. . . on the other side of
the Pond.
Back in the 80s I took a two-week
vacation in England -- your stereotype American Anglophile tourist
on a pilgrimage. In London, I stayed at a cheapo hotel in Bayswater:
shoebox rooms, communal bathroom on each floor, TV lounge off the
entrance. Walking in the neighborhood one night, I saw a neon sign
that just cracked me up. It read:
"Texas Lone Star West
Saloon & Wine Bar"
It was the "&
Wine Bar" that made it perfect.
Days later, somewhere in
Southwest England (I don't remember which town), I spotted an
ancient-looking stone church with a sway-backed slate roof. I later
found out it was built in the 14th century. It looked sort of like
the Old
Post Office in Tintagel:
but smaller and plainer. I
crossed the street and walked up to it, ready to breathe in the misty
Olde-Englysshe-ness. There was a flyer tacked to the door, a notice
for an upcoming Square Dance, illustrated with a drawing of a cowgirl
wearing fringed buckskin and holding two six-shooters.
7 comments:
Visited relatives living in Poland a few years back, and coincidentally coinciding with the local USA-Fest: cowboys, Indians, and Elvis all the way down.
I have to tell you, around here I won't even consider attending a square dance unless there is at least one woman wearing fringed buckskin clothes and carrying six shooters - one cannot be too careful these days.
Back in the late '90s I flew over to London for a weekend - happened to be there when the Superbowl was being played. I watched it, because what the hey, it was the middle of the night, what else was I going to do, then there was a power outage, because the hamster died or something, and that was that.
Merry olde - glad I went, won't be going back.
Then there's the story of the Gay Texan traveling in the UK, walks into The Chapless Saloon and gets his ass thrown out. Turns out it was an drinking establishment for English dikes.
Don't Fence Me In.
When a country is hemmed in and losing its ass, it cities and its life blood to bomb dropping war mongers while the brave lads hold on by a thread, the arrival en force of the free wheelin', shoot from the hip and take no lip Yanks with their can-do attitudes sure must have been something. What followed was an infusion of American spirit, grit, and the attributes edutcher listed in his "A Man's Gotta Do What A Man's Gotta Do" post, with Westerns paving the way and providing the accompanying picture and symbol.
I like the way this post stands on its own yet fits and follows this thought from the earlier post on Western influence: What's most intriguing is that it captured the imagination of not only this country, but of the world because it captured the character of America.
Sixty G, wind up that long hair in a Hop Sing man-bun or braid and I bet one of those buckskin wearing women would willingly holster her six-shooter to grant you a dance. After which you could climb back in your truck with your saw and leave her wondering just who was that unmasked man?
Your description of what the Brits called "Yanks" reminds me of my next door neighbors growing up. Mr. A served in England, I have no idea in what capacity, and there he met a lovely young English lass, and they were smitten with each other. As sometimes happened, they got married. I always remembered her kindness towards me - that was in short supply in my house and both Mrs. A and her mother, the delightful Mrs. Dean, lived next door. Mrs. Dean introduced me to a treat - you take a piece of toast, put some butter on it, put peanut butter on top of that, then cover that with some nice sweet jelly. Mmm mmm, that was good stuff. Can't eat like that these days, but I still remember it from 65 years ago.
Just recently I learned of Mrs. A's death - one month shy of her 77th wedding anniversary. Needless to say, Mr. A, who is in his 90s, is taking this loss very hard. Seventy seven years together, one just never knows...
As for my hair, it is thin and looks more like bum hair than anything stylish. And around here there are no social events. None. People have lost their damn minds. The women are vegans/communists and they wear masks while driving alone in their cars. What is that all about? So no vegan buckskin, no masked dances, nothing. Oh well, while I never suspected that being a recluse would pay off, this year it is working for me.
"...who was that unmasked man?"
Great line, MamaM. Around here we know who he is.
That is a great line, and when faced with having to go into an establishment that requires a mask I sometimes think that the Clayton Moore style would meet the letter of the law.
My argument would be "Hey, it says 'Mask', right? This worked for the Lone Ranger, right?" But then I just turn around and go elsewhere.
Just the other day I encountered my ASL teacher in a store and she said "No mask!" And I responded "It says 'face covering', what do you think this beard is?"
Yeah, life is too short for this baloney and I am getting a bit cranky about having my civil rights denied.
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