After over three months of waiting, over 76 days, it is here. It is here, at last, and it seems like time has flown. It feels that only yesterday I was groaning about 32 more days to go, but by God, it truly is here!

It’s the morning, and I’m groggy and sleepy, having gone to bed around 1 AM. The two clocks in my grandmother’s bedroom read 8:00 and 8:35, so I suppose it’s sometime around 8:20. My grandmother (Gram, she prefers) has already rushed off to work, and my Aunt Shanda is still fast asleep down the hall, snoring up a storm.

I sit up and blink, my eyes adjusting to the dimly lit room. I’m still knackered from a full day of Disneyland yesterday, and I seriously consider going back to bed. But no, I rise, stretch, and prepare myself for the four and a half hour drive north to San Luis Obispo.

I dive into my enormous, stuffed black suitcase and start puling out all of my necessities for the evening- a change of clothes for the drive back home Wednesday, my Sir Robin tunic, a jacket, toiletries, my wallet (filled with lovely twenty dollar bills, of course), my Hollywood bag full of assortments to do while in the car, and, very importantly, the SPAM bag.

Now, the SPAM bag is only important for one reason- it is full of letters and small gifts from me and about eight other SPAM Club members for me to give Mr. Idle after the show as a way of showing our appreciation and devotion. Clearly this was all my idea, heh, and a brilliant plan, if I may say so myself. ;)

After packing and waking Shanda up for the whereabouts of the washcloths and towels, I took a shower, blow-dried my hair, and stuck a navy blue bandanna on my head. Wearing a new Tigger sweatshirt (that I had just purchased at Disneyland) and a pair of black jeans, I was ready to go. However, the ever-thoughtful Mom rang in to remind me to pack everything I already had and to wish me luck. Thanks Mom.

At 11:00 Shanda and I stop by at Taco Bell for an early lunch and grab a bite to eat. Then it’s off to the freeway for us. Onward to San Luis! Look out Eric, here I come!

After the first hour and a half or so I get bored of staring at the traffic, skyscrapers, and trees. I’m not one who’s much into scenery, not that this was a scenic drive anyhow. I did take the time to gaze at the ocean, though. It shimmered and sparkled and reflected the sun’s powerful rays like a mirror, practically blinding me. But it is stunning, all the same. It’s been two years since I last saw the ocean, the last time being my three week trip to Europe. Its ever-going sea of blue fascinates me, and I lazily watch some clumsy surfers try and board on pathetic waves no more than two feet high while seagulls circle overhead. Seagulls are very, very droll indeed- I get plenty of them in Utah, seagulls being our state bird.

The ride is as if we’ve been sucked into a black hole. I simply can’t stand being in a car (or a bus, or a plane) for hours and hours on end. We try not to stop often, for it only makes the trip longer, but one time we do pull over at McDonalds to release our bladders and steal some ice cream. Yummm...

I’m listening to my Eric CD (one which I made myself) when we pass a sign saying WARNING: ROCK SLIDE AREA just as the Nearly Departed song plays, "the moment that rock slide came tumbling down on our heads…" I had to laugh, after getting over my moment of shock- what a coincidence!

Welcome To San Luis Obispo! the sign yet ANOTHER hour later informs us. I grin and my aunt looks relieved. We pass an exit reading "Grand Ave." which is the street the Christopher Cohan Performing Arts Center AND our hotel is situated on. I point it out and tell my aunt to turn off the freeway, our hotel only being about a block away from the exit. She should know this too- she’s the one with the maps- but she utterly ignores me. Hence, we miss our exit, and she soon realizes her mistake. Grumpy and complaining, we drive three more miles or so up the freeway until we can make a U-turn and head back in the proper direction.

We get to our hotel, the Holiday Inn Express (which was painted an awful color of orange-pink) and go to register and check-in. I smile when I see that the manager’s name is Eric.

Suddenly, out from around the corner comes a tall, bald man in a black sweatshirt with sunglasses atop his head with a mustache and beard. My eyes widen- he looks EXACTLY (and I’m talking identical twins here!) like Peter Crabbe, another one of the performers at tonight’s show. He then comes over to me, sticks a chocolate chip cookie under my nose and says to me in a low, growling voice, "Coooooookie…." and then walks away again. I blink. Either this guy IS Peter Crabbe, or a real loony.

We go to our hotel room, #132, and Shanda goes out to smoke her cigarettes. It’s only 5:00, and I have some time on my hands, so I pull out my diary and write an entry, similar to what you’re reading right now (although not half as detailed). After 45 minutes of writing, I unzip the suitcase (which is so small only a miniature toaster could fit in it) and begin to get myself ready for the show. I change from my Tigger sweatshirt into a black turtleneck. I next throw on my Sir Robin tunic over my head and clasp the belt around the middle, my camera hooked to the belt. (My sword, lol.) I then carefully apply my makeup, and wait for my aunt to return to assist me in the act of curling my hair. (I just hate curling irons, and they hate me; they fry and sizzle my hair.) Naturally, she’s still outside jabbing on the cell phone and smoking her bloody cigarettes. I pull her inside immediately.

SPAM bag slung over my shoulder and fully decked out in my emerald-and-white checkered costume along with SPAM can earrings, I am more than ready. But believe it or not, my aunt gets lost on the roads for the second time that day and doesn’t listen to the "backseat driver." Ah, how fortunate of us to have left early!

"Shit," Shanda said, coming off an exit. "It doesn’t say whether I need to go right or left."

I point to the road, a luminescent arrow painted on it pointing to the left and saying 'Cal Poly.' "Left."

She pretends to not hear me and looks around for a sign. But hark! she at LAST looks to the road. "Oh, left!"

I roll my eyes.

"Well what asshole would put a sign on a road? I mean, come on, who’s going to look down there?"

Good point.

We arrive (FINALLY) and I pay four dollars for parking. Being very early to the show, we are lucky enough to claim a parking slot right up front. We step into the open air, and broody herr, it’s freezing out here! I’m shivering vibrantly, me in my thin little costume, as a crisp wind blows and seeps right through my clothes. And oy vey! the doors to the center aren’t even open yet.

In search of something to do for about fifteen minutes, I decide to hunt for Eric’s tour bus, and find it I did. There it was, right there alongside the building, on the left. I’m standing atop a high platform, almost like the top of a parking garage, looking down, and I’m right next to a flight of cement steps leading down to where the two buses lie, but for the fact that I see movement inside them, I’m too afraid to go down. I almost wish I would have, so I could have gotten a good, close-up photo. Instead, I take two shots from afar, in the dark. Sadly they didn’t turn out very well.

Suddenly, as I lean over the wall, one of the bus doors swings open. Out comes Eric in blue, Peter Crabbe in black. They look about two inches tall, maybe three, but despite how far away I am, I can tell that it’s HIM!!! I squeal with delight, very giddy as they slink around and creep in through a back door, shutting it cautiously behind them. I bound over to my aunt.

"I JUST SAW ERIC COME OUT OF THE BUS!"

She puffed another cigarette and I snorted in disgust. She just shrugged her shoulders. "I’m just not interested in the same things you are."

I growl. Then why are you even seeing the bloody show, then? But not to be put down (a nuclear missile couldn’t damper my anxiety tonight) I instead wait a while longer, constantly sighing (between chattering teeth).

But then, the doors finally open! I hand the doorman my ticket, he rips off the tip, and gives me back the stub. I shove it into my wallet, only to have dropping it on the floor and a nice man fetch it for me. Typical me.

Naturally, I make a beeline for the souvenir stand. I look around, eyeing the t-shirts, programs, fliers, coffee mugs, and calendars greedily. I wish I could just take the entire table home. So I walk up to the souvenir seller man and say, "Hallo, I’d like a Rutland Isles CD…"

"We don’t have any."

"What?"

"We don’t have any. We’re sold out. See? None on the table."

I’m disgruntled. Of all the things I wanted to buy most were the Rutland Isles and Eric Idle Sings Monty Python CDs. But oh, what is this? My eye catches a glimpse of a Rutland Isles CD sticking halfway out of a box behind the table.

"What’s that?"

"Hmm?"

"That’s a CD."

"No it isn’t." He quickly shoves it inside and closes the flap. I smile, thinking perhaps he was trying to be comical and was playing a joke, but he was actually being perfectly serious.

"Well, what city did they sell out in?" I asked, curious.

"Los Angeles."

I cross my arms. "You haven’t BEEN to Los Angeles."

"Las Vegas then."

I gave up. "Fine. I’ll take a calendar, this t-shirt, and two programs please."

"There you go."

"Do you have any bags?"

"Do I look like I have any bags? Why don’t you put it in your SPAM bag?"

"Because my SPAM bag is for Mr. Idle."

"Mr. Idle?"

"Yes, good-bye." Asshole.

Well, I seem to have plenty of time on my hands so I play the game of people watching. I’m curious to see what other people are dressing up as. But as I study each couple walking through the glass doors, I realize that I’m the ONLY one in costume! Now, for some people this might be a bit embarrassing, but not for me- I stand out in crowds, and I DEFINITLY want to stand out tonight. However, I do get a few funny looks like I’m someone who crawled out of a loony bin… or did I?

I lean against an ivory pole to try and take a rest from the consistent standing when a fine couple walks over to me and comments on my outfit. I’m not really sure how or why, but I was so full of tension that I had to open my mouth and blab, and trust me, I wouldn’t shutup. I told them about my site and adoration for Eric Idle and about how I was kicking myself for not thinking to make website business cards to hand out. They were very friendly and polite, with a lot of smiling and nodding, and asked me quite a few questions. After about 20 minutes of "idle" chit-chat, the man, who was named Alan I believe (and his wife was Diane!) asked me, "So, what university do you go to?"

Oh, the wonders of makeup! I grinned at them, laughing, and replied, "I’m sorry, I’m in 9th grade." That statement left an expression on their face like they had just heard that the world was going to explode in ten seconds. Let’s just say that they didn’t linger much longer after that, phht.

Right when my legs went numb, the performing center workwomen (or whatever you wish to call them) rang some bells, meaning for us to follow them. Hmm, what’s that, they are tending to some sheep? Oh, right, WE’RE the sheep! Baaa.

We come to a doorway at the top and flash our ticket.

"Oh no!" said the lady, not letting us pass, "you need to go downstairs."

Ok, fine, so down my aunt and I go.

"Oh no!" they say when we reach the bottom, "you need to go upstairs."

Make up your bleedin’ mind.

At long last we claim our seats, and I’m not too happy. Well supposedly I have the #1 seat in the house, in the VIP section, having been the first person to order tickets, and having asked for the best seats possible. Well it should have been VISP- Very Important: Spectacles Please. I was practically squinting, yet I have perfect vision. Course it wasn’t a problem for my aunt and her magazines… All she did was read magazines throughout the ENTIRE show. She didn’t even try to pay attention.

"You must listen to Bright Side!" I had told her.

"Well I’ll have to listen to it whether I want to or not, now, don’t I?"

My lips are sealed.

The show starts off 20 minutes late, but I am more than ready when YMCA comes on. Ok, here it goes! So what do I do? I stand up, sing, and do the arm movements. Oh, but of COURSE, I’m the only one! I get much pointing and laughter. Stupid people. Get off your arses and be crazy! Then out comes a Gumby also doing YMCA. Ok, so the Gumby and I do the whole song together. What fun!

But now *drum roll* is the SPAM song! (YAY!!!) Again I’m up, shouting SPAM SPAM SPAM LOVELY SPAM! (Well, come on, I have a SPAM Club, I’m holding a SPAM bag, I’m wearing SPAM earrings…) The San Luis Obispans, however, sit there like lumps of coal.

But then, oh my God, there he is. *gasp!* I literally go wild, screaming as loud as I can, clapping as hard as I can. I expected the Obispans to at LEAST give him a standing ovation- not a chance. There were about a total of ten people standing. My Lord. How rude.

Well, for lack of writing paper, pencils, energy, and memory, I will not continue to describe the whole show bit by bit. The summary of it was that the Obispans were very tight and rigid throughout the entire performance- some even left, including a group of about five teenagers to the left of me who ske-daddled at intermission. I, on the other hand, gave it all I got. I laughed, I hollered, I sang, I cheered. I did everything a true fan would. I wished so dearly that I wasn’t so far away from the stage so Eric could see that at least one person in the audience was enjoying themselves. But I was jolly, I was giddy, I was gleeful. I don’t think I’d ever been so enthusiastic before in my entire life.

At intermission I crept on stage and slid in a dollar bill and a can of SPAM with "Yay…" written on it. At the end of the show, after pulling out a pair of boxer shorts and a bra, he happened upon my SPAM. "Hmm, a can of SPAM! That’ll go down the ole gullet."

Well, I couldn’t resist it. I stood up and shouted, "THAT’S FROM ME!!!" I don’t think he heard me though, danggit.

All good things must come to an end, and so did the show. It had seemed to fly like a jet streaming past me at lightning speed, but it was now the hour of the big moment- the autographing!

I pushed and shoved and fought my way into line. Thankfully, I was #7. No way did I desire to be first. Seven was fine with me. So I stood there and waited, and waited, and waited some more. It felt like an eternity, and I was beginning to get some pesky butterflies, which is beyond abnormal for me. I recited what I was going to say over and over and over and over. I twiddled my thumbs and tugged on my curls. Torture, pure torture.

Thud. I swear that my heart skipped a beat as he came up the stairs decked in the same blue shirt that he’d been wearing earlier. I nearly choked as I swayed, at the same time clapping with all the other Obispans. (Oh sure, now they clap…)

The line was moving amazingly fast. Eric didn’t seem in a mood to talk- didn’t blame him either, at the reception the audience gave him. Before I knew it, I was next and staring face-to-face with my "idol."

"Uh, hello, my name is Diane…"

"Hello Diane."

"And I’m from Utah…"

"Oh really, all the way from there?"

"Yes, and I own a website dedicated to you, and on that website is a SPAM Club…"

"Oh, really?"

"And we’d like to give you this SPAM bag full of goodies and letters from some of the members and I."

He took it from me, peeked inside, and said thank you. Then he stood up, with his autographing pen in hand, and leaned over the table. I was clueless as to what was going on.

He stopped about a foot away from me. "Is this a rental?"

"Huh?" Very intelligent answer, that.

"Is that a rental?" he repeated.

"Oh, no, it’s mine…" WHOOSH. I now had an Eric Idle autograph across my right chest!

I looked down and he had slid my plastic bag (from my aunt’s car) full of souvenirs off of my arm and quickly autographed my two programs and Rutland Isles calendar. I was astounded with simply that- I got FOUR autographs when he usually only prefers to give out one or two!

He slid the bag back onto my arm, and I pointed to my camera clipped onto my belt and mumbled something that sounded like "picture." I was slightly worried, because a woman a couple places up in front of me had also asked for a picture and had been denied.

"A picture? Of course, but do you mind if I do all of these people first?" He waved a hand aimlessly to the ever-growing line of Obispans who were hungry to sell a famous autograph on Ebay.

"Hmm?" Were those stars I was seeing?

"Do you have some time? I’d like to take care of these people first."

"Oh! No, no problem." I smiled sweetly. Whatever you say, my king.

"Have you met Kim Howard Johnson?"

Whoooa. The answer was no, I hadn’t. (Yes, I am acquainted with SO many famous people, don’t you know?) Kim is one of John Cleese’s assistants, an author of many python books, friend of the Pythons, blah blah blah. Whoa indeed. Now this was special because he had only come to see the one show.

Kim outstretched his hand and I shook it. He was as kind as could be and we talked about Pythonline, my website, Monty Python, etc. He was very easy to talk to. And then I toddled up to Peter Crabbe.

"Hallo. Can I ask you a really really REALLY stupid question?"

"Yes, but only if it’s really stupid."

"Don’t worry, it is. Where you at the Holiday Inn Express earlier today?"

He cocked his head and gave me a skeptical expression like I was a complete idiot. "Noooo… I don’t think so…. I was walking downtown… noo…"

"Oh, ok." You’re a moron, Diane. I tried hard to think of a more intellectual question. "Do you know if there’s going to be any more tours?"

"Actually," Peter began, the hint of a sparkle in his eye, "yes, there’s been talk of one, for the spring. We are either going to visit the southern states we missed, or go to Australia."

"You should come to Utah," I winked.

"We might."

"Will it be all the same people?"

"Well, Jennifer is taking a radio job next month, so we’ll probably have to replace her."

"Pick me!"

Peter, Kim and I chatted for a good 30 minutes, if not longer. I mostly just listened and stood there, nodding and wishing I was "one of the gang." But at long last, Eric was through with his autographing, and he looked exhausted.

He collected his SPAM bag and tried to stuff something inside, but at first couldn’t figure out how to get it open. Velcroe, Eric, it’s called velcroe! He then looked to me, flashed a smile and said, "I’m so sorry to keep this poor young lady waiting."

"It was no problem." Actually, it hadn’t been. I rather enjoyed my chat with Peter and Kim.

I then retrieved my camera from its case of leather and handed it to Kim. "That takes the picture, that’s the zoom…" He nodded at me, walked a bit away, and then Eric put his arm around me. Eeek! I smiled REALLY wide for the shot. Before the snap, Eric glanced at my costume. "Brave Sir Robin," he said to me.

"Yes," I said, "and I rode forth from Utah!"

After Eric and I had been "flashed" Eric put his hands on his hips and called out, "I think she deserves something free!" He then went over to the souvenir table, plucked up a Rutland Isles calendar, and offered it to me.

"Wow, thank you! Now I have two."

Eric was eyeing the souvenir table and sighed. "About a hundred sold, a hundred million left to go!" Everyone laughed.

I raised an eyebrow, ready to try one last stab at… "You got any CDs?"

"I don’t know, you’d have to ask him." He jabbed a thumb at the souvenir man. "He’s the man to talk to."

Damn it.

We were nearby the main entranceway when Eric turned around. "You are such a sweetie, thank you." Then he leaned over and… hugged me. And I hugged him.

I was melting, truly melting. How many females can say that they’ve been hugged by their favorite actor? I was so happy I wanted to cry. It was amazing, and he was so warm and strong, yet soft…

The hug had been brief, but then again, an hour would have been too short. When he pulled away I think I was about ready to fall over and die, right then and there. I couldn’t say anything. Well, what was there to say?

"I’d really appreciate it if you went to my website," I finally mustered out, batting my eyelashes a bit.

"What is it?"

"Www dot eric dash idle dot com."

He grinned. "Dash idle?"

"Yes. It’s not hard to remember." I winked. "Just don’t get that Alzheimer’s."

"I’ll try," was his reply to my request.

He then escorted me to the door, Kim and Peter lingering not far behind. I felt like I had to say one more thing. "I really do love the journal, by the way. You should continue it after the tour."

He laughed at that. "Oh no! After the tour is over is IT, or else people will want me to continue it till I am dead!" He made a "no" gesture with his hands.

I giggled quietly. "Goodnight, Mr. Idle, and thank you." Then I exited the doors, beaming, and stared at the stars glittering above.