Escape from LA

My trip to LA began and ended in near-stationary traffic. In the middle, it was characterized by slow moving cars, jammed freeways and vehicular snarl ups. Los Angeles, they say, is the US city that is most defined by the car. And in the end, it almost snatched mine away from me for good

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Actually, I’m quite relieved to be out of the place.

My first port of call, the Marriott Residence, Beverly Hills sounded like a good place to begin. But after an hour spent crawling along in 20mph traffic I was still no nearer finding the location. The reason, it turned out, is because Marriott Residence, Beverly Hills isn’t in Beverly Hills. It’s located in a nearby Jewish neighborhood – a dismal place on a Saturday with no shops open, no bars at all, and a distinct lack of movie stars. Shabat effing Shalom, I thought.

Opting to drive further afield in a hunt for food and booze, I immediately became snarled up in the traffic again, and lost the hotel for a second time. I arrived back an hour later with a new respect for the LA traffic and hungry enough to eat at the hotel bar.

We all have an image of Hollywood. The palm trees, the sign, the hills, the boulevards, the stars and the glamour. But it is also a place of tragedy, scandal and loss – which is what drew me to the Museum of Death the following day.

Unfortunately, cameras are banned inside. So you’ll have to take my word that the world’s largest collection of serial killer art was highly impressive. Mass murderers are a talented bunch, it seems. The crime scene and autopsy photos were as stomach-churningly graphic as promised. So was the embalming instruction video and the cinema of death, where real-life fatalities occur on celluloid to a death metal soundtrack. Visitors regularly vomit, the friendly proprietor told me at the exit, before congratulating me on my strong stomach and urging me to “have a nice life”.

Across the road, and even more terrifying, is the “Psychiatry – An Industry of Death” museum. Run by the believers in Xenu, Tyrant Ruler of the Galactic Confederacy. (AKA Scientologists), this expensively arranged exhibition attempts to blame much of the world’s ills – gun rampages, the Holocaust, 9/11, paedophilia, to name a few – on psychiatrists.

The idea that humankind may simply be a higher form of animal life, the museum states in it’s initial denouncement of psychiatry, is obviously false because “animals don’t produce major works of art or write great symphonies”.

The logic employed here was beyond me, especially since L Ron Hubbard was apparently a big admirer of Freud. Feeling slightly weird, I exited the place and took a stroll down Sunset Boulevard.

It wasn’t just the Scientologists, I decided. The entire place was kooky.

I drove up into the hills, high up on Mulholland Drive to check out some of the most famous real estate in the world. However, if you’re hoping for a glimpse of Jack Nicholson scooping dog poop, Tom Cruise pruning the roses or Drew Barrymore out jogging, you’re in for a disappointment. The stars hide firmly behind their thick hedges and fences, and closest you get to them is the numerous vantage points where their rooftops are visible. So you’ll have to make do with more car pics and the Hollywood Bowl instead.

My final stop of the day was the public lavatories in a Beverly Hills park where George Michael’s infamous ‘Wank Me Off Before You Go-Go” arrest took place. The bog itself bore no evidence of the former “Wham” star’s indiscretion – though I’m not quite sure what I was hoping to find.

Apart from the traffic, things seemed to be going pretty well in LA until I made the fateful decision to leave the car on a city center meter. Priceline had decided that my final night would be spent at the Marriott Downtown, and I’d parked on the street in an attempt to avoid the $33 overnight valet fee. Parking was supposedly free until 9am but when I showed up early Monday morning it was nowhere to be seen. Initially I thought it had been stolen, but a few phone calls determined that it had indeed been towed, and was now the legal property of a company called Viertel’s Central Towing.

According to the hotel receptionist, the company was located at 500 Central Avenue, which turned out to be on the far side of LA’s Skid Row. I spent the next hour wandering through block after block of homeless, sick and mentally ill people. Skid Row doesn’t have shops, cafes or bars. It’s made up almost exclusively of missions, doss houses, and police stations.

Having seen the T-shirts bearing the motto “LAPD: We’ll treat you like a King” I was a bit dubious about contacting the police. However, after admitting that I was hopelessly lost, I saw no option but to ask directions of the local plod. A friendly cop traced a “safe” route for me on the map. It was Center Street I needed, he said, just a little deeper into the city’s South Central district.

I dutifully stuck to the safe route and 45 minutes later found the car pound, which from the outside looked like a maximum-security prison. Ominously, a large sign advertised “car auctions every Monday”

The guy behind the bulletproof glass confirmed that they had removed my car because parking was not allowed between 7am and 9am. When I protested that there was no sign on the block saying this, he bluntly told me “there don’t need to be”. Any problems, he said, I should “take it up with the city”

It would cost a total of $326 to get my car back today, he explained, and if I could not get hold of the cash right away it would cost $426 tomorrow, and $526 the next day. I handed over my credit card. “Just gimme the car” I said through gritted teeth.

But it wasn’t as easy as that. The company would not accept my driving license, insurance card and passport as proof of ID. It would only accept the original car title, the guy said. If I didn’t have it, I couldn’t have my car back. Ever.

Luckily, I had the original document at the hotel. If I’d had to wait a week for a replacement from the DMV the bill would be over $1000. I can only wonder how many Angelinos have lost their means of transport in this manner, and the ill feeling it has caused.

So I walked back through Skid Row to the hotel, grabbed the title and returned via the Angel’s Flight railway, which was familiar to me through the Michael Connolly novel of the same name. Ads for Connolly’s latest work adorn the two cars that take passengers the short distance to the top of Bunker Hill

Then, after producing the document, my car was then finally released.

It had taken me most of the day and cost me a large slice of my weekly budget to get my car back, but as I was sitting in the snarled up traffic crawling away out of LA I couldn’t get too angry. At least I had a car, and could look forward to a warm bed that evening. Unlike the poor, crazy, hungry homeless people of Skid Row, who, in this economy, have little hope of rejoining mainstream society.

I’m currently at my sister’s place, who lives with her partner and their dog and cat in the hills north of LA. I’m planning on relaxing here until Friday, when Fed Ex is scheduled to deliver my computer. Next update – presuming the Acer repair shop hasn’t wiped my data – could be the lost blog from the Badlands.

Gawk Like an Egyptian

In the recent George Clooney vehicle, “Up in the Air”, his character, Ryan Bingham, says of the Luxor Hotel: “That place? It’s a shithole. Nobody stays there.”

Well, I beg to differ. I’ve been gracing the place with my presence for the past five nights. And while it might be a shithole, it’s an incredible, ancient wonder-themed shithole, and one of the strangest places I’ve ever dossed in.

I’d finally quit the Strat and was all set to quit Vegas too, until I spotted the Luxor’s “sphynx-tastic” $40 blowout sale. OK, so it was actually $40 plus taxes, resort fees, and separate taxes on top of the fees, but it’s still not a bad price to stay at a genuine mock up of Pharaoh’s tomb where the likes of Paris and Lindsay have been known to get trashed.

For those unfamiliar with the place, it’s a huge dark pyramid on the Vegas Strip, which lights up at night. It’s guarded by a massive stone Sphinx that’s larger than the one in Giza, and its elevators slant up the sides of the building. My crappy phone pics don’t do it justice, so here’s a couple I nicked from the web.

Like the Strat, the Luxor can afford to charge its guests a temptingly low rate because it’s so adept at fleecing them once they’ve checked in. Indeed, it could probably afford to pay its guests to stay here, and still come out on top. As an example, a plain bagel cost $15 via room service. An acceptable price for King Tut, perhaps, but a little pricey for an average non-Pharoahic guest.

Although it advertises itself as a 24-hour resort, the Luxor’s pools, gym and spa all close before dusk. In fact, there’s nothing much to do after 8.00 pm except drink and gamble. The exits are nigh-on impossible to locate without the help of Howard Carter and a full exploration team, and you can’t get anywhere – even the lobby – without straying into the labyrinth of slots. The “early bird” $6.99 full breakfast, served between 4am and 6am, provides an incentive to gamble until four, especially for those whose judgment is clouded by booze. Since the bars stay open all night there are plenty of those.

Like its counterpart in Egypt, the Luxor in Vegas is full of corpses. It’s currently housing a version of the “Bodies” exhibition, a rip off of Gunther von Hagens’s “Body Works”. The success of these modern-day freak shows – there are at least fifty now on display in major cities across the world – means that the demand for pickled corpses is on the increase.
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Fearing that a modern day Burke and Hare could be at work, I avoided the exhibition area at night. I skipped it in the daytime too, having previously visited the New York version. When you’ve seen one partially peeled corpse in the process of chucking a frisbee, you’ve seen them all, right?

When you finally get out of the hotel, Vegas is full of enticements. This one sounded like a great deal. Do you think there could be a hidden catch?

…and this just can’t be true – can it?

Finally tired of the bright lights and hollow promises, my last days in Sin City were spent in the considerably less glitzy surrounds of the Crown and Anchor, a British hangout a couple of miles off the Strip. This hotbed of Anglo-themed seediness features miserable-looking waitresses in low cut tops and short kilts serving a predominantly OAP crowd. Football, English beers and stingy portions of fish and chips are the order of the day here. Two-day-old Daily Mails can be had for a mere $3.50.

Actually it wasn’t half bad. I doubt anywhere else in city was showing Rotherham v Aldershot live.

The Crown and Anchor was my last port of call before I finally got my shit together and headed out into the Mojave desert. Earlier, a concerned Jang had called, urging me to check the oil, fluids, air pressure and god knows what else before venturing into the hundred-degree heat. But after two pints of Kronenberg and a meat pie, I decided that the best course of action was to stick on some loud music and leave my fate to the car gods.

So onwards to LA. home to George Michael’s infamous “cottaging khasi” and the Alhambra mansion where deranged record producer Phil Specter inflicted the ultimate a “wall of sound” on wannabee starlet Lana Clarkson.

“Hugh Grant Hooker” Divine Brown still calls this town home, and former residents include Charles Bukowski, Charles Manson and OJ Simpson. LA is home to a raft of pulp detectives from Marlow to Bosch, and its traffic and smog are famous across the globe. Like New Orleans, it exists as a concept in the consciousness of the world, and I’m quite excited about my visit.

Thieving Las Vegas

Ben Sanderson, the Nick Cage character in “Leaving Las Vegas”, famously drank himself to death in Sin City. However, given the piss-weak frozen marguerites they serve at the Stratosphere, I’ve got no chance of emulating his feat. However, I do run the risk of suffering a hernia or other stress-related ailment if I continue paying the outrageous prices charged here.

While bargains can be had outside the hotel, you must first traverse the rough block between the Stratosphere and the Sahara, where the Strip monorail terminates. This area is swarming with scam artists, dealers, pimps and deranged Elvis look-alikes. It certainly isn’t safe after dark, and is edgy during the daytime too.

However, if you decide to stay indoors the Strat, beware. The in-house Starbucks charges an outrageous dollar for a squirt of vanilla syrup and $3.25 (plus tax) for a stale croissant. A pint of beer in a plastic cup is $7. And it isn’t even a pint. A cup of coffee bought to your “executive” room (which does not possess a coffee machine) will set you back $7.99 plus service fees, gratuity and the ever-present state taxes. A miserly breakfast in the clichéd retro diner sets you back $11.95.

Still, there have been worse places en-route.

I’ve been here over a week now, and the sci-fi tackiness of the Stratosphere is beginning to grate. The loud-mouthed, boorish English blokes with their tattooed, sluttily dressed wives and obnoxious children. The crass, gangster wannabees from the East Coast with their arrogant manner and stinking cigars who think they’re high rollers because they put 40 fucking bucks on a roulette spin. And, of course, the jaded, predatory locals who’ve appraised your financial worth ten seconds after meeting you, and treat you accordingly thereafter.

My Brit accent, shoddy clothes and bad haircut mean that I might as well wear a T-shirt emblazoned with the motto “Mr Cheap”. Free drinks rarely find their way across to me when I’m playing the slots. Canvassers ignore me, and the high-class hookers don’t ask what I’m doing later. They’ve already surmised that I’ll be going home for a pot noodle and a Sam Plank.

The Vegas Strip is like an alternative universe where smoking isn’t bad for you, no one objects if you drink alcohol before lunch, and even the chastest women dress like porn stars. As long as you’ve got money you’re welcome here. If you run out, fuck off and don’t come back until you’ve got some more.

Luckily, some respite from the madness was to be found in the company of the lovely Miss C, a photographer who I’d previously met in Denver’s only British pub. During her brief visit to Sin City we managed a photo tour to the Red Rock Canyon, drinks in the Star’s Tower Bar, a brief visit to Vegas’s seedy downtown and a decent Ruby Murry. As well as exceling behind the lens, Miss C also has an excellent nose for a curry house. The place she found us was probably the best in Vegas.

Unfortunately she flew back to Denver today, leaving me with no alternative that to do another round of the casinos. These include the jaded, desert-themed Sahara, the MGM Grand, with its bored, scruffy looking lions, and medieval castle-themed Excalibur, where, according to the ad blurb, “YOU RULE”. (Actually, you don’t. The house does. The house, in fact, rules everywhere). And New York, New York, with its fake Manhattan skyline and interior mock up of the West Village. Minus the rats, homeless junkies and Starbucks on every second corner.

Nor forgetting Caesar’s Palace. Behind this statue, which adorns the entrance to the Caesar’s Forum mall, the legend “Shoplivius Maximus” is carved into the stone.

But most of my time has been spent at the Strat, the trashy older sister of the more upmarket casinos. While its newer rivals adopt a pseudo-European theme, the Strat sticks to its cheesy seventies semi-pornographic sci-fi marketing strategy. If it were a movie, it would be Barberella. But the strange thing is, I’ve just extended my stay here. It’s starting to seem like the Hotel California. Will I ever get to LA?

Nick Cage, by the way, researched the Ben Sanderson character by going out on the piss for two weeks solid and billing all his bar tabs to the studio – probably his bills from the curry and kebab houses too. He then went on to win an Oscar for his performance. Unlike much of Vegas, that’s class.

What happens at the Strat…

I’ve been enjoying the hospitality of the Stratosphere Hotel and Casino all week. This gangly-looking Vegas girl is way past her prime and is only interested in my money, but I still find her charming. And sorry, I’m not going to blog too much about my stay here. Not yet anyway. But things have been good so far.

The good old Strat has become a kind of home from home, and I am quite content here. The weekday rates are dirt cheap, you can get frozen drinks for a quid and there’s a curry house over the road.

I’ve put my computer in for repair, got the windscreen replaced, done a bit of work and downed loads of frozen drinks. My bank loan application has been approved too, so even after losing at the tables I’m quids in.

It’s hard to do long blog updates on my cranky old spare computer. But I should have my main computer back in a week or so. Presuming the data hasn’t been wiped, the lost update from Albuquerque will be posted then.

Next stop LA – or possibly jail.

Hot Dogs and Jumping Frogs

Two major disasters have occurred since I was last with you. Firstly, my windscreen developed a serious crack. But more seriously, my tea bag collection vanished somewhere in the badlands of New Mexico.

Ever since leaving New York I’ve been hauling round a large plastic bag containing essentials such as PG Tips, London Cuppa, and Yorkshire Gold. Now, I reckon, Big Chief Yellowhorse and his Indian friends are enjoying “um heap good cuppa”, while I’m suffering in tealess misery.

I’d left Colorado excited by the prospect of visiting the “breathtaking” New Mexico settlement of Santa Fe. This place, according to the tourist literature, is a “world-renowned travel destination, unparalleled in richness of history, heritage, arts and culture”. It also enjoys at least 326 days of sunshine each year, the brochure boasts.

Well, I must have arrived on one of the other 39 days because there was no sign of the sun. Instead, the air was filled with red, clay-like dust that gets inside your eyes, your ears and your clothes. I couldn’t escape the damn stuff, and the car got covered in it. It penetrated the interior and probably got into the engine too.

Most of Santa Fe’s famous old houses are only old by American standards. People flock from across the nation to gaze at these uninspiring, not-so-old stone dwellings while getting ripped off for “genuine” Indian artwork and artifacts that were actually produced in Mexico or China. “Authentic” bodegas sell frozen Safeway tacos for $14.95, which get covered in a thin film of slimy red clay if you try to eat alfresco.

I didn’t linger. A long shower, a car wash and fifty miles later I was in Albuquerque – a town of “hot dogs and jumping frogs”, if Prefab Sprout are to be believed.

Well, hot dogs were in abundance, but I didn’t see any jumping frogs. So I had to settle for the next-best thing – a lively Italian.

For a while Len was my best friend at school in Sheffield. He’d settled in Duke City after driving round the states on a road trip with his laid back partner, Donna. They’ve since founded a successful business, had two wonderful children and become locals in their adopted city. They live in a cool neighborhood in an amazing, retro, fifties-style home

Len still speaks with a clear Sheffield accent, and even though I’d not seen him for many years, we picked up an easy conversation. He reminded me of forgotten times growing up in south Sheffield, and we shared news of old friends.

That weekend, the year’s most hyped boxing match was due to take place. It was being shown in a local cinema, with no bar. Luckily help was at hand from New York, where another Yorkshire pal was monitoring events. We received a text when the fighters were heading for the ring, and arrived at the cinema seconds before they got ready to rumble.

Twelve rounds of one-sided boxing and a unanimous decision later, we retired back to Len’s local pub twenty bucks poorer. While the fight was crap, we agreed, at least it wasn’t fixed. Which is an improvement on the 1990’s.

With a few notable exceptions, Duke City is the most welcoming of places.

It’s also an art deco-lover’s paradise. Route 66 runs through the center of town, which is bisected by the Rio Grande. Most of Albuquerque’s historic buildings have been preserved, and its retro feel extends to the local fashions.

Albuquerque also has its seedy side, which family man Len was reluctant to show me. But it was interesting to note that derriere desires are actively encouraged in the conservative American south,

Len suggested we visit the Rattlesnake Museum, which advertises itself as an “enlightening and educational experience” This weird place is situated in the Old Town, where 17 families braved harsh weather, ferocious animals and Indian attacks to found old Albuquerque. Today, the place it is a tourist trap where locals artists flog their work and public conveniences are in short supply.

The museum was surprisingly good, showing not only the slithery things themselves but also their portrayal in popular culture.

The next day, I agreed to Len’s suggestion to ride the cable car to the top of the local mountain. At first glance the car didn’t actually seem to go that far off the ground, which was just as well as I suffer from chronic vertigo.

However, after we passed over the brow of the initial hill we swung out over an impossibly high canyon with a cavernous, 1000-foot drop below.

After a terrifying 15 minutes swinging 1000 feet over the mountain, we ended up in an alpine climate with snow, gusting winds and – even more worryingly – rampaging bears.

After taking a walk along the snowy cliff top, the journey down seemed even more daunting

And I wouldn’t want this guy’s job

Back on safe ground, I said goodbye to Len and family and pushed on along Interstate 40, which runs parallel to the old route 66. Instead of expanding the old road, the interstate was built parallel to 66, leaving many of the motels along the old “mother road” to rot and die.

And the ones that survive aren’t exactly the Ritz.

After a few hours heading west, I realized that I was in the badlands. These are barren places where no crops grow and no cattle graze.

There is little wealth and no large settlements. In fact, there’s nothing here except the odd store serving the road, and occasional Indian outposts

I stopped off at the Yellowhorse trading post to buy gas. Although the petrol station was clearly signposted from the road, it was abandoned and derelict when I arrived. It was eerie. There was nothing there but some silent, creepy-looking Indians wrapped in shawls at the side of the road.

I wandered into the adjacent shop to look for someone, but it all seemed silent and empty. In the end, I simply got back in the car and drove on

However, when I arrived at the small town of Gallup, I found that something weird had happened. My tea bags were gone. I knew they were on the front seat when I left Albuquerque, so what happened was a complete mystery. Could a stealthy Indian brave could have crept up and grabbed them while I explored the derelict store? In a test of manhood, perhaps? I know it sounds unlikely, but as a great detective once said, once you can eliminate the impossible, then an Indian must’ve nabbed your PG Tips

At Gallup, I also discovered a large crack in the car windscreen which, like several of my teeth, a local expert judged “too far gone” to be repairable. I considered getting the glass replaced before deciding that, like a facial scar, the crack added character. Though I doubt it will increase its resale value.

Then onwards to Sedona, a town of healing crystals, rock formations, granola and twee alternative cafes. The scenery is spectacular, though the residents are a little weird.

In Arizona, apparently, aliens are in dander of being stopped and deported. So I hope that this character had all his papers in order.

Then onwards to Flagstaff, where, as previously reported, I lost my camera and spilt shrimp juice on my computer. The good news is that the situation is now rectified. While in Vegas, I sent the computer off to be repaired, and on Friday I picked it up from my sister’s place. She’s also donated her old digital camera to the cause, so apart from a few continuity problems, we’re back on track.

Bad news from the Badlands

1)A shrimp-related mishap at the Ramada Hotel, Flagstaff killed my computer. An ill-advised attempt to thaw out frozen shrimp by pouring hot water into the bag ended up with shrimpy water leaking all over my poor little Acer. It fizzled, it whirred, and finally it died for good. It contained a long, about-to-be posted blog entry from Albuquerque, Sedona, Santa Fe and Flagstaff.

2)There’s a big crack in the car windscreen, which, I have been told, can’t be repaired. Fuck knows how that happened. But I’m currently living in dread that it will extend, spiders’ web-like, across the entire windscreen, blocking my vision and sending me hurtling into one of Arizona’s many rocky chasms.

3)I’ve lost my camera, which contains some wonderful pics from Albuquerque, my friend Len, and a real illegal alien spotted in Arizona

4)By far the biggest tragedy of all – the loss of tea bags, most likely swiped by Red Indians in the badlands of New Mexico. I discovered the loss shortly after leaving the Yellowhorse trading post. Right now, I suspect, Big Chief Yellowhorse and his mates are sitting round the campfire enjoying “um heap good cuppa” while I have to make do with crappy hotel Liptons.

The car windscreen can wait – I can still see through it. The computer needs replacing, as the cranky old spare I’m writing on now could die at any moment. My phone takes pics, after a fashion, though it has not really captured the true grandeur of the Grand Canyon, where I was today.

Still, things could be a lot worse. The car is still going, I’m still relatively healthy. And I’ll be in Sin City soon – just a day’s drive from LA and the Pacific coast.

I think it may soon be time to start misbehavin’…

The Clench-Fist’d Tiger

I wrote a long update featuring Albuqueque, Sedona, Flagstaff and the badlands of New Mexico. But my computer is fucked, and the blog was on it. So instead, I’m posting a poem I wrote some years ago when I aspired to higher things than a crappy travel journal. So, without further ado and with apologies to William Blake…

The Clench-Fist’d Tiger

Tiger, Tiger, burning bright
‘Cept when play’s stopped for bad light
Lithe of frame and eagle eye  
Skilled on grass, both wet and dry  

Determined grimace, clench’ed fist   
Seldom second serves are missed
Base line skills and, better yet –        
Knows when to approach the net  

Armed with racket, fire in heart
Master of the tennis art
Slazenger shirt instead of fur
O British Tiger, Grr! Grr! Grr!