Sunday, January 16 ---
--- I finally get to sleep in a little, a duly earned respite after my hard night of bustin' moves. After we get up, we head over to Madame Tussaud's original wax museum and it is ten times better than the rock museum. There are hundreds of wax figures from every walk of life -- there are sporting stars (granted, not many of them were AMERICAN sporting stars, but what do you want? Thus, there were a lot of cricketers, rugby fellas, even a rotund sumo wrassler. (that's how they say it over here now, just like Andy Kaufman used to when he was doing his intergender thing. Man was truly ahead of his time...), there's political and religious leaders (Clinton, Dalai Lama, Desmond Tutu, the Pope, Tony Blair, and more all make appearances. They have a legends section (including Benjamin Franklin, Albert Einstein, MLK, JFK, Mandela, etc., but my figure was, according to a guide, in the shop for some repairs. A family from Bombay was so upset, having made the trip just to see that figure, they got their money back and left the place in tears. I felt horrible...), a royalty section (if I have to explain this to you, email me and I'll get on a plane to come smack you), and a movie stars section (including Mel Gibson, an unbelievable Nicholas Cage, and a pretty horrible Brad Pitt.) There are so many figures in this joint, that if you're not in this museum, you just aren't worth knowing about.
One of the highlights (other than snapping pics of Hitchcock and posing for a quickie with Frank) was the Chamber of Horrors, a nifty little display that housed the darker side of history -- serial killers, methods of torture, etc. It was pretty gruesome, yet still pretty cool. Three highly interesting points -- the last time hangings were used as a method of execution in Britain was amazingly in 1964, the last time someone was garrotted by the government (and no, we're not talking about standard IRS practices -- just your average run-of-the-mill strangulation) in Spain was stupefyingly in 1974, and the last time the guillotine dropped on someone as a means of capital punishment in France was, you'll never believe this, in 1977! 1977! What the hell were these people thinking? ("Hello, France? It's the 21st century. We're wondering if maybe you'd like to reconsider your decision and join us now?)
After this, we head home, but are misdirected, due to group famine and lack of desire to cook, to Tennessee -- Fried Chicken, that is... We gobble down fingers of finely fried fowl and then head home again. After an overwhelming breakdown of homesickness, the worst one yet, I fall asleep a little blue...
Wednesday, Jan. 19 ---
--- Woke up this morning and, feeling a tad bit adventurous, decided to go the route of the rugged outdoorsman and not shower (actually it was because I showered late last night after my run, but hey -- stinking is stinking...) Had some breakfast (chock full of the hearty grained goodness of ACTION MAN CEREAL!!! Chunks of honey-sweetened oatmeal have never tasted so good...) and met up with people a little early (around 9) to leave for our weekly class fieldtrip.
I stopped and bought a monthly Tube pass so I can travel wherever I choose, free of charge (actually it cost 70 pounds, or 125 bucks, but the bonus is that the people at work will pay for it! So now I can be blatantly frivolous and see all of London, all on my employer's bill! Score!) This takes a little bit longer than expected, and after about 10 minutes worth of dirty looks from frazzled riders (I kinda did this right in the heart of rush hour, too, so tying up one of two open windows didn't get me any bonus points, either) and one glancing blow to my package (Betsy? My love? ...) we traveled the Tube to our stop at Westminster.
Today's fieldtrip? The Houses of Parliament! ("Look, kids, Big Ben!" "We know, Dad...") Holy jamoly, what a beautiful sight this is. We meet up with our guided tour person after entering through the secret entrance (I feel so special) and passing through several security checkpoints and metal detectors. (Quick note: I set off the metal detector and, after basically stripping to my skivvies (which, based on my poor packing, was almost how I was going to end up in this country anyway, remember?) they waved the magic wand over me and found that the infracting fragment was coming from my head. The guard said it was probably from my filling, but I knew differently. Dad, you were right -- I do have lead for brains. Explains a lot, eh?)
Our tour guide spoke no louder than a titmouse (I know. There was a French one sitting in the corner talking about baguettes and smoking a cigarette and the two cancelled each other out), so I decided to make up all the information and then pass my version on to a group of unsuspecting Asian tourists (that's how good my accent has become -- I'm spot on!) So, in case you were wondering, Parliament was built in 1964 by Phineas Gage (who really did have lead in his brains (or at least had it pass through them)). He sold the house, financed by the country of Yemen, to George Clinton and his family (went by another name, I'm not sure what), who lived there with his dear friends, Funkadelic, and sang special Christmas carols to all tourists and homeless people who came passing through.
Actually, the stuff our guide said was really interesting. Like, for instance, the building is split into three distinct sections -- the Queen's end, the House of Lords, and the House of Commons. Each has its own distinct colors, too -- gold for the Queen, red for the Lords, and green for the Commons.
We learned how strange the British political system can really be, at times. Take the annual Queen's speech, for example. The members of the House of Commons writes the speech for her, she comes into the House of Lords (never setting foot in the H.O.C.) and then summons the members of the H.O.C. She then has the chamber doors shut in their face, then summons them back, but doesn't let them completely in the room -- they have to stand crammed in the tiny foyer of the room (Why? Because they're only the petty elected class of officers, not the regal appointees or inheritors like those found in the H.O.L). How funny is that? They write the speech for her, but don't even get to come completely into the room to hear it! Strange, strange stuff...
An interesting point is the Churchill Arch, for two reasons. One, there's a giant statue of Church there whose foot is completely rubbed down (kinda like Lincoln's nose in Springfield). The reason? Every person who passes under the arch is supposed to rub the foot (and most do) to assure themselves a pleasant and productive afternoon (I rubbed.) Two, the arch is made completely of rubble from that room, which was bombed during the Blitz of WWII. The room was in ruins, so Churchill commanded that the arch over the doorway to the H.O.C. be reconstructed using the rubble to serve as a reminder. Kinda cool, huh?
One final distincion -- the House of Lords is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, replete with ornate woodwork, unbelievably detailed stained glass windows, and a huge golden throne. This chamber, remember, is for the aristocracy -- the regal appointees or inheritors of power with long, rich legacies. The House of Commons? It's a drab wooden room, no windows, no gold, no ornate woodwork. Nothing. Why? Just another jab at this part of Parliament, it seems. Remember -- these are only the lowly elected people who represent the people, not the ascribed representers of the past found in the H.O.L. It's only fit that they, being the bottom-dwellers that they are, should get a room of comparable elegance and import. Funny, funny stuff, man.
After the tour (and an utterly boring conversation with an actual MP (member of Parliament) where he was entirely in politician-mode and wouldn't answer any questions without requisite spin (I was like, "Dude. Your frigging peers and constituents aren't here. I'm not going to vote for you, so just answer my frigging question already.") we head back to the flat.
Once there I discover that my sink has stopped draining. To make matters worse, it stinks to high Hell. So, I post the complaint downstairs, eat some lunch, and go to Piccadilly to pick up some discounted theater tickets. (Quick aside of the day: people in Pepsi Trocadero actually have to PAY to go to the bathroom. And it's not some inconsiquential sum, either. It's 20p here, or roughly 35 cents just to get into the frigging loo! What if you had the craps and it was coming, whether you liked it or not, but you couldn't find the freaking change to get in? I'd just let all over the floor. Come to think of it, I wish Jeff was here with one of his characteristic bouts of loose bowel movements. He'd really show them what the price of admission is...)
After this is finished, we head back to the flat and I encounter the sink repairman working on my drain. As bad as I thought the smell was before, it is ten times worse now. Maybe that's because the water's all over my floor, quickly soaking into the carpet (that's going to smell nice, later) and the sink is full with a revolting black substance that appears to be water. This stuff it absolutely toxic looking -- I can almost see the nasty things floating in it that made it the beauty it is today. Unable to stand the smell, I go kill some time with the girls upstairs.
Growing a little tired, I head back to the room to find the repairman departed but the stench still remaining. Burying my face in the pillow, I take a quick nap and then, upon rising mildly refreshed, do some easy reading. I fix myself some dinner (a lovely Sheperd's pie dinner that was 95% fat free!) and, checking the clock, realize it's time to go to the theater for a production of "Buddy", a play on the life and times of Buddy Holly.
What a great show! It's been in England for 11 years now and it shows why. All sorts of singing including all of Holly's classics -- "Peggy Sue," "That'll Be the Day," "Maybe Baby," etc. It was great. The guy playing Buddy didn't really look like him, but he sure did sound like him. (After the show it was revealed that he was British and had a pretty thick accent, but throughout the show you would have sworn he was from Lubbock, Texas, just like Buddy. He nailed the accent. It was so good that if you closed your eyes, you would swear you were hearing records of Buddy.
And the dude who played the Big Bopper was even more unbelievable -- he was the spitting image of him, a big jolly man, and then he opened his mouth and the cycle was complete. This guy was his clone. He had the deep voice, the gravelly tone, the bellowing laugh. It was amazing.
Two quick high points of things that I didn't know (yes, even Mr. Music himself has some gaps in his knowledge) -- Buddy met a girl and proposed to her five hours later, and she said yes (ah, the good old days...), one of the Crickets' first big gigs was at the Apollo, the famous all-Black music theater, and they ended up killing, eventually winning over the crowd and getting the house band to come out and jam with them! Cool!
One last thing -- despite what incessantly happens in today's music scene with lead singers, aka ego-maniacal primadonnas, leaving their groups to cash in for a successful solo career, Holly was pretty much kicked out of his band; he didn't leave on his own volition. The two other members wanted to stay with their low profile manager and producer, while Holly wanted to take the show to New York to change the sound a little and to broaden their horizons. When he found out that they didn't want to go, he was forced to leave his long time friends in the band, his money, even the name of the band that he helped form to head for New York! Quite a change from today's current scene, eh?
The perfect cap to a wonderful day, I return to the flat, still stinking from the sink expedition the knucklehead went on, and go to sleep.