I love the city, but there are times I really wish I was home, dipping my feet into the waves — and hoping that I’ll never grow a third arm. (It is Lake Erie, after all.)
Three arms or two, I just wish I could share this part of the world with everyone. Sigh.
Whoa, I’ve been taking a lot of trips this month. If it wasn’t for you, Megabus, and your ridiculous deals, what the heck would this lil’ gal do?
Unfortunately these ridiculous deals come with a sleepless 12-hour bus ride, which at one point was fine, until most of my visits were spent massaging my neck and napping. Wow, this is truly the act of a pampered visitor. Napping in New York? Sacrilege!
(Come on, the weather was lousy. I deserved this.)
I went to Philly and walked around so much my feet are now shredded stubs.
Photos are here!
I expected to arrive on Collingwood’s main street to clamouring throngs of 60-something Elvis fans, wiping off slobber as they gazed at gyrating impersonators. I expected the crowds to be buzzing like annoying mosquitoes and the shrill screams to challenge even the loudest gang of World Cup vuvuzelas.
So… when we rolled into town and had to squint just to find only three Elvises walking down the street — amongst sparse and disinterested crowds, no less — the final destination of our weekend road trip felt a bit anti-climactic.
Then again, had we arrived on Saturday, I’m sure there would’ve been more of that see-and-be-seen action. In general, Sundays are the lazy day of the week. I mean, did Elvis even work on Sundays? Probably not. Elvis impersonators would likely follow suit.
We had to give it a try, though. This was our final destination, after all. Our first stop was the open market area, which was also sparsely populated with people, and had limited offerings of standard Elvis fare, which included many glittery jumpsuits, karaoke videos, belts, and snowglobes. The kitsch factor wasn’t as high as I thought it would be, with nowhere near as many fanatics as I imagined. In fact, 50% of the stalls had nothing to do with Elvis. Even the food was standard carnival upchuck. (The ubiquitous funnel cake and pulled pork sandwich made their appearance.)
It seemed we arrived just as the festival was winding down, considering the silver-coated Elvis busker was taking off his costume right on the main street, wiping off his glittery facepaint like he was clocking off in a factory. It was hard to mask our disappointment.
But as it turned out, ground zero of the festival was backed up in a huge parking lot east of the main strip, a $20-something ticket for the Elvis championships, which was filled with fans watching grown men swivel and snarl for the big poobah crown. And yes, the 10 Elvises we spotted (and followed) were fun, but all hot n’ sweaty, almost ready to take off their jumpsuits, unleash the pompadours to the closet.
After 15 minutes of loitering around the fence, we’d had enough. There’s only so much gawking through fences one can do, especially when you’re not a huge Elvis fan to begin with. We were also hungry, wanted to get out of the sun, and had our minds set to stuff our faces with carbs and ice cream… which, I suppose, is an action Elvis himself would full-heartedly support.
After all, it was only fair to celebrate The King in my own way.
Does someone want to sort out my tax paperwork? I can think of probably 1,249,132 things better to do than this.
This blog post is one of them.
“Start a War” – The National on La Blogotheque
This is one band that consistently sends chills down my spine. This is one video that does the same.
Despite lead singer Matt Berninger’s predictable fixation of grabbing the mic with one hand and sticking the other in his armpit, their live performances always grab me by the neck and seem to scream, “Fahged about the world and listen here!”
So when I heard about the special event on May 15, I got a little excited. My eyeballs will soon get some more live armpit action, thanks to this benefit show for Red Hot, raising awareness for HIV + AIDS.
Sweet. What a perfect excuse to stay inside on a Saturday night.