Obviously, the site is on a little break for the holiday festival season. Anything new that comes up here before the year ends is a bonus post and should not be considered part of Banditos! canon. Don't worry, today is Christmas, the frantic purchasing season is over, and all y'all can just relax now. Merry everything, and be excellent to each other.
When visiting England, be sure to pack a book, not for the flight, but for the restaurants. All those jokes about comically absent waiters come to vividly aloof life in London. Maybe it's because they aren't begging for tips, or because most restaurants don't need to free up tables. Either way, once your food arrives, they don't care if you ever leave. They'll never, ever bring you the check unless you specifically ask, and then you can wait easily 20 minutes before it arrives. You should pay right then, because otherwise it'll be another 20 minutes before they pick it up again. And this pales in comparison to pub etiquette, where you shouldn't expect anyone to bring food in the first place, and you can only purchase a drink by looking forlorn and thirsty. But you get used to it. Now that I'm back in the States, when a waiter refills my glass, I think, "Why the free water? Did I go to school with you?"
I carried around books as little health boosts in the restaurant waiting game, as well as the vessels into which I poured a tall helping of London juice each night. That metaphor got away from me. As far as I can tell, London juice would just be Red Bull, like everywhere. Maybe vodka? My usual euphemism for vodka is Midnight Sprite. Go and use that. The point was, whichever book I was reading, I had the day's events in mind, which seemed to make them differently shaped containers holding a single essence rather than individual sources of new thoughts. That picture is not one of them, by the way. But look at that thing. What the hell?
One London book was Saul Bellow's Henderson the Rain King. A friend of mine has read this at least five times in different stages of life. That's some recommendation. I've never read anything five times. I've read a handful of books three times. On the other hand, I'd read those books again in a heartbeat if I didn't already feel the constant pressure to catch up on all the books I haven't read yet. Anyway, the story involves a fat, rich, selfish American who goes to Africa because his heart keeps crying, I want! His heart won't get more specific that that. Does he find what he's looking for? Not to get all LeVar Burton on you, but read the book yourself, lazy pie. I'm busy fixing the engines.
I enjoyed Henderson, although the ending was somehow unsatisfying, and I think it's an interesting choice for a favorite book. It doesn't try too hard to be important literature. Bellow slips all his little observations about life and death into throwaway sentences spoken by unreliable or comic characters, and the narrator is so much of an idiot that at first he's downright unlikeable. Later, though, I started to feel the sequence of pity, amusement, and empathy that I feel with Dostoevsky characters, especially the overwrought, intellectually paralyzed ones. Ivan Karamazov, the Underground Man, Kirilov, and so on. Nabokov wrote a lot of these guys, too, the thinky douchebag. That's the literary term. (Post-structuralism.)
One favorite bit: Henderson and his guide, Romilayu, have been captured by a possibly hostile tribe and left in a guest hut for the night. They don't have any idea what will happen to them in the morning. Henderson discovers a dead body in the hut. Is it some kind of warning, or a frame-up? He decides to drag out the corpse and leave it in a ditch somewhere. Romilayu thinks they should just go to sleep and not make trouble, but Henderson's offended by the morgue-like accommodations.
"You damned fool," I said to Romilayu, who stood off half-concealed. "Pick up this guy's feet, and help me carry. If we see anybody you can just drop them and beat it. I'll run for it alone."
He obeyed me, and, as if dressed in a second man and groaning, my head filled with flashes and thick noises, I went into the lane. And a voice within me rose and said, "Do you love death so much? Then here, have some."
"I do not love it," I said. "Who told you that? That's a mistake."
In a movie version, the voice within Henderson would get at least second billing and someone would have to get Morgan Freeman to go buck wild in the voiceover booth. Thanks to his ever-present, irrational heart, Henderson's narration has a mood of barely controlled delirium, giving a sense of constant motion to a book where, honestly, not that much happens. You can't get away from his thoughts any more than he can. I think that's part of the point, that no matter how far you think you've traveled, you're still you, inflicting your horrible self on the locals. I'm sure I irritated everyone I came across in ways I never even noticed. In England, is it rude to sit around reading in a restaurant? My brain and stomach were satisfied, but after a couple hours, the heart cries out, "Here sits a man in search of a soul. I want! I want the check, and maybe a mint. Really, the mouth wants that, but I'm cool with it, too."
I really went to England. I swear it's true. Some slight exaggerations appear in the column(s) of Banditos! Banditos! Banditos! -- I am not currently a member of the Armed Forces, dying of a rare disease, being investigated for murder -- but always in service of a greater truth. The truth of the soul. If I believed it when I wrote it, it can't be a lie, and anyway, I didn't write it, the banditos did, and they don't exist, so they can't lie. That's the central conceit of the show!
But not anymore. The banditos came home with a case of the New Sincerity, a little late, realizing that you can't lie, steal and lookout your way out of reality. Reality is ubiquitous, and you can't get the smell of it out of your clothes. The other day I was reading the best work of fiction ever written. There I was, breathing and walking with someone else's mind.
Someone asked me, "Hey, what are you doing?"
"I'm reading a book . . . aw, shit!"
See? Now, that story's not true, but it's illustrative. You can tell I took the above picture from my distinctive thumb. But what about this one?
Those are the Cliffs of Moher, in Ireland, where I also sincerely went. Looks like a desktop, and currently it is my desktop, but I took it. I drove to them on an indescribably narrow, switchbacked cliffside road, as insane locals and buses swerved towards me at 120 kph, through an unreal landscape called the Burren, which looks like the remains of a Claymation apocalypse. Picture below, also mine. But millions of people have also been there and taken pictures, so unless I have some very identifiable flaws in my photography skills, anyone could have taken that shot. And I bet everyone who drives there tells a similar story.
But, however. It was scary! I'm sure it was all perfectly safe, but it felt perilous enough to bring out the almost-death feeling. Standing on the edge of the cliff, or inches from a speeding, possibly American driver, I never once thought, this may as well be someone else. The sun was setting by the time I arrived at the Cliffs of Moher, there weren't many tourists left, and a gray, wet wind soaked and weighted my clothes. Underdressed, shivering, I wiped off the viewfinder and tried to get it all in. And of course you can't. But I believe the failure springs from my amateurish technique, or maybe the camera was low on megapixels. It's not an inherent flaw in the cliffs themselves. Don't feel bad, cliffs!
The cliffs did their job well. I almost died! (Not really.) What can the world do but try to kill you and fail for a while? Works for me. I'm not saying to live each day as if it were your last. That's idiotic. You'd never shower. But if you have a moment, and you're feeling unhappy, ungrateful, or unloved, why not give almost dying a try? Remember, just pretend, don't almost die for real. I said almost. It's just a way to confirm that it's really you there, even if you're not in the picture. By the way, that pointing guy is Sir James Thornhill, who painted himself there, not me. But do you see that palette there behind him? What if he'd tried to clock me with it! I almost died.
Next: a transitional England post, and then on to other subjects. The new New Sincerity. I'll tell you right now, it involves making stuff up.
If I had to sum up my London trip in one dead person, it would be Horatio Nelson. (Lazier writers require hundreds of dead folks to sum up London, as in 28 Days Later.) I didn't plan for Nelson to become so ubiquitous, but in retrospect, it makes sense. I've just finished Patrick O'Brian's 21-book Aubrey/Maturin series, and much of Jack Aubrey's character is drawn from Nelson, even though Nelson himself also exists within the series' historical timeline. Nelson changed the face of history; you couldn't leave him out. The fictional Aubrey fought under Nelson at the Battle of the Nile, before the series opens, but Nelson the character only briefly appears in one book, as I recall. That's good, because in the first few books, all Jack's daring sea maneuvers and ruses de guerre were actually Nelson. No one wants to talk to fictional characters based on themselves. So awkward. And it can only occur in fiction, so if it happens to you, you know that you're fictional, too.
In London, I saw Nelson's Column in Trafalgar Square, the extensive and fascinating Nelson's Navy exhibit at the National Maritime Museum, including the clothes he died in, the room where his body lay in state, a collection of Nelson portraits and nautically themed paintings, including Turner's Battle of Trafalgar, seen here, Nelson's memorial statue in St. Paul's Cathedral, and descended into the crypt of St. Paul's to see his tomb. He's there with Christopher Wren, the Duke of Wellington, John Donne, Florence Nightingale, and other historic memorialized bones. Maybe it was all the earlier Nelson research, or the overwhelming beauty of St. Paul's, but touching his tomb really stirred something in me. I don't have much to stir, but it definitely rotated and I think some slopped over.
There's no shortage of poignant moments in Nelson's life. I also saw one of the letters he wrote just before the Battle of Trafalgar, to his illegitimate daughter Horatia, telling her to give her mother, Lady Emma Hamilton, a kiss for him. After his death, the British government went against his wishes and refused to support Lady Hamilton, who wound up in debtor's prison with her daughter, fled the country, and died an alcoholic. But Horatia turned out all right. She married and had a bunch of children, most of whom were named after Nelson in varying degrees. That's what you start when you name your daughter Horatia. I'm willing to give Lord Nelson a pass on that one. Horatio Sanz, no. Not until he wins at least three more decisive naval battles.
In England, they just call it "breakfast," or "brekkie." Sometimes "morning dinner," or "prunch." (Pre-lunch.) I used to think English Breakfast was just that one kind of tea, but in London, if all you have for breakfast is tea, they think you're a model. And then the tabloids print hurtful words. So I loaded up on jolly old solid foods every morning, such as:
Coffee. There's some bad coffee oozing around London. That's our fault. It's Starbucks. Just as expensive, just as mediocre. They also have Costa, which serves even more expensive coffee. Turns out that's possible. Huh. 
BACON. Sweet screeching windshield Jesus, the bacon. I had heard stories, legends really, but I never dreamt -- I need to tell you something about bacon. What if all the bacon you had ever eaten, what if it were just greasy shadows, cast upon the walls of a cave? And what if, one day, you waddled out of that cave, and the first thing you saw was a thick, crispy rasher of succulent back bacon? Would you look away? Would you dare to nibble, and if you nibbled, would it blind your tongue? Let me tell you a little story. It's about bacon. I was driving around Ireland and went into a gas station convenience store for a light breakfast. The very smallest, cheapest thing was called something like a "breakfast roll" and had four kinds of meat. There was sausage, blood pudding, something from maybe a sheep, and my beloved bacon -- strips of sizzling, mouth-watering angel meat. I sat in the parking lot eating it and a golden retriever came over begging for scraps. I gave him some sausage. Soon another dog came by and I fed him, too. With their eyes, they promised me many gifts: riches, wisdom, the location of this ball they found and hid, if I would only give them a bit of bacon. Well, I gave them sausage, blood pudding, and sheep's ass or whatever, but the bacon was for me alone. They were cute dogs, but not cute enough. If Anna Paquin had come by and started making eyes, even she would not have received bacon. Of course, she's a vegetarian, so if that was the one time she just wanted to try bacon, I wouldn't be selfish about it, so maybe. It's a somewhat implausible scenario.
Although I occasionally took the Underground around London, most of my time was spent walking. One day I walked forty minutes (I timed it) to a fish and chips restaurant I'd heard about, then forty minutes back, and then got distracted and wandered around the neighborhood for a while, trying to clear my head. The restaurant had had some lager available. Despite London's easily available lager and the very unhealthy British cuisine (it's still true, with some exceptions), I lost a bit of weight during the trip. Walking: The Anti-Bacon.
Although I don't really know London, I just kept in mind whether I was north or south of the Thames, and then headed that way until I hit water. You're never very far from a bridge. Soon crossing the bridges became my main goal, and I would cross one, head east or west, cross back over a different bridge, and continue on to the next bridge, as if I were a needle and thread making stitches across the Thames. Each bridge was a different, self-contained little journey. It felt almost shamefully indulgent to cross a river with no aim in mind, like living in an elevator or what Thomas Pynchon called "yo-yoing" in V.
Among many others, my crossings included:
seen here. A secret bridge, which cleverly slips under the ferries and trash barges of the Thames. Very creepy, very cool. You hear the river rumbling around you, as well as the footsteps of other unseen walkers. Stay on the left or the bikers will slice right through you.
One terminus of the Greenwich Tunnel lies in the East End, so I walked around there for a while. It's a swell neighborhood, but in my childhood, EastEnders was that deadly boring soap opera on PBS dragging on endlessly when all you wanted was some Red Dwarf and Doctor Who. Pre-Internet, pre-DVR, you just had to wait and try not to absorb too much awfulness. I'm still traumatized by that credits image, so maybe my winding path across the Thames was an attempt to suture the wound. Ironically, my wanderings led me to the East End, where Ronnie and Roxie Mitchell are planning crazy, sexy misadventures, Phil's always drunk, and Deano, well, let's not talk about Deano. Ask Craig. Oh, you can't, he's in jail.
Wait, what? I just put up that EastEnders image and everything went black. Damn it! I need 30 mins of Red Dwarf, stat!
I'm back from the U.K. and this site is alive again. I had a swell time and can report that England's doing just fine. If anything, I left it in a better condition than I found it. That's because I follow the backpacker's motto: "Take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but a trail of broken hearts and shattered dreams." Well, I've always been one to adhere to mottos. It's with great regret that I say Cheers! to the lovely people of England and (with no less regret) a sincere apology to the extra lovely people who are just now learning I wasn't really Damon Albarn.
It's fortunate that Banditos! doesn't discuss current events, because all this time I've been unaware of the American news stories. It's been wonderful. All I know is that some Republican congressman had gay sex with some gay prostitutes in a public restroom. This was a new one, right? Gay Republicans sh0uld be like shooting stars -- if you sit out all night, you'll see lots of them, but never the same one twice.
The British news didn't even report on that much. They devoted several days to the re-opening of Morecambe Bay for cockle picking after tense negotiations with the cockle pickers' union. It's a serious subject, but I can't picture American news constantly updating viewers on cockles, cocklers, and the ins and outs of cockling, at least not without getting a bit giggly. By the way, negotiations succeeded, and the cocklers are back to cockling cockles safely. As a newscaster, my transition here would be, "And now to another story guaranteed to warm your heart, or part of it anyway, some region deep down in your heart, if there were a word for that. Here's Tina with the story of The Kitten Who Shot Down a Plane."
But first, a London story:
Bankside House, the place I stayed, isn't really a hotel but a dormitory left vacant for the summer. It's a decent place and a very convenient South Bank location. I shared a bathroom with another person, but I never saw them because I wasn't there much and kept different hours. I slept in and stayed out late, and sometimes I would wake to hear them banging around next door, but that's all. One odd thing is that I could sometimes hear a loud but indistinct noise, like static, coming through the wall. We didn't have televisions, so I had no idea what it was.
One morning I was up early and using the bathroom when someone tried the door, then knocked on it. "Just a minute!" I yelled. But they kept banging on it, shaking the door, no matter how much I shouted. It pissed me off, and I furiously flung open the door to find a shriveled old man, clutching a toothbrush, wearing only briefs and a giant pair of old-timey headphones, blasting classical music. I'd been hearing his headphones through the wall all that time. I scared him half to death, because he thought the bathroom door was just stuck. He stammered in fear, then stammered an apology, then backed away into his room and closed the door.
I hope I've adequately conveyed how weird, decrepit and naked this old guy was. You may want to picture Gollum, or Mr. Burns. I don't know if he was British, but he had the stereotypical British old man teeth. If he hadn't been holding a toothbrush I wouldn't have believed he owned one. He looked like each morning he gargled with jam. As he closed his door, a vulture hopped into the hall and was like, "Darn! Almost had it."
All this week, more London stories! See memories become text!
Why the British spelling? Because I am off to the U.K. I'll be in London and Dublin, but I'm especially excited about Greenwich, home of the Prime Meridian. It's the first time I'll ever really know my exact longitude. I'll also see the National Maritime Museum, home of John Harrison's chronometers and one of Martin Behaim's globes, featuring a wildly inaccurate depiction of the West African coast. If you're going to be inaccurate, be wildly inaccurate, that's Martin Behaim's motto! Sadly, the tea clipper Cutty Sark was damaged in a fire just a few months ago, so at best I'll see it being repaired from a distance. But I don't let fire get me down. I mean, most of London burnt to the ground in 1666, which is why I'm heading over there, to help rebuild.
Hopefully I'll have some interesting stories to tell when I get back in early September, but until then, no new posts, because I won't have Internet access. So for the next couple weeks, thanks for your patience, and feel free to trawl the (admittedly very skimpy) archives. Here are some posts folks have liked:
Girls, Violent Games, and Feminism
Phone in Friday: Adventure Game Hints
The Vulpine Life: Foxin' and Reloxin' (Very recent but it got a good response)
Sorry about the erratic posting schedule lately. As I said before, I will never apologize for not posting. I will, however, apologize for lying about that. I've been in Texas for the past week, which was a lot of fun. Although most of Texas has wireless access, the Omni in San Antonio charges you $10/day for it, even though they are the fanciest hotel in town. Maybe that's how they pay for all the fanciness, with confiscatory fees for basic services. The funny thing is, in a mid-range, business class hotel you'll always get free wireless.
Also, what's up with delivering USA Today automatically, for 75 cents a day, unless you explicitly refuse it? I've seen that at a couple of hotels. I know you get a free Bible that you'll also never read, but why USA Today? Is it the new Bible? The Holy Trinity of unsolicited texts: the Gideon's Bible, USA Today, and the Yellow Pages. And let's not forget the pantheon of lesser saints that show up in your mailbox every day. Somewhere in this great country there is a very devout person who saves every piece of junk mail, and whenever someone on the street hands him a flyer he carries it home and mounts it on his wall like an ikon. I really want to see what kind of blaze his house makes if he ever falls asleep smoking.
Let's tie this note to D.C. a little bit. As everyone knows, you can't build anything in D.C. taller than the Washington Monument, which is 555 feet tall. However, this restriction doesn't apply outside of the District, so the USA Today's original offices in Rosslyn are something like 30 stories tall. (They're the shiny ones on the right side of the photo.) For more D.C. real estate arcana, I highly recommend Inside the DC Bubble, for example, this story. And for more info on erotic postage, find some other blog, because I typed that title accidentally. I meant to type, "erratic posting." This is not the place to talk about how the Hattie McDaniel 39-cent awakened a insatiable sensual beast within your loins. I mean, she's hot, but she's not 41 cents hot, dude.
