We're staying in a hostel a few miles from the centre of town. It's nice. Usually I reject hostels outright because I'm racist against Australians. I wish I wasn't this way, but at least I'm honest about my prejudices. In any case, this hostel we're staying in is good. Full of Australians, but good.
It's run by a haggard woman called Hope who says everything in a world-weary drawl. What made Hope like this? Too much interaction with Australians I'll wager.
Anyway when we first arrived in the hostel Hope gave us a map of Nashville and crossed through a couple of blocks on it with a pen. "That's the ghetto," she said. "Don't go there."
Now I keep staring in the direction of those blocks. Our hostel is in between a nice neighbourhood and a not-so-nice neighbourhood. It's a strange feeling standing on a street corner looking off into the low-rise neighbourhoods which at some blurry point become "the ghetto". The forbidden blocks on Hope's map. It' s like that scene in Predator when the marines are staring into the jungle, looking for some sign of the invisible threat that's out there.
I think from watching the Wire the look of these streets resonates a little bit. You other Wire people know what I mean. The chipped asphalt. The weeds growing up between the paving stones. The deserted corners. It's amazing how dilapidated the city lets these blocks get in contrast to the nicer neighbourhoods which may be literally just around the corner. The irony is that at this exact time John McCain is accusing Barack Obama of being a "socialist" - a dirty word in American politics. Now, I'm anything but a pinko Commie freedom hater but the one Lenin quote still rings true:
"Shame on America for the plight of the negroes!"
Apart from that asshole. He helped kill hip-hop dead here.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
October 26
American newspapers can be dull. The New York Times on Sunday should be a Sunday fun explosion but it's a black-and-white non-partisan slog. Come on guys, cut loose! You don't have to write such bland crap. It's Sunday. How about some actual opinion and a few pictures of sexy ladies? Newspapers are meant to represent the people that read them. In the UK you can spot a Sun reader. He speaks like the Sun and kind of looks like the Sun. Broad, red at the top and a bit racist at heart. The same goes for the Observer and the Telegraph. I am yet to meet anyone that looks like the New York Times. I guess he would wear a trilby and refer to his friend Bob as "Mr Epstein". When asked to give his opinion on anything he would lean back, squint and begin with: "The consensus among many in the middle-class, including myself, is that..."
October 25
Why have they built a scale replica of the Parthenon in Nashville?
Today was game day in the city. There was a football game (NFL), a hockey game (NHL) and a college football game (NCAA-SEC) all happening at the same time, more or less. People are camped out in parks with massive barbecue set ups. For the first time since I've been in America the pavements are full - full! - of people walking. Granted they're walking from their cars to sit for three hours in a stadium, but to the untrained eye they look just like pedestrians. How I miss pedestrians.
Walked through a gen-u-ine American campus. It was like a village of fraternity houses - full of nubile, young 'mericans done up all pretty-like for homecoming. By the way when young Americans do have to dress up all pretty-like the girls really get a bum deal. They get their hair done, apply all the lipgloss they can get their hands on and wear their littlest high heels. The boys just dress like Mormons. Mormon hair, Mormon shirts tucked into Mormon trousers, all rounded off by a nice Mormon tie.
American youths also need pointers on how to drink. The basic technique seems to be "the chug". Standing in a circle the boys (and the odd girl with low self-esteem), will shotgun whole cans of revolting American beer while the others whoop and high-five. They hurtle towards drunkeness with great speed, shrieking and saying "bro!" all the way. We, the British (or I), enjoy alcohol as a useful social lubricant, liberally spreading it around and sharing it until - whoops! - everyone's drunk. Americans drink how they eat - in a frenzy, apparantly terrified of hunger or sobriety's onset.
Fantastic news. I can now hold a convincing conversation about American football. I get it. I get the rules (most of them). So check this out:
By the way people in England might not understand what college football is all about. If you want an approximation of what it's like imagine a university soccer match between Exceter and Leeds. Make it really sunny. Then add between 40-100,000 screaming fans, packed into a specially built stadium on the Exceter campus with the teams' names displayed in 30-foot lettering up and down the pitch. Then add national television crews and huge amounts of merchandise. Mix in an enormous half-time show. Most importantly imagine almost-guaranteed multi-million pound Premier League contracts for the best players on each time. So no, not much like a university soccer game back home. A lot of people actually prefer college football to the pros because a) they love their college and b) it's a little more raw.
It's funny that for such a vehemently heterosexual country American men do enjoy talking about other men's bodies, albeit in a gruff, businesslike way. Wade kept stopping his running commentary to remark on the players. "Check out number 86," he'd say. "He's gotta be 6'2, 6'3 and about 300 lbs. These are big dudes."
That evening my friend and I visited a Hooters. For those of you unfamiliar with the brand, Hooters is a Floridian fast-food chain that specialises in buckets of fried chicken. Not in any way interesting or different. But wait! Did I mention Hooters are serviced entirely by waitresses wearing cleavage-inducing spray-on vests and skin-tight hotpants that ride so far up their asses they're forced to pause every five minutes to adjust their underwear in the middle of the restaurant? I didn't mention that did I? The waitresses can also use the company's pension scheme to pay for boob jobs. The girls working there all have a strange, Invasion of the Bodysnatchers glazed-over facial expression. Sure, they smile if you make eye-contact but it's an horrific smile. It's the smile given by North Korean workers to a UN Weapons Inspectors touring a nuclear facility. If I hadn't been with a friend - a female with a working brain and everything - I would have felt very much the scumbag.
That night we dropped in on the quite famous Blue Bird Cafe. It's a singer-songwritery folk bar and that night we saw a four-piece "folk supergroup" whose songs and onstage banter were exactly - and I mean exactly - like these guys from A Mighty Wind. One of them must have been 6'1, 250 lbs.
Today was game day in the city. There was a football game (NFL), a hockey game (NHL) and a college football game (NCAA-SEC) all happening at the same time, more or less. People are camped out in parks with massive barbecue set ups. For the first time since I've been in America the pavements are full - full! - of people walking. Granted they're walking from their cars to sit for three hours in a stadium, but to the untrained eye they look just like pedestrians. How I miss pedestrians.
Walked through a gen-u-ine American campus. It was like a village of fraternity houses - full of nubile, young 'mericans done up all pretty-like for homecoming. By the way when young Americans do have to dress up all pretty-like the girls really get a bum deal. They get their hair done, apply all the lipgloss they can get their hands on and wear their littlest high heels. The boys just dress like Mormons. Mormon hair, Mormon shirts tucked into Mormon trousers, all rounded off by a nice Mormon tie.
American youths also need pointers on how to drink. The basic technique seems to be "the chug". Standing in a circle the boys (and the odd girl with low self-esteem), will shotgun whole cans of revolting American beer while the others whoop and high-five. They hurtle towards drunkeness with great speed, shrieking and saying "bro!" all the way. We, the British (or I), enjoy alcohol as a useful social lubricant, liberally spreading it around and sharing it until - whoops! - everyone's drunk. Americans drink how they eat - in a frenzy, apparantly terrified of hunger or sobriety's onset.
Fantastic news. I can now hold a convincing conversation about American football. I get it. I get the rules (most of them). So check this out:
That was impressive, you're saying right now I'll bet. What's more it almost all makes sense too. My friend and I went to a college football game and I was lucky enough to sit next to a guy called Steve Wade - a former NFL pro who played for the Colts in the 80s. Mr Steve Wade was very helpful in explaining what was going on on the field, providing a kind of relentless, droning commentary the whole game.
So I saw the 'Dores/Duke game last night. Those Tennessee boys need to change it up on offense. They'd be on third with ten to go in the fourth quarter and they'd still be scared to throw bombs. But that Evans kid can punt, am I right?
By the way people in England might not understand what college football is all about. If you want an approximation of what it's like imagine a university soccer match between Exceter and Leeds. Make it really sunny. Then add between 40-100,000 screaming fans, packed into a specially built stadium on the Exceter campus with the teams' names displayed in 30-foot lettering up and down the pitch. Then add national television crews and huge amounts of merchandise. Mix in an enormous half-time show. Most importantly imagine almost-guaranteed multi-million pound Premier League contracts for the best players on each time. So no, not much like a university soccer game back home. A lot of people actually prefer college football to the pros because a) they love their college and b) it's a little more raw.
It's funny that for such a vehemently heterosexual country American men do enjoy talking about other men's bodies, albeit in a gruff, businesslike way. Wade kept stopping his running commentary to remark on the players. "Check out number 86," he'd say. "He's gotta be 6'2, 6'3 and about 300 lbs. These are big dudes."
That evening my friend and I visited a Hooters. For those of you unfamiliar with the brand, Hooters is a Floridian fast-food chain that specialises in buckets of fried chicken. Not in any way interesting or different. But wait! Did I mention Hooters are serviced entirely by waitresses wearing cleavage-inducing spray-on vests and skin-tight hotpants that ride so far up their asses they're forced to pause every five minutes to adjust their underwear in the middle of the restaurant? I didn't mention that did I? The waitresses can also use the company's pension scheme to pay for boob jobs. The girls working there all have a strange, Invasion of the Bodysnatchers glazed-over facial expression. Sure, they smile if you make eye-contact but it's an horrific smile. It's the smile given by North Korean workers to a UN Weapons Inspectors touring a nuclear facility. If I hadn't been with a friend - a female with a working brain and everything - I would have felt very much the scumbag.
That night we dropped in on the quite famous Blue Bird Cafe. It's a singer-songwritery folk bar and that night we saw a four-piece "folk supergroup" whose songs and onstage banter were exactly - and I mean exactly - like these guys from A Mighty Wind. One of them must have been 6'1, 250 lbs.
Monday, October 27, 2008
October 24
The entire time I've been here in America locals have tried to put me off ever travelling by Greyhound Bus. No one is ever specific. They say "It really isn't the nicest experience" or other times they'll just wrinkle their nose and wince like I'd shown them a photograph of a corpse.
Well today was the day I'd make up my own mind about the notoriously dingy bus service which criss-crosses America like week-old silly string. Myself and one other friend (the Brit) were taking the six hour journey from Asheville to Nashville, Tennessee. The tone was set nicely by an old, old woman at the bus station, wrapped in blankets with two plasters on her face.
"Are you both Russian?" she asked the back of our heads, the emphasis for some reason on "both".
We all piled on and what a motley crew it was. I am often criticised by some friends for assuming that too many people are mentally ill. I can't help it. A lot of people I come across in my daily life do seem to be mentally ill to me. I think I can admit that perhaps, on occasion, I have over-reacted and labelled someone mentally ill who was, on reflection, simply either tedious, lonely or different. However I am certain that everyone on this Greyhound bus was in fact mentally ill.
There was an obese, porcine-featured man with long, stringy red hair whose t-shirt bore the legend "Everyone Loves a fat Guy!" But no, nobody loved this fat guy. He talked incessantly, like a huckster, walking up and down the aisle, bumming cigarettes, batteries and even money off people. I felt a twinge of concern when he went up to the front, leant into the driver's reenforced plastic booth and asked "What do I have to do to get thrown off this bus?" It didn't sound rhetorical.
Sat in front there was a woman with a Texan accent and low cut top. She spent a lot of the journey on the phone, complaining about her "boy's daddy" and what a "fucking asshole" he was for "callin' up ma' boy" and "tryin' to stir shit up".
She was preferable to the man behind. Tall, bald, missing some teeth and with tattoos up the side of his neck, he was also on the phone - talking to his girlfriend or wife. What started off fairly innocently ("Aw hell, ah cain't wait to get bayuck t' yew") soon turned racy ("Yew got yer panties awn?") before becoming disgusting.
There was also a very old and very slow-moving World War II veteran in a wig and two Stetsons. He wore both Stetsons simultaneously. Can someone tell me if this is an ordinary practice? He was sat next to a tall, young guy called Chuck who was travelling up and down America after getting back from Afghanistan on a tour of duty with the marines. He struck me as a decent guy - quiet, respectful and a little humbled by what he's seen abroad. The old guy was talking Chuck's ear off but occasionally Chuck would get a word in about his own misadventures in the military.
"I thought it would be a good way to get through college," he said somberly. "I don't think any of us were prepared for how bad it was."
The old guy ignored him and went back to talking about his own platoon and how him and his buddies hold regular reunions.
"I don't think any of my generation want to get back together," mumbled Chuck. "We don't have any happy memories."
There was also a moment which I will dub White Trash Moment of the Year. Picture this: a bus stop in a middle-of-nowhere Tennessee town called Waynseville or something. A gravel car park outside "Bob's Discount Shop". The pouring rain. A battered 1970s car driven by a humongous tattooed man with a terrifying bearded face, humongous, tattooed mongoloid wife squeezed in the back. The car dispatches two passengers, a man and a woman, both drunk, the woman singing - screaming - some country song about America as the rain drenches them both. The driver bids the man farewell through the glassless car window, using the most intense handshake I have ever seen performed. It wasn't rapid. It was just hard, long and angry.
Nashville really is powered by country music. Everwhere you look there are murals of famous musicians, posters advertising used mandolins and tiny, dark bars with bands churning out honky-tonk and boogie-woogy from early afternoon.
And it's TrashGlam. Young, middle-aged and elderly Americans from far-flung corners of the country, dolled up in rhinestones and Stetsons, slow dancing the night away to the Charlie Daniels Band Tribute Band.
We travelled to a couple of places. BB King's bar was one. The best though was Big Bang, an upstairs bar built around a small stage featuring a drummer and two pianists facing each other. For three hours they thrashed out song after song - all requests ranging from Snoop Dogg to AC/DC to the Ghostbusters Theme. And they were funny too, their banter over the music (they didn't pause between songs) was sarcastic and witty. It was pretty much a perfect bar.
Well today was the day I'd make up my own mind about the notoriously dingy bus service which criss-crosses America like week-old silly string. Myself and one other friend (the Brit) were taking the six hour journey from Asheville to Nashville, Tennessee. The tone was set nicely by an old, old woman at the bus station, wrapped in blankets with two plasters on her face.
"Are you both Russian?" she asked the back of our heads, the emphasis for some reason on "both".
We all piled on and what a motley crew it was. I am often criticised by some friends for assuming that too many people are mentally ill. I can't help it. A lot of people I come across in my daily life do seem to be mentally ill to me. I think I can admit that perhaps, on occasion, I have over-reacted and labelled someone mentally ill who was, on reflection, simply either tedious, lonely or different. However I am certain that everyone on this Greyhound bus was in fact mentally ill.
There was an obese, porcine-featured man with long, stringy red hair whose t-shirt bore the legend "Everyone Loves a fat Guy!" But no, nobody loved this fat guy. He talked incessantly, like a huckster, walking up and down the aisle, bumming cigarettes, batteries and even money off people. I felt a twinge of concern when he went up to the front, leant into the driver's reenforced plastic booth and asked "What do I have to do to get thrown off this bus?" It didn't sound rhetorical.
Sat in front there was a woman with a Texan accent and low cut top. She spent a lot of the journey on the phone, complaining about her "boy's daddy" and what a "fucking asshole" he was for "callin' up ma' boy" and "tryin' to stir shit up".
She was preferable to the man behind. Tall, bald, missing some teeth and with tattoos up the side of his neck, he was also on the phone - talking to his girlfriend or wife. What started off fairly innocently ("Aw hell, ah cain't wait to get bayuck t' yew") soon turned racy ("Yew got yer panties awn?") before becoming disgusting.
There was also a very old and very slow-moving World War II veteran in a wig and two Stetsons. He wore both Stetsons simultaneously. Can someone tell me if this is an ordinary practice? He was sat next to a tall, young guy called Chuck who was travelling up and down America after getting back from Afghanistan on a tour of duty with the marines. He struck me as a decent guy - quiet, respectful and a little humbled by what he's seen abroad. The old guy was talking Chuck's ear off but occasionally Chuck would get a word in about his own misadventures in the military.
"I thought it would be a good way to get through college," he said somberly. "I don't think any of us were prepared for how bad it was."
The old guy ignored him and went back to talking about his own platoon and how him and his buddies hold regular reunions.
"I don't think any of my generation want to get back together," mumbled Chuck. "We don't have any happy memories."
There was also a moment which I will dub White Trash Moment of the Year. Picture this: a bus stop in a middle-of-nowhere Tennessee town called Waynseville or something. A gravel car park outside "Bob's Discount Shop". The pouring rain. A battered 1970s car driven by a humongous tattooed man with a terrifying bearded face, humongous, tattooed mongoloid wife squeezed in the back. The car dispatches two passengers, a man and a woman, both drunk, the woman singing - screaming - some country song about America as the rain drenches them both. The driver bids the man farewell through the glassless car window, using the most intense handshake I have ever seen performed. It wasn't rapid. It was just hard, long and angry.
Nashville really is powered by country music. Everwhere you look there are murals of famous musicians, posters advertising used mandolins and tiny, dark bars with bands churning out honky-tonk and boogie-woogy from early afternoon.
And it's TrashGlam. Young, middle-aged and elderly Americans from far-flung corners of the country, dolled up in rhinestones and Stetsons, slow dancing the night away to the Charlie Daniels Band Tribute Band.
We travelled to a couple of places. BB King's bar was one. The best though was Big Bang, an upstairs bar built around a small stage featuring a drummer and two pianists facing each other. For three hours they thrashed out song after song - all requests ranging from Snoop Dogg to AC/DC to the Ghostbusters Theme. And they were funny too, their banter over the music (they didn't pause between songs) was sarcastic and witty. It was pretty much a perfect bar.
October 23
Today we climbed a mountain. One of my friends (the Dane) tripped up 24 times. I only stumbled once. Maybe I'm cut out for the mountain man life. Maybe I should join a Colorado militia and throw my lot in with the rifle-toting shut-ins who buy all their food in tins and think bar codes are the work of Satan.
Everyone in Asheville is stoned. Our favourite restaurant in town is called the Mellow Mushroom. It is owned by a bald man with a long plaited beard who is stoned. His staff all have long beards and they are also stoned. The customers (who are stoned) walk into furniture and giggle a lot. I'd say this place is a lock for Obama but will any of these people make it to a polling station?
Everyone in Asheville is stoned. Our favourite restaurant in town is called the Mellow Mushroom. It is owned by a bald man with a long plaited beard who is stoned. His staff all have long beards and they are also stoned. The customers (who are stoned) walk into furniture and giggle a lot. I'd say this place is a lock for Obama but will any of these people make it to a polling station?
October 22
The first day in Asheville. It's a large town, very pretty, up in the Blue Ridge Mountains. A lot of the architecture is Art Deco and it's refreshing to finally be somewhere with actual high streets. It's also famous for being something like a West Coast city in the East.
Asheville's small streets are clogged with hairy drop-outs, hippies and people who look like Faith No More groupies circa 1993. There's people busking on every corner and part of me thinks that if I lived here before long I'd be wearing a crew cut and shouting "GET A JOB" a lot.
Asheville's small streets are clogged with hairy drop-outs, hippies and people who look like Faith No More groupies circa 1993. There's people busking on every corner and part of me thinks that if I lived here before long I'd be wearing a crew cut and shouting "GET A JOB" a lot.
Friday, October 24, 2008
October 21
Is America friendly? Yes. Right friendly. But I don't know how to properly describe their friendliness. It's quick, sharp friendliness. Welcoming, helpful and curious.
What gets to me a little bit though is how remote people's lives are - especially away from city centres. There aren't really highstreets. No local shops, bars, pubs or cafes. A lot of people ferry themselves from place to place in their cars - one big supermarket for shopping, a gas station, a waffle house. All seperated by miles of asphalt. People's lives are very private here. It's not possible to share a walk to the shops or bump into someone on the way to work.
Well, we took the wrong ferry from Ocracoke (a deserted island at the bottom of the penninsula where people still talk a weird 17th century version of English) and ended up in Cedar Island. This was quite a long way from where we should have been. There is nothing on Cedar Island. The map - a good map - showed about two-square inches of white. Not wanting to stay in a place that is dubbed "remote" by people who speak 17th century English we drove eight hours to Asheville, a happy-clappy hippy haven in the mountains of west North Carolina. I had the job of keeping my friend awake as we drove at 80mph along empty highways. We had an hour-long conversation about basketball. Neither of us know the first thing about basketball but at 2am it didn't seem to matter. We stopped at Dairy Queen - a fast-food ice cream chain - and purchased armfulls of diabetes-inducing snackfoods. You can buy 64 oz ice cream tubs. Think about that. I couldn't reach the bottom of one of those with my whole arm. Who eats like that? Oh right. They do.
What gets to me a little bit though is how remote people's lives are - especially away from city centres. There aren't really highstreets. No local shops, bars, pubs or cafes. A lot of people ferry themselves from place to place in their cars - one big supermarket for shopping, a gas station, a waffle house. All seperated by miles of asphalt. People's lives are very private here. It's not possible to share a walk to the shops or bump into someone on the way to work.
Well, we took the wrong ferry from Ocracoke (a deserted island at the bottom of the penninsula where people still talk a weird 17th century version of English) and ended up in Cedar Island. This was quite a long way from where we should have been. There is nothing on Cedar Island. The map - a good map - showed about two-square inches of white. Not wanting to stay in a place that is dubbed "remote" by people who speak 17th century English we drove eight hours to Asheville, a happy-clappy hippy haven in the mountains of west North Carolina. I had the job of keeping my friend awake as we drove at 80mph along empty highways. We had an hour-long conversation about basketball. Neither of us know the first thing about basketball but at 2am it didn't seem to matter. We stopped at Dairy Queen - a fast-food ice cream chain - and purchased armfulls of diabetes-inducing snackfoods. You can buy 64 oz ice cream tubs. Think about that. I couldn't reach the bottom of one of those with my whole arm. Who eats like that? Oh right. They do.
October 20
Drove down into Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. Stopped at a diner in the middle of nowhere and ate grits.
Kitty Hawk is a long, beachy peninsula which at some points is so narrow that you can see sea at either side of the car. The highlight was certainly getting wasted in the hotel bar - The Peppercorn. The Peppercorn will always occupy a special place in my heart. It was full of elderly people practicing line dancing, pummeling the faded, brown-green carpet with slo-mo shuffles and geriatric two-steps. The bar tender was an ascerbic 40-something writer called Patrick who was visibly thrilled to be waiting on people younger than him. There was also a shifty dropout called John who recited Ginsberg poetry to us and talked for a long while about his life. John and Patrick went back and forth, battling for our souls and talking to us about any old bullshit. They both hated and loved America. It was funny because they're both stuck in Kitty Hawk. Forever.
My friends invented an as-yet-unnamed cocktail. It's one-fifth pepsi or lemonade, four-fifths good whiskey and three cherries. The three cherries are apparently very important.
Kitty Hawk is a long, beachy peninsula which at some points is so narrow that you can see sea at either side of the car. The highlight was certainly getting wasted in the hotel bar - The Peppercorn. The Peppercorn will always occupy a special place in my heart. It was full of elderly people practicing line dancing, pummeling the faded, brown-green carpet with slo-mo shuffles and geriatric two-steps. The bar tender was an ascerbic 40-something writer called Patrick who was visibly thrilled to be waiting on people younger than him. There was also a shifty dropout called John who recited Ginsberg poetry to us and talked for a long while about his life. John and Patrick went back and forth, battling for our souls and talking to us about any old bullshit. They both hated and loved America. It was funny because they're both stuck in Kitty Hawk. Forever.
My friends invented an as-yet-unnamed cocktail. It's one-fifth pepsi or lemonade, four-fifths good whiskey and three cherries. The three cherries are apparently very important.
October 19
Took a day trip to DC on my own. It's odd. America is in the middle of its most vital presidential election in a lifetime and DC - it's capital - is strangely serene. There are no campaign ads on TV and radio because DC is not a state and therefore carries no electoral college votes. That's not to say people don't care. I overheard half a dozen conversations about the election - most of it refreshingly in-depth and enlightened. Eager beaver politicos fill the city's Starbucks, discussing actual issues rather than the gossip and character-politics which fascinate most people the world over.
Everyone's talking about Colin Powell's endorsement of Barack Obama. Powell has had an axe to grind over his Republican Party for years so I suppose this was his chance to stick it to them good. Bush used to lock him out of meetings apparently. He's widly respected amongst right-wingers so his endorsement carries some real weight.
Someone emailed me asking about the number of McCain signs in Virginia in comparison to the number of Obama signs displayed in people's backyards. In the areas I've been to I'd give the nod to McCain. There seem to be slightly more of them on highways and outside big country houses. However, as someone pointed out to me the other day: all it takes is one decent-sized block of appartments in an urban area (80 per cent of whom will certainly vote Democrat) to cancel out 20 countryside ranches. So signs don't tell you much.
I found a shop in DC selling political memorabilia. It was the size of someone's living room and was piled high with crap. It was empty apart from me, the owner and another customer and as I fought the urge to buy a "Palin Power" t-shirt I listened to their conversation. It was a weird, arch-conservative style talk, at once condescending to "normal people" while simultaneously claiming to somehow speak for them. The customer was instantly recognisable to anyone from England as a "young conservative". Trousers pulled up to armpits, nasal voice accompanied by generous sprays of saliva, comedy nerd glasses. You get the point. He had armfulls of McCain-Palin stuff and he was putting an order in for "All the new Reagan stuff". This non-partisan stuff is getting hard.
I know this is an obvious point but the people walking around DC's more upbeat neighbourhoods like Georgetown are so utterly different from those in the flea market. It's two countries. Two American tribes, split roughly across voting lines. Heartlanders and metropols. They have nothing to say to each other. They can barely tolerate each other. How can a country like this agree on anything at all? In two weeks they will all be united under a new president that 50 per cent of them hate.
Also - great news! My scarified torso is really healing up! You would never know I had been eaten alive by (what I assume were) mutant spiders. I almost look... human. Almost.
Everyone's talking about Colin Powell's endorsement of Barack Obama. Powell has had an axe to grind over his Republican Party for years so I suppose this was his chance to stick it to them good. Bush used to lock him out of meetings apparently. He's widly respected amongst right-wingers so his endorsement carries some real weight.
Someone emailed me asking about the number of McCain signs in Virginia in comparison to the number of Obama signs displayed in people's backyards. In the areas I've been to I'd give the nod to McCain. There seem to be slightly more of them on highways and outside big country houses. However, as someone pointed out to me the other day: all it takes is one decent-sized block of appartments in an urban area (80 per cent of whom will certainly vote Democrat) to cancel out 20 countryside ranches. So signs don't tell you much.
I found a shop in DC selling political memorabilia. It was the size of someone's living room and was piled high with crap. It was empty apart from me, the owner and another customer and as I fought the urge to buy a "Palin Power" t-shirt I listened to their conversation. It was a weird, arch-conservative style talk, at once condescending to "normal people" while simultaneously claiming to somehow speak for them. The customer was instantly recognisable to anyone from England as a "young conservative". Trousers pulled up to armpits, nasal voice accompanied by generous sprays of saliva, comedy nerd glasses. You get the point. He had armfulls of McCain-Palin stuff and he was putting an order in for "All the new Reagan stuff". This non-partisan stuff is getting hard.
I know this is an obvious point but the people walking around DC's more upbeat neighbourhoods like Georgetown are so utterly different from those in the flea market. It's two countries. Two American tribes, split roughly across voting lines. Heartlanders and metropols. They have nothing to say to each other. They can barely tolerate each other. How can a country like this agree on anything at all? In two weeks they will all be united under a new president that 50 per cent of them hate.
Also - great news! My scarified torso is really healing up! You would never know I had been eaten alive by (what I assume were) mutant spiders. I almost look... human. Almost.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
October 19
Visited a vast flea market out in Shenandoah Valley. It was full of what a McCain aide recently called "real Viginians". Someone had a van with "OBAMA IS A MARXIST" painted on the side. He or she had also written "freedom changes or dies" in smaller letters. Obama being a Marxist I understand but the second bit I still find confusing.
How should I talk to these people? My generic middle-class accent frankly sounds gay here. If I adopt an American twang I am a race traitor. If I overdo the London thing and start talking like Bob Hoskins I will be treated like a novelty.
A man selling chilli dogs told me he loves our Queen Mary. He also said that when I go back to London I should say hi to his friend Laurence if I run into him. Laurence, if you're reading this, the chilli dog guy says hi.
I actually feel a bit of fear walking around in some places. Does that make me a massive pussy? I think a lot of these people would like nothing more than to beat the shit out of me. And this is only Virginia. How much more will they hate me in Tennessee?
How should I talk to these people? My generic middle-class accent frankly sounds gay here. If I adopt an American twang I am a race traitor. If I overdo the London thing and start talking like Bob Hoskins I will be treated like a novelty.
A man selling chilli dogs told me he loves our Queen Mary. He also said that when I go back to London I should say hi to his friend Laurence if I run into him. Laurence, if you're reading this, the chilli dog guy says hi.
I actually feel a bit of fear walking around in some places. Does that make me a massive pussy? I think a lot of these people would like nothing more than to beat the shit out of me. And this is only Virginia. How much more will they hate me in Tennessee?
October 18
Went to the wedding. I'll not talk about it at length. Just to say that it was dry (unbelievably dry) so my friends and I snuck in a big bottle of bourbon whiskey. There were some very nice people there. There were also a lot of people the kind of which I have never met before. Slow moving and permed. Teetotal, churchgoing, moustache-wearing, closeted homosexuals. Conservative. Interestingly people that did come and speak to me told me they were Democrats within five minutes of meeting.
My friends and I went to a hotel bar afterwards and I discovered the quickest way to make friends with an American male as a British male is to say you'd love to follow American football but cannot fathom the complicated rules. I've been invited to some games already.
The way to make friends with an American female as a British male is to say hi.
My friends and I went to a hotel bar afterwards and I discovered the quickest way to make friends with an American male as a British male is to say you'd love to follow American football but cannot fathom the complicated rules. I've been invited to some games already.
The way to make friends with an American female as a British male is to say hi.
October 17
I went by the Obama campaign headquarters in Winchester today. It's a very conservative area but the staff were upbeat. The district leader is a matriarchal, elderly black lady who kept telling me they were usually much busier. Go to the McCain headquarters, she said, they're even less busy.
There were a lot of young people in HOPE t-shirts. I was a bit disappointed at how dismissive they were of non-Obama supporters. They referred to them as the "dumb Americans" a few times. They probably thought that as a European I'd clap my hands and tell them how pig-stupid and ugly most Americans seemed to the espresso sippers of Paris, and how Obama supporters were so different, so worldly and urbane.
Well I basically did do that, but not because I wanted to! I was surrounded by them so I acted like a filthy lizard and said what I had to to fit in. But I take it all back! Ha! I love all Americans equally!
One misconception about Obama supporters is that they are somehow "cooler" than McCain supporters. In my view this is incorrect. Obama supporters are generally bright-eyed and slightly hyperactive. The keenest kids in class. McCain's base on the other hand is swaggery and colloquial. Cool, right?
It also occurs to me that Obama supporters campaign because they're all in love with Obama. McCain supporters campaign because they don't want Obama in the White House. John McCain could be a sock puppet for all they care.
There were a lot of young people in HOPE t-shirts. I was a bit disappointed at how dismissive they were of non-Obama supporters. They referred to them as the "dumb Americans" a few times. They probably thought that as a European I'd clap my hands and tell them how pig-stupid and ugly most Americans seemed to the espresso sippers of Paris, and how Obama supporters were so different, so worldly and urbane.
Well I basically did do that, but not because I wanted to! I was surrounded by them so I acted like a filthy lizard and said what I had to to fit in. But I take it all back! Ha! I love all Americans equally!
One misconception about Obama supporters is that they are somehow "cooler" than McCain supporters. In my view this is incorrect. Obama supporters are generally bright-eyed and slightly hyperactive. The keenest kids in class. McCain's base on the other hand is swaggery and colloquial. Cool, right?
It also occurs to me that Obama supporters campaign because they're all in love with Obama. McCain supporters campaign because they don't want Obama in the White House. John McCain could be a sock puppet for all they care.
October 16
We are in Winchester, a town about an hour's drive from Chantilly, for a wedding tomorrow.
Everyone has a porch here, even if it's a tiny one. Winchester isn't like Chantilly. It's still neat and tidy but it's also a bit rougher. There are a lot of guys with shaved heads, beards and ugly tattoos. Are these rednecks? It feels rude to call them that, but what else can you call a man with a mullet in a vest?
I feel quite conspicuous. I didn't buy the New York Times in case it singled me out as an abortion-loving communist so I got the Washington Post instead.
People in this part of America are so nice to each other. So polite. Middle aged-women who have known each other for decades have conversations like:
"Oh wow, this is such great coffee!"
"You are not wrong! I got a little cinnamon in mine!"
"And how's that for ya?"
"Just delicious!"
That was an actual conversation I heard too.
Everyone has a porch here, even if it's a tiny one. Winchester isn't like Chantilly. It's still neat and tidy but it's also a bit rougher. There are a lot of guys with shaved heads, beards and ugly tattoos. Are these rednecks? It feels rude to call them that, but what else can you call a man with a mullet in a vest?
I feel quite conspicuous. I didn't buy the New York Times in case it singled me out as an abortion-loving communist so I got the Washington Post instead.
People in this part of America are so nice to each other. So polite. Middle aged-women who have known each other for decades have conversations like:
"Oh wow, this is such great coffee!"
"You are not wrong! I got a little cinnamon in mine!"
"And how's that for ya?"
"Just delicious!"
That was an actual conversation I heard too.
October 15
I don't know if you know this but a week before coming to America I briefly slept in a field near Wolverton. Something crept into my clothes and went to town on my chest and back. As a result I look quite disgusting with my shirt off. Hopefully it will clear up soon. I'll be keeping you up to date with this.
Currently staying in my friend's house in Chantilly, Virginia. This is in Fairfax county - the second wealthiest county in America. All the lawns are immaculate. Every fence looks freshly painted. This is nothing like The Wire at all.
We (myself, the native Virginian, a Brit and a Dane) stumbled across a high school football game in the evening. It was the "powderpuff" game which means it's girl playing the sport while boys lead the cheering. All the stereotypes about American highschools made famous by John Hughes movies are true! I saw all the cliques. The jocks, the nerds, the popular girls, the alternative longhairs, the African-American hip hop guys and the dropouts. The dropouts came and talked to me and we briefly bonded over AC/DC. One of them had been expelled for breaking INTO the school.
Currently staying in my friend's house in Chantilly, Virginia. This is in Fairfax county - the second wealthiest county in America. All the lawns are immaculate. Every fence looks freshly painted. This is nothing like The Wire at all.
We (myself, the native Virginian, a Brit and a Dane) stumbled across a high school football game in the evening. It was the "powderpuff" game which means it's girl playing the sport while boys lead the cheering. All the stereotypes about American highschools made famous by John Hughes movies are true! I saw all the cliques. The jocks, the nerds, the popular girls, the alternative longhairs, the African-American hip hop guys and the dropouts. The dropouts came and talked to me and we briefly bonded over AC/DC. One of them had been expelled for breaking INTO the school.
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