You know you’re on a Foreign Exchange to America When... Your Eating Turkey a Month Early

When I turned on the TV Thursday morning there was a 30 foot mechanical turkey dressed as a pilgrim terrorizing New York City. No, I wasn’t watching a really bad Japanese monster movie. It was Thanksgiving, the day when the entire country idolizes the creature they’ll devour that very afternoon. It’s a strange juxtaposition, cooing over what you’re about to eat. All those cute images of turkeys adorning cards when the reality is millions have recently been sacrificed to satisfy the American day of food excess. A couple even had their last moment shared with the entire nation through the wisdom of Sarah Palin’s publicity team. They couldn’t have moved a little to the left?

The turkeys are going to fight back though. They have a secret weapon, a suppressant drug concealed in the tasty goodness of their meat, Tryptophan.

If a foreign state ever wanted to invade this country the best time would be around 3.30 in the afternoon on Thanksgiving. This is when Tryptophan has had its full effect. Aunt Marge is passed out on the sofa, cousin Ricky is napping on the floor and the dog is flaked out on the porch. This is happening at houses throughout the nation, even the National Guard are in a turkey coma, the doors are wide open. This is when the turkeys will make their move. Their suicide roasting squads will bring the country to its knees and let in a vegetarian invasion force. Buddhists maybe.

Our last line of defense will be marching bands. There isn’t an army in the world that could stand Wilmington Heights High School’s rendition of ‘Winter Wonderland’ for more than two minutes without their ears bleeding. Give the cheerleaders actual guns instead of those wooden ones and New York at least would be safe.

Thanksgiving is a peculiarly American holiday. In other places it is little more than a harvest festival but here the religious and the secular are brought together in a celebration of the country’s inception. In a land populated by immigrants of so many different faiths the religiosity of Christmas has faded, Thanksgiving is both Christian festival and recognition of how we all got here. There are the usual excesses of American celebration (food, drink, shopping, shameless commercialization) but at its core Thanksgiving is the perfect melding of myth and reality.

It celebrates the lessons the pilgrims learnt from the Native American tribes that allowed them to survive in the New World. The irony that the very people that helped the settlers get through those first few years were later persecuted and all but wiped out by the colonists is conveniently hidden in a haze of goodwill and joy.

Much like turkeys both the pilgrims and their Indian tutors are painted as idols sharing their meal around long tables as families throughout the country still do. Like other myths it is a comfort, a fairytale moment when the two cultures were able to put away their differences and eat, again, like families do. Thanksgiving is wish fulfillment, a perfect time when America and your family are united over cranberries and pie, a day set aside from the trauma of war, economic meltdown and family ruptures. We all need this little escape in to a food induced stupor where we attempt to fix history in our favor and forget that pyramid scheme Ricky got you involved with. Whether it works or not can be left for another day.

Pass the turkey, please. I think I’ve just got my second wind.

You know you’re on a Foreign Exchange to America When... You Get Stared At Because You’d Rather Walk

America is in love. Its citizenry has had a major crush for nigh on a century. This object of desire informs their dreams, their aspirations, their entire culture. In fact, for some, it’s what makes their lives livable.

Americans love their country but they love their cars more.

In Britain, if you see a driveway with more than one car an involuntary ‘Oooh, get them!’ passes your lips. Here that’s every third house, the rest have three…or four…or…. And all of them are huge! It’s as if the hatchback was never invented. When I arrived in Chicago this summer my friend had bought a new ride. When I met him last year, we used to cruise Lake Shore Drive in a minivan but that’s nowhere near big enough for a 21 year old student who lives within walking distance of his University. This time, when he managed to find me in the maze of downtown despite the few scant details I gave of my whereabouts (“I’m next to a Starbucks?” “I know where you are”), he pulled up in a truck.

The mighty automobile forms a large part of American culture. Films and music have celebrated its existence right from the beginning. The car chase has been a highlight of cinematic exploits from the Keystone Cops to Gone in 60 Seconds. We have seen their sinister side in Duel and Christine, their cuddly side in Herbie and they are even a co-star in successful action TV shows, though we all know Kit acted the socks of the Hof. They have inspired their own form of music and I truly pity anyone who has not driven at high speed down the 101 pumping out a bit of Heart or Bon Jovi (including myself). In literature most journeys are taken by car. Whether it’s the magical Raoul Duke and his Samoan lawyer braving ‘bat country’ to experience some Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas or Jack Kerouac adventuring the country on some sort of Beat Generation spirit walk, the road has become the operative analogy for finding the American soul.

In most other countries driving is a passion or a chore; here it is a state of mind. Another friend of mine finally managed to get his supped up Volkswagen Beetle going after it died a few months ago. He described how when the engine finally turned over it felt like a piece of him had also been repaired. He was so aroused by the experience he had to go play jazz drums for 40 minutes in an attempt to calm himself down. When that didn’t work, Jack Daniels was the only answer.

However, in such a car orientated culture problems do arise. The further west you go the more people refuse to leave their tin boxes and so less money goes towards public transport. Hence, in Chicago and New York you can get pretty much anywhere by train or bus even at three in the morning. In California’s state capital, I have to be tucked up in bed by midnight having gambled my life on the Light Rail. The only other option is trusting your mortal coil to that friend you’ve been drinking with for the past four hours and has who only just got his license back after his latest wet and reckless.

American’s will always put car first, everything else second. Astronomical gas prices, the death of Detroit and global warming don’t scare them enough to give up such an integral part of their being. It would be like us Brits giving up tea. The car defines America. It is space, affluence, freedom and power all wrapped up in a shiny boat with tail fins. Americans think auto therefore they are.

You know you’re on a Foreign Exchange to America When... You Try to Figure out Which America You’re Living In.

Last week Americans made a big choice. They chose who they want to represent their country for the next four years. Slightly more important than ‘Ranch or Italian’, me thinks.

However, this decision doesn’t have the instant gratification others do. It’s like the country has been given that toy they always wanted for Christmas. They know they’ve got it, they can see it right there under the tree but they can’t open it until January 20th. Until then they only have the old one, with a wonky wheel. It used to be fun but since it ran into that brick wall (Iraq? The economy? Take your pick.) it has never been the same.

And let’s not forget that there are a lot of people who didn’t want the new toy at all. The Deep South and of course, Alaska wanted Mr. Potato head with the special military attachments and Barbie doll wife. They can’t quite understand why all of a sudden everyone else preferred basketball.

The obsession with the new toy has led a newly election starved media to leap on the idea that Obama’s presidency will lead the country to unity. Suddenly, with this half Kenyan, half Kansas, Christian/Muslim, moderate/socialist cultural icon, demigod at the helm America will somehow become a homogenous mush of goodness. We’ll all be having hippy love-ins by March.

Everyone seems to have forgotten that just a few weeks ago there were stump speeches that referenced a ‘real’ America and by inference a ‘fake’ one.

These two Americas seem to lead separate lives like divorced parents living in the same house. They continuingly argue over the kids but neither has the nerve to simply leave. Each has their own population base, their own demographics and their own interpretation of the constitution. Their capital cities of New York and Wasilla are as far apart geographically as they are in ideology and yet their histories have been entwined together since the very beginning.

Those capitalist idealists of the South must have been pissed when that boat load of freedom loving do gooders landed. They even got the Indians on their side simply by starving half to death.

Nowadays, it appears easy to know which America you’re in. Small town = ‘real’, city = ‘fake’, farm = ‘real’, organic farm = ‘fake’, check shirt, trucker hat and own teeth = ‘fake’, check shirt, trucker hat and no teeth = ‘real’.

Being in California I thought I was safely in ‘fake’ America (my other favorite places being New York and Chicago, I’m clearly on that side of the divide). However, then Prop 8 passed. The state known throughout the world as the land of the liberal, home of the hippy, has passed an amendment to its constitution denying loving couples (who just happen to like kissing people of the same sex) the right to tie the knot. Florida? Of course. Arizona? Obviously, but California? A persons gaydar would breakdown from overuse in San Francisco and don’t even get started on Hollywood…There isn’t a state that loves queens more, except, well, us.

The irony is that it was partly the new Black and Hispanic vote, brought out by Obama’s nomination that were to blame. Young voters from all communities voted overwhelmingly no on 8. Older minority and immigrant citizens went democrat but are also staunchly Christian/Catholic and voted to pass the measure.

The lesson here is that even with an inspirational leader voted in by a high majority and winning in states that haven’t turned blue since the heady days of LBJ, division still rules. It’s just that the players have swopped.

Hope only really lies in changing not only policy but people’s minds.

See The Daily Show's take on this here.

Ichi Maki

Sushi is most definitely what people refer to as an acquired taste. The very thought of raw fish, vegetables and rice wrapped in sheets of reconstituted seaweed would be enough to send a lot of people running for the nearest golden arches. But for those of us who have enjoyed discovering the complex joys rendered by such jewel like treats as nigiri toro or ikura gunkan maki, Sushi has become the fast food of choice.

When a friend invites you to a ‘mom & pop’ sushi joint you may wonder what to expect. However, Ichi Maki is no greasy but oh-so-good corner diner with a Japanese twist. It is, instead, a clean, faux modern, airy restaurant. As soon as you enter, the chefs, imprisoned behind their bamboo conveyer belt, and wait staff, dressed in lime green t-shirts with long black aprons, chirrup their greeting in unison. The decor is an interesting mix of what is deemed de rigour (i.e. actually restaurant fashion about 5 years ago), traditional Japanese pieces and a few too many plants. There is also a sports bar element with huge widescreen TVs both above the bar and on the back room’s wall. Unfortunately, on possibly the most important election night in the history of America, neither was tuned to CNN so I was missing my Anderson Cooper fix.

As with most sushi places the menu was vast. It included well over what seemed like 100 kinds of maki as well as lists of various specials, side dishes and sushi combos. These included sushi boats, where a selection is served in bamboo boats of various sizes depending on the number in your party. Our party opted to go for individual dishes, partly due to funds, partly because the female majority could never have decided what to include.

While we deliberated, Ester, our perky waitress, soothed the process with free miso soup and endamames, which was a nice and very welcome touch. The soup, which can often simply taste like it’s been made up from oxo cubes, was of full, warming bitterness. The endamames
were steamed to a good al dente crunch, perfect for soy sauce dipping.

Eventually, we came to our decisions. Our order was delivered in quick time, sailing out from behind the counter on a silver serving trolley. All the meals were beautifully presented, shapes created by deep fried crab’s legs on squared, patterned monochrome plates that highlight the bright, fresh colours.

Apart from getting two of the dishes mixed up, which nearly resulted in me receiving a huge, spider crab roll instead of the modest asparagus maki I had actually ordered, Ester coped well with a consistent smile. My light meal of the maki and ginger kadame, a cold seaweed salad, felt intense intimidation from the bulk items on others plates but managed to hold its own. The asparagus was fresh and tender to the bite. The salad was an interesting mix of greens with flashes of pink pickled ginger and a scattering of sesame seeds. As with most seaweed dishes its chewy texture and flavorful undertones are immediately reminiscent of the ocean. The sesame and ginger helped temper and take the taste buds in a new direction.

Once the main event was over, we were presented with cleansing orange segments and then the bill which was satisfactorily low. Others paid around $20 and my lighter version only $10.
The blandness of Ichi Maki’s decor and its uninspiring atmosphere are more than made up for by their extensive menu and good service. In short it may not be the best sushi place in the world but in the vast ocean of California’s favorite Japanese export it manages to rise above the pack.

“Miso please!”

Ichi Maki,

11291 Folsom Blvd, Rancho Cordova, CA 95742, United States+1 916-635-8880

You know you’re on a Foreign Exchange to America (in the autumn of 2008) when ... You Dare to Feel Change Approaching.

Politics in America is changing. I don’t mean ‘Real Change’, ‘Change You Can Believe In’ or any other political slogan using the ubiquitous word for this election period. I mean it’s changing, the way it’s being fought, the personalities, the press, the voters. Everyone seems to feel it even exchange students. There is a wave approaching. What will be left behind can only be guessed at.

Cynics would say that this change is fuelled by the media in haze of sound bites and political personality but there’s more to it than that. There is anticipation, an unmistakable tingle running through the whole process. Surely, even John King’s magic map can’t cause that.

First a word of caution: In March, 1997, there was the same feeling in Britain. Having had a Conservative Government for the past 18 years that practically ran the working class into the ground, when a newly moderate Labour Party burst onto the scene led by a charismatic, young leader the media leapt on board. However, there was also that pervading smell of change in the air. People started whispering of a landslide, an unprecedented win for Blair and his team of promise writers. And so it was, on a bright, sunny, perfect British spring day that we voted and made our mark on history. It was as if the entire country breathed. This may sound pretty dramatic and certainly Labour’s base supporters had their doubts about the amount of compromise the party had gone through simply in order to be elected (only later to be confirmed) but for that day and a good few months after Britain felt light, as if a weight had been suddenly lifted.

The weight of the past 8 years in America still hangs heavy. The country is involved in 2 wars, its human rights record is fast unraveling, Reaganomics has finally come crashing down, the national debt is out of control and anti-American feeling is rife throughout the world. Under this kind of cloud it is not surprising that vice-president Cheney decided not to run, instead leaving the race to those claiming to be mavericks and Washington outsiders, threatening their own status quo with cries of ‘pork barrel’ and ‘fat cat’.

The Democrats have fared much better. After their mid-term gains they managed to have one of the closest primary runs in history with two of the best candidates ever to hit the stump. Hilary was the archetypal politician though and this was not a year for them.

Obama, having succeeded where few thought he would, has become the first African American presidential candidate and most polls now have him to win. To put this in perspective, only 40 years ago he wouldn’t have been able to drink from the same water fountain as a white person.

Make no mistake: this is history.

But it is not simply the racial context of his nomination that has initiated this feeling of expectation. Like Blair, he is young and charismatic. He oozes presidential credentials despite only being in the Senate for only 3 years and unlike Blair he was opposed to the Iraq war. He has undoubtedly had luck on his side too. This timely economic crisis has been manna for the Democrats as since FDR they have been seen as America’s party to the rescue. He is consistently compare to John F. Kennedy, for his charm and speech giving but has managed to become a cultural icon through careful ground level recruitment just as McGovern did in ’72.

But all of this pales in comparison to his message, a message he first gave on a National Stage at the Democratic National Convention in 2004. ‘Red state, Blue state’ has become one of the most famous political speeches of recent years and in the last days of the campaign there has been a resurgence of the bi-partisan, hoped up message of unity for one of the most culturally divided countries in the world.

Whether Obama wins tomorrow will depend on one cold November day. Whether his message of change is achievable will depend on the American people breathing.

Vote.

You know you’re on a Foreign Exchange to America When... Every time you see a Cute Guy Estelle’s ‘American Boy’ Runs through Your Head.

For years now teenage girls throughout the world have had pictures of American men adorning their walls, covered in greasy lip balm kisses that have worn away some of the colour. It seems that the unique gene pool formed through an almost completely immigrant population has managed to produce some of the most exportable totty the world has ever seen.

It’s not that British boys don’t have their charms. It is just that they are all around you. The American male is a pop sensation, a successful actor, a star. He is something alien, unobtainable, mythical even.

Then you get here and you soon realize that those guys represent the cream of what America has to offer. The milk is much more varied. However, in the weeks I have been studying the new fish pond I find myself in, several species have appeared. Some of these are stereotypes we have grown up with watching Molly Ringwald navigate the same waters 20 years ago. Some seem to be an evolution of those stereotypes and others are new, strange creatures that need to be investigated more thoroughly. Here are the results of my research:

1) The Tappable Geek
Back in the day these were elusive, hanging around by their lockers and in the library, mentally preparing for the next time the school bully singles them out for that days games. They were always there but hardly recognized by greater girl society. Now, intelligence is no longer a dirty word and with fine examples from TV such as The OC’s Seth Cohen and Pushing Daisies’ Ned the Piemaker, the nerd has hit back. They can still be found in any number of computer science classes but in recent years they have grown in confidence, knowing that girls will now take the chance that the bespectacled comic reader in front of them may become the next Bill Gates.

2) Boy From Another Decade
Imagine, if you will, that the 90s had never happened. We would all still be wearing graphic tees, mooning over Johnny Depp and dancing to Madonna. Hang on... Whether or not we have slipped back a decade, it is a strange sensation when you witness a man who appears to have been sent through a wormhole from 1985. It’s not even the cool side of the 80s. Rather than picking up a Smiths fan or a member of the New Order fan club, this time tornado has randomly chosen a Rob Lowe look-a-like, all gelled hair with floppy bangs, suit slacks and button down stripped shirt. He looks like a reject from the set of ‘Wall Street’ and has the opinions to match. Greed is never good.

3) Hipster or Hobo?
Can you tell the difference? He could be the lead singer of a cutting edge local electro band. He could be an artist who shows his work on a street corner every Second Saturday. He could have read slam poetry at whichever independent coffee shop in currently in vogue. Or he could collect cans in order to get jacked up on some cheap vodka and live under a light rail bridge. The trouble with wearing ironic clothing is that sometimes you get a little too close to the joke.

4) He’s On the Team
The jock. The ultimate stereotype. And yes, he still exists. He has diversified and is no longer carried through the school system on his ability to catch a ball. But you can still spot them a mile off: cap, sports jersey, standing head and shoulders above most of the other people around him. Yet when he tells you he’s on the team, even the most cynical of chicks gets a little flutter in her stomach.

5) Republicans: The Ultimate Bad Boy
It used to be that the bad boy was from the other side of the tracks. Now they could be from the other side of the political divide. Hey, it worked for Marie Shriver. Imagine the ‘Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?’ scenario she had to go through. What we should remember in these divided times (for the next week and a bit anyway) is that Republicans are people too. They can laugh, cry, field dress moose and, yes, even love. Still not sure I could date one though.

You know you’re on a Foreign Exchange to America When... You Feel Like a Dirty Red.

In recent weeks I have noticed a disturbing trend. It started with subtle policy differences but has ended with blatant racial slurs. There are connections to the radical 60s and a dictatorial governmental system whose communist ideals are slowly but surely creeping into America.

Duck ‘n’ cover, keep the kid’s away from the windows, the British are coming! (Back!)

Look at the evidence: A single party government in power for over ten years with a new leader recently installed without election, a large percentage of workers pay taken to benefit the masses, a national TV station paid for by the people without the comforting capitalist intrusion of adverts and not one plumber called Joe. Stick a big mustache on the queen and we are mid century Russia!

All this used to be a joke within my group of American friends. ‘Kate’s a Communist! Ha, ha, ha!!’ (Coming from Chicagoans, a city clearly now proven as the crucible of radicalism on this continent, it seems a little pot-kettle-blackish.) But it wasn’t until Wednesday night’s debate that I realized what a threat we’d become.

During a discussion on health care McCain accused Obama of putting patient choice in the hands of bureaucrats. “If you want that then you can go to England or (worse) Canada”. He spat out the names like they were poison, red poison. This attitude, that somehow a national health system is the gateway to totalitarianism, stems from the 50s (we actually went commie in 1946) and particularly a 1961 recording by the Gipper condemning national health as a socialist “foot in the door” conspiracy. Watch out! The Reds are on the way and they’ve got stethoscopes!

By association with this insidious plot to put American workers (including Joe the Plumber) in the Gulag, Obama and the Democrats have now been tarred with the scary socialist brush, you know, the one actually made out of Lenin’s nose hair? They keep it in the glass coffin with him so it’s covered with those rampant ‘power to the people’ germs. This lunchtime I watched as Glen Beck, a ‘journalist’, visited his sister station, the ‘unbiased’ home of ‘the best political team on television’, CNN to proclaim “They’re all Marxists!” when asked to give his opinion on the Democrats. But higher taxes and socialized medicine won’t make America Communist. It’ll just make you British.

Obama is being vilified for his promise/threat to ‘spread the wealth’ and his successful trip to Europe was seen more as a joke than an asset to his foreign policy experience. But if the only alternative to this is a self-proclaimed maverick and a hockey mom with an unqualified plumber as their figurehead then maybe it’s time you guys did look towards us for some influence. And come November if you continue to decide that even mildly social policies a too stronger pill for America to swallow, send our brother Obama back over. We’ll be glad to have him.

Diablo Cody: Honest To Blog

“Cody is a fad writer - she will disappear in a poof of smoke and sulfur odor when her 15 minutes are up. Like the writer of Reality Bites, which was simmilarly oh-so-hip 15+ years ago. Do you remember her name? Exactly.”

This was a comment on Diablo Cody’s first Entertainment Weekly column in December 2007. It is one of many ‘hater’ comments left condemning Cody as, among other things, “phoney”, “self-indulgent”, and “pretentious, completely unoriginal, and singularly pointless.” Cody retorted the only appropriate way, in a blog.

“I am middle-class trash from the Midwest. I'm a competent nonfiction writer, an admittedly green screenwriter, and a product of Hollywood, USA. I am "Diablo Cody" and if you're not a fan, go rent Prospero's Books again and leave me the fuck alone.”
Is the stripper turned blogger turned Hollywood darling over the hill already? Or is it yet another example of humanity’s inability to deal with another’s sudden success?

There is no doubt that the last couple of years have been incredibly lucky for Cody. In fact, turning to the skin trade as a form of income (a job that for most people is a slippery slope to further degradation) after becoming bored with her day job may well have been the best move she could ever make.

Born Brook Busey, a name she describes as “so not heavy metal”, Cody led an uneventful childhood in suburban Chicago and graduated from Iowa with a Media degree. She claims to have had an epiphany while typing copy for a Minneapolis ad agency. “This sucks. I’d rather be naked.” So she signed up for amateur night at a local strip club. Within a matter of weeks she had given up her day job and started blogging, with accounts of both her private life including cameos from then boyfriend Jonny and her new “anthropology” project, documenting her new chosen career path from stripper to peepshow object to phone sex operative.

This occasionally pornographic but surprisingly mundane diary is punctuated with sharp criticisms/glorifications of pop culture, a passion for which Cody uses as the basis for most if not all of her subsequent writing. The blog, now provocatively titled ‘Pussy Ranch’, would swing wildly between these subjects throughout the collection of stories told that day. On December 19th, 2003, for example, she first chastised Kid Rock for hooking up with Pamela Anderson, then described an uncomfortable situation during a peep show and later ran through her favorite music videos of the day.

The real power of this period of her writing, and I suspect why she was plucked from obscurity by Mason Novick, her manager who managed to secure an autobiography for her at the age of 24 after discovering the blog while surfing for porn, is her ability to show the reality of life as a stripper. Instead of being an erotically charged, glamorous lifestyle, Cody’s account is more akin to the hyper reality of ‘The Office’ than the fake glorification of ‘The Girls Next Door’.

Of course, the reason Cody is able to cast such a critically witty eye over her life is that she has chosen to enter that life. Unlike most of the other girls working the bars, she is more than capable of moving on, a future most of the others have little chance of. Her descriptions of other strippers, such as the aptly named Tassle, only accentuate her own detachment. She is studying them and hence herself and her own desire to be part of what they can never escape from. Through this self examination she becomes the poster child for generation X, someone desperate for rebellion but finding only boredom and disappointment and ‘normality’, whatever world she inhabits. She is most successful in her writing when she strikes at the very heart of these fears. “I'm trying to figure out why (how?) some people hit their twenties and automatically begin cultivating roses, making polenta, committing fully to jobs and functioning” (Pussy Ranch July 30th 2003).

The problem now is that her recent fame has taken away the normality of the different she was so able to comment on. She now has a new reality, that of a fully fledged Oscar winner, celebrity and journalist. Perhaps before blaming her for being successful we should allow her obvious talent to realign with her new life and see if she can once again bring an objective eye to another life few of us will ever live.

You know you’re on a Foreign Exchange to America When... You Want To Vacuum Pack Your Clothes.

Some adverts make you laugh, some make you aware, some make you cry (anything with puppies and kittens for me!), some make you want to get in your truck and race to the nearest mall and some make you just go ‘Huh??’.

These are a particular breed, clearly made with a budget of around $6 a minimum of 3 years ago but still being shown night after night as you tap your fingers waiting for the next segment of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition (another thing guaranteed to get me reaching for the Kleenex). Just as your stealing yourself for Ty revealing a new home for a disabled war widow and her five blind kids, Vince comes on.

For those of you not in the know (or who have a life) Vince is the Shamwow guy. Shamwow is a shammy cloth and Vince wealds it like Indiana Jones with his bull whip. If he wasn’t on TV he could be in a circus sideshow. ‘Roll up! Roll up! See the google-eyed freak and his magic towel! Marvel as it drinks up twenty times its own weight in liquid!’ Vince talks at the speed of a freight train, eyeing you through the screen like a crazy person while running the Shamwow through its paces. He informs us it’s made by Germans, “and you know they always make good stuff”. Yep! He’s actually comparing a fancy dishcloth to a BMW.

The next ad features some guy asking you to send him your scrap gold. Scrap gold? Isn’t that an oxymoron? The advert also features some really sentimental women who have sent in gifts from their ex’s, even their first wedding ring in order to get a check they’ll probably put toward a new face rather than a new man. Now that’s emancipation.

Have you ever been to church and had difficulty hearing the sermon (Isn’t that the whole point?)? Do you annoy your cow of a wife by having the TV too loud? Do you want the birdsong to be even louder? Then you need ‘Listen up’! Yep, you too can look like a complete dork while you hold up the handset in order to better hear the word of God.

But at least you’re not wearing a blanket with sleeves.

It is bad enough that they recommend wearing the ‘Snuggie’ in your own home but camping? If you came across that family your first thought would probably be “cult!” than “ooh, I really need one of those!” And if anyone wore that at Wrigley Field we’d laugh them out of the park (along with all hope of ever winning anything ever). By the way, if the last thing your mom said to you before you left for college was “Don’t forget your Snuggie” you’ve got way more serious issues than passing midterms.

These adverts are all disturbing in their individual ways but there is another kind that really freaks me out, drugs. Every time they go through that long list of side effects such as suicidal tendencies, constipation and anal bleeding, I start to wonder whether you’re better off just sticking with what you have already. In a country where health care is a commodity and one of the presidential candidates describes it as a responsibility rather than a right it obviously requires promotion. Otherwise how else would you know what to tell your doctor to give you?

So as I pull my ‘Snuggie’ further around me, get my ‘Shamwow’ ready to soak up the tears and turn on the ‘Listen Up’ to not miss a single word of Ty and co, I wonder if I’ll ever even get some gold I’ll want to get rid of and get really homesick for the NHS.

Shamwow ad

Snuggie ad

Ding! Ding! Round Two!!

In the red corner the Bulldog of Arizona, John ‘The Maverick’ Mac Mac McCaaaaain! Aaaaaand in the blue corner straight from the hard south-side of Chicago, the Homeboy of Hawaii, Baaarak Obamaaaaaaa!

The ref throws in the elephant in the room. How will these two brave fighters handle THE ECONOMY!

Obama bounds out. He jabs with a biblical response. It’s the final judgement on Bush policies, 700 billion is just first step, the four horsemen of the apocalypse are riding over the horizon, we’re all going to die! Except the execs at AIG who will probably just go back to the spa.

McCain looks tired… but then he always looks tired. He lumbers to his feet and puts in a good middle-class punch. He’s already using the words America and heart in the same sentence and reminding the audience that all the countries who “don’t like us” have all our oil in their ground. How dare they! Guess we’d better find some of our own. Damn.

So how about that bailout, will it work?

Mac is straight in with his super suspender! (In case you haven’t heard due to being sat in a corner, quietly crying as the remainder of your pension slips through your fingers like the sands of time, McCain suspended his campaign a couple of weeks ago for all of about 2 hours in order to save the country from economic meltdown. Good job!) After putting his underpants over his trousers he turns to that old favorite ‘ I complained first!!!’ bringing up his claim of sheer outrage, from 2 years ago, about Freddy and Fanny.

After an explanation of the situation during which there were points where Obama should have used PowerPoint, or at least the flowchart he drew in class this afternoon, he socks McCain with a catty ‘Let’s correct’ section. He too uses the ‘I did it first’ tactic. A letter indeed! Wow, that was productive! How about a meeting next? Then a second warning? You can see why the American public gets a little frustrated with the Senate, like, all the time!

McCain comes back with a hard swing of patriotism but the American worker defense has little power due to it’s associations with the fundamentals slip up. He can’t get away from it by just saying “I meant you!”. It’s missed its mark. He reaches for his lucky charm the elfin like Joe Lieberman, who is dangling from his keyring, hoping to spread some of his magic bipartisan dust over the proceedings.

They’re on to priorities. The Black Knight (but in a good way) uses his lance of common sense and actually puts them in order. Super Mac displays his powers by claiming he can do everything at once, health care reform, the economy, education, victory in Iraq, Afghanistan, heal the world and cure cancer. Why wait? With one stroke of my hand all evil will disappear! (This from a man whose VP candidate accused Obama of playing Jesus).

Health care and foreign policy pass with the usual moves: accusations of liberal votes, responsibility or right, did you vote for this or that?, Obama as foreign darling who wants to bring socialized (read commie) medicine and McCain as defender of the castle, more than willing to go into defend national interests without that pesky UN getting in the way.

The match ends yet again with no knock out, each sides definitive win among their supporters being forced on the public in thousands of living rooms around the country, ‘fair and balanced’ or in countdown form. Meanwhile the fighters return to the trail, preparing for the next round. And as Cindy and Michelle paint there big 3 signs the electorate sits back and wonders if it’s November yet.

'Pushing Daisies' Gets It's Second Life

The trouble with really loving the first season of a show is when the second season comes along. You wait and wait, months go by as you wonder what joys the next season might bring. Anticipation is one of the great hidden pleasures of TV watching.

‘Tis the season when all these wishes may come true... or not. There is always the possibility that your favorite program from last year may royally suck this year.

‘Pushing Daisies’ burst on to our screens last season in a cacophony of bubblegum colors, quick quips and enough sweetness to keep dentists 401ks healthy whatever happens on Wall Street. The story of Ned, a boy who literally has the touch of life, and his childhood sweetheart, Chuck, who he has pulled back from death, captured hearts throughout the country, including mine. The delicate dance between the lovers whose slightest touch would prove fatal is the anchor of the show. The relationship is flanked by Olive Snook, the ditsy ex jockey turned waitress who is also head over heels for Ned, and money hungry, pop-up book loving, knitting PI, Emerson Cod, who’s wacky murder cases, solved with the help of Ned’s unique gift, are the bread and butter of each episode. Throw in Chuck’s eccentric synchronized swimming aunts, oodles of secrets and a few show tunes all wrapped up in a Tim-Burton-on-a-sugar-rush-esk world and you have a show that should keep anyone entertained.

The second season kicked off on Wednesday with ‘Bzzzzzzzzz’. The murder of Kentucky Fitz, a sales girl for Betsy’s Bees beauty products, stung to death by a swarm sets the gang on a familiar trail of undercover sleuthing in order to apprehend the perpetrator and, always more importantly for Emerson, collect the reward. The theme of bees was an important connection to last season (Bees were a big part of Chucks sheltered life with her aunts before she died) but unfortunately for fans it was one of few.

The long narration at the beginning, presumably to allow new viewers to get caught up, was excruciating. In a show that uses language so cleverly, it was unfortunate that more subtlety couldn’t have been used. For an audience who clearly enjoys, and are more than capable of following, complex storylines in a vivid landscape the overlong introduction was awkward and bordered on patronizing.

There was also very little in the way of fallout from last year’s events. The last episode of that season featured a heart wrenching conversation between Ned and Chuck at her father’s graveside after it was revealed that Ned’s gift had caused his death. This incredibly touching and emotional scene was barely mentioned and it seemed that Ned and Chuck’s relationship had not been affected by the revelation.

As a result the character of Chuck seems diminished. Last season Anna Friel's character came across as feisty and plucky as well as a great dresser. Her ‘second life’, both figurative and literal, had given her the opportunity to prove her inner strength. At least in ‘Bzzzzzzzzz’ she seems to have lost that. Her undercover role at Betsy’s Bees turned her from investigator to bait, just waiting for Emerson and Ned to save her. In future episodes, I can only hope Chuck gets back to her old self.

Thankfully the rest of the show is. The fantastical production is even more luscious, the colors are just as rich and the 50’s inspired wardrobe is still to die for. Lee Pace as Ned once again proved his nomination in this year’s Emmys was well deserved. His awkward, childlike persona plays brilliantly against Chi McBride’s world weary Emerson and Kristin Chenoweth’s flirty, materialistic but good hearted Olive who all too often steals the scene with lines like “And when I say cabbage patch, I mean your lady parts” perfectly delivered.

It’s at times like that all the anticipation pays off. Your favorite show is back and on top form and you find yourself falling for it all over again. I, for one, can’t wait ‘til next week.

‘Step Out of the Car Please, Sir’

I am a felon.

A miscreant. Es desperado.

Maybe I should choose my colors now. I think blue. It brings out my eyes.

Like most people I’ve encountered in California she looked great, like a supermodel, but a supermodel that could wrestle you to the ground and snap on the cuffs. As she rode over on her bike, that bright, white, American smile on her face, I thought she was being like most people I’d met since arriving in Sacramento two weeks before; friendly. I give her my best ‘I don’t know you but you’re an authority figure so I’d best smile back’ smile and continue past the massive light-up guitar that can only signify ‘Hard Rock’. I even raise my hand and start to mummer a quick ‘Hi’ before I notice her smile has gone and she’s blocking my way with her front wheel.

“Good evening, mam...”

Uh-oh.

The words of my British tutors ring in my ears; “If you do something illegal, your American friends might just get a warning, you will get deported.”

De-port-ted...

...and never let into the country AGAIN!!!!!

“I need to ask you a question...”

I start to panic. The hot flush creeps from my shoulders, up my neck and into my face. Flashes of my past misdemeanours enter my head; drinking a beer on a Chicago street last summer, smoking some really bad weed in Seattle a couple of years ago, stealing a pencil topper when I was about six. Which one are they gonna throw me in the Big House for?

Stood there, legs astride her mountain bike, observed by the groups of sketchy looking young and old gathered around the entrance to the Downtown Mall, she fixes me with an icy glare.

“Why’d you cross the street on the red?”

WHAAAAAT!

Let me make something clear: Despite my penchant for Lucky Charms and the fact that I still sleep with a knitted soft toy called Mouseykin, I am a fully grown adult. I am over the age restrictions for smoking, sex and even alcohol. I can vote, I can cook and I can even get knocked up, live in a trailer and call my child Zee Zee Sputnik (if it’s a girl). In many states it would be perfectly legal for me to walk into a store, pay my money and walk out with a brand new, spanking, semi-automatic weapon.

But I can’t cross a street unless a light tells me to.

The nervy, subservient, basket case her approach had caused was now joined by a petulant, snarky teenager almost unable to control the laughter invoked by the fact she might be getting a ticket because she didn’t wait for the white man. This isn’t going well. Thankfully it’s at times like this when being British really helps. Not only do I have the uncanny ability to repress all emotion, it is also a free pass to the ‘I’m not from around here’ excuse.

I apologize profusely, putting more and more emphasis on my accent. Gradually she relents after giving me a healthy dose of guilt: ‘See all these people? They expect me to give you a ticket’ (It looked more like they were wondering where their next tab of crack was coming from to me) and fear mongering: ‘We’ve had accidents on this street’. Then she rode off warning me to be more careful next time.

And the stupid thing is I have been. Since that day, unless that light has changed my feet remain firmly on the curb.

You know you’re on a Foreign Exchange to America When... Celebrities Are Politicians and Politicians Are Celebrities.

Conan the Destroyer is not just a movie. It’s a premonition.

At the very end of the film Princess Jehnna thanks Conan for saving her and offers him her hand in marriage but he declines. Standing there in a fur loin cloth, his muscles glinting with baby oil, he grinds out of his heavy accent “One day, I shall have my own kingdom, my own queen”.
24 years later he does have his own queen; Maria Shriver, princess of the Kennedy Dynasty and his own kingdom; California. Who’d have guessed?

Obviously the script writer.

Just look at the unlikely band of misfits Conan leads to victory; a Japanese mystic, an unshaven slacker who appears to have gotten his hands on some really good weed even while being, literally, on a different planet, a busty blonde seriously lacking in academics despite destined to be queen and Grace Jones. Is there any better analogy for the population of California?

Arnie, of course, is just one in a long line of American celebrities who have stepped into politics.

The most obvious is the monkey lovin’, pyjama wearing ex actor who went one step beyond ‘The Governator’ and became Teflon. Reagan managed to use his vast acting talent to stay in charge of a superpower for two terms and gave his name to a policy of economics that the country still pretty much stands by today. Good job! He was also about the only guy who was ever able to make our Prime Minister of the time look like a woman.

There are other’s of course; Clint Eastwood brought justice to the small town of Carmel as Mayor from 1986 to 1988 before he realised he’d get more done behind the camera and Jesse Ventura a former WWF wrestler who tired of acting in front of a baying crowd became Governor of Minnesota instead. Not much change there then.

Even one of my personal heroes, the majestic Hunter S. Thompson, ran for Sheriff of Pitkin County, Colorado although, of course, for him it was more about anarchy than the law.

In such a celebrity soaked culture, where most people’s immediate experience of the world comes through a screen, it is understandable that we want the people we see there to be in charge. It’s not that the British don’t also grow up on TV and film it’s just that all our screen stars are ugly. Of course our politicians are even uglier and hardly ever want to be seen on TV. If they could all just remain sequestered in the Houses of Parliament the aesthetics of the BBC would be greatly improved.

By contrast American politicians love being seen on television. It is their prime tool in message conveyance and they are experts in its use. From the first televised debate between a cool, good looking JFK and a sweating, nervy Richard Nixon it was clear the medium would shape the way elections were fought.

Indeed, recently it is not just celebrities becoming politicians but politicians becoming celebrities. The Clintons have replaced not only the Kennedys as America’s first family but also have more complex plot twists and alliances than The Sopranos. John McCain, once a media darling himself, now accuses Obama of playing to the ‘liberal’ newsrooms.

And then there’s Palin, whose outrage at press intrusion on her family was shown so succinctly by parading them during her speech at the Republican National Convention and having their images on the front of practically every magazine in high glossy colour for the next two weeks.

So the mantle of a media hungry political warrior with a dubious accent falls on fresh shoulders.

You know what the difference between a hockey mom and Xena the Warrior Princess is?

Guess.

How I Met Your Mother: The X Rated Version

You’re a 22 year old girl who’s been saving herself for that special guy. You’ve managed to get through college ‘intact’, most of your friends having had their flower picked by various frat boys while wasted on appletinis and one by the entire football team on a sports trip to Wisconsin. You now feel ready to take that final step to womanhood and you’ve thought of a way it can pay for Grad school too!

What does everyone else do when they have something they don’t want anymore, the third toaster you got for your wedding, that Ricki Martin CD you never listen to, a gubernatorial jet? They EBay it. So, why not your virginity?

This is precisely what ‘Natalie Dylan’ (She’s not using her real name for some inexplicable reason) is doing. A Woman’s Studies graduate from Sacramento State, she is hoping to become a marriage councillor once she’s auctioned off her hymen to pay for school. The media circus now surrounding her extends from CNN to Howard Stern, who has gallantly offered to promote the auction on his radio show. She is being wrangled by Dennis Hof, infamous owner of the Bunny Ranch where the auction and the deflowering itself will take place and her sister is already gainfully employed paying off her student debt.

Despite this oh so obvious male control, ‘Dylan’ sees putting her bride’s pride under the hammer as some sort of post feminism act of empowerment. Burning your bra is so 20th century. What we should all be doing is selling ourselves to the highest bidder so he can be internationally known as a cherry popper. If that isn’t going to close the wage gap, I don’t know what is.

Take note Palin, this girl’s a true women’s rights icon.

She even has a better grasp of the American economy: “We live in a capitalist society. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to capitalise on my virginity?” If only Lehman Brothers had thought of that! Hell, if the winner’s from overseas, surely that will count as foreign policy experience. ‘Dylan’ in ’12!! ‘Dylan’ in ’12!!! She’ll break through your glass ceiling, after someone’s broken through hers!

But ‘Dylan’ is not only a woman’s rights activist and potential world leader, she’s also a romantic: “Through this process I’m not just looking for the highest bidder. I’m looking for someone who is a genuine, overall nice person.” Aww, she’s just a single girl looking for love. Nobody thought it would work but when her eyes met his wallet it was...magic. They’re optioning the movie rights to Miramax, Jason Biggs and Katie Holmes are going to star.

What’s really going on here? Once you get through the jokes, the media and the questionable viability of a girl actually finishing college with her virginity, what does all this really mean? Is this the culmination of 60’s free love attitudes fused with the ultimate capitalist ethic? Is it the last bastion of sexual morality slipping away? Is it proof that sexual impropriety now rules and we are truly an anything goes, anything is up for grabs society? Are we all damned? Or is it all about one girl who is so desperate for her fifteen minutes of fame she is willing to shock the world the only way she feels she can? Andy Wahol would be proud.

The problem is nobody really cares. Whether she goes through with it or not, whether she ends up with Colin Farrell or Ron Jeremy, whether it’s a hoax, whether she makes a million or whether she makes a hundred, within a matter of months she will just be a name and if she’s lucky everyone will soon forget that too.

Going once...going twice... sold.

You know you’re on a Foreign Exchange to America When... You’ve Always Wanted to Be Here but Now You’re Not Sure Why

When I first told my best friend’s 6 year old daughter that I was coming to America for a whole year this time instead of the usual weekend or 3 months, she looked up at me with those big green eyes, wrinkled her button nose and said “Why do yur want ta go there? You always go there.”
It got me thinking. Why do I always go there?
I blame ‘On the Town’. All that singing and dancing around New York in vibrant Technicolor while I sat in rain saturated middle England scoffing Heinz tinned ravioli and dreaming that one day I would be on the top of the Empire State Building with a sailor of my very own.
This was obviously before I knew any sailors.
What is our fascination with you guys? Is it simply that your representatives are everywhere? Hollywood, McDonalds, Coca-Cola, Michael Jackson and Mickey Mouse add up to a ‘brand’ that for better or worse has spread throughout the world, a brand that inspires love and hate even if you never make it through homeland security. The very fact that this ‘brand’ is so omnipresent cultures resentment. Countries feel they have to battle against it in order to keep their own identity. Whether it is France taking a percentage of American film revenues to pump into their own industry or the movement against globalisation (read Americanisation), anti American feeling is not confined to extremists even within your closest ally.
Britain’s ‘special relationship’, with the other side of the pond, as with any relationship, has had its ups and downs and is not quite as equal as the partners like to think it is. At first we had to get over the shock that this new country didn’t want to be part of our glorious empire. As time has gone by our relationship with the land of the free seems to have turned from that of proud parent to a slightly disgruntled second cousin who tried to carry on the family business only to be shown up by a flashier relative who got their success independently and now shows off at every family reunion. It’s not that you don’t like the guy, how could you not. He’s charming, funny, smart. It’s just that he makes you wish you had bigger balls.
Except when his prowess gets him (and you) into trouble. That’s when things get nasty.
Maybe the problem is your envoys. As my cousin’s partner who put it so succinctly. “Every American I’ve ever met has been an arrogant arsehole!” I’m not sure how many Americans he has actually met but it’s an opinion a lot of people share. Most Brits encounters with Americans have been at our tourist spots where we trail around silently basking in our nation’s history only to have our reverence interrupted by a loud cry of “Oh my God! Look at that cute castle! Chad, get the camera! It’s all so quaint!!” This may be slightly stereotyped but whether it’s though less p.c. media or our own experience this is the impression an awful lot of us are left with.
And when faced with these stereotypes or your exulted Commander in Chief aging our sovereign by 200 years or a small town that has no other eatery bar McDonalds, it is understandably easy to forget that Arthur Miller was spawned from the same country as The Pussy Cat Dolls. Even someone like me, who loves this country and has defended it on numerous occasions, finds it hard sometimes, especially over the past eight years.
Then I remember my first trip to New York, racing towards Manhattan in a Yellow Cab, my first glimpse of the Empire State Building across the river and I grin. It is the very duality that I find so frustrating that fascinates me so much. Like family, it is despite or maybe even because of the flaws that I brave Homeland Security once more and plunge head first into America, again.

Not As Stupid As They Look

This summer the California Senate sent a bill to the Governator’s desk making texting while driving illegal. That’s right folks, no longer can you hit reply when your vibrating, laughing baby goes off as you steam down the 101. If you really have to tell Stacey that she just made you LOL it may cost you all of fifty dollars should a member of California's finest spot you. How will drivers survive? How did they survive before?!

Senate Bill 28 appears to be one of those completely superfluous laws, laws that invoke the accusation of ‘nanny state’. ‘Why do we need that?’ we ask. Surely, the dangers of taking your eyes off the road in order to comment on last night’s pool party using a complex code of semi-colons and closing brackets seem so obvious that rational, commonsensical grown-ups wonder what the law is coming to. Well, the fact is we aren’t all rational commonsensical grown-ups. At some stage we were all teenagers.

In July 2007, an AAA study revealed that 46% of teenagers’ text while driving. The Albuquerque Tribune spoke to a couple of happy teen texters. Jesse Gallagher, 18, who apparently receives or sends a message every 45 seconds, told the reporter “You learn to text without looking. Then it gets easier” No kidding!! Deseray Gonzalez, 17, says she has memorised the letters so she can watch the road at the same time, “pretty much”. She receives around 500 texts a day. Two questions come to mind: a) how can anyone receive 500 texts a day?! Let alone some kid in Albuquerque! I’m lucky if I get 2!! And b) is a fifty dollar fine enough? Shouldn’t they be off the road? Or jailed? Or worse have their precious party lifeline confiscated? Don’t we need a law to stop this kind of irresponsible behavior?

How many more of these ‘stupid’ or unnecessary laws and rules sent around the planet in chain emails are actually needed, even sensible?

For instance, in Florida, all the doors on public buildings must open outwards. Apart from eliminating that awkward push or pull moment, it seems a completely inessential measure. However, in emergencies it allows for quicker evacuation of buildings as you don’t get the usual bottle necking of crowds at exists.

Some of these seemingly laughable rules have perfectly reasonable and sometimes serious explanations. A city in Kansas has been forced to include a statute against picketing funerals. It’s not a measure against disgruntled family members left out of the will but a special law brought in due to Overland Park’s proximity to the Westboro Baptist Church whose members are notorious for demonstrating at the funerals of homosexuals and more recently those of soldiers killed in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Meanwhile, on a lighter note, security guards at the Joe Louis Arena have the right to confiscate anything they deem may be thrown on to the ice during the Red Wings match, particularly seafood. Ever since two fishmonger brothers threw an octopus on to the ice in 1952, there has been a danger of octopi getting caught up in Chris Chelois’ skates.

So the next time you’re frustrated at the apparently superfluous bill that your Governor just signed into law or snigger at the fact that bathhouses are banned in San Francisco (first brought in during the height of the AIDS epidemic; they are now allowed under license), remember there may well be a perfectly legitimate reason the rule exists. We should also remember that many are brought in for a much simpler reason; to protect the rest of us from the really stupid people!

Still not sure why I can’t get a fish drunk in Ohio though!!