Around
the States in Eighty Days
Being an irregular and erratic account by the
Greedy Bastard himself as he sets out to traverse America on
a comedy tour.
Day
Four. Rutland by Night
Thursday
October 2nd, 2003. Rehearsal Paramount Theatre, Rutland
It's
two a.m. and we just rattled through Woodstock. I slipped
the blind to find myself looking into brightly lit Queen Anne
shop windows. White painted houses, broad greens. A sleepy
Church. I can't sleep as we bounce along the small roads.
It's like being on a boat on a slightly rough sea. I can hear
the gears shifting below me, despite ear plugs. Will this
thing really make it two thousand miles to LA?
I left Toronto qualifying nicely for all the extra searches
available. When I am stopped for the third time by an Indian
gentleman I ask him if I am irresistible to all Indian men.
He assures me that it is purely numerical, but I suspect some
deep rage against the Raj. The only compensation is that my
hand baggage is then searched by three of the most beautiful
security women I have ever seen in my life, each one a gem
for Shiva. I cannot resist telling them this and they smile
in that way women have when you compliment them on what they
know to be true already. I am finally reassured that I am
safe to travel having passed through more steps than an ex-alcoholic.
It has become so complicated to fly nowadays that sometimes
I believe only a terrorist could get through an airport.
Skip is awaiting at Logan. A quietly and powerfully efficient
man, who is relieved to be out of three figure temperatures,
he guides me to a shuttle bus which drops us in a car park
where our two buses are waiting. This is the moment of truth.
Directly on cue it begins to rain. As we head towards our
coaches, a large gentleman of Dickensian proportions emerges
holding aloft a tiny umbrella. He looks like an etching by
Edward Lear and this image is enforced when a sudden gust
of wind snaps the umbrella inside out and he is left holding
a collapsed metal frame attached to a useless flapping rag.
A nice comic touch. This is "English" our driver.
He is from the Wirral - just by Liverpool. He gives me a cursory
tour of the coach, including my little stateroom, pointing
out the gameboy. He seems very fond of the gameboy. He shows
me the gameboy conrols and the gameboy box. I don't like to
disabuse him that I never touch gameboys. Fox TV is showing
English football which is good news for me. Glynn assures
me we get 200 channels of satellite. "Everything,"
he says, "but the Playboy Channel." I'm not quite
sure what I am supposed to understand from this, so I look
inscrutably at Manchester City failing to score.
Within minutes the rest of the party are clambering aboard.
Everyone looks fit and well after their flight from L.A. John
particularly. Peter has had a special bunk adapted to fit
his 6 foot 7 inch frame. He is looking very handsome and well
groomed. Hoping for a little action on the road no doubt…
There is a little muttering when all the girls are assigned
to my bus. But I am responsible for their moral welfare and
I can hardly leave them amongst the crew. As a matter of fact
some of them are the crew. Gilli Moon is a hard working Sheila
(Australian) who has had only a few days to try and get to
grips with massive amounts of work and has done a fantastic
job. She has just got off the road from her own tour and is
in her other life a fantastic singer and song writer. In fact
you should check out her web site at www.gillimoon.com
it is certainly worth the visit. I am of course exploiting
her as Stage Manager, which is an epic responsibility on a
one nighter tour. I also drag her on stage to sing backup,
so she will have her work cut out, but I suspect she will
be brilliant. Ann Foley my costume designer announces that
she is thrilled Eddie Izzard is giving her a credit on his
tour. I always give her a credit as she is fantastic, though
she has a homing device which heads her naturally straight
for Barneys. She said it was fun shopping with Eddie though
he still shops too much like a man. He needs to learn to shop
like a girl. "How's that?" I say.
"Don't
look at the prices" she says.
We scarf down some smoked salmon as the bus sets off.
"Day
three" I say " and we are still in the car park."
The girls laugh politely, but the gag turns out to be surprisingly
prescient when half an hour later the driver sheepishly announces
that we seem to be unable to find any way out of the airport
and we are returning to the car park. Oops. Good start. Perhaps
it is a new homeland security thing, you just can't ever find
your way out of the maze of reconstruction. But finally we
are led out of the airport by a sympathetic limo driver and
we are on the road. Ah, the open road. I feel like Mr. Toad,
filled with enthusiasm. The adventure, the romance, peep peep!
We are setting off to cross America. Unforgettable sights,
unforgettable views…wait up, we'll be traveling largely
by night. Never mind we shall see unforgettable views by night,
we shall visit interesting places, oh alright we'll only be
backstage at another theater, but goddamit we are traveling.
Not Wilbury's exactly, not Palin, but the Idle Bastard Tour,
by comfortable coach.
We pull in to the car park of the Red Roof Inn Rutland at
three in the morning. "Oh no" says Peter "I
demanded in my contract a blue roofed Inn." Three a.m.,
I haven't seen that time since my daughter was a baby,- at
last we are on rock and roll time, a time that is exactly
opposite to my own natural body clock. Actually I have a natural
body alarm clock and can wake within minutes of being supposed
to rise. An old boarding school trick simply installed by
being beaten each time you are late. (New parents start here.
No I don't seriously recommend child abuse. I think children
are far too abusive as it is.)
I stagger up at dawn, well 8, which is pre-dawn on rock time,
to find a fax waiting from another of the Greedy Bastard's
Agent's beautiful women. This one is a sultry beauty called
Tiarra and she informs me - via fax- since there is no way
she is going to be out of her warm west coast bed this early
- that I have just the eight interviews in a row. I manfully
swallow a muffin (no there is no real manly way to do this)
and stick my tea bag into the coffee maker (that is not a
double entendre) swallow some lap sang chou song (don't ask)
and hit the phone lines. A series of unanswered calls from
radio stations leave me a little testy, but soon the jocks
start calling back and I pick up on their coffee driven energy.
Everyone wonders why I am doing this. After a few calls even
I wonder why I am doing this? Maybe I should give up the whole
show idea and just do interviews.
A nice hot bath and a nap and I get rid of the inner grump
in me. You see I can be nice. Well, a bit. I have a joke in
my show that this is a Senior tour but the local Denny's is
not joking. They have a Senior menu, serving what they call
Senior Food. (I thought that was a Spanish Chef). There is
a choice between the Senior French toast, the Senior Belgian
waffles and Senior Omelets (no eggs, no whites, no omelet.)
I settle for some Senior Poached eggs and a plate of middle-aged
hash browns. Now I am ready to face the get in. That is a
technical theatrical term, that you don't need to worry about.
Roughly translated it means you get in to the theater. (You
see this diary will be educational as well as rambling.) I
have asked the cast to be DLP (a British repertory theater
term that you definitely do not have to learn, meaning Dead
Letter Perfect.) I am strongly aware that after three days
of solid publicity I am far from DLP. Have to tighten up by
tomorrow except that the sultry Tiarra has shoveled in another
five more interviews first thing in the morning. Damn the
Greedy Bastard Promoters…
|
