Part Deux:

The day is Sunday, 25 September. I arrived home in the small hours of the previous day. I've had barely 24 hours to recover from my deportation/bomb scare adventure. The mission: drive 4 hours to Chicago, braving construction, the remnants of hurricane Rita, and insane Chicago drivers (who are every bit as impatient as New York drivers, only not as skilled), and get my fucking visa.

I had an appointment in the office of the British Consulate General at 9:45 am on Monday, so going in Sunday night was a necessity. I spent the night with some old nunny-bunny friends of my aunt, Sr. Pain-in-the-ass (of "could you please hand me the soap?" fame). The sisters were lovely. I'm a college student, so naturally they fed me pizza and ice cream. It was really cute. I almost felt like a furry exotic pet they had been assigned to babysit for an evening, and the guide book they read, titled "Care of College Students," stated that our preferred diet, should fresh bamboo be unavailable, was pizza and ice cream. After we passed a couple friendly hours chatting about my future plans and the artwork created by the mentally handicapped people they work with, they put me to bed and tucked me in, snug as a bug in a rug.

And then it was morning. My god nuns get up early! Holy hell! I don't get up that early to row, man! Bacon, eggs and bagels for brekkie, drive into the city (45 mins), park at the hospital, catch bus to Consulate's office (another 30 min), arrive early for appt., get turned away by rent-a-cop, go back 15 min later, get handed number, sit down in crowded room with TV on but no sound (which is just as well because the channel was set to the Martha Stewart Show, and her imbicile audience was applauding when, and I am not making this up, she... folded a sheet. Holy egyptian cotton, Batman! Alert the media! She folded a fucking sheet! Moreover, she got a standing fucking ovation! Now, there are some things in this world worthy of a standing ovation. Yo yo Ma comes to mind, as do several of Winston Churchill's speeches and the gold medal performance of Britain's men's coxless 4 at Athens and a production of Jesus Christ Superstar I saw once. But a sheet-folding demonstration? By a CRIMINAL? Really people, what does this say about us as a society? Are we so stupid, so completely inept, that we are that impressed by something which should be a basic day-to-day activity like sweeping the kitchen floor? Never underestimate the breadth of stupidity of the average American. End tanget.), number 19 is called, I approach counter and speak to young man behind plexi-glass. I hand him my documentation. He hands me a slip and says "come back at 2:30 to pick up your visa."

And that's it. It took all of 4 minutes of actual interaction with a live person. 4 minutes. And that's a generous estimate. Would you like to know what is truly ironic about this whole scenario? Would you? Are you sure? You're going to want to hit something, so I recommend you pick up a pillow or some soft object, such as an aging, corpulent Republican. (They're fun to hit. They make a nice "duff" sound, sort of like punching down rising bread dough, if you're into making your own bread.) Have you got your soft object ready? Ok, here goes...

The paperwork I submitted to receive my visa, was EXACTLY THE SAME PAPERWORK I PRESENTED TO THE IMMIGRATION OFFICER AT MANCHESTER AIRPORT.

Ha! And people think the Brits have no sense of humor! We should remember, these are the people who invented comedy. These are the people who brought us Monty Python, Benny Hill, and Prince Charles. Clearly, they are still in top form, even at the most beaurocratic levels of government. I applaud the British government for making me fly all the way across the minging Atlantic at my own expense to present a stack of papers that I had on my person IN ENGLAND. These people understand that laughter is truly the best medicine, and they are deeply concerened with their bean counters' health, so they provide them with endless entertainment and enjoyment as hapless American fly all over the fucking globe to accommodate their mindless and dimwitted beaurocratic procedures. (Sorry, I love England, I really do, but right now, can you blame me? Really?)

Spent the day calming my exasperation by hanging out at the Chicago Art Institute, a truly world-class museum, and passed 3 pleasant hours looking at some of the most beautiful objects d'art ever created. Picked up the visa, ate me a giant, Chicago-style hotdog*, drove home, bought me a plane ticket, and you're all caught up now.



*Chicago-style hotdog: Grilled kosher beef dog served with chopped onion, sweet relish, dill spears, tamales, mustard, sliced tomatoes, and doused with celery salt. Indigestion on a bun. Yum.