'gasoline' or 'gas' (in contrast to 'gas' which is now also used to fuel vehicles and which, to avoid confusion with the shortened form of gasoline, is often referred to via the longened form 'natural gas'. Makes sense.)
I have to admit I hadn't been giving it much thought, what with the price being so ridiculously, fantastically cheap compared to the real world (where the dragons and commies are, doing their freedom hating and bereft of proper religion and morals) that I just fill up wherever and whenever; I had been considering running my cellphone off it and giving my vacuum cleaner a miniaturised V6.
However as people who weren't punished for their parents' sins by being born outside America know, cheap gasoline is a constitutional right and a vital component of functioning, healthy, democracy in that it allows one to drive three hours for a really good cheeseburger.
While in a DC hotel room, struck down by conferencitis, I took the opportunity to flick through the cable news channels (I don't own a tv*). It was a holiday weekend so most were covering the fuel apocalypse, because holiday isn't just a state of mind, it's a place you drive to.
One news crew had gamely spent some money on gas and driven their van out to a gas station forecourt to interview the hard pressed populace on how they were coping with the breakdown of civilisation. One woman, a decent salt-of-the-earth type with pearlised smile and dyed hair, was asked if the price of fuel was affecting her? "Oh yes definitely." she affirmed, standing beside her large black SUV. How so? "Well we've been cutting down on unnecessary trips, and trying to combine others when we run errands."
Imagine that.
Plenty of Americans do recognise that 'climate change' might not be a purposeless liberal socialist science conspiracy but a genuine possibility, and that declining reserves mean that the price of fuel can only increase on average. They tend to buy smaller cars of Asian origin with high fuel economy. Recently hybrids have become very popular, but some older, more efficient options remain overlooked. Diesel engines? Buses? What are you, from space?
The price of gas is very serious though for those whose livelihood depends directly on it. Taxi drivers, who have to give half their takings to the dispatcher, but pay for fuel out of their own half, like to tell me this when I happen to require their services, before they mention that only tips can keep the wolves from the door. Wolves who have been forced to work in the repossessions sector because of the poor economy and dwindling number of buffalo. As one driver recently related to me "You might drive almost an hour and end up with only twenty bucks, but that's before you've bought gas for this," indicating his car, an ex-police Ford Crown Victoria, which he lovingly referred to as a "piece of shit." The primary benefit of the Crown Victoria is its powerful engine and easily rebuilt body. Useful for a hard day hurtling down alleys knocking over boxes and trashcans or chasing the Dukes of Hazzard. Or for casually ramming other cars and converting cyclists into flying objects, as taxis are want to do. Not known for its fuel economy, the basic unit on the Crown Vic's fuel gauge is the daily oil output of a small Sultanate.
Later the driver pulled over at the side of the road, cocked his finger and pretended to shoot some deer. Then he offered to take me bear hunting.
It seems that taxi drivers think gas prices are controlled entirely by the American economy: global financial crises and civil unrest in the Middle East are largely irrelevant. Accordingly, they know how to fix the economy. Along with malaria, homosexuality, seasonal affective disorder and socks lost in the wash, it is "Obama's fault" TM. All of the stimulus money should have just been divided among the people. For a start, this would allow taxi drivers to pay off their "$5000 credit card debt."
It is not clear to me why Barack Obama should take financial advice from people who have unfortunately managed to get themselves into thousands of dollars of debt.
*A lady from the cable company phoned me to tell me about how their great offers could save me money on my tv bill. When she asked who my current tv provider was and I replied that it was no one and that I didn't own a tv, she became very quiet. I could imagine her hitting the panic button, or perhaps just whispering, "freak". It's probably got me on some kind of watch list.
I have to admit I hadn't been giving it much thought, what with the price being so ridiculously, fantastically cheap compared to the real world (where the dragons and commies are, doing their freedom hating and bereft of proper religion and morals) that I just fill up wherever and whenever; I had been considering running my cellphone off it and giving my vacuum cleaner a miniaturised V6.
However as people who weren't punished for their parents' sins by being born outside America know, cheap gasoline is a constitutional right and a vital component of functioning, healthy, democracy in that it allows one to drive three hours for a really good cheeseburger.
While in a DC hotel room, struck down by conferencitis, I took the opportunity to flick through the cable news channels (I don't own a tv*). It was a holiday weekend so most were covering the fuel apocalypse, because holiday isn't just a state of mind, it's a place you drive to.
One news crew had gamely spent some money on gas and driven their van out to a gas station forecourt to interview the hard pressed populace on how they were coping with the breakdown of civilisation. One woman, a decent salt-of-the-earth type with pearlised smile and dyed hair, was asked if the price of fuel was affecting her? "Oh yes definitely." she affirmed, standing beside her large black SUV. How so? "Well we've been cutting down on unnecessary trips, and trying to combine others when we run errands."
Imagine that.
Plenty of Americans do recognise that 'climate change' might not be a purposeless liberal socialist science conspiracy but a genuine possibility, and that declining reserves mean that the price of fuel can only increase on average. They tend to buy smaller cars of Asian origin with high fuel economy. Recently hybrids have become very popular, but some older, more efficient options remain overlooked. Diesel engines? Buses? What are you, from space?
The price of gas is very serious though for those whose livelihood depends directly on it. Taxi drivers, who have to give half their takings to the dispatcher, but pay for fuel out of their own half, like to tell me this when I happen to require their services, before they mention that only tips can keep the wolves from the door. Wolves who have been forced to work in the repossessions sector because of the poor economy and dwindling number of buffalo. As one driver recently related to me "You might drive almost an hour and end up with only twenty bucks, but that's before you've bought gas for this," indicating his car, an ex-police Ford Crown Victoria, which he lovingly referred to as a "piece of shit." The primary benefit of the Crown Victoria is its powerful engine and easily rebuilt body. Useful for a hard day hurtling down alleys knocking over boxes and trashcans or chasing the Dukes of Hazzard. Or for casually ramming other cars and converting cyclists into flying objects, as taxis are want to do. Not known for its fuel economy, the basic unit on the Crown Vic's fuel gauge is the daily oil output of a small Sultanate.
Later the driver pulled over at the side of the road, cocked his finger and pretended to shoot some deer. Then he offered to take me bear hunting.
It seems that taxi drivers think gas prices are controlled entirely by the American economy: global financial crises and civil unrest in the Middle East are largely irrelevant. Accordingly, they know how to fix the economy. Along with malaria, homosexuality, seasonal affective disorder and socks lost in the wash, it is "Obama's fault" TM. All of the stimulus money should have just been divided among the people. For a start, this would allow taxi drivers to pay off their "$5000 credit card debt."
It is not clear to me why Barack Obama should take financial advice from people who have unfortunately managed to get themselves into thousands of dollars of debt.
*A lady from the cable company phoned me to tell me about how their great offers could save me money on my tv bill. When she asked who my current tv provider was and I replied that it was no one and that I didn't own a tv, she became very quiet. I could imagine her hitting the panic button, or perhaps just whispering, "freak". It's probably got me on some kind of watch list.
Thursday, 5 May 2011
Like the A-Team, but balancing balls on their noses
It is with great sadness that we must announce that due to unforeseen circumstances, Osama Bin Laden will not be appearing on the next season of 'Dancing with the Stars'.
It was delightful to see the youth of America outside the White House, celebrating in their quintessential way: as if their college football team had won the game but with some nationalistic chanting thrown in. Actually with all the chanting and yelling and air punches and jumping up and down it looked quite a lot like the scenes in certain Arab nations after September the 11th. Minus the kalashnikovs and the effigy burning but plus baseball caps and college sweatshirts, which easily compensate in terms of visual unpleasantness.
At least according to the comments on cnn.com, some Americans are demanding they should see the results of Osama's fateful last photo op, with arguments along the lines of 'This is what I pay my taxes for!' If that's what people here are paying their taxes for, it's no wonder that public healthcare is in such a bad state.
It leads one to wonder if through the human race's incessant struggle: all the pain, sacrificed lives and anionic surfactant, anything is ever really learned. I think the answer is, "No, not really". Well not with any permanence or by the majority of us anyway. Which is rather sad.
Not wanting to paint a totally bleak picture (like a watercolour of the Slough trading estate), many people did react with restraint and understood that the nefarious one's pelting to death with herring didn't mean that a new age of golden prosperity would descend upon the troubled corners of the world (fifty inch plasma screens and a hummer for everyone if you would be so kind as to stop the stonings). So that's good. I can hang out with those people.
It was delightful to see the youth of America outside the White House, celebrating in their quintessential way: as if their college football team had won the game but with some nationalistic chanting thrown in. Actually with all the chanting and yelling and air punches and jumping up and down it looked quite a lot like the scenes in certain Arab nations after September the 11th. Minus the kalashnikovs and the effigy burning but plus baseball caps and college sweatshirts, which easily compensate in terms of visual unpleasantness.
At least according to the comments on cnn.com, some Americans are demanding they should see the results of Osama's fateful last photo op, with arguments along the lines of 'This is what I pay my taxes for!' If that's what people here are paying their taxes for, it's no wonder that public healthcare is in such a bad state.
It leads one to wonder if through the human race's incessant struggle: all the pain, sacrificed lives and anionic surfactant, anything is ever really learned. I think the answer is, "No, not really". Well not with any permanence or by the majority of us anyway. Which is rather sad.
Not wanting to paint a totally bleak picture (like a watercolour of the Slough trading estate), many people did react with restraint and understood that the nefarious one's pelting to death with herring didn't mean that a new age of golden prosperity would descend upon the troubled corners of the world (fifty inch plasma screens and a hummer for everyone if you would be so kind as to stop the stonings). So that's good. I can hang out with those people.
Thursday, 31 March 2011
Exit Cat, pursued by vacuum cleaner
They are still asleep, but the Idiot awoke some time ago and embarked upon her demented agenda. Now she has finally tired of headbutting cupboards in the kitchen and whining at the light fixtures. She returns to the bedroom, jumps on the bed and immediately comes close to falling of in astonishment with the shock of remembering that we exist. She has probably been gone for less than a quarter of an hour. Recovering with the sort of rapidity that only a true imbecile can muster, she decides that it must already be night again and settles down to sleep between them.
None of this is unusual, instead it is an exercise in nauseating monotony that I witness every morning while sitting on the corner of the bed. But now breakfast has waited too long.
I make my way over to the woman. I have known her the longest and she is the primary provider of food. A good smack in the face should get the lazy ape going. Poised gracefully on her belly, I raise my paw ready to execute a firm jab in the expectation of a respectful apology and a swiftly prepared meal.
Instead, chaos. Grunting in her sleep, she turns over, hurling me across the bed in the process. The bed itself becomes a raging sea, great waves of blanket rolling and crashing as the woman shifts to a comfortable position. Struggling to stay afloat on the metaphor I spy the Idiot at the centre of the maelstrom, a pitiful look of terror on her face, tossed one way and then the other as she battles against inundation. Her tail is the last thing to disappear, waving a mournful goodbye. It is turning out to be a bad day on the high seas, and I choose to vacate the bed.
Not all is lost though, the man is now awake and heading to the bathroom. In accordance with tradition I wait for him to close the door behind him, before pushing it open a crack and ramming my head through the gap to stare at him. He looks at me in disgust from the porcelain throne. I indicate that I am ready for breakfast, withdrawing my head just in time to dodge the thrown toilet roll.
The Idiot, once again recovered from a traumatic experience, is waiting her turn at the door. Lacking my subtlety she flings herself into it so that it flies wide open. While the humans take their showers the Idiot paces the bathroom and mewls pathetically. Important work no doubt, but not for me. Let her run the risk of getting wet I say.
Once we have coaxed the recalcitrant humans into the kitchen our work is still not over. We must constantly petition them for food, lest they forget and start doing something stupid. Our desperation grows as, stubbornly negligent in their duties, they attend to all sorts of inconsequential tasks, like feeding themselves, all the while babbling to each other in their ridiculous hairless monkey tongue. Can they not see that we are starving? Or at least that I am, who cares about the Idiot anyway? She can probably subsist on her own flatulence.
At last the bowls hit the ground, and I am so weak with hunger that I almost don't stop to inspect the Idiot's food first. It is always important to check that she hasn't been given something that would be wasted on her unrefined palate. A whole goose perhaps, or a capybara.
As I daintily bury my face in my delicious breakfast, smearing it all over my mouth in a dignified manner, I keep a watchful eye on the vacuum cleaner looming in its corner. It waits to pounce on the unwary, but I have the measure of it.
Slurping on the last chunks of "fisherman's choice", I hear a strange clunking noise. OH MY GOD THE VACUUM CLEANER! TAKE THE IDIOT PLEASE, NOT ME!
But no, it is the humans; they have used breakfast to distract us, escaping from the house under cover of mechanically reclaimed fish paste. Cleverer than I thought. Well they won't pull this trick on me twice, tomorrow I'll be ready. I'm sure I couldn't possibly be this hungry again tomorrow...
The internet is for cats. Use it wisely.
None of this is unusual, instead it is an exercise in nauseating monotony that I witness every morning while sitting on the corner of the bed. But now breakfast has waited too long.
I make my way over to the woman. I have known her the longest and she is the primary provider of food. A good smack in the face should get the lazy ape going. Poised gracefully on her belly, I raise my paw ready to execute a firm jab in the expectation of a respectful apology and a swiftly prepared meal.
Instead, chaos. Grunting in her sleep, she turns over, hurling me across the bed in the process. The bed itself becomes a raging sea, great waves of blanket rolling and crashing as the woman shifts to a comfortable position. Struggling to stay afloat on the metaphor I spy the Idiot at the centre of the maelstrom, a pitiful look of terror on her face, tossed one way and then the other as she battles against inundation. Her tail is the last thing to disappear, waving a mournful goodbye. It is turning out to be a bad day on the high seas, and I choose to vacate the bed.
Not all is lost though, the man is now awake and heading to the bathroom. In accordance with tradition I wait for him to close the door behind him, before pushing it open a crack and ramming my head through the gap to stare at him. He looks at me in disgust from the porcelain throne. I indicate that I am ready for breakfast, withdrawing my head just in time to dodge the thrown toilet roll.
The Idiot, once again recovered from a traumatic experience, is waiting her turn at the door. Lacking my subtlety she flings herself into it so that it flies wide open. While the humans take their showers the Idiot paces the bathroom and mewls pathetically. Important work no doubt, but not for me. Let her run the risk of getting wet I say.
Once we have coaxed the recalcitrant humans into the kitchen our work is still not over. We must constantly petition them for food, lest they forget and start doing something stupid. Our desperation grows as, stubbornly negligent in their duties, they attend to all sorts of inconsequential tasks, like feeding themselves, all the while babbling to each other in their ridiculous hairless monkey tongue. Can they not see that we are starving? Or at least that I am, who cares about the Idiot anyway? She can probably subsist on her own flatulence.
At last the bowls hit the ground, and I am so weak with hunger that I almost don't stop to inspect the Idiot's food first. It is always important to check that she hasn't been given something that would be wasted on her unrefined palate. A whole goose perhaps, or a capybara.
As I daintily bury my face in my delicious breakfast, smearing it all over my mouth in a dignified manner, I keep a watchful eye on the vacuum cleaner looming in its corner. It waits to pounce on the unwary, but I have the measure of it.
Slurping on the last chunks of "fisherman's choice", I hear a strange clunking noise. OH MY GOD THE VACUUM CLEANER! TAKE THE IDIOT PLEASE, NOT ME!
But no, it is the humans; they have used breakfast to distract us, escaping from the house under cover of mechanically reclaimed fish paste. Cleverer than I thought. Well they won't pull this trick on me twice, tomorrow I'll be ready. I'm sure I couldn't possibly be this hungry again tomorrow...
The internet is for cats. Use it wisely.
Sunday, 13 February 2011
And so
Finally I have moved back onto unhallowed ground. No longer am I shackled by the chains of a federally owned internet connection, burdened by its inhumane prohibitions: no gambling, no porn, no arranging to meet prostitutes on craigslist - even if you don't kill them - and no supporting religious or political groups.
I now live in New York state. It seems that a lot of you have the impression that this is near New York city. It is true that some of it is very near, or indeed in, the city. The vast majority is over an hour's drive away. And rife with turkeys and deer, both driven insane by people who say 'kawphee'.
I have a pleasant apartment on the edge of suburbia, before the farms proper start, but the turkeys already sense the lessening of man's grip and wander about with gay abandon. Sometimes they sit in the tree opposite my door, watching and softly gobbling amongst themselves.
Because there are no public transport links to my place of work, the first step to escaping was to obtain a driver's licence. Tricky when one needs to visit a DMV office to do this and there is no public transport. I found a friend, or at least someone gullible enough to drive me, and cleared some time in my diary for a serious waste of time.
It was therefore a pleasant surprise to find that the queue moved swiftly at the local DMV and in less than half an hour from my arrival I was looking forward to my third driving knowledge test in America. You may remember that I passed the first two (on account of being awake and literate, in order of importance), but that was in a different state, so not only didn't it matter but in fact some of my previous correct answers would now be wrong. State's rights are firmly in support of not letting big government do anything so oppressive as to impose a uniform driving code across the country. I had prepared myself by unlearning what I thought was right, including some pieces of obvious common sense. The exam room was just off the main room and we were called in one at a time to maximise disruption to those already sitting tests. I was given a piece of paper with multiple choice questions on it and another sheet with boxes in which to mark the answer. I tried to be cautious, but after five minutes and having triple checked the answers I could stand the boredom no longer and turned in my script. I then waited on a solid wood bench reminiscent of Victorian schooling while the ladies behind the counter figured out that two of us had finished already. This took a while. In the meantime a gangly teenager with acne came in with his parents, who presumably thought he might be kidnapped or raped if he entered the examination room alone. Clearly he had prepared well because the first part of the exam was a vision test and he had left his glasses at home. He seemed confused when he was told that he couldn't take the exam and would have to leave. I started asking myself, 'am I really going to share the road with these people?'
Then the other examiner called out "Who took the motorcycle test?" A young man with a buzzcut stood up eagerly and moved to the counter. Loudly and humiliatingly he was told, "I'm going to need you to write answers in the boxes". My train of thought gained momentum. Moments later I was presented with a temporary learner's permit.
The next stage was something called a '5 hour prelicensing course'. This involved another favour from a friend, because such courses are only given at a few places, usually nowhere near public transport, and you can't drive on your own on a learner's permit. I soon discovered this hadn't stopped most of the people attending the class from doing just that in order to get there.
The class consisted of two teenagers; a woman a bit younger than me; a woman a bit older than me three men, one sane, one not and one indeterminate because he kept falling asleep; oh and me. The teenagers were there because they had never had a license before, nor had the young woman. The remainder, myself excluded, had all lost their licences, by which I mean the legal euphemism for had them confiscated, rather than just dropped them down the back of a sofa. In some cases it wasn't clear why, in others it was blindingly obvious: "How many DUI's do you have?" the older woman had asked the man next to her when she arrived. She had two it turned out. One of them bad enough to have destroyed her car and led to her waking up in a cell. She also mentioned her previous heroin problem to provide extra colour. She was one of the people who had driven herself to the class even though she only had a learner's permit. Who were these people I was going to share the road with?
The class was better than I expected, mainly because the people were fascinating and the teacher had many interesting stories of his own to share. My favourite was about the man he once had at the back of the class who spent the first half hour flipping him the bird. When prompted as to why, the man explained that as a New Yorker, he knew how to drive and didn't need to be patronized. What injustice had led to him losing his licence? Well he had once purposefully run someone off the road for cutting him up. And when that person had pulled up behind him later at a gas station, he had grabbed his trusty lead pipe from the footwell to explain how things were going to be. It was desperately unfortunate for him that the other driver had held up a gun and his New Jersey State trooper badge. Just another great person to share the road with.
At some point we were told about car safety and the damage accidents can do. I think Miss DUI said something about a visit to hospital. In a game of oneupmanship, the large bearded man behind me mumbled something about hitting a tree, a collapsed lung and losing an eye. That explained the glassy stare. He had also driven to the class illegally.
Part of the class was taken up by watching videos, one was about Princess Diana. Knowing that I was British, the instructor asked me, "What do we know about how Princess Diana died?" As I opened my mouth to answer, the bearded madman behind me spat, "We'll NEVER know what really happened to her". I stared at the instructor for a while. I was thinking of maybe finding a way to hike to work, or live at the lab forever.
Eventually the class ended, and the instructor himself was good enough to drive me back to my cell at the lab, because he lived nearby. On the way he told me a story about someone throwing acid at a car. Really was it worth leaving the lab at all?
Then the long wait for a road test began. Still it was an American driving test, so nothing to worry about. The internet suggested it was easy compared to the UK test (just point the car in the right direction and avoid other vehicles). I asked around to find previous recipients of the prestigious New York state driver's licence. Apparently a postdoc before me had taken it five times before he passed. Oh well, it happens with some people. And he'd moved away, so I wouldn't have to worry about him driving around. I found a graduate student. He took the test five times as well. Shit.
I passed, first time thank you for asking. After some necessary but unpleasant time with a used car salesman I bought a car and moved away from the lab. Now we have come full circle, back to the beginning of the post. I am told by the people at the apartment offices that the other tenants in my block are really nice. I met one the other day as I was walking out my door. "Harrrllllo" she gargled at me from over her walking frame as I smiled and greeted her. "Could you tell me where the laundry is?" I suggested, hoping to profit from the experience. Looking above me and slightly to the left, she began humming as she shuffled off. I think I'll ask the turkeys next time.
I now live in New York state. It seems that a lot of you have the impression that this is near New York city. It is true that some of it is very near, or indeed in, the city. The vast majority is over an hour's drive away. And rife with turkeys and deer, both driven insane by people who say 'kawphee'.
I have a pleasant apartment on the edge of suburbia, before the farms proper start, but the turkeys already sense the lessening of man's grip and wander about with gay abandon. Sometimes they sit in the tree opposite my door, watching and softly gobbling amongst themselves.
Because there are no public transport links to my place of work, the first step to escaping was to obtain a driver's licence. Tricky when one needs to visit a DMV office to do this and there is no public transport. I found a friend, or at least someone gullible enough to drive me, and cleared some time in my diary for a serious waste of time.
It was therefore a pleasant surprise to find that the queue moved swiftly at the local DMV and in less than half an hour from my arrival I was looking forward to my third driving knowledge test in America. You may remember that I passed the first two (on account of being awake and literate, in order of importance), but that was in a different state, so not only didn't it matter but in fact some of my previous correct answers would now be wrong. State's rights are firmly in support of not letting big government do anything so oppressive as to impose a uniform driving code across the country. I had prepared myself by unlearning what I thought was right, including some pieces of obvious common sense. The exam room was just off the main room and we were called in one at a time to maximise disruption to those already sitting tests. I was given a piece of paper with multiple choice questions on it and another sheet with boxes in which to mark the answer. I tried to be cautious, but after five minutes and having triple checked the answers I could stand the boredom no longer and turned in my script. I then waited on a solid wood bench reminiscent of Victorian schooling while the ladies behind the counter figured out that two of us had finished already. This took a while. In the meantime a gangly teenager with acne came in with his parents, who presumably thought he might be kidnapped or raped if he entered the examination room alone. Clearly he had prepared well because the first part of the exam was a vision test and he had left his glasses at home. He seemed confused when he was told that he couldn't take the exam and would have to leave. I started asking myself, 'am I really going to share the road with these people?'
Then the other examiner called out "Who took the motorcycle test?" A young man with a buzzcut stood up eagerly and moved to the counter. Loudly and humiliatingly he was told, "I'm going to need you to write answers in the boxes". My train of thought gained momentum. Moments later I was presented with a temporary learner's permit.
The next stage was something called a '5 hour prelicensing course'. This involved another favour from a friend, because such courses are only given at a few places, usually nowhere near public transport, and you can't drive on your own on a learner's permit. I soon discovered this hadn't stopped most of the people attending the class from doing just that in order to get there.
The class consisted of two teenagers; a woman a bit younger than me; a woman a bit older than me three men, one sane, one not and one indeterminate because he kept falling asleep; oh and me. The teenagers were there because they had never had a license before, nor had the young woman. The remainder, myself excluded, had all lost their licences, by which I mean the legal euphemism for had them confiscated, rather than just dropped them down the back of a sofa. In some cases it wasn't clear why, in others it was blindingly obvious: "How many DUI's do you have?" the older woman had asked the man next to her when she arrived. She had two it turned out. One of them bad enough to have destroyed her car and led to her waking up in a cell. She also mentioned her previous heroin problem to provide extra colour. She was one of the people who had driven herself to the class even though she only had a learner's permit. Who were these people I was going to share the road with?
The class was better than I expected, mainly because the people were fascinating and the teacher had many interesting stories of his own to share. My favourite was about the man he once had at the back of the class who spent the first half hour flipping him the bird. When prompted as to why, the man explained that as a New Yorker, he knew how to drive and didn't need to be patronized. What injustice had led to him losing his licence? Well he had once purposefully run someone off the road for cutting him up. And when that person had pulled up behind him later at a gas station, he had grabbed his trusty lead pipe from the footwell to explain how things were going to be. It was desperately unfortunate for him that the other driver had held up a gun and his New Jersey State trooper badge. Just another great person to share the road with.
At some point we were told about car safety and the damage accidents can do. I think Miss DUI said something about a visit to hospital. In a game of oneupmanship, the large bearded man behind me mumbled something about hitting a tree, a collapsed lung and losing an eye. That explained the glassy stare. He had also driven to the class illegally.
Part of the class was taken up by watching videos, one was about Princess Diana. Knowing that I was British, the instructor asked me, "What do we know about how Princess Diana died?" As I opened my mouth to answer, the bearded madman behind me spat, "We'll NEVER know what really happened to her". I stared at the instructor for a while. I was thinking of maybe finding a way to hike to work, or live at the lab forever.
Eventually the class ended, and the instructor himself was good enough to drive me back to my cell at the lab, because he lived nearby. On the way he told me a story about someone throwing acid at a car. Really was it worth leaving the lab at all?
Then the long wait for a road test began. Still it was an American driving test, so nothing to worry about. The internet suggested it was easy compared to the UK test (just point the car in the right direction and avoid other vehicles). I asked around to find previous recipients of the prestigious New York state driver's licence. Apparently a postdoc before me had taken it five times before he passed. Oh well, it happens with some people. And he'd moved away, so I wouldn't have to worry about him driving around. I found a graduate student. He took the test five times as well. Shit.
I passed, first time thank you for asking. After some necessary but unpleasant time with a used car salesman I bought a car and moved away from the lab. Now we have come full circle, back to the beginning of the post. I am told by the people at the apartment offices that the other tenants in my block are really nice. I met one the other day as I was walking out my door. "Harrrllllo" she gargled at me from over her walking frame as I smiled and greeted her. "Could you tell me where the laundry is?" I suggested, hoping to profit from the experience. Looking above me and slightly to the left, she began humming as she shuffled off. I think I'll ask the turkeys next time.
Monday, 23 August 2010
Cuniculture
As my time in this corner of the land of the free refills draws to a close I've been forced to wave a tearful goodbye to my delightful rented cave with screaming baby soundsystem and move into various temporary lodgings. This is partly why I've been too busy to write, a veritable boon for lovers of great literature everywhere.
Mustering my considerable guile and years of experience, I managed to plan my first move for a stunningly hot day. Consequently Sometimes Almost Always Friend and now Girlfriend and I nearly died by drowning in our own sweat as we walked to the U-haul depot.
For those of you unfamiliar with U-haul (i.e. foreigns and other communists), it is a cunningly named truck and van rental franchise for 'self-moves'. Usually U-haul trucks are found at gas stations or other automotive concerns, where the leasing of said vehicles is a profitable supplement to the main business. However neither the type of venues nor the supplementary nature are strict rules. It turned out that the particular size of vehicle I'd requested (the smallest but in fact still an enormous van) was only available from a location on the edge of town, in a dusty lot near the highway. The first thing we noticed on arrival was the self proclaimed 'family restaurant' that shared the building. A dark foyer that resembled an airlock and the chain smoking ogre, of sex known only to god and the foremost geneticists of our generation, sat on the bench outside, discouraged us from further investigating this possible culinary gem.
Entering the rental location, we were delighted to discover that it was a hunting store. A cheerful air of decay hung over everything, except for an area near the counter. There a woman was buying an unnerving number of vacuum packed sausages from a grey bearded man who sat behind a new Dell computer. While we waited for this doubtless vital transaction to reach its gripping conclusion we used the time to admire our surroundings.
From their honorary positions high on the walls, Bambi and his extended family, interspersed with the occasional stuffed fish, gazed back at us through glass eyes. Turning a full 180 degrees I discovered the best half of a bobcat leering at us from above the entrance. Dusty cases contained pistols dating back as far as the civil war. A fridge on the far side of the room contained nothing but a squeezy ketchup bottle (full). Behind us more fridges loomed, dark and foreboding.
"What's in those?" asked S.A.A.F.A.N.G., backing away from the objects in question.
Courageously, I edged closer.
"Cans of soda" I said, relieved, before a closer look led me to add, "oh, and nightcrawlers". In case you weren't aware, nightcrawlers are a common fishing bait, similar to earthworms.
With the sausage related deal finally over we went to collect the keys for the van. While the affable storekeeper typed our details into his pc, S.A.A.F.A.N.G. decided to open up a new front. No doubt inspired by the large stock of bait, rods and reels and by the zeppelin-like fish decor she asked, "Do you sell fishing licenses?".
A puzzled expression crept across the man's features. "Fishing licenses?" he repeated in disbelief, "Oh no, we don't sell those."
With that move over I spent a month housesitting and rabbit-wrangling for a colleague before moving in with S.A.A.F.A.N.G.. Of course your personal experience of me means that you all envy her this blissful and incomparable existence. There is only one problem: her neighbour.
The problem first came to my attention before moving in, when S.A.A.F.A.N.G. had returned from a business trip during which I had been feeding her cats, Fatboy and Vomit.
While relaxing in the garden, we were approached by the neighbour.
"Oh it was terrible while you were gone", she informed S.A.A.F.A.N.G., "it was so warm and humid." Then pointing to me she practically purred, "He cycled over every day to feed the cats, and he was all hot and sweaty". It is perhaps needless to say that this wasn't popular with S.A.A.F.A.N.G., and I was told to take all possible precautions to avoid contact with the neighbour from then on. I tried.
While in the garden, using a jug of water to clean the remanants of an ant's nest out of S.A.A.F.A.N.G.'s recycling box, the neighbour snuck up on me.
"Oh, would you like to use my hose for that?" she offered. Certainly it would make my life easier, so I accepted.
"My sister bought it for me for Christmas," she informed me, "it's a really good one". I limited myself to polite affirmatives. Placing the hose in my hands she detailed the many different spray settings before terrifyingly adding, "See the quality of the hose? So strong and supple."
Immediately I turned the spray selector to jet and used the roar of the water to drown out anything else she might say.
Some people here in Freedom actually read this crap, and one of the unlucky few recently and possibly drunkenly asked me to mention them in it. Not wanting to start a worrying habit of singling out individuals for special accolades, I would just say that he is of course a god among men, and that he was once startled by a girl, causing him to throw her beer all over my shoes and S.A.A.F.A.N.G.'s.
I finish on an important question: should I trust a Doctor whose waiting room is littered with pictures of angels? I am already concerned that the 'laying on of hands' has gone a bit far, but maybe he's just a pervert.
Mustering my considerable guile and years of experience, I managed to plan my first move for a stunningly hot day. Consequently Sometimes Almost Always Friend and now Girlfriend and I nearly died by drowning in our own sweat as we walked to the U-haul depot.
For those of you unfamiliar with U-haul (i.e. foreigns and other communists), it is a cunningly named truck and van rental franchise for 'self-moves'. Usually U-haul trucks are found at gas stations or other automotive concerns, where the leasing of said vehicles is a profitable supplement to the main business. However neither the type of venues nor the supplementary nature are strict rules. It turned out that the particular size of vehicle I'd requested (the smallest but in fact still an enormous van) was only available from a location on the edge of town, in a dusty lot near the highway. The first thing we noticed on arrival was the self proclaimed 'family restaurant' that shared the building. A dark foyer that resembled an airlock and the chain smoking ogre, of sex known only to god and the foremost geneticists of our generation, sat on the bench outside, discouraged us from further investigating this possible culinary gem.
Entering the rental location, we were delighted to discover that it was a hunting store. A cheerful air of decay hung over everything, except for an area near the counter. There a woman was buying an unnerving number of vacuum packed sausages from a grey bearded man who sat behind a new Dell computer. While we waited for this doubtless vital transaction to reach its gripping conclusion we used the time to admire our surroundings.
From their honorary positions high on the walls, Bambi and his extended family, interspersed with the occasional stuffed fish, gazed back at us through glass eyes. Turning a full 180 degrees I discovered the best half of a bobcat leering at us from above the entrance. Dusty cases contained pistols dating back as far as the civil war. A fridge on the far side of the room contained nothing but a squeezy ketchup bottle (full). Behind us more fridges loomed, dark and foreboding.
"What's in those?" asked S.A.A.F.A.N.G., backing away from the objects in question.
Courageously, I edged closer.
"Cans of soda" I said, relieved, before a closer look led me to add, "oh, and nightcrawlers". In case you weren't aware, nightcrawlers are a common fishing bait, similar to earthworms.
With the sausage related deal finally over we went to collect the keys for the van. While the affable storekeeper typed our details into his pc, S.A.A.F.A.N.G. decided to open up a new front. No doubt inspired by the large stock of bait, rods and reels and by the zeppelin-like fish decor she asked, "Do you sell fishing licenses?".
A puzzled expression crept across the man's features. "Fishing licenses?" he repeated in disbelief, "Oh no, we don't sell those."
With that move over I spent a month housesitting and rabbit-wrangling for a colleague before moving in with S.A.A.F.A.N.G.. Of course your personal experience of me means that you all envy her this blissful and incomparable existence. There is only one problem: her neighbour.
The problem first came to my attention before moving in, when S.A.A.F.A.N.G. had returned from a business trip during which I had been feeding her cats, Fatboy and Vomit.
While relaxing in the garden, we were approached by the neighbour.
"Oh it was terrible while you were gone", she informed S.A.A.F.A.N.G., "it was so warm and humid." Then pointing to me she practically purred, "He cycled over every day to feed the cats, and he was all hot and sweaty". It is perhaps needless to say that this wasn't popular with S.A.A.F.A.N.G., and I was told to take all possible precautions to avoid contact with the neighbour from then on. I tried.
While in the garden, using a jug of water to clean the remanants of an ant's nest out of S.A.A.F.A.N.G.'s recycling box, the neighbour snuck up on me.
"Oh, would you like to use my hose for that?" she offered. Certainly it would make my life easier, so I accepted.
"My sister bought it for me for Christmas," she informed me, "it's a really good one". I limited myself to polite affirmatives. Placing the hose in my hands she detailed the many different spray settings before terrifyingly adding, "See the quality of the hose? So strong and supple."
Immediately I turned the spray selector to jet and used the roar of the water to drown out anything else she might say.
Some people here in Freedom actually read this crap, and one of the unlucky few recently and possibly drunkenly asked me to mention them in it. Not wanting to start a worrying habit of singling out individuals for special accolades, I would just say that he is of course a god among men, and that he was once startled by a girl, causing him to throw her beer all over my shoes and S.A.A.F.A.N.G.'s.
I finish on an important question: should I trust a Doctor whose waiting room is littered with pictures of angels? I am already concerned that the 'laying on of hands' has gone a bit far, but maybe he's just a pervert.
Monday, 12 July 2010
Crabs
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.
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.
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