While I was in Britain, the world went mad. A puppet, Bob the Builder, beat French disco kings, The Supermen Lovers, to No. 1 on the U.K. singles chart; across the Atlantic, a puppet, George W. Bush, was not an idiot anymore, but a national hero; and, after 10 years, I'd suddenly become allergic to my dad's dog and sneezed my entire vacation away.
Thank God, I'm on this plane heading back to Tokyo and some punk-rock bands. I hope they kick my ass back into normalcy because everything in the world has gone pear-shaped. Am I the only sane person left?
I'm terrified of flying, so I pass the time dreaming about if Bob were Bush and Bush were Bob or, even better, Bob were Bush and Bush was my dad's dog. Bob would build homes for the world's poor, not take them away, and I could keep Bush chained up in the yard, out of harm's way. Bob the Builder for president! You know it makes sense.