Over the Hills and Far Away - An Epic Odyssey of the American West Coast
School's back on tomorrow, even though I've only been back three days. In case you're curious as to what I'm up to, or you want to see me tear away the shine and glimmer from Los Angeles, here's what I got up to over the Easter break. This is a change, since this is the first time I've used LiveJournal for actual blogging, but hopefully people will get a laugh out of it.
March 31st, 11:47am (GMT)
At the time of writing, I am currently in Virgin Atlantic's upper class, situated in a seat that seems to be the prototype for some future-tech leisure system. Films, TV, music, a fold-out bed...there's probably a can-opener somewhere. The key phrase so far: “This is weird”.
Driving to Heathrow, we'd all woken up at 6 and in an attempt to keep me alert, I put on Daft Punk on my iPod. Turns out that hearing “work it make it do it makes us harder better faster stronger” over and over again is a robotic lullaby, forcing me into sleepless limbo - neither asleep nor awake. I'm not sure whether or not I'm imagining all of this as a result of an hour of French cyborg music wired into my brain.
A good example of this is Virgin's upper class lounge. I just kept thinking it was an online hub for a games console, all smooth edges, non-threatening beige colours and even a miniature waterfall. It didn't seem real, but then, given my sleepless state, it could have looked like the inside of a pot of gold with various clones of Ricky Martin dancing about and I'd probably accept that as fact.
I should really get some sleep, it'd be pointless trying to revise like this. Nothing would stick. I'd probably re-imagine David Lloyd George as a highwayman fighting Baron von Depression with the Geddes Axe...Jesus, I had to re-read that. How did I come up with that? The entertainment calls me from sleep, though, like a demanding mistress.
12:24pm
How long does it take for a plane to taxi?
12:25pm
Never mind.
1:15pm
Entertainment's finally come up, decided to watch This is It. It's an ambitious final performance, but something seems off about Jackson; he's not really singing much, like he's saving his voice.
1:29pm
Smooth Criminal would be the concert's Crowning Moment of Awesome. Spliced 1940s gangster film with new footage, too cool for words. Loses points for using bullet time. Come on MJ, you invented the moonwalk. You should be ahead of the curve.
1:32pm
Decided to watch 9. Why do the films have to start after 2 minutes of ads? Can't be for the money, it's Richard Branson. He could buy everyone a jetpack if he wanted to. Hell, I'm surprised he hasn't.
2:19pm
Got bored with 9; it felt like a video game I couldn't play. The thought occurs it may have been designed as a video game first; sparse dialogue, quick pacing and characters with one - and precisely one - defining trait.
2:32pm
...My God, Precious is cheerful. A real laugh-a-minute.
4:16pm
Watching Up for the third time. Why? It's Pixar, I don't need an excuse. The montage of Carl and Ellie is heartbreaking; I admit, I cried, but anyone who doesn't cry has no soul.
5:39pm
Tarantino checklist for Inglourious Basterds:
Besides, I didn't really need to see Josef Goebbels sodomizing some French chick. I really didn't.
8:23pm/10:23am
The captain announced that some people in Economy had brought their own alcohol aboard and were getting a bit too acquainted to it. Cuh, proles. Started re-watching This is It; while Jackson is capable of dancing, and dancing quite well, there's a sense he's holding back. He's also still not doing much singing; he could have at least hummed the first few lines of Want You Back. So yeah, up to when he died he was active, but really, really tired. I'm not sure how he could have done 50 nights at the O2, he might have literally died on stage.
9:21pm/11:21am
Watching Peep Show. The fire alarm went off in JLB; I foolishly thought the captain was making an announcement. Probably something along the lines of “The alcoholics are currently doing a conga line all throughout Economy. Could I ask that the cabin crew please not join in? I'm aware it's not much fun serving on here, but maybe if you came to my party last month...”
Tried to watch In the Loop on my laptop but I made my very first Holiday Cock-Up! and forgot to charge my laptop beforehand. Managed to get up to Simon Foster acting like a tit at an Anglo-American conference and reminding me suspiciously of someone I knew.
8:54pm
No, the plane didn't fall through a hole in time and space, I'm sticking with West Coast time for now. Anyway, to say I came off the plane a bit badly is like saying Bruce Wayne feels a bit guilty about his mum and dad. I felt terrible - felt faintly sick, wanted to cry for some reason, massive exhaustion from travelling for about 12 hours (I didn't get any sleep, I was that desperate to revise), and my head felt like some wicked imp had cracked a pavestone over my head and danced an Irish jig on my bloody skull cackling. As soon as we got to the hotel rooms - really nice rooms, mind - I collapsed onto the bed and slept. Half an hour later, I arose like Lazarus completely recovered.
The trouble with jetlag is that you can't sleep for too long or else your body clock gets thrown out the window and concusses a passing cyclist on the way down. You either adjust or you prowl the streets at 2am, and when you're a young straight reasonably attractive male in San Francisco, that's not a good thing. The Borg Collective ain't got shit.
Oh yes, and if you're ever in San Fran - and hopefully you stay longer than I have - try the Italian restaurant Cippino's. Interestingly, that's not the family name; it's derived from an Italian trying to pronounce the slang “Chip in!” (No, I can't remember what that means either.) The fish and chips are lovely, but I'd recommend fasting like for Ramadan if you want to fit it all in.
April 1st, 8:21am
Well, managed to assimilate to US time after a good night's sleep, but traces of England still remained as I kept waking up during the night at random intervals. I couldn't see or reach my watch, so it felt like I was in the Twilight Zone, or some other place where time never passes. Anyway, I've adjusted to America well, but if I start talking about democracy being non-negotiable and preach an intolerance to Communism, snap me back to reality. By any means necessary.
2:43pm
San Francisco really is absurdly pretty; that much was made clear from the sightseeing tour. From the Art Deco design of the Golden Gate Bridge to the suburbs of Sausalito; I'd consider living in the latter if I didn't feel my bank account howl like a wolf with its leg caught in a trap as soon as I looked at just one house. Even the beggars are honest - so far, all the cardboard signs they have are "Why lie? I need a beer" and "NEED $ 4 HASH". At least they admit they're going to squander your charity. Distractingly, our tour guide looked like a younger version of Chuck Norris.
My parents also decided to play Guess Who with my heart - that is, raising my hopes then slapping them back down. It involved a hat, a certain type of hat. As anyone who's heard me moan about it enough knows, I like trilbies. Many of you would like to see me with a trilby. We went to a shop that sells trilbies. My parents let me try on a trilby. They asked me if I wanted a trilby. They told me I couldn't have the trilby. God, they wouldn't taunt the fucking dogs like they did to me.
5:23pm
Just come back from a tour of Alcatraz; in case you're not aware, "The Rock" is an inhospitable island, partially man-made, that from 1934 to 1963 served as a prison for such friends of humanity as Al Capone and Robert Shroud, the Birdman. No, the last guy didn't get done for dressing up as a superhero and crapping on bystanders' heads as he jumped across buildings. This isn't the world of Watchmen. (Speaking of which: A CERTAIN SOMEONE OWES ME THIS BOOK.) It's a National Park site now, and well worth the trip. They say that those who broke the rules went to prison; those who broke the prison rules went to Alcatraz. The water is cold enough to freeze the brass gonads off a monkey, and that's not mentioning the sharks. Only three people successfully broke out of Alcatraz by digging through the walls of their cells with spoons; we're still not sure whether they made it or not.
The most morbidly fascinating part was the tale of one prisoner in "The Hole" - solitary confinement. When shut in, it's pitch-black, so in order to maintain his sanity, he'd tear off a button from his prison overalls, throw it into the air, spin around in a circle a few times, then crawl on his hands and knees trying to find it. Once he did, he'd do it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. Sanity really is a fragile thing, and we go through such lengths to protect it.
Tomorrow's the last night in San Fran, and I've eaten enough Italian food to anger the population of Abyssinia. I still haven't done much in the way of revision yet, but how could I? We don't have much time, and we need to pack in as much as possible. We've seen the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz, so all that's left is some shopping and then off to LA. Maybe then I can actually work towards getting good A-Level results. Yes I may be doing schoolwork, but I'm doing schoolwork in the sun. Still, getting increasingly lonely. As soon as I get back to England, and I readjust my internal clockwork, I'm going out with friends. If I spend any more time in isolation from them, I will cease to function and may resort to self-flagellation just to make the day go quicker.
April 2nd, 4:32pm
Mainly spent the day shopping, and already I've spent most - if not all - of my money in one day. Still, money well spent in my opinion, since I got God of War Collection for PS3. Yeah, it's out in the UK, but as a Special Trilogy Limited Director's Cut Collector's Edition, which normally costs something around £79.99, whereas this was $29.95. Plus, the PS3 can play games from all over the world, so take that, Sony of Europe. Managed to get a few comics as well, namely Kingdom Come (mashes up superheroes and the Book of Revelations - it's optimistic, I swear!), which has some gorgeous watercolour artwork. Got a Kick-Ass T-shirt, but I'm ashamed to say it was from Hot Topic. On the one hand, it specialises in film and video game T-shirts; on the other, it attracts wannabe goth girls by the dozens. Also, finally went inside a Hollister's, or rather, the waiting section of a Hollister's. Thought the staff should have worn mining hats, it's that unusually dark.
Yeah, this is a pretty boring entry, but then it's shopping. It's easier to stub the toe of the Colossus of Rhodes than it is to make it exciting because, let's face it, all you're doing is listening to someone list what they bought with their disposable income, and the only people who can derive pleasure from listening to someone read off a list are those who actively enjoy IT work in offices. But since I've still got some room left, allow me to praise Americans up the wazoo. I know the typical response is to call the whole population a bunch of whooping, hollering sentient balls of flesh in cowboy hats who sodomize their sisters, but that's not true. I've only seen one person in a cowboy hat.
In all seriousness, so far I've never met an American I didn't like. This is also one of the reasons why I don't game online, because Xbox Live has so far proven itself to be the world's most effective Cunt Magnet, and I don't want my opinion of them spoiled. Every American I've encountered has been so polite and friendly; leave a store and they'll cheerfully wish you a nice day. Not saying that doesn't happen in Britain, but it's much more likely in America. A few years ago, while holidayin' in Orlando, some teenagers asked me if I could take a picture. So far, so standard, but they addressed me as "sir". Odd, but who cares? It made me feel important. Anything Britain can do, America can do better, from building empires to manners.
Except for chocolate. Cadbury's will always be better. ALWAYS.
Chuck Norris seems to be making recurring appearances throughout my holiday. Yesterday, our tour guide looked like him; today, he was in an infomercial with his daughter advertising some exercise machine to rich Republicans. If I don't see him launching a plane tomorrow like a paper aeroplane, I'll be disappointed.
April 3rd, 9:21pm
Nnnnope, no Chuck Norris sighting. Slightly relieved, I thought he was following me.
The flight was painless, and at an hour, pretty quick. Nothing else to say about it, unlike the travel writer two seats across from me, who spent most of the flight busily making notes about staff "assaulting" her for drinks. It's called manners, bitch. Currently situated in a rented house, the Casa de Oro (Gold House for those who don't speak Spanish or didn't look it up in an Alex Rider book); pretty nice all round.
There's something uneasy about LA; nothing bad, just...I don't feel completely comfortable in here. I felt the same way about Vegas, and the truth is there are some similarities. Both feel rather brash and tacky, almost unwelcoming. And this is just in the residential area, not the studio tours or the shopping or the doing-cocaine-off-a-prostitute trade. My place of residence is a West Hollywood suburb, yet somehow a stone throw away feels like such a gulf. Not so much a stone throw as it is batting back a small comet. Had dinner at a local restaurant called the French Quarter, which we only just found out seems to be popular amongst the gay community. No problem, but my sister couldn't stop giggling: "LOL THEY HAV GEIZ HERE!!!1111!!!"
Yes, you're dining with gays. No, they're not going to poison you with their "queer cooties".
April 4th, 6:23pm
Typical. I spend three days in San Francisco, the prime gay mecca of America, and then as soon as I get to LA, I end up seeing a "PINK POWER" billboard full of rainbows and muscular man-shaped wads of beef. Also, people campaigning to repeal Proposition 8 - I'm actually in support of this campaign, since California is now the only state in America to refuse to recognise same-sex marriage. Trouble is, so far the only things I've seen are one lone man holding up a placard in the Farmer's Market and a bumper sticker in a flat window. Dispiriting.
Anyway, I've actually been to the "main" part of LA, and if anyone tells you the streets of Hollywood are lined with gold, it's because they've seen the light reflecting off the streams of piss. Seriously, the Hall of Fame is the worst culprit; I'm guessing some bitter celebrities got hammered on Oscar night and decided to let their feelings known by evacuating their bladders on their worst enemies. Got accosted by a fast-talking Oirish "promoter" into going on a tour; we said we'd be back in five minutes, and I think he's still there, checking his watch and wondering when he'll be back. Keep in mind this guy was very pushy and it felt like he would have threatened us with a knife.
By the way, if you're sensitive to crowds and noise, then do NOT go outside Mann's Chinese Theatre. Aside from the crowds, there are cosplayers littered about - I say "cosplayers", I mean "actors dressing as famous pop culture icons in the hopes of getting noticed and making a quick buck". Some of these were really good, namely Jack Sparrow, Zorro, the Mad Hatter and Alice (yes, they have one already) and the Joker, even if the latter seemed a little bit too into it. But the freakiest were the cartoon characters: your SpongeBobs, your Elmos, your Disneys. These were cheap versions, when stacked up against the official costumes you see at Disneyland and Universal Studios. There was even a Leatherface and Chucky, and - most disturbing of all - a man in a Michael Jackson prosthetic mask. Not someone dressed as him in Smooth Criminal; wearing a mask shaped like the late King of Pop's face. The irony there is tasteless and must have been great for little kids.
If it sounds like I'm breaking these myths about the "City of Angels" like twigs over a mighty thigh, it's because...well, I am. I'm sure the studio tours are good, and the tour of the stars' homes was pretty interesting, especially since we got to see a one-time Wayne Manor from Tim Burton's Batman films, but I still can't say I feel easy here. During the aforementioned tour, one of the recurring phrases was "John/Jane Doe was living here when he/she died". We were also told the Hollywood sign is fenced off because someone committed suicide from them. Combine that with the rather downmarket areas a stone throw away from all this glamour, and Hollywood suddenly loses its allure.
Or maybe this is because I'm not that keen on holidays. YOU be the judge.
April 5th, ????pm
Another day of shopping. Got a pair of red Converses, but other than that, it was dull enough that I lost all concept of time, hence the unknown time of writing. Went to see a film, which I cannot divulge due to personal reasons (maybe because I might be seeing it again the first Wednesday after school starts. Maybe. Juuuust maybe.)
April 6th, 6:11pm
I was under the impression we'd be hitting Universal Studios today, but nope; instead, we went to Six Flags Magic Mountain, essentially the US version of Thorpe Park. Fun if you're a thrill-seeker; not so much if you're a massive coward like me. I went on about four rides altogether, with one - a centrifuge that spins so fast the G-force prevents you from moving any part of your body - being genuine fun, but most of my time was spent waiting with mum for my dad and sister to finish their time on the more EXTREME rides. And considering the waiting time for these EXTREME rides could be as long as an EXTREME 45 MINUTES, my iPod was the only thing that maintained my sanity. I thank Christ for Yoko Kanno for producing some excellent music, otherwise I might have snapped and taken an attendant hostage on top of Superman: The Escape (in case you don't know, it's a very tall, very fast ride. So fast, you're pressed into your seat by the G-force, at least according to the Guinness World Records). I can't really blame Six Flags for this, since I don't like rollercoasters much, but this is a case of over-specialisation; cater to the adrenaline junkies and the rest of us start to feel left out.
So far, LA's really let me down. The soundtrack of the holiday has been, in order, sirens, shite music and my dad shouting at the tempramental sat-nav. Maybe because it's bigger, brasher and appears more glamorous, so it's California's resident bimbo compared to San Francisco, the shy pretty bookworm. One attempts to entice you with the promise of glamour and riches and fellatio, but will ultimately be shallow and vacuous, whereas the other is sweet-natured and will not only commit to a long-term relationship, but make it possible. I dearly wish we could have stayed there longer.
(As to why I'm not a big fan of holidays, it's because I have to change my routine and adjust to a new environment quickly, neither of which are my idea of "fun". I enjoy the time away from school more than the location, if that makes sense. Wait, what am I saying? It does. It's perfectly understandable.)
April 7th, 6:54pm
Went Venice Beach. Nice, bit hot. Thankfully free of muscled-up fascists, but was disturbed by a boy my age with a Corinthians quote tattooed on his back. Toilets disgusting. Could smell it before the door was even open; evidenced by the corpses of flies scattered by the door. Nothing else happened all day, but I've been promised a trilby if I go on a new ride at Universal Studios on Friday. Haven't been on the teacups yet...
April 8th, 10:57am
This will be my entry for the entire day, because this is basically what's going to happen: nothing. We're arsing about the villa, so I'm just going to be watching streamed anime all day. The website I'm using is region-locked in America, so I'm taking advantage of every second. Sorry this email hasn't been particularly entertaining, but how amusing can you make doing fuck-all sound?
April 9th, 7:48pm
LA, all is forgiven. The pushy promoters, the freakish cosplayers/aspiring actors, the lack of catering to the cowardly everyman at Six Flags, the sat-nav in the processes of a mental breakdown - I'm willing to look away from all these (just for a bit, mind) and hug you - but not for long, because I'm scared you'll pick my pocket and I don't want to be stinking of Bladder by Calvin Klein - simply for Universal Studios. This place is a godsend and has been the best part of my stay in the City of Angels.
Unlike the rest of the sun-lashed scumsacks who flocked to Universal, with it being the last day of Spring Break and all, my dad had the sense to book a VIP tour, which I recommend ONLY if you have so much money in your pockets it pulls your trousers down whenever you take a step. This is basically a stop at the main attractions at Universal: The Simpsons Ride, Revenge of the Mummy, Jurassic Park, plus the Hollywood-exclusive Studio Tour, with a buffet in between.
What's that? Complaints? Death threats? Accusations of being a spoiled little shit? Sorry, I can't hear you through these pauper-skin curtains.
Seriously, if you can afford it, it's well worth it, even if you have to sacrifice the fair maiden of Credit Stability to this monster. We managed to get ahead of the queues thanks to the VIP lanyards, whose sole purpose is to cause everyone who doesn't have one to re-imagine the initials to stand for "Very Important Pillock". You also have to make sure you go on The Simpsons Ride, previously the Back to the Future ride; it is so much fun. Go twice if you can wait that long, you'll hear jokes you didn't catch the first time around. Revenge of the Mummy's pretty good as well, but it's over in about two and a half minutes and I had my eyes closed most of the time. Once I saw Omid Djalili get turned into canapés by scarabs, nothing was sacred. I also didn't go on Jurassic Park; 1) because I'd been on it before; and 2) I hate sheer drops because it feels like I'm about to fly out of my seat and be left floating in a sitting position in mid-air, and I always forget to bring my "Yipes!" sign for when I inevitably fall.
To be fair, though, Steven Spielberg always gets out before the drop. Just goes to show, the world's most successful film director is as big a coward as I.
The Studio Tour was great as well. We were lucky enough to see inside an editing room, a Foley stage (where they create noises for film; you think that's an actual gun cocking? It's vicegrips held up to a microphone.), and an ADR room (Automatic Dialogue Replacement; dubbing, essentially). Nobody could take any photos though, since our fortune was good enough just to get us in, let alone record our limited memories of the place. Interesting fact, though; there were table games - table tennis, table football, snooker - in the editing room, which the editors use to kill time. Also, Universal was the first studio to twig to the idea that sounds recorded on film sound a bit different to real life, and coined the term "Foley stage". The backlots also boast the second-largest sound stage in the world - that is, a massive indoor set. The Shanghai sequence of Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End was shot here, according to our charming tour guide, who described it as the most magnificent thing he's seen.
But it wouldn't really be a backlot tour if they didn't show off their best-known movies. In this case, you can see the scares coming, but they still get you. For example, the tram drove through Jurassic Park, and one of the first things you saw was a few damaged inGen crates. "Ah", you think, "so some dinosaurs are going to pop out of the bushes? Pfft, bring it." And then the spitters appear and squirt you. "HOLY SHIT WHAT THE HELL?" you go. There's the Earthquake section, but you're told you're helping to act out a scene from the movie. Basically, they're encouraging you to scream blue murder. Oh, and Jaws, natch; I was on the other side of the tram, so the shark scared some Frenchies/Canadians, but before that, an animatronic diver is dragged under...and the surface of the water is stained red. It's just a wee bit creepy.
The scare I loved the most was the Psycho one; you drive past the Bates Motel, and you see Norman Bates - tall, handsome basketcase with mummy issues - carrying out a woman's body. He then spots the tram, turns oh-so slightly, and starts to grin, steeling towards you, taking a knife out of his pocket. As the tram gets away, he even gives chase. I did my best not to look at Momma Bates' house, though; a "funny story" the guide told us was that Jim Carrey, while shooting a film, had gotten bored and hid in the bushes outside the house, waiting for tourists. Once a tram turned the corner, he ran at them screaming dressed as Mother and brandishing a knife. Everyone was freaked out, and so it became a new feature. Didn't happen this time, though, thankfully.
Oh yes, and we went to the Wisteria Lane set. Since my knowledge of Desperate Housewives extends to knowing that Danny Elfman did the score and nothing else, my time was spent trying to avoid getting caught in photos.
Universal Studios has so far been the knight in shining armour whenever we go to America. During our first trip, we were cooped in a Disney hotel room with just enough room for two people, even though we were a family of four, and when we went to the actual parks, it was clear the video we received lied to us. It's not like they were bad, just shallower than advertised. (kind of like LA. OH SNAP) And then, we realised that Disney weren't quite the red-eyed soulless overlords they seemed to be and allowed us to go to other parks. We discovered Universal Studios, which quickly became to all of us what a crack pipe is to Pete Doherty. And now second time around it's prevented me from writing off LA entirely.
Now, it gets re-graded to Minor Disappointment.
April 10th, 2:42pm
And it turns out that we've hit a wall. Universal was the big thing we were going to do in LA, and now we've done that, our List of Things to Do now has less items on it than the Westboro Baptist Church's Christmas card list, making us the holiday equivalent of a man with shrapnel floating near his heart. We're just walking along, waiting for the end to come. In an attempt to distract ourselves, we went to Rodeo Drive, a shopping district best known for selling various pieces of fabric at outrageous prices. To give an example, one short black top for women cost $900. Let me just reiterate: a small woman's top, with just enough material to prevent anything outrageous showing, costs about £750. I'm going to assume that Rodeo Drive caters solely to Arabian royalty, since they're probably the only people on Earth who could afford this crap.
Being a young male, having to go past all these haute couture shops was about as exciting and fulfilling as chipping away at a brick wall with a toothpick. I did spot a Borders' on the way here - this is basically the American equivalent of Waterstone's, and they did have a few UK branches until they went bust - and I went to one in San Francisco. This is officially my new favourite store in the US - they sell books, comics, games, music, magazines from across the world, even drinks. Sadly, we didn't go in, and I've since spent most of my time in the villa watching old Doctor Who episodes. Fun.
April 11th, 7:28pm
The only noteworthy thing that happened all day was I went to see How to Train Your Dragon. Pretty good stuff, all around; DreamWorks Animation has always been pretty good, but this is the closest they've come to equalling Pixar. Check it out, especially in 3D; the flight scenes are genuinely exhiliarating. I appreciate these entries haven't been very interesting, so I'll try and add some much needed humour by listing every possible thing I didn't do:
I didn't hire a prostitute.
I didn't get a movie deal.
I didn't discover the Lost City of El Dorado.
I didn't get in a Howard Hughes biplane and fly to the poppy fields of Colombia.
I didn't inhale a dangerous amount of nerve gas and spend the next few hours weakly singing the theme tune to Popeye.
I didn't put on a makeshift superhero costume and start distributing copies of the Kick-Ass comic book on Sunset Boulevard.
I didn't fly around in a jetpack dressed as the Rocketeer and land on top of the El Capitan theatre.
I didn't swim through a cloud.
I didn't whistle abstract notions like love and luck.
I didn't take a bite out of the moon.
I didn't bother to try and write a new entry and instead just listed anything that came to mind.
April 12th, 8:11pm
I actually did something today! I went on the Warner Bros. studio tour; with this and the Universal Studio Tour, my inner film geek has been getting a lap-dance. Both, interestingly, have been labelled VIP tours, but with WB, VIP (OMG) is the label for the standard vanilla tour. There was a Deluxe tour, but do you fancy paying $225 for the slight opportunity of seeing someone you recognise? Admittedly, I got a mug and a pen with "WRITER" emblazoned on them (it's funny, see, because I'm a writer, yeah?) and a greenscreen photo of me posing in a scene from Where the Wild Things Are - I'm still the only one in my family who's seen that film, and probably the only one who will like it - but the two hours went by quickly, yet it wasn't a minute wasted. I also managed to see some Watchmen props, including an actual physical copy of the comic-within-a-comic Tales of the Black Freighter (later adapted into a short animated film); I did squeal like a child about to see Father Christmas, but at least my jeans remained uncreamed.
Oh, and I got God of War III, for roughly the same price as in England but without the need to prove I'm 18. Then again, my experience with people has told me I'm older than I look; I've had one girl estimate me as 17 when I was in fact just old enough to get into 15-rated flicks, and in San Francisco I was told I'd have to wait a year to order a drink. The age to do so is 21. I'm not sure how anyone can think I'm that old, but then again I'm surprised no-one's assumed from my pale skin, dark eyes and suave Britishness that I'm a vampire out to steal their precious crimson.
Being on holiday always makes me realise how pale my complexion is. Probably because I don't step out into the sun, which in turn is because I don't tan, I burn, and spend the rest of the holiday staggering about like a Hiroshima survivor, peeling and wincing. My dad's come to the conclusion I'm a mirror that walks like a man; I don't absorb sunlight, I reflect it. Bad move, then, to be planning a Clark Kent costume.
April 13th, 6:01pm
Part 13? Golly gee, this poor excuse for travel writing has come a long way, hasn't it? And it just so happens to be the 13th April here in "The Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave" as they like to call it - and "Eagleland" as I like to call it - so if nothing else I'm keeping to the calendar. Shame I couldn't get this written down sooner, but I had to help with the packing and had to toss out some "organic" Frosties that have so far served as good pest repellent. They're good when dry, but just add milk and you'll be doubled over your sink gargling water to stop them clinging to the roof of your mouth like easily frightened bats.
Another shopping day, mainly spent getting comics you can't get in England yet ironically are by English writers. Seriously, quite a few writers in the comic industry nowadays are from Britain; I don't think it's any coincidence that the more violent stuff is produced by Scottish scribes like Mark Millar and Grant Morrison. Confusingly, their lighter stuff can also be rose-tinted nostalgic and downright heartwarming. Do Scots ever have any sort of emotional middle ground? You've got Tennant's Doctor acting with nigh-manic glee one minute and stony stoicism the next, and I'm pretty sure Frankie Boyle can do nothing but comedy so black it can make coal look like diamonds. This in turn makes me wonder how he reads bedtime stories.
"Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Goldilocks. Being pathologically retarded, she decided to break into a house owned by three grizzly bears, who once tore apart a filmmaker claiming to be their 'friend'. She ate their food, broke their chairs, and slept in their chairs, because she was an annoying little cunt. Then the three bears came home, and found her sleeping in one of their beds. Goldilocks thought she would just get an ASBO, but instead she was torn limb-from-limb, and the three bears decorated their house with her entrails, and they lived happily ever after. Look, they've even got pictures!"
...Fuck, I'm able to get into his head. Maybe I should offer my services to the police in tracking down serial killers. Preferably those with Freudian issues, they're easy.
Considering the amount of stuff I've bought on holiday, the thought occurs that, hopefully with all the good karma I've acquired from holding doors open for people, I can be reborn as an Arabian prince next time around. The thought also occurs I could fit in well in America. Another sign of just how goshdarn lovable Americans are is that they hold the door open and they will continue to hold it open for quite a while. As anyone who's experienced this knows, this is something I do. On top of that, I like to think I share Hugh Laurie's knack of putting on a convincing American accent so I could blend right in. Wouldn't really want to be known as "that British guy". But again, as most people probably know, I don't like being separated from home for too long. The only requirements I have for uni are that they have an option to study English and that they're based in London.
Doubtless I'll eventually grow out of this habit, and there is something interesting about internationalism. Due to my habit of downloading stuff composed by Yoko Kanno, who can write in every musical genre known to man and even some that haven't been discovered yet, I've been reading up on Chris Mosdell, a British ex-pat based in Tokyo; apparently he's a big deal, known for his work with the influential Yellow Magic Orchestra and his poetry. Well, big enough to be the focus of a documentary. Most of Yoko Kanno's music - or at least, the stuff I've downloaded - involves international musicians anyway, and I've...sort of forgotten where I was going with this.
Oh yeah! Download Yoko Kanno's music! That's as good as anything! The reason I called this a poor excuse for travel writing is that all I've done is mouth off my own viewpoint. I haven't tried to sell the cities I've been to; well, much. I haven't been lyrical or whimsical. I haven't made any location sound like they're worth going to. But that's just how I do things. Besides, nobody's paying me for this, so I don't have to be a whore. I shamelessly promote Yoko Kanno out of my own volition and because all her stuff is genuinely brilliant.
April 14th/15th, 4:05pm (GMT)
Well, the journey home was...eventful. I promised I wouldn't complain to my folks, considering my dad was developing a vein in his temple so prominent you just had to tap it with a pin and he'd lose all his childhood memories, but for the sake of an interesting story, here we go, starting off with the negatives:
The flight itself was alright, but midway through the captain reported that a volcano erupted in Iceland and volcanic ash had been scattered across northern Europe. I think I may have started doodling a pagan ritual to grant us safe passage to the Row of Heaths where the metal birds take wing, because we were one of the last flights coming into London before the UK airspace was shut down. Hence, customs and check-in was more of a hive mind of people trying to get through. I'd call it a queue, but "queue" is French for "tail". The only way it resembled a tail is if there's some undiscovered specie of animal somewhere in the Rainforest that happens to have one shaped like a blob of fat. On top of that, our car caught a dead battery, but the bonnet couldn't be opened. None of us were there, so I can't say for sure how bad this is, but there must have been at least half a dozen mechanics on standby. Are you telling me none of them could open a fucking bonnet?
As a result, we travelled home in the most British way possible: a black cab.
No, I am not making this up. We drove all the way home from Heathrow, with all ten pieces of our luggage, in a common-or-garden black cab. And we managed to maintain our sanity.
This is our family's Crowning Moment of Awesome.
But wait! There's more! We come home, having had to pay just under £200, and what do we find? The shower's leaked and the central heating's not working. Meaning no hot water. Oh, and I got a letter home from Drama about coursework that I COULDN'T FUCKING DO BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE MICROSOFT FUCKING WORD. But you know what? Things could have definitely been worse. Since all British airports are closed, we could have been sent straight back to America and forced to spend the night in a hotel. We got our luggage back alright. We're back home, and things are returning to something resembling working order. I got an autograph from Jane Goldman, the writer of Kick-Ass. I got a trilby. Overall, this wasn't that bad a holiday.
Oh, hold on...my glasses aren't in my hand luggage. I blame the Communists. They're responsible for everything! DEMOCRACY IS NON-NEGOTIABLE. COMMUNISM WILL NOT BE TOLERAT-
*whack*
6:58pm
Ohh...managed to flush out any and all traces of American jingoism out of my system. It involves tea, scones and watching endless Monty Python and Blackadder via the Ludovico Treatment made famous by A Clockwork Orange. Anyway, wrapping this shit up.
Overall, this holiday was alright, but I'd have preferred to have had more time in San Francisco. I did like LA, but it didn't initially endear itself to me, and it was only later on where it began to pick up. Again, time was probably the killer here; we had 10 nights there, and by the seventh we'd quickly run out of stuff to do. If we'd split the time evenly, like what we did last time with Florida and New York, then I'd probably be kinder to it. Still haven't done much in the way of revision, but I learn best when making notes. So far I have done that once, thanks to OpenOffice being a good substitute for Word (also how I finished my Drama), but it seems to work.
Oh yeah, there should be some message to this. Don't believe the hype, maybe? I said that about Inglourious but it applies to LA quite nicely as well. Still, I'm guilty of stirring up hype, namely for Watchmen, Avatar and Kick-Ass, but in those cases, it was worth it. Besides, it's not like anyone will take this on board; this is why Avatar didn't need my help in making enough money to gold-plate the Moon. Does there need to be a message? I just wanted to write something vaguely entertaining.
March 31st, 11:47am (GMT)
At the time of writing, I am currently in Virgin Atlantic's upper class, situated in a seat that seems to be the prototype for some future-tech leisure system. Films, TV, music, a fold-out bed...there's probably a can-opener somewhere. The key phrase so far: “This is weird”.
Driving to Heathrow, we'd all woken up at 6 and in an attempt to keep me alert, I put on Daft Punk on my iPod. Turns out that hearing “work it make it do it makes us harder better faster stronger” over and over again is a robotic lullaby, forcing me into sleepless limbo - neither asleep nor awake. I'm not sure whether or not I'm imagining all of this as a result of an hour of French cyborg music wired into my brain.
A good example of this is Virgin's upper class lounge. I just kept thinking it was an online hub for a games console, all smooth edges, non-threatening beige colours and even a miniature waterfall. It didn't seem real, but then, given my sleepless state, it could have looked like the inside of a pot of gold with various clones of Ricky Martin dancing about and I'd probably accept that as fact.
I should really get some sleep, it'd be pointless trying to revise like this. Nothing would stick. I'd probably re-imagine David Lloyd George as a highwayman fighting Baron von Depression with the Geddes Axe...Jesus, I had to re-read that. How did I come up with that? The entertainment calls me from sleep, though, like a demanding mistress.
12:24pm
How long does it take for a plane to taxi?
12:25pm
Never mind.
1:15pm
Entertainment's finally come up, decided to watch This is It. It's an ambitious final performance, but something seems off about Jackson; he's not really singing much, like he's saving his voice.
1:29pm
Smooth Criminal would be the concert's Crowning Moment of Awesome. Spliced 1940s gangster film with new footage, too cool for words. Loses points for using bullet time. Come on MJ, you invented the moonwalk. You should be ahead of the curve.
1:32pm
Decided to watch 9. Why do the films have to start after 2 minutes of ads? Can't be for the money, it's Richard Branson. He could buy everyone a jetpack if he wanted to. Hell, I'm surprised he hasn't.
2:19pm
Got bored with 9; it felt like a video game I couldn't play. The thought occurs it may have been designed as a video game first; sparse dialogue, quick pacing and characters with one - and precisely one - defining trait.
2:32pm
...My God, Precious is cheerful. A real laugh-a-minute.
4:16pm
Watching Up for the third time. Why? It's Pixar, I don't need an excuse. The montage of Carl and Ellie is heartbreaking; I admit, I cried, but anyone who doesn't cry has no soul.
5:39pm
Tarantino checklist for Inglourious Basterds:
- Extended opening credits - check
- Chapter headings - check
- Charismatic sociopath with a quirk - check
- Discussions on pop culture and cinema of the time - check
- Captions - check
- Ultraviolence - check
- “Low-rent” genre (Jew Nazi-revenge flick) - check
Besides, I didn't really need to see Josef Goebbels sodomizing some French chick. I really didn't.
8:23pm/10:23am
The captain announced that some people in Economy had brought their own alcohol aboard and were getting a bit too acquainted to it. Cuh, proles. Started re-watching This is It; while Jackson is capable of dancing, and dancing quite well, there's a sense he's holding back. He's also still not doing much singing; he could have at least hummed the first few lines of Want You Back. So yeah, up to when he died he was active, but really, really tired. I'm not sure how he could have done 50 nights at the O2, he might have literally died on stage.
9:21pm/11:21am
Watching Peep Show. The fire alarm went off in JLB; I foolishly thought the captain was making an announcement. Probably something along the lines of “The alcoholics are currently doing a conga line all throughout Economy. Could I ask that the cabin crew please not join in? I'm aware it's not much fun serving on here, but maybe if you came to my party last month...”
Tried to watch In the Loop on my laptop but I made my very first Holiday Cock-Up! and forgot to charge my laptop beforehand. Managed to get up to Simon Foster acting like a tit at an Anglo-American conference and reminding me suspiciously of someone I knew.
8:54pm
No, the plane didn't fall through a hole in time and space, I'm sticking with West Coast time for now. Anyway, to say I came off the plane a bit badly is like saying Bruce Wayne feels a bit guilty about his mum and dad. I felt terrible - felt faintly sick, wanted to cry for some reason, massive exhaustion from travelling for about 12 hours (I didn't get any sleep, I was that desperate to revise), and my head felt like some wicked imp had cracked a pavestone over my head and danced an Irish jig on my bloody skull cackling. As soon as we got to the hotel rooms - really nice rooms, mind - I collapsed onto the bed and slept. Half an hour later, I arose like Lazarus completely recovered.
The trouble with jetlag is that you can't sleep for too long or else your body clock gets thrown out the window and concusses a passing cyclist on the way down. You either adjust or you prowl the streets at 2am, and when you're a young straight reasonably attractive male in San Francisco, that's not a good thing. The Borg Collective ain't got shit.
Oh yes, and if you're ever in San Fran - and hopefully you stay longer than I have - try the Italian restaurant Cippino's. Interestingly, that's not the family name; it's derived from an Italian trying to pronounce the slang “Chip in!” (No, I can't remember what that means either.) The fish and chips are lovely, but I'd recommend fasting like for Ramadan if you want to fit it all in.
April 1st, 8:21am
Well, managed to assimilate to US time after a good night's sleep, but traces of England still remained as I kept waking up during the night at random intervals. I couldn't see or reach my watch, so it felt like I was in the Twilight Zone, or some other place where time never passes. Anyway, I've adjusted to America well, but if I start talking about democracy being non-negotiable and preach an intolerance to Communism, snap me back to reality. By any means necessary.
2:43pm
San Francisco really is absurdly pretty; that much was made clear from the sightseeing tour. From the Art Deco design of the Golden Gate Bridge to the suburbs of Sausalito; I'd consider living in the latter if I didn't feel my bank account howl like a wolf with its leg caught in a trap as soon as I looked at just one house. Even the beggars are honest - so far, all the cardboard signs they have are "Why lie? I need a beer" and "NEED $ 4 HASH". At least they admit they're going to squander your charity. Distractingly, our tour guide looked like a younger version of Chuck Norris.
My parents also decided to play Guess Who with my heart - that is, raising my hopes then slapping them back down. It involved a hat, a certain type of hat. As anyone who's heard me moan about it enough knows, I like trilbies. Many of you would like to see me with a trilby. We went to a shop that sells trilbies. My parents let me try on a trilby. They asked me if I wanted a trilby. They told me I couldn't have the trilby. God, they wouldn't taunt the fucking dogs like they did to me.
5:23pm
Just come back from a tour of Alcatraz; in case you're not aware, "The Rock" is an inhospitable island, partially man-made, that from 1934 to 1963 served as a prison for such friends of humanity as Al Capone and Robert Shroud, the Birdman. No, the last guy didn't get done for dressing up as a superhero and crapping on bystanders' heads as he jumped across buildings. This isn't the world of Watchmen. (Speaking of which: A CERTAIN SOMEONE OWES ME THIS BOOK.) It's a National Park site now, and well worth the trip. They say that those who broke the rules went to prison; those who broke the prison rules went to Alcatraz. The water is cold enough to freeze the brass gonads off a monkey, and that's not mentioning the sharks. Only three people successfully broke out of Alcatraz by digging through the walls of their cells with spoons; we're still not sure whether they made it or not.
The most morbidly fascinating part was the tale of one prisoner in "The Hole" - solitary confinement. When shut in, it's pitch-black, so in order to maintain his sanity, he'd tear off a button from his prison overalls, throw it into the air, spin around in a circle a few times, then crawl on his hands and knees trying to find it. Once he did, he'd do it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. Sanity really is a fragile thing, and we go through such lengths to protect it.
Tomorrow's the last night in San Fran, and I've eaten enough Italian food to anger the population of Abyssinia. I still haven't done much in the way of revision yet, but how could I? We don't have much time, and we need to pack in as much as possible. We've seen the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz, so all that's left is some shopping and then off to LA. Maybe then I can actually work towards getting good A-Level results. Yes I may be doing schoolwork, but I'm doing schoolwork in the sun. Still, getting increasingly lonely. As soon as I get back to England, and I readjust my internal clockwork, I'm going out with friends. If I spend any more time in isolation from them, I will cease to function and may resort to self-flagellation just to make the day go quicker.
April 2nd, 4:32pm
Mainly spent the day shopping, and already I've spent most - if not all - of my money in one day. Still, money well spent in my opinion, since I got God of War Collection for PS3. Yeah, it's out in the UK, but as a Special Trilogy Limited Director's Cut Collector's Edition, which normally costs something around £79.99, whereas this was $29.95. Plus, the PS3 can play games from all over the world, so take that, Sony of Europe. Managed to get a few comics as well, namely Kingdom Come (mashes up superheroes and the Book of Revelations - it's optimistic, I swear!), which has some gorgeous watercolour artwork. Got a Kick-Ass T-shirt, but I'm ashamed to say it was from Hot Topic. On the one hand, it specialises in film and video game T-shirts; on the other, it attracts wannabe goth girls by the dozens. Also, finally went inside a Hollister's, or rather, the waiting section of a Hollister's. Thought the staff should have worn mining hats, it's that unusually dark.
Yeah, this is a pretty boring entry, but then it's shopping. It's easier to stub the toe of the Colossus of Rhodes than it is to make it exciting because, let's face it, all you're doing is listening to someone list what they bought with their disposable income, and the only people who can derive pleasure from listening to someone read off a list are those who actively enjoy IT work in offices. But since I've still got some room left, allow me to praise Americans up the wazoo. I know the typical response is to call the whole population a bunch of whooping, hollering sentient balls of flesh in cowboy hats who sodomize their sisters, but that's not true. I've only seen one person in a cowboy hat.
In all seriousness, so far I've never met an American I didn't like. This is also one of the reasons why I don't game online, because Xbox Live has so far proven itself to be the world's most effective Cunt Magnet, and I don't want my opinion of them spoiled. Every American I've encountered has been so polite and friendly; leave a store and they'll cheerfully wish you a nice day. Not saying that doesn't happen in Britain, but it's much more likely in America. A few years ago, while holidayin' in Orlando, some teenagers asked me if I could take a picture. So far, so standard, but they addressed me as "sir". Odd, but who cares? It made me feel important. Anything Britain can do, America can do better, from building empires to manners.
Except for chocolate. Cadbury's will always be better. ALWAYS.
Chuck Norris seems to be making recurring appearances throughout my holiday. Yesterday, our tour guide looked like him; today, he was in an infomercial with his daughter advertising some exercise machine to rich Republicans. If I don't see him launching a plane tomorrow like a paper aeroplane, I'll be disappointed.
April 3rd, 9:21pm
Nnnnope, no Chuck Norris sighting. Slightly relieved, I thought he was following me.
The flight was painless, and at an hour, pretty quick. Nothing else to say about it, unlike the travel writer two seats across from me, who spent most of the flight busily making notes about staff "assaulting" her for drinks. It's called manners, bitch. Currently situated in a rented house, the Casa de Oro (Gold House for those who don't speak Spanish or didn't look it up in an Alex Rider book); pretty nice all round.
There's something uneasy about LA; nothing bad, just...I don't feel completely comfortable in here. I felt the same way about Vegas, and the truth is there are some similarities. Both feel rather brash and tacky, almost unwelcoming. And this is just in the residential area, not the studio tours or the shopping or the doing-cocaine-off-a-prostitute trade. My place of residence is a West Hollywood suburb, yet somehow a stone throw away feels like such a gulf. Not so much a stone throw as it is batting back a small comet. Had dinner at a local restaurant called the French Quarter, which we only just found out seems to be popular amongst the gay community. No problem, but my sister couldn't stop giggling: "LOL THEY HAV GEIZ HERE!!!1111!!!"
Yes, you're dining with gays. No, they're not going to poison you with their "queer cooties".
April 4th, 6:23pm
Typical. I spend three days in San Francisco, the prime gay mecca of America, and then as soon as I get to LA, I end up seeing a "PINK POWER" billboard full of rainbows and muscular man-shaped wads of beef. Also, people campaigning to repeal Proposition 8 - I'm actually in support of this campaign, since California is now the only state in America to refuse to recognise same-sex marriage. Trouble is, so far the only things I've seen are one lone man holding up a placard in the Farmer's Market and a bumper sticker in a flat window. Dispiriting.
Anyway, I've actually been to the "main" part of LA, and if anyone tells you the streets of Hollywood are lined with gold, it's because they've seen the light reflecting off the streams of piss. Seriously, the Hall of Fame is the worst culprit; I'm guessing some bitter celebrities got hammered on Oscar night and decided to let their feelings known by evacuating their bladders on their worst enemies. Got accosted by a fast-talking Oirish "promoter" into going on a tour; we said we'd be back in five minutes, and I think he's still there, checking his watch and wondering when he'll be back. Keep in mind this guy was very pushy and it felt like he would have threatened us with a knife.
By the way, if you're sensitive to crowds and noise, then do NOT go outside Mann's Chinese Theatre. Aside from the crowds, there are cosplayers littered about - I say "cosplayers", I mean "actors dressing as famous pop culture icons in the hopes of getting noticed and making a quick buck". Some of these were really good, namely Jack Sparrow, Zorro, the Mad Hatter and Alice (yes, they have one already) and the Joker, even if the latter seemed a little bit too into it. But the freakiest were the cartoon characters: your SpongeBobs, your Elmos, your Disneys. These were cheap versions, when stacked up against the official costumes you see at Disneyland and Universal Studios. There was even a Leatherface and Chucky, and - most disturbing of all - a man in a Michael Jackson prosthetic mask. Not someone dressed as him in Smooth Criminal; wearing a mask shaped like the late King of Pop's face. The irony there is tasteless and must have been great for little kids.
If it sounds like I'm breaking these myths about the "City of Angels" like twigs over a mighty thigh, it's because...well, I am. I'm sure the studio tours are good, and the tour of the stars' homes was pretty interesting, especially since we got to see a one-time Wayne Manor from Tim Burton's Batman films, but I still can't say I feel easy here. During the aforementioned tour, one of the recurring phrases was "John/Jane Doe was living here when he/she died". We were also told the Hollywood sign is fenced off because someone committed suicide from them. Combine that with the rather downmarket areas a stone throw away from all this glamour, and Hollywood suddenly loses its allure.
Or maybe this is because I'm not that keen on holidays. YOU be the judge.
April 5th, ????pm
Another day of shopping. Got a pair of red Converses, but other than that, it was dull enough that I lost all concept of time, hence the unknown time of writing. Went to see a film, which I cannot divulge due to personal reasons (maybe because I might be seeing it again the first Wednesday after school starts. Maybe. Juuuust maybe.)
April 6th, 6:11pm
I was under the impression we'd be hitting Universal Studios today, but nope; instead, we went to Six Flags Magic Mountain, essentially the US version of Thorpe Park. Fun if you're a thrill-seeker; not so much if you're a massive coward like me. I went on about four rides altogether, with one - a centrifuge that spins so fast the G-force prevents you from moving any part of your body - being genuine fun, but most of my time was spent waiting with mum for my dad and sister to finish their time on the more EXTREME rides. And considering the waiting time for these EXTREME rides could be as long as an EXTREME 45 MINUTES, my iPod was the only thing that maintained my sanity. I thank Christ for Yoko Kanno for producing some excellent music, otherwise I might have snapped and taken an attendant hostage on top of Superman: The Escape (in case you don't know, it's a very tall, very fast ride. So fast, you're pressed into your seat by the G-force, at least according to the Guinness World Records). I can't really blame Six Flags for this, since I don't like rollercoasters much, but this is a case of over-specialisation; cater to the adrenaline junkies and the rest of us start to feel left out.
So far, LA's really let me down. The soundtrack of the holiday has been, in order, sirens, shite music and my dad shouting at the tempramental sat-nav. Maybe because it's bigger, brasher and appears more glamorous, so it's California's resident bimbo compared to San Francisco, the shy pretty bookworm. One attempts to entice you with the promise of glamour and riches and fellatio, but will ultimately be shallow and vacuous, whereas the other is sweet-natured and will not only commit to a long-term relationship, but make it possible. I dearly wish we could have stayed there longer.
(As to why I'm not a big fan of holidays, it's because I have to change my routine and adjust to a new environment quickly, neither of which are my idea of "fun". I enjoy the time away from school more than the location, if that makes sense. Wait, what am I saying? It does. It's perfectly understandable.)
April 7th, 6:54pm
Went Venice Beach. Nice, bit hot. Thankfully free of muscled-up fascists, but was disturbed by a boy my age with a Corinthians quote tattooed on his back. Toilets disgusting. Could smell it before the door was even open; evidenced by the corpses of flies scattered by the door. Nothing else happened all day, but I've been promised a trilby if I go on a new ride at Universal Studios on Friday. Haven't been on the teacups yet...
April 8th, 10:57am
This will be my entry for the entire day, because this is basically what's going to happen: nothing. We're arsing about the villa, so I'm just going to be watching streamed anime all day. The website I'm using is region-locked in America, so I'm taking advantage of every second. Sorry this email hasn't been particularly entertaining, but how amusing can you make doing fuck-all sound?
April 9th, 7:48pm
LA, all is forgiven. The pushy promoters, the freakish cosplayers/aspiring actors, the lack of catering to the cowardly everyman at Six Flags, the sat-nav in the processes of a mental breakdown - I'm willing to look away from all these (just for a bit, mind) and hug you - but not for long, because I'm scared you'll pick my pocket and I don't want to be stinking of Bladder by Calvin Klein - simply for Universal Studios. This place is a godsend and has been the best part of my stay in the City of Angels.
Unlike the rest of the sun-lashed scumsacks who flocked to Universal, with it being the last day of Spring Break and all, my dad had the sense to book a VIP tour, which I recommend ONLY if you have so much money in your pockets it pulls your trousers down whenever you take a step. This is basically a stop at the main attractions at Universal: The Simpsons Ride, Revenge of the Mummy, Jurassic Park, plus the Hollywood-exclusive Studio Tour, with a buffet in between.
What's that? Complaints? Death threats? Accusations of being a spoiled little shit? Sorry, I can't hear you through these pauper-skin curtains.
Seriously, if you can afford it, it's well worth it, even if you have to sacrifice the fair maiden of Credit Stability to this monster. We managed to get ahead of the queues thanks to the VIP lanyards, whose sole purpose is to cause everyone who doesn't have one to re-imagine the initials to stand for "Very Important Pillock". You also have to make sure you go on The Simpsons Ride, previously the Back to the Future ride; it is so much fun. Go twice if you can wait that long, you'll hear jokes you didn't catch the first time around. Revenge of the Mummy's pretty good as well, but it's over in about two and a half minutes and I had my eyes closed most of the time. Once I saw Omid Djalili get turned into canapés by scarabs, nothing was sacred. I also didn't go on Jurassic Park; 1) because I'd been on it before; and 2) I hate sheer drops because it feels like I'm about to fly out of my seat and be left floating in a sitting position in mid-air, and I always forget to bring my "Yipes!" sign for when I inevitably fall.
To be fair, though, Steven Spielberg always gets out before the drop. Just goes to show, the world's most successful film director is as big a coward as I.
The Studio Tour was great as well. We were lucky enough to see inside an editing room, a Foley stage (where they create noises for film; you think that's an actual gun cocking? It's vicegrips held up to a microphone.), and an ADR room (Automatic Dialogue Replacement; dubbing, essentially). Nobody could take any photos though, since our fortune was good enough just to get us in, let alone record our limited memories of the place. Interesting fact, though; there were table games - table tennis, table football, snooker - in the editing room, which the editors use to kill time. Also, Universal was the first studio to twig to the idea that sounds recorded on film sound a bit different to real life, and coined the term "Foley stage". The backlots also boast the second-largest sound stage in the world - that is, a massive indoor set. The Shanghai sequence of Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End was shot here, according to our charming tour guide, who described it as the most magnificent thing he's seen.
But it wouldn't really be a backlot tour if they didn't show off their best-known movies. In this case, you can see the scares coming, but they still get you. For example, the tram drove through Jurassic Park, and one of the first things you saw was a few damaged inGen crates. "Ah", you think, "so some dinosaurs are going to pop out of the bushes? Pfft, bring it." And then the spitters appear and squirt you. "HOLY SHIT WHAT THE HELL?" you go. There's the Earthquake section, but you're told you're helping to act out a scene from the movie. Basically, they're encouraging you to scream blue murder. Oh, and Jaws, natch; I was on the other side of the tram, so the shark scared some Frenchies/Canadians, but before that, an animatronic diver is dragged under...and the surface of the water is stained red. It's just a wee bit creepy.
The scare I loved the most was the Psycho one; you drive past the Bates Motel, and you see Norman Bates - tall, handsome basketcase with mummy issues - carrying out a woman's body. He then spots the tram, turns oh-so slightly, and starts to grin, steeling towards you, taking a knife out of his pocket. As the tram gets away, he even gives chase. I did my best not to look at Momma Bates' house, though; a "funny story" the guide told us was that Jim Carrey, while shooting a film, had gotten bored and hid in the bushes outside the house, waiting for tourists. Once a tram turned the corner, he ran at them screaming dressed as Mother and brandishing a knife. Everyone was freaked out, and so it became a new feature. Didn't happen this time, though, thankfully.
Oh yes, and we went to the Wisteria Lane set. Since my knowledge of Desperate Housewives extends to knowing that Danny Elfman did the score and nothing else, my time was spent trying to avoid getting caught in photos.
Universal Studios has so far been the knight in shining armour whenever we go to America. During our first trip, we were cooped in a Disney hotel room with just enough room for two people, even though we were a family of four, and when we went to the actual parks, it was clear the video we received lied to us. It's not like they were bad, just shallower than advertised. (kind of like LA. OH SNAP) And then, we realised that Disney weren't quite the red-eyed soulless overlords they seemed to be and allowed us to go to other parks. We discovered Universal Studios, which quickly became to all of us what a crack pipe is to Pete Doherty. And now second time around it's prevented me from writing off LA entirely.
Now, it gets re-graded to Minor Disappointment.
April 10th, 2:42pm
And it turns out that we've hit a wall. Universal was the big thing we were going to do in LA, and now we've done that, our List of Things to Do now has less items on it than the Westboro Baptist Church's Christmas card list, making us the holiday equivalent of a man with shrapnel floating near his heart. We're just walking along, waiting for the end to come. In an attempt to distract ourselves, we went to Rodeo Drive, a shopping district best known for selling various pieces of fabric at outrageous prices. To give an example, one short black top for women cost $900. Let me just reiterate: a small woman's top, with just enough material to prevent anything outrageous showing, costs about £750. I'm going to assume that Rodeo Drive caters solely to Arabian royalty, since they're probably the only people on Earth who could afford this crap.
Being a young male, having to go past all these haute couture shops was about as exciting and fulfilling as chipping away at a brick wall with a toothpick. I did spot a Borders' on the way here - this is basically the American equivalent of Waterstone's, and they did have a few UK branches until they went bust - and I went to one in San Francisco. This is officially my new favourite store in the US - they sell books, comics, games, music, magazines from across the world, even drinks. Sadly, we didn't go in, and I've since spent most of my time in the villa watching old Doctor Who episodes. Fun.
April 11th, 7:28pm
The only noteworthy thing that happened all day was I went to see How to Train Your Dragon. Pretty good stuff, all around; DreamWorks Animation has always been pretty good, but this is the closest they've come to equalling Pixar. Check it out, especially in 3D; the flight scenes are genuinely exhiliarating. I appreciate these entries haven't been very interesting, so I'll try and add some much needed humour by listing every possible thing I didn't do:
I didn't hire a prostitute.
I didn't get a movie deal.
I didn't discover the Lost City of El Dorado.
I didn't get in a Howard Hughes biplane and fly to the poppy fields of Colombia.
I didn't inhale a dangerous amount of nerve gas and spend the next few hours weakly singing the theme tune to Popeye.
I didn't put on a makeshift superhero costume and start distributing copies of the Kick-Ass comic book on Sunset Boulevard.
I didn't fly around in a jetpack dressed as the Rocketeer and land on top of the El Capitan theatre.
I didn't swim through a cloud.
I didn't whistle abstract notions like love and luck.
I didn't take a bite out of the moon.
I didn't bother to try and write a new entry and instead just listed anything that came to mind.
April 12th, 8:11pm
I actually did something today! I went on the Warner Bros. studio tour; with this and the Universal Studio Tour, my inner film geek has been getting a lap-dance. Both, interestingly, have been labelled VIP tours, but with WB, VIP (OMG) is the label for the standard vanilla tour. There was a Deluxe tour, but do you fancy paying $225 for the slight opportunity of seeing someone you recognise? Admittedly, I got a mug and a pen with "WRITER" emblazoned on them (it's funny, see, because I'm a writer, yeah?) and a greenscreen photo of me posing in a scene from Where the Wild Things Are - I'm still the only one in my family who's seen that film, and probably the only one who will like it - but the two hours went by quickly, yet it wasn't a minute wasted. I also managed to see some Watchmen props, including an actual physical copy of the comic-within-a-comic Tales of the Black Freighter (later adapted into a short animated film); I did squeal like a child about to see Father Christmas, but at least my jeans remained uncreamed.
Oh, and I got God of War III, for roughly the same price as in England but without the need to prove I'm 18. Then again, my experience with people has told me I'm older than I look; I've had one girl estimate me as 17 when I was in fact just old enough to get into 15-rated flicks, and in San Francisco I was told I'd have to wait a year to order a drink. The age to do so is 21. I'm not sure how anyone can think I'm that old, but then again I'm surprised no-one's assumed from my pale skin, dark eyes and suave Britishness that I'm a vampire out to steal their precious crimson.
Being on holiday always makes me realise how pale my complexion is. Probably because I don't step out into the sun, which in turn is because I don't tan, I burn, and spend the rest of the holiday staggering about like a Hiroshima survivor, peeling and wincing. My dad's come to the conclusion I'm a mirror that walks like a man; I don't absorb sunlight, I reflect it. Bad move, then, to be planning a Clark Kent costume.
April 13th, 6:01pm
Part 13? Golly gee, this poor excuse for travel writing has come a long way, hasn't it? And it just so happens to be the 13th April here in "The Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave" as they like to call it - and "Eagleland" as I like to call it - so if nothing else I'm keeping to the calendar. Shame I couldn't get this written down sooner, but I had to help with the packing and had to toss out some "organic" Frosties that have so far served as good pest repellent. They're good when dry, but just add milk and you'll be doubled over your sink gargling water to stop them clinging to the roof of your mouth like easily frightened bats.
Another shopping day, mainly spent getting comics you can't get in England yet ironically are by English writers. Seriously, quite a few writers in the comic industry nowadays are from Britain; I don't think it's any coincidence that the more violent stuff is produced by Scottish scribes like Mark Millar and Grant Morrison. Confusingly, their lighter stuff can also be rose-tinted nostalgic and downright heartwarming. Do Scots ever have any sort of emotional middle ground? You've got Tennant's Doctor acting with nigh-manic glee one minute and stony stoicism the next, and I'm pretty sure Frankie Boyle can do nothing but comedy so black it can make coal look like diamonds. This in turn makes me wonder how he reads bedtime stories.
"Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Goldilocks. Being pathologically retarded, she decided to break into a house owned by three grizzly bears, who once tore apart a filmmaker claiming to be their 'friend'. She ate their food, broke their chairs, and slept in their chairs, because she was an annoying little cunt. Then the three bears came home, and found her sleeping in one of their beds. Goldilocks thought she would just get an ASBO, but instead she was torn limb-from-limb, and the three bears decorated their house with her entrails, and they lived happily ever after. Look, they've even got pictures!"
...Fuck, I'm able to get into his head. Maybe I should offer my services to the police in tracking down serial killers. Preferably those with Freudian issues, they're easy.
Considering the amount of stuff I've bought on holiday, the thought occurs that, hopefully with all the good karma I've acquired from holding doors open for people, I can be reborn as an Arabian prince next time around. The thought also occurs I could fit in well in America. Another sign of just how goshdarn lovable Americans are is that they hold the door open and they will continue to hold it open for quite a while. As anyone who's experienced this knows, this is something I do. On top of that, I like to think I share Hugh Laurie's knack of putting on a convincing American accent so I could blend right in. Wouldn't really want to be known as "that British guy". But again, as most people probably know, I don't like being separated from home for too long. The only requirements I have for uni are that they have an option to study English and that they're based in London.
Doubtless I'll eventually grow out of this habit, and there is something interesting about internationalism. Due to my habit of downloading stuff composed by Yoko Kanno, who can write in every musical genre known to man and even some that haven't been discovered yet, I've been reading up on Chris Mosdell, a British ex-pat based in Tokyo; apparently he's a big deal, known for his work with the influential Yellow Magic Orchestra and his poetry. Well, big enough to be the focus of a documentary. Most of Yoko Kanno's music - or at least, the stuff I've downloaded - involves international musicians anyway, and I've...sort of forgotten where I was going with this.
Oh yeah! Download Yoko Kanno's music! That's as good as anything! The reason I called this a poor excuse for travel writing is that all I've done is mouth off my own viewpoint. I haven't tried to sell the cities I've been to; well, much. I haven't been lyrical or whimsical. I haven't made any location sound like they're worth going to. But that's just how I do things. Besides, nobody's paying me for this, so I don't have to be a whore. I shamelessly promote Yoko Kanno out of my own volition and because all her stuff is genuinely brilliant.
April 14th/15th, 4:05pm (GMT)
Well, the journey home was...eventful. I promised I wouldn't complain to my folks, considering my dad was developing a vein in his temple so prominent you just had to tap it with a pin and he'd lose all his childhood memories, but for the sake of an interesting story, here we go, starting off with the negatives:
The flight itself was alright, but midway through the captain reported that a volcano erupted in Iceland and volcanic ash had been scattered across northern Europe. I think I may have started doodling a pagan ritual to grant us safe passage to the Row of Heaths where the metal birds take wing, because we were one of the last flights coming into London before the UK airspace was shut down. Hence, customs and check-in was more of a hive mind of people trying to get through. I'd call it a queue, but "queue" is French for "tail". The only way it resembled a tail is if there's some undiscovered specie of animal somewhere in the Rainforest that happens to have one shaped like a blob of fat. On top of that, our car caught a dead battery, but the bonnet couldn't be opened. None of us were there, so I can't say for sure how bad this is, but there must have been at least half a dozen mechanics on standby. Are you telling me none of them could open a fucking bonnet?
As a result, we travelled home in the most British way possible: a black cab.
No, I am not making this up. We drove all the way home from Heathrow, with all ten pieces of our luggage, in a common-or-garden black cab. And we managed to maintain our sanity.
This is our family's Crowning Moment of Awesome.
But wait! There's more! We come home, having had to pay just under £200, and what do we find? The shower's leaked and the central heating's not working. Meaning no hot water. Oh, and I got a letter home from Drama about coursework that I COULDN'T FUCKING DO BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE MICROSOFT FUCKING WORD. But you know what? Things could have definitely been worse. Since all British airports are closed, we could have been sent straight back to America and forced to spend the night in a hotel. We got our luggage back alright. We're back home, and things are returning to something resembling working order. I got an autograph from Jane Goldman, the writer of Kick-Ass. I got a trilby. Overall, this wasn't that bad a holiday.
Oh, hold on...my glasses aren't in my hand luggage. I blame the Communists. They're responsible for everything! DEMOCRACY IS NON-NEGOTIABLE. COMMUNISM WILL NOT BE TOLERAT-
*whack*
6:58pm
Ohh...managed to flush out any and all traces of American jingoism out of my system. It involves tea, scones and watching endless Monty Python and Blackadder via the Ludovico Treatment made famous by A Clockwork Orange. Anyway, wrapping this shit up.
Overall, this holiday was alright, but I'd have preferred to have had more time in San Francisco. I did like LA, but it didn't initially endear itself to me, and it was only later on where it began to pick up. Again, time was probably the killer here; we had 10 nights there, and by the seventh we'd quickly run out of stuff to do. If we'd split the time evenly, like what we did last time with Florida and New York, then I'd probably be kinder to it. Still haven't done much in the way of revision, but I learn best when making notes. So far I have done that once, thanks to OpenOffice being a good substitute for Word (also how I finished my Drama), but it seems to work.
Oh yeah, there should be some message to this. Don't believe the hype, maybe? I said that about Inglourious but it applies to LA quite nicely as well. Still, I'm guilty of stirring up hype, namely for Watchmen, Avatar and Kick-Ass, but in those cases, it was worth it. Besides, it's not like anyone will take this on board; this is why Avatar didn't need my help in making enough money to gold-plate the Moon. Does there need to be a message? I just wanted to write something vaguely entertaining.