Longing to Die Through Interprative Dance....And the Death of AHB

Wham! Crash! Tappa-tappa-tappa... Wham! Smack! Tappa-tappa-tappa...

I know that I say this a lot, and perhaps it is my way of hinting to my reading public that I am, in fact, going crazy, but when you read that surely you must think something along those lines. That is to say, who starts a fucking blog that way and what could it possibly mean? Well that, mes amis, I shall explain, for this weekend the weary band of travellers comprised of ICLC students ventured off to Stratford-upon-Avon, the birthplace of none other than Shakespeare, or Billy Shakes as Jessica lovingly refers to him. Now, what better thing to do on a school trip costing a whopping 55 quid for a one night trip than make a pit stop at "the most extravagant castle in the whole of England," Blenheim Palace? Ok, that seems normal. Castle, students, educational environment, and a pure longing to get away from a crooked-teethed bus driver who had singled me out as the one who would not be allowed to rest my feet on the armrests (everyone else is allowed, however) make this venture perfectly reasonable...until you look at the itinerary, realizing that you have the better part of 4 hours to do absolutely nothing but meander about the palace grounds. At first, I will admit, I was apprehensive. What could we possibly do for four hours with grass on which it was strictly forbidden to walk, by mandate of the still-in-residence Duke, and a shitload of topiaries? Then we saw it. "Pleasure Gardens" written in stark white on a black arrow sign. There it was again on our map. It was our solution...our way out...our escape from the banality of frisbee on the one public lawn at the palace.

Walk about a 1/4 of a mile from the house, following miniature traintracks, and there you shall find it. Everything one would expect from a please garden can be found here...video games, drugs, roller coasters, a drag bar, and by far the most pleasurable of all...the oral sex machine! Actually, all of these were just figments of my imagine, possibly the most optimistic predictions I had ever made. Like every time I take such an optimistic view, my fragile dreams are shattered into a million little pieces...like that James Frey novel, but my non-fiction story is actually based on true events.

In reality, the pleasure gardens were geared towards families. Instead of video games, giant chess sets on the ground. Rather than roller coasters, playgrounds. You want a drag bar? Try the juice bar. As for that mythical apparatus, that which puts the pleasure in pleasure garden, well, the only thing that got blown were the butterflys in the butterfly house (It was the method I adopted of harassing said critters into movement...lazy bitches). But these please gardens did include something so much more fantastic that I ever could have imagined. That's right folks, you guessed it.....A HEDGE MAZE!!!!! Not just any hedge maze, mind you, but the second largest in the world! Can you even believe it? I truly could not. It blew my mind. Promising an enthralling 25 minutes of wrong turns and dead ends, we did it in ten, being the smart cookies that we are. Alright, alright...we followed this group of five year olds, but that was a long distance to walk in ten minutes. Afterwards, Diego and I attempted to thwart Mike and Chelsea at giant checkers. After two turns I pretty much told Diego he wasn't allowed to play any more, that he was bringing us down. Then, right as Mike and Chelsea fall into my trap and face the realization that I will be the victor, they decided to cheat and kick the checkers across the lawn. Following a failed attempt to steal a giant knight from a giant chess board by concealing it under a jacket (as one might with pumpkins from Terraces Dining Hall) we left. All in all, the pleasure gardens proved most pleasurable, and while some parents may have thought the group of loud, American, expletive frequenting (I certainly proved that the only two things to come out of my mouth are cigarette smoke and the word "fuck," often follwed by "-ing cunt") college students had overstayed their welcome, we left right when we felt most comfortable/had to get back to the bus. Back on the bus, we continued our journey to Stratford.

After dinner at Cafe Pasta, we went to see the reason for our trip into English Bumfuck...a performance of Romeo and Juliet at the Royal Shakespeare Theater. Oh, how we hoped it would be good. I love Shakespeare like Pam Anderson loves synthetic breast implants made to resist heat and melting, so I was even pretty excited. Then the rumors began. "Three and a half plus hours," I heard being muttered. "Bad reviews," an ICLC student proclaims. The lights dim, and we watch as the citizens of fair Verone lay down their arms, favoring, instead, long bamboo poles...which they will never hit another character with...not even when killing them. Crazy middle eastern music and pretty bad acting ensue and then, the moment in my life where I have never been more embarassed for someone on stage...THE TAP DANCE FIGHT!

Wham! Crash! Tappa-tappa-tappa... Wham! Smack! Tappa-tappa-tappa...

With that, the Capulets and the Montagues began their battle of hitting the stage really hard with poles and slamming their feet against the ground harder than an all-convict step team. This, my friends, was the general idea of the next 3 hours and 42 minutes...yeah. By the second stick battle, I truly wanted to go on stage, tap my feet a little slower than my opponent, and in doing sigh, die a terrible death. On my deathbed, I would mutter through shuttered breaths, "A plague on all the houses of the Royal Shakespeare Company...a plague I say to thee...for it is thine own fault, not that of any other, which hath maketh me wanteth to dieth here today...verily...eth." Then, after our riveting journey through this world, we ventured outside where it was pouring down rain, walking several blocks to our B&B. Hoorah!

Today proved a much more worthwhile waste of my time than yesterday. This morning we strolled around Stratford, seeing Shakespeare's this-and-that. In a park on the Avon we were asked by a film crew to answer a few questions. We all said yes, of course, as we love sharing the views of Americans and trying to prove to the world that, hey, we're not that bad. Of course, the first question was "How do you think God makes himself apparent today?" Fuckin' 'ell! What fucking luck, huh, that they would find a big group of Americans, most of whom take no interest or hold no belief in God! We answered the rest of their questions, and surprisingly, they were ecstatic. They were making a film for pentecostal baptists or some christian shit in the UK, showing both sides, trying to make the religious see how people can be not religious, that it is not ignorance or defiance, but rather well thought out. The difference between myself and the producers was, of course, that they were pentecostal whatchamahoosits and I am a sworn atheist. Either way it was fun talking about God on camera.

We then went to Oxford, where we wandered for an hour and a half and then came back to school. Things I did while in Oxford include: Buy a picture of Donny Osmond (I dunno why, though...I mean, I'm not a little bit country or rock and roll...and I certainly don't like sequins), poop in Starbucks (I had a full english breakfast and fish and chips, so I am allowed to speak of this...besides, pooping has recently been decreed ok to talk about by Jess, the Mistress of Poo and stark proponent of "the gas position"), buy some delicious cookies, and leave. Woot! That, I am afraid to say, is about it.

Now, as for the death of AHB. I had promised a series of short stories on Akward Hat Boy. I have since decided that he is kind of a lame muse. I will be searching for a new one, but until then, wait with bated breath.