It's Raining Today

As the rain falls lazily from the grey sky, he sits inside feeling the chokehold's absence. Breathing space has afforded a momentary awakening. A loosened grip on the throat of his mind's voice, usually held firm by the hum-drum, cash in hand, out of pocket, day in, day out existence, has lifted the dizzying fog, and gasping for air he reaches for the nearest bowl and thrusts his face into it.

A purge of thought, emotion and control leaves him shaking, a steadying hand reaching for a towel. Hot and damp, it burns his skin, searing the expression of disgust, and cauterizing the gaping wound in his intellect.

He collapses back, breathing deep, feeling the cool air percolate through his nostrils. A reflection catches his eye, an unrecognised figure, haggard, distant and stern. It's lips purse, and then open to speak.

"Get a haircut."

Sawdust & Diamonds

If I have ever been more distant from the real world than I was this afternoon, it is a time I cannot remember. Lying warm in the sun with a cool ginger ale, and Joanna Newsom's Ys pulling me by the ears into a mythical world of meteorites and diamonds, I slipped completely into another state. No care in the world but as to when I should cool off in the pool. Phone call this morning soothed a worried pain.

Newsom's so-called "child-like" voice, actually thrillingly controlled and trained, breathing over harp and string, is one of the most enchanting sounds I have ever heard. And her lyrics are startlingly different to most modern songwriting in any form;

The meteorite is the source of the light,
And the meteor's just what we see.
And the meteoroid is a stone that's devoid
Of the fire that propelled it to thee.

And the meteorite's just what causes the light,
And the meteor's how it's perceived.
And the meteoroid's a bone thrown from the void
That lies quiet in offering to thee.

Five minutes shy of the end of the album my batteries cut out. Like being pulled out of the lake by a hook on a string. Kicked by a badger in the eye. Poked in the eye by a low-flying fountain pen. Annoyance.

I Wish I Could Have Loved You More

Yesterday was spent at SeaWorld Orlando, a delightful place full of all things aquatic. It is much harder to try and put into words the spectacle of watching someone ride on the nose of a killer whale than to watch it, either in person or on video. As such it was very tempting to upload some of the video I took yesterday onto YouTube and then put that on here. But I'm not doing that, because if there's one thing I've learnt from the bizarre success of Carol Smillie, its don't mess with the formula. Also, I'm on holiday and can't be arsed.

Anyway, SeaWorld, the first theme park I've been to on this visit, was a refreshing change from the Disney parks I'm used to in Florida. That's not to say it is better, but it was certainly less hectic. Much of the time was spent sitting down in the shade watching various shows: dolphins, false killer whales, birds, sealions and real killer whales all took part in entertaining and often spectacular shows. There were also quite a lot of zoo-like areas, with large environments for animals from penguins, polar bears and beluga whales of the arctic to alligators and manatees native to Florida, and everything aquatic in between.

Out of a party of six, only two of us (self included) felt inclined to try the "water-coaster", which was a laugh; it was a strange mix of log flume, roller-coaster and simple boat trip, and was most memorable for a terrifying 60 foot drop at a 60 degree angle - scary, trust me. None of us really fancied the seven-inversion supercoaster tacked onto the side of the park.

I left the park with a feeling of satisfaction and without the exhaustion that usually comes with a day in a theme park, especially when the temperature is above that of blood. But on the trip home, the lingering feeling I had was one of doubt. Was it really fair to imprison all these animals and make them perform tricks for us?

I have no doubt that the company owning the park, Anhauser-Busch (a beer company who also own Budweiser) invest a lot of money in care and conservation. Indeed, the park itself is littered with signs promoting conservation and highlighting their own role in this field. But ultimately I suspect its all just lip service, designed to silence voices that cried out in desperation when SeaWorld was found to stock dolphins bought from controversial sources in Japan. Voices that repeatedly point out the vastly shortened lifespan of the imprisoned Orca. Voices that I'm inclined to agree with.

I enjoyed my day at SeaWorld, very much so, but I doubt I will go again. The bitter taste I now feel has taken the edge off an otherwise enjoyable experience, and I don't much feel like supporting an at best environmentally-neutral organisation. Especially not at seventy dollars a pop.

Heavy Weather

Nothing from me for nearly a week, then you go and get two posts in one day, you lucky devils. For the record, the last one was actually written three days before it was published; it took that long to get internet access here. And I'm running five hours behind UK time, in case you thought this was a bit late to be surfing the net.

I'd forgotten how brilliant sunshine can be. I mean that quite literally, I really had quite forgotten how sensationally bright it can get when the sun is above you and the skies are clear. Hand in hand with this brilliant, searing sunshine is a daily "bubbling up" of huge, vertical clouds that grow all day and peak in size at about 4pm. Despite this, we're six days in and only today have we been rewarded with a punchline of rain; a huge and thunderous storm blew up about two hours ago.

Flashes of lightning twice a minute for nearly an hour, and thunder echoing from miles away or overhead, it is one of the more spectacular storms I can remember, and is the answer to the prayers of the parched grass outside. There is some strange irony in coming to Florida on holiday to escape a flood-ravaged UK, only to find yourself in the middle of an oh-so-English hosepipe ban, but I can't quite tie it down.

Rain is a pleasant change from the otherwise "horrible" omnipresence of 35-in-the-shade heat. Have so far avoided the dreaded beetroot effect, but have suffered some minor burning and a bit of peeling, you'll be interested to hear. Its the details you love. Anyway, the tan is coming along nicely.

I look into the future and see... a trip to an aquatic theme park, a wild goose chase for a cheap iPod, and a future post labelled "rant" concerning American commercials.

Heavy, man.

The Passenger

A transatlantic flight is quite a peculiar thing, and a world apart from the internal European flights to which most Brits are accustomed. Those affairs, often for the price of a couple of DVDs, are hectic, Saturday-morning-on-the-high-street, screaming children, worried parents, cough-on-the-cheap-peanuts-and-you'll-miss-it trips into the darkness of the human psyche, and are characterised by manic attempts to draw the crew's attention to your lack of leg room, lack of coffee or lack of oxygen.

Conversely, the passengers on a transatlantic flight almost exclusively will sit in a zombie-like trance for the 9-hour duration, moving only to place food in mouth, or to shake off more serious bouts of pins and needles. Plugged in and switched on, its a case of headphones on, eyes front, and a dizzying concentration fixed on the selection of films showing. Instead of fending off passengers left, right and centre, the air crew's most tasking job is to try and get your attention long enough to pour you a cup of tea.

And so it's a shame when the roster of films is so limited. Almost exclusively, each film I could have chosen last Thursday pandered to a broad audience. While on some flights there will be only one channel, thus necessitating a schedule of "family films", in this case a personal screen gave me a choice of 10 film and 5 television channels. Why, then, was each (with one exception) an American or Brit blockbuster?

My movie viewing displeasure was counted in threes. Spider-Man 3 was tedious, long and overly plotted, with far too many villains and little of the real human comedy that so enlivened the first two (in its place was a cringingly unfunny "comedy" dance routine). Shrek The Third was funny in parts but had no proper finale and a series of annoying new charcters, though it was possibly redeemed by one brilliant dream-sequence sight gag. Possibly. Finally, I watched Magicians, not strictly (or remotely) a threequel, but the third major collaboration between Mitchell and Webb of which I am aware, and lacking all their usual sparkling wit. A promising setup ruined by a lack of jokes and a disappointing reappearance of Spaced's Jessica Stevenson absurdly left me more satisfied with this Britcom flop than with either of the successful franchise films.

I wonder if perhaps British comedies are genetically engineered to be viewed at high altitudes; I recall that in 2004 The Calcium Kid seemed an entertaining breath of fresh air after the tedium of unmemorable Hollywood slush, despite being one of the most critically mauled British films of recent times.

Surely the logic of showing only broad-audienced films is flawed. With ten film channels to schedule, a spot of diversity would give everyone something up their street, and maybe something to broaden their horizons too. Instead, pandering solely to a mainstream market leaves everyone pacified but unfulfilled. Maybe this is the idea.

While I may never get my wish of watching a Lynch or a Godard at 40,000 feet, I feel it would have been polite to at least have shown a good mainstream film that I've yet to see. Damn you, Branson.

This Hollywood Life

And so it was that the packing was done, and he looked upon it and smiled, for he saw that it was good. And he was to wait only until dawn to depart across the seas, to a land where the sun shines brightly and the locals bite, and stay there for one score and one nights. And he promised to keep in touch, not to leave the old ways of his world behind. And so he prepared to depart.

And, in all likelihood, he will have forgotten to pack any underwear.

America Is Not The World

In three weeks and four days I will be going to the States. Yes, I really am counting the days. It will be hurricane season in Florida when I get there. I'm confident the weather will still be better than it is here in the U.K. at the moment. Pleasingly, I have discovered I will have Wi-Fi access, so consider this post a teaser for the twice-daily posts that I will start writing once the novelty of sun and swimming wears off. Be assured I will not be posting garish photos of my skinny frame lounging in the sun.

Part of me is infuriated that I holiday so frequently in America. This will be my fourth visit, and I believe one trip shy of the times in living memory that I have gone to Spain. I am no old-fashioned nationalist, quite the opposite in fact, but I do feel occasional nostalgia for the times before Britain was so absorbed into the American social machine. The last decade or so has seen America come to dominance over our culture, politics and now our holidays. It seems to me that we spend all our free time watching American television, American films, reading about American politics and increasingly listening to American music.

Its not that I dislike America. Its a huge country with a diverse culture that produces some great music and cinema, as well as a lot of tosh. But it saddens me that the most popular place for us to holiday is the source of most of the entertainment we now have over here. Through a combination of shared language, a favourable exchange rate and general American dominance over world culture, politics and economics, we have gradually found ourselves as the fifty-first state.

Mind you, I'm looking forward to topping up my tan.