Why My Day was Rubbish
Today Margo decided she and Sarah would sleep in and do some cocooning in the rain, so I had a day to myself, in London, with virtually unlimited resources. And I utterly wasted it because I didn't know what to do.
Well, I had some ideas, but they turned out to be rubbish. I started going ... hmm, where to next? I ended up going to Piccadilly Circus and a Starbucks, where I had a drink I like, the white chocolate mocha. And you know what? It was exactly the same as it was in Portland and Seattle and everywhere else. Why should I expect it to be any different?
Then I decided to head to the Thames south bank near the Millennium Dome to see The Dali Experience. A museum of the works of Salvador Dali. Containing 500 originals.
Rubbish.
I kind of suspected as much since it charges admission (and a hefty one too: 12 pounds for an adult, probably $22). And it was part of this ring of attractions you could get discounts to if you had this certain tourist map which our bed & breakfast gave us. So it was fishy to begin with. But the items in this "museum" were mostly line drawings, as opposed to fully-fledged paintings ... and most, perhaps all, were reproductions, albeit many were signed. There were sculptures too ... but guess what? Once a mold is made, you can make as many copies as you want, so I'm guessing these were copies too. And there were none of the trippy, photorealistic paintings that I'd bought posters for decades ago whilst still a lad at University in Madison. So at this point I was feeling rather a chump. If you were to look closely at my forehead, you might have seen some light bruising, deep in the epidermis, starting to form the shape of the letter "L".
Desperately seeking a better activity, I remembered that I had a slight interest in seeing the Notting Hill neighbourhood, so I popped into the Tube and made my way to a station intersecting the Central line, where I'd hoped to make it to the Notting Hill Gate station. No such luck - being a Saturday, there was scheduled work on that line, so stations were closed after Marble Arch. And I'd already passed my earlier opportunity to take the Circle or District lines, and I thought I'd heard the Circle also had some closures. So. Where next?
I ended up going to Oxford Circus, then walking down Regent Street toward Piccadilly Circus. I passed the Apple Store and stopped in. I'll be buying an iMac soon. I had a few questions, like is it better to buy here and schlep the box to Colchester, or have it delivered instead, or order online? and is there any way I can reasonably avoid paying the value-added tax even though I'll be living here and my daughter will be going to school, or will you at least listen to my whining about my having to pay about $2000 for a computer that would only cost $1200 in the States, but I couldn't use it anyway because it would have a Region 1 DVD player and no UK power adapter, because the Dollar is so stinking weak against the Pound? But none of the black-T-shirted hipper-than-me salespeople were available to listen to my pointless rants anyway, so I walked onward.
At Piccadilly Circus, I passed the same Starbucks where I'd been in the morning (and no doubt the sales staff noticed the increasingly darkening "L" on my forehead) and changed direction to Leicester Square with the intent of getting a bite to eat and perhaps seeing a film at the cinema. So that's where I headed.
Once reaching Leicester Square, I surveyed the three cineplexes and settled on seeing an afternoon matinee of Miami Vice. I found it at one, but it wasn't showing until 14:00, and it was only 12:30, and I thought "3:30 in the afternoon? Maybe I'll come back later."
So I ended up going to another in a chain of restaurants I'd eaten at earlier. The name escapes me, but I went there because I wanted a pint plus a decent meal in a non-smoking, family-friendly environment. Unlike in Scotland (and probably Wales, at least in our experience), smoking is still allowed in public places in England, which means most pubs are smoky, so it's a challenge to find a breathable place to get a pint. I think this will be short-lived, but it's a pain in the meantime. At any rate, this time I noticed the restaurant aims to bring the diner the best of American and British Cuisine, and I realized I was in a slightly different TGIFridays. The "L" on my forehead darkened. It actually started throbbing when I ordered a full fish-and-chips entree instead of the bite I'd intended, as I wasn't even that hungry.
Then I made the "L"-darkening realisation that 14:00 is actually 2 in the afternoon, giving me less than an hour until the movie. So at least I could hang out. After paying much more than I'd intended for lunch, I went to the cinema and bought a ticket.
At this point, I still had half an hour to kill, so I wandered the square, considering getting another pint but ending up in an ice cream shop. And did I buy my single scoop? No, I settled on a Large dish, which ends up being two scoops. Plenty more dairy than I was expecting. The "L" began to throb and turn red.
Then I strolled to the Cinema. Oh, did I mention the price? I think it was 9 pounds 50 pence. Which is like $19. For a matinee.
It was a relief that the cinema was not showing those annoying advert slides before the start. I was sure that there would be no commercials. But I was wrong. There were probably five. But at least they were clever. And then the onslaught of trailers.
The sound was loud, but I figured they'd turn it down once the movie started. I was wrong.
Why Miami Vice? I thought it would be kind of cool, a pleasant diversion. I enjoyed Michael Mann's previous films, especially Heat, and Collateral wasn't too bad.
But since I was having a rubbish day, I'll tell you why this film was rubbish too. How rubbish? Let me count the ways.
And by now I'm trying not to think of how much money and time I've wasted on this crap, rubbish day. The "L" is pulsing, a vibrant purple. I cut my losses and head back to our room.
Well, I had some ideas, but they turned out to be rubbish. I started going ... hmm, where to next? I ended up going to Piccadilly Circus and a Starbucks, where I had a drink I like, the white chocolate mocha. And you know what? It was exactly the same as it was in Portland and Seattle and everywhere else. Why should I expect it to be any different?
Then I decided to head to the Thames south bank near the Millennium Dome to see The Dali Experience. A museum of the works of Salvador Dali. Containing 500 originals.
Rubbish.
I kind of suspected as much since it charges admission (and a hefty one too: 12 pounds for an adult, probably $22). And it was part of this ring of attractions you could get discounts to if you had this certain tourist map which our bed & breakfast gave us. So it was fishy to begin with. But the items in this "museum" were mostly line drawings, as opposed to fully-fledged paintings ... and most, perhaps all, were reproductions, albeit many were signed. There were sculptures too ... but guess what? Once a mold is made, you can make as many copies as you want, so I'm guessing these were copies too. And there were none of the trippy, photorealistic paintings that I'd bought posters for decades ago whilst still a lad at University in Madison. So at this point I was feeling rather a chump. If you were to look closely at my forehead, you might have seen some light bruising, deep in the epidermis, starting to form the shape of the letter "L".
Desperately seeking a better activity, I remembered that I had a slight interest in seeing the Notting Hill neighbourhood, so I popped into the Tube and made my way to a station intersecting the Central line, where I'd hoped to make it to the Notting Hill Gate station. No such luck - being a Saturday, there was scheduled work on that line, so stations were closed after Marble Arch. And I'd already passed my earlier opportunity to take the Circle or District lines, and I thought I'd heard the Circle also had some closures. So. Where next?
I ended up going to Oxford Circus, then walking down Regent Street toward Piccadilly Circus. I passed the Apple Store and stopped in. I'll be buying an iMac soon. I had a few questions, like is it better to buy here and schlep the box to Colchester, or have it delivered instead, or order online? and is there any way I can reasonably avoid paying the value-added tax even though I'll be living here and my daughter will be going to school, or will you at least listen to my whining about my having to pay about $2000 for a computer that would only cost $1200 in the States, but I couldn't use it anyway because it would have a Region 1 DVD player and no UK power adapter, because the Dollar is so stinking weak against the Pound? But none of the black-T-shirted hipper-than-me salespeople were available to listen to my pointless rants anyway, so I walked onward.
At Piccadilly Circus, I passed the same Starbucks where I'd been in the morning (and no doubt the sales staff noticed the increasingly darkening "L" on my forehead) and changed direction to Leicester Square with the intent of getting a bite to eat and perhaps seeing a film at the cinema. So that's where I headed.
Once reaching Leicester Square, I surveyed the three cineplexes and settled on seeing an afternoon matinee of Miami Vice. I found it at one, but it wasn't showing until 14:00, and it was only 12:30, and I thought "3:30 in the afternoon? Maybe I'll come back later."
So I ended up going to another in a chain of restaurants I'd eaten at earlier. The name escapes me, but I went there because I wanted a pint plus a decent meal in a non-smoking, family-friendly environment. Unlike in Scotland (and probably Wales, at least in our experience), smoking is still allowed in public places in England, which means most pubs are smoky, so it's a challenge to find a breathable place to get a pint. I think this will be short-lived, but it's a pain in the meantime. At any rate, this time I noticed the restaurant aims to bring the diner the best of American and British Cuisine, and I realized I was in a slightly different TGIFridays. The "L" on my forehead darkened. It actually started throbbing when I ordered a full fish-and-chips entree instead of the bite I'd intended, as I wasn't even that hungry.
Then I made the "L"-darkening realisation that 14:00 is actually 2 in the afternoon, giving me less than an hour until the movie. So at least I could hang out. After paying much more than I'd intended for lunch, I went to the cinema and bought a ticket.
At this point, I still had half an hour to kill, so I wandered the square, considering getting another pint but ending up in an ice cream shop. And did I buy my single scoop? No, I settled on a Large dish, which ends up being two scoops. Plenty more dairy than I was expecting. The "L" began to throb and turn red.
Then I strolled to the Cinema. Oh, did I mention the price? I think it was 9 pounds 50 pence. Which is like $19. For a matinee.
It was a relief that the cinema was not showing those annoying advert slides before the start. I was sure that there would be no commercials. But I was wrong. There were probably five. But at least they were clever. And then the onslaught of trailers.
The sound was loud, but I figured they'd turn it down once the movie started. I was wrong.
Why Miami Vice? I thought it would be kind of cool, a pleasant diversion. I enjoyed Michael Mann's previous films, especially Heat, and Collateral wasn't too bad.
But since I was having a rubbish day, I'll tell you why this film was rubbish too. How rubbish? Let me count the ways.
- When Sonny and Ricardo go undercover, is it me, or do they not change their names? Hmm, if I were a bad guy and wanted to punish them (and they do), where would I go? Um, perhaps the phone book?
- I'm sure it's been noted before, but how does a police officer afford enough to own a Ferrari? And the way he drives it, how does he keep it in such great shape?
- Sonny decides to pursue the woman he's working for undercover. So he takes her for a ride in a speedboat. To another country. Overnight. They dance and make out. But poor Tubbs? Isn't he rather left hanging, having to smuggle drugs by himself and all? And what about their undercover operation? You mean, nobody misses both the undercover drug smuggler, and his boss?
- And why is she attracted to him anyway, with that long hair, mustache and stubble? He could be a roadie for Lynrd Skynrd. Putting him in a suit doesn't help much.
- Later, the woman states to Sonny that she wouldn't want to give up what they have. Which is a dance and a sleepover. Okay? That's a good weekend for a teenager. Maybe they should be aiming a bit higher?
- Everyone uses cell phones. No land lines. While they're "undercover", working with bad guys who can trigger bombs via cell phones, who have CCTV cameras in other countries, don't these guys realise that by using a mobile, they're practically advertising their coordinates?
- All of the police on the team are expert marksmen. And expert drivers. And expert speedboaters. And they must all have pilot's licenses. And I realized when Sonny is dancing with his woman ... he must have, at some point in his life, taken on the incredibly uncool act (which is surprisingly not in the film) of taking dancing lessons. Yep, just imagine it. Sonny driving his Ferrari to some little walk-up studio after work, and going one-two-three-kick, or some such.
- Why do they meet on rooftops? Where not only satellites, but even the guys in the offices next door, can see exactly what they're doing?
- So there's a big shootout, and Sonny decides to take his lover, who happens to be an international criminal, away. So she can be free. Despite his being a detective and all. So anyway if you can get past his willingness to jeaopardize his career for a woman he had a nice night with ... he thinks, hmm, maybe I can get her out of this. So he just takes the ride of one of his partners. Some Euro sports car I couldn't even place, which even the Chief couldn't afford. Didn't even leave a note. And how did his partners go home? They came to the drop site in two cars. One (the one Sonny and Ricardo came in, a fine white BMW) was shot to pieces. So ... doesn't he kind of leave them in a bad place? In a shootout? What, are they taking cabs home?
- So he takes this woman to a hideout. An old Art Deco mansion, by the looks of it. On the waterfront of course. And it seems he doesn't even have a key for it. What, no one's sleeping there already? No graffiti on the walls? Nah. His fridge is probably perfectly stocked.
And by now I'm trying not to think of how much money and time I've wasted on this crap, rubbish day. The "L" is pulsing, a vibrant purple. I cut my losses and head back to our room.
posted by Michael Nelson at 10:52 am
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