THE RADISSON HAS MOVED ME OUT OF ETHAN ALLEN’S BEDROOM INTO A BUSINESS-CLASS ROOM THAT OVERLOOKS LAKE CHAMPLAIN, SO I NOW HAVE A SPECTACULAR BUSINESS-CLASS VIEW. I CONTEMPLATE asking for a lower-middle-class room with a view but settle for this neat box with its huge picture window. I am gazing due south over Lake Champlain. It looks very cold. Seagulls flap about, fishing. Fingers of light shift spectacularly through the clouds, illuminating the bright white of the sailboats as they race about the bay. Across the water lie low, bumpy hills in orange and green plaid. Here and there tiny islands sprout masts of sailboats against the skimming clouds. A sleek, low ferry hoots mournfully and slides away from the dock, its fresh white-and-blue trim glistening in the low-angled sunlight. Long lines of stone breakwaters bisect the dark gray of the waves. The sun lights the islands, dusting the tips of the trees with gold and brightening the far shore. You can see the whitecaps as the wind whips everything to the right across my view. Beneath me, the low line of the breakwater is buffeted by big waves, sending plumes of spray barreling over from the power of the driving wind. The yellow trees are thinning rapidly as the wind carries away the dying leaves. The low hills slip in and out of silhouette, sometimes appearing as dark blobs starkly outlined, sometimes gray mounds veiled with rain. The mountain disappears and is replaced by a great burst of light. The hills appear like humpback whales and then disappear again. Now the water is dark, now light. All the time I’m nattering away about Monty Python and why I’m a greedy bastard. One minute I’m in Edmonton, now I’m in Calgary, now downtown L.A.
The weather has changed since yesterday. It was very stormy and blowy last night, the wind hurrying directly off the water, sweeping down from the Adirondacks and shaking the hotel. Provincetown was hit by very bad weather, which serves them right, since their promoter pulled out of our gig. It’s time to pull the woolies out. It looks and feels like Scotland with the low, flat islands in the lake and the lowering clouds pushing fast across the slate gray water. Small beads of rain pepper the window, collect, and then trickle swiftly down. I sit and gaze at the view for hours while being grilled by journalists on the phone. In case you think I am a totally spoiled bastard, let me show you what a day off looks like:
Wednesday, Day Off
You can see why most people in showbiz are mad. They spend their lives doing interviews and promos every day. It’s enough to drive anyone mad. Being interviewed is anti-therapy: all questions and no answers. It’s just not healthy for a human being. Add a posse blowing smoke up their ass all day, managers and agents on the gravy train telling them how marvelous they are, doctors offering them surgery to become flawless, photographers flashing pictures, and the public fawning over everything they say, well, you’re breeding monsters, aren’t you? No wonder we like to see them in trouble in the tabloids. I have thought of trying to leak my own sex life to the tabloids to gain a little publicity, but I think MAN WATCHES TELEVISION is just not going to fly.
After the endless hours of interviews, I took an autumn in Vermont tour with John, my musical partner. We drove around for a couple of hours, looking at the spectacular foliage, the russets and oranges and spectacular bloody reds of the maples. We visited Ethan Allen’s shack (he wasn’t in), the university campus (apparently the biggest party school in the States), and saw the local sights, chauffeured by Tim, an ex-deejay from New York who grumbled mildly about the current state of radio. He dropped us at the waterfront at a delectable eatery, where John and I have the high-cholesterol diet of oysters and sweet Maine lobster. The food at Shanty on the Shore is excellent, and the young people who serve it are very friendly; the only criticism I have is that the bathrooms are labeled “Sailors” and “Mermaids,” which is a bit twee for me. Do mermaids go to the bathroom? Don’t they just pee in the sea? Most women I know pee in the sea anyway, and they aren’t even half fish. I suppose if you are looking for a bit of tail you can’t do better than a mermaid. What’s that old gag? “My girlfriend is a mermaid: her figures are 36, 24, and five dollars a pound.”
Always remember the words of W. C. Fields: “I never drink water because of the disgusting things fish do in it.” I took a risk and visited the Sailors room, a little anxiously, as we all know what sailors get up to in the bathroom. I should know, since I once wrote a very rude novel called Hello, Sailor. But it’s a great restaurant, and we’re going again tonight.