BACK IN THE GOOD OLD U.S.A. AFTER A 1:15 A.M. STOP AT THE BORDER. THEY MADE US GET OUT OF THE BUS AND PRESENT OUR GREEN CARDS AND PASSPORTS. ONLY ONE GUY WAS ON DUTY AND THERE WAS A HUGE TAILBACK OF TRUCKS waiting to cross. ’Lish cleverly drove past this big line of waiting vehicles and then cut in at the last minute, saving us about an hour and a half of waiting. Very rock-and-roll. It was another two hours to Seattle but I couldn’t sleep, I was so exhausted. We have moved south to some softer markets. San Francisco is looking very thin. I wish we could have brought the House of Blues guys with us. There is an audience out there, and this show really rocks, it’s just a question of letting them know we are in town. We have found that posters and street teams have really paid off, but each local promoter has his own ideas, and we are totally at their mercy.
What a clever fellow is Skip. He knows all the best hotels. In Seattle we check into the Sorrento, a most admirable boutique hotel, decorated like an Italian palazzo, with white marble bathrooms and square-shaped sinks, and large warm beds with soft white comforters and three types of rectangular European pillows in the softest down. As we approach at 3:15 A.M. in a soft drizzle, the hotel shines out, welcoming with hundreds of white lights and decorated Christmas trees and hedge bears holding golden balls; kitsch, but warm, comforting, and friendly. The carpets are deep, and the interior is mahogany and leather with carved gilded wooden frames on mirrors and pictures and a quaint, ancient single-person elevator. It’s like arriving for Christmas with friends in Italy. Fabulous. At the heart of the hotel is an octagonal wooden fireside room with capstan-like spokes of deep warm mahogany beams radiating out to all eight sides. It’s lit up with tasteful Venetian Christmas decorations, tiny white fairy lights and ferns and Italian marionettes and scrolls of ancient music. There’s a big backgammon set and a huge chessboard and a cheerful fireplace with large comfortable leather seats. They serve a great tea here in the afternoons, with scones and cakes and yummy sandwiches and at night there is a cool jazz trio while you linger over hot chocolate or a warm toddy. The beds have high-count cotton sheets and comforters and are warm and perfect for well…I guess reading. With a nice naked companion. John and I have tea downstairs and discuss what we have to do for Spamalot. In the evening I take hot chocolate with Jen and Gilli, who has a shiner. She whacked her head backstage in Vancouver, almost knocking herself out, and a huge egg rose on her brow. She was so badly concussed she didn’t come out onstage for her bit with the hook and you know she’s really badly hurt when that happens. Now she has a purple eye. Poor Gilli. Skip is sick from eating some frozen Mac thing. Looking at it made me want to throw up. I’d forgotten that junk food is an accurate description.
John gives me a cassette of the “Fuck Christmas” song recorded onstage in Vancouver. It’s incredible the noise the audience makes. It is like an oven door opening. There is a blast of heat. It is massive instant approbation. They get it, and they love it, and they want more. We are both as proud as new parents. I have never had an experience like that. I once played Ko-Ko in The Mikado for the English National Opera and every night I would rewrite the lyrics of “The Little List Song,” updating them with topical references, and occasionally when some of my new gags worked, it felt a bit like that, but not for an entire song.