Sketch No 1

I've had this idea for a while. I don't think I've seen it anywhere. If you want to use it, contact me.

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Scene: Smart fellow in business suit waiting for an elevator.

There is a ding and the door opens. We now see from his point-of-view as the door opens to reveal the left inside of the elevator with partial smoked mirror walls. Staying with his point-of-view, man enters the elevator heading towards the left side and presses a button. Doors close.

There is a change of point-of-view to see the man left side-on looking from the middle of the elevator. He breathes a huge relaxing sigh. He noisily scratches his under-carriage for an extended period, perhaps with a pause in the middle and then returns to it.

Then he spots a pimple on his nose in the mirror. He moves in close to the mirror to squeeze the pimple satisfactorily. It obviously pops and he wipes a spot of pimple gunk off the mirror.

Scratching his nose, he wrinkles it slightly and then inserts a finger up it. He hunts briefly and it emerges. He inspects the end of his finger and then holds his hand out at the side, flicking his fingers together to get the nose remains of it.

Straightening up, he has a slight look of discomfort. He leans slightly to one side and we hear a loud fart sound. He does a cheeky chuckle and then reacts to the obviously bad smell, waving his hand in front of his nose and the chuckle changing to a subdued, coughing laugh.

The point-of-view is now the outside of the elevator, slightly to the right. We hear a ding and the elevator doors open to reveal the man on the left looking somewhat bewildered as this is not his floor. His look of bewilderment changes to horror as a pretty young woman (that the man obviously did not see till now) quickly emerges from the far right rear of the elevator, running slighlty hunched and with both hands pressed over her nose. She briefly glances back at the man, and when her face returns to the front we see her look of disgust.

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I swear this didn't happen to me.

Evolution

Yesterday was a beautiful spring day, so taking advantage of the weather I left the office and went hunting for food. After the kill I decided to sit down in the park to enjoy the sunshine while feasting.

There were pigeons everywhere, and a couple of white chicken-sized things with really long thin curved black beaks that a brief hunt through the internet did not find.

I noticed, watching the pigeons gathered round a pile of crumbs that used to belong to a Lebanese bread roll, that the fattest birds were the most aggressive. Obviously they were fat as a result of their aggressiveness. The other possibility, that they were aggressive because they were fat, is too complicated for me.

It occurred to me that a kind of natural selection was going on here. The aggressive pigeons were getting fat and the submissive pigeons were dying out. Does this mean that over time, pigeon aggressiveness will increase as the 'aggressive' gene is passed from parent to child? Will this mean that eventually, pigeons will be attacking us for food, rather than somewhat meekly gathering at our feet for our leavings? Has this already happened and they are simply biding their time, waiting for the most opportune time to simultaneously attack and remove us all from this world?

I left the park soon after, nervously flicking my head around everytime one of the conniving little bastards flew past.

More addiction

I have just discovered the answer to something which has been nagging me for weeks since starting this new job.

Lately I've had no drive and energy in the morning. Sometimes this lasts all day. I have heard stories of older friends who have gone through "listless" periods of their life where they don't want to do anything except sit on the lounge and watch the telly. There is no drive in their job and nothing to spur them on. I've been wondering whether I'm suffering the same thing.

But no! The answer is simple. I've discovered that the coffee I've been drinking at work is decaffinated. Yesterday morning in the tea room I overhear one of the blokes telling a new starter, "...that jar is the decaf, and that [huge] tin is the real stuff." AHA! One mug of the "real stuff" and I'm away.

The only bad thing about this is the realisation that I'm a caffeine addict. I guess I just add it to the list and deal with it when I retire?

Our US Trip: Part 8 -New Orleans - The Bell-Toucher

Friday 10th December

A late start this morning with a touch, just a touch mind you, of hangover. Probably that last Bass Ale in Ryan's Pub was off. We were woken, and not the last time on this trip, by housekeeping. The little "Do Not Disturb" sign just wasn't working its magic for us.

We'd decided that we'd had over a week in the States, it was laundry time. If it hadn't have been for the souvenir shirts boughts in LA, Disneyland, Universal and Vegas we wouldn't have made it this far. So while Ali showered, I hunted through the phone book and found The Washing Well LaunDRYteria on Bourbon Street. It was only a short walk away.

The Washing Well was yet another in those eye-opening experiences we had. The woman running the place was as old and as large as my grandmother (except alive, of course). White, she had an equally old (though slimmer) black woman working for her who she ordered around to the response of, "Yes Maam." We obviously had no clue how the system worked so the old woman took charge of it all without moving one centimetre from her chair behind the counter. Two hours to wait, so we headed off to explore.

We headed down to the Decatur and decided to have some breakfast, despite being closer to lunch, at Cafe Beignet. A beignet is a little bit of a cross between a donut and a croissant, heavily dusted, OK, soaked, with powdered sugar. They were gorgeous. Ali had a more substantial breakfast that included grits. I'd always wanted to know what grits were, and now found out. They seemed to be a sort of tasteless ground oatmeal, a little bit ilke semolina. I heaped on the melted butter and the syrup to get a little taste out of them.

We walked west up Decatur and down to the Riverfront. We were accosted by this bloke, who gave me a ticket for being "too good looking" and demanded $10 off us for the New Orleans cap he had thrust upon us. Interesting sales line. The money was for some charity so we acquiesed and went on our way. The Mississippi is a very dirty river, a bit like the Yarra on a good day. Much wider of course.

While walking along the riverfront we were stopped by a couple of black kids who looked very, very out of it. One of them was the one who had tried to con us the previous night on Canal Street. And he tried the same trick again! Either a very short memory or very very out of it. We danced through the interruption and headed for the French Markets. Well I wasn't that keen, but you know, chicks. After wasting about an hour or so looking at the trinkets and the t-shirts, we thought we heard some music, and so we followed it's siren-like calling.

We ended up in a small bar just off the Markets, where I had a couple of Heineken and Al had something exotic and chicky. The band were very basic, Clarinet, Accoustic Guitar, Trumpet, Tuba. They were playing Trad Jazz, At The Jazz Band Ball, was swinging along. I calculated that it wasn't too early to send an SMS to a friend in Australia (about 7:30am). So I sent a message to Ray saying we were sitting in a bar in New Orleans listening to the standards and got one back moments later complaining that he was in Brisbane airport listening to the rotten muzak. We listened for a while, gave the bar a tip and went on our way.

Back to the Wishing Well to pick up our laundry. We had to fold and sort it, but that was no problem of course. The poor black woman was still being ordered around, and I noticed this time, muttering under her breath as well. We walked the length of Royal to get back to our Hotel and to rest, change and to book that evenings activities. We'd done a fair bit of walking and so were a little tired. We discussed for a bit what we would do the following day, and being a bit tired and niggly, we couldn't make any decision and so decided to make the decision in the morning or later that night.

Dressed in our finest and on our way. Down Canal to Decatur, and then the long walk east to Frenchman's. The restaurant guy was right, even that way was a little scary, New Orleans did really not make an effort to entertain 21st Century street lighting. So up Frenchman's, and we were aware walking along that here were some more contemporary Jazz locations. Snug Harbor, though spelt differently gave us a beautiful and local dinner. While I had the Atlantic Salmon, Ali had the Hush Puppies, which were like corn meal dumplings. A lovely dinner and some nice wine.

Downstairs after dinner to the tiny little entertainment area. We were seated towards the back of the room, but were still close enough to see and hear everything. I sneakily snuck off a few pictures without flash which came out moodily blurred. Delfeayo Marsalis was playing with his quartet. So him on trombone. This freakishly superb musician on Piano and Guitar, a Bass (tree not electric), Tenor Sax and of course, kit. All very, very good musicians. Despite the 30 minute wait for our bottle of red wine, we enjoyed the show. Delfeayo is a great trombone player, easily the best I've seen live. Interestingly, he's a "bell-toucher", which is something every learner trombone player is told NOT to do. When he plays notes in 3rd postion, the slide handle is adjacent to the bell of the horn, and almost every time, one of his fingers flicked out to touch the bell. Even on lightning fast runs up and down the scale; flick out it goes, flick in again. It didn't detract from the performance.

Afterwards we trouped outside. Ali was excited because on exiting through the crowd, Delfeayo had looked at her and thanked her. I mean he did that to twenty other people as he walked through, but it made it special for her of course. She chatted for a little bit with the bar lady, and managed to score a free CD of Snug Harbor recordings. Woohoo!

Across the road was The Spotted Cat which was crowded as buggary, and they had a large, and we both thought, not great, Jazz band playing. There was this old guy propping up the bar despite the crush and as the band played one tune, this old bloke pulled out a trumpet from beneath him and took a turn at a solo! We had one drink each only, but we weren't really in the mood for shitty music after the good stuff we'd heard already that night, so we decided to give it up.

We'd heard about the Beignets place, Cafe Du Monde on Decatur and so we stopped there for coffee and beignets on the way back to the Hotel. The place was crowded as, and we had to fight for a table. The waiter was very attentive, and I think I remember hearing that they don't actually get paid properly by the Cafe, but they make their money from the difference between what the Cafe charges for coffee and what they charge the customers. I could not spot any price boards in the place. I wasn't impressed by the coffee though I must say. Beignet was beautiful of course. This was our last call for the night and we tiredly walked back Decatur and Canal to our Hotel for another sleep.

Gameshow advertising

One of the few things I like to watch on television, now that is is back on, albeit in a new guise, is Temptation. It's your standard three competitors, trivia and general knowledge questions, races against the clock, most money at the end of the night -type affair. I must admit to not liking the new hosts Ed Philips and Livinia Nixon, he forces his smiles too much and she's, well she's just awful.

I don't know whether it is always been the way with these shows, but twice now I've noticed that they have thrown in questions relating to advertisements that have been aired during the preceding break. A few weeks ago it was a commercial break for Jetstar Airlines, and in the next period of the gameshow, one of the questions had the answer: Jetstar Airlines.

Last night it happened again. Commercial break which included a plug for the musical Fiddler on the Roof, back to the show and there is a question, "What musical tells the story..." The answer: Fiddler on the Roof.

Now I don't have an objection to the need of a show to advertise, I mean, come on, they are providing me with free entertainment for the simple cost of me ignoring the stupid friggin' commercials that happen every six minutes or so. But this sneaky little way of tying in a gameshow question with the advert that preceeded it, I find a little disconcerting. Disconcerting because it works; I don't remember any other commercials that have been on since the show started, and these brand names have stuck in my head now. Disconcerting because I thought I was ignoring the commercials, obviously something has gotten inside my conciousness. Sneaky. Sly. Insidious, even.

Strangely I am reminded of the quote from Goldfinger -- the book by Ian Fleming, not the film: "Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action." I'm waiting for that third time.

The worst word in the English Language

[Again I delve into profanity. See this for my last effort on this topic.]

There is no doubt what the foulest word in the English Language is. As a hint: it starts with the letter "C".

I must admit, I have occasion to use this word, usually when behind the wheel of my Honda Civic, when discussing the merits of Channel 9 TV personalities, or when discussing telephone companies. Never in front of the children of course (unlike my mother who used it in front of me). But it is strongly frowned upon when I use it in the home, for whatever reason. When I do let it slip out, I hear the "C-Word signature" cough from my Chick. She does not like hearing it.

It sounds a little like "hup-hrrm", but in a coughy way.

"Gee that Eddie Macguire is a bit of a c..."
"Hup-hrrm!!!"

You get the picture. I've worked out that the cough is not because of any liking she has for Eddie Macguire, either.

Today, I got the "C-word signature" cough for another reason. I was in the office/spare room, listening to Mozart whilst working, she's in the loungeroom listening to a Charlie Parker CD. I reckon Charlie is OK, but, waggishly, while returning the Mozart CD to it's rightful place in the bookshelf in the loungeroom, I attempted to get a small rise out of her:

"<big smile>What's this sh*t you're listening to?"
"Hup-hrrm!!!"

I think if you analyze it carefully, you will realise, as I did, that she has used the C-word on me!

Defeat of the Great Green Monster

WARNING: This post is going to get a bit icky.

This morning was the first since Friday I have not woken up and immediately coughed up or spewed up huge amounts of green glutinous matter.

Yes, I've had the flu.

Last Friday was the worst. I spent all day on the lounge watching crappy daytime telly, with a prime diet of panadol and sudafed, turning paper tissues into soggy green papier mache. To rub salt into the wound, I missed out on going to the Lord Nelson with a bunch of mates. And I love the Lord Nelson.

I guess it is my own fault. I had the sniffles early last week and suspected it was going to turn into a flu, but instead of cutting out the booze and diary products and taking it easy, I pissed up, ate lots of ice-cream, exercised and played a basketball semi-final. The basketball was on the Thursday night and that was just the nail in my (albeit temporary) coffin.

[Oh in case you're interested, we lost the semi-final. Drawn at the final buzzer we played an extra period of 5 minutes, were down by one-point up till less than 1 second before the final buzzer, when our guard threw it up from half-way. Straight through, nothing-but-net, for three points. HUGE cheers! The ONLY person on or off the court who thought that the ball left his hands after the buzzer was one of the referees, who somehow managed to convince the other referee that the points didn't count. The other team congratulated us on our win, and they will now go through to play the final. I guess the best way to lose is knowing that you really truly won.]

[On second thought, no it's a shitty way to lose.]

One thing I have noticed in recent years is the way that the flu knocks me around now, compared to when I was younger. At 20, I'd get the flu and feel a little crook for one day, but usually panadol and sudafed fixed me up. Rarely did I need to take time off school/Uni/work. At 40, I am out for almost a week, with one or two of those days incapable and in bed. No amount of drugs can turn my head from a nauseous constantly-moving spring to normality. Nothing stops the tap dripping at the back of my throat.

So: is it the drugs, the age or the flu? I'm quite willing to accept that it is the age thing. But I suspect that just as much, it is the inadequacy of the drugs and the ferocity of the flu virus. It is not solely the age thing.

Blog Confessions and a solution

Forgive me BlogGod for I have sinned. It's been 16 days since my last blog...

It is quite difficult to maintain a reasonably regular blog. I think the key must be short entries. Of course the quality would drop...

I have found a partial solution to one of my problems though. The Aust Direct Marketing Assoc. has an "Opt-out" form that you can fill-in on-line to stop receiving their harassing phone calls. I heard an interview/discussion topic on ABC radio last night with this bloke who was telling about how his company does surveys and how they are moving from telephone surveys to on-line surveys. Of course everyone rang up to tell their worst telemarketing experience. At first I felt sorry for the bloke as he was at pains to distance himself from the telemarketers, but then I thought, no, well, they're just as bad. One caller mentioned the ADMA and the opt-opt form. I can't wait the six weeks "take effect period" for the calls to stop.

Of course, the bloke also mentioned random-number dialling from overseas centres, there's nothing you can do about that.

Harassment or marketing?

So. When does phone marketing become harassment?

When you have received your third call for the evening, and the last one was well after 9:30pm, does that constitute harassment or is that valid marketing??

Bastards!!

Not long to go now

Firstly : Hello Beefa!. It's not a US trip entry I know, but Part 8 is on it's way, trust me.

Last night, my girlfriend's boss and his wife had their first child - a little baby girl Charlotte Elizabeth Dries. I won't have a crack at them for stealing my own child's name although I'm itching to. In a totally nice, caring and supportive way of course. <cough cough /> Maybe they are just fans of Sex in the City (Mmmm Kristin Davis -- I don't care if she's lesbian). I believe she was late and induced (newborn, not Kristin), not that this makes any difference, Christine was late and induced with our Charlotte. Hmmm do you see a pattern for Charlottes here?

When I was at high school my favourite teacher, a physics teacher who also played the trombone, Derek White, and his wife Wendy had their first child, and they named it Michael. Derek and I were friends outside of school as we both played in Bankstown City Band. I felt a little bit uncomfortable about them naming the child, although I'm certain that they didn't name it after me. More like despite me. I think I was a disappointment to Mr White, as I didn't do as well in my HSC as I was meant to. I haven't seen them in many years. Ah never mind.

Many, many years indeed. It's occurred to me now that (and this is actually quite disturbing) Michael White should be about 23 by now! Wow, am I old.

When Christine and I were deciding on names, we went through a hell of a time. "No we can't call it Jennifer because I know a horrid, slutty girl called Jennifer." That sort of thing, spread over weeks and weeks as a kind of sporadic, drawn out conversation. You know what I mean, we'd be watching The Simpsons or something and I'd offer, "How about Jason for a boy?" She'd respond with something like,"No, wasn't that the killer in Friday the 13th?". And there the conversation would pause until three or four days later while we were in the car driving to the shops when she'd offer, "Well what about Jennifer for a girl?" You get the picture. We got there in the end, obviously.

Aside from the pain of deciding on a name that suits both of you, the worst thing about naming a child is that everyone's taste is just a little bit different, and when you offer up the name of your newborn for the first time, you get all those false smiles from the people who think Charlotte (or Josephine for that matter) is a crappy name. Usually from the same type of people who call their children Cool Modine or something like that. Or from your parents.

I've strayed somewhat from my original brief. Let's get back on track.

My brother and his wife are almost there. Maybe a month to go with their first one. I'm looking forward to it because Mum and Dad will have someone else to focus their grandparenthood onto, rather than just lumping it all onto my narrow shoulders. Hopefully anyway, despite the Sydney/San Francisco distance. I'm actually surprised that Mum hasn't booked a ticket already. Also I guess it is just exciting seeing my little brother become a Dad as well.

What I'm desperately trying not to do, despite my eagerness to hear the current state of play, is to bother Paul and Ros. There are few things more annoying when the baby is due than people continually hassling for information: "Is it born yet? Is it born yet? Is it born yet?" as if they are sitting in the back seat during a long trip. Yes, definitely, they are only asking because they are concerned and interested friends, but it can get very disturbing after a while. And particularly for the Dad-to-be, because he doesn't really do anything other than ensure his mobile phone is always fully charged, and to be ready to speed his car dangerously through traffic to the sounds of a screaming woman in the back seat at a moment's notice. In truth, it is an anxious enough time as it is, without others adding to it, well-meaning as they are.

And in my day, it was pager, not a mobile phone.

Anyway, Charlotte Elizabeth Dries, welcome to the world. Sorry about the state it's in at the moment. We were hoping to clean it up before you got here, but you know how things get put off and put off. We're actually hoping you can do something with it. Maybe paint it up a bit, new curtains possibly?

Our US Trip: Part 7 - Las Vegas to New Orleans - An Epiphany

Thursday 9th December

In contrast to the previous night, this night's sleep was very poor. I struggled to get up at 7:45 with a sore throat which I explained away as the air-conditioning. The other possibility – that I was coming down with a cold – was too painful to think about. Wake up, clean up, pack up, and then downstairs to dodge the cowboys and slot machines and pay our bill. As we exited to the extremely cold and dreary day, I thought that it must also be a cab-driver's convention at Vegas as well, the number of taxis that were lined up to take us to the airport. The cabbie was your typical strong, silent type, and despite the fact that he drove in the exactly opposite direction before hitting a freeway to the airport, I didn't disturb his solitude.

Check-in was painless and quick. Here was the first place where I noticed people taking off their shoes and belts for the run through the metal detector. Some of the cowboys had belt buckles the size of dinner plates, so it was no wonder. Ali and I didn't remove anything, and weren't asked to, we didn't beep, so everything was jake.

Breakfast was Cinnabon – $15 for a bun and an orange juice! The alternative was (of course) Starbucks, so of course we settled for the sugar. While sitting in the cafe eating, I noticed this bloke from outside the shop come into the shop at least three times and re-fill his paper mug from the soda machine. One of the employees was getting a little tired of it, and she had a word to him. He obviously had some (ummm) developmental problems the poor man, and I'm not sure he understood her.

After breakfast we headed to the departure lounge. Poker machines and cow-persons everywhere. Undoubtedly the NFR was winding up, and people were heading home. Ali just had to try the slots at the airport, and one machine swallowed $2 worth of nickels in the space of two minutes.

Our flight to New Orleans via Fort Worth Dallas left on time. There were more Texans than Australians on this flight I can tell you, and there were a lot more fat, noisy people than thin, quiet ones also. Hmmmm do I dare to draw a parallel here? No I think I'll leave it. We arrived at Dallas around midday, and entered the busiest airport we'd been in yet. A lot of Texans with big hats. A lot of people from the Armed Services, the "Ambassador Club" was where they were all going – unfortunately I'd left my army ID at home.

We eventually squeezed into a two-person booth in a Mexican restaurant called "Chilitos". And here we had the best American food since the Thai food on the first night. A great Nachos shared, Margaritta for the Chicky and a couple of Dos Equis para mí. I didn't know anything about this beer but it was quite OK. My poor Spanish at this stage led me to believe that Dos Equis might actually mean "Two Horses" — OK, the big "X's" on the label should really have given it away to me — and I thought of my beloved Two Dogs beer at home which I missed very much. [Yes I know they aren't dogs, they're Tasmanian Tigers.]

About three hours later and a takeoff delay and we boarded our flight to New Orleans. It was quite full. I had the middle seat, and was next to this big black fellow. He fell asleep during the flight, and had this really attractive bottom-lip droop when he slept. No really, it was just beautiful. We talked a little during the flight. Apparently he'd flown straight in from Bangkok, 27 hours of air-planes and -ports, and was going home to New Orleans. Later that night, despite his obvious exhaustion, we spotted him on Bourbon Street. I guess that's one way to regain energy.

The flight into Louis Armstrong airport was a little scary landing over the lake. I experienced the same tension that I see in other people when I am on a flight landing at Sydney and the trip in is over Botany Bay. I think it's called payback.

A long, long wait for the bags and people where crushing in around that baggage carousel as if getting closer would get their bags quicker. Our friend Kevin had mentioned the Louisiana time that everyone runs on, and I didn't expect the bags in a hurry. After pickup into a cab. The driver made some quick enquiries in a very thick indeterminate accent and then ignored us till he took our money. In fact he spent most of the time on the phone to a friend. Not that we could understand what he was saying — it wasn't English, and it wasn't Spanish, and it wasn't French, so I don't know what it was.

Into the French Quarter, our hotel was the Alexa on Royal St, near the corner of Canal St. Despite having a tidy (and tiny) reception, the passageways to the rooms were labyrinth-like, and it appeared that the Hotel was a number of adjacent buildings tacked together. Where the floors didn't meet up there were stairs, and it was obvious that you had enterd a different building. After meandering for a while, and including one time going through the same intersection in a different direction, we ended up in our narrow, double-height room. You could easily have fitted another room in the space between the top of my head and the ceiling. Ali went in to the bathroom to shower before we went out, and while she was in there I heard a Jazz band startup somewhere in the street downstairs. New Orleans we have arrived!

So out we went, along Royal, up Canal, turn right into Bourbon Street. The band that I had heard was here. Traditional Jazz. Some nice trombone-playing too. Along we went, pushing through the Thursday night crowds. Crowds!! People everywhere. On the street - no car could ever get through here - on the pavement, in the bars and the dodgy sex shops, on the balconies above our heads. People with beads, people mostly drunk, music everywhere, not the Jazz I was expecting but more 80's & 90's rock and pop covers. It was a complete madhouse. We walked along Bourbon till we reached St Peters. Ali wanted to go down and see Preservation Hall, I reluctantly agreed, I mean it was on our ToDo list, might as well tick it off straight away.

Preservation Hall. Wow. I will never forget walking into this place. Some officious and previously (like 30 years previously) attractive woman demanded $15 each off us before we could enter. No problems of course. The first thing I noticed was the plump and fluffy cat curled up on the lounge chair in the corridor outside the Hall. Cute. And we went in.

The Hall was quite small mostly dark wood with a brick and concrete wall on the side. It was only half full, and there in front of us was 6 blokes, Trombone, Kit, Bass, Clarinet, Piano, and the Trumpet/Vocal man. These blokes were not just old, but old old. Three black, three white. When we got in they were standing playing "Tiger Rag" which was coming to it's raucous end. The piano had it's front board off so it was louder. No electronics, no microphones. And then the Vocalist, Gregg Stafford, gave the intro to the next song in this teeny, tiny, Armstrong-like croaky voice. "When You're Smiling."

They started as usual, with a tutti run-through the verse. All sitting down in their hard-backed chairs. Then the vocalist stands up and starts singing/speaking in this almost whisper of a voice that somehow managed to carry over the band and implant itself indelibly in my brain. I was absolutely spellbound. My mouth gaped open, tears welled in eyes. This was the most beautiful music I had heard in my life. I realised that up until that point in my life, I had not, not even come close to understanding traditional Jazz. And he didn't sing at us, he sung to us, highlighting his phrases by looking at individual members of the audience, smiling, singing and looking, holding his free hand out and palm up. It was an incredible, engaging performance.

Each bloke did his turn at the solo, standing up if possible, and at the tutti at the end, all the frontline stood up to do the last run-through. Then onto their last number of the set, which was "Careless Love". They were to break for a while, at least 90 minutes. So we went looking for some dinner.

We found Pere Antoine Restaurant on Royal Street. It was getting close to closing time, there were only four other patrons, but the menu and the price looked OK, so we gave it a go. I had the Snapper Gaige with Crawfish — to me they looked like tiny little prawns — and Ali had Shrimp Creole. The little waiter was quite friendly with an unusual accent. He apologised to us for asking if we were English — I guess he must be aware of the average Australian's reaction to being called a Pom — and launched into us about Australia's War-in-Iraq policies. This was a little bit uncomfortable, because I agreed with the bloke, but you sort of feel honour bound to defend the government you hate because of outside attack. I guess governments have always known this and use it against us, right? As it was in this case, we were both dumbfounded by the suddeness of his tirade, and could only stare back at him. To make it up to us he came around later and advised not only where to go and what to see, but also which way to get there. "Don't walk along this street. If you go to here go directly down Decatur and then up Frenchmans, etc, etc". He knew the phone numbers of the clubs off by heart and wrote them down on a little napkin for us. His "Preservation Hall is just for the tourists" didn't sit well with me, particularly after the experience we'd just had, but OK, we were tourists. But the food and service were excellent otherwise, and I would not hesitate to recommend it to others. Two great meals in the same day, but only three good ones in seven days!

After settling up we went back to Preservation Hall for the next set. It was as entertaining as the partial set we'd seen earlier. On the wall behind the band was a sign which listed the prices for requests. Standards $5, Saints $10. The Jazz equivalent of a brass band's "Colonel Bogey". Someone obviously coughed up the $10, so they played The Saints. At the end of the performance as everyone filed out, Alison gave Greggy a $5 or $10 tip over the cover charge. "Thank you, Darling," in that croaky, southern accent.

We went back up to Bourbon Street, the crowds had multiplied, and we toyed with the idea of going into one of the bars, but it was just too much of a crush. The beads, everyone had beads, and the effect they had on people as they were thrown down from the balconies was as if someone was throwing down some form of currency. Ali was able to score some which she put on — at this stage we didn't understand the significance of them. But we scored our beads and marvelled at the crowds and walked back along Bourbon towards Canal and our Hotel. The brief walk along Canal was very scary, with young drunk black blokes hassling us in the street. And the Hustlers. Their gambit was the old, "If you give me $5, I'll tell you where you got them shoes." Kevin had warned us about this one, so we were wise, brother; I got these shoes on Canal St near the corner of Royal!"

We made a quick toilet stop in our Hotel, and then we went down to Decatur to try to find The House of Blues. We did. The line up to get in wasn't too long, but I soon realised that if we did line up, we would be both the oldest and the whitest people in the line. So we bypassed this and went further up Decatur. We found Ryan's Irish Pub, of course, so Alison (Ryan) felt quite at home, particularly with a Baileys. I had a pint of Bass, so also felt quite comfortable, if not at home. After a couple of these, we decided to call it a night.

Just past the Hotel in Royal Street there was an all-night convenience store, so we stopped in there for some supplies. The store was very-very dodgy, I think even the bloke behind the counter was spaced out. We did not feel safe at all — this would not be the last time we would feel this way in New Orleans — I picked up a six-pack of Heineken to keep me company and Ali picked up a chick drink. It was 1:30am — back to the Hotel for bed and sleep.

New Orleans had blown me away on the first night, and I was wondering if it could be topped. Bourbon Street was not what I imagined it to be; yes the drunken raucousness and crowds, but I'd sort of imagined more Jazz, rather than the overloud pop music that was billowing out the doors of the bars. When our friend Kevin had insisted we go to Preservation Hall I had thought, yeh OK, but we'll do it just to say we've done it. Not that I doubted Kev, he's never steered us wrong yet, but when you travel, you want to make it your own trip, rather than someone elses.

Our US Trip: Part 6 - Las Vegas - Gob-smacking wealth in the City of Business Cards

Wednesday 8th December

A fairly restful night in our air-conditioned $69 per night luxury room. Looking back, with the exception of the nights spent at Paul and Roz's place in San Francisco, TI was the cheapest place we stayed. And probably the most luxurious. Our latest morning start yet, as we were up and moving around 11am. The weather was once again cold and overcast, if a little better from the previous day.

First stop was (once again) Starbucks. They seem to catch a lot of flack from people about the fact that there is a Starbucks on every corner, but the coffee is generally very good, and certainly is an order of magnitude better than coffee just about anywhere else in the States. Except Peet's, of course.

And once again we started off south down the Strip to check out all the joints. The cabbie had recommended M&M's World, so we first went in there. We didn't buy much, well I didn't buy much. They have a rainbow selection sold by the pound, so we bought some mixed green and gold peanut M&M's for Paul and Roz to be patriotic.

After this, we lunched at Subway, while looking out at New York New York.
On top of the casino is a roller-coaster, and despite the bitter weather, it was still operational. Well, I guess it wasn't raining. And on we walked, stopping in a souvenir shop on the way to pick up a few presents, and a corner store to buy some supplies. At the corner where the Tropicana is, I got a phone call from home. Greg was asking me whether I'd be playing basketball that night. It must've been Thursday morning back home! Naturally I told him, that while I was keen, I would probably be unable to get there in time.

While at Tropicana, Ali and I had a "Free Spin" on the wheel at the outside of the casino. You "win" a free deck of cards, and to collect, they craftily make you descend into the bowels of the casino to retrieve them. Included in the winnings was a brochure for their entertainment; we noticed that a show was shortly about to start, so we did the poker machine polka to find the place where the show was on: a stage literally placed on top of a bank of poker machines. While waiting Ali pulled $7.50 profit out of a 5 cent machine.

The free show was "Airtime", which featured a couple of very muscly and very gay blokes and a couple of barely-dressed chicks, who did a suspended acrobat type act over the stage. One of the chicks did a hoola-hoop dance with lots of twirling. She was doing the "spotting" thing which ballerinas do to stop getting dizzy, and on her way around I could've sworn she winked at me! Next time around, yep she's winking. Subtle look around, no I'm the only bloke in the area, she's got to be either winking at me or Ali. Ali leans over, "I think she's winking at you," in a very matter-of-fact voice. Then I notice she's not only winking at me, but at a whole bunch of people on her way 'round. It's obviously some showbiz trick to draw you in. After the show ended we left the Tropicana, all the better for the experience.

Further down the Strip we eventually ended up at the pyramid-shaped Luxor . Ali had to ride the lions out the front. Another "sheer-scale-will-amaze-you" type place. We decided to take a peek inside but the photos just do not do it justice. I was actually starting to get sickened by the amount of money that was just floating around in these edifaces. Rooms up inside the pyramid, stone features inside the foyer, uggh, it must've cost tens of millions to build this place. And here I am, an arse-hanging-out-of-my-pants Australian along to have a Captain Cook at the place.

Luxor was our last stop on our walk south, and we'd taken about three hours to get that far. Three hours! So we headed back, looking in at most of the casinos on the way, just for a gawk. Snapped a couple of shots at MGM Grand (and one which I should've shown of the previous day at Paris).

Paul or Roz had recommended we stop in at Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville. We did, and we were originally intending to stay there for dinner. But it was not to be. After waiting for quite a few minutes at the near-empty bar to be huffily served by the rude barman I returned with our drinks to the table Ali had found. The second round he charged me two dollars more and was even ruder. Obviously I hadn't given him enough tip in the first round and he was trying to make up for it. Which was rubbish because I gave him plenty. Anyway we voted with our feet and left after we had quickly finished up. No need to give them anymore money. I don't recommend Margaritaville.

I snapped one of my most favourite shots here. I just couldn't imagine in Australia that anyone would want to eat in a place called "Fatburger." We didn't enter or taste the food, so it may be my loss. However, I'll stand by my decision.

Back we walked, north to TI, then it was rest, a little bit of telly, a snooze, and room service. We went fairly basic with the room service (hamburgers, etc) but it came to $38 plus tip and I was once again disappointed at the quality of the food. Too much and too disgusting. It was now mid-evening so we organised ourselves for yet another walking trip along the strip.

This time it was north, past the huge shopping-complex that we could see from our room window. It wasn't long before the area got rather grotty. I was keen to see Circus, Circus because of the whole "Diamonds are Forever"-James Bond connection. But it was easily the filthiest casino we'd been in so far. And they had a different hiring policy as well, since all the croupiers were Asian. There was an acrobatic show which we caught briefly, complete with live band which consisted merely of drummer, violin and piano accordian. Interestingly, the acrobats ("Isha and Misha" or something like that) were of some Slavic origin, neither spoke very good English. But after the show had finished, they spent about five minutes on the darkened stage going over a couple of moves that they'd obviously stuffed up. We saw them later that night walking down towards the "rich" end of town, chatting away in their native tongue. We didn't stay long in Circus, Circus, long enough to smell the stale cigar smoke only and then we left back towards TI.

As I said the area was a little dodgy. There was a very drunk couple who were being abusive to people who overtook or walked past them. We avoided conflict by walking into Frontier for a quick piss-stop.

One thing I could not get used to was the people handing out semi-porno business cards intending to attract you to strip clubs. It didn't matter that I was walking arm-in-arm with my chick down the street. Every time, they'd spot us, tap the pack of cards in their hand once or twice and thrust them forward towards us. One bloke was so forceful that Ali had no choice but to accept the card, which she quickly discarded. I will always remember Las Vegas for the piles of fluttering little cards in every gutter on every street.

For the last time, we made it back to TI, and went to the "Centre" Bar for a drink. But no dice, pardner, we couldn't get a drink because we didn't have a table or weren't playing one of those dickey-little bar-side poker machines. You can not only sit and get pissed, but you can also lose money gambling at the same time. How convenient. I was ready for bed, but Ali insisted we get a drink somewhere, so we followed the sound of music and ended up in Kahunaville within the bowels of TI. We scored our 2-for-1 cocktail for $7.50, and drank something completely indescribable. The entertainment was Duelling Pianos with two obviously very talented blokes playing and joking, but I was not impressed at all. The sound was so loud that it was actually hurting me to listen to. The jokes the guys said were just a little too off-colour (or should I say off-color) for my mood, and some of the humour was quite insulting in that insecure stand-up comic sort of way. After three drinks I managed to pry Ali away from there and we went out to the general casino.

After trying out a few machines, we both sat down in front of this 5 cent machine and began playing. And lo and behold, at 12:30am on Thursday 9th December we eventually received the fabled Vegas drink service. We felt a right pair of dicks actually because when the chicky came back with Ali's screwdriver and my bourbon, Ali asked her how much it cost and was told in a deadpan voice, "It's complimentary, M'am." Hee hee hee. All this must have inspired the gambling gods to look kindly on us, for Ali won $45 on the machine from an initial $5 outlay.

After this we were both ready to drop, so it was back up to the room and to open the Twinkies that I'd bought in the corner store earlier that day. They are not easy to find in Australia but I had had them before, and devoured two or three with gusto. Then it was to sleep.

The following day we were to leave Vegas for New Orleans. I could easily have done without the Vegas portion of the trip. The sheer wealth pouring into that place is staggering, and for me, it was just a bit too much of a disgusting display. I wasn't impressed by the "replicas"; quite frankly I'll be happy to see the Eiffel Tower and the Trevi Fountain. But the real one, not some plastercast knock-off (although I doubt that they were actually made of plaster!). I was not enjoying the food either, and with the sole exception of the Thai dinner we'd had the very first night, I was beginning to think that I'd never enjoy a meal in the US.

But Ali enjoyed Vegas, and for that I was happy that we'd come all this way. She came out a little ahead in the gambling stakes as well, so doubly happy as far as that was concerned. No million-dollar bonus win, however.

A new word for the Aussie dictionary

Schappelle — sha-'pel — noun

An unwitting and innocent victim of a failed drug smuggling attempt. One who has become the mule (c.v.)
for a drug-smuggling ring without realising it, and is caught by authorities.

eg: That one with the boogie board. She's our schappelle.

Schappelled — sha-'peld — verb

1. To be used as an unwitting accomplice by a drug-smuggling ring, and to be caught in
the process of smuggling drugs.

2. To be the innocent victim of a failed drug-smuggling attempt.

3. To have drugs planted on you by a corrupt official.

eg: Our girl got schappelled at Bali airport. There's 4.5 kilos gone!

Hell, I could be completely wrong, but something just isn't right with this.

That "R" word

I don't normally delve into obscenties, but I had an email from an American correspondent about my reference to the word "route" and the humour I so obviously gain from using it. (Struth! An American reading about my American trip! I better only say nice things about them.)

OK I know, for all you Aussies, it is spelt "root". Here is a link that'll wise you up maybe a little.

Do you get it now? When you "root, root, root" for the home team, it is not only entertaining and enlightening, but enjoyable as well.