They took my sex handcuffs away from me when I was in Iceland. Despite me being an Icelandic national treasure (more on that later), the security guy (total Prudy Huxstable) at the Icelandic airport told me I couldn’t continue on to London with my vanilla, middle-aged couple still trying to keep the fire alive level of kink accessory. What happened was my girlfriend and I had a 9-hour layover in Iceland and on the way back to our plane Security told me they had to look through my bag. Which makes sense. If you’re looking for some stupid shit to try and take on a plane then you’re going to look in my direction. Obviously I should have stored the cuffs in my larger carry on bag but an adolescence spent watching Red Shoe Diaries (and other soft-core delights that didn’t star David Duchovny) left me with an overdeveloped and completely unjustified sense of sexual optimism. Part of me really thought I might need those sex handcuffs on the plane, hell, maybe even in the airport if I was really on for some reason. But since they were confiscated I guess we’ll sadly never know what could have been (yes, we do, my much more levelheaded girlfriend assures me … absolutely nothing) and I’ll have to resign myself to the near certainty that the airport guy in Iceland is using my handcuffs right now in the most depraved fashion. Initially I pegged him (who’s depraved now) as a Prudy Huxstable but he’s probably got an armada of seized dildos and embargoed pony plugs adorning the mantle of his frozen fetish sex igloo that he lives in in Iceland. Still, it was almost worth it having them taken away just so that when he asked, “What are these for?” I could respond back through a slick American grin, “Recreation.”
This was how my long-suffering girlfriend and me began our 11 day grand adventure to the UK. The Icelandic stopover was not only to save money on our flight but also to test out a bit of personal mythology. See, beginning around 1998 I have been told by various sources that I resemble a mustachioed, male version of Icelandic warbling musical dynamo Bjork.
I do not contest this. As you can see, many have made me Internet art in tribute to this fact.
I wear this with a bit of pride; seeing as I find Bjork to be rather lovely looking and I have no problem with others finding me to look the same. Besides, why argue with the truth? Plus, it beats the alternative doppelgangers I’ve been assigned throughout the years:
Malnourished and or out of shape Chris Cornell, Vaguely Hispanic Tim Burton (actually kinda like that one) and of course, the albatross around my neck, Booger. Booger from Revenge of the Nerds. Which is, sadly, visually verbatim what I look like most of the time.
(True story, years ago there was word that they were going to make a remake of the Revenge of the Nerds film and they were doing a cast call and I seriously considered throwing my hat in the ring for Booger. Come on, you can only spit in fate’s face so many times.)
But back to Iceland and my male Bjorkness. I went there hoping to see if actual Icelanders would make the comparison upon meeting me that I look like the HyperBalladeer herself or to find out that everyone who lives in Iceland just like me and Bjork and I could finally be happy and began my life in this chilly, elfish paradise. No to both. Nobody looked like me nor did they look at me as anything other then what I was: a jetlagged, dirty, hirsute American tourist with incredible features despite not having a chin, who flew across the Atlantic Ocean only to have a White Russian at a place named The Lebowski Bar and then leave promptly for London. The Lebowski Bar, if you’re wondering, is a delightful hole in the wall named after some obscure Icelandic film about bowling and rugs.
Best part of this entire day, besides partying with the shop trolls in the streets,
was having a drink at the Lebowski and watching part of the stirring drama Love Actually as it played on the TV inside. My girlfriend (whose name I’m omitting in case she wants to run for senate of something later in life) and I were both very exhausted from our flight and lack of sleep at this point and it heavily effected our viewing. As the movie started my girlfriend began talking about how terrible and cookie-cutter the movie was but then, as she started to discuss the ending of the film, despite dismissing the film as a sapfest just a moment before, she started getting choked up. Catching herself we both looked at one another and promptly laughed our faces apart. The combination of exhaustion, alcohol and unexpected sentimentality bringing us both into hysterics to the point where we crying.
Oh, and we went to the Penis Museum.
I know… dick move.
To Be Continued in Part 2, ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND.