Lew Minus S Minus A

This house is not for sale

2011-06-29T22:39:00.000-07:00

Los Angeles is impossibly big. It's almost as if town planners put about 40 reasonable sized cities into a bag, shook them up, and scattered them over the hills, valleys and shore. Everyone here is married to their car, without one it's nearly impossible to get around, but being two days off being able to hire one, I had to stick to my worn down Nikes.

My shoes took me through suburban Hollywood, the hipster scene on Melrose Ave, the pram pushers of the new apartment buildings near La Brea and the food carts on Wilshire Blvd. It took around 90 minutes, but on a few recommendations I finally made to the LACMA.

The building is typical of the area, massive and strewn all over the park. Burbank’s own Tim Burton was having an expensive exhibit shown, and since Ed Wood is a brilliant film that I may have watched without paying, I offered the universe some balance and checked it out.

Goth heaven aside, the sketches and models from films are pretty amazing. Batman’s cowl wasn’t on display, and there was very little from Ed Wood, but the exhibit was still a highlight of the entire museum. Richard Serra’s massive steel curves are an easy second.

The park that houses the LACMA is also home to the La Brea tar pits, where methane and asphalt come to the surface in a way that would only comfort fans of burnouts. The Mastadons they pulled from the pits are pretty amazing and their size would rival some tanks, however they’re overshadowed by the existence of such a phenomenon occurring in the middle of a city. Say what you want about how big and smoggy the place is, but having that kind of history available while skyscrapers stand around you is impressive in any context.

I began a bit of a lucky streak in San Diego when I mashed the buttons on a vending machine and received two iced teas. This continued outside the tar pits when the same trick granted me two Dr Peppers for $1. However, the luckiest moment came after I walked up La Brea ave, and past the galleries and Jewish section. On a quick trip to Hollywood Blvd’s chemist for some sleeping pills (take that 17 hour flight) I bumped into Pim, my companion on that horrible Greyhound journey from Dallas to Albuquerque.

Our original plan to meet up was scuttled by an issue saving contact details on that bus trip, but through a bit of fortune I ran into him and his friend Pascal ahead of a hike. We stopped by their apartment building that sits just off the main part of Hollywood Blvd and grabbed a quick dinner before embarking on a guided tour of some of Hollywood’s lesser known parts.

One of the first stops was a dollar store, selling individual fighting fish in plastic cups that were half poured with a mysterious blue liquid. They were all available for a dollar, but that kind of cruelty had removed the fight from most of them. Without a doubt, those poor fish are easily one of the weirdest things I have ever seen on sale at a discount store, and I worked at one for two years.

Via some of the sketchier streets of Hollywood, Pim took me to the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, and though I’m not a fan of them at all (too many black metal photoshoots) he showed me the grave of Dee Dee Ramone and a large statue of his band-mate Johnny. It was certainly a surprising detour to the night, but definitely a cool way to spend my last night in Hollywood.

After what turned into hours of walking, I finally returned to the hostel and met a group of Kiwis on a quick tour of the States who are trying to get themselves as chemically challenged as possible. Two of them host one a radio show from Auckland and were on their way to London to interview the Foo Fighters. We stayed out until the bars began to close their doors, but on the walk home got to see some of that famed Hollywood ego, as cars with 26” wheels and a sense of impending gun crime took over the night. I called it a night around two, but the Kiwis were keen to keep partying like they’re Motley Crue.

Perla and her sister Cheese came by the next morning, and after a customary Denny’s stop we drove to the Elliott Smith wall on Sunset Blvd. I had tried to see it when I first arrived in Los Angeles, but due its poor state couldn’t, and ended up with some decent sunburn instead. This time it was apparent due to the hipsters that were already there to check it out. Tags, messages and posters hide most of the artwork (which has been repainted numerous times), but it was great to see one of the main things I’d come to see in Los Angeles – even if it had faded like an aging Hollywood starlet.

Listen to Elliott Smith - Twilight

That afternoon we drove through Beverly Hills on a visit to the Getty Center, where it’s hard to tell whether it’s the building or what’s in them that is more impressive. It’s one of the best places in the city, and the Saturday crowds really demonstrated this. As the sun set late in the evening, we drove through Koreatown and Downtown, where the real beauty of Los Angeles is apparent. The 1930s meets the modern world, and with a golden sun reflecting off the buildings it made me appreciate the city even more. To me, Los Angeles is one of those places I enjoy more and more the longer I am there. If you don’t like it, you simply haven’t been there long enough, or you’ve overstayed your visit by way too long.

When the sun had set we took to Mullholland Drive at night, being mindful of possible David Lynch films and local rattlesnakes. On both sides of the hill, the city really puts it on at the night. The grid pattern of lights dominate the view of the valley, while the skyscrapers and bright lights of Downtown, Hollywood, and Beverly Hills give life to the view from of the other side. It was another moment of being smitten by the city I feel too many visitors don’t get a chance to really appreciate.

Somewhere between laying my head on the air mattress and waking up the morning after, I completed my 25^th lap of the sun. I’ve criticised myself before for being unemployed, unqualified and not having a permanent place to live at this age, but in reality I was pretty chuffed to complete the milestone on the other side of the world. Of course it would have been nice to spend the day with family and friends, but the place where you are born and grow up doesn’t determine where you should spend the rest of your days. The downsides of my current situation are nothing compared the brilliant year I’ve had, and I knew the risks before I left. In the end, rolling the dice and taking the chance proved greater than any of the consequences.

Perla and I visited the San Fernando swap meet, or as her and her sister call it, ‘the Mexican Mall’. Stalls are lined up in a large carpark and they sell anything you can imagine. For a few cents you can purchase vintage wrestling toys, maternity clothing, bootleg football shirts, stolen car stereos and even a casket. It almost made the aforementioned goldfish seem normal.

That afternoon Perla, her nephew, sister and myself headed to 6 Flags to spend the rest of the day on rollercoasters. Again, the significance of being away was lessened, as it was something unique to this being on the other side of the world. For hours we lined up to ride Tatsu, Riddler’s Revenge, Colossus, Goliath and some others before my brain was too shook up to continue. We missed X2 and Superman due to the line size, but I still managed to put a few inhibitions to the side and put some faith into engineers who are much smarter than I am. If anything, getting over a few fears and pushing yourself is just as significant about gaining a year as any present (though I did treat myself to a new Batman cape!(seriously, rollercoasters in capes is awesome)).

Staying with Perla’s family in Los Angeles proved a brilliant way to mix up my travelling experience. It’s a house with eight permanent residents, a dog, a visiting grandfather and for three nights, a smelly Australian. Her Mexican mother showed me how to make salsa, and her nephew tried to beat me at Fifa (good luck). Her two nieces did their best to teach me Spanish, but in wilder moments demonstrated that uniquely childish bravery and climbed and jumped off anything they could find. The whole stay was an absolutely lovely moment, and sharing the dinner table with the youngest members of the families and eating homemade Mexican food is one of the nicest experiences I’ve had this year.

My final day in the United States was spent in Koreatown, Los Angeles, exploring the district that has somewhat unknown to tourists. The hotel where Robert Kennedy was murdered has been turned into a school, but not without a memorial, while Art Deco theatres and office blocks make a strong visual impression on the area. The afternoon ended with a walk through MacArthur Park, where a pond and grassy hill area offers the nicest views of downtown from anywhere in the city. It’s one of the prettiest sites in the whole city, but as if it’s some sort of metaphor for the some of the America that I’ve experienced, the where the beauty of the park is somewhat overshadowed by the homeless people and shady types – not that I would change a thing about it.

The chance to say good-bye and thanks to Perla was rushed as I ran for a bus to LAX, the place where this magnificent year began. Jumping in a giant tin can and crossing the Pacific does carry some significance, and here’s hoping it’s nothing to do with closure. I love Wollongong, and as much as returning home is nice, no doubt leaving America is breaking my heart. I’ve had a brilliant year, but unfortunately it was always just that; a year. The time has been cut short, but my feelings toward the U.S.A. have only grown.

***Song

Pearl Jam - Man of the Hour

Sometimes, someone else finds the words for you.

It doesn’t matter where you come from, it matters where you go

2011-06-23T21:23:00.000-07:00

Los Angeles is a late starter. The fog and smog that come in the morning mean every day starts with a bit of winter before the sun burns through the clouds around mid day. My postcard view in the morning was blanketed in grey, but by the middle of the day when Perla arrived the sun was typically Californian.

Los Angeles is so spread out that it is hard to remember that you're in the city when you wake up next to a quiet park by the sea. The aforementioned smog means the hills and skyscrapers are invisible unless you're right next to them. Still, Perla and I toured around San Pedro in her overheating car, driving around the harbour and the art deco streets before heading to Santa Monica.

I'd briefly been to Santa Monica before and all I remember is homeless people. This time however the place had turned the charm on. The streets were lively, my burrito was spicy and standing in the afternoon sun looking out onto the ocean was beautiful.

The morning cloud didn't leave at all the next day as I walked from Santa Monica's pier to Venice. I took the path that runs parallel to the beach, but temptations to swim were dashed when the wind also picked up. It looked like I was suffering one of those rare bad days in Los Angeles.

Venice is a clusterfuck of fake tits, steroid fans, stoners and tourists. You spend most of your time avoiding skateboarders on the footpath and people trying to drag you into shops. However, it's also my new favourite part of the city. There was so much going on my eyes never knew where to focus, but when I did want a break from the craziness of the boardwalk, the beach was right there waiting.

Muscle beach is as hilarious and vain as you imagine - with old men doing their best to show off to the masses. The basketball courts are like watching ants on a large scale, with lots of bodies making scattered movements. However, it was the skatepark that impressed me the most. Seemingly unemployed 30-year-olds spend hours dropping into the bowls while school kids do ground tricks in the area behind them.

Like the other Venice, there's canals running through the city just a few streets from the beach and tourists - only no one seems to go there. Unlike the Italian ones they don't smell, and while they're not as pretty, they still had a zero to the value of the houses that surround them. For the most part I was the only person walking up and down the canal, and it sure beat having people try to sell crappy art to me.

I walked up and down the Venice pier, where hippies were smoking pot and Mexican fisherman look like characters from a poor man's Hemingway novel. Next to the pier some surfers braved the cold, only to continuously fall off their board.

I took another walk back to Santa Monica and across the pier, noting the end point for the famous Route 66. I've only traveled on a bit of it, but it did feel somewhat symbolic that Los Angeles is the end of the line, and my last stop in the U.S. I walked through the theme park, then watched the waves batter the pier as rollercoasters whipped around overhead. The whole day had been an amazing mix of fantastic bits of nature and strange Americana and frankly, that's what I love about this place.

Though I was knackered from the walk, I still tagged along to a pub crawl running from the hostel. It was a last minute decision, and I was still barefoot as people were getting ready to go, but I didn't see the point in staying in and watching a terrible film.

I met Brett and Rosi, and with a group of 20 or so others we walked to some tiny bar for pints of Shocktop from the most distracting waitress I'd ever seen. Some Canadian jackass with skunk-like hair and an upturned crooked visor joined our group much to our embarrassment. He would ask a question, answer it immediately for you and in doing so took any chance I had to rip on him for his 'Simple Plan' shirt.

For some reason the pub crawl - complete with a bunch of British folk - took everyone to one of the numerous English pubs in the area. I guess if you're going away to the other side of the world you want to hang out with people from back home at pubs like back home. It sure makes spending all that money on an airfare seem worth it.

The final stop of the night started out as jazz bar, but very quickly turned into a hip-hop club. By this stage I was getting free drinks from Rosi and the Canadian jackass was falling asleep at the table. The hosts of the tour were doing their best to invite everyone back to their house for an after party, but when the ugly lights came on at 2AM a night time stroll to Santa Monica pier was a much nicer way to end the night. When I did make it back to the hostel at a mystery hour the Canadian was locked out of his room (How could this happen to him?) and I was struggling to find a way to open my locker without waking people up. In the end he remained locked out, and I stumbled my way into bed and woke up nice and hung over.

Now I've given up the sea for the hills, and I'm spending the next few nights in Hollywood. It's as strange as I remember and that's a great thing. The best record store in the world is round the corner and I've already had a burrito and Denny's fix. I've only got 5 nights left here, and it's a privilege to spend a few of them in a few steps from Hollywood Boulevard. This being Hollywood, here's hoping for some extravagant ending to what has been a magnificent year.

***Song
A Death In The Family - Vodka & Balconies
These guys are one of the best angry man bands in Australia. The last time I saw them was a week before I left, and on the drive home afterwards I spun my car across three lanes of traffic and ended up on a footpath facing the wrong way. It could have easily ended my trip to America before it began, but I was very fortunate. They're still one of the loudest bands I've ever seen, and here's hoping they play a few shows when I get back. As an added bonus you should check out their beardy guitar player Jamie Hay's Thieves EP. It's three songs are some of the best to come out of beardy Australians for a long time.

Trading sunrise for sunset

2011-06-21T09:41:00.000-07:00

I remember reading a horoscope at the start of the year that promised a surprise romance in June. Six months on, that made-up prediction has come true. Mexican food, as you worked on stopping my heart, you won it over. This love was not evidenced more than in Phoenix, where I sat on a stool at 11PM putting on my shoes and getting ready for my overnight bus and managed to break one of the floorboards with my extra burrito weight. Still, that burrito wasn't enough to put me to sleep for my journey from the desert of Phoenix to the coast of San Diego.

I'd checked the forecasts and they all said San Diego was experiencing cool temperatures. I thought it could be some other San Diego, somewhere in South America or the arctic, but alas it wasn't. My view out the window as the sun came up was of fog and windfarms, confirming that my dream of sitting on a beach had been foiled by meteorologists and poor timing.

I was excited to see the Pacific again, as there is some comfort in knowing that my hometown lay on the other side of the waves. It might be California, but there is a sense of home that isn't shared with the East Coast of the USA. Those first glimpses of the water meant a lot of things beyond going home, it also marked the end of my coast-to-coast venture, and though I was chuffed to say I have done it, the significance didn't hit me immediately. When you uproot yourself every couple of days for a few hours on a bus, the journeys tend to gain a sense of monotony. I should have been cheering to be where I was, but all I wanted to do was get off the bus and check into my bed.

Eventually I did just that. With the knowledge that I had completed something I'd long set out to do, I let exhaustion take the better of me, and for a few hours I slept. I've been on the move since May 12, and those few hours of kip were a hangover of everyday since then.

The plan was to meet up with Sam in San Diego, it's his favourite city and the last leg of his stay in America. As 8PM ticked over, he and four of his friends checked into the same room as me, and the tiredness that had shackled me for the day had left.

Sam's mates are all completely sound, and before too long we went looking for a bar to spend some time and dollars in. Sam isn't officially 21, and his unofficial licence was not accepted in the bars near where we were staying. As a second choice, we all snuck a few beers into the room, and as quietly as we could, we slowly became acquainted.

It was late in the morning or early afternoon before I was able to touch the Pacific again. The East Coast had been cold, and save for a few days in Miami, swimming in the ocean was one thing I really missed about home. As rapidly as a hirsute white-boy can, I ripped off my clothing and ran straight into the water. Summer might be already be here, but the water temperature is stuck in the opposite season. Still, that chill wasn't going to stop me, and for the next 30 minutes the battle against the cold and current was more enjoyable than the same circumstances would have been at home.

As one of Sam's friends, Shaun, worked his English tan from white to a luminous red, Ali, Adam, Sam and I walked along the beach and up the pier as surfers rode waves and Mexicans caught fish. That forecast of terrible weather had long left us, and the afternoon turned into one that would make any Californian proud. As we left the beach to head for $5 pizzas, I could see why Sam had been banging on about this place for so long.

Morrissey fan

Having heard so much about the place, I was finally able to go to San Diego Zoo. We all made a beeline to the polar bear section, where the massive white creatures sit out in the unfamiliar sun for most of their life. As we sat looking at what was an empty water pool for a long time, one of the bears swam to the bottom of the surface to eat a waterlogged carrot that had been sitting there for some time. At its completion it resurfaced, walked along the rocks next to the water and took a giant crap in the same water it had just eaten from. It was animal majesty at its finest, and already the entrance fee for the zoo had seemed totally worth it. To make things better, one of his polar bear friends pissed in the same water from a different vantage. Hilarious.

It got even better as we saw two male zebras get overly friendly before crapping right next to their pile of food. However, the finest moment for the animal kingdom was saved for our jungle ancestors. The biggest silverback gorilla on exhibit did some digital inspecting of another chimp's behind in front of a crowd full of amused tourists. The animals may not have been at their finest, but they were definitely pushing for their funniest.

Not long after the zoo I had the pleasure of joining some family friends for dinner at Seaport Village. The Thomas family are the embodiment of hospitality and friendliness. A few years ago they were kind enough to host my sister on her first visit to the USA. After a returning visit to Australia, they again extended themselves and accommodated my sister and I in 2007. It was the first leg of my first year abroad, and it was absolutely wonderful. There aren't enough kind words to describe how generous they were to me then, and no doubt the experience of meeting people like them played a part in a return to the USA. Seeing them again four years on proved no different.

The restaurant they took me to overlooked the water, and the vegetarian pizza I ordered was brilliant. However, the finest part about the evening was the company. I mentioned how the Pacific reminds me of home, but the way the family spoke about my sister and the last time I visited gave me another remind to feel at ease in Southern California. A waiter came around offering desserts to the table, my initial decline was shot down by Joe, the patriarch of the family, and on his insistence I ordered the creme brulee, the smallest option available. It didn't matter how it tasted, it could hardly have been sweeter. The whole meal turned into one of my favourites from my time here, I just hope I don't have to wait another four years to experience it again.

In my absence the boys had hatched a plan to grab some drinks, a football and sit by a firepit at the beach. With some other hostel guests we stopped by the liquor store and I picked up some rum for the evening. Knowing very little about the stuff, I took the clerk's recommendation and grabbed some Bacardi 151. It was brutal when mixed with soft drink, and drinking it straight felt like I had been kissing an angle-grinder. With the night rolling on, Sam and I worked our way through the bottle and eventually realised the alcohol content was over 75%. It was not long after a walk up the jetty at night that the night took a bit of a turn.

I don't really recall a lot of what happened, but at midday the next day I was woken up by Shaun saying "Lewis, you legend". I was feeling rough, and had no idea what he was talking about, but as the day rolled on so did the stories - none of which I recall.

It started with some post-modern photobombing and moved to cigars. Drinking in public is a crime in the USA, but that wasn't a problem on the walk home. Nor was climbing a tree for more bombing. Abusing passers-by was a bit of laugh, so was trying to fight Sam's friend Adam after I spilled his beer. There was vomiting in two different sinks, and numerous times where I snuck off to bed only to return five minutes later. When I did eventually crash I left both doors of the room wide open, such was the concern for security of all of my belongings that were strewn across the room.

By all reports it was a shocking effort, but worst of all, the night beat out the next day, and we missed out on seeing killer whales at Sea World. With the gloom of a well-earned hangover, we all went to the Gaslamp area of downtown for the afternoon. It was another brilliant side to what was quickly becoming one of my favourite places in the states, and was topped off when the vending machine gave me two drinks for one.

Eventually, the hour of saying goodbye to the boys rolled around, and the four lads I'd just met and I went our separate ways. It had been a great few days, and it was a blessing that they were all such sound people. Seeing them off also meant saying bye to Sam, the smartest hobo you'll ever meet. The two semesters with him were nothing but a pleasure, and though there was a bit of an age gap between us, his maturity and my lack-of placed us somewhere in the middle. We parted at a Greyhound station, and he eventually flew back to London before immediately heading to Glastonbury for days of music and camping. I'm hoping it's only a short good-bye, and that for whatever reason either of us end up on the other side of the world before too long.

My final Greyhound trip was typical agony, and with a major traffic delay and the prospect of another 150 minutes of public transport, I bit the bullet and paid for a taxi in the ridiculously expansive city. Once I made it to the hostel, ate more Mexican food and watched the sun set into the sea I had no regrets for that bit of spending. With only 8 days left, time has become a commodity more important than money.

I came to San Pedro because of a Mogwai song and the fact that Charles Bukowski took his final breaths there. As is typical of Los Angeles, it has surprised me with what it has to offer. Downtown is 30 minutes away, and in between is Inglewood and Compton, famous through hip-hop songs, yet San Pedro is a beautiful seaport that feels worlds away. The old fortified hill that the hostel sits on is surrounded by the Pacific, and every vantage is one that invites beauty. Hollywood strip clubs aside, it could be the best $22 view this city has to offer.

***Song
J Mascis and the Fog - Same Day
I've written about how much I love the West Coast, but I still love the East. Already, there are plenty of people living there who I miss dearly. On top of that, Northampton's Calvin Theater is hosting Dinosaur Jr, Thurston Moore and Henry Rollins and I would absolutely love to be there for that. Alas, I can't, but I've still got some solo J Mascis to comfort myself with. It's not Dinosaur Jr, but it is definitely one of his best songs.

Fight every fight like you can win

2011-06-15T20:39:00.000-07:00

I never made it to Monument Valley, and it's going to haunt me until I get back. It's comforting to know that those red pillars that stand on their own over a dusty plateau will probably be there a while longer, but I really wish I had the chance to see them with my own two eyes. Unfortunately, the more time I spend in the Southwest, the more I realise how much I'm actually missing out on here. There is nowhere else like it in the world.

The hostel in Flagstaff was fairly empty of people, and with that, the chances of tagging along on somebody's journey was nil. Tours from the town to the surrounding attractions cost a lot more than two Weezer tickets and public transport over such a wide area is left to my nemesis, Greyhound. With all these situations playing out, I was left to explore Flagstaff, where downtown is measured in about eight blocks.

With my propensity to sunburn, I opted to stay sheltered in the warmest part of the day. I walked down part of Route 66, nearly got hit by a Hummer after I mistimed my jaywalking, and after a few miles, finally got to a cinema. 'Midnight in Paris' was amazing, and with the sun still beating down, I performed my best Elliot Austin Clifford impersonation and snuck into another screening for a very cheap double-bill. Brilliant value.

It didn't take long to see all of downtown Flagstaff, and as pretty as it is, the art galleries outnumber any stores that might have some use. Still, the Americana of being part of Route 66 makes the place pretty interesting. There's a ton of cheap motels and sports bars, yet the place doesn't have the sleaze of other highway towns. Somehow, this cheapness, when mixed with the mountains that surround the city adds to the charm of the place.

It's become standard to be accosted by all sorts of weirdos on this cross-country road trip, and my final morning in Flagstaff was not going to be any different. A group of four drunk Native Americans asked for change, and when I explained I don't carry cash asked for my credit card. I was held up at one point as a large freight train blocked the path for a few minutes and couldn't escape. Eventually an undercover policeman moved them on, but not before I'd been sent on a guilt trip. I've been in America for a while, but I still haven't gotten used to this sort of stuff, and with California ahead, it's bound to continue.

Before I left Flagstaff I raided the hostel's bookshelf and helped myself to some Cormac McCarthy and Hunter S Thompson. I may be turning 25 in less than a fortnight, but sneaking into films and permanently borrowing books is not beyond me. Really, not reading them would be more of a crime than not leaving them, right?

I did my best to get through the Cormac McCarthy book on my bus to Phoenix, but the outside world was too distracting. It wasn't any crazed passengers or bumpy ride that took my attention, it was Arizona. Not long after we'd left Flagstaff the scenery changed from mountains covered in tall trees, to rocky areas that wouldn't look out of place around the Grand Canyon. I may have missed Monument Valley, but whatever this roadside scenery was, it was beginning to make up for it.

Fierybird

As the bus approached Phoenix the hills changed, with tall cacti standing out among the rocky outcrops. It was like the scenes in Western films, or what I imagine parts of Mexico to look like. It's been absolutely mindblowing observing how much things have changed since Santa Fe, and I've only been through two states - if I had my time over again, I would spend more of it around this area (though when the sun isn't so brutal). America is full of big cities, snowy mountains and nice beaches, but it's the Southwest part of the that is completely unique to this country.

Stepping out of the bus in Phoenix was like getting punched in the face by a heavyweight who had dipped his fists in lava. It made Texas feel like somewhere in the Arctic. The desert hostel that I called home for a night is surrounded by dusty carparks and palm trees. The temperature was sitting way above 30°C long after the sun had set and the ground was still hot on the feet.

After a night with the worst snorer I've ever heard (seriously, it cut through ear-plugs) I woke up mildly exhausted, but ready to check out downtown Phoenix. It's a nice area, but the heat kept most people inside. Somewhere along the walk, my brain fried. I had planned on going for a swim in the Hotel San Carlos, but the heat had taken most of my energy. The sun's ferocity here is incredible, and though I managed to see most of downtown, I had to escape before spontaneous combustion got the better of me.

The Southwest is more than just brutal sunshine, rocks and cacti - there's also the burritos that I've fallen for. I've even strategically planned to have one with a sleeping pill just before my bus tonight. Tomorrow I'll be in San Diego, and I'll have officially gone coast-to-coast. I'll be meeting Sam there for his last few nights in America, and since I've played things fairly low-key lately, I hope to make up for lost time. Still, I started this year in California, and there's a bit of trepidation in going back. It's not because I don't love the place, because I do, it's just that it symbolises the end. It's been a magnificent year, there's no doubt of that, but I don't exactly want it to end just yet.

*** Song
Jimmy Eat World - You And I
Here's JEW covering Wilco. They're a great band from Arizona, and I've been lucky enough to see them on three continents (Against Me!/Tom Gabel is the only other band who share that).

Also, I had a pretty good day on ye olde Twitter. Jim from Sparta read my post about them, and Ryan Adams answered my question about Australia. God bless the internet and rock & roll people.

A hole in the world

2011-06-13T00:06:00.000-07:00

By George, I was not expecting a bunch of hippies to bombard my room at 1AM, but that's something you have to anticipate in hostels. After breaking in, a bandana wearing hippie complete with Native American jewelery announced to the room in a fake English accent that our European friend was extraordinarily drunk and needed help getting into the room. George, who I met in Austin popped up in the Flagstaff hostel, but had gone out into town and had a bit too much fun. When I told the hippie to stop speaking to me like a twat, I went outside, assisted more hippies in grabbing George and propped him up next to the sink before he slouched his way to the floor and vomited blood all over it. The hippies left, told me I had great karma and for the next few hours I slept with the light on to the sounds of George spewing and spitting all over the floorboards.

I managed a few hours kip, but was up at the ungodly hour of 7AM ahead of a trip to the Grand Canyon. Yesterday had left me well and truly taken by the Southwest, and the grand canyon has its own allure that has played on my attention since I arrived in America. I've loved seeing a lot of the amazing cities of the country, but there's no hiding the fact that nature has contributed to greatness of this place.

When 8AM ticked over, I waited outside for my bus to escort me through northern Arizona. A man stood outside the hostel in a Charlie Sheen t-shirt and warned me not to tread on the little people that were all over the drive-way. He later revealed that he was on a 10 hour mescaline bender, but I appreciated his advice regardless of his state of mind.

Flagstaff lies next to the San Francisco Peaks, the highest mountain range in Arizona. The bus took us around them, where we saw both sides of the peaks, with the area hidden from the city still covered with snow despite summer in the desert. It's almost as if mother nature was going through a surrealist period when she was painting this part of the world.

first glimpse

After an hour or so we made it up to the Grand Canyon airport, where the two richest people on the bus got off for a helicopter tour. The rest of us plebs had to settle for a gratis IMAX film about the Grand Canyon. It wasn't the experience I had signed up for, as I was hoping to get my Nikes a little bit dirty, but this is what happens when you don't do enough research. At the closing of the credits we picked up the helicopter people and headed to the Grand Canyon Village.

Elk were cruising around the area, unfazed by any automobile traffic or camera snap that followed them. The village looks like it is from 1890, with log cabins and stone buildings being the human impact on the area. Once I got past all the visitor centres, cliff-side restaurants and bum bag wearers I found myself on the edge of the canyon. You can't really see it from the village, but within a few steps you're right there, and it immediately takes the breath from your lungs - and you can't blame that on the altitude.

The first thing that struck me about the canyon is the vastness. The view seems to go on forever, but I knew I was only standing at one tiny part of it. Peaks and valleys are formed with a randomness, and it's reassuring to know that their remoteness means man probably hasn't ever set foot in those parts. It's hard to tell what's more impressive, the beauty of the scenery, or the knowledge that this is one example where nature will always triumph over humans.

I walked around the rim and put my toes over the edge at certain points to feel an insignificance like the little people the mescaline guy had mentioned earlier. It's certainly one way to gain a semblance of perspective, even if a gust of win could easily blow you off the edge and ruin your afternoon plans.

Originally, I had hoped to camp around the Grand Canyon and spend the days being an outdoorsy hiking type - I just ran out of time and money in Texas. I could see the hiking tracks that lead into the canyon, and it would have been great to go in there but I think my sense of scale was a little off. It takes weeks to explore this place, and for now, an afternoon around the rim would have to suffice.

The bus took us to different vantages all over the south side, all offering varying perspectives of the region. Again, the more I saw the more I realised how much is actually out there. We covered a lot of ground, but it's nothing to the overall scale. The word grand is a superlative that does not do it justice.

Rapid Vienna

I climbed the watchtower that had been converted to a tourist store, and looked out to the area that could yet join the Grand Canyon - so far only the Colorado River has carved its way through. Even with the obnoxious tourist shops and Native American wares, the area around the watchtower proved amazing. You can walk to the edge of the canyon and stare out at the rapids in the distance while condors fly around above you. It's a thrill a rollercoaster would struggle to match.

the almost canyon

Colorado River

Seeing the Grand Canyon is something I'm extremely proud to say I've done. It's easily one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, and that was without even getting close. To some people seeing it is like ticking a box in a list of life's achievements, but all it did was whet my appetite to see more. That's what real beauty does, it sucks you in and makes you want to look at it for as long as you can. I didn't mind that I got sunburnt, or that I couldn't see as much as I would have liked, instead I became deeply enamored by the place. My time here is running short, but I just found another major reason to return.

***Song
Bruce Springsteen - Jungleland
I know there was a Bruce Springsteen connection on yesterday's song, but The Boss' saxophonist Clarence Clemons suffered a stroke today. He's pretty much the coolest guy in the E Street band and one of the biggest people in the world. When I first started listening to Springsteen it was the 10 minute epic 'Jungleland' that really convinced me of his genius. Sure it's poetic, and an excellent example of songwriting and musicianship, but it's the saxophone in it that really dominates. It's also one of the greatest album closing tracks of all time. Enjoy.

I found the key to the universe in the engine of an old parked car

2011-06-11T23:31:00.000-07:00

The first views of downtown Dallas brought a sense of familiarity. The bus came up on the right-hand side of a triangular grass paddock that dipped like a funnel into a road where both inbound and outbound traffic met. It was strange to see such an area still exist in a downtown that has tried to rebuild itself, but that wasn’t the most striking thing about this tiny park on the edge of the city’s hub.

The area’s importance did become apparent the next morning. After taking the train from Irving to downtown, I walked up Houston Street and again past the park. On the corner sits the JFK museum – the former Texas School Book Depository. This relatively small park is arguably the site of one of the most important historical moments of the modern world, and for $13.50 I could visit the 6^th floor and see the very spot where Lee Harvey Oswald changed the world (supposedly).

Outside the park and around the grassy knoll conspiracy theorists plug films and push the agenda that there is more to the crime than what has been revealed. Remarkably, after 50 years, it still causes such debate among the believers and still sparks an interest in passers-by. As evidenced by the previous day, the roads are still major arteries for downtown, but it doesn’t stop people trying to photograph a white x that has been painted inside one of the lanes. When the traffic breaks, people with equal measures of crass and bravery run out onto the road and pose for photos.

2nd floor from the top, far right windae

The museum tours through JFK’s life and the moment’s leading up to his trip to Dallas. There are walls covered in stills from the Zapruder film and other evidence gathered on the wall. The corner of the 6^th floor is made up to resemble midday on November’s day in 1963. The area is boarded off, but recreated scene is viewable from the street – and it’s hard to tell what the purpose is. It doesn’t seem to celebrate the life of a slain president, but is more like a distasteful reminder to one of the world’s most famous murders.

recreated area. No photos allowed - I'm just rad at mspaint

It’s important to remember history, but it’s really hard to tell what’s going on in this part of Dallas. For such a significant event, the museum doesn’t cover much detail, and if there is more to the story, fear of nutty conspiracy theorists does more to deter people from asking questions. I can appreciate that they might not want to change too much of the area, but what changes have been made could be better – the area behind the grassy knoll is a paid car-park. For anyone with no knowledge of the event, all you’d see is a white x, some guys trying to sell movies and a municipal building that has a few cardboard boxes stacked up inside one of the 6^th floor windows when history tells us it’s much more than that.

A man pours water on a sign that reads "until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream". Poet.

Apart from seeing the JFK museum, I really had no other business in Dallas. There was the typical Texas heat that followed me round for the rest of the afternoon, and after a few hours I had a nose so burnt and red Santa could employ me for his sleigh. I walked up and down the streets of Dallas, and on what was lunchtime in downtown I was startlingly lonely. For all of the glass skyscrapers, and multiple lanes on the roads, there were no people.

There are nice areas of town, and there are parts that look like they’ve come from the great depression, and sometimes even a cowboy film. I thought there would be a bit more life to the place, especially given their basketball team’s current David vs Goliath battle in the finals series, but it just felt there was very little going on. After a few hours, and a trip back and from Irving, I was finally leaving Dallas.

My expectations on Greyhound remain particularly low, and it’s not really a stretch to name them as one of the worst companies in America, I just didn’t think they could make things as bad as they did. Pim, a Dutchman I’d met at the hostel was also travelling on the overnight bus to Albuquerque, and with a full bus, we sat next to eachother and chatted about all sorts of things (he saw the band OFF! at Amoeba Records and said it was awesome). We thought our bus was pretty full, but it turned out they could cram more people on, and if 12 hours sounded long on the ticket, it felt much longer on the bus.

I couldn’t sleep on the bus, and when we reached Amarillo, Texas for a bus change I was particularly tired and running out of patience. Our bus arrived late, and while I hoped it would make the waiting time shorter, somehow it worked the other way. For two or three hours we waited for our bus to arrive and take us out of Texas. The station was being torn apart for renovations, and with limited seating and plastic sheets for walls, our stay in the wee hours of the morning was an incredibly frustrating.

While our bus did eventually arrive, we were well behind schedule and extremely crowded. At 3AM I already knew I was going to miss my train in Santa Fe, and waiting helplessly after paying for a fairly expensive bus ticket was quite a test of patience.

oldest house in America

The mixture of frustration and lack of comfort meant I didn’t sleep on the second bus either, but there was an upside to this. The tardiness meant we didn’t have to wait too long for the sun to rise, and when it did New Mexico and Route 66 put on some show. The red rocks and early morning sunshine were as nice way to welcome a new place as anything I can think of. Cliffs seem to pop up from nowhere, and erode just as randomly. It is like nothing I have seen before, and this is only the stuff they put a road through. With a few hours and a pair of boots I’m sure the area’s beauty could make your heart skip a beat.

As expected, I did miss my train, and had had to wait two hours for another. Minding my own business and drinking my tea, a young man with long hair and that unmistakable crazy-eye came up offered to buy my skateboard. I politely declined, and he went on his way. Or so I thought. He returned not long after to ask me if he could use my phone, and again I politely declined. It was here when the crazy-eyes showed what was behind them, and though I sat stern-faced to him, he told me the bineural music I was hearing was the reason I was nervous. He went on, explaining that the heavy metals in my tea meant I was hearing music without speakers and that the rhythm was bad for me. He told me my t-shirt was Luciferean and instead of waiting for him to ask me why I wasn’t wearing a tin-foil hat I left him to enjoy some sunshine and wait for my train.

I hadn’t even dropped my bags at the platform when a man of about 40 years and reeking of booze came up and started a conversation. He was a Native American who told me he loved to drink and couldn’t wait to go to the casino in Santa Fe. He asked me if I wanted to join him for a beer at 10AM, and when I again declined he went off to find his mum, as she was paying for his train. I thought the people in Texas were strange, but New Mexico had outdone it and I had only been in one building.

I eventually got my train, and a man who resembled Jack Palance sat across from me. He was short on a few teeth, and what ones he did have left were replaced with gold. This seems to have influenced the words that sprang from his mouth as for the next hour he told me all about his life in New Mexico and why it’s such a special place. As he told me his stories, the view from the outside offered a series of mud huts, abandoned towns and desert cliffs. It’s Native American land so you can’t photograph it, but it was spectacular.

At Santa Fe I was met by Cassidy and Heather. As Weezer had been crazily expensive I had to save some pennies where I could, and a night of couchsurfing is once such means. Both were lovely enough to host me, but before I could drop my bags off we had to stop for New Mexican food.

Cassidy works at a fancy chocolate store, where drinks are made with 100% cocoa and a ton of different spices. I had a cayenne and caramel chocolate slice as a psychic sat in the corner, finding a market among the foodies and hippies that go wild for this stuff.

I had an afternoon to kill in downtown, and even without going inside a building it’s hard not to be captivated by the city. The buildings that make up the city are adobes, and they’re all beautiful. The oldest building in the country is there, held together by mud and straw walls. Around the corner construction of a new building is taking place, but its design is almost identical. 400 years on, improvement is hardly necessary.

Downtown offered a few highlights, with hippies occupying the plaza and drugged out vagrants taking ownership of the hill the Cross of the Martyrs sits on. Every second store is an art gallery, but no matter what’s inside, the architecture of the adobe is almost always as fascinating as the brushstrokes on canvas.

The city is one of the dustiest places I’ve ever been, and my feet were turning black from walking around in a pair of thongs. When I showered I could feel myself clearing the dust out of my two-day stubble. Most disgusting of all was my fingernails, as they turned black without even touching anything.

That night, Cassidy, Heather, one of their friends and I headed to a brewery on the outskirts of town to see Chali 2na of Jurassic 5 and Ozomatli play a solo show. We got in late enough that we were only charged 25% admission, but still saw enough of the set to be impressed. His keyboard player played Hendrix’s Little Wing in a way unlike anything I’d heard before while Mr. 2na was improvising rhymes before finally saying goodbye to the crowd.

We missed last drinks at the bar, and were headed back downtown to get a late dinner before a policeman pulled the car over. Apparently the driver had failed to stop at the stop sign and the policeman could ‘sense the smell of alcohol’. We were all a little dumbfounded, no one had anything to drink, but it seems that exiting a brewery made an easy target for a possible DUI – whether there is evidence or not. For 15 minutes, our driver friend performed all of the field sobriety tests on the side of a windy freeway before she blew 0.00 on the breathalyzer. By now a second police car had arrived, and though everything was cleared, the manner of the whole ordeal was incredibly unprofessional. It was one big arsehole act that didn’t get anyone anywhere but left us all a little pissed off.

Once we made it downtown without distraction I ordered myself a Frito Pie, where chili is poured all over a bag of fritos and topped with cheese, onion, jalapenos and sour cream. It was lovely, and if a meal can define an area, that’s it. My heart may have been beating for Santa Fe, but the food there was pushing it to its limits.

Before leaving Santa Fe the girls took me along to the farmers market, where more hippies corroborated and used the word organic way too often. We said our goodbyes and I got my train and subsequent bus out of New Mexico.

I’m sitting on it right now and heading along route 66 as we push through the smoke of Arizona’s massive fire. If the last Greyhound trip was the worst I’ve had, this is easily the best. The area between New Mexico and Arizona has got me absolutely smitten. You could stop anywhere here and film a Western. The occasional freight train runs parallel, like a scene from Woody Guthrie’s life even though it’s 2011. It’s a 6 hour bus trip, and though I planned on watching a film to pass the time there seems little point. Even the greatest pieces of cinema can’t compare to the scenes outside this window. To my left is golden crags and rocky hills while the right has red mounds that have been eroded and smoothed away. Driving through this valley, I can’t think of prettier car trip in my life. This is exactly why I chose not to fly, and I’m infinitely happier for it. I just wish I had a window seat so I could share it.

***Song

Tom the table Gabel - Reason to Believe

Inspired by an article in The Onion, I re-listened to Springsteen's Nebraska. It's an album he made in his bedroom on his lonesome and from start to finish, The Boss is telling stories in a strip backed narrative - like a film shot solely on black and white film. It's an album that requires a bit of patience, but the reward is startling. Anyway, Tom Gabel of Against Me! covers the last song while wearing a pink polo shirt in a YouTube series where other artists play Springsteen songs. Enjoy, and watch the rest of the series, it's spectacular.

Cut My Thoughs For Coconuts

2011-06-08T22:40:00.000-07:00

There are far worse places to be out of money than Austin. The speck of blue in the sea of red has everything you want in a large city. The only problem is you'll probably melt before you really appreciate it.

It would be nice to say I made the most of my time in Texas' capital, but the truth is I was too afraid to go outside for long periods of time. It was absolutely roasting outside. No word of a lie, I saw a dried out frog and baby bird on the footpath, where the concrete had roasted them into a crisp. I had no desires to join them.

Eventually, I did make a trip under the blazing sun, and on late Monday afternoon I walked for an hour into downtown. It was 6PM, and it was still around 40°. Ugh. Outside Stubb's Bar-B-Q, the line had been moving for 30 minutes, but still snaked around the corner. As if the walk wasn't enough to drench my t-shirt, another 30 minutes in the sun would.

Probably ended up as someone's free Sunday roast.

No matter, all the sunburn and sweat in the world was not going to stop me from seeing Weezer - though something did prevent the opening band from showing up.

The show was outdoors, and if it wasn't for the stage or drinks tent, the venue may as well have been a glorified backyard party. Perfect. The sun was still out when Weezer came on stage, and when the three nerdy guys, a Buddy Holly clone and the best session drummer in the world came on stage, I realised that I could spend years eating noodles if it meant seeing them play on a regular basis. And, as an added bonus, for the first time in weeks, I felt like I was the only Australian among the crowd.

Their set traveled back in time, starting with Raditude and was a bit of a best-of set in reverse. Though they're essentially one man's project in the studio, they're a different beast altogether live. Members took turns at singing songs, and all of the guitar parts were switched around to accommodate River's recent urge to actually interact with the crowd. When Brian Bell, the other guitar player sang 'Keep Fishin'(best filmclip in the world)', Rivers had disappeared from the audience's view. Watching the rest of the band take over was interesting, but my attention had been diverted when I felt someone splash me with water. I looked in the trees that were standing next to me, and in his white shorts and polo shirt, Rivers was doing his best to climb and shake his way to the top. Brilliant.

With the songs going back in time, we were treated to a song that came out in 1997. Assuming it was a Pinkerton b-side, I was surprised when they played a note-for-note cover of Radiohead's Paranoid Android, as if the internet video that has been doing the rounds was not enough of a troll. Evidently, they did play some of those aforementioned b-sides before going off stage for an intermission.

There was a 20 minutes slideshow displayed on the roof of the stage that revealed the band used to play in a garage in 226 Amherst ave in L.A., and at its conclusion the band came out and played through their entire debut album. As one guy yelled out "I felt like I'm fourteen again!", I remembered the first time I came across Weezer. It was another late Saturday night that had turned into early Sunday morning. I was about 10 or 11 years old and the clip for Buddy Holly came on at about 2AM and I was blown away by the special effects - the band was playing the diner in Happy Days. Looking back, it's startling to think that I'd have to travel to the other side of the world to see them live, but that's how profound the introduction was.

Weezer have 3 self-titled albums. This is the best cover.

The show was so good that I went back the next night to see them play Pinkerton. An opening band even showed up, but apart from a drummer who looked like he had special needs everytime he hit his kit, they didn't really do much for me. Even though Weezer opened with 'Memories' on both nights, it was still fucking great to hear the song being played live. Better still, Rivers outdid his tree climb by mounting the speaker system and eventually the venue's fence as he sang 'The Greatest Man That Ever Lived'. Watching him up there having the time of his life, it felt somewhat auto-biographical, even if it is a piss take.

My biggest fear about the two nights was that there'd be a repeat of the same songs, but it was never really a problem. Only 'Memories', 'El Scorcho', 'Hash Pipe' and 'Only In Dreams' were repeated. Instead, a bunch of Pinkerton and Blue album b-sides were played and they were absolutely great. There's a beautiful naivety to them that still comes through, and they were just as great as the Pinkerton set that followed.

Rivers, the greatest man in Austin

Both shows were such a nice way to leave Austin, the famed live music capital of the world. It was more than a matter of waiting a few days to see Weezer, it was a few years. Having been so close, but still missing them in Boston was tough, but having to wait a bit longer made the whole experience so much more worthwhile. Kind of like waiting a few days for a shower. Or not. I think this road trip is having a weird effect on me.

Anyway, I've made it to Dallas, and after missing a train by 3 minutes, I had to wait an nearly 90 minutes for the next one. A number of people were really helpful to me when it came to getting the right train and ticket, but everytime they asked for a dollar or two. It was the first time I felt like I could agree to handout - only I didn't have change for any of them. The train had a typical schizo loonie, but I managed to ignore her by sitting opposite someone who was heading to the same hostel as me. As nice as downtown Dallas looks, I've only got a few hours there before getting a night bus to New Mexico. It's three weeks until home, and though it's a feeling that hasn't sunk in, that feeling of moving west is bringing it closer.

***Song

David Bowie - I'm afraid of Americans
I'm not really afraid of Americans, it's quite the opposite, I've grown quite fond of them. It just happens that this song is really great.

City Limits

2011-06-04T21:33:00.000-07:00

Like anyone with a heartbeat and the occasional neuron firing between my ears, I hate losing. As a kid I'd hit the reset button on a games console as much as I would the ones on the controller. Backyard cricket with friends would occasionally result in an 'accidental' beamer coming down from one end of my parent's back yard to the other. Emotionally, I still struggle for perspective when one of the teams I support lose - it's never 'just a game'. Sometimes I wonder if I hate losing more than I love winning; there's no excuses for victory and it's easier to be gracious with a win than it is to take defeat lightly.

Oddly enough, losing the other day felt good.

As Dicky Peach, Max and I walked alongside the river and back to our hostel Max started a simple game. "First person to spot a cloud wins," he said.

We all looked skywards, and eventually pirouetted when our necks couldn't turn 180° in either directions. We all lost. Never has defeat been sweeter.

Our final night together began downtown. Still nursing a sore head, and knowing that the others had to be up early we promised a quiet night. It started with a quiet beer and a burger before heading to the area under Congress Bridge. Countless runners and bikers moved past us, oblivious to the heat and painting a very different picture of that fat Texan stereotype. With a vantage point directly under the bridge, we waited over an hour for the sun to go down. When it had sufficiently sunken, bats poured out of the bridge's supporting pillars and into the sky.

Thousands fly out in unison in scenes that are more biblical than Texan. We put aside our fear of guano and watched them circle and squeak above us. The sheer number of them is amazing, and the bridge's housing system is tardis-like, miraculous bigger on the inside than out. Once the bats had their 15 minutes of fun, we went back to 6th street for the final time together.

It was almost poetic that we were ordering the cheapest beer at every bar and playing terrible games of pool. It's become what we're good at. Buoyed on by a remarkable Dallas Mavericks victory on the screens, the quiet night got louder and louder.

We moved between a few bars, before settling for the previous night's rooftop. A live band entertained crowd members more equipped with ethanol into some great dance moves. No comedian in the world would have been funnier.

Slowly, we drank our cans (or dropped them all over myself) and were there for the transition from live band to dj. The clocks hadn't hit 1AM, but we'd opted to bring the party back to the hostel. Drunker than we'd planned on getting, we signaled the first taxi we saw for a return to the riverfront hostel.

There was the typical courtesy between a taxi driver and three drunk passengers, and we asked a few questions about his night and his job. Only, somewhere along the way he started on a rant that ended at the hostel, with us having to sit in the car 30 seconds after it came to halt as we waited for him to finish. Jekyll had turned to Hyde, and he was yelling at us as if we were the antagonist from his story. It was more American craziness, and like a rollercoaster, it was frightening until the point where you unbuckle yourself and step out of the ride.

Like the night before, we returned to the pontoon staring up at the sky and looking at the city in the distance. To get to Austin from Massachusetts, the odometers we had all been carrying had been given a bashing. Still, there's no readout for how far we'd all come throughout our time together. In all my days before America, meeting such people and spending our final hours together on a small pontoon on Austin's Colorado River had never entered my mind. Yet, there were few other places I'd rather have been. I barely remember what we were talking about, but I know I didn't want to go inside and eventually to sleep.

With brains full of beer, the following morning was a rushed mess. We all packed our bags, Max waiting for his ride to the airport, Dicky Peach heading to Dallas to fly to Las Vegas and me to spend a few more days in Austin while I figured out where to go next.

The telephone call came at the front desk, and Max's shuttle showed up. He did his best to delay it, but we had to say our good-byes. We shook hands, hugged and wished eachother the best of luck. The same activity was repeated 30 minutes later, as Peach's taxi came and took him to the bus station. The good-byes weren't teary or long, but they were sentimental.

With friends like those two good-byes are never too tough. It's not for a lack of feeling, but more to do with the comfort that we'll see eachother again. It happened to me with people I lived with in Scotland, and no doubt the kinship with people I've met throughout this year is as strong. We've got separate lives to live on opposite sides of the world, but for mates like those two, such hurdles are cleared with ease. It's never really good-bye anyway.

As they left the realisation that I'll be back in Australia soon hit. Again, I'm on my own, but this trip has been given a full stop that manifests itself in a late night flight from Los Angeles on June 28. That feeling of 'home' has become dynamic to the many different places I've laid my head, and I'll be just as upset at the idea of leaving America as I will be about returning to Australia. Until then, my love for America, and yearning for Australia will grow higher than Denali.

Working out where I'm going next really depended on two things. A ticket to each Weezer show in Austin on Monday and Tuesday. After a few quick words with my Mum, and a financial surprise from my Nan I bit the bullet, and treated some scalpers to a nice bit of inflation. Sure I have to stay in for the next few nights, and my food intake has gone from take-out to a strict diet of noodles, pasta and beans on toast, but I'm finally going to see a band I love on two special nights. If it meant not eating at all over the next few days I still would have bought the tickets, I'm just lucky to have an amazing Nan who can still save my skin from the other side of the world. I can not wait to see her in under four weeks.

Obviously, with the food and social life concessions I have to make over the next few days, this also extends to accommodation, and I'm hoping to do some couchsurfing over the next few legs. Fingers crossed the people of Dallas and Santa Fe are as pleasant and hospital as the rest of this country.

Pedo Bear

I spent most of yesterday shying from the heat, and finding my feet again.California is calling, but for a sense of my own personal pride I want my route there to be like my one to Texas - on the ground. It might be just words to most people, but I want to be able to say I went from Cape Cod to San Diego overland. No doubt renewing my relationship with the Pacific Ocean will feel amazing after this great year.

Foolishly, I walked out under the Texas sun at midday. For miles and miles, I walked from the hostel to downtown and around the city's streets. The thermometer never let up, much to the chagrin of my body. The time did fly by however, and Austin showed itself to be a very beautiful place. New Orleans is a lot of fun, but Austin is the queen of the south.

In a park that sits next to the river is a statue of Stevie Ray Vaughan, and it's a great thing that the city should choose to give him such an honour. His is the only statue, as like real life there are no comparisons - he is simply above everyone else. In the area next to his statue manic dogs play in and around the water. If you are ever after some cheap entertainment go to a dog park, if the dogs there were people they'd be acting out the funniest play anyone had ever seen.

By the time I walked back to the hostel, it was nearing 6PM and the temperature was still over 35°. My feet are blistered, and a slurpee has never felt so deserved. I'm broke, but still, there a few other places I'd rather be as I wait to see Weezer. No doubt this place is a highlight on my trip out west - even if part of my stay meant seeing off two great companions, and even better friends.

***Songs
I found a great bookstore today. If it weren't for the weight of hardcovers, I would have loved to have grabbed the Tom Waits lyrics book as well as Mozipedia. Alas, I'll have to settle for their songs instead.

Tom Waits - I hope I don't fall in love with you

The Smiths - This Charming Man

Texas Flood

2011-06-02T15:11:00.000-07:00

San Antonio, you are a weird bastard.

I loved spending the afternoon in the hotel's pool, staring up at the Towers of America and the freeway that ran adjacent to the pool's length. It was pushing 8PM, but the sun was still out and the heat was blistering. When the chlorine left my eyes looking like I'd spent hours smoking dope, I opted out for food.

It was discovered that the whole riverfront area of San Antonio is pretty much man made, and essentially just a mall with a big water feature. Following a food court dinner a homeless guy told us that if we were looking to party, Coyote Ugly would be the place. Being a Monday night, the streets were still fairly void of people, and so were the bars.

Stumbling about in the heat and by the water, we eventually found a bar that was loud enough to be heard from a few steps away. Just as the homeless man suggested, we walked into Coyote Ugly.

An older barmaid was on the bar, yelling down a microphone at people, and generally embarrassing herself. She looked like Sigourney Weaver, but spoke like a trailer park resident. She called Dicky Peach Jason Mraz, and as we yelled our orders over her wailing, we finally got a drink.

Like every bar we'd been in for the last two weeks, we were again the youngest clients. A middle aged black woman danced all over the bar, and eventually Max and I. Meanwhile, a fat white guy did his best efforts to wobble rhythmically with encouragement from more bar-dancing microphone bandits.

After drinking scummy light beer and giggling as the nicer looking bar girls danced to hilarious heavy metal, we left when they turned the drink hose on us. The bar was tackier than a discount store, but no one had told any of the staff or white-trash clients.

After some minor hotel rearrangements and a quick sleep, I woke for another swim while Dicky Peach and Max made the most of their new makeshift beds. Eventually, we all ventured out into downtown, and in the heat walked around San Antonio.

The city has a sandy colour about it, and if New Orleans is like America's France, then San Antonio is it's Spain. Unfortunately, the similarities end there, as after checking out some buildings and the Alamo, there wasn't much else to do apart from melt. Sure it's pretty, and there is a water feature, but there is only so many touristy cowboy shops needed in a downtown area. That said, we did pay a visit to the wax museum, where WWE figures are the showpieces out the front.

Really?

We all joined Mexican families in the pool, as their kids ran around the edges and one grandpa bellyflopped and paddled into me while swimming in his denim shorts. We also may have witnessed some mild paedophilia, as a 14-year-old looking guy swam with his tattooed girlfriend. It was pure Texan white trash, though not surprising given we were at a cheap downtown motel.

That night we watched the basketball in the luxurious bar 'Hooters'. Our heavy chested server made sure we never ran out of beer, and we thought we had charmed our way into a great price when the total came up much shorter than we imagined. However, it turned out we'd just been lucky, and selected the beer on special all night. It was all fake charm.

It turns out that despite the best intentions of locals, they are crap at giving out directions for places to go out.Our Hooters girl mentioned a bar on the other side of town, and when we stopped by the Marriot for their last cool we were directed to Leaping Lizards - a place we were told would be pumping.

Alas, it wasn't. The only excitement from our stay was a West Texan joining us for a few games of pool before we left his inaudible ramblings behind. San Antonio had proved to be an exceptionally weird bastard.

It's odd though. Austin is the town that promotes the saying "Keep Austin Weird", and right from the start, it was clear that it wasn't. In fact, it's not that weird at all, it's great. It was crazily hot when we arrived in the afternoon, and with our hostel on the banks of the Colorado River, our ideas for a swim were dashed when we were told it was dirty.

Still, we grabbed a football and kicked it around the lawn as the heat sapped all of our energy. Given that I didn't want to be the one who kicked the ball into the river, I headed towards the nearest pontoon, seeing all sorts of fish and even a baby turtle at the shore. Not long after, I saw the ball run the hill and into the water. Crap! I had given up my drivers licence to get the ball out.

Seeing my licence float away was made frustrating by the fact that I was told we shouldn't go in the water for a swim. That didn't stop Max though, and as the ball drifted further and further away, he sprang into action; emptying his pockets and rolling up his shorts.

After some persuading, he dipped his legs into the river, and slowly edged himself into the water. As his feet touched the ground he began to feel himself sink, and in a panic, lost one of his thongs as he made a hasty return to dryness. As a team of rowers ignored our calls and the ball drifted towards the other side of the bank, our quiet kick about had turned into a bit of a mess.

Max had to be hosed-down by the hostel staff, but in doing so we managed to get some company for a night out on Austin's famed 6th st. It was brilliant, with cheap beers going down as bands played up and down the road. Eventually we settled for the roof top, listening to an acoustic guitar player go through some covers including Weezer's Say It Ain't So. We sang along, and he even offered some Oasis tunes that reminded me of everyone from UMass. As his set finished Max managed to offend some Adelaide bogans who took offense at his English banter (dickheads). As we left the venue, the guy playing the set came up to me and thanked me for coming to the show and singing along. It was a lovely gesture, and something remarkably absent from every other show I've been to. I have no idea of the guy's name, but it was a brilliant set from a very talented man.

We all returned back to the hostel, and the group of sat out on pontoon, staring at the stars above and being forced to listen to me ruin some songs on guitar. After one night, Austin had won me over.

Today we walked through downtown, checking out the state capital building and 6th street during the day. There was the typical American crazies out on the street. Judging by the quietness of downtown, it seems this place is rather nocturnal, as there are a ton of shows each night. It's my last night with Dicky Peach and Max, and in a city like this, I'm sure will make it a good elf.

From certain angles it looks like this kid is trying to pee in his own mouth

***Song
Weezer - Ruling Me
So, I'm due to leave Austin on Sunday, but Weezer are playing two shows on the Monday and Tuesday here. Each show is them playing one of their earlier albums from start to finish, and sold out at rapid pace. Michael and I did plan on seeing those shows in Boston, but missed out due to university exams. Since they've never been to Australia, I'll probably not get a chance to see them unless I can find $150+ for scalped tickets. If anyone knows of any ways to get rich quickly please let me know. I have the time to stay here longer, but not the money for the shows and it's sadder than one of their many awesome ballads.

Houston, we have a problem

2011-05-30T18:14:00.000-07:00

The headache slowly relented, but the heartbreak didn’t. Alleged Manchester United fan Dicky Peach miraculously woke before 1PM and made his way into town to watch his team suffer a defeat in the biggest club game in the world. When I met up with him and Max he had to suffer the indignation of being a failed gloryhunter in what was the hottest day I’ve encountered this side of arriving in the USA.

We heckled him all of through the day, and all over the French Quarter. It was the first chance to see the area beyond Bourbon Street and in the light of day. I’ll admit to being skeptical of the city as we arrived downtown. The outskirts and generic high rises painted a picture that could have been any dying American metropolis. Once we saw the place at ground level my opinion took an absolute U-turn. It only improved the longer we stayed.

It’s easy to forget that the USA is a continent, and like others there is great diversity. The streets of the French Quarter are as different to those in New York, Los Angeles and Miami. The further we got from Bourbon Street, the better the place smelt and the nicer the streets became. When we eventually made it past the giant church that the dayshifters all travelled to see, we ended up on the banks of the river, looking out at a paddle steamer travel under bridges to its eventual mooring.

As we sat on the wooden docks taking a nice break from the busyness of the streets that led us there, a homeless man teetered on the edge of the water as he ranted incoherently. What we could make out was directed at the person next to us who was “knocked the fuck out”, and once he left, the ‘knocked out’ guy lay down on the docks to get some shut-eye, tipped over his beer next to his head and continued to doze. Again, in New Orleans there was greatness next to poverty.

There was more meandering around the French Quarter, and even the quiet streets had people out the front trying spruik strip clubs. All the balconies, bars, restaurants and tiny streets really make the place something else, and at a quiet hour, it would be hard to tell which continent you’re in.

We returned to Bourbon street at night, and again I found myself pouring drinks off the balcony. Old women were doing their best to flash for beads and marching bands led wedding processions through the crowd. The street was wall-to-wall with people, all drunk or on their way, and all there for the same reason. It’s one of the greatest streets in the world that night, and even if it is sleazy, there’s great reason they call it the big easy.

The next day we were heading to Houston, Texas, and it would mean nearly nine hours on the bus. Typically, the Greyhound was late, and when I tried to place my bag under the bus the attendant made me remove my skateboard and shoes much to my annoyance. It had never been a problem anywhere else; not least the check in desk that weighed the bag, but as some polite redneck on the bus said “who is she to tell you what to do in her yellow vest?” And so it went, Greyhound decided that I should waste my time untying a few things, only for me to transport on the seat next to me.

I love making my way to places overland, and though there is a bit of added time to get through, watching the world as you pass by can be a bit of a joy – even on a Greyhound. There was the waterpark outside of New Orleans that I would have given anything to be at, people out fishing next to the highway and areas that are still flooded from a few weeks back.

The time flew by as we got to Texas, and things began to get a bit weird after that. Bridges that looked like rollercoasters towered above waterways and all over the land refineries and industrial areas were scattered about, looking like sets from Bladerunner. As we drove past a jail a row of lawyer offices and signs offering cheap bail bonds adorned the road, and at each stop, it felt like we were ascertaining a few of the jail’s old residents. The sunset that accompanied our bus trip was beautiful, with the orange sun falling behind the trees at stopped our view. There is hardly a nicer way to arrive somewhere.

When we finally made it into Houston and the hostel we were told we would be staying in a building a few blocks away, despite phoning up earlier and arranging to do some late night washing. Though it did mean we all got to ride in the back of a truck, our beds came without sheets. I can’t tell if it is incompetency, or whether they went out of their way to deliberately make this a nightmare, but the end result remained the same. Well done.

Still, we were able to stop by a Denny’s for dinner, and Dicky Peach usurped all of his previous junk food efforts by ordering a grilled cheese sandwich, stuffed with fried mozzarella sticks – essentially cheese covered in fried bread, in cheese covered in fried bread. Still, this being America, it wasn’t even the weirdest thing on offer. That honour was taken by the bacon sundae – which even Dicky Peach wouldn’t touch.

I wanted to go to the Space Center in Houston, but this clusterfuck of a hostel sabotaged the mission with their ineptitude. Space is awesome. To think that the city that produced this hostel was also capable of sending a man to the moon is remarkable. Not being able to see it is just another reason to come back, even if it means braving Houston again.

The last evening turned into a mess, and considering I don’t know where I’m going in five days time I presume more of the same will happen. Still, a bad day here is still a nice thing, and my only real responsibility is getting on a bus and arriving somewhere else. Tough life right?

***Song

Chuck Ragan - Do You What You Do

Listening to this guy when you drive across the south is absolutely brilliant.

Ou est le poubelle?

2011-05-28T12:56:00.000-07:00

It took a while to walk to Bourbon Street. It had nothing to do with proximity - our ancient hotel is only a few blocks away, we just had to stop every so often to seek shelter from the deluge. The sun was beating down even with the pouring rain, forcing the humidity to replicate a sauna. Every person we'd met over the last few days warned us to be careful in New Orleans, and when were only a few steps from the bright lights of Bourbon Street, a lady tramp walked by us with a freshly soiled dress. There you go again America, the best and worst in the land right next to eachother.

It became immediately apparent that the neon lights of Nashville's Broadway and Memphis' Beale Street are just baby versions of Bourbon Street. Seeing people was one indicator. Seeing them drunk off their faces at 7PM was another. Finally, we'd get to see some of that famed partying down here.

Up and down Bourbon street, we walked past innumerable bars, strip clubs and fried food restaurants. Above us, like Memphis, black clouds lit up with the regularity of the kick drums resonating outside the bars. If ever there was evidence for the necessity of The Weather Channel, spending these last few days in the south has shown it.

Max and I settled into another bar to watch the Chicago Bulls lose again, and as my heart sank, so did the beers at our table. Around us an MC yelled down a microphone and a dance floor packed out with young guys already hammered by 10PM and older people who had left their coordination behind as they attempted to relive their youth.

A mechanical bull was replaced by a whale out the back, and before too long the animal barely looked out of place as the rain returned with a ferocity I had not yet seen in America. Rain soaked drunks sought shelter, while the ones who had arrived earlier didn't mind getting soaked and continued they're hilarious dance moves.

A hen's party arrived, with their pink singlets announcing to everyone they were going to get rampid in New Orleans. None of their group seemed to notice the error, and with the collective I.Q. of the bar dropping, Max and I left knowing we had to be up early the following morning.

At 10AM Max's friends came by, picked us up in their car and we drove to parts of the city to see how the reaction to Hurricane Katrina has been after six years. There is abandonment spread randomly across the area, with rebuilt houses neighbouring those marked in spray paint indicating fatalities from six years ago. To think, that after this amount of time such damage is still widely evident is remarkable. It's heartening to see people rebuilt, but rightly or wrongly, reminders of tragedy are still abound.

New Orleans is more than booze and tragedy, and a 45 minute drive from the city brought us to the swamplands. In the southern heat, we boarded a boat and set out through the murky brown water into the wilderness of the area.

Almost immediately massive birds were flying around us and turtles were spotted lounging around semi submerged logs. Within 10 minutes the first alligator appeared, and in what must be a Pavlovian instinct, came up to the side of the boat to be fed hotdogs for all of tourists. When they weren't eating the finest of Walmart's mystery meat hotdogs, they were instead feasting on marshmellows, and watching a baby one swim towards and eat one was not something I expected to see when I woke up. A little strange, but amusing none the less.

Through the swamps and bayous, more and more alligators made appearances, getting bigger and bigger as the trip went on. They'd all come to the boat, sliding across the side and eventually jumping out of the water to eat the bait. I dared not get too close to the side, because they could have easily had their head in my lap, such was the proximity.

Plank

All along the swamp are summer and weekend houses, offering the owners mosquito filled weekends away from the city. Some are quite extravagant, with doors, windows and their own docks. Others are simply sheds, and are slipping closer and closer to the water. When Hurricane Katrina struck the area, there were stories of some of them floating all the way to the other side of the swamp, such was the intensity.

Eventually we entered more wooded areas, and the water line on the tree gave the appearance of a fake sunshine coming through at a flat angle. Duck weed covered the water, giving a the surface a false green carpet. Dragonflies and countless other insects all bounced across it, like it was a solid as the banks.

It's absolutely insane to think that people go out wandering, swimming and live near the swamps, given all the snakes and alligators we saw, but it seems either people in this region are either the owners of the biggest balls in the world, or are completely stupid. Either way, there's a fair bit of insanity involved, and that's always a fun thing.

Later that night we all went out to dinner on Bourbon street. Stopping for street performers, street beers and a cigar, we went to a few of the strips bars. Now, I wish I could tell you more about my night, but my tape stopped recording. I remember some beads, a balcony, being very worried I was going to be thrown out for pouring beer on someone from the balcony (they just wanted me to use a plastic cup, not a glass bottle). After that, it's a real blur.

At some point in the night Dicky Peach arrived, and rumours are circulating today that I was throwing ice at him and teasing his new haircut. At another point in the night I was also informed that I stood on him while rummaging near the coffee machine (I've since found a nice coffee stain on a wall on the other side). Anything else that happened is anecdotal, and I guess I did what you're supposed to do in New Orleans. I got hammered, got some beads and forgot the rest of the night. Now Dicky Peach is here, I can only imagine something similar will happen tonight. Eek.

***Song
Down - Stone The Crow
Nola. A great break from a few guys more famous for angry man music.

Moving like the fog on the Cumberland River

2011-05-26T15:18:00.000-07:00

Getting from New York to Nashville had really taken it out of me. It was 24 hours of travelling, waiting, starving and pockets of sleep that can be measured in minutes. It was a Sunday evening, and the area surrounding the hostel looked as if it had taken what I wanted, and had been asleep all day. Not long after my check in Max arrived from Los Angeles and we headed for the downtown area. It was only a block or two before we encountered the first of many panhandlers in the area. A hotel only around the corner from this was housing a live band despite having the roof above them crumbling onto the glass alcove that went out to the footpath. It hadn’t been long, but half of Nashville was summarised in a matter of metres.

Batman

That was never going to be a deterrent though, and we marched the rest of the way through Tennessee’s humidity towards the lower part of Broadway. The city began to turn it on for a few blocks and no doubt the bright lights, loud music and the Cumberland River at night that we were witnessing has featured on countless Nashville jukeboxs.

The rest of the city felt empty, but save for 5 or 6 blocks a few people were out listening to twangy tunes and drinking terrible tasting light beer. Max and I found a bar, ordered a few beers and watched the Chicago Bulls lose to Miami. Exhausted from the last few days and no doubt helped by a few nightcaps, we called it an early night in the country music capital. Still, we’d seen enough to give us some hope for Tennessee.

The last time I rode a pushbike was over a year ago when a guy from Barcelona said I could have a go of his late one night/early one morning in Crown Street, Wollongong. Before that was nearly two years ago on a ride with Rowan through Puckies. By the time we made it from the Lagoon to the beach at the other end I’d almost thrown myself in the trees after losing control in a small ditch. When I recovered and tried to ride off it became apparent that during the miraculous stunt the chain had shaken itself off. Needless to say, grabbing some bikes and riding around Nashville was hardly the most sensible idea of my life.

Dad?

There was no selection criteria when it came to divvying up the bikes, but it became apparent fairly early that I had made a poor choice. Sure, I’d put on weight in America, but I felt like I had the braking capacity of an overloaded freight train. To get to a halt I had to grind a shoe across the ground and grip as hard as possible (I still have a blister on my right hand from trying to brake). None of this was really helped by the situations we put ourselves into; ignoring bike paths, any common sense at highway crossings and/or pedestrians.

Still, we made it back to Broadway during the day, where it was still twanging, and bouncing with buskers, panhandlers and tourists. We explored the side streets, with the bars, music studios and pita shops that would make downtowns seem perfect. We even grabbed a break on the banks of the Cumberland River while some of the local loonies busked, told stories about a princess’ daughter and just generally weirded up the place. Max and I agreed; America is the most prolific nutcase place we’ve come across, and this small patch of grass was really helping our argument.

Avoiding the cars and pedestrians had proved to be fairly easy – even without brakes. However, our stop at the State Capital took us up our first real hill, and before too long we’d stopped for a breather, even though we were a bit short on the destination. Sure Nashville tries to market itself as a country music haven, but in the middle of downtown among the skyscrapers is some classical architecture that hints at something greater. Yeah, the fountains outside the war memorial were scattered with homeless people, but the statue and columns of the building look like they belong somewhere in ancient Greece.

Ryman

Spot the hobo

Onwards we rode, to a place where I had no idea what was actually there. I was told it was more music history, with studios and labels being scattered around a particular part of town, but with directions courtesy of Google, all we found was sweaty shirts from riding up and down streets.

Well, we found that, and a whole heap of cicadas. Max yelled and screamed as we rode through swarms of the only thing louder than country music in this city. They had just left their last shells, and were clearly new to this flying business as I one hitchhiked on my clothing for a few blocks. When we did regain our sense of direction we wanted to head to Nashville’s replica of the Parthenon, because such a structure existing in Nashville makes as much sense as the mutterings from those loonies down by the river.

It was all going well, and throughout the day we’d covered a lot of ground without any real incident. Only, we were about two or three blocks from the park when Max started yelling out “Lewis! Lewis! I’ve got a problem!” As I heard the words I grabbed my brakes, and though I stopped about 10ft ahead of him on the other side of a drive-way, by the time I’d turned around he was holding a pedal and arm in his hand.

That was that, the bike dream was over. When we realised we couldn’t kick the apparatus back on, Max had to do his best to glide back to the hostel so that none of the staff would notice. We got both bikes back to the shed, cleaned up and headed out to dinner almost immediately. A burrito had never felt so well deserved. It was washed down by a beer, a cheap cigar and in a bid to outdo all the good the bikes had done, we headed back to Broadway.

That’s when Nashville started to get weird again. We’d picked up a randy Croat during our stay at the hostel, and he directed us to a bar with some live bands. The band wasn’t great, and the crowd was full of punters who could easily pass as disguised lizard-people. It was that type of weird. It also became apparent why the randy Croat wanted to go, as the bartender he had seen the night before was working again – complete with blonde hair, blue eyes and the biggest pair of fake tits this side of the Mississippi. Christ it was distracting.

Not being shallow guys, that wasn’t enough to make is stay, and the randy Croat directed us to another bar he’d been to the night before. It should have come as no surprise when we saw a stuffed deer above the bar with its antlers adorned with discarded bras. Up the back some girl was joylessly dancing on another bar, and before too long, her companions at the other end of the building were doing the same thing.

One of the girls stared at herself in the mirror while waving her arse in front of a customer in the hope for a dollar. Another was not doing enough to garner such reward. It wasn’t enough for the randy Croat though, as he took great joy in trying to get as many pictures as possible – much to the embarrassment of Max and I. He loved every second that revolved around placing a dollar in the girl’s Daisy Dukes, and once he’d had his moment Max and I directed him to a place that was a bit more discrete. The band played covers, and the bar was almost cleared by the time we got there, but at least we could save some face.

We moved to a table with some girls, and when we got talking about why we were in America one of them added that “I already have one kid in college”, indicating that she didn’t want anymore. A panhandler came into the bar as a nice distraction, and when Max gave him a dollar towards a beer, he wouldn’t leave and managed to haggle his way to another – only this time it was for a bus home.

A gentleman’s club around the corner from the hostel piqued our interest on the walk back, but our enquiries about entry were enough to deter us. The trucks in the carpark and strict byo policy were of little value to us at 2AM, despite the convincing of our Croatian friend. All of the lizard-people became too much.

When we all rose the next morning, it was to finally visit the Tennessee Parthenon. It didn’t save me a trip to Greece, but for something built in the late 19^th century in Tennessee, it’s pretty intriguing. Culturally, it’s about as far from a banjo or lap-steel as you can get – but despite its pleasantness in a green park, I know what part of town I’d prefer to spend my time in.

Huh? Right.

The randy Croat was driving to Memphis, and Max and I joined him on the trip that included a stop at IHOP for a beautiful heart-clogging American breakfast. The rain and sun interchanged places throughout the drive and both tried to outdo each other at various intervals. At one stage we were getting drenched while simultaneously being slightly lost at a Mexican restaurant in Arlington, Tennessee.

The weather did eventually clear, and as we entered Memphis we were greeted by a number of abandoned buildings on the outskirts of downtown. Sun Studios, home of early Elvis and Johnny Cash recordings stands out like a lighthouse in the dark in what is now a rundown area of town. It’s also an immediate insight into what Memphis is – a city that is trying to move forward by hanging onto its history. The abandoned buildings give a clue to how this is working, and in concentrated areas, the sounds of the city are like a candle that is almost burned out. It’s still shining brightly, but with the area getting smaller and smaller; it won’t be long until that light has burned out.

Mississippi River looking to Arkansas

Our luxury one star motel was located on the upper levels of a multistory carpark. The neighbouring Sterick Building is one of the tallest in Memphis, and easily one of the most beautiful, however, it has been abandoned since the late 1980s. The pool up top was a classy addition to the stay, and after a quick swim we walked a few blocks from our destitute region towards the neon signs of Beale Street.

Up and down we wandered, looking for a good place to eat and drink. The sound of the blues played out from some venues, even if the crowd could be counted on one hand. We stopped by a few places, watching the Bulls lose again and grabbing a plate of greasy southern food along the way. We were told to check out Alfred’s, as it was normally a place where young people hang out – only by the time we got there around 11 it was empty. During our stay that included a few more cans of PBR and a round of “is he dead?” the bar did not pick up at all. The Tuesday night Memphis nightlife had stayed in to watch television.

Emptier than a Hick's skull

I was disappointed to sleep through State of Origin in Australia as well as getting an early start in Memphis. Though I wasn’t that upset at missing a New South Wales defeat, anytime I had for the Gibson guitar showroom or Sun Studios had been eaten up as I lay beneath the sheets of my double bed listening to the air conditioner hum.

When the call to get out of bed did come, the rain began to pour on and off. Bracing ourselves for a downpour with a solitary umbrella, Max and I walked to the Mississippi River and looked out at neighbouring Arkansas. The rain halted any plans to walk across the border, and instead we walked around more of downtown’s empty streets. Clearly, in another age Memphis was a beautiful place, and there is still a lot of evidence of this when treading the pavement, it’s just that all the empty and derelict buildings make it feel more like a ghost town than metropolis. It’s a dream project for rejuvenation, but I imagine for a long time, it will only remain a dream.

The tour of Memphis’ musical significance is highlighted in Elvis’ Graceland mansion. Max and I took a trip down Elvis Presley Boulevard into the compound of the world’s most popular singer. If anything, it was supposed to explain why a man of such wealth and influence would want to live in Memphis, and in fairness it did elucidate the positives of how the city once was.

The tour doesn’t take you to the bathroom where he died, or into any of the upstairs areas, but it does give you highlights on what a bit of money and a healthy bit of insanity can get you. No expense was spared on vanity, with paintings, sculptures and other Elvis artefacts displayed around his living quarters. It felt like every room has a bar, and when he wasn’t watching 3 televisions in a mirrored dungeon, he was busy covering his floor and roof in shagpile carpet. Sure, it was the 70s, but half the house was filled with nutbag ideas that only money could buy.

Named after a Paul Simon album

There was very little of fat Elvis, and no one was singing three-part harmonies at his grave, but it’s another American institution ticked off. While we waited to get back downtown we stopped for a grilled (fried) peanut butter and banana sandwich and felt the seat sink deeper into the ground as we took each bite. I wouldn’t be surprised if the South is the heart-attack capital of the world, they have enough songs about heartbreak in Tennessee alone.

1 star luxury

Even as the sun became obscured dark clouds in the evening, I went for another swim, doing laps of the upper level outdoor pool and staring at the ghostly tower next to the building while lightning cracked above. An employee yelled out from one of the windows that a thunderstorm was coming, and I replied that I was already soaked before he finished with a line about electrocution. I stayed out a bit longer, doing some more laps before heading back to the room with eyes stinging from the chlorine.

My vision had a fog about it from the pool, but there was no mistaking the ominous clouds outside. The local news had been taken over by weather experts and tornado alerts had been put out for the downtown area. Crap. Time to tell Mum I love her and go from there.

The storm moved around Memphis, and with more lightning than I had ever seen in my whole life we waited for the storm to arrive. Outside, warning sirens were blaring all over the city, not settling any of the raised nerves from the television. The wind picked up and eventual a huge deluge came over us. It poured and poured for 20 or so minutes before moving on to a new area. All the warnings came to that, and though there were still sirens blaring outside, our hunger outweighed our common-sense, and we went out into the streets in search of dinner.

Not long after the black clouds moved away the sun reemerged, lighting up downtown in what was like natural sepia. The clouds remained over another part of town, and continued to light up with the regularity of a heartbeat, but our area reveled in a picturesque dusk.

It was back to Beale Street for more food and disappointment. If Tuesday in Memphis felt quiet, Wednesday was almost silent. Aside from a redneck and his son telling us a story about how they saw a lady’s dress blow up in the storm, the night never really took off. The storm and American Idol final kept people indoors, and that was enough for Max and I to call an early end to our Tennessee stay. I could have spent more time in both Memphis and Nashville as the musical history and scene of the places absolutely fascinates me. But that’s the exact same problem with the two cities; there is nothing else to really offer aside from that. They’re not far from being great again, but at the current rate of change and improvement it will still take some time to get there.

Through a bit of Max’s genius, we’re able to get on a train towards New Orleans. It was sold out to New Orleans, but there were still tickets to the stop before, Hammond Louisiana. Despite the 6AM start, we made the train – Max in his inside out shirt and me in a pair of trousers that are on their seventh straight day. Out the window are innumerable abandoned small town buildings, flooded lakes dusty paths as we travel through the state of Mississippi. A runaway train carriage followed us for a while and no one seemed to bat an eyelash.

New York, Massachusetts and the East Coast have hardly felt further away yet I can say with a bit of pride that I’ve travelled this far overland. I’ve only got five more weeks here, and I hope that’s enough to see more as I trade the East Coast sunset for the West Coast sunrise before flying over the horizon back home.

***Song
Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros - Home
Max keeps playing this song and I have no urge to stop him

The 4th Jonas

2011-05-22T14:00:00.000-07:00

$25 New York City hostels aren’t my idea of nice. They’re more of a necessity. Sure, there are nice ones in town – I’ve stayed at those too, but at this stage of wandering about America, frugality over comfort is paramount.

After switching between $25 hostels over two nights I was more than happy to break from that scene. Katy sent me her address, and though it felt like it could be an elaborate prank, I went out there anyway.

A doorman stood at the front – no doubt unimpressed by my backpack, skateboard, guitar and hat combo and before he got a chance to move me along Katy came down and let me into the building. There was no elaborate prank; there actually is an apartment opposite Central Park. As far as having someone put me up for a night, this is easily the most expensive place I’ve stayed in. And no doubt, I was probably one of the poorest people to ever walk through their doorways. The numbers in the lift crept up as we approached her floor, but with someone like me in the building, the value of the apartments went the opposite way.

No matter though, we didn’t spend much time in the building before heading out to Greenwich Village to kill some time. Not using a map, and kind of guessing where the nearest subway stop, we ventured in and around the streets that make Greenwich Village Manhattan’s diamond in the rough. There are skyscrapers to the north and south, but stuck in between is relative modesty in an inner city suburb.

Knowing it’s my last stay in New York for a while, it was important to me to visit the new World Trade Center site one last time. When I first came to New York four years ago the fences, though not overly high, obscured the view of anything. All the work was happening below - both cleanup and construction. I went by again in August, where the building was obvious, the shape was taking place and glass was being fitted to certain floors.

Now, over six months after the work is becoming more and more apparent. You no longer have to go to the site to see the rebuilding, it’s visible from places like Greenwich and Soho. Like a milestone that helps direct people to places, the tower is becoming a marker for lower Manhattan. The crane above helps add a new level each week, and in another six months the tower will take its place among the tallest on the island. By the time I get back, it will be finished. It’s an honour to see such a symbol be constructed over my time here, and when it’s complete I’ll be doing everything I can to go back and visit.

The rest of the day was relaxed, and with a midtown apartment surrounded by skyscrapers, the view from my bed was enough to keep me up late at night. It had the same effect in the morning, as once the sun began to came up and illuminate the streets and buildings, it was near impossible to fall back asleep.

That said, it couldn’t keep away the rain that has been shadowing me for the last few days. When the girls got up to go to the Met, I grabbed my umbrella and walked. Doing my best to ignore the crowds, 9th avenue provided enough leeway from Times Square to give me a fair portion of footpath room. Working my way from 60thst, I walked through Chelsea and eventually back down to Greenwich Village.

It felt like I was doing laps up and down the cross streets, and that was to get a feel for the same pavement people like Bob Dylan and Jack Kerouac trekked across. The area has changed, and no doubt their modern day equivalents would have to take out a mortgage to buy a latte from one of the local cafés, but there is still a history in the area that goes beyond all the designer and boutique stores that attract most people there now. That also includes the neighbouring Soho area. With all the beautiful building fronts being home to outlet stores and massive crowds, the art scene that used to dominate has picked up its easel and moved on. What a shame.

It had taken a few hours to get this far, and with the rain refusing to let up I turned around and walked up the Bowery back towards midtown. It’s the perfect road for walking around, as the people selling industrial deep fryers on the street are enough to keep the crowds down. Midtown was typically hectic, and a stop at Macys left me lost as I looked for any way out of there. Finally, I headed back to Central Park, and as if I didn’t need reminding from my feet, I realised I had walked well over 100 blocks. Screw the gym, just hate the subway.

Again, the sun woke me up with its brilliant views of Manhattan, and on a mission to get to the post office and grab a new book for the road, I hurried back to Midtown. I returned to Macys, and was asked the oddest question of my entire life by a balding man behind the counter of the visitor center. I handed over my passport, received my discount voucher and as I was about to leave he asked “have you ever been told you look like one of the Jonas brothers?”. Wait, what? Puzzled, and slightly bemused, I responded honestly with “no, not really”. End of conversation right? No. “Well wouldn’t you like their bank balance, or their girls?”. Huh? Twelve-year-old fans? “Ugh, I guess” not really realising I’d just consented to a bit of pedering at the cost of a few million theoretical dollars in a strange case of small talk. Thanks guy.

I’d completed my postal mission, and it was finally time to pack and leave New York City. Beyond that, I was giving up the small safety net I’d acquired on the east coast. I’d got to know people through school, many of which I’d consider good friends. Knowing that you’re never too far from welcome company is a lovely thing, but the epic bus journey from New York would remove all that. Away from Massachusetts and the east coast, I was on my own again. Sure, I’m meeting up with friends, but none of us are from North America. We’re all stepping out into a bit of an unknown, and that’s an exciting thing.

I said bye to Katy and Olivia, grabbed my bag and headed for my bus to Washington DC. It was late, and the trip was held up in traffic. As it cut through New Jersey it did afford one final glimpse of Manhattan and its famous skyline. Clouds were coming over, but even in the rain, it is still one of the prettiest views in the world.

The bus was slow. A tortoise would giggle at such a pace. My original two hour connection time was limited to a few minutes in a mad scramble from one bus to the other. Through DC the bus rolled past the capital building, illuminated beautifully at night. As we left the city, the Lincoln Memorial shone out from its vantage on the hill. That was the final glimpse of the capital, and anywhere of note for the next few hours.

The next bus trip was close to hell. Fearing I’d sat next an incredibly rude person who didn’t respond when I asked if I could sit next to her(I did anyway, there was nowhere else) it became apparent that they were deaf. Now who feels rude? Finally, after 8 hours, my bus rolled into Knoxville, and when I walked to another part of town to get my final bus to Nashville, the Greyhound station was noticeably void of staff. Their schedule runs at 12:30AM, 6:45AM and 6:45PM. For someone getting in at 7:30AM, there could hardly be a worse way to run a bus line – but it is Greyhound, and I shouldn’t be surprised at all by any of this.

I wasn’t the only one unimpressed by Greyhound that morning, and after remaining in the station until 10:30 before some staff arrived, another guy who was waiting with me decided that he wanted to go to Nashville immediately – at any cost. A phone call later, he had haggled a $300 taxi ride and told me I could come along. Not having $150 to split the cab, I offered the ticket price which he was happy with, and within a few minutes, I managed to avoid a near 12 hour wait in a bus station and was on my way to Nashville.

Robert, the man who had organized the taxi lived near Nashville, and after visiting Knoxville for the night, had to leave his car (and gun) behind for his wife while he was due to get a bus. He showed me the scar in his ankle where he was shot in Kuwait and told me about the two trials he had as a pitcher for the New York Mets. For the three hour ride he told stories about his brother who was jailed for life at age 16, his 17 years working for Paramount as a film set electrician and about how big the bass he once caught was.

When we finally stopped just outside Nashville to grab a bite at Shoneys he would only take $20 from me – explaining that I was a student and that I needed it more than him. Having not eaten for near 20 hours, I had never seen a plate of pancakes look so good. I made my order and for the first time in my dining life I experienced a waiter follow me into the bathroom telling me that they were out of bananas. If that wasn’t strange enough I ended up sitting next to a table full of clowns while I enjoyed bottomless coffee and lots of syrup.

Despite my attempts to make up for the taxi, Robert wouldn’t let me pay for lunch – again using the poor student excuse. As if everything wasn’t hospitable enough he called his friend who drove out and dropped me off at the hostel. A potentially horrific day (where I’d still be sat at the bus stop) turned out to be fairly awesome. Again, I shouldn't be shocked at the incompetence of Greyhound, but American hospitality shouldn't surprise me either - I've been a thankful recipient since August, but it's been particularly highlighted lately.

I’m knackered from the bus ride, and my legs and back are stiffer than a man suffering a Viagra overdose but I’m finally here. California is still a few weeks away, but now that I’ve left the east coast, I feel like I’m on my way home.

***Song
Against Me! - Wagon Wheel
The bus went through Roanoke last night, and all I could think about is how great this song is. Michael Jordan aside, this was another reason I applied to North Carolina. If there's a better song about travelling through America, I'm yet to hear it.

Well Mr Burns had done, the power plant had won it.

2011-05-19T08:59:00.000-07:00

I waited as long as I could. My bag was under the bus, and I stood outside until 1:29 much to the annoyance of the driver. The girls were still too far away, and when the engine turned over I knew I wouldn't get to see them before we both left America. It was a sad end to Hyannis - a place that had been brilliantly relaxing.

The bus charged through the inclement weather (which has since followed me) and once in Boston I was met by Dicky Peach. We walked through downtown and into a McDonalds where Ruby and Jen were with Alex. I had missed out on saying bye to some friends earlier that day, but got to spend a bit more time with others who I didn't think I'd see again for a while. With all my gear still being carted around, we walked all over downtown, stopping for a go on the slides in Boston Common and a tea at Starbucks - hipster to the max. By the time we jumped on a bus for John's house, I was spent from the weight I had carried throughout the afternoon, and a seat had rarely felt like such a luxury.

When we got to John's house he was out the back barbecuing with his friend. Casa de Lopez is in Chelsea, a suburb of Boston that he once described as the ghetto. I tend to disagree, and was more than happy to be put up by him in his house. His hospitality was second to none, and even after spending $70 on meat, he still managed to find some food for me to eat. His mum even offered up a few of her Colombian specialties (even though she had just arrived back from there on the day) and the whole experience was fantastic. It's one thing to stay in a hostel in the city, but spending a few nights with such a generous and hospitable family with mates is something completely different, and very refreshing.

A night of Fifa ended with John making weird noises and Peach having to sleep next to me despite my snoring. It wasn't all bad for him though, the next day we saw him off as he got a flight to Vegas with Max. If all goes well we'll all meet up in Nashville, with Dicky Peach planning his arrival by private jet.

While he was off making money in a way he felt was best, Alex and I met up with Ruby and Jen at Harvard Square. I'd been to Boston a few times before, and only over these last few days did I get to experience more of it than downtown. The Cambridge area is beautiful, and though walking around parts of the garden are as close to Harvard as I'll get, it's still a nice place to be. To think, Facebook, the greatest time theft in the world was born in the same area I got to tread around in left me starstruck.

Ruby drove us around the city for the afternoon, and in the evening we walked from one end of the downtown to Fenway Park. The rain continued to fall in a mist that was not enough to soak you, but enough to leave you damp, cold and constantly wiping away at your face. Being student plebs, we had standing room tickets, only the ones for Alex and John were different to the ones the girls and I had.

Even with the rain falling, there was still enough of a crowd to fill the standing room areas. One security guard had let me into the same area as Alex and John, but the girls were stuck downstairs. We watched the game from our separate areas, with the wind in the upper pavillion cutting through my clothing and skin and freezing my bones. It's the middle of May, but it was a cold a winter's night as I have dealt with at home.

The Red Sox are a team I grew to laugh at. Their fans are rampant at UMass, with hats and shirts never being far from the line of sight. Without much baseball experience, I had no major allegiances to any teams (except the Mets, read on). Still, the sheer amount of baseball caps, and the fact that games at bars were turned off when the team was losing was enough to turn me off the Red Sox. In their game against Baltimore, I was rooting for the Orioles - partly due to the fact that their fluoro orange bird cap is awesome.

Like every game I'd seen this season, the Sox were losing and were down by six at one point. I was taking great pleasure in this, and despite being outnumbered and getting dirty glances from John, I cheered on as the Orioles attemtped to extend their lead. Only they didn't. The crowd got more and more involved, and the oldest stadium in baseball began to come alive. The lead was slowly chipped away, and any fans who sought refuge from the cold earlier missed a great finish.

This fella had just hit a home run.

In the final innings, Adrian Gonzalez hit a double, and it was enough for the Sox to win, and for the stadium to erupt. I wasn't happy at the result - but I was happy to be in such a sporting institution, and beautiful stadium as the famed fans celebrated a memorable win. I'm sure there are a bunch of diehards who would have given their left nut to be at that game, yet here I was, a baseball rookie who didn't like the winning team occupying their space.

Plans to visit Lowell the next day fell apart when the rain never ended. I had wanted to see the place where Jack Kerouac grew up, and where he now spends the rest of his days. Having spent so long in Massachusetts, it would have been great to get there, but not doing so has given me another reason to come back. That said, I finally left the state, not knowing when I'll next be back.

John and Alex escorted me (via a burrito stop) to South Station for the last time. We shook hands, and once I boarded the bus that was it. Massachusetts had been good to me, and while I loved getting away and seeing other parts of this country, I was more than happy to return. I'm proud to say I've spent part of my life living there, and with the history of the place, the seasons, and the people, part of me has been won over by it.

After four hours, where the rain poured and sunroof of the bus changed from a depressing gray to a bleak black. I didn't even know when we had crossed the border, but the rain continued to pour as the bus drove down from the Bronx to midtown Manhattan in what will be my last stop here for a while. I've loved every second I've spent in this city, and a bit of water is not going to change any of that.

Try as he might, some Irishman did try to ruin my experience here though. My original accommodation was shut down last week, and after a bit of a scramble I opted for one of the cheaper beds in town on 105th st. It was all going well, and I despite feeling exhausted I lay on a couch reading a book for a few hours as the rain continued to pour. At some point in the night the Irish guy came upstairs to the kitchen and pissed out the window. Whatever. I've pissed in worse spots, only he had climbed four flights of stairs to do it and stumbled all through the hallway.

He came and went throughout the night, and at one stage his friend from Uruguay had tried to put this drunkard to bed. He took exception to this sign of goodwill, and preceded to give the guy a hard time, and offered to knock his teeth down his throat. The one-sided aggressiveness continued for about 15 minutes, and he did his best to provoke the guy as best he could. I remained on the couch the whole time, watching this arsehole dig himself into more trouble. I felt bad for being passive the whole time, but I'm not a fighter, nor am I big enough to break up any altercation. All I could do was sit back and make sure nothing drastic happened - cowardly as it is.

As I was about to go to bed the guy finally snapped, and as the Uruguayan lad made his best efforts to head outside and avoid trouble the Irishmen threw punches at him as his back was turned and did his best to spit on him. Drunk as he was, it was still the act of an arsehole of the highest order. He apologised to me for making noise but I cared little for what he said. I shut my door, yet through it I could hear him arguing with the hostel's owners and himself until I eventually went to sleep.

He awoke the next day, and instead of going downstairs to apologise and check out he just left. From punching a guy with his back turned to running from his mistake, he proved a coward until the end. While he was off looking for a place to stay, I grabbed my things and walked 10 or so blocks until my next bed for the night. My bags were dropped off, and with the sun beginning to fight its way through the clouds, I headed across the park for lunch, before returning to 5th avenue and heading to the Met.

It was the last of the big galleries that I had been to, and some nice man from Birmingham saw me in the line and offered me his entry token so that I could get in for free and stick it to the man. Once past security and with $20 still in my pocket, I walked into the Egyptian area. Finally, I was able to feel young again.

The Met is an absolutely massive place. Hallways seemed never ending, and countless rooms shot off each of them. It felt like I was in a museum, and after 30 minutes of Egyptian artifacts, I felt it best to grab a map and finally see what I wanted. There was a trek through the ages, as Egypt turned to middle Europe and early America. Finally, I was at a section where I could recognise some of the names.

When the works of Hopper weren't making me feel inadequate, my attention turned to the glass roof above and the rain that was now pouring down. Again, the sun had lost its battle to the clouds, and they were doing their best to celebrate by drenching the city. I spent another hour or so walking around, trying to kill time in the musical instrument and photography sections. I must have spent about four hours at the place, but due to its size only seen a 3rd of the collection. The way the rooms are set out and designed, it's hard to believe you're in the middle of New York City at times, they've such a brilliant job of recreating different times.

Danzig would sacrifice so many tiny animals to play this.

When I did eventually leave, I was greeted by the downpour, and even on my last pair of clean clothes, I simply had to brave the water for the next 10 blocks. I made it back to the hostel, nervously checked my grades (a D+ for journalism!) and turned around and headed to Queens to see the Mets play.

The last baseball cap I bought was a Mets one four years ago. A gypsy had since stolen that one while I was in Rome, but that was enough for me to say I supported the Mets. They are New York's underdogs, and they won a World Series the year I was born, what more could you look for in an adopted sporting team?

86 World Series

The train rolled above Queens, going past the site of the World's Fair before the small crowd walked through the rain into Citifield. It's lovely to compare the oldest stadium in baseball to one of the newest, and Citifield really is a fantastic place to watch sports. There was just enough coverage from the rain, and every so often aeroplanes from La Guardia would fly over, offering a beautiful distraction from the game.

The rain poured and poured. There was a delay every innings as the ground staff attempted to fix some puddles, and in the wet and cold, any delay became painful. The Mets won what was a fairly scrappy game. The stadium was fairly empty due to the weather, but there was still enough of an atmosphere to make it a great night. It felt good to finally have a team to cheer for, and at Citifield, where cheap seats are still good seats, I began to really appreciate why American's love baseball so much. Until the last few nights I would have said America's favourite past time is yelling at people from moving cars, but now my mind is beginning to change.

***Song
Tom Petty - You Wreck Me
Because the only thing more American than baseball is Tom Petty.

$4 curry and the best band in the world

2011-05-14T20:32:00.000-07:00

The big day rolled around, and after finally finding the motivation I left my bed for the last time and began to pack what was left of my room into my backpack. A few t-shirts, two pairs of pants, one pair of shorts, socks, jocks, camera, computer, book and enough toiletries to make Esquire magazine proud. My skateboard is attached to my bag, my guitar is in my left hand and my hat sits on my head. It's everything I need and more. Much more actually. It's a backbreaking weight, and by the end of the next six weeks I'll look like Quasimodo.

Back breaking weight or not, I still had to sort out my room and get it tidy enough to get set free before my 2:15 bus. There were trips across campus, seeing people off, signing out, eating whenever I could and finally, towards the bus stop.

I sat at Haigis Mall bus stop for the final time and was joined by Perla, Joe and Dicky Peach. When I finally checked my bus ticket I noticed that it was 2:15 from Springfield to Boston, and 1PM from Amherst to Springfield. Shit. The next one wasn't until 3PM, and while I was happy enough to have a few more minutes in Amherst, I felt bad for missing a bus ride with a number of friends - including Ollie, the great elf. I never got a proper chance to say bye, and knowing that a bit of laziness on my part stopped me from getting another 3 hours of his Northern English banter was not easy to take.

Still, when my bus finally arrived I was alone at the bus stop. I threw my bag under the bus, grabbed a seat on my own and put Frightened Rabbit on my headphones. I remember Michael messaging me about how sad his bus trip leaving UMass was. We'd seen the same small towns together as the bus travelled through the five college area, and we both remarked about what the tiny town we had signed up for was all about. Now it was my turn to traverse through these towns for the final time. Only I wasn't upset about it.

Amherst was good to me, and the people I met were great. No doubt I'll miss it and them a great deal. There were guys who would have me in agony after laughing too hard, and girls so amazing it would keep me up at night - that's not something that you let go of immediately. It's already been two days, and when I'm reminded of particular people it is somewhat disheartening to think that I won't be able to tell them about it in person. Still, it's no time to look back with sad eyes. That moment I stepped on the bus I put my student life on hiatus, and for the next six weeks I'll be a tourist. There's no better way to get over the blues than by running away.

When my bus finally did make it to Boston I grabbed a train out on the green line to the studenty part of town. Having not checked my bus times, I also had not checked the hostel's address or how to get there. Randomly, I jumped off a stop on the green line and after a 20 minute stroll past an Indian restaurant selling $4 vegan curry I found the place.

It was decked out with double beds, and while I was excited about the prospect about my first night alone in a double bed since May, I was jubilant about the prospect of $4 curry. I did my best to reacquaint myself to one of the other guys in my room, but when he refused to shake my hand and told he was going out with some locals, I went away on my todd.

The curry show was about three blocks from the hostel, and the walk there took me past a building called Bacon Chambers. On the corner of Harvard and Brighton is the Brighton Music Hall. I noticed that there was a large tour bus out the front, and after a quick glance at the poster on the wall I noticed that there was no band listed for the 12th. On I walked until I saw a bigger listing of the bands, and on that list the band playing tonight was Biffy Clyro. Holy fuck!

I didn't even see the price next to the name before I immediately barged in through the door. I went to the window, stuttered through the words "one for tonight please" and when the receipt came through requiring my signature my excitement got the better of me. Not only was I offering the worst piece of handwriting in my life, but I also got my name wrong. Better yet, when I got the customer copy of the receipt back it said $15. Again, holy fuck!

The show wasn't on for two hours, and my initial plans for a quick feed and a quiet night changed immediately. I was in a shirt from the day before that was absolutely reeking and I felt like a shower was long overdue - that was a problem for everyone else in the room though. Once I left the ticketing office Dicky Peach got a call, and I did my best to implore him to leave his bags behind and make run to the venue. He couldn't make it in time, such is the tyranny of public transport, but more heartbreaking for him, he also missed out on a cheap curry.

The $4 vegan curry was perfect. Really. But I absolutely scoffed it down in my excitement to see Biffy. It's not often the opportunity to see the best band in the world* catches you by surprise, but when it does, it's amazing.
*Not;, they're the best band in the world, but equal second best thing from Scotland as they're tied with Rangers FC. Mum is number one.

I got in just as the first band was finishing. They were local, and boy were they crap. Even in a world where a band like Creed exists, they were still horrible. The second where somehow worse. Every terrible rock cliche was on stage at the same time. There was the denim vested slicked back hair guy, the blazer, t-shirt and jeans guy, old-school ponytail shitty goatee guy, a drummer who looked like he'd glued a koala to his face, keyboard player girl and finally, leather jacket bandana wearing singer guy. The singer was like Jack Black, but funny because he didn't know the joke was on him the whole show. No word of a lie, there was a box of tissues on stage, of which I presume someone supplied for all the wank they provided. They were horrible, but I stood at the front of their set for 45 minutes knowing it was going to pay dividends in the end.

Finally, with some intro music playing and a without their shirts, Biffy Clyro grabbed their instruments and immediately set about destroying the eardrums of everyone in the room by playing 'The Captain'. The room wasn't exactly full, but when you're the best band in the world that doesn't seem to matter. You just play as hard as you can for 90 minutes, sweat like a boxer in the 15th and know that you've got the best job in the world.

I don't joke when I say they're the best band in the world. There's only three of them, but they make some sound. Technically, they're amazing. It's like watching virtuosos on stage who have been raised on a strict diet of punk-rock and Scottish banter. They graft as hard as any blue collar man and have the creativity any artist would envy.

Standing near the front, the only thing that separated me from the band was the row of speakers that were decimating my ears and shaking up my insides. It was beautiful. I was so close to the stage that not only could I see all the sweat pouring off Simon, I could feel it as it flew into the audience (gross). It was one of the loudest shows I've been to, and easily one of the best. To have such an event fall into my lap after the day I'd had was amazing.

The night typified what I'll miss about America when I leave. Never in Wollongong has a quick stroll brought me a gig with the greatest band in the world, whereas here, great shows seem to be happening all over the place.

I left Boston in the morning on a trip to Hyannis, the biggest city on Cape Cod. I sat on the bus, still thinking about the people I'd just said bye to and read Bukowski. On a solo trip quotes like "the greatest men are the most alone" are comfort in words, but taking advice from a man who worked in a post office for 20 years and drank himself to death might not be wise. Besides, I was just looking forward to the quietness and relaxation the Cape would provide.

I walked towards the harbour and was surprised to find my hostel directly across from it. The old wooden house typifies the Cape Cod image in my mind. It's like Edward Hopper is out the front with his easel putting his brush to canvas. I approached the front door to be greeted to a sign saying check-in time began at 5PM. Fuck. Another oversight, I was about three hours early and stuck in the sun with a ton of luggage.

Fortunately, on my exploration of the site I saw there was someone in the house and when they saw me lurking I was greeted enthusiastically by them. It turns out I was the first check-in of the season, and the only person staying there that night. Here I was, for $35 a night with a beautiful and newly renovated house that feels like it has come straight from the pages of a John Steinbeck novel all to myself.

I dumped my gear and immediately went for a walk around Hyannis' harbour which is a mix of tourist boats and fishing trawlers. It's still early in the season, so the boats were more static than usual, but I was absolutely loving being back by the water. Living in Amherst has been my longest stint away from the water, and even though the water here is still polar bear friendly, it was nice to be reacquainted with the ocean.

I headed towards the JFK memorial that was built because he spent so much time here. The fountain was switched off, but the view out into the bay is one worthy of a president. Next door is a Korean war monument, and for whatever reason a young pregnant woman was posing next to it in her bra. Another perfect moment of the American lunacy I've fallen in love with.

I walked all along the bay and onto a sandy beach where I was the only person around. 24 hours after I'd left UMass and had to say goodbye to a group of amazing people I stood alone on a breakwall with the sun beating down, staring out into the ocean with my ears still ringing from seeing the best band in the world. It was bliss, and exactly what I was looking for following the end of an amazing time at UMass. Already, things were coming up Milhouse, and even though I was on my own, this was the moment I'd come out to Cape Cod for.

These old birds eventually left me with two beaches all to myself.

I continued along the beach, past the crabs that had been picked apart by seagulls and all the broken shells that had washed up. The sun was doing its part and the wind blew softly enough to keep things cool. There was no rush to do anything but sit, relax and realise what a great time I've had, and how just beyond the horizon in the Atlantic is the further point on Earth from Australia (well it's nearer to Azores, but I'm trying to be poetic, and it's the same ocean). If I was looking for proof of how far I'd come, typically, it was just out of reach, and in need of a bit more work. It's a reason to move on, try harder and see that there is always something else in life to achieve.

With the house to myself and two staff for half the night, I finally found that moment of quiet I'd been after for a week or so. With the lights turned down, I sat by the window staring out at the boats in the harbour and finally got some writing done. I was living like a discount store Hemingway, and I loved it.

The sun that had been so kind lately disappeared today, and with my heart set on getting out onto the water, sending home my pea coat felt like such a poor idea. After walking around to the other side of the harbour and back, I found a converted steamboat that is celebrating its one-hundredth anniversary this month. The boat did lapa out into Hyannisport, pointed out the Kennedy homes and other landmarks of the district.

Like the hostel, I was the only person on the boat until a few minutes before departure when two couples showed up. We left the dock and started to leave the bay. Immediately the wind picked up and cut right through my hoodie. A few years back I took a boat trip out on Loch Ness and was similarly inappropriately dressed. On that trip I met a lovely American girl who had grown up in a gated community in Saudi Arabia. Apart from the fact that she was the kind of pretty that would make any man jump into the freezing loch if she asked, she was also doing a law PHD and was incredibly sweet. I remember how the wind made me shake like never before, and that the only thing worse was the fact my nose was running but it was too cold to take my hands out of my pocket. She stayed chatting for the whole time, seeing past the fact that my hair was going everywhere, my nose was running and my eyes were beginning to water. When we returned to Edinburgh in the evening she waited for me to get off the bus just to say goodbye. The point is, I remember so much about that day, yet I still haven't learned how cold standing out on a boat can be. The day after in Scotland I went and bought a jacket. Today, I just froze.

Not even photoshopped

Freezing aside, going out on a boat again felt fantastic. There were bumps, lighthouses, homes I'd have to rob a few banks to be able to afford and a group of fisherman who had bravely walked out onto a broken breakwall. The tide had come up, and gaps in the wall were now underwater. It's the kind of fishing you do only if you have cajones the size of buoys.

With the boat trip over I went and checked out Main street. With a few good record and second hand book stores, the place surprised me with what it offered. There was even a cigar bar at one end of town that looked amazing, but without companions, I couldn't think of a worse place to be - watching sports, drinking spirits and smoking cigars is something best done with great company.

Bravery, a couple of hundred metres from the shore

Harry Morgans

The town itself is rather small, but with a decent mix of bars and restaurants it's easy to understand why it's such a famed weekender. It would have been real nice to see more of the area and head out to the islands, but the prices on ferry trips are like putting a vacuum cleaner into your wallet. Still, it's been the kind of break I was looking for after UMass, the frantic last week and the comedown from saying bye to people. The hostel has been great, and the privacy and quiet I've gotten is not something I'd usually associate with them. I've been making mac & cheese for dinner, drinking their tea and loved being so close to the water again. Now it's back to Boston, to see Dicky Peach, Alex and JLo. The reprieve has been nice, but I imagine things are going to downhill very quickly. Ole!

***Song
Biffy Clyro
They are the best band in the world. I can't demonstrate that in one song, because that's not fair on all their other great tunes. Instead, I've tried to add a few live songs. I implore you to find out more about them, if they're playing anywhere near you sell a kidney or whatever it takes to watch them. All that blood in your piss will be worth it.

Bubbles:

A Whole Child Ago:

Folding Stars:

Many of Horror:

Machines:

When my blood stops, someone else's will not

2011-05-13T22:15:00.000-07:00

I make no bones about the fact that one of the reasons I moved to UMass was musically related. A few wikipedia searches elucidated a history of 90s grunge heroes who had formed, or resided in and around the area. Since August I'd been slowly ticking a few boxes. I saw Frank Black of The Pixies play in Seattle, J mascis popped into a Besnard Lakes show and Lou Barlow did a show at Pearl St. However, there was a particular group I had been desperate to bump into.

2/5ths of Sonic Youth live in Northampton, and despite all the gigs and trips to Urban Outfitters, I still hadn't seen them acting like they're normal humans in Northampton, the alternative hub that they call home. All that changed last Thursday though, when a bit of internetting revealed that Thurston Moore, the lanky singer of Sonic Youth, was doing an acoustic show at a Northampton club I had never heard of.

Sure, it was the last Thursday in town, and usually everyone goes out and gets rather loose at the bars, but I had other plans. The opportunity to see Thurston Moore play his first solo show for his new album at a local band night would have stopped me from anything else going on in the world. $6 was paid at the door, and Sam and I grabbed a seat at the bar while we waited for him to get on stage.

Goofy, lanky and older than my mum: still cooler than you.

We sank a few PBRs, and sat through the three opening bands. One short man in hat made feedback for 20 minutes while a too cool for school 'artist' played on her keyboard and made weird noises. Finally, a Zack Galifianakis clone and his other homeless looking friend played on some old casios. It was possibly the worst show I had ever been to.

Well sort of, Sam did some investigative work and found out Thurston Moore drinks Boddington's - a rubbish English ale that well churn your insides. He didn't seem phased by it, and not long after midnight he, another guitar player and a drummer piled onto the stage and started playing songs from his new album.

Sam and I grabbed a spot on the floor and sat up staring at the band. The room must have had about 50 people in the crowd (including Kim for SY!) and aside from some local barflies, the place was full of family and friends.

The set was all stuff from the new album (produced by Beck), and was a lovely preview ahead of its release and subsequent tour. It's like hearing a crooner who spent his days in Andy Warhol's factory and not a Vegas resort. I loved sitting on the floor, sipping my beer and getting to see one of my favourite musicians play at a tiny bar to a tinier crowd. I was buzzing throughout the set - none of which was due to the beers, and couldn't help by realise how lucky I was to see this show. It had taken until the last days of school to get there, but I finally had the Sonic Youth moment I had been waiting for since I got off the Peter Pan bus in late August. Horrible show to great show in a few chords.

The set was for six or seven songs, and knowing that there was a bus at 1AM, Sam and I debated whether we should stick around for the last song or head to the bus stop. Wisely, we stayed, and the song was predictably amazing. As soon as it was finished though, we checked our watches and knew there was a slight chance we could still get the bus.

The guitar wasn't even unplugged before we stood up, ran our glasses to the bar and sprinted out the door. People on the streets were cheering us on, and Sam, despite his little legs, was showing himself to be a bit of a whippet. We turned the corner at Pearl St and up ahead saw our bus head down Main st. Sam, off ahead seemed to only run faster at the sight, leaving me to dordle behind. He ran run the corner, and saw the bus initially slow down at the stop. Tragically, there were no other waiting passengers, and the driver immediately set off towards Amherst. Had someone been there, his stopping time would have been enough for us, but alas, our lack of gym time and the pints of beer we had just sunk left us waiting for the next one. Knackered, and feeling like I was about to vomit, I couldn't help but realise how hearing that last song was still worth it. As far as special moments in America are concerned for me, a Thurston Moore acoustic show at an empty club is right at the top of the list.

That list keeps growing though, and most of Saturday made for some amazing moments. For whatever reason, I hulked out at Sam's and ruined his tiny blazer. Then, much later in the evening was a party at the Swedish house. The last one resulted in a cake fight, and sadly there was none in the house this time. However, it was made up for by the fact that most people were leaving town in the next few days, and this would be the last time to party together for a while.

And party, some did. Dangercans were going off everywhere, and when I finished mine I threw the empty at Sleeves in disgust that he didn't finish his. Meanwhile Tani was off spewing in a corner early and it wasn't even midnight.

Becs, bless her, was absolutely leathered to the point that despite all of my obvious strength, I couldn't keep her on her feet. That was a job I passed on to Dicky Peach and his visiting friend Will. See, I've had the opportunity to get to know Peach over the two semesters, and he is quite a sound individual in my opinion. I've spent less time with his mate Will, but given that he showed up and seemed to party with us every night he was in town I can say the same things about him. I however, am not the Amherst police department. When the two were escorting a shoeless Becs home, (though Peach gave his to her, like a proper gentleman - though not classy, and the shoes probably stank), one of the typically bored officers misread the situation. In order to protect Becs from those two predators, she was taken to the drunk tank (while blowing six times the legal limit) and Dicky Peach and Will returned to the party, presumably feeling guilt ridden, shoeless and drunk.

My party costume: American.

So Dicky Peach, in his socks and on a wooden floor was doing his best to dance around the room while drinking straight vodka. Predictably, on a more extravagant move he took down 5 people surrounding him while the rest of the room continued their hoedown to Mumford and Sons.

I don't know how, but he made it back to his room before everyone else and had ordered wings. When we went up to visit him, we found out what happens when one man, despite being one of the best drinkers I've seen, finishes a ton of PBRs and straight vodka.

His socks were torn and bloody, presumably due to some sort of homeless homage, and he lay on his bed, using all his enjoy to try and sit up and put chicken in his mouth. He took it in turns to exert himself, grab a piece and lay back down for a bit longer and ramble - it was like that drunk David Hasselhoff video from a few years back. Better yet, when he finished his serving he threw the box on the floor and sat up on his bed. Only now, he was way to drunk to even manage that, and with graceful lunge towards the desk that neighboured the head of his bed, he managed to fall off, onto hit the floor hard before rolling onto the wings. Genius.

It continued for a bit longer, but as soon as he got his wings stained body back onto his bed, he fell back off onto the floor. Meanwhile, I had grabbed his phone from home and sent a myriad of inappropriate texts to every girl that was listed in his phone. No doubt, that was only a minor pain compared to his ensuing hangover.

Things got worse when Alex rocked up without his shirt and wings sauce all over his mouth. God knows where he had been, but Sam and I did our best to raid the laundry downstairs to steal his shirt, but some engineer much cleverer than us put a lock on them. Damn for us, lucky for Alex.

Typically, the night had gotten out of control, and my plans for an early start the day evaporated when Sam and I left the building and noticed the sun had begun to rise. Despite all this going out, it was exam time, and I had 3 to do as well as a journalism story. Things were looking very poor.

I managed to do two easily enough, and the story was completed, but karaoke Tuesday really interfered with my final onexame. I'd like to say the night got off to an innocent start, but that would be a lie. Before we'd even gone to dinner, Ollie said I could have a sip of his water. What I was actually given was grapefruit vodka, and with a mouthful of the stuff I spat most of it out into the nearest vessel I could find...Peach's not quite empty pint. Though he was upset that I ruined his drink, Ollie saw no such problems in drinking my spitty, beer-infused vodka concoction and downed the rest of the glass.

Now here is the real surprise, by the time we got to dinner he was the drunkest man there - but not by much. Sleeves had been going for most of the day, and at 7PM when everyone else was arriving, he wasn't above making a few innapropriate Nazi jokes around our German companions. Class.

Ollie, in his drunkness had no idea what he had ordered and was shooting his mouth all over the place. When he actually followed through with his threat to leave dinner, I felt compelled to be the one who looked after him. He ran to Stacker's and I followed. The place was empty, and the great elf was confused. He kept telling me how it's normally packed on a Thursday and that he was upset Karaoke was not on. He was wrong on both of these things as it was Tuesday, and the karaoke man was setting up in front of us. As quickly as he arrived, he left though, leaving me sat in a corner on my own until everyone else finished dinner. Great elf.

Everyone eventually joined, and Ollie returned to sing some Craig David. The karaoke guy mistakenly called him Australian, at which point Ollie grabbed the microphone, and in his think Northern-English accent announced everyone at the bar that "I'm from Huddersfield cunt!". The night got a bit blurry, and I know I joined a few folk on their songs, but was disappointed when they didn't play my request of Hungry Heart by Bruce Springsteen. Bastards.

Still, competing in a karaoke competition was not the most exciting part of the night. Neither was the best looking girl in the room putting her moves on for Sam. Instead, it was reserved for the two police officers, bored again, doing an inspection of the bar. They walked around, and made an immediate beeline towards Alex, the man I've had to describe as "the one who looks twelve-years-old" to people. He produced his identification, which they looked over, thoroughly, and called it in to the station for checking. The call came back, and his hands were placed behind his back and he was escorted out the bar. The id was fake, purchased over the internet from the same place Sam got his. He, seeing them inspecting Alex, and despite impressing his company, just walked out the bar, not wanting to replicate the situaion.

Though they left, Tim and Steve of Southwest arrived. Two underage patrons replaced two that just left. Perfect. For half an hour we said goodbye, and it was truly a sad moment. They're both great lads, and the kind of people I was looking forward to meeting over here. A year abroad takes a big financial investment, but none of that matters when paths cross with people like that. They're the ones that make it worthwhile, and no doubt I'll see them in Australia soon enough. Steve, a guy who once saved a seat on a bus for John and I on a twelve hour bus trip was particularly resonant in his good-bye sentiments, and though he gives me a gentle ribbing for some my America heckling, he has been nothing but a great guy to me. As I said before, taking the financial gamble to get over here means nothing when you meet people like that.

When I left a group of people at the bus stop, I headed back towards the Swedish house, where Alex had escaped from the police and was again dangercanning beers whereever he could. He was outdone though, as Christian, a German with a rock-hard skull seemed to be able to break a beer on his head with relative ease. We were already to leave the party at three, but Ollie ran back in and started playing Oasis. The room filled, and the party continued for a few more hours. Given that it was the last night for a few people, there were few dry eyes in the room as 'Wonderwall' played out. The Great Elf struck again.

Dangercanned

It was four or five in the morning when the party finished. Alex was partying like a free man. He was chasing ducks, kicking anything he could find, shouting "yeah boys!" at everything and had about 4 cans of beer with him that he smashed on his head, drank a bit out of and then threw away. It was a typically Jekyll and Hyde performance from him.

When we did make it back to Cashin to see Renita off, Alex reemerged out the front around 6AM to do another dangercan before throwing the can on the road. As he continued his whole "yeah boys!" performance for a while he was eventually distracted by the can on the road again, and ran out, drank some more and then threw it away again. Nutbag. Later, he would should up for breakfast wearing a Scotland flag as a cape and being a general drunkard. Still, at least he didn't move a couch into an elevator with a bunch of pink foam everywhere. That was left to some other bell-end.

Just before 7AM, Sam and I walked Renita to the bus stop as she left UMass. It was another of the many goodbyes from the last few days that will continue into the next six weeks. Part of me is sad to see people go, but another is excited for them. Everyone should have bigger and better things to move onto, that's another reason why we choose to study abroad, to build a better future for ourselves. No doubt I'll miss the people whose paths are separating from mine, a great deal too, but there's a bright outlook for most of everyone I met here, and that's something to be jublilant for, not upset.

That upset feeling is reserved for my final exam. After going out, having a few beers, not really remembering karaoke then going to a party, I stayed up all night for an 8AM final. Not content with already being in a bad headspace, I walked into the wrong room to begin with and distracted a group of people who had just started their own exam. Oh well. I finished mine, and in a race was one of the first to do. It was my last UMass academic moment, and a perfect convergence of what a year abroad is. A partied out educational clusterfuck.

Exhausted, I managed to have a little nap from 10-11 before heading out to tie up some administrative loose ends, least of which included seeing Sam off from campus. His parents arrived and took him on their own little road trip. It was a shame to see him go, but it's only temporary. We'll see eachother in San Diego, and that's when the good-bye will really matter.

That night, my last in town, Eoin, Joe and I raided the clothing bin in our building and collected some wears. We all made cut off jeans, and adorned them differently. Eoin had a suit jacket and wife-beater, Joe double denimed with a nice vest and I managed to get a tie-dye shirt. The night was more passive than the last few, owing to my lack of sleep for the last week, and though the police visited and yelled, they I still managed to make it home before the sun.

I said bye to a lot of great people that night and when I went back to my room I barely slept. I had to move out the next day and the gravity of the situation had finally come around. The smiles, hugs and words were the last between people for a long time. The steps out of the building and down the hill are ones that probably won't be taken again. But not once, did I ever contemplate looking back. I still had a few hours left, and I didn't want to spend them thinking about how much I'll miss the place, I wanted them to be memories I'll take back to Australia with me.

***Song
Ryan Adams - Wonderwall
As a group, we always found ourselves singing this song together. Amherst, Miami, any party, anywhere, it didn't matter. I used to hear this song all the time in the UK, and when I left it reminded me so much of the place that I pined to go back. It may well be the most overplayed song in history, but it has become a soundtrack to particular points of my own narrative.
When I saw Ryan Adams and The Cardinals in Sydney 2009 and they played this song I could have sworn it was the best live song I've ever heard. It absolutely blew my mind, and again, the meaning of the song changed.

You can listen to the whole show below, but please click on the version of Wonderwall, it's amazing. I love the original version of the song, and Ryan Adams version when played live goes beyond that, yet, my favourite of all is the drunken version we hollered on numerous nights out.

San Pedro, California

2011-05-02T17:08:00.000-07:00

I saw this video for the first time, and from the opening scenes it had an air of familiarity surrounding it. I was sat in Dicky Peach's room, and we realised it's a walk both of us had taken earlier in the year. From the middle of Brookyn, we walked up Broadway towards the Williamsburg bridge, complete with snowed over footpaths and the hustle and bustle of the neighbourhood stores. It's a great clip, and though the bitter cold is not transferred through the celluloid, it was nice to be reminded of something I've been able to do.
When I go home in June I'll have pictures, the words on this site and a the odd souvenir to remind me of the great time I've had away. The America I see in pop culture from now on will never be the same. Things like this will jolt me back, and with a band as great as Mogwai providing the soundtrack, my smile will only widen.

&amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;ssfd&amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;gt;

Swim until you can’t see land, are you a man or are you a bag of sand?

2011-05-02T17:05:00.000-07:00

Let me explain, please.

So there we were. Tuesday night had morphed to Wednesday morning and the madness that had previously littered the night gave way to some relative peace and quiet. Lightning was flashing, and the thunder followed after it, albeit with the urgency of a three-toed sloth. We sat at a wooden table, waiting for the electricity in the air to momentarily turn the sky blue again. I lit up a cigar, pissed out my last beer and began shooting the shit with Sam and Ollie. The lightning never came, but a few spots of rain did. And so did a few more. We denied that it was anything severe, and would probably pass or drizzle us lightly, but before we knew it, the storm that had taken so long to echo back to us, had now made its presence extremely obvious.

It was torrential - the kind of rain you get before summer. It's like it saves itself up all day and cries it all out for 30 minutes, before moving back another sunny day. Ollie, Sam and I were given two options. Caught out by the speed of the downpour, we could either run back to my dorm, up a hill and get drenched for 30 seconds or take refuge under the tiny table we were sat it. No words were said, and before we knew it, we were doing our best to scramble between the seats and take shelter, cigar and all.

For its effectiveness in keeping dry, hiding under three separated planks of woods at the bottom of the hill is much like taking refuge from the sun by hiding under a giant magnifying glass. Our arses got soaked as the water rolled down from the top of the gradient, while the make-shift roof was like a sieve on the top, and completely useless on the side. It protected the cigar, but when we ran through the dying rain to find some indoor haven from the rain, we were well and truly soaked.

But really, for three grown men to hide from a storm under a bench really needs a bit more explaining, so please, let me indulge you, because it had been weeks in the making.

My workload was getting the better of me, but not going out was rarely an option. This life is not a dress rehearsal, there are 24 hours in a day, but only so many cliches that can be used here. By the time I scrambled out from under the table, it felt like I'd spent more time in the bars than my own room. There was the night Raoul Moat and Gazza sang karaoke, the one where I told off some Massachusetts fan boy about wearing sporting gear and a crooked baseball out at night when he's an adult - he took it off. There was the night Dicky Peach and I were the only ones allowed to drink at Northampton's tunnel bar because no one else had their passports - we kept things classy, while Ollie, Max and Alex had to wait in the drizzle at a bus stop. There were sneaky nights out at The Spoke, and the time The Pub pissed off enough people by scrutinising legal driver's licences.

It all led to Tuesday though. It was typical, pints of shocktop, bits of karaoke and a security team at Stacker's that herded people in like cattle. The place was rammed, and after having a few, Sam and I tried to do our typical ninja-esque exit and head for The Spoke. It was foiled though, the new boy at the door wouldn't let us in without our passports so I began to hulk out with anger. Ollie received most of the my words that were tinged with a dash of vitriol. Everyone began leaving, but Max had left his card behind and was forced to deal with me and my rage after everyone else headed for home. Though he was allowed to close his tab, the line at Stacker's was too big to return, so we opted for McMuprhy's, and though it was busier, we walked straight in, without even needing to reach for any identification.

I snuck in a Guiness, walked back with Max and some friends along the way and headed to Dicky Peach and Alex's. There, drunk and stupid I partook and lost games of danger-can (on each syllable, bang a can twice on a hard object and finally on your head, whoever breaks it loses). I also lit one of Ollie's shoes on fire while he was wearing it. That wasn't enough though, the pushbike Ria stole in the first semester had not seen much life lately. So Ollie, Sam and myself did our best to ride it through the hall, the foyer and down hill despite the tyres were deflated and there was no drive from the pedals.

We pushed ourselves down the hill, and eventually settled it on the bike rack outside my building. It was 3AMish, and when we decided it looked out of place in the rack, we opted to try to send it up a tree. Ollie, whose arms are bigger than those of Sam and I combined, picked up the bike, working it back and forth before finally letting go...only for it to hit the tree and sink to the ground. Who cares, the lightning had just started.

And so began the eventual moments that resulted in the three of us hiding under a table. And to think, that wasn't even the worst night of the week.

The Great wet elf

That night was reserved for Thursday. The Brits and certain representatives of the commonwealth gathered at Ollie's after a night out at the bars to watch the Royal Wedding. Becs, was already passing out all over the room. Dicky Peach arrived hammered, but brought with him a giant bag of beers. With each beer that entered his body, his mind's control of it failed. He dangercanned a beer at the wrong angle, attacking his forehead with the blunt end, rather than the compartively softer side of the vessel. One can demonstrated excellent resilience, until it reached Dicky Peach and upon contact with his head literally sheered itself in half. The contents exploded all over him, though he tried to suck up whatever was left. It was one of the most remarkable things I've ever seen, he cut a can in half with his head.

The game continued, and at one point it was revealed a can was covered in blood. Peach's hipster fringe had hid his wounds, and poetically, the next fatigued and battle-weary can exploded for him as well - no one wanted to drink that bloody can of PBR. I left the party early, citing a 9AM class that I eventually failed to make. In my absence, the party continued, and descended into scenes Caligula would be proud of. Ollie was reprimanded by the campus' environmental staff for throwing innumerable cans out of his window. Sam and Bella had a race to see who could vomit first, with Sam winning, but Bella being more prolific. When the whole husband and wife shebang happened, Ollie doused Dicky Peach in champagne like a Formula One driver, and when the pressure dropped, poured the rest on him. I'd missed a party, but avoided a trainwreck.

PBR can shaped wound

I was writing this post up last night when word came through that Osama Bin Laden had been killed. Implored by Max and Sam I went to South West to witness what was happening there. It made up yesterday's post, but I thought I'd share a few more thoughts about the whole event below.

Like last night, my opinion on what happened in the last 24 hours does not hold a lot of weight. Everybody who died on September 11 was somebody's darling, and I'm sure there is a unique and equally painful story for each American to tell about the day. I have my own memories and experiences from the event, but when you see your countrymen killed on the soil you share with them, then your opinion is going to be vastly different to mine and it's something I have to acknowledge while I'm here.

However, when it came to celebrating the death of one man - even with blood on his hands, I subscribe to the views of one particularly great American. Martin Luther King Jr said "I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy". It's understandable that people were looking to let off some steam - 10 years, thousands of lives and trillions of dollars is extremely hard to reconcile, and again my position as Australian can hardly fathom how most people must feel.

I just believe if there is something to celebrate, it's not the death of one bearded individual in his Pakistan hideout, it's actually something in every American's backyard. The new World Trade Centre is a beautiful building that is growing by a floor each week. It's not the bullet wound to an enemy that should define this moment, that should be left to the totem of resilience that will dominate New York's skyline again. It characterises why this place is fantastic, and what it means to not give up. In reality there are no good guys and bad guys, the world is far too complex for such a narrative to exist. The war won't end with one evil man's death, but as an outsider I see a lot victory in what is happening in lower Manhattan every day, and if people were to celebrate that each night, then I would happily join them.

*The MLK quote is fake, but I saw Sonic Youth use it on twitter and went with it. Oops. At least we still have Daydream Nation.

*** Song
Andrew WK - She is Beautiful
Just listen to it. The man has been overdosing on positivity for a decade and it's absolutely amazing.

Also

The Queen is Dead - the Osama riots

2011-05-02T00:10:00.000-07:00

At around 11:30PM I was in the middle of doing my laundry and writing a post for this when I was distracted by news of a crowd gathering on the other side of campus. I grabbed my camera, grabbed some clothes (sans belt, sorry guys) and met Sam before heading to South-West.

Obviously, today is a big day for America, and I'm glad I'm here to witness the response. My opinions on the happenings are completely irrelevant, though that's not why I'm happy to be here. Firstly, I'm Australian and though we have troops in Afghanistan, this has very little to do with me. Secondly, I'm studying to be a journalist, and there was something to report, not something to get involved in. I'm not saying journalists aren't allowed opinions - it's just that this is not my moment to partake in. Instead, I got a chance to observe, and so I did. Happily.

I imagine that some people this moment is like removing the cork from a giant champagne bottle, while for others their thoughts are taken back 10 years. Again, I'm not here to judge the reactions, everyone is entitled to do what they want. I did my best to keep my mouth shut, remark or celebrate on Facebook, or opine on twitter.

Groups gathered, lit fireworks, burnt pictures of Osama Bin Laden and challenged riot police. I did my best to remain close, but passive to the response. The crowd stampeded, a police officer who was previously relaxed about people taking photos with him changed his approach when he temporarily dispersed part of the crowd with a large noise - I'm inconclusive to what it was, but he did have a paintball/rubber bullet gun on him.

The riot police eventually came, and the crowd moved on in a disorderly fashion. Fired up, the crowd tore down a fence or two on the way to the other side of campus, while the rest of us just walked around. The celebration had turned to a riot.

So anyway, here's some footage from the night. Everyone has their own opinions and emotions about the event, but here's what I saw, in chronological order. It was certainly an interesting way to spend an evening, and I got home around 2AM.

Existentialism in Amherst

2011-04-18T21:06:00.000-07:00

I've dodged bullets before. Figuratively, not literally of course - the right to bear arms has had absolutely no effect on my day-to-day I'm happy to say. However, despite the lack of sleep and the liver-pickling effort I put in the night before, I managed to make my 9AM class without the tiniest bit of illness. It wasn't a bullet I dodged, it was a cannonball.

Fact: the Red Sox are terrible this year.

Thursday's effort was the kind of memorable that leaves very little to the memory bank. Smart-arsery, photobombs, false accusations towards strangers and being a general prat were the order of the night. I crushed a plastic cup on Evan's head for reasons I don't recall, and duly received the same treatment in return. I had planned on a few quiet ones, but when I was getting special prices and the occasional free Bacardi, the plan crumbled like a sandcastle falling victim to poor tidal judgement.

What's worse, when the bar shut the night didn't end. I persevered to an hour more familiar to bakers before finally calling it quits in favour of an educational promise to myself and a few hours kip. I woke up for class the next day in the same clothes as the night before, but with shoes swapped out for a pair of colder and infinitely more comfortable thongs. Early morning summer delusion was the call of the day as my feet froze.

We planned the Saturday night with a run to the liquor store, and on the return journey a man with the undeniable look of crazy greeted us at the bus stop. It could have been the paper bags, or the funny voices, but from the moment we got there he began to eye us off, slowly stepping towards the group. When he finally broke his silence, he began a micro-schizophrenic verse that ended with me being called a "snake in the grass" amongst other things. He continued with the crazy for a while and in between his complaints about missing the Red Sox game due to a lack of television I waited for him to either pull a knife or steal our 40oz PBRs. Alas, a bus arrived, and as we left we happily responded to his query about any of us owning a television with a polite "no".

Thursday had been fun, and Friday was relatively calmer by comparison. Sam and I discretely headed for the Spoke, but it appears our course of direction threw us away from the action. At a party that followed the bar visit, Josh tried to escape with a beer in his hand. Once spotted by two bicycle police, two squad cars were called in followed by a transportation van. He was hauled to jail for a few hours in what is a remarkable misallocation of tax-payer spending for the sake of an open container law that is laughable to anyone not from America. Oh well, at least he gets a souvenir mugshot, and for that I'm a little bit jealous.

For some reason, Friday left me feeling absolutely battered on Saturday. I felt like I had the life and motivation to do anything sponged from within while my head was left to throb an incessant bass drum beat in my brain. Fortunately, Amherst's Cannabis Reform Committee had decided to provide some soothing weekend entertainment.

While the police will happily arrest you for holding an open drink, they turned a blind eye to the 'Extravaganja' event that took place on the town common. I was late to arrive, but already things were proving entertaining. A stream of poncho-wearing red-eyed stumblers were heading the other direction as things were beginning to wrap up. In town, Antonio's pizza shop had a bigger line than any I'd seen there before and the doorway next to it was occupied by a group of four gentlemen who proceeded to stroke the glass window up and down for a while. The giant sandwich mascot of Subway was to stoners what a light is to a moth. The visit was short, and I though I didn't actively participate, I saw enough to want to return the next day, camera in hand.

And so I did. The previous night's rain made me sink into the ground as if I'd doubled my weight overnight. Years ago, some structuralist ideology determined reggae was the preferred choice of a marijuana smoker, so that played loudly over the stage and speaker system at the other end as people lit up without a care. Naturally, there were people in Bob Marley shirts playing hackey-sack next to girls with hula-hoops. There were stalls all over, but only three products being sold - over priced food, phallic smoke ware and lots of tie-dye. One entrepreneur was offering hand-painted lighters for sale, but had simply written 420 on them in black marker and it seems most people had caught onto the act.

Tents were scattered all over the area, and dogs and children joined chemically challenged owners and parents. Bros were as equally welcomed and hippies of all ages mingled like it was a social mixer. I saw two bicycle police the whole time, and they were situated on the outer of the commons, clearly not needing to be utilised.

a more seriouser photography man

I left the scene in the same state as I arrived. Hippies, festivals and stoners are the same the whole world over. It's all bad smells, bad dancing, slow talking and not giving a single fuck. I could have been anywhere else in the world and been witness to similar scenes such is the generic nature of stoners, but to have it in Amherst, where I had previously criticised a bored and overbearing authority, was pretty nice.

I had planned on heading away for the long weekend, but some medical bills (which I finally paid) and exorbitant Boston accommodation put an end to that (PS, if anyone has a couch/floor available in Boston or around after school finishes please let me know). The long weekend was highly unproductive, with work falling even further behind. I'm having a minor existential crisis in Amherst over my degree and journalism. Things for one of my classes have gone extraordinarily pear-shaped, and for the first time since high-school, I feel like I'm willing to settle for the bare minimum. It's a horrible feeling, and even though I'm working hard to rectify the academic issues, I feel like I'm trying to climb a mountain that is in the middle of a landslide. I love university and the opportunity I've been given, but the next 3 weeks will determine how hard I'm willing to work to get what I want. Here we go.

***Song
The Cure - Friday I'm In Love
That last paragraph was a massive downer, so I figured I'd share MY FAVOURITE SONG OF ALL TIME! Yeah, it's official. There's no facebook announcement, no lyrics tattooed on my forehead or any of that - just a few words and an embed code typed into a blog. Still, I hope everyone enjoys it as much as I do. I remember hearing on it on commercial radio when I was a kid, before downloading it when I was a teenager. It survived everything since, and even today it still gets me. Everything from the opening riff to the weird noises at the end is just perfect.

Record Store Day

2011-04-13T19:55:00.000-07:00

*This is another post that has very little to do with living and studying in America, I just wanted to steal your time for a few minutes and write about another thing I love. Ta.

I really cannot wait for Record Store Day. For all the protests by major labels and certain recording artists about a dying industry, the passion and innovation of people in love with music says otherwise. The fact that I do not currently have a record player does not seem to matter, the special edition releases proliferate through the popular culture at a rapid rate, and within hours are available online. Still, it hasn't stopped me from buying them before, and with download codes and all other assorted bonuses, the initiative to do so again has increased.

It's remarkable that wiping clear the rear-view mirror and reviving analogue music has been one way forward for music distribution. We've seen with Radiohead's distribution of their last two long players, TV On The Radio's new film/album on YouTube and The Flaming Lips' remarkable gummy skull as creative ways to embrace fans and still line their pockets. However, it is Record Store Day, the event first conceived in 2007, that has grabbed my attention with a vice like grip. For the third Saturday of April every year, artists and stores spoil fans with new releases and events that celebrate everything great about the modern way we look at music.

See, I love vinyl records. I can remember going through my parents collection and playing their slightly warped version of Sgt Pepper's at wrong speeds for a giggle as well as being amazed at how the grooves of Dark Side of the Moon could be transmitted in quadraphonic. I was rapt when I started picking up assorted punk rock 7" singles on my own a few years back, and though their record player and amplifier had seen better days, even not playing them had perks. The discs were coloured, the artwork and packaging was elaborate, and rather than wanting to store them on a shelf like a CD, I wanted them displayed where everyone could see them.

That's the thing with vinyl records, they're elegant in and of themself. Looking past the packaging and multitude of colours they now come in, the mechanics of their playback are a work of art. Tiny grooves that physically display the music representing the sound that comes out the other end are cut finely into one long path. The playback is organic, each time you spin a disc under a needle the groove is altered, offering a slightly different sound each time. There's decay, but it's a beautiful thing.

Then there's the semiology of vinyl. There's a great line in High Fidelity that goes "...I agreed that what really matters is what you like, not what you are like... Books, records, films -- these things matter. Call me shallow but it's the fuckin' truth". It's one thing to draw conclusions about what someone has on their iPod - and believe me I do, but when I see someone fishing through the vinyl section of a store, or better yet, seeing their own collection, I know I've come across someone who thinks of music as something beyond background noise or something to talk about with friends. It's more than that, it's become a part of their personality, demonstrating obsessive compulsive collecting entwined with a dedication to music and it's delivery as art. To some they're 12 inch black discs that technology rendered obsolete, but to a particular brand of music fan, they're a totem of taste, individuality and personality.

My 2 purchases from America, so far.

So with Record Store Day approaching, there are of course a number of titles that have taken my fancy. My new love for Superchunk has whet my appetite for their 7" Misfit covers release. Ryan Adams and the Cardinals have a double 7" that will beautifully accompany my double 12" of III/IV that I bought for xmas. There's a new release by Owen, a reissue of Nirvana's Hormoaning and Wild Flag's debut. It's all very exciting, and doesn't even include the existing vinyl releases I'd love; Joy Division's Love Will Tear Us Apart singles, Off!'s first four eps packaged together, Kid A on double 10" and Coldplay's single collection. It's greedy, but it's also not practical for someone who is moving back to the other side of the globe in a few weeks, and as such, I'll have to pass up on most of these gems.

While those releases are all wants, and will probably remain so, there is one thing I'd love to do with vinyl records, and that is start my own label. I've seen firsthand how small, independent labels are innovating music distribution, and I want to be involved. I've seen the resurgence of vinyl, and how download drop cards have made them as practical as a CD, but satiate a collector in a way that no digital format could.

There's issues of practicality that have placed my plans in quick dry cement though. I'm beyond broke, with the Australian taxpayer putting a roof over my head and food in my stomach while I dive further into the red with student loans. Even when I do start earning money, there are other fiscal priorities that tower above releasing a few hundred vinyl discs. That doesn't matter though, I know there's no financial white-knight that's going to make banks look at me for investments instead of repayments, because when I do graft hard enough for some money (that's what this university degree and year abroad is all about right?), I understand that running a little label is not a business for profit, or sometimes breaking even, it's all about a labour of love.

When my parents were working on my genetic make up the part about creativity passed me by. I can barely write my name with a pencil, let alone sketch anything that brings a skerrick of aesthetic pleasure and though I've been playing guitar for 12 years, there's very little to show for it. That's why I want to have this label. I want to contribute. I want to help create something I'm proud of. It's grabbing the coattails of other people's talents, but I still want to play my tiny part in adding to human culture. Today it's a pipe-dream, but it's a reason to go out and work hard.

Record Store Day has turned into a remarkable thing, and I'll be doing my best to celebrate this Saturday. Provided Friday hasn't ruined me, I'll be on a bus to Northampton to see what is on offer. Beyond this weekend, in a few years I want to play a different role on that 3rd Saturday in April. Music is something that people will always feel passionate about, and even if the old monarch is struggling, the initiatives of the people who care most about it are a heartening glimpse into the future. We're told the music industry is dying, but the reality is there has never been a better time to be a fan. Record Store Day, with all of its rarities, special-editions, concerts is proof of this. The future might not be in a brick and mortar store, but there's still a bright one out there, and I am desperate to be a part of it.

***Song
Biffy Clyro - Machines (alt version)
This was originally only found on vinyl, so it shows how important it is not to ignore the format. It's an angry man version of their pussy-rock classic, Machines, and it is infinity times drop D awesomes.

Well I ain't that much worse than the rest, just that much further west.

2011-04-10T20:27:00.000-07:00

Apologies in advance, I'm going to say the word 'cunt' in this post a lot. A few years back I went to my first Rangers F.C. game - where they lost away to Dundee United 2-1 (I left raging, but absolutely smitten), I was surrounded by a crowd who used the word as liberally as any other in the English dictionary, I've slowly added it into my rhetoric. As of Tuesday night, I really feel I've capped out my ability to drop it in everyday conversations and/or karaoke.

And that's where the story begins. For whatever reason, and clearly not relating to talent, there had been notable absences at Stackers on a Tuesday for karaoke. I'm not entirely sure what changed that, but the layoff had seen everyone trying to play catch-up on frivolities.

Having just successfully smoked a cigarette under a table, Becs and Adam serenaded the room with a Chicago ballad. While standing around them offering my support, the microphone came my way and I managed to address the entire room as 'cunts'. Needless to say they didn't win the night's prize, but I don't think that had much to do with my interjection.

Still, I'd have my own chance to win a prize, as Dicky Peach and I volunteered to sing some Kaiser Chiefs under the stage name "The Benders". It took two hours before we would eventually grace the stage, and Peach was well and truly toasted (he has no recollection of the event). The time rolled by, and I swear Elle was topping up my beer with whatever fruity vodka drink she was having, but by that stage I could barely notice.

Eventually, 'The Benders' were called to the stage, and after a brief practice run, we started sing 'Oh My God'. Before the song had started, I'd already called the audience cunts, and when the line about being far from home came up I couldn't help but yell "Wollongong, cunts!". Fortunately, the song ended after three or so minutes, and I managed to add in a few more expletives before the microphones were turned off. We were the last to perform that night, and unbeknownst to us the winner had already been determined. Cunts.

Now I know it's not nice to use such language, especially not in public when assisted by a microphone, but there was an almost instant payback the next morning. My struggles to get ready for my afternoon class culminated in a spew that found its way on the bathroom floor, sink and toilet. Undeterred, I still made it to class, despite a what I imagined to be a horrific trailing odour. Sometimes, the Wollongong cunt in me shines through too much.

Noho hipsters about succumb to urban outfitters

***

Chinese whispers is a fascinating concept, and Sam and I received first-hand experience on how the same thing can be interpreted differently. Northampton's finest $12 hairdressers received the same directions from the two of us (tidy up the back and sides, a little off the top and keep the front longer), yet we both walked out looking completely different. While he looks like Jonathan Creek, I look more like K.D. Lang.

I felt the haircuts were fairly representative of Northampton, a lesbian and an eccentric hippie type. With new mops, we returned to the town that night to catch Sebadoh play at Pearl Street's basement. It was immediately apparent that we were the youngest members of the crowd, and for me personally it was a feeling that has become increasingly unfamiliar. The older crowd was in excellent voice and humour, as the opening band called out for requests and numerous grey-haired revellers called out for 'Freebird'.

Richard Buckner and his friend were the next band, and though they dressed like they were somewhere between Neil Young and homelessness, they put together a fascinating sound with only two members. There was lots of feedback, guitar loops and a man who dressed like a vagrant acting like a nomad by constantly switching between guitar and drums. The two are older than most parents of UMass students, but they were excellent and a refreshing change from the usual bands you see live. It was like imagining Bon Iver, but if fame found them 30 years too late.

Sebadoh were great, and even though it was a reunion tour of sorts, they played like they hadn't stopped jamming in their garage. From the start they were there to have a laugh, joking about how they had seen two guys making music on their computers at a cafe, and calling it 'jamming'. When Lou and Jason swapped instruments and vocals it was like a different band, going from an older man slowing down in his rock and roll days to an angsty punk band. They shifted dynamically, and though they played my favourite song of theirs early in the set, the remaining two hours were like getting a lesson in what it is like to be a 90s band on the cusp of success. Given the members of the band, their connection and the show's location, I really thought tonight was going to be my best chance to run into a member of Sonic Youth or Dinosaur Jr but it didn't happen. I've only got 4-5 weeks left, so I'll have to improve my stalking skills.

Jonathan Creek

With the sun shining the following day, a few of us parked our arses on the grassy lawn outside my building for a few hours. There was beer, wine, cigars and songs provided by Sam, as we sat around getting our fill of vitamin d. In an act of instant karma, the results of heckling the frisbee players came back to haunt when one flew towards me. It spun through the air and was graceful as it approached. I thought five years of junior cricket had prepared my hands to catch it, but I was very wrong. I put out my left paw, and as it came closer began to close my fingers. The timing was all wrong (possibly due to the wine, but mostly because I'm rather uncoordinated) and as my missed catching the flying disc it deflected off my fingers and straight into Jessie's face. Classy, real classy. I felt incredibly bad, and clearly a frisbee to the face is no way to spend a nice afternoon in the sun.

That wasn't the only bit of violence to occur that night, as Max and I took advantage of our free tickets to the MMA fight at the campus' entertainment centre. Though we'd been assigned free seats, the small number of paying audience meant we could get close to the ring. As everyone stood for the anthem, I took off my jacket to reveal my American flag shirt, put my hand on my heart and got ready for what I was hoping would be a scene right out of the end of 'Bruno'.

Before the first fight an announcer came into the ring, and this is not exaggerated, but she actually told all the ladies of the crowd that sleeping with the fighters was a safe thing to do, as they get tested for sexual diseases all the time. With that bit of class out the way, terrible hip-hop and angry man hardcore came over the loudspeaker before two guys began kicking, punching and hugging each other for a few rounds.

It was a repetitive display, with a few fights being award via points, the other through knockout. The revolving door of tattooed up guys in shorts trying to murder one-another gets old pretty quickly, and when they're straddling each other on a mat my attention drifts away at a rapid pace.

We waited out until about halfway through the event, joining a heckling lady in sharing our opinions about a fighter named 'Sam'. While she yelled "stop hugging" and "knock him out", Max offered such brilliance including "there's no I in Sam", and I did my best to recite phrases from Green Eggs and Ham.

There was no crowd fights, and no overly obnoxious or hilarious behaviour. My opinion on MMA didn't change, but I was disappointed that everyone was so well behaved. After all, I moonwalked my way into these tickets and expected a great show of in return.

The rest of the night was spent barhopping, and solving rubiks cubes. That bottle of wine from earlier on came back to haunt me, and again I decided to bring up the contents of my stomach as a reparation for having too much fun the night before.

***Song.
Frightened Rabbit - Poke
Well after all my talk of using the word 'cunt' in everyday discourse, again I've been usurped by the Scots. This song, beautiful as it is, also has the most amazing use of the word I've ever heard.

I'm not looking for a new England.

2011-04-04T20:59:00.000-07:00

On the day I arrived in Amherst I was warned, "if you don't like the weather in New England, wait 10 minutes and it will change". "Whatever" I thought, I'd spent a week in Malaysia where it went from blistering hot all day, to a daily one hour drenching back to blistering heat. On top of that I'd lived in Scotland over winter. My skin turned blue as my watch tan receded and the kilograms poured on from a pint-fueled indoor lifestyle. I felt adequately prepared for whatever New England could offer.

I was very wrong. The cold dragged on, and in some moments of forced indoor refuge it did begin to effect me. Still, I was positive a change was never far away.

It was over two months ago when Sam and I bought cigars in New York City. We were more like schoolboys sneaking into their grandfather's collection than grown men vying for the next level of maturity, but we stocked up and had big plans for when the sun decided to reappear.

Though it was later than a Sydney train, on Wednesday at 5:30PM, following a brief kick around of a ball on the lawn, we finally got to reenact that Jewish hobby, and cut the tip off a cigar. Making up for lost time, the sun didn't want to go down, and for the next hour we did our best to stink out our clothing, philosophize, and celebrate the victory that comes with a well intentioned, though poorly timed plan.

It was a short-lived victory, and as the welcoming quote reminded, the weather here changes rapidly. The cold set in, the sun retreated back to Australia and the weather service had put out what I believed to be an April Fools alert about a snowstorm.

That night I had to forego a night with excellent company at The Pub for a journalism assignment in South Hadley. Inside the town hall was the kind of flooring more akin to a 1960s kitchen and a town meeting vibe straight from episodes of the Simpsons. A sign for the ensuing event was missing the letter 'o', and before anything kicked-off everyone in attendance was given a warning to avoid the town's stray cats as they may be rabid.

The meeting, though not the scene I envisioned when I applied to study journalism, was an excellent experience. The nerves of interviewing people and asking uncomfortable questions were there, and to the person being interrogated, those nerves were more than likely extremely apparent. My accent got in the way too often, as when I was repeating questions the direction of the interview shifted to my own background. The attention about the way I pronounce words like 'tomato' has been flattering in certain contexts, but was unwelcome when I was trying to demonstrate a modicum of authority.

Sigh. I survived, and when the lights of the town hall were turned out, the weather outside greeted us with falling snow. I was flabbergasted, it seemed like only yesterday (and was, boom!) everyone was enjoying the sun and frolicking about on the grass.

I got back to my room, and for the next 4 hours went through 2 hours of recordings and notes and tried to churn out a story as quickly as possible. I knew my friends were having a grand time out in town - their text messages told me as much, but I had to put on a professional face and try to get this work done. I emailed in my story at 3 in the morning, with snow still falling and my eyes fighting a losing battle against gravity. I was shattered, and my 9AM class the next day was the victim of the story.

Though I missed out on a night of fun, I was going to attempt to make up for it the next day. Despite the hitch of being refused service because of my identification, (I'm almost 25! I may be immature, but I'm the owner of enough grey hairs to consider myself a poor man's George Clooney), Dicky Peach and his passport stepped up to the plate and delivered.

That old American past-time of pregaming began at Chateau Peach et Jones, and before a can had been opened we (me) were dancing around the room like idiots and throwing stuff out the window. Peach's johnny collection was blown up and exploded in a variety of manners, while I received a pen-ink tattoo in a tribute to his.

new meaning of Dicky Peach

We headed to Hobart for a party, and Sam and I enjoyed another smaller cigar each as we lost the pack on one of Amherst's few actual streets. Once inside the party, the recollection of the night turned smokier than the smell of my hoodies and jeans. There are all sorts of rumours and hear-say, but I've been told I poured beer on an undeserving Elle.When dancing on a couch the curtains behind me came down. I'm not saying it's my fault, but everyone else who saw it say it is. There was also the issue of the mysterious red stains on the shirt my brother made for me, which turned out to be jello shots...on my back. After leading a singalong to some Oasis, and their poorer, but somehow earlier clones, The Beatles, it was time to walk back. Max had tried to call a cab, but for some reason, the company, based in the UK's Leeds, his adopted town, had no idea what Amherst was. As if things couldn't get stupider, a policeman had pulled up Dicky Peach for public drinking not long after a few of us had jettisoned a random hubcap (possibly stolen, maybe found).

To say I felt rough the next day is an understatement. The clothes on the floor around my bed from the previous night were the easiest to put on once I got up, and in a tramp like manner, I again sat outside my building and smoked a cigar with Sam. This time, we had decided to add some class, and a Sinatra soundtrack accompanied each puff of New York City's finest $4 cigar.

Hipster vicar

The desire for more had become insatiable, to the point where we stocked up on little ones for the day with big plans on returning for more in the night. We achieved that goal, and the girl that served us earlier in the day in a more state of greater dishevelment remarked that just because we were foreign and smoking cigars it didn't make us classy. I disagreed, being foreign has nothing to do with not having class, I can achieve that at home just as well.

When Stackers wasn't turning down tunes (CHOON!) by The Clash and The Cure, they were offering up all sorts of goodies. First there was promoters from an upcoming Mixed Martial Arts fight, who despite their best effort to get me to a buy a ticket to, ended up giving Max and I one for free in exchange for moonwalking. I have no fascination with the sport at all, but the crowd members should provide the same laughs the ending of 'Bruno' gave us. It got better too, as my friend was working for Bacardi that night, through her generosity and courtesy gave out a number of free t-shirts among my friends and I. Bonza.

No matter how hard we try, how bad we sing, or how drunk we let Alex get, we never seem to get turfed from Stackers, and it's absolutely brilliant.

Max, Dicky Peach, Ian and I walked off in search of a party until Ian left the group upon realising his card was still behind the bar.Through some of Amherst's back streets, Peach and I puffed our way through more cigars as Max asked for, and was ignored protection while he drained his lizard. A cop car drove by as Dicky Peach and I just laughed at what great friends we aren't. Alex was off somewhere in our vicinity, but had passed out in a random house.

We visited sunset to find a group of fluorescent painted people and a girl already passed out on the couch. After a few more cigars it was time to call it a night, and end what was another shady and shaky weekend in Amherst. They're running down, but we're doing our best to make them memorable enough that we can't remember how much fun we actually had.

***
Billy Bragg - A New England
The bard from Barking is an exemplary Essex gentleman. With all the talk of New England I couldn't help but think of this choon. Also, there's a bonus one underneath because I love him that much.

Bombs and Us. A love story.

2011-04-03T20:22:00.000-07:00

*Note. This has very little to do with my year living in America. I just thought I'd share a musical experience with you. The internet has let me relive one of my favourite concerts, and even if the words around it bore you, it really is too good not to share.

Seven years.

That's how long it took for my ears to hear a song my eyes read about it.

It was January 2003 when I first encountered Sparta. It was a blistering hot Sydney day and I was at the Big Day Out festival for the first and last time. I'd made my way to the smaller stage out of curiosity. I was at the tail-end of a heavy metal romance, and At The Drive-In were a band that bridged the gap between angry man music and the rest of the world.

Sparta came out with their five members and for 45 minutes their soundwaves broke through the heat and were the most amazing things my ears had ever encountered. As a band they were raw, they grafted their way through songs and they had an unmistakable ambition to step out from the shadows of ATDI. They were a new, young band, and there was a youthful exuberance that hid the 10 years experience and reputation that was shackled to them.

Jim Ward, the frontman, is one of the most remarkable people I've had the pleasure of seeing live. He is rakish to the point of frail. Seeing him live you wonder how he conceals such a huge voice in a tiny frame. That doesn't even factor in the size of this heart, as his transformation from At The Drive-In's utility man to the engine that drives Sparta exemplified artistic bravery. As a 16-year-old I could not have found a better musician in the world to look up to. An average guy, with extraordinary talent and determination.

On a Monday night a few weeks after the Big Day Out my sunburn had since settled Triple J's live at the wireless was playing the same set from the show. It was the first recording I'd found of a show I'd been to and better yet, it was one I was honoured to attend. I recorded it onto a translucent orange 90 minute TDK cassette tape and played it back twice that night.

The tape was what I listened to before bed until I bought their debut album, Wiretap Scars. I listened to the album so much that if it was a vinyl record, the needle would have ground it down to the point of nothingness. As for the tape, I still played it a lot, and when I eventually learned to drive it followed me into the car. Unfortunately, the Australian summer got the better of it. The greenhouse that is the Toyota Lexcen warped the tape to the point of inaudibility (I've since found downloads and videos from the show, phew).

A year or so after, murmurings of the follow-up album came around. I ascertained a leaked copy and loved it even more than the debut. The band had grown, Jim had learned to sing better and 'While Oceana Sleeps' became one of my favourite ever songs.

When Porcelain was eventually released I bought it on cd and vinyl. I already knew it inside out, but such was my regard for the band I felt they deserved the money I earned working at a discount store...twice. I bought the 7" inch single for Breaking The Broken and managed to track down an mp3 of the non album track "Farewell Ruins". However, there was one song of their's I couldn't find.

In interviews Jim had mentioned he'd written a song about Elliott Smith, a musician I was learning to love, and one who had taken his life a year earlier. The song 'Bombs and Us' was a bonus track on the Japanese edition of Porcelain, and with the 2004 exchange rate and my lack of funds, there was no way I could afford to pay so much for four minutes of music.

The internet couldn't provide an mp3 of the song, and seeing Sparta play in Wollongong and Sydney only made me want to track it down even more. By the time their next album came out I still couldn't find it, and was resigned to the fact that I'd probably miss out on hearing it. To use an exaggerated literary metaphor, I felt like Captain Ahab chasing a white whale.

I saw Sparta play one more time before they went on what is still, an uninterrupted break. It was in Indianapolis in 2007, and as much as I tried to deny it at the time, the band looked tired, and the enthusiasm that made them stand out to me 4.5 years earlier had seemingly passed them by. They played their final song, Jim dropped his telecaster on the stage and walked off. It wasn't the worst way I've seen a band finish a set, but it was the worst way I'd seen this band, one I'd grown to love, close out for the night.

Jim played a solo show in Sydney in late 2008, and again it was an amazing experience. Without a doubt, like his 2003 set with Sparta, it was one of the best shows I've ever been to, brimming with enthusiasm and the overbearing feeling that he was still an ordinary guy, doing extraordinary things.

Now, after seven years of a life that's included mixed achievements and experiences, I can finally hear the song I was so desperate to get my ears to. Through coincidence YouTube was also formed in 2004, and through user 1824Ayacucho,they provided the avenue for me to tick off a musical box that had lingered way too long for someone as impatient as me living in an age of instant gratification.

Now, that race is run, and the result is beautiful. It may have taken seven years for me to get here (late bloomer eh), but it makes things feel brand new again. Elliott Smith left the world, and it seems Sparta have too, but it's not all bad. As the song points out "we can hold on to what we have, and what you gave us".

When I pass by, all the people say, "just another guy on the lost highway"

2011-03-28T22:10:00.000-07:00

"People tell us the American dream was about owning a house or something. That's never been the American dream. The American dream started with exploration and heading into the wilderness to find what's out there. I'm just an extension of the people that came before me. A lot of us stopped doing it, so it became like a marvel, but it shouldn't be."

Todd Carmichael - coffee roaster/first American to reach the South Pole on foot.

Coming back to a rainy, and borderline freezing Amherst made Florida feel like it was the other side of the world. Together, Max and I had travelled through four states and were in transit for 13 hours. From bottom to top, America is an extremely diverse place, but the area I've chosen to rest my head happens to have a modest and bashful sun. My patchy tan, itchier than a mosquito's banquet and the only souvenir I took from Florida, remained hidden under the piles of clothes I've since had to reacquaint myself with.

Still, if Florida felt far away, for the first time in a while, home didn't. The previous day's exhaustion scuppered my plans of an early start as I slept through my alarm and rushed straight to physical therapy. The weights increased, and I managed to fumble a medicine ball enough to hit my face (the moneymaker) and shake up all the mucus of my man-flu in manner that flowed like Niagra Falls.

Female stubby holder, while you're having a can you're holding 2.

None of that was going to stop me from rushing to the post office, as my roommate had told me earlier that I had a parcel to pick up (he also threw away the slip needed to pick up the parcel).Luckily for me, as well as being generous and extremely considerate, my friend Dana had the intelligence and foresight to send me the tracking number. Bonza, I was still able to pick up a box of Australian swag. Vegemite has never tasted better, and as I sat at a bus stop reading the accompanying letter with it's incredibly sweet words, I was reminded why Australia is still home.

I was over the moon to be the recipient of such attention, and when I got back to campus I discovered that the United States Postal Service was feeling particularly generous o the day. My family had surprised me and sent a package that came complete with giant Caramello Koalas.

First Mi-Goreng since August.

Going away for a year meant I missed my brother's eighteenth birthday, and Miami's terrible internet meant I also missed an opportunity to speak to him. I managed to send his present on time the other week, so I was a little surprised when I saw a wrapped gift with a note marked "From Geoff" in my mum's handwriting. I pondered what kind of joke he'd play on me, and as the parcel was soft I would not have been at all surprised if he had mailed a bunch of serviettes for a laugh. My curiosity was killed as I opened my first wrapped present in nearly 9 months and was greeted by a blown up image of my brother's face on a white t-shirt. Brilliant.

Sunrise to Sunset

2011-03-21T20:04:00.000-07:00

Today I went through four American states, from sunshine to snow. This is exactly what I signed up for.

Sink, Florida, Sink

2011-03-21T14:08:00.000-07:00

I was not exactly upset at leaving Harlem – the early nights, sirens and starkly empty streets don’t exactly represent the postcard version of New York that is sent around the world. Regardless, I’d done my best to get acquainted with the place. I’d established a regular order at the local deli and seen the same vagrants and street-toughs repeatedly.

It took an hour-or-so on the subway, but the middle of Brooklyn was about a world away. In a rejuvenated post-industrial neighborhood, the buildings may not be as pretty as Harlem’s brownstones, but the shops don’t serve you behind bullet-proof glass.

It took Sam and Max a while to make it to Brooklyn, and my week alone in Harlem probably meant I was happier for the company than them, but I made the most of the remaining solitude by exploring Williamsburg.

The hustle and bustle of Manhattan was removed, and a new calm of being able to walk the streets at my own pace and in a straight line brought with it a nice reprieve. The slow jaunt took me to a remarkable skateboard shop that came complete with adjoining half pipe (gnarly) and the neighboring Brooklyn Brewery. For a while, when the sun was out and the hipsters were still in bed, there was no nicer place in the world than Williamsburg.

Finally, I met up with Max in Manhattan before hightailing back to Brooklyn to catch up with Sam. We reacquainted ourselves again with L line and haggled our way through Chinatown for last minute Miami supplies. Lower-Manhattan occupied the earlier part of our evening, wandering through the financial district as the sun eventually set.

Freedom Tower, the good elf and double Sam

Max, the Londoner of the group, had gone to the same school as a few of the lads from Bombay Bicycle Club, and our Spring Break in Miami had a slight delay so we could catch them in Williamsburg. I can only imagine how it would have felt for him seeing his classmates play to sold out crowds in New York City. Save for some locals, the crowd was mainly made up of Brits arguing about who had travelled further (I won).

Bombay were impressive, and the main lad, Jack, has a musical maturity that is clearly beyond his years and the rest of his band. There was some oddly out of place fistbumping, but what the crowd saw was an excellent young band who have the world at their feet.

Max St Max

We dragged Max away from his catch-up with the band (though he struggled to get through to them as they were being badgered for photos from the crowd. The bar with the big beer cups ($4 for 32oz) was the destination and despite being as lively as a nursing home, we still managed to get a free round courtesy of a trolleyed Irishman.

It was a comparatively early start for Sam, Max and I, and despite the cold of New York in March, we donned our summer kit and headed to La Guardia. Six of us had four different flights and throughout the day we staggered our arrivals into Florida.

I try to avoid flying where possible, generally favouring an overland approach to travel, but with a discount airline and a time disadvantage Spirit airlines were our courier to sunshine. Max and I landed in Fort Lauderdale and made our way to South Beach via a shuttle. The 40 minute trip offered our first glimpses of sunshine and palm trees. The city had a sense of familiarity about it drawn solely from the countless hours spent bashing a PlayStation controller on GTA: Vice City and the final part of the journey took as past the water channel with large cruise ships on one side and mansions with private yachts on the other.

The staggered flights came back to haunt us as no one could check in until Dicky Peach arrived…at 9PM. Still, there was enough time to reacquaint myself with the sun, the sand and summer for what had begun to feel like a lifetime.

A few others had been in Miami earlier, and for some other guy staying at the hostel the trip had already resulted in a broken foot. The lucky lad had found himself in one of the lifeguard towers with a female companion, but when one of the local police shone his torch on them from his quad-bike he panicked, jumping off the edge and landed at a bone-shattering angle. He continued on with his broken foot for a day, and immediately after jumping off the tower climbed back up to apologise. The guy felt embarrassed by the whole situation, but for the rest of us was a brilliant start to Spring Break.

The quick turnaround from Peach’s late arrival culminated in donning my nicest shirt ($15, JC Penney) and heading out to some of Miami’s wankier clubs. We walked past the crowds of girls showing as much skin as they did at the beach and guys with popped collars before lining up to enter ‘Mansion’.

There was all sorts of table service and grinding that made the club a ridiculous place, but two things stood out in defining the night. Firstly, a bottle of beer was $10 sans tip, and secondly you could, and people did smoke everywhere. Attendants walked around selling all sorts tobacco, and Sleeves acquainted himself with a cigar. My interest in paying such inflated prices for anything was as high as my interest in how much the punters standing around me spent on their neck chains. I left after an hour or two feeling poorer than I had for a long time, but content in knowing I wasn’t being duped by what was essentially thievery.

The next day began at the beach, and for the first time I was finally able to get my head wet in the Atlantic. It had been almost a year since I’d visited the beach, and on my previous unemployed summer I’d become well acquainted with the waves. To say I’d missed it was an understatement, and drying off in the sun had hardly felt better…or as hot.

I can’t recall how many hours we spent on the sand that day, but kicking a ball around and swimming with mates carried with it a certain euphoria after what had been a rather frigid 4 months beforehand.

It became apparent that America had taken its toll on the bodies of most of us, with our tiny frames but flabby pale skin left us looking like Pete Doherty. Still, America still had a role to play on our physicality, as that night I would discover an impressive amount of sunburn that resembled a Polish flag and hurt like a German invasion.

Max, Bella, Elle and I walked up and down Ocean Drive with the countless tourists and restaurant hawkers trying to get us into their establishment. All the menus were the same, and it was happy hour no matter what the time of day was, but finally, we settled on one somewhere in the middle of the strip.

The cannelloni was nice, and the Bloody Mary was strong, but somewhere along the way the night began to go pear-shaped for myself. We’d found a cheap bar earlier, and $2 tall cans of PBR were the order for the night. Elle and Bella joined Max and I in games of beer-pong on the table that is a permanent fixture in the bar and things were getting competitive to the point that team photos and kissing partner wagers were put into action.

A couple of rounds were played, and with some coercive arguing I’d managed to be on the winning team for all of them. I began chatting to some UFC fighter in training and his surgically enhanced girlfriend before my tape stopped recording. They were incredibly lovely, and even chanted my name during the beer pong game, however, somewhere between games and conversations I just wandered off into the night.

Team photo

Some sort of self-preservation must have kicked in, because according to receipts and reports I raced back to local 24/7 pharmacy for some ice-tea and aloe vera cream for the brutal sunburn that adorned my back.
The tea was drunk, the after sun care applied and then sprayed all over the room. The excitement got the better of me by this stage, and before midnight, and the leaving time for everyone else I had put myself to sleep for what turned out to be a 12 hour coma.

Job done, two nights in and I was already wrecked.

The beach offered a cure to a hangover that no other solution could. The waves were tiny, the water was clear and the temperature, though not hot was the perfect amount of warm that wakes up every part of your body. I wasn’t feeling 100% for the rest of the day, but from the wake-up to stepping out of the sea had changed me into a new man.

The rest of the day was a rather timid affair, with the embarrassment of the previous determining that things would be taken a little slower. But like a race car approaching a hairpin, it was only a temporary slowdown before a rapid acceleration into stupidity. It was of course St Patrick’s Day, and though he is from Northern Ireland, Dicky Peach approached the holiday like it was his birthday, Christmas and New Year’s all rolled into one.

We all let him have a head-start, but by the time we’d joined him around lunch time at Waxy O’Connor’s, the Irish pub, to watch sports he had well and truly started. I watched Rangers get rorted out Europe before leaving Peach with his 6th or 7th pint.

A quick dip prepared us for the rest of the night before returning to Lush, the same cheap bar that I had dominated beer-pong at before sprinting off into the aloe vera coma. The town’s Irish bars had adopted the nightclub policy and were charging exorbitant prices for entry and product, and despite the emptiness, a group of relatively poor students care more for cost than reputation.

The rounds were constantly coming, and before too long it was determined that we’d all end up with tattoos. It was a group exercise, and for the next few minutes debating stupid ideas was the lead topic at the table.
We tried to encourage Alex, to get the word ‘tight’ on his arse and if that wasn’t harsh enough, Ollie felt ‘pussy free since 89’ would be funnier (even if the date was wrong). It was all but settled and just needed a bit more liquid encouragement before reality would arrive.

Somewhere along the way Dicky Peach fell asleep on the toilet (again) and Max led another Oasis sing-along and celebrated by reenacting a Formula One driver’s celebration but replaced champagne with a can of PBR, pure class.

The group moved on from the bar looking for food and tattoo shops. In a drunk-stupor the idea of a tattoo skipped Sam and we headed to the ocean. We met a group of locals and got chatting to them for a long time. It was so long that phone calls began to pour in about our whereabouts, and before long Becs, Elle and Max joined in for some late beaching.

We had no swim-gear, and the au-naturale swim costumes were revealed by a quick dip in the ocean. Neil, a random guy we had met earlier joined the late night swim and when we realised the water depth was not enough to protect our dignity we returned to the shore to get redressed. A quad bike riding cop came by after and was nice enough to tell us how he has the best job in the world watching people have sex on the beach. He even let me shine a torch on a couple while Becs yelled at them to stop. It was the most authority I’ve had for a long time.

We made a pact to have a quick nap and wake up for the sunrise at the beach, but given the state we were all in before counting sheep, that target was duly missed. Though disappointed, the next morning brought with it a pleasant make up.

Max tapped me on the shoulder with the enthusiasm of a kid who just discovered a reward from the tooth-fairy. There was a cling-film covered foot being thrown through the air and it belonged to Ollie. While we were off swimming around in our birthday suits, both he and Dicky Peach had persevered with their intentions and were permanently rewarded. Ollie’s foot now says ‘Good Ef’ as if to say good ef-foot (good effort) and Peach now has a lovely scroll that reads ‘Your Mum’ on his right bicep.

Ollie wrestled with the permanence of his decision while Peach was presumably still drunk from the night before in his enthusiasm for his new mark. Regardless of that, he still spent the rest of the day in bed having exhausted himself celebrating the day before.

An Australian guy staying at the hostel was a day late to the party. When everyone was moderately relaxed and waiting for dinner he was steamed to the point of pouring his fruity concoction all over the shop as well as falling onto his arse and laying there for a good five minutes. Worse still, if his slurred accent wasn’t bad enough, he was advertising his nationality through a hyper-boganed Australia visor. There was a temptation to replace it with a New Zealand one, but they’ve had enough of a bad run lately. He was last seen running outside and trying to jump through the open passenger window of a slow moving car.

Still, while he was a wanker because he had pickled himself alive, another Aussie absolutely loved telling everyone how he was studying at Yale and grew up in Bondi. He constantly dropped “Oi!” at anyone who was in his surround, and that group changed every day, as it seemed most people saw through his big-noting exterior. The two of them were horrible, and I even had a couple of friends point out to me how bad Australians are overseas.

The next night offered an opportunity to make a complete hypocrite of myself by acting like an equally wanky antipodean. While Sam and Alex were eventually forced out of Lush for not having sufficient identification, Peach, Max, Becs, Sleeves and I all stuck around to enjoy cheap PBR cans. We were even treated to an impromptu and unenthusiastic pole dance from some random girls.

With enough beer bravado we ventured to the tattoo shop to complete the pledge from two nights before. Dicky Peach’s beer brain directed us to the store that left their mark on him. I scanned through a computer and copious amounts of porn trying to find the right image to get emblazoned on my arse and when I finally told the guy what I wanted and where he began to erupt in a tat’d up ball of fury.

“I’m not gay, why would I want to tattoo a robot onto your arse?”, was the general flow of the conversation and after about two minutes of anger and a $500 price tag we left. Unfulfilled, but with remnants of sensibility we decided to accept the defeat of such an acquisition.

When everyone else went home, Dicky Peach and I went out to search for Alex, who was off partying on his own at some club he kept telling us was awesome. It wasn’t, and when we all left he went out in search for somewhere else. Later reports by Alex said he ended up in some gay bar. Still, Peach and I were still out in search for a degree of entertainment. As we approached the hostel we worked out the cheapest thrill would be to steal a hubcap from a car.

It was presumed to be easy, but in the land of chrome wheels, finding hubcaps was proving to be rarer than hen’s teeth. The cars that have hubcaps were cable tied to the wheels, and when we eventually found a suitable target, the car behind it lingered with the engine idling for too long for us to make the grab. We tried to wait it out in an ally, but instead turned around and headed to the hostel before finding an eventual goldmine. Across the road from the hostel were two absolute bombs of cars, and with a swift pull Peach had a hubcap in his hand and our little legs sprinted back to the room. The hubcaps adventures would eventually end on Max’s pillow as a nice surprise for him when he rolled over.

It was a late end to the night but the hostel staff barged into our room at an ungodly hour trying to unsuccessfully wake up Alex. “Wake up! Your boat tour is about to leave”. Wait, what? Boat tour? Apparently Alex’s post gay bar adventure included booking himself on a trip around the waters of Miami as soon as he got back…or an hour before he was supposed to go. It was cracking drunk form, even if it wasn’t a tattoo of ‘your mum’.

We spent the final day in Miami at the beach, catching what would be the last warm sun-rays for a few months. Despite the fact that there was finally some swell, we did our best to make it a calm and relaxed day. It didn’t quite go to plan, as like the GTA video games when you get 3 stars a number of police cars and helicopters arrived on the scene.

There were a total of 23 police cars, one van and numerous quad-bikes as some rumble had started at another part of the beach. People kept rolling out, but there were no bloody bodies and only one guy in handcuffs. It seemed like an act of police boredom or any excuse to break up a crowd.

With that bit of excitement pushed aside, we spent the remainder of the night by the beach as the shrinking supermoon provided ample light for us to sit around, talk crap and smoke cigars. It was a real nice way to end what had been a very fun and hectic week.

Many of my friends kept referring to Miami as paradise, and while I can agree that the weather and ocean really do sweeten it up, paradise it is not. I’ve been spoiled by great weather and beaches for most of my life, so I felt I could see through that part of it. Art Deco buildings aside, what it left wasn’t exactly my cup of tea.

Though some people (who all seem to be found on South Beach) care about $400 polo shirts and chrome wheels, I really don’t, and on a wet day in Miami I think that’s what would remain. It was great for spring break, and great to see the sun, and that’s all I took from Miami. On another trip I’m sure I’d think differently of it, but for this one it was all about the beach and bars and that’s pretty much all I saw. Key West and the Everglades will be put aside for another time.

*** Song
Jonsi - Animal Arithmetic
Sigur Ros are a great band to fall asleep to, so when I tried to the do same with Jonsi's solo album I was pleasantly shocked to find that things had turned around. This is the kind of song you want with your first cup of tea and morning beach swim.

Not While Walking Is Still Honest

2011-03-12T21:55:00.000-08:00

Asbury Park is quickly becoming an unattainable adventure. Not for the first time, I could not be bothered dealing with the weather for the sake of being stuck out in for hours on end. It's a box that'll remain unticked until I'm next down here, and by then, the sun should be shining bright enough to help me cast a shadow on the missed opportunities.

It wasn't all disappointment though. Amongst the spitting rain and huge crowd gathered for a college sports game at Madison Square Garden I met up with Matt and Olivia for a post-Bright Eyes feed in Chelsea. It wasn't a fancy restaurant, but it wasn't $1 slices of pizza either. With that in mind, I did not expect my Earl Grey tea to come with two serves of gypsy woman asking for change, but that's what happened, and since I've gone all 21st century and only use card, they were out of luck.

The rain continued to pour, and despite our best efforts exploring thrift stores and Macy's, could we find a pair of shorts for Miami that weren't more appropriate on the leg's of some 40-year-old Dad type. Either that, or the homeboys that roam Harlem at night. Unrelenting, the rain forced us into a cinema to seek a reprieve for a few hours courtesy of Rango before finally going our own ways. It was no Asbury Park, NJ (which I've heard is terrible), but it wasn't wasted time either.

The next day the sun would occasionally show itself from behind the grey blanket it had been hiding under.The night before some idiot in my dorm was turning on the light and talking loudly on his phone at weird hours with no regard for anyone else. When getting ready the next day I kept this in mind, and stealth-like and in the dark I did my best to get ready. When rearranging my locker my computer slipped out from about 4ft up and hit the ground. It made a slight thud, but it didn't seem like enough to worry so I went on my way to Chinatown.

I had previously walked across the Williamsburg and Brooklyn bridges, and inbetween the two lay the unaccomplished Manhattan Bridge. With Brooklyn Bridge currently wrapping itself in a cloak of scaffold, Manhattan Bridge is the prettiest of the three.

Before embarking on the path that leads straight into downtown Brooklyn I got to take advantage of the ever-expanding Chinatown and all of the oddities that people to seem to buy. I've been to a few Chinatowns around the world, and even if they're all coloured by the city they inhabit, the one thing they share is the smell-fish, spices and the sweat of thousands of short people fighting for the freshest piece of ginseng root.

I was chased out by the waft of fish-sauce (it's like boiled shit) only to discover a random fruit market at the base of the bridge. I may be 25 in a matter of months, but I regretted not buying a $1.50 bag of mandarins to throw at trains as they rode past me on the bridge, but such is the lessons learned in life.

Those same trains that deserved an old fashioned citrusing caused the bridge to vibrate and rattle as they rolled past in both directions. It's amazing feeling on an object you believe to be so structurally sound due to its size, and while it is disconcerting to a point, it's enlivening for the same reasons. The trains make some racket, and I remember sitting in a Dumbo park with Michael in August while his verbal diarrhea tried to cut through the noise of metal on metal. As they blitzed by I was reminded how quickly the time here as done the same thing.

The view of the city from the bridge is spectacular, but the bridge itself, adorned in graffiti has it's own urban beauty. I spent half of my time stopping to admire the view and the rest trying to figure out how people climb it. It might only be a bridge, and they are there to be crossed, but there was a nice feeling when I crossed the final one of Manhattan's big three. For so long in my life they'd been props in popular culture, but now they're landmarks I've seen and experienced for myself.

The sun really came out in Brooklyn and from one side of the bridge to the other felt like a new world. The buildings aren't as tall, the streets aren't as crowded and the place is more relaxed for it. Sure, it's gentrified and world's apart from Jay Z's songs, but it's a nice break from the tourists of Manhattan.

I walked past the brownstones of Brooklyn's prettier parts and made it to the promenade. The views are of lower Manhattan, and fittingly they've placed their own September 11 memorials around the walk. I don't recall the time of day I was there, but not being a pram pushing new parent, I was remarkably out of place.

Broken wharf.

The sun began to set, and I headed back to Harlem to avoid any possible gun-crimes. Being a white-boy I stopped by Starbucks for a cup of tea only to have my $2.50 transaction embarrassingly declined. I've had money problems here before, and with little to no contingency (because I'm punk!) I went back to try to figure out the problem. I opened the lid of my laptop and was met with this.

first world crisis.

I yelled "fuck" loud enough for someone to come out from their room to see what was wrong. It was an emotional response I'm more than a little disappointed in myself for producing, but the reality was I was looking at a few hundred dollars to fix it, with seemingly no way of paying. I was generously offered another computer by someone to check my money and when all was well I had to move onto fixing the problem that lay cracked in front of me. I called some shops in the city, the minimum repair was 1 week and $300.

I couldn't bare to deal with the problem at the time, and luckily had prepurchased a ticket to go see Against Me! and the Dropkick Murphys play in midtown. I walked up 8th avenue, and on the corner of 48th street was a firestation with its doors open. On the wall was the portraits of 10 of their fellow workers who had perished on September 11. The doors weren't open for public view, and the portraits aren't exactly there to stared at, but seeing them provided a nice perspective on how important a bit of extra debt and cracked plastic really is.

The line for the concert snaked around the whole block, going from the middle of 52nd street to the middle of 53rd. The venue had been on fire a few days earlier, and with the best efforts of those aforementioned firefighters the concert continued...though everyone from the two levels was now onto one.

Being a Dropkick Murphys show everyone in the crowd was that brand of fake Irish I've come to dismiss. The bands were the same, with the opening folk band, The Parkington Sisters, offering their old sailor and folk covers. They covered Dirty Old Town by The Pogues, and Ken from the Dropkicks came out and joined them as the small crowd sang along.

Off With The Head followed them and were angry man music.

I used to really love Against Me!, seeing them in Paris was an amazingly fun show and moment of my life and even when their fans accused them of selling out I still remained partially attached. Their last album, though still good, is an about turn from their earlier stuff. I understand why bands want to evolve, and why they want to put food on the table for their families, but they were onto such a good thing before I questioned why they changed.

The band, complete with new drummer (Max Weinberg's son!) immediately burst into 'Walking Is Still Honest', a song from their earlier days that seemed to startled most of the audience. The energy and enthusiasm of old is still there, but the context of a support band on a big stage meant there was a gap between where they want to be, and where they should be.

It could have been the pressure of the shorter set, or it could be that they're still just a basement punk band at heart (they left their keyboard player behind, phew) but they wasted no time between songs. Better yet, they focused on their earlier songs first.

It was an unrelenting approach and for that my respect for them came crawling back. For the first time I heard them play 'Miami' live and 'Reinventing Axl Rose' was performed with such vigor I wondered if they were singing it in support or disdain for themselves.

Now, I won't deny I'm not the biggest fan of the direction on and off recording tape they've taken, but I will say they are still worth seeing live. The old songs are still great and their new tightness and professionalism means they play them brilliantly.

I was finally convinced they still have something to offer when they closed their set with 'Bamboo Bones', 'Pints of Guiness Make You Strong' and 'Thrash Unreal'. They're three of my favourite songs by them, and when the last chords rang out I would have been more than happy to put up with them playing their new album from start to finish just to have them remain on stage.

They proved me wrong on the live front at least, and history still says their back catalogue is stellar...it's just that overproduced sing along stuff of White Crosses was a bit hard to deal with from a band that was originally an acoustic guitar, drums and a tape recorder.

Not to worry, if I was after the lo-fi punk I got in when Billy Bragg played out over the P.A. while the Dropkick Murphys set up their big band. By the time the curtains came out and revealed their massive live up the drunks in the crowd were sweating and thrashing about all over the place.

The Dropkick Murphys aren't exactly renowned for having a diverse musical style. In fact, it felt like one long sea-shanty stretched over two hours. That's not to say it wasn't fun or good, because it was, it's just that I got what I expected.

I was impressed when the band's bagpipe player came out, and despite them being the missing link between noise and music I absolutely love them. They haven't sounded the same to me since my Gran's funeral when the lone piper played outside as we all left the service - and tonight was no different. I thought the band was infinitely better when that guy was on stage blowing his lungs out.

The band are quite good to their fans, and gave a shout out to a family they had invited to the show as their husband, brother and son was a massive fan and passed away while serving the in the military. They even had another guy from the crowd crawl past security and sing an entire song with them before revealing that he does that everytime they go to New York.

fucktonne of people on stage. Also, angry thrashing bald man.

To close out the night they invited a whole heap of the crowd onstage with them. It was absolute bedlam, and there must have been easily over 100 people encouraged to go mad out there. It was a perfect way for them to end the night, as I don't think they had any other chance of getting rid of them. One guy, in a kilt showed the whole crowd quite explicitly that he was not wearing anything under there. That was time to go right there, the late night walk to Harlem was waiting for me.

Oh yeah, today I spent $300 on a new computer, such is my blogging addiction. It'll mean Spring Break will be a bit more reserved than I wanted, I'm just looking forward to swimming in the ocean.

***Song
City and Colour - The Girl
I'm ashamed to admit I listen to and like this song, but kudos to him for spelling colour correctly.