The Arena Of The Unwell: October 2010

Thursday, 28 October 2010

Washington DC - Wish You Were Here

I'm gonna suggest the DC in Washington stands for Destroys Countries. Moving swiftly on ...

To confuse matters, Bob and I take different flights from LAX to Washington. His flight heads for Reagan airport whilst I'm bound for Dulles (dull as) which is a good hour away. It's a five hour flight and we lose another three heading eastbound. Our hotel for the next couple of nights is at my end of town so Bob makes his way over to meet me at the airport and arrives in a slightly better mood than when I last saw him last, ostensibly because his guitar miraculously arrived in one piece. We take a shuttle bus to the Holiday Inn which despite its remoteness and lack of post-midnight amenities is spotlessly clean and has very friendly and helpful staff. I'm knackered and hit the sack like a sack of shit.

A comfortable bed deserves a lie in and late breakfast which is dutifully inhaled. Bob's back in town for the home-straight of The Australian Pink Floyd Show North America tour. Post-breakfast, Bobster is practising for tomorrow's gig whilst I'm taking care of cyber-business. I could listen to his rituals all day but we need to go out and explore. Little did we know it was going to take us two and a half hours to get anywhere remotely entertaining. The bus drops us off at l'Enfant Plaza. It feels a bit like the set from 28 Days Later but with cops replacing the zombies.

The bands saxophonist Carl is due in a taxi any minute now. He's a stranger in town too. When he arrives, instead of him jumping out, we jump in and beg the driver to take us somewhere less likely to encourage self harm. He takes us to the Irish Channel pub for some refreshment. Irish bars are fairly universal in this part of town. I'm intrigued to know why, given that this is clearly china town. Our next port of call is Fado which starts off pretty sedately and steadily fills to bursting point with fans watching ice hockey, baseball, football or whatever. I can't actually tell which screen the majority are paying attention to but they're really into something that involves lots of whooping and high fives. When it gets going it's a great atmosphere in here and well worth tracking down. A cab ride back to the hotel split three ways is infinitely more desirable than the bus. Game over.

The US-proportioned Aussie Floyd tour bus is here to pick us up in the morning. I meet the band members on board and we watch a film of a concert by The Eagles. I claim my own world-tour mantra courtesy of Bob, "Living it up at the hotel, can't-afford-ya".

We arrive in town and head to the stage entrance of The Warner Theatre on Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a stunning venue dating back to the 1920s. It's about noon but the crew have been here since 9am and the stage is half complete already. We're shown to the dressing rooms, dump our stuff and head down to catering for lunch. Sean, the tour manager, very kindly gives me an access-all-areas pass and a complimentary ticket. I'm standing around looking pretty useless most of the day but loving every minute of it, picking up a few tales of a life spent on the road. Some of the cast and crew have been doing this for over twenty years in various guises.

The band head out to kill some time in town before heading back for sound-check at 4pm. They're playing to an audience of two; the sound engineer and myself. He's darting around the auditorium with a microphone and a laptop whilst I'm sat down pretending this is my living room and the TV just got a lot bigger. What? Shine On? Just for me? OK guys, if you must. You don't get to see this stuff everyday and it's impressive.

Dinner follows and we're fed in time for the punters arrival at 7pm. The band take to the stage and play for almost three hours with a short interval, during which I leg it back stage for some more liquid refreshment. They are rewarded for their performance with a standing ovation. A few minutes later I head over to the sound booth at the back. A fan pokes his head round the corner and asks me to autograph his ticket. I guess there's no denying a vague family resemblance. I politely decline the offer on the basis that I have no musical talent whatsoever and forgot how to use a pen years ago.

Next stop on the tour is Scranton (backdrop for TV comedy The Office, the US version) but the bus doesn't leave until 4am so whilst the crew dismantle the stage the band are backstage having pizza, beer and wine. A smaller group of us head out to Harry's for more beers. Not content with the sober atmosphere here we embark on a mission and fast approach last orders before finding in a rather neat little place named Rocket Bar which has a bunch of pool tables and is a lot more lively.

When we get back to the tour bus I pick up my rucksack and say my goodbyes to the band. Bob and I go our separate ways now too so we have a gentle shoulder-charge moment and I'm off to my hotel. It's a bit of a trek to The Helix and I don't arrive until about 3am. This boutique hotel was, oddly enough, cheaper than anything else I could find in the area. To top off an unforgettable day the reception staff reward me for my hiking efforts by upgrading me to a suite. Sweet!

In the morning I get my boots on again, high tail it over to Union Station and hop on a BoltBus. Next stop New York City.

Choon of the day: Pink Floyd - Us And Them

Setlist

Shine On You Crazy Diamond
Learning To Fly
High Hopes
Welcome To The Machine
Get Your Filthy Hands Of My Desert
The Fletcher Memorial Home
Pigs
One Of These Days
Sheep
Time
The Great Gig In The Sky
Wish You Were Here
Keep Talking
Us & Them
Money
Another Brick In The Wall
Comfortably Numb
Run Like Hell

Bob and Carl in Fado

The tour bus. Includes a flushing toilet, into which one shall not pass solids

The Warner Theatre

No Moet? No Showey. No Chandon? No band on.

The sound and lighting desks

One-two, One-two, ...

Sound check

The stage has a little bit of "me time" before the off

The band agree upon jeans and t-shirts, but footwear raises some artistic differences.

Back in the changing room during the interval

The end product

Bob dreams that one day he too may get to play at The Square in Harlow

And the crowd go mild!

Arran, Bobby, Carl, Ian, Emily, Jackie, Damian, Ola (hidden) and Rick

Aftershow beers

On the tour bus. 'Ere lads, check out the norks on this one!

Bob and me on the tour bus.

Sunday, 24 October 2010

Las Vegas - shiny thing, make it all better?

Next morning we leave for Las Vegas on the Greyhound. It’s a six hour trip. Bob snoozes whilst I do a spot of reading and swot up on some Spanish audio lessons. Vegas is in the grip of a huge thunderstorm. It gets an average of something like four inches of rain a year but I’m sure the Vegas weather gods have gambled everything with their London counterparts and lost, because we appear to have the next five years quota waiting just for us. We’re staying at Riviera Casino on the main strip. The rooms are pretty good, especially considering we’re paying half the price of LA hostels. Our evening is spent cruising the strip until we run out of energy in some karaoke bar at stupid o’clock and decide to turn in.

Our laundry day is overdue so we embark on a mission but get lost en route to the laundromat and end up way off the main strip. We stop a guy on his bike to ask for directions. He kindly obliges before departing with some comforting words of advice. “This ain’t a nice neighbourhood so be careful who you speak to round here” before turning his back and adding “especially you”. Not sure exactly which one of us he was speaking to but my laundry load just got bigger and we got out as quick as possible. The evening was spent in Fremont Street and we have a go on the awesome FlightLine (see video below). It’s only been open for two days and, assuming it gets approval to stay put, I’ve no doubt it’ll become a must-do Vegas attraction. We head back to the main strip and bump into some Aussies we met in the San Diego hostel a couple of days prior. The world of the traveller is indeed very small.

On the way to Stratosphere about midday the next day we bump into the Aussies yet again. In keeping with their stereotype, they’re already on the lash. We stop off at a 50’s diner for some of the finest cuisine Vegas has to offer in the shape of a hot dog the size of a large Dachshund before heading up the tower. The trip to the top of the tower is $16 well spent. The view of the strip itself is impressive but pales into insignificance when compared to the views of the desert and mountains which surround the city. The view directly down is pretty stomach-churning let alone the thrill rides up here. The most vomit-inducing has to be the SkyJump. From 108 floor up, lemmings are hurling themselves off attached only to a rope which breaks their fall if not their back. We watched as one girl stood quivering at the edge for ten minutes before bottling it. The price of her humiliation was $100 and I did feel pretty bad for her. She got further than me. This type of thrill ride is just a little beyond what I can handle right now (financially, of course) but if I come back to Vegas any time soon I will do it.

By the time we get back to the hotel the heavens have opened again. Vegas is really not built for rain. The casinos were leaking like sieves and one open air bar had water pouring off the speakers. We head to Coyote Ugly for a swift one then over to some diabolical place named Rockhouse which played, you guessed it, R&B. We finally settle on an open air bar named Carnavale Court with its outrageously talented barmen and see out the night there before bumping into some girls from Maidstone on the trek back. For the record, being British is not a novelty in Vegas like it is in San Diego. Literally every other person you meet here is British.

Our last day in Vegas starts wet and gets wetter. We discover the secret of Gold Line buses which have fewer stops but get you around so much quicker on busy days like today. We head to the south end of the strip and check out Excalibur, Luxor and the stunning Mandalay Bay. The evening is spent at Margaritaville and O’Shea’s where they have a band playing some classic rock tunes. We finish things off back at Carnivale Court again. When we leave we’re treated to our second dose of accidental stardom. Three hookers have been pulled over by the cops who appear to have a full-on film crew with them. It’s not a set up, I think this is an episode of Cops and these girls are genuinely getting taken away if cuffs. The cuffs don't seem to bother them but perhaps its not the first time they've been restrained this evening. However, imagine if these girls are innocent. I mean, it’s not as if they get paid to have their reputations ruined on film. At least not by "on-duty" cops.

Vegas is pretty easy to sum up. It’s Disneyland for adults with a passion for gambling and all-you-can-eat buffets. The number of morbidly obese fourty-somethings tearing up the sidewalks on their mobility scooters is a terrifying vision of the future. Seriously, some of these casino buffets even sell day passes to these coffin-dodgers so once they've filled one colostomy bag they can trundle off and come back later for a free refill. Nom-nom-nom-nom ...

Total gambled and lost comes to one dollar. Sorry Vegas, but that side of things just ain't for me.

Back to LA, next stop Washington DC.

Choon for the day: Stereophonics - Vegas Two Times

Barstow, en-route to Vegas. Nothing much going on, I just liked the photo.

Thunderstorm Sunset - better camera required

Freemont Street

Golden Nugget at Freemont Street

An alternative way to fleece the punters?

Vegas Boulevard from Stratosphere

Inside Stratosphere

Looking north from Stratosphere

Looking South-West from Stratosphere

"Look, I can see my breakfast from here?"

Freemont Street Flightline (video)

Saturday, 23 October 2010

You Stay Classy San Diego

I’d heard a lot of good things about San Diego so it seemed a shame to miss out on the opportunity to go see it myself. The car hire seemed a bit steep so Bob and I settled on taking a Greyhound bus from West Hollywood. We arrive late afternoon and the weather was total gashbags compared to LA. Cloud and rain were going to become a theme for the next few days.

A trolley (A.K.A tram) and bus ride away and we arrive at Pacific Beach by Mission Bay. San Diego has its own Banana Bungalow which looks right out onto the beach. The staff and guests here are really friendly. It seems as if many of the travellers here have come to San Diego, fallen in love with it and “postponed” their travelling plans in favour of the beach. The weather was failing to convince me I’d do likewise but I could see its charms nonetheless. Kev, the British guy who works here, knocks up a mean Spag Bol for $1 so we’re all over this like a rash. It’s bar crawl night at the hostel so we make like a baby and … head out.

First stop for us is the PB Shore Club by the beach. All the bars are pretty hot on ID. In London it’s rather flattering to be ID’d but here it’s just a pain in the arse. The bar won’t even take my driving licence and insist that I go fetch my passport. We stick around for a couple before Kev rounds us up and whisks us off to Miller’s Field. It’s more of the same. American sports bar meets western ranch, much like the Saddle Ranch back in LA although the beer’s noticeably cheaper and it’s got few more local jock types hanging out with back-to-front baseball caps and vest tops. I start to wonder why the British concept of The Chav hasn’t crossed the Atlantic yet coz right here is the US equivalent. Johnny V is an open-fronted bar with a dancefloor and cheap beer so we end our night here before witnessing our first US street fight. No guns or knives. Not even any new-wave chavs involved. Oh no, in fact it’s a pair of lovely Irish guys from our hostel smacking the shit out of each other on the sidewalk, seemingly oblivious of the cop car parked right next to them. Miraculously, we all got to sleep off our hangovers back at the hostel that night and in the morning the sparring partners patch up their differences over a game of pre-breakfast beer pong.

It rains all night so the open-plan hostel and the beach are looking a bit sorry for themselves in the morning. We try and fail to extend our stay here for our remaining night so we retreat to The Mission Bay Motel round the corner with an invite to return to the beach-front for the evening if we want to hang out again. Lunch is the most vile Burger King ever. I think it may have been digested once already. I certainly should have cut out the middle man and stuffed it straight down the toilet.

Whenever you ask for directions over here, you’ll get “oh it’s only 10 minutes, that way”. No one ever stops to ask if you actually have a car. “oh, you definitely don’t wanna walk it”. The point is, we still need to get around. Five dollars gets you a day ticket for the buses and the trolley in San Diego which is pretty damn reasonable. I sometimes think the reason public transport is shunned by the car driving masses is due to the huge proportion of freaks and meth-heads for whom public transport provides a captive audience for their asinine monologue of scratched records. Our choice is made.

20 mins later and the bus drops us off at San Diego Old Town. I’m not going to pretend to know any of the history but there’s obviously a big Central American influence here. It’s nice, really well kept and definitely worth a peek.

The trolley takes us on to City College where we switch to a bus and head to Balboa Park. I think they may have been feeding the cacti here LSD coz they’re crazy twisted green monsters. I’m not a fan of plant abuse but it does make for some sweet photo ops. The rose garden is also worth a look. Over the road there are lots of seriously beautiful museums and galleries. We elect to admire the buildings from the outside. Further on, the huge Cabrillo Bridge takes us over a freeway for some spectacular views of the city. Before we head back to Pacific Beach we check out the quirky Gaslamp Quarter. Lots of bars, restaurants and live music venues. A pair of homeless guys scrapping with each other just about kills it for me in so we blow the lamp out.

Back in PB we share a beer with our American motel neighbours Christian and Cyrus who try in vain to get us to head out with them. They’re fascinated with our accents and think they’ll get more female attention with a couple of Brits in tow. This conversation got me thinking again about how lucky I am to even be here. I’m over the Burger King debacle by now so I resolve to cheer up a bit.

Gatecrashing the Banana Bungalow for the evening we stick around for the main event - The Flaming Phoenix. Equipment needed: One toilet roll, one lighter, one arse and balls of steel. Hostel guest Preston runs out naked onto the beach and stuffs a large quantity of super-soft between his butt-cheeks so it’s all hanging down and flailing around his ankles. He sets fire to this and skips around in the darkness until he can’t take it any more, realises he’s nowhere near the water and rolls about frantically in the sand just before the Phoenix’s jewels return to ashes. I shall not be attempting this myself any time soon.

We take the Greyhound back to LA for one night. We’ve noticed a huge variation in the quality of the buses. From WiFi and leather seat luxury to cold and dirty mobile squats, they’ve got them all. This time round we’re staying at BB’s affiliate hostel The Orbit just round the corner on Melrose Avenue. They have a party bus going up to The Purple Lounge at The Standard on Sunset Strip. We figure it’s a cheap ride into town and if we don’t like it we can sack it off. It’s the classiest place we’ve been to so far and the sound system is pretty special but this place is too cool for my current incarnation so we just stay for one before scooting off to our now customary haunts.

Next stop Las Vegas

Choon for the day: 2Pac – California Love