Stuart Gimble: July 2002 Archives

Stu entertains the aboriginal Indianans in Gary, IN.

Oh humidity, how I miss thee! It feels so grand to be swaddled in your moist bosom. How could I have been away from you so long, Indiana?

I'll tell you how. Your factorial stench has more than an aromatic presence; its existence is a physical force which can push away the dullest olfactorian.

I've never liked Indiana nor do I care for its corn and flatness. I dare say Indiana makes Twiggy seem voluptuous. But I did enjoy this state's people and humidity. Roger, an old pal of mine, met up with me amongst Gary, Indiana's smoky industrial parks and we frolicked in the water laden air for the better part of a week.

Roger and I ran through rows of corn, hiding from each other. The old lad has quite a spark! We then espied a lonely meadow in need of some friends. Crafty old Roger smithed a kite out of some fallen leaves and twigs. We tied it to the ball of twine I keep in my pocket at let it soar. Our spirits were flying with it as we stood in that grassy field staring at Roger's beautiful creation jumping and diving in the gray, sooty sky. I skipped about, freely spewing happy verse. Roger commented upon my prowess, shouting, "Stuart Gimble! You are this nation's only true Laureate!" Thank you, dear Roger, my heart's only true friend.

Alas, our party was quashed! The poor old meadow upon which we danced was none other than a filthy lot belonging to General Motors. They wished us off their property. We complied, but not before Roger gave them the raspberries, if you know what I mean. That wily old dog, what will we do with him?

More to come next week.

Stu signs an autograph while standing in the morass in Bithlo, FL.

The sunset ran away from us as we raced from west to east. Darkness clouded the Greyhound bus's windshield and swallowed our hearts. We were driving to Florida. More specifically, central Florida.

I know I've been complaining a lot and believe me, I have my reasons. For all intensive purposes, this trip has been a hell on Earth. But I think I'm onto Pork Pony's zany motives and I think I like it.

Bithlo is a scrawny, scruffy little town due west of the tourist populated Orlando. More different types of animals are eaten by its natives than anywhere else in the country. Alligator is considered quite the delicacy. The natives are a bit wily. They all enjoy randy spankings and lashings. I must say, I got in line myself!

Contrary to my sanitized stays in Phoenix and Irvine, I decided to get dirty in Bithlo. Why, you ask? Simply put, I found the depth and intricacy of the white trash there to be alluring. Men wrestle over chew tobacco leavings. Women wrestle over chew tobacco leavings. Women wrestle. And they're husky, the lot.

Watching these brawny women grapple made me forget that they had no teeth. They'd tussle for a bit, cook up a pot of divine 'gator stew and then get back to their playful fisticuffs. If it weren't for the intense humidity and the lack of any written material, I'd say this was heaven.

Send me to your next chosen firmament, Pork Pony.

Sun City's heat cooks Stuart while he signs a copy of his book for a fan.

I've been sent to hell on Earth. That's right, dear reader, Pork Pony has planted me in Phoenix, AZ, home to the highest concentration of Outback Steakhouses in the world.

Phoenix embodies everything that's wretched about Los Angeles. It's like living inside a convection oven (spare the aroma of a finely cooked meal). Like the City of Angels, Sun City has loads of sun and blue skies. Sounds good in theory, does it not? 'Tis but a myth.

First of all, the sun in Arizona isn't like the sun in New England or even Los Angeles. It's a horrid, fiery bastard intent on beating your head with its rays. How can a well dressed man like yours truly survive in this kind of heat? He cannot. He can only be fried in tweed or braised in wool.

Which brings me to my second point. The sun and "beautiful" weather attract the dimmest amongst humanity. It seems every dullard who can bleach their hair and lift a weight believes the sun's rays will somehow enhance them, make them brighter. The effect is quite the opposite. The packs of idiots stick together in Phoenix, making each other dumber and dumber. I'm certain that my IQ is ten points lower as a result of my stay.

Lastly, this dreaded place is chain restaurant heaven. You'd think the natives would have something to offer. Nay. There are no brawny lasses serving local delicacies; just waifs with artificially large bosoms tossing around cheap wine and processed food at places like Olive Garden and Red Lobster.

I'm beginning to hate this trip. Please Pork Pony, I beg you, get me out of the USA.

A rabid fan obtains Stu's autograph in Irvine, CA.

Once again, Gimble's spirit is led astray. It did soar about the highest heights when the news came upon it that soul and body were to embark on a world tour most pleasant; but alas, truth, fate, and the Pork Pony do laugh in the face of the dashing Gimble.

As I mentioned before, I thought of this world tour as an exotic endeavor, one which would show me each of the world's wonders in their very own splendor. Alas, the news has been read to me and it is bad. I am to receive my destination each Monday and it shall be secret until that day. This past Monday, my assignment was handed to me and as I bustled off to meet my new temporary home, I learned that the place I was off to was not far nor was it distant. It was Irvine, California, an hour and a half drive out of Los Angeles.

I cursed my counterparts and superiors, uttering incantations most foul against their spirits. Riding on my rage, I arrived in Irvine, where I was to stay for a week. Aside from its artificially green lawns, overly wide highways and streets, and pasty white inhabitants, it is naught but a wasteland. I dare say Irvine, California is the most culturally devoid city in the entire Union.

One fellow, I shan't use his name, approached me asking for directions to the library. This chap could spot a man of letters, I do say. However, when I informed the man that I'd never been to Irvine, he handed me some beef jerky and told me that he'd lived there his entire life. He said that it was the greatest place on Earth. I asked, "So how is it, dear sir, that you don't know where the library is?" And he simply said, "Well I got all my entertainment from the TV set. We've got over 500 channels of digital cable." He then strode over to his Lincoln Navigator and sped off. Need I say more? Nay.

Every restaurant in Irvine is part of a national chain. The food all tastes the same. Tacos from the "Authentic Mexican" restaurant El Torito taste identical to the Chinese food from P.F. Chang's. It's as if they blend all of their choicest foodstuffs in a giant mixing bowl and shape the amalgam into meal-looking food sculptures.

I loathe Irvine. Hopefully my next endeavor will be better.

Until next debacle,