THE MET, SPOKANE, IS A GEM. IT’S AN OLD VAUDEVILLE HOUSE BUILT IN 1915, AND HAS BEEN LOVINGLY RESTORED. INSIDE THE AUDITORIUM THE FRONT HALF OF THE HOUSE IS AN ENORMOUS STUDDED SHELL, WHICH STOPS ABRUPTLY WHERE the second tier of seating begins, and is gently angled, so that you are looking down into a brightly lit bowl. It’s a most unusual shape but highly effective for comedy; with the arc of the thrust stage you are almost in their laps. Once again I am struck by the variety and splendor and loving restoration of the theaters of America.
I go for Sunday lunch to a beautiful old hotel that is entirely filled with little girls dressed in blue and red velvet dresses with lace, off to see a matinee of The Nutcracker. I feel very nostalgic for my little girl, though Avril Lavigne is now more her style. We can all sense the tour winding down now. Only seven cities left. With the Christmas lights everywhere and the malls full of shoppers, we all feel we will be home soon. It feels good, though Peter proposes we spend it in Iraq, entertaining the servicemen. I’m not sure the State Department would be keen to send a Brit with a bunch of Bush jokes. Today we follow the Air National Guard into the theater. They are still packing up their drums and flags as we unload. This is the outfit in which Bush defended Texas from the North Vietnamese. He now posts them overseas to Iraq so that they can enjoy the active service he was denied. Perhaps there should be a special Bush medal: the Iron(y) Cross.
People have driven five hours from Canada to see tonight’s show, some have even come seven hours from distant Montana, and there are several Jennifer Jay deejay fans, including a rather attractive lady in a pith helmet who looks like Meryl Streep and who clings warmly to me for about five minutes while her son’s camera constantly malfunctions. While she embraces me and the minutes pass, I breathe a silent thank-you to the god of technology.
During the gig a sweet young thing comes up and slips her panties in the encore bucket. She has written her phone number on the outside with an invitation to join her after the show. On the crotch she has written “Scratch and sniff!” She is very cheery afterward, and I warn her to be careful, as the entire crew may take her up on it.
“No problem,” she says, and her aunt says proudly, “That’s my niece!”
A young lady with a very fine bosom requests I sign her breasts and I reluctantly consent. She has delightful skin and although I rush the job, after fifteen minutes I am done.
Bush has the Alabama Air National Guard Service medal—for bravely attending a dental appointment while officially AWOL.
I continue to be the recipient of breathless innuendo from older women in the signing line. One approaches me on her knees. Several told me they loved me. In Eugene teenage girls wore handpainted shirts with sexually flattering references to the Greedy Bastard and a couple of hippie ladies revealed they had sexual fantasies featuring me, while in Boise an attractive teenage girl called Alison climbed into the encore bucket. It was a pity to have to give her to charity.
Is it possible I might become swollen-headed and egotistical with all this aftershow adulation? Surely not. How could being flattered and flirted with by sexually attractive women possibly influence my character? I am a strong-willed man. Girls sinking to their knees in front of me hardly turns my head at all anymore, though I am thinking of rereading very closely through my marriage vows. Did that Clinton definition of sex thing stand? [No.—Ed.] I am slightly piqued by my ever-lovedone’s refusal to come join me overland on a bus stage to Vegas. She says she’ll meet me there. What could possibly be objectionable about traveling overnight in a queen-sized bed in a tiny cabin with me? I admire her restraint. Of course she doesn’t leave me the option of getting a substitute in. Women can be so selfish. The closest I have come to sex on this tour is watching Thierry Henri score.28