EN ROUTE TO MADISON WE PASS THE LEGENDARY HORMEL FACTORY, THE HOME OF SPAM. JEN, SKIP, AND I GIVE EXCITED SHRIEKS AND BEGIN TO SING “THE SPAM SONG,” BUT GILLI IS TOO INVOLVED WITH HER IPOD. WE CHECK INTO the very smart Madison Concourse Hotel, and there is a can of Spam in my bathroom. I can’t decide whether it is just for me or whether this is clever product placement by a wily local company.
Cleaning your teeth? Why not a quick mouthwash of Spam first?
After shaving your legs, why not use Spam as a soothing aftershave balm?
Before you go out, don’t forget, a quick dab of Spam under the armpits can really attract the opposite sex.
I have more electronic spam than ever on my computer this morning. How much Viagra can I take? Half of America seems to be engaged in selling the other half Viagra. It does seem excessive and intrusive. I don’t go barging into corporate offices showing them my dick. Why should I have to put up with this endless huckstering? Erectile dysfunction seems to be the keystone of modern America. How long before Congress acts?20
Internet spam is weird, isn’t it? First they bombard you with offers to enlarge your penis, then they offer you Viagra, presumably so you can fill up the monstrous engine, and then they offer you another mortgage.
Well, if there is one thing guaranteed to shrink your dick, it ’ s the thought of another mortgage.
We get in very late (3:00 A.M.) and I am awakened at eight by a symphony of door slamming, noisy vacuuming, and loud foreign lingo. It’s the artillery of the artful maid. Wake ’em up early, and you can go home sooner. I had checked for that old trick, the cunningly set radio alarm, but I hadn’t prepared for this early-morning barrage, and I wasn’t wearing earplugs. In my best John Hurt voice I protested volubly to the charming staff.
“After all,” I argue, “I don’t have a DO NOT DISTURB APART FROM DOOR SLAMMING, SHRIEKING, AND VACUUMING sign on my door.”
The hotel is offering something called a Wisconsin Brat Breakfast—rather appropriate with my own bratty behavior. It describes this as a State Fair Blue Ribbon brat patty. I am none the wiser. I plump for the lox and bagel. I think I may be turning Jewish. Idell is clearly a Jewish name. I am certainly becoming more and more Jewish on this trip. My daughter has a play-off basketball game today and last night I wished her “Mazel tov.”
“Mazel tov??” she said.
“I know,” I said. “I meant break a leg.”
During my time in The Mikado, an orchestra member came up to me. “Tell me,” she said. “Are you Jewish, or just very talented?”
Madison seems to have grown some new features since we were last here. To begin with there is a magnificent domed state capitol building which would not be adrift in Rome or Venice. Now that wasn’t here last time, I swear. And this morning I opened my curtains to find a huge lake. That certainly wasn’t here before. Jen and I both agree these features are new. And what is the name of this new lake? Can this be the legendary Lake Huron, the Great Lake that no one mentions?21 John has been wondering why there are no references to Lake Huron. It is like the elder Osbourne child, something never mentioned in public. John is concerned by this. He wants me to write a lyric about it. Obviously we all hear a lot about Lake Erie and Lake Ontario, and Lake Superior is almost overbearing in its name and attitude, but of Lake Huron, nothing. No PR. No T-shirts. No posters. No songs. Of course only a pianist could want his lyricist to find rhymes for Huron. (You’re on? Forget it.) We have been working on a new song that we intend to try out soon. It’s called “Fuck Christmas.” It has a lovely melody. We’re thinking of using the Canadians as guinea pigs after Thanksgiving. When Peter hears us rehearsing it he says, “Is nothing sacred?” Then he goes off singing “Sit on My Face.”