Archive for April 2010
Beer and Loafing on the Champagne Trail
Most people have heard of Hunter S. Thompson, and many know that he died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound a few years back. Far fewer are aware that the celebrated gonzo hack left behind him one of the crappest suicide notes in history. After a lifetime spent penning witty, groundbreaking articles, this is what the Gonzmeister came up with on the occasion of his demise.
“No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won’t hurt.”
I have a lot of respect for the good doctor, but when I finally quit this mortal coil, I’ll try to conjure up something a little more inspirational. I’ll probably correct my capitalization, too.
It took four hours to get from Denver to Aspen, and when I arrived I headed straight for Thompson’s former local bar, the Woody Creek Tavern. He used to arrive at 4pm and start on the Chivas Regal. It was around that time, but I opted for a pint instead.
The bar was pretty empty, but one early-doors drinker claimed to have known him well, and told me that he was pretty grouchy most of the time. “Basically, Hunter was just a guy who couldn’t stand people” confided the afternoon barfly. “Especially those who tried to tell him what to do. He scowled a lot. Half the time he just sat there and scowled.”
But today, he added, many locals see the town’s gonzo legacy as a godsend. Not least because it attracts hoards of crap wannabee writers eager to buy them drinks in exchange for gonzo-related stories, true or otherwise.
“So what brings you into town”, he asked?
“Er…just passing through”, I replied.
Personality-wise, I feel a certain kinship with Thompson. I’m grumpy too, prone to fabrication, tend to over medicate, love sports and can be a real twat. And I’m sure he would also have shared my hatred of valets.
As the ski season is over, I’d managed to got a good deal at the Viceroy, a posh hotel on the mountain above Owl Creek. While it looked very extravagant, it offered no self-parking facilities for guests. Outside stood a smarmy-looking valet with an outstretched hand and an anticipatory smile on his face.
“Good evening sir. Just checking in?” he smirked.
“Yes but, no but, er, well, er” I said, desperate to retain my car keys but seeing no way to do so politely. Stuck for a response, I grudgingly handed them over, and watched glumly as he whisked my car off to an undisclosed location. Aspen’s favourite doctor would have threatened him with a firearm, I thought, or spiked his Perrier with mescalin.
In my opinion, valets are simply an unwanted obstacle that is placed between you and your vehicle. They rarely offer any real convenience. They are just a sly method of parting you from your hard-earned cash by appealing to your snobbery. This evil scam should be exposed for what it is.
The next shock was the hotel room. The walls between the bedroom and the bathroom were made of glass. You could actually see the khazi from the bedroom.
Imagine it. You have managed to entice a gorgeous blonde back to your upscale hotel, but you’ve been dying to download a brownload all night. So you’re back in the room and the champagne is on ice. You gaze into her eyes and whisper softly “Excuse me my darling, but would you mind glancing in the opposite direction for a moment while I do a number two in the corner?”
Luckily that particular scenario didn’t befall me, due to the fact that the hotel was bereft of anyone, female or otherwise. I had the steaming pool, hot tub and champagne bar all to myself. Luxury is fine if you have someone to share it with. All alone it was a bit sad.
After checking out the dull town of Aspen I followed the railroad to Ouray…
,
…then over the Red Mountain pass to the old mining town of Silverton where bears wander the streets in the summer.
There was indeed no guardrail on 11,000-foot pass – which was OK as long as you didn’t look down.
After Silverton, the road just gets higher and higher, the scenery becomes even more spectacular and the air gets thinner. I ended up higher than I’d ever been outside of a metal tube. My chances of survival were not improved by taking photos on the move, and my determination to spot a bear.
Along the way I was listening to new stuff by Johnny Cash, who is releasing a suspiciously large number of albums for someone who is dead. My theory is he’s chained up in a cellar somewhere, kept barely alive by the evil Rick Rubin, who’s forcing him to record painful-sounding cover versions like this
By the end of the day I was all spectacular-sceneried-out, and glad for the basic comforts of the Best Western, Durango, with its dodgy restaurant, futuristic-looking swimming pool and grim decor.
Oh yeah, before I forget – As I was heading out of Denver I remembered that the city is home to one of my favourite bands, the Czars. I should have posted this last time, but here are a couple of “Czars classics” for your listening pleasure.
Mile-High Curries and Dental Worries
After leaving Dodge, I drove for countless boring miles across boring plains and through boring towns with boring names that looked like they hadn’t changed much since the great Oakie exodus of the 1930’s. After some hours I checked the map and realized that I‘d passed the alleged spooky residence some miles back.
Should I turn around, I wondered?
It took me all of a millisecond to decide. I’d already seen one house with a gory past, and the thought of backtracking through Kansas on the advice of a drunken ghost-hunting twat was not particularly appealing. So I drove on.
A few hours later, I spotted a change in the landscape in the far distance. Could it be a hill? As I got nearer I realized that the hill had a white top. The Rocky Mountains were finally within sight! This was the same anticipatory elation that the dustbowl refugees must have felt, I thought, and the earlier prospectors who traded their cowboy spurs for a gold pan and headed up into “them thar hills”.
I was soon at the town of Colorado Springs, located at the edge of the Rockies and dominated by the 14,000-foot Pike’s Peak. All of a sudden, the landscape had turned into something out of an old Clint Eastwood movie.
The wildlife too, was more exotic – though the warnings about were a bit over the top. More people are killed annually by sheep than mountain lions, according to dodgystats.com.
Then onwards and upwards to Denver, with its skyscrapers and wonderful backdrop of snow capped peaks. The air is thin, and there are more cannabis shops than liquor stores. It has a cool tram network and a fine English pub.
Unfortunately, the recession has hit hard here, and you will notice men holding up signs asking for money or work at the major intersections.
This is a city of thrift store supermarkets and mile-high seediness, an uber-liberal enclave with a vocal conservative minority.
Oh yes, and it’s fucking freezing, and prone to sudden blizzards.
Denver is also the home of Ms Merlot, an old friend, and her wonderful family. She is a fun lady who, despite hardships, remains wonderfully optimistic. She has a cool son named Nathan and a docile dog. They kindly offered to put me up for a few days, which came as a welcome relief after my diet of dull, mid range hotels. Her weekend was free, she said, though she did need to take Nathan to the local clinic to deliver a stool sample.
The day before the sample was due, we hit the local Nepalese restaurant. Both Nathan and I opted for the spicy chicken masala.
Although the Nepalese are best known for their towering Himalayan peaks and Buddhist monasteries, they can also put together a mean ringer stinger if the need arises – as the kid’s subsequent lengthy absence in the restroom demonstrated.
The Kid
Ms Merlot and friend
The next day, Nathan made his delivery. I opted to stay home. However, Ms Merlot was kind enough to keep me updated on his progress via the wonders of picture messaging.
Preparation...
Nothing yet...
Bingo!
That night we enjoyed a delightfully drunken St George’s Day at Denver’s only English pub, the inspirationally-named Bulldog. How sweet it was to celebrate the patron saint of bacon and eggs, vindaloo and strong, gassy lager in this corner of a foreign field that is forever England (or at least until the owner sells up).
We ended up getting rather tipsy, and my photo skills degenerated accordingly.
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Then it was back to the Merlot residence in a taxi, which we realized half way home that we couldn’t afford. Luckily the driver was in a generous mood, and drove us the final half mile free of charge. Somehow I don’t think a New York cabby would have done the same.
A slight downer on my stay in Denver was an email I received from a local dentist. Back at Christmas I was told that I needed four sessions of “deep scaling and root planing” which is as horrible and painful as it sounds. I decided to bite the bullet and get it done in the mile high city, where the pain medicine is a little more fun than elsewhere.
I underwent an initial exam, where for $200 a woman sticks prongs into the gaps between your teeth, and takes x-rays. I endured it gamely, and was then told to wait for the dentist to contact me. I left the surgery apprehensive, but glad that I‘d finally taken the initiative.
Then came the email. The good news, the dentist said, was that the deep cleaning treatment was not necessary. The bad news was that there “would be little point”.
This is what he said, and I quote:
“After reviewing your radiographs my suggestion is that you see a periodontist or oral surgeon and a restorative dentist for treatment. I would think you would most likely lose teeth; 9, 1,13, 14, 15, 18, 27, and possibly 21 and 31. This is going to make for significant dental treatment wherever you end up. It will take some time too. Hope this helps”.
Nine teeth. Almost a fucking mouthful, to paraphrase the lad himself. Rather shitty news. I know they can do wonders with people’s choppers these days, but full restorative work will involve six months of painful extractions, drilling into the bone, implants and gum surgery costing many thousands of dollars.
And as it stands, they don’t even hurt, or look particularly bad. So after a careful evaluation of my priorities, I’ve decided to deal with this shit later. If any of my readers are dentists, please take a look. I’d like a second opinion.
So onwards to the snow capped peaks. I intend to drive up, up and up. Maybe to Aspen to drink a slug of Wild Turkey at Owl Creek Farm in honour of the Great Gonzo himself. Then possibly the sphincter-loosening Red Mountain Pass, where cars travel on the edge of a 2000 foot precipice with no guardrail, apparantly, before heading down to Santa Fe.
The next update, altitude sickness and bear attacks permitting, could be from New Mexico.
Gettin’ the hell into Dodge
I do enjoy a vigorous workout. After a long car journey, there’s nothing better than working those aching muscles on the ab flex and the bun trimmer.
Imagine my joy, then, to learn that the Dodge House Hotel and Convention Center, Dodge City took pride in offering a “selection of free weights and exercise machines, and a treadmill to keep you fit while traveling”. I could hardly contain my excitement.
The reality was somewhat less impressive.
You’ve got to give this place credit though. It really does provide its guests with the authentic Wild West experience. This place has a life-sized buffalo, a saloon bar with swinging doors, countless cow horns and cowboy murals and even a volleyball court
Furthermore, the liberal use of perfumed air freshener in the rooms almost masks out the smell from the huge complex of abattoirs and feed silos that dominate the Livestock Processing Capital of the Midwest.
Dodge City has been in the business of killing cows since the 1880’s when Wyatt Earp was sheriff and the great buffalo herds were hunted to extinction by men on horseback. Today, thousands of Mexican workers dismember cattle in vast industrial facilities on the edge of town. I spotted a lorryload of the doomed beasts descending Boot Hill – the sign on the vehicle leaving onlookers in little doubt that theirs was not a return trip.
It will be a while before this city amasses a sizable Hindu population, I fear.
Apart from the cow business, Dodge is pretty quiet. Its name has passed into popular parlance – Bracknall town centre is like Dodge City on a Friday night – and it might even have given us the word “dodgy”. But these days you’re more likely to come to grief by slipping in cow shit than taking a slug to the chest.
En-route to Dodge I’d had a chance meeting with one of Wyatt Earp’s modern day counterparts. Did I know I was traveling almost 80 miles per hour, the mustachioed cop asked after pulling me over?
“What? Really officer?” I replied in my best English accent. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t realize. What is the speed limit in these parts, anyway?
In reply, the foliage-faced fuzz pointed to a prominent sign directly in front of me with the number “65’ written on it.
Luckily I didn’t suffer the fate of English Bob in “Unforgiven” and was allowed on my way with just a written warning. After bidding farewell to the man with the Silver Star I kept dutifully to the speed limit for all of five minutes before drifting back up to 70 in an attempt to escape the growing queue of irritated drivers behind me.
Earlier, I’d turned off the interstate east of Tulsa and onto Route 66.
“Kicks”, however, were in very short supply. This legendary highway seemed little different to any other suburban thoroughfare in the US – slow, boring and full of traffic lights, fast food outlets and chain supermarkets. It was hard to share Chuck Berry’s enthusiasm.
Still, I did manage to find a Tulsa diner that looked like it hadn’t changed since the fifties, and a bar that looked worse on the outside than it was on the inside.
I didn’t dawdle in Tulsa. It was only after I left the city, I realized that I should have paid a visit to ex Blades star and Tulsa resident Alan Woodward. Woodie must be getting on a bit now, and it would have been interesting to hear his story.
However, it was too late to turn back. Instead, I continued on through vast oilfields on windswept Oklahoma plains, listening to new stuff from Nada Surf and the Grumpy Mod God
After a brief stop in the uninspiring town of Blackwell, I drove the remaining miles to Wichita, Kansas.
Described by one local as a “backwoods hick metropolis surrounded by bumpkins and grain elevators”, Wichita’s redneck rep is due in part to the scene in “Planes Trains and Automobiles” when Steve Martin and John Candy get stranded here. An increasingly frustrated Martin asks a local where he can take a train to Chicago.“” Train don’t run out of Wichita… “ the hick replies, “Not unlessin’ you’re a hawg or a cattle. People train runs outa Stubbville. ”
Slight authenticity error here. The nearest “people train” is indeed twenty miles out of the city, but the fictional town of Stubbville was an invention of the director, John Highes. The actual location of the train station is Newton, Kansas which, I suppose didn’t sound hickish enough.
Driven by a ghoulish urge, I passed by the Wichita residence where serial killer BTK dispatched an entire family in the 1970’s. The house is still standing – just a normal house in a normal neighborhood. Do the current residents even know what horrors occurred here? If not, shouldn’t someone tell them?
Sick urges temporarily sated, I drove on past grain elevators, silos and wheatfields, towards the welcoming lights of the Dodge City Hotel. This must have been really something in the seventies, and despite its fading decor, it’s still a pretty unique place.
That’s all for now. I’m off to get a steak.
Just another walk…
“Put on my blue suede shoes and boarded the plane
Touched down in the land of the Delta Blues in the middle of the pissing rain”
That song is crap but I can’t get it out of my head. The reason? For the past couple of days I’ve been walking around Memphis, getting soaked by freak thunderstorms, and encountering a disproportionate number of men with greasy black hair and thick sideburns.
This city, of course, is where modern music was born. Sun, Stax, and Hi records were all located here. Rock, blues and soul greats like Johnny Cash, BB King, Carl Perkins and Al Green will always be linked with Memphis. And, of course the town is also home to Elvis. So I headed to Graceland to pay my own tribute to the King of Rock n Roll.
To avoid the exorbitant parking fees charged by the Pelvis estate, the hotel receptionist advised me to take the Blue Suede Shuttle. I was quoted a price of $34 all-in, but upon arrival at Graceland, the jovial bus driver demanded $46. I had to argue the toss to negotiate the price down to $36 – which, he warned, would only get me the “basic tour” as opposed to the “VIP Tour”. Which could also be known as the Suckers Tour as there was no discernable difference.
I had a double-pronged mission. Firstly, to grab a picture of the infamous crapper where the King passed his final stool. And secondly, to check out the claims made in “Schmelvis: the King’s Jewish Roots” that the big “E” was, in fact, a kosher boy.
According to reports at the time of his death, Elvis told then-girlfriend Ginger Alden that he was going into the khazi to read. She warned him not to fall asleep on the ass-gasket and his last recorded words were ‘ I won’t baby’. The King was found some hours later on the bathroom floor, his gold pajama bottoms around his feet, in a pool of sick – the victim of a drug induced heart attack.
I was wondering if the original carpet would still be in place, and if so, whether any vomit stains might still be visible.
My first disappointment was that the upstairs bathroom was completely out of bounds. Indeed, the entire top floor was closed to the public, because, according to the audio guide, “Elvis would have wanted it that way. He never did his entertaining upstairs”.
Which led me to wonder what Ginger was doing up there.
We were, however, allowed to gaze upon the sacred kitchen where the King made his banana and peanut butter sandwiches, the pool table where he practiced his trick shots, and the infamous jungle room where he entertained his pretty little things.
Graceland is much smaller than you’d imagine. It’s a typical detached house in the suburbs, with a small wooden fence dividing it from its neighbors. The reason the tour takes up to two hours is due to the vast number of people that they cram in. Imagine standing in a very long, slow moving airport-type queue winding its way round displays of kitsch sixties memorabilia and you’re on the right track.
The tour’s last port of call is the King’s final resting place, a small and serene shrine located beside a modest swimming pool. Elvis and his family were originally buried in Forest Hills cemetery, but were disinterred and reburied in Graceland after two Memphis cops tried to steal his corpse in 1978. “They’re still doin’ the Jailhouse Rock to this very day”, our jovial guide revealed.
According to the “Schmelvis” documentary, Mama Pelvis’s original headstone featured a Star of David. However, there was no such marking on the Graceland version. Our guide had no idea what had happened to her original stone, so it took a later Google search to reveal that the six-pointed star did indeed exist.
While the King certainly didn’t see himself as Jewish, the Google search confirmed that he would have, apparently, qualified for Israeli citizenship due to his mum’s ancestors. Google also revealed that the would-be corpse-snatchers were never even given prison terms. But hey, why let the truth get in the way of a good pun?
Then it was back on the bus, which transports visitors the mere 100 meters from the gates to the door. In homage to the King’s later-life lard-ass habits, perhaps, walking this vast distance is not allowed.
Heading back to the town center, the driver of the Blue Suede Shuttle opted to make a hair-raising u-turn over the grassy central reservation of a six lane highway, while chatting on his mobile. I was feeling, well, all shook up when I finally arrived back in the hotel.
Later that night I hit the other Memphis must-see, Beale St.
Like Bourbon Street, it’s full of college kids, fast food and loud music. After fortifying my courage with a few vodka cranberries, I ended up dancing incredibly badly with a young lady from Florida who, I think, might have been almost as tipsy as I was. Her sober brother (or was it brother in law?) dropped me back at my hotel in the early hours, thus making sure sis didn’t get up to no good.
To atone for my sins – of the mind if not the body – I attended a church service on Sunday, with an old friend of my dad’s. The proceedings were lively enough to sit through without nodding off, and the highlight was the choir’s rendition of “Just another walk with thee” – so I’ll leave you with Patsy Cline’s version.
Next update may well be from Denver, the “mile high city’ – which is aptly named, since cannabis is pretty much legal out there now.
Out in the Sticks
My New Orleans frolics came to an abrupt end when I discovered that the city didn’t have a Bank of America. Thus began an as-yet-unresolved saga, involving me driving across the Deep South in an unsuccessful attempt to make a deposit, getting hit with hundreds of dollars in overdraft fees in the process.
I knew there were major expenses coming up, and I’d become increasingly desperate in my attempts to pay cash into my bank. In the end, I called them up – not an easy task, seeing as the voice activation system doesn’t recognize Yorkshire accents – and finally made contact with a so-called “customer services representative”. While “very much sympathizing with my situation”, the helpful lady told me that there were unfortunately no branches in the city. The nearest place to make a deposit, she told me, was in Red Stick, 60 miles to the west.
So I quit the delights of the Big Easy for the Red Stick – capital of Louisiana and home of Gov’nor “Biriyani” Bob Jindal, a Punjabi-American who speaks with a broad southern drawl. It was Bob, you might recall, who made the much-criticized Republican response to Obama’s inauguration address. So before hunting down the bank, I thought I’d check out Bob’s hood.
Things have gone well for the Punjabi politico since dumping Hinduism for Catholicism and joining the GOP. So much so, it seems, that, as state governor, he is even entitled to his own personal lavatory in the State Capitol building.
That seemed a bit excessive, even for a governor, but the janitor provided me with an explanation. Bob’s preference for egg vindaloo lunches, he confided, had resulted in frequent afternoon visits to the communal shitter – visits that became the subject of much cross-party criticism.
“Bob’s a great guy, but he darn near made it impossible for the rest of the politicos to use the same john” the janitor confessed.” “Stank the whole god-daiiim place out, he did. That’s why he’s got his personal pebble-dashery these days”.
Okay, that anecdote may not be strictly true, but my bank woes were very real. The Bank of America outlet at Red Stick (okay, Baton Rouge if we’re being fancy) turned out to be a small cash machine inside a gas station. No deposits were allowed. To make matters worse, when I checked my account, I was $220 overdrawn – all but $80 of this being the result of numerous $35 overdraft fees.
So I called Bank of America’s 1-800 number again, (not a cheap option from my prepaid phone). After wrestling with the voice activation system I finally got hold of another helpful rep. What he said amounted to this:
“As I understand sir, you are having trouble locating a place to make a deposit. I am very sorry sir for the inconvenience. I can fully understand the situation, and am sorry for any problems this may have caused you. I do indeed sympathize with your situation. However, I am unable to tell you where the nearest bank of America is, or offer an alternative method of making a deposit. You may want to look at our website for further information. And no, I do not have the authority to waive any fees you may have incurred or put a stop on any future fees. Once again, I am really sorry, and I really do sympathize with your problem”.
So the sum benefit of my multiple calls to Bank of America was to discover that a complete stranger on the other end of the line “really sympathized with me”. Great.
I drove on. The plan was to follow the Mississippi Delta northwards and not to get completely lost. However, things don’t always go according to plan, and after two hours I was not only lost, but in urgent need of petrol. I pulled over at a gas station in the small town of Roxie, and waited for the attendant to come out.
Well no one showed up. It was eerily quiet. When I glanced around, I saw that the garage seemed to double as a chainsaw dispensary. The entire town looked just a little too deserted for my liking. The rolls of tumbleweed drifting down the main street were the only sign of movement. I half expected Leatherface to come rushing out from behind a tree, revving chainsaw in hand.
I pushed on, and luckily found a different garage that had a bar attached to it, and was given directions to Highway 61, the so-called “Blues Highway”, which I followed most of the way to Jackson.
I’m in deepest Lucinda Williams country here. Every town I pass seems to feature in the gravel-voiced songstress’s lyrics. But I must confess that I’ve actually been listening to Chumbawamba. Sorry Lucinda. To make amends, here’s one of your finest moments to date.
According to the Lonely Planet’s Guide to the Deep South, the place to stay in Jackson is the Sun n Sand Motel, which boasts “Polynesian touches and a “great trapezoidal pool”, whatever that means. However, in reality, the place is not as tempting as the backpackers’ bible promises.
I ended up at the Marriott.
Jackson was almost as deserted as Roxie. I wandered around the downtown area for about half an hour looking for a bar without success and eventually stumbled into what turned out to be a completely African-American place.
Well, unofficial segregation still exists in the Deep South, and I wasn’t sure how people would react. But let’s face it, an about-turn accompanied by a loud “whoops, sorry!” may have appeared somewhat rude. So I strolled boldly up to the bar and ordered a beer.
In the end, it was fine. I stayed to watch the boxing from Vegas and was not mugged, beaten or chastised for the crimes of my ancestors.
The next day, I drove down the Natchez Parkway – rumored to be the road where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil…
…and ended up in the sleepy town of Vicksburg with its Civil War history, quiet downtown and riverboat casinos.
Then onward again to Greenville and the Executive Inn, Clarksdale – possibly the poorest town I’ve visited so far on this trip. It’s so poor that people are not obese, they’re skinny. And to be honest, I’m not sure that too many captains of industry are currently staying at this particular hotel.
I’m now within striking distance of Graceland, where I hope get a glimpse of the King’s infamous death-throne, and also pay a call on Jerry Lee Lewis, who apparently lives in nearby Nesbit.
As for those bank woes, I eventually got the overdraft fees scrubbed by speaking to a bank employee in New York. I then pulled the account back out of the red by physically paying cash into Jang’s Chase account, after which she paid the cash in into a branch of my bank New York. It helps to have friends back in civilization.
Smoking: Bad for you, bad for your gator
I’m really grateful for all the notices reminding me that I can’t smoke. I usually board planes and enter cinemas in the misguided belief that smoking is allowed. So I really do appreciate the constant reminders that put me right.
And until recently, I was unaware of the evils perpetuated by smokers on the humble alligator. It took New Orleans Zoo to point out that the gators themselves would be very grateful if we all stubbed out our fags.
Which is fully understandable. If I were a captive gator I’d be mightily pissed off if a visitor lit up 50 feet away from me. More so, in fact, than being captured and imprisoned by the zoo owners. Regardless of the fact that I live mostly underwater, it’s the principle of the thing.
I’d visited the zoo to see the famous white gators of Louisiana, but balked at the hefty admission fee. Luckily, no one seemed to be manning the exit, so I strolled in undetected. Not quite “Bad Lieutenant: New Orleans” standards, but it was a start.
This city is famous for its food, so I decided that my illegal entry should be rewarded with a local delicacy from the zoo café. I opted for what was described as “crawfish pie” – a $4 pasty-sized morsel full of tasteless chewy stuff in a red sauce. Some of which spurted out and ended up on my shirt.
Clothing soiled and hunger unsated, I pushed on
Who Dat?
Oh yes, there were white gators too. Take a good look. These limited-edition reptiles are almost as rare as rocking horse shit.
Earlier I’d taken a ride on an old streetcar though the Garden District and walked round a gorgeous park with houses that open onto the public green.
I’d also driven through the Lower Ninth Ward, which suffered much of the worst effects of Katrina. Plenty of collapsed houses were still in evidence, but the community seemed to be back on its feet.
Although Katrina was tragic, it’s not the physical or human damage that’s most fascinating. It’s the sudden breakdown of society in a modern western city. Just a day after Katrina struck, it was “every man for himself” in parts of New Orleans. While some of the horror stories are myths, it must have been a terrifying time.
In truth, many of us are just one freak storm away from urban chaos
Nawlens is also known as the city you can’t bury corpses underground, as it’s below sea level. Try it, and they just come back to the surface. Instead, bodies are interred in vaults and mausoleums, above ground. I took a tour round the cemeteries on the edge of town and yes, they are spooky places. Some of the graves date back to the early 1800’s when many saw voodoo as just as valid a belief as Christianity. (They were probably right).
The spooky aspects of the city were repopularized by Anne Rice, long tem resident, goth heroine and author of Interview With the Vampire. I quite liked her stuff in my youth and was therefore disappointed to learn that she’s since given up on the undead, moved to California and devoted her writings to Christ. She’s shifting less books now, apparantly.
Another disappointment was Bourbon Street. It’s a southern version of St Mark’s Place, full of college kids, rock anthems, watery beer and pizza slices. But there’s plenty of jazz, Cajun and blues as well as a thriving indie scene elsewhere in the French Quarter. The nightly gig listings on the radio seem to go on forever.
New Orleans also has Petro TV. That is, a TV screen on the gas pump blaring out ads while you’re filling up your tank. Which is a really great idea as there simply aren’t enough TV screens in other public places like malls, waiting rooms, bars and restaurants.
Do you get premium channels with premium gas?
Minor annoyances notwithstanding, this place feels good. Having quit the Holiday Inn, I’m now in a charming attic room at the quaint Hotel Marie Antoinette, half a block from Bourbon St. It is cheap, and has a view, and even a pool of sorts.
And get this – a woman actually tried to chat me up in the casino last night. The problem was, she was so drunk she subsequently fell over. Oh well. I was still flattered.
One of the great things about this city is that you can actually walk substantial distances, meaning I’m not sitting on my arse all day. The weather is great and there are a million things to see and do. I dunno how long I’ll stay but I do know one thing. I’m getting my Mojo back, baby!
You know what they say about.... 
