I can almost hear you ingrates shouting, as if the entertainment here were costing you even one red cent, “Where are the flippin’ laffs we was promised? Where is the Cancerland Red Light district? Where are the Cancerland boites and nightclubs, the Cancerland hot tubs with the hubba-hubba and the hijinks? We ain’t waiting in these here long lines for the elegaic stuff you been servin’ up with a shovel lately.”
Yeah, well, keep yez shirts on, huh? I only just got here, relatively speaking, and Rome wasn’t ruined in a day.
Truth to tell, the Cancerland high life is proving pretty difficult actually to locate. There are rumors, of course (hydration cooler talk, you might say) but whenever the rumors get specific enough to include map-coordinates, they tend to prove, once clapped eyes on, rather disappointing.
There was some talk, for instance, about a spa where the wine flowed like cisplatin (through a tube, that is, at 500 drops per hour) and where there was a wild, no-holds-barred pool with strobe lights and jacuzzi jets.
I did find the place eventually, but am sorry to report that the descriptions were, ahem, overwritten. The “hot tub” was in fact a stainless steel therapeutic tank for one, with all the sensual promise of a full-body bedpan. As for the “free-flowing” wine, this was just some more damned saline solution which, in direct sunlight, sorta/vaguely/kinda had a rose tint to it.
In place of nubile attendants of either gender, there were several of the familiar Cancerland minders and menders, about one of whom it may be unkind but nonetheless is accurate to say that, in a woman, looking like Ben Franklin is not a good thing. And the older Ben Franklin at that, after a long lifetime of dissolution and Hellfire Club stuff. (He was a libertine, you know, in addition to being the other remarkable things he rightfully gets credit for having been.)
There doesn’t seem to be a Restaurant Row either, or any live theater at all to speak of, except of the experimental kind in which you are forced to eavesdrop on incredible conversations while asking yourself, “Are these people for real?” I will spare you the “playlet” I sat through recently (being on the other side of a fabric curtain, I had no choice but to sit through it) about the splendors of the baba ganoush at a certain Middle Eastern takeout establishment.
I personally would have trimmed the hour-long first act by, oh, fifty-eight or -nine minutes, but then I suppose in certain avant garde circles, the intoning aloud over and over and over again of Their baba ganoush is awesome. Oh, yes, their baba ganoush is the best may count as cutting edge drama.
Anyway, listen. I am of the firm belief that Cancerlanders are just as dissipated as people elsewhere and so someone here must be up to some kind of no-good. But I have to say the traces are much better covered over in Cancerland than they tend to be back in the States.
Trust me to keep looking for the dark underbelly of the place, the hotcha and the hootchy-kootchy and the carryings-on. But do be a little patient, awright?