Last Train Out Of Stubbville*

Planes, Trains And Autombiles seems to be one of those films that has become part of the fabric of the holidays. It gets a fare amount of play around Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Coming across it the other night – as well as seeing the Atlantic coast getting two feet of snow – makes me grateful that there will be no travel for Paloma and me this Christmas.

Though the sun of Florida might be pleasant and there could be postcard amount of snow in Indiana, our forecast is for temperatures in the 40s, overcast, maybe rain. But we won’t be having to make like Mad Max on the highway or risk our plane plummeting to the earth in a fiery heap.

I am about as enamored with air travel as Rain Man was. Its extremely dangerous. I don’t have the exact statistics at hand, but I think something like one out of two planes crash.

It’s not the actual concept of aerodynamics that is a concern to me. It’s more a trust thing I have with everyone from the most certainly bored and inattentive people that tighten the bolts on the plane to the most certainly bored and drunken pilots.

Paranoid digressions aside, travel by train is inspired.

(and, unfortunately, not often an option for most of us in the States)

During a brief time living in London, The Tube made me giddy as a schoolgirl and I was always up for a ride on the train. I’d sit or stand contented by the motion and familiar rhythm of stops, watching the antics of the passengers while listening to headphones.

It was like having the greatest ant farm in the world with a soundtrack I loved.

Peak hours could sometimes be less enjoyable, but I do remember certain stretches and routes would have far fewer passengers, especially the line I used most, nicknamed “The Misery Line.”

(I thought it was delightful)

I’ve taken trains through jungles in Malaysia and through farmlands in Ohio and there’s no denying that watching the countryside slowly and serenely roll by outside the window adds romance and intrigue to any landscape.

But, this Christmas, the view from the couch with Paloma and the animals and a few days of downtime appeals to me most.

*In case you’ve forgotten (or never seen Planes, Trains And Automobiles), Stubbville is where Steve Martin and John Candy must depart because “train don’t run out of Wichita… unlessin’ you’re a hog or a cattle.”

Beth Orton – Paris Train
from Daybreaker

I’ve made the trip from London to Paris by train a few times and its a fantastic journey from one major capitol to another in four hours, but it is a bit strange to consider that a portion of the trek is spent under the waters of the channel.

I’ve also spent time riding The Metro, the subway system of Paris, which, compared to The Tube in London isn’t quite as sterile and has a bit more grit and character.

As for Beth Orton’s Paris Train, it’s dreamy and hypnotic and it no more than ends than I’m inclined to hit repeat.

The Clash – Train In Vain (Stand By Me)
from London Calling

I mentioned The Clash’s Train In Vain in a post earlier this year, but I never tire of hearing it.

Cat Stevens – Peace Train
from Teaser And The Firecat

All debate regarding what Cat did say, didn’t say, or actually meant to say regarding Salman Rushdie aside, although I was pretty young, I do vividly remember hearing songs like Morning Has Broken and Wild World on the radio as a tyke.

And, maybe most of all, I remember the ethereal Peace Train.

Megadeth – Train Of Consequences
from Youthanasia

Paloma and I saw Megadeth many years ago. In fact, I believe it was on the tour for Youthanasia. Fortunately, the tickets were comps as the venue was an ancient arena and the sound was dreadful.

However, Train Of Consequences is a monster. It sounds like a train, barrelling down the tracks full throttle with gear-grinding guitar and even a madcap bit of harmonica.

"If You Want A Pizza, Call An Apache"

I have pondered what that statement means many times since I first visited Dublin and came upon it.

It wasn’t graffiti.

It wasn’t code.

It wasn’t some quant Irish adage.

(at least I don’t think it is)

The phrase “If You Want A Pizza, Call An Apache” was written in red letters across a box at a pizza place near Temple Bar.

Of all the cities which I’ve visited, few had me as smitten as quickly as Dublin. On one visit, the cabbie, an older, well-worn fellow with bushy white hair, explained that he was “going to catch hell” from his wife for skipping mass.

Upon hearing our destination of The Clarence, a hotel partly owned by U2’s Bono and The Edge, he asked “Going to see Uncle Bono, eh?”

“Is he around?”

“Ahhh,” the cabbie sighed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes, “he’s probably trying to make peace in the Middle East or something.”

It’s hard not to fall in love with such down-to-Earth people and the Irish have always struck me as some of the least pretentious folks around.

Another trip to Dublin had been spent celebrating a friend’s birthday – dinner at a small Indian restaurant followed by an evening of drinking a club called Zanzibar.

Returning to my hotel room, I sat dully watching a Bruce Lee movie and craving food. I remembered seeing a pizza place not far from the hotel and set out resolutely.

(it was a similar scenario that led to me to wander about lost at three in the morning in Edinburgh, Scotland once – apparently there is something in my DNA that causes me to trek out for pizza in strange, foreign cities after an evening of drinking)

And that is how I ended up at Apache Pizza. It had to be after midnight, but the tiny place was packed with amped up Irish kids. U2’s The Sweetest Thing was playing on the radio and they were all singing along, loudly.

I snagged a pizza for take-out and there was the phrase – “If You Want A Pizza, Call An Apache” – on the box.

It was inscrutable to me then. It’s inscrutable to me now.

The website for the chain offers no explanation and their slogan now appears to be “Too Many Cowboys, Just One Apache.” I have no idea what that has to do with pizza, although it is a rather concise assessment of the plight of Native Americans in the US.

As for the pizza, I thought it was quite good.

Of course, I’d been drinking, it was late/early, and I was hungry, so, as anyone who has been in a similar situation (in Dublin, Ireland or Dublin, Ohio) can likely commiserate, all but the vilest pizza would have been manna.

I don’t understand exactly how that works any more than I understand why an Apache is the person to call if you want a pizza.

But, as Paloma has a birthday coming soon, I’ve submitted an application to be an Apache Pizza franchisee (I’m fairly certain it’s something she doesn’t have).

In the meantime and as we will soon be seeing U2 on their 360 Tour, here are some lesser-known, personal favorites from the band that I don’t expect us to hear…

U2 – Love Comes Tumbling
from Wide Awake In America

Subtle and hypnotic, Love Comes Tumbling was one of two songs on the Wide Awake In America EP that were outtakes from The Unforgettable Fire. Had that album been released a few years later, after the advent of CDs era and longer running times, it would have made a worthy addition.

U2 – Hallelujah Here She Comes
from Desire single

U2 tried to incorporate American blues, gospel and soul into their sound on several tracks from Rattle And Hum with mixed results. Hallelujah Here She Comes – a b-side from that set’s first single – is far more low-key than most of those attempts on Rattle And Hum, and succeeds in being soulful with considerably less effort .

U2 – Lady With The Spinning Head (extended version)
from Even Better Than The Real Thing single

It was dance music of the late ’80s/early ’90s that was a major influence on Achtung Baby. Lady With The Spinning Head was another strong U2 b-side which fused dance-rock with garage-rock, incorporating grinding guitar and a heavy dose of keyboards.

U2 – Salome
from Even Better Than The Real Thing single

Before Achtung Baby was released in the autumn of 1991, a bootleg of tracks from the recording sessions for that album caused a stir. Entitled The Salome Sessions, the triple CD release is, for fans of the band, a fascinating glimpse into many of the songs that would appear on Achtung Baby in various stages of completion.

Salome, a song that didn’t make it onto Achtung Baby inspired that bootleg’s moniker.

Amish In The Airport, Failed Card Cheats, And My Imaginary Mail-Order Bride

Not long ago, I made an airport run to pick-up Paloma. As much as I loathe flying, I love airports.

Part of the allure of airports to me is the sense of possibility. One minute you’re here and, in a given amount of time, you can be somewhere else – possibly somewhere far, far away. It’s why I used to always keep my passport on hand.

However, it is the sheer human circus and the kinetic energy contained at airports which is also very appealing. This was immediately apparent as I sat near the baggage claim, trying to discern the difference, if any, between the flight designation “landed” and “arrived.” (although, it would seem impossible, as well as undesirable, to land before arriving).

A small group, seemingly a family, passed my position. They appeared to be Amish.

I mean, based on what I’d seen in the movie Witness, they certainly fit the description. The women wore simple, ankle-length frocks and bonnets. The lone man, an older fellow, was sporting suspenders, a straw hat and wore his facial hair in the style of a beard sans moustache. He certainly looked like a Jedidiah or Ezekiel.

Of course, when I think of the Amish, I think of churning butter, pies, and raising the occasional barn. I do not think air travel.

Something else that caught my attention was the rather uncomfortable-looking footwear I repeatedly saw rather stylish women wearing. Snowshoes could be all the rage for all I know (although, I’d like to think I’d notice), but these women were wearing what I would describe as wooden shoes.

Wooden shoes? Is this something that the Dutch are behind? Do they hate Americans because we are free and, to retaliate, have chosen to dupe women into wearing ill-fitting footwear, leading them to be irritable and, thus, creating friction between the sexes and undermining our way of life?

My observations were leaving me with far more questions than insights.

Suddenly, a dodgy, little fellow sat down next to me. His twitchy demeanor, bushy moustache, and shifty eyes made me think that he would cheat at cards (and not well, at that). He quickly struck up a conversation that I really didn’t want to have, finally inquiring as to whether I was waiting for someone.

“My mail-order bride is arriving,” I told him.

“Mail-order bride?” The dodgy, unsuccessful card cheat had the nifty habit of repeating, as a question, almost everything I said. Perhaps he was a failed Jeopardy contestant.

“Yeah. She’s coming here from Macadamia.”

“Macadamia?”

“You’ve heard of Macadamian nuts?”

“Yeah.”

“Her homeland is where 98% of all Macadamian nuts are grown,” I said.

“Aren’t Macadamian nuts from Hawaii?”

“Those are Hawaiian Macadamian nuts. Big difference.”

“Have you ever met her?” my new friend asked.

“Who?”

“Your mail-order bride?”

“Paloma? No. We’ve exchanged a lot of e-mails, though, and I know she likes butter.”

“Butter?” He furrowed his brow. “Ever seen her picture?”

“No.”

His expression grew more quizzical. “Well, how will you know her?”

“She’ll be wearing the native, ceremonial headdress of her country.”

Paloma arrived and we greeted each other with a hug. We walked off, holding hands, quite possibly leaving the failed card cheat under the impression that somewhere there is a distant land called Macadamia whose women like butter and a baseball cap with a cartoon monkey is considered ornate head ware.

Drive-By Truckers – Shut Up And Get On The Plane
from Southern Rock Opera

Nanci Griffith – Outbound Plane
from The MCA Years: A Retrospective

Peter, Paul And Mary – Leaving On A Jet Plane
from The Best of Peter, Paul and Mary: Ten Years Together

M.I.A. – Paper Planes
from Kala

Jake, The Fat Man And Albinos At The Equator

Having gotten to do some traveling (most often on a quite limited budget), I’ve had the opportunity for chance encounters with folks that I wouldn’t have met had I remained on my couch, smoking cigarettes, eating Cheetos, and watching reruns on Nick-At-Night (which is, in actuality, the career path of a former neighbor).

I’ve met Krishnan the Bicycle Thief and almost rented a flat in London from the most renowned wig maker in the United Kingdom.

I met Krishnan while studying at the National University Of Singapore. My friends and I from the States chose to translate “a semester studying abroad” into “a six-month vacation.” Classes were rarely attended and even setting foot on campus was mostly prompted by a desire to spend time poolside.

Campus was a forty-five minute trip requiring two bus transfers (if it had been accessible by train…).

On the occasions where I did make this arduous trek, I’d often notice a pair of fellow passengers. It was difficult not to do so.

They were albinos.

Albinos. In Singapore. Fifty odd miles or so from the equator.

That had to be tough.

I came to realize that they were obviously a couple, holding hands and whispering to one another, gazing at each other with no apparent interest as to whether they were living directly under the sun or on the surface of the moon.

I wondered how they met. Was it some personal ad? Was it a support group for people afflicted with albinism? What were the odds?

They seemed quite happy.

Returning from campus, I’d often end up in the lounge of the old compound that served as our dorm. There, I’d stare at the only television screen on the grounds.

There were two shows that always seemed to be airing – some “game show” featuring a burly, loin-cloth clad fellow tearing the skin from pineapples with his bare hands and Jake And The Fat Man.

I had never watched Jake And The Fat Man, a buddy, detective show, but it was oddly comforting to zone out on something semi-familiar.

There was a cop named Jake. His sidekick/foil was – quite fortuitously – a fat man.

The two would bicker affectionately like an old married couple as they solved some caper in time for a drink together at the bar. Getting soused, one of them would crack a cringe-inducing one-liner to summarize the preceding hour’s antics and the credits would roll.

Indeed, it would seem to be. There is someone for everyone.

Eurythmics – There Must Be An Angel (Playing With My Heart)
I had to include this love song as it is positively, ridiculously giddy and can barely contain its optimism.

And, you get Stevie Wonder on harmonica.

U2 – Wild Honey
The other day, I mentioned a Tom Petty song that makes me think of Paloma. If there is a song that best expresses how I feel about her, this one would be on the short list. Happy Valentine’s Day, Paloma.

Mandy Barnett – A Simple I Love You
I don’t listen to a lot of country music and one of the reasons I held on to Mandy Barnett’s debut album when I received a promo was the glowing reviews. We also had an art board in the record store where Paloma and I worked and Barnett bore a slight resemblance to Paloma.

Anyhow, A Simple I Love You is a lovely song with an uncluttered, elegant arrangement. It was produced by the legendary Owen Bradley who had worked with Patsy Cline (to whom Barnett drew comparisons).

Jonatha Brooke – Because I Told You So
In some parallel universe, Brooke probably became a household name during the Lilith Fair years of the mid/late-’90s. Instead, she never really broke through the clutter of acts rushed to radio by labels eager to capitalize on that era’s attention to female artists. It’s really too bad.

Because I Told You So is achingly lovely.

The Toast Of Borneo For An Evening

My accomplishments in life, so far, have been modest. I once avoided receiving what I expected to be a pummeling at the hands of Cheap Trick’s Rick Nielsen (it ended in smiles). And I was the first person to ever recognize Sheryl Crow in public (it ended in frustration).

I have been quite fortunate in having the opportunity to do a bit of traveling, a few times to places that were slightly unusual. Borneo would be on that list.

It was quite a spontaneous trek. Studying in Singapore, we had a long weekend (which hardly mattered as my friends and I took a hands-off approach to attending class) and my friend Shawn and I decided to go somewhere. We met a travel agent, told her how much money we had, and asked where we could go.

“Borneo,” she replied.

I had no more than an approximate idea where Borneo was located, but, six hours later, we were on an airport tarmac in Kuching, Borneo’s capitol. Fortunately, our cabbie deposited us at a 7-11 (no matter where I’ve travelled, there’s always a 7-11) to help us reorient a bit before we headed to a hotel across the street, The Hotel Mexico (excellent lodging should you be in the area and willing to spend six bucks).

Borneo was an experience. There weren’t (m)any “round eyes” aside from Shawn and myself and our typical college attire, combined with the length of my hair, made us rather conspicuous. But, as I recall, most of the locals where polite.

The food was interesting (although we did supplement the local fare with KFC at times), and I discovered one of my favorite beaches as well as the greatest glass of pineapple juice I’ve ever had. We took a river trip with some fisherman and I learned – only once I returned to the States – that the oldest rain forests in the world are in Borneo.

Our final evening began with a couple drinks in the hotel bar at a massive Holiday Inn. It had been built, apparently, when a movie, Farewell To The King starring Nick Nolte, had been filmed in Borneo.

From the hotel bar, we ended up at some nearby street café, indoor seating with the street side wall open to the pedestrian traffic. We drew the usual amount of stares, prompting me to ask our waitress, Lily, “Why does everyone keep staring at us?” She smiled.

“Do people know who we are?” I joked. She appeared puzzled.

I quickly concocted the explanation that we were members of the band R.E.M. (I think I opted to be Peter Buck; Shawn, Michael Stipe, although we bore no resemblance to either aside from being carbon-based lifeforms). I told her how the rest of the band was in Singapore as we prepared for a tour of Southeast Asia (which, as I recall, was true).

Soon, we had attracted a small crowd, regaling them with G-rated tales of life on the road, signing a few autographs, buying a round of drinks, and promising Lily that we would write a song for her (entitled Lily’s Pen, which we had borrowed).

I hope Lily got over the disappointment if she ever purchased an R.E.M. album expecting her song. Meanwhile, five of my favorite songs from the band for whom I was momentarily, albeit not necessarily, the lead guitarist.

R.E.M. – So. Central Rain

R.E.M. – Superman

R.E.M. – Orange Crush

R.E.M. – Belong

R.E.M. – Leave