Do You Speaka My Language

I got into an argument in the LAX airport domestic terminal with the hostess of an establishment calling itself "Chili's, Too". The deceptive idea of this name is to imply some sort of connection with the Chili's restaurant chain, as is made clear by the identical decor and uniforms and menu style.

"I don't see Awesome Blossom on this menu."

"Oh, we don't have that here."

"..."

"We have most things on the Chili's menu, but I think the Awesome Blossom requires an oversized Deep Fryer or something, and we don't have one."

"[muttering] Poop."

"Our kitchen is really small."

"I have to go. My plane is leaving. Have a nice night."

It wasn't so much an argument, this exchange, I now realize, as it was the worst thing that has ever happened to me.

I am typing this blog post in Sorrento, Victoria, which is at the very tip of the Mornington Peninsula. Last night I paid for a hostel room here in Sorrento with a four pack of horrible Tasmanian beer, ate two dinners under the vague umbrella of research, and slept through the showing of Munich I had planned on seeing for the sole purpose of blogging about the incongruity of watching a serious examination of the ramifications of terrorism and anti-terrorism in a beach resort in Australia.

I'm pretty sure the time I'm spending on the internet right now is going to cost me more money than my room did last night, but it doesn't look like I'm going to have any more internet for the next week, so I'm willing to take the financial hit if that's the only way for me to get my story out to the world. This is my story:

I wore the sweater I put on in Boston for the first three hours I was in Melbourne, which was experiencing a massive heatwave that had somehow knocked out the AC at the three places I visited in town. It was only until a very nice YHA employee named Jaye mocked me in front of other hostellers that I found myself persuaded to "take off [my] idiot jumper, mate."

I watched Curtis Hanson's In Your Shoes two and a half times on the 14 and a half hour flight from LA to Sorrento. The screaming baby two rows ahead of me was unimpressed by Cameron Diaz's ability to walk the tight-rope between emotionally fragile but free spirited and obnoxious basketcase, but I thoroughly enjoyed her prancing and overlarge reptile smile. The flight attendant in my section of Economy strongly resembled George Hamilton, who's now on the second season of Dancing With the Stars and who previously starred in Zorro: The Gay Blade and who is most famous for having a wicked tan. I was near the front of Economy Class, which allowed me to read the following bulkhead sign: "Please Do Not Enter the Business Class Cabin Except In Case of Emergency." For hourse eight through ten of the flight, I fought a strong compulsion to burst through the curtain screaming "Emergency! You guys are dicks. Emergency!" I'm not sure where that urge came from, but I think it may have been leftover resentment from the Chili's, Too debacle rising in my subconscious like floodwaters over an ill-built dam.

The sun is finally fully up here, and I imagine things are starting to open for me to research. My biggest fan so far in Australia are all biting insects. Later today I will be driving to Phillip Island, which supposedly has many many adorable penguins. The last time Let's Go sent me to a place which supposedly had adorable penguins, I disovered that the adorable penguin colony had been wiped out by a devastating avian dyptheria epidemic. Keep your fingers crossed, re: alive penguins.

In conclusion, I love you.