Los Angeles – Tuesday – The happiest place on earth

(Wherein our hero discovers patience is a virtue, but nowhere near as virtuous as a good fedora)

On my final day in the Americas, having flown from New York to Los Angeles (and having been surprised with business class seats, thanks to dad – verily, friends, it is the only way to travel!) I naturally had only one thought for how I would spend my day in LA. DISNEYLAND!!! “The happiest place on earth”, they call it. Well, I accepted that challenge. I began by watching some classic Mickey Mouse cartoons, being shocked to discover that our dear Mickey quite happily indulged in animal abuse, and, frankly, sexual assault. Once again, I found our primitive ways mocked by these Americans, with their future-worlds. Naturally, I rode the space mountain, and the MIGHTY WORM of the 45 minute line that preceded it. Truly friends, Disneyland is a land of queues. The line for Splash Mountain? 70 minutes. I took a quick drive through toon town, (courtesy of my newly minted learner’s license) and found that I had to stop for a refreshing cup of tea, before continuing on for piratical adventures. When I got there, they had just reopened the line, after closing it for some unspecified reason. The result? No wait for Spencer! It is a sad thing to say, but that may have been one of the most exciting things to happen. Seriously – no wait. They’ve added the characters from the film into the ride as well, but fortunately not in an especially obnoxious way. Did I ride the Indiana Jones ride, you ask? Verily! Twice! The first time, the lady whose job it was to check that we were all buckled into the car correctly said to me ” You should remove your hat, because it’ll come off during the ride, and you’ll lose it forever .” My gruff reply? “Lady, my hat was built for this ride.” Surrounded by so many fedora’d personages (truly friends, the Indiana Jones ride is a girls-in-fedoras-lover’s paradise) Indiana Harding found himself pondering, “Have I found my spiritual home?” Possibly! (I did receive several hat-compliments, as well, I must add). I found my self confused by disingenuous signage, but finally found myself relenting to Walt’s unstoppable juggernaut , before dashing back to the hotel to get the shuttle to the airport.

Thus, dear friends, ends the account of my adventures abroad. It is worth considering that, were it submitted for academic consideration, this epic tale would no doubt receive two Distinctions, a Credit, and a polite reminder from the philosophy department that not actually answering the question is, in theory, a failable offence. I would like to express my most sincere gratitude to my parents, especially my father, without whom this trip would have been little more than the fevered dream of a madman. I do hope that you are all as amused and exhausted by my adventures as I am, and find there is only one thing left to ask:

How has your week been?

Much love,

Spencer

P.S. Yes, I do still have the theme to Phantom of the Opera stuck in my head.

DAMN YOU ANDREW LLOYD WEBBER!

New York – Monday – Half days and road rage

(Wherein our intrepid hero discovers mustard)

On my final day in New York, I am afraid I must admit I was rather dull, for the most part. I began by spending what can only be termed an excessive amount of time on post-cards. (Having to wait half an hour in line at the post office certainly didn’t help matters) and I also embarked on some rather unsuccessful shopping expeditions. I did, however, visit the site of the former centres of world trade, which you can see coming from several blocks away, on one’s approach, as a section of the road and buildings up ahead are brilliantly lit up by the sun, in stark contrast to the buildings around them. The reason for this is, of course, because there are no buildings to block the light. The site itself is rather unremarkable, construction is currently proceeding, and the fence is covered in that green plastic Hessian substance that they tend to cover the fences surrounding construction sites in. I managed to see numerous other landmarks on the way, though time didn’t permit stopping to be photographed in front of them, and besides, how many of you really want to see me doing the Thriller dance in front of the Municipal building or the U.S. Courthouse? Also, I lunched upon hot dogs, deciding to try one with mustard, a condiment, which for some reason, I had never before encountered, and of which I can only ask: where has it been all my life? Finally I rushed down to Battery Park, for one last photo, where it was becoming clear that it was probably a good thing that I was leaving New York, as I was clearly running out of poses, before having to get a taxi to the subway station (so short of time was I) to get back to the apartment, to get to the airport, &c., which once again involved getting out in traffic and running (it is a curious reversal in New York that taking public transport is actually faster than taking a taxi.) On the way to the airport I managed to capture one final image of curious United-Statesiana.

New York – Sunday – Bookstores and vicious Irishmen

(Wherein our intrepid hero finds that the lure of the craft too great to resist)

I began my final full day with some wanderance in central park, enjoying its… parkiness. Again I note the distinctly equine scent of the park. Truly, it must be visited by thousands of horses a day, I think. (Or else I was just in a particularly horse-dense section). I also saw squirrels – marvellous wee beasties! Eventually I made my way to the Frick collection, where I indulged in some art. If you go to New York, I highly recommend this gallery, and suggest that you keep your eye out for ” Portrait of teen with exorbitant codpiece“. Not the painting’s real name, to be sure, but I can assure you, you’ll know it when you see it, and then you won’t be able to see anything butit… Then, as I found I needed to make my way to NoLiTo (Which is apparently an abbreviation of “North of Little Italy” – don’t ask me how it’s supposed to work) to meet Georgina, a friend of a friend, for lunch. Lunch was rather splendid, and we arrived upon the agreement that the burgers in America are most definitely better than those in Australia. (Don’t ask me how, or why, they just are.) Thence I went to The Strand bookstore, where, in total defiance of your desire for amusing anecdotes, I spent about 5 hours shopping for books. Next time, I think I’ll buy more books. Oh, on the way I did find this billboard, which I added to the casualty list. I only regret that I did not get a photo next to a billboard advertising the forthcoming Bratz movie. That’s right, they’re making a movie based on those teach-your-children-the-joys-of-teen-prostitution dolls. After this I headed straight to The Spotted Pig, in the East Village, with my rather excessive cache of books in tow, including a copy of the exceedingly rare archy and mehitabel, which it is my great pleasure to possess. The spotted pig is a rather delightful pub, the first pub I’d been to that was like those back home (except smaller, of course). I had some devilled horse-somethings, I don’t know, they’re prunes stuffed with pear and wrapped in bacon with some kind of sauce. Quite delicious. Once again, after an indeterminate period of time, the bar staff started providing drinks for free. At the bar, I found myself in conversation with a somewhat irate Irishman, who declared conspiratorially to me (on finding I was a fellow member of the commonwealth) ” You’re probably the only one in here who knows what black Irish even is” (He was black Irish, apparently) “Damn right!” I effused enthusiastically. (Subsequent research has revealed that black Irish are, in fact, Irish people with dark hair. So there you go, we’ve both learnt something today and now can stop trying for the rest of the afternoon.) He expressed his dissatisfaction with the service provided, and revealed to me that he had applied to tend bar here (with ten year’s experience under his belt), but had been turned down in favour of a young woman with no experience, but, well… breasts. It is at this point that my Achilles heel was triggered, gentle reader, and I can only hope you do not condemn me too greatly for what followed. For, whilst I found the service to be entirely acceptable, indeed, rather good even (free booze will do that to an opinion) – even from the apparently inexperienced bartendress – nevertheless, the wit in me, that part of me devoted solely to the craft of a good jab, an elegant barb, a splendid one-liner, overcame all other delicacies of my personality, and I found myself furnishing our Irish associate (who was, it must be said, planning on far cruder and more colourful expressions of sentiment) with the following: “The service was terrible, but at least it wasn’t frequent.”

New York – Saturday – Poems and porn

(Wherein our intrepid hero crashes a funeral… sort of)

Frances, the lady whose sanctum sanctorum I was availing myself of, had located for me a listing in the New York Sun, which read as follows: ” The Sound of Blues The Bowery Poetry club hosts “Praise Day” an afternoon of open-mic readings and a spoken-word performance given by a Harlem-born poet, Sekou Sundiata. Poets are invited to share uplifting verse and stories. Mr. Sundiata came of age during the Black Arts/Black Aesthetic movement of the 1960’s and 1970s, and his work continues to be informed by the sounds and beats of jazz, blues, funk, and Afro-Caribbean percussion. He is currently a professor of English literature at the New School University. ” For a newspaper, he had an awful lot of information, don’t you think?

So, I head to bowery, which is basically at the point where Greenwich and East Villages meet, which is basically not anything that means anything to any of you, I’m sure. On the way I found myself in a street fair, looking at street-fairey things, (I may have bought an LP purely because it had Burt Reynolds on the cover, what of it?.) I had a gyro, which watchers of Seinfeld might recall from that one particular episode, The TV Guide, if I recall correctly. It’s basically like a kebab, but flatter and wider, and with this white sauce which was so delicious that it could only have been made from cute puppies. Finally, I make my way to the club, where I sit down with a frosty ale for some uplifting poetry, and discover… it’s a memorial service.

Apparently, Sekou Sundiata had died the previous week, and so they where holding a memorial in his honour. So, did I, the 6′3” white guy in an Indiana Jones hat feel out of place, surrounded by mournful black poets? NOT AT ALL! WHAT NONSENSE YOU SUGGEST! Nevertheless, it was a truly excellent experience, with people getting up to read either Sekou’s work, or their own, with an intensity far greater than that of a regular poetry reading. At one point, this tiny old man with a walking stick almost as tall as him, named Lewis, stood up to read some of Sekou’s poems from the one book that he ever published, in the 70’s, ” Free“. This tiny, Yoda-like figure read with a passion and intensity unmatched by any that took the stage. Apparently he was the guy that had organised publication of this book way back when, as people asked him if he still had copies – indeed he did. Afterwards, I went to him and asked if I could have a copy mailed to me (as I was leaving in a mere two days) and, upon revelation of the fact that I was from Australia, he reached into his bag, and handed me his copy, that he had been reading from. Naturally, I was blown away.

After that, I bought tickets to Curtains over the phone,  having no intention of being burnt three times in a row. Then I returned to the club for another poetry reading, this time by two poetesses, Mindy Nettifee and Amber Tamblyn, who is apparently “Kind of a big deal” (I have to admit I had no idea who she was) who were on a book tour. Anyway, after some more excellent poetry, I find myself hanging out with them, and let me tell you, friends, verily; the poetess is the finest of all god’s creatures. Thus it was a cruel irony that I found myself having to leave, to make Curtains, which I would otherwise have decided to leave for another evening.

This is not to say, however that Curtains was not magnificent, truly, it was. It was worth it if for nothing else to see David Hyde Peirce tap-dancing. (That’s Niles from Frasier, for those of you wondering) – Indeed, the show featured several Frasier refugees, including Edward Hibbert (who was Gil Chesterton – the restaurant critic). Who turned out resplendently in his all leather cowboy outfit for the grand finale, I can assure you.

After this, I decided to head to the Empire State Building, on my way discovering that the billboards of New York are liable to delve into natures pornographic, such is the depravity of this Sodom and Gomorrah! Rest assured, gentle readers, that in the face of such lewdity, I retained my dignified and unflappable sense of decorum and propriety . After this, I fixed on the decision that, between the billboards of the city and I, there could only exist a state of TOTAL WAR. Finally, I arrived at the Empire State Building, where I acquired, for your amusement, dear readers, a generic tourist photo. (Ok, so they shot it in front of a green screen, and without knowing what I’m working with, I don’t know what to do…) However, from my lofty position, I was able to look down upon the tiny city below, confident in the knowledge that, if I so wished, I could crush it mercilessly with my mighty feet. Instead, I merely opted to terrorise it in the usual fashion, and after some bewildering dancing, was sated. On my return to the apartment, I stopped to let the building know who’s boss.

Finally, returning to the apartment, strolling alongside Central Park, I am struck, on my 14 block journey, by the olfactory omnipresence of the scent of horse manure. A curious thing indeed.

New York – Friday – Life is a Cabaret

(Wherein our intrepid hero makes the trip from ‘nam flashbacks to drunken renditions of My Way in a single bound, taxi ride and some frantic running)

After awakening to discover a missed call from dearest mother, from 6am, and imagining that the only possible reason for a such-timed call is the sudden discontinuation of a beloved relative, I find that even my implacable, taciturn self in a state of panic as I attempt to remember the altered method of retrieving messages from message bank whilst overseas. Finally, I retrieve the message… ” Hi, we can’t get the internet to work. Can you give me a call when you get this?” Truly, this reaches, to my mind, the bounds of absurdity. Terrifying international calls for tech support notwithstanding, I begin my day by attending a shopping expedition, as I have decided, in the cold light of day that the t-shirt I purchased was entirely inappropriate, and entirely beneath my dignity – a fact rendered more curious by the fact that I was reasonably sober when I purchased it. (The theatre at which I saw The Phantom of the Opera, unlike the much more civilised theatre at which I viewed Rent, did not allow one to take drinks to one’s seat. Truly barbaric.) Thus I returned to the Times Square shop where I had purchased the shirt to return it, before heading to Macy’s, apparently the largest department store in the world, in the hopes of procuring clean clothes. Their complete lack of store directories did mean that yes, gentle readers, I got lost, and found myself in the furniture section of the eleventh floor, seeking directions. Eventually, I found my way to the menswear section, where after some considerable effort and time; I managed to find a pair of pants and a top that I could approve of. Informed by the helpful salesperson that out of town shoppers receive an 11% discount (the sales tax, apparently) meant a trip to the visitor’s centre, which I managed without too much discombobulation, however, naturally I found myself waylaid on my return by a discovery of linen shirts. Long story short (too late), I find myself the owner of garments which I have since learned are, apparently, the label of a rap mogul. A Mr. Puff Daddy, apparently.

I then returned home to drop off my clothes, shower, change and pick up my clean clothes from the Laundromat. All things considered, the shopping trip was probably unnecessary, however, it was the principle of the thing. I did my best, gentle readers, to have myself in clean clothes as quickly as possible. Thence I headed to Greenwich Village, once more to the Cornelia Street Café, where I had found out an open-mic poetry night was to be held. Truly, it was exactly as one would expect, with such splendid lines as “I am a phoenix, and each time I die I am reborn in a more expensive pair of shoes…”, finally ending when the last poet started having ‘nam flashbacks during his recital. Part of the poem? Hard to say .

After departing the poetry session, I called the box office, and was told there was a rather good centre seat available for Curtains, but the ticket seller suggested that I buy it at the box office, as I would avoid some fees. As I figured there would be a possibility of my not arriving in time, this seemed a wise decision. Thus I began a harried trip across town to the theatre district by taximetered cabriolet, with a mere half an hour to reach the theatre, eventually finding myself stuck in traffic, some five blocks away (That’s East-West blocks. The grid of Manhattan is made up of rectangular blocks, with the east-west lengths being considerably longer than the north-south ones, and, frankly, are a bitch to traverse). Thus I leapt out of the taxi, and ran the remainder of the way, arriving, sweaty and panting, to discover that once more, only partial view seats were left. So, I find myself consulting my guide book, asking the question, ” What haven’t I done yet?” The answer comes back: “Cabaret!” A trip to a nearby cabaret club revealed that it, like so much else in the city (even the subway, in fact, which I must admit was looking rather derelict), was undergoing renovations. Not to fear however, as a renewed consultation revealed a second club, Don’t Tell Mama, right across the street. My night was officially open-ended, as a call to NBC studios had revealed that Late Night with Conan O’Brien wasn’t taping this week. Thus began an evening of rollicking Cabaret, featuring, amongst the many classics, the Super Mario Bros. theme. I kid you not. Sadly, the pianist new neither Hold the line nor Be Prepared (from The Lion King) thus my musical magnificence went undisplayed, I’m afraid.   I also found myself the recipient of the attentions of a somewhat older gent. Fortunately, innumerate demonstrations generously provided over the years by scores of the fairer sex for my benefit mean that I am well schooled in the art of tactfully and graciously deflecting unwelcome advances. At some point, my Australian charm was evidently working its magic once more, I found myself the recipient of free drinks from the bartendress. (This, too, would become a somewhat recurrent theme).

By 11pm our intrepid Orpheus had decided that a return to the apartment impractical – at best, 4 hours of sleep might be gained before it would be necessary to rise, if hopes of acquisition of Saturday Night Live tickets might be achieved, and such rest was as likely to prove a hindrance as a benefit. Thus, instead, cabaret would provide a warm, comforting bosom of accommodation ’til 4am, at which point our intrepid hero would make a meandering journey to the studio, to prepare for lining up for the tickets released at 7am. The three hours of waiting; an extravagance? Perhaps. But at least success would be all but guaranteed.

Or so he thought . Having written the preceding passage during my 6 hour wait at the cabaret club, it can be taken as a fair expression of my thoughts at the time. However, after shuffling out with the last stragglers at 4:30, (not before getting this photo in the bathroom – gee, I sure managed to make that sound good, didn’t it?) I made my way to Rockefeller Plaza, (on the way discovering important news) where at 5 o’clock, somewhat surprised that no-one else was waiting; I discovered one of the doors to the studios open. Intrigued, and with nothing else to do, I wandered inside. There, I met a surprisingly well informed guard, who revealed to me a drastic secret: Saturday Night Live is on hiatus until September – information which, I can assure you, is not presented anywhere on their website or phone service . What’s more, apparently by 5am (on actual taping days) there would already be at least 100 people camped out, waiting for tickets. Thus, resigned, I decided to return to the apartment for some much needed sleep. Whilst the idea of just soldiering on and experiencing a sleep-deprived whirlwind hallucination tour of NY over the next 19 or so hours did seem somewhat tempting, I felt I could probably leave that for another day.

New York – Thursday – Dah dah, dah dah, dah daaaaah

(Wherein our intrepid hero gets the theme to Phantom of the Opera stuck in his head for the rest of the trip)

After an ethonolic-recovery-mandated somniatic session, some wandering around the upper west side, including the depositment of my dirty clothes at a nearby Laundromat, inquiry into the availability of tickets to The Daily Show with Jon Stewart was rendered. The result? A ticket booked online, and instructions to be waiting in line by 3:30, (The show begins taping at about 6). Waiting in line with some friendly ex-Nova-Yorkians, who had returned to the city to do all the things they never did when they lived here (some things are a universal constant, it seems), who obligingly assisted in the taking of another of mine daguerrotipic reproductions of species Spencerius in situ. Water and ice-pops were handed out by a friendly intern, who no doubt spent four years at film school for the privilege. I amused the security staff and interns alike with tales of Emu hunting, explaining that the crocodile hunter is, in fact, the dandy of the outback hunting world. Finally, entrance to the studio, where once more I find myself in the centre, this time 4th row, and a rousing warm-up by production assistants, capped off by a Q&A session with messr. Stewart hisself, the highlight of which, the final question, courtesy of an especially frail 86 year old woman in the front row: ” Does your wife know I’m in bed with you every night?” Those of you that have opportunity to catch the 26th of July episode may now understand his comment “ Honey, if you’re watching, I have bad news… We have company tonight. ” at the opening of the episode, which is otherwise left unexplained.

Thence, a rapid trip to the theatre district, to TKTS, whence tickets to Curtains were sought. For the discount price of $75, I was offered “partial view” seats. (Apparently, getting to see the whole show is a privilege reserved for those willing to pay over $100)… “Would you like box seats to Phantom of the Opera instead?” Yes, yes I would.

Spectacular, of course. Are we surprised by this?

Following this, a late-night wander around Times Square, in hopes of procuring some clothes, having realised that all of my clothes were now either dirty, or hostage of the laundromat until Friday afternoon. Finally, having secured a clean t-shirt and pair of socks at the Quicksilver store (how far to travel, to end up with Australian surfwear!) I headed to The Pink Pony, a quiet bohemian respite in the East Village from the noisy clubs nearby that I neglected to patronise… After some time spent doing my best to bewilder the bar staff with spelling questions; Cacophonous? Salacious? I made my way back to the apartment.

New York – Wednesday – “I was just thinking I must have a problem, because none of my relationships have lasted as long as Hitler and Eva Braun’s”

(Wherein the theme of rapidly altered plans begins its slide towards regularity)
or
Trips to the theatre, followed by generous quantities of wine
(Wherein our intrepid hero discovers New York is a city of plans changed on the fly)

Slightly fatigued from the aforementioned late night boozing and crooning session with the stand-up comics of Times Square, The day began slightly later than might be considered ideal, but rest assured, gentle reader, that I continue to do my best to exhaust my frail, mortal flesh in pursuit of anecdotes and adventures for your amusement. (I am, naturally, entirely unamused by this entire enterprise.) Wanderings around the west side, and consultations of Time Out eventually yielded the decision to attend a screening of Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, at Film Forum in Greenwich Village. Arriving in the ‘lage with time to spare, I spent a while in Washington Square Park, performing the act of people watching, which is apparently de rigueur for said venue. Then I went in search of 75 ½ Bedford St, purely for your amusement, Eoin, as it is apparently the narrowest house in New York, at just 9 ½ feet wide. Thence to the theatre, where, upon reflection on the fact that Woodsy Allen’s fillum Manhattan was ending its run on Thursday, a decision to alter one’s plans was made. Who wants to watch two hours of early twentieth century black and white silent German science-fiction cum social commentary anyway? This, along with the consumption of an egg cream, (which Time Out knowingly informed me that said combination “may be the most New York thing you could possibly do“) thus provided a delightful afternoon’s diversion. Following this, I made my way to Chumley’s, a Greenwich Village speakeasy that hasn’t seen fit to advertise its presence since the end of prohibition, only to discover that sadly, it was closed for restoration. (A double check of the secret side entrance confirmed that the scaffolding and boards were not, in fact, a cunning ruse.) Thus I headed to the nearby Cornelia Street Café, where, in the downstairs nook, I enjoyed some cool blues, and met another of the consistently prevalent Australians of New York City. It was here that I was struck by the observation that New York is a vast collection of confined spaces, a collection of niches and bolthole, where not an inch is wasted. It is a place where players of bass must beware the drummer’s face with their guitar. One cannot help but feel that its denizens find every cubic foot as precious as air. There seems an almost utilitarian pride in the snaking pipes and conduits in plain sight, no space wasted to hide them. It never feels confined though – a more “romantic” (and decidedly poorer) writer than I might attribute this to the unconstrained possibility of the unblinking, restless city. Not I, though. To me, it seems as though every space is a secret nook, like a hideaway of carefully stacked boxes on the balcony off your room, accessible only through a window and a series of increasingly acrobatic manoeuvres, which you constructed as a child. (Some kind of brambles-and-discarded-wood fort in a rarely visited park nearby your childhood home would also suffice in this particular slimily.) Following a delicious burger, and the closure of the venue, I made a trip to Bongo, a bohemian bar that was nowhere at all nearby. Finally arriving at the bar to discover it deserted and upon the cusp of closure, I shared a solitary drink with the owner before beginning the lonely voyage back to the apartment for another night of requisite retirement to one’s comfortably cushioned chambers.

New York – Tuesday – One Thousand, Four Hundred and Forty Minutes

(Wherein bohemian artistes and comedians conspire to corrupt and amuse our intrepid hero)

My first day in New York was what one might describe as reasonably eventful. Having misjudged the length of the flight from Seattle, because I forgot to take time zones into account, meant that I only actually got four hours sleep. The result: upon arrival at the apartment, I sat down to take off my socks for a shower, and woke up four hours later. Thence I went to the bank to extract the funds for accommodation, which had to be paid up front and in cash. The result? Big wad of cash. Thence I wandered a bit, going to Gray’s Papaya for their “world famous” hot dogs (not bad, though I think I’d skip the sauerkraut next time) before meandering up to Central Park, where, with a handy copy of Time Out magazine, I finally settled upon going to see Rent the musical, on Broadway. An hour and a half later I was in the theatre, 9 ^th row centre, once again taking photos of things you’re not supposed to take photos of, for your benefit, dear readers. The show was, of course, awesome, and Patrick was right, it does show up La Boheme for the petty piece of plagiarism that it is. Then I walked up to Times Square, where I was unable to find any of this mysterious “square time” (though not for wont of looking). I visited the Virgin Megastore, which I suppose was somewhat mega, but let’s not go crazy here, before stopping at TGI Friday’s for some dinner. There I supped upon stuffed potato skins, which are potato skins filled with melted cheese and bacon, and which most certainly reduced my lifespan, and washed it down with cherry limeade, which I am almost certain was in fact, just a glass full of pink sherbet. Then I went to the HA! Comedy Club, a little underground affair just of Times Square, where no less than 5 of the comedians made some joke about the whacky bearded Australian sitting up the front (with at least two making some reference to the Amish). After this, I went with some of the comics to the adjoining Karaoke bar, where, unable to find Land Down Under on the system, I wowed them all with my magnificent rendition of Hold The Line, by none other than the magnificent Toto, of course. Finally, Karaoke wrapping up at about 3am, I made my way back to the apartment, on the way noting that whilst the city may not necessarily sleep, at 3am it definitely takes a nap.

Seattle – World of tomorrow!

(Wherein the future is glimpsed, and photographed, despite museum policy)

On the way in we passed a factory, replete with smokestacks, labelled “Zymogenetics” clearly, this is where they grow the clones. For Seattle is the city of tomorrow! Featuring the needle of space! Buildings able to induce psychosis! Ultra Modern Art so Ultra Modern that it’s Meta-Modern! Behold, so far in the future are they, that they hold our dreams of the future quaint, and display in museums things which for us are but the idle fancy of madmen! Witness how their archaeologists divine anthropological understandings of our primitive culture from curious artefacts of the distant past! (Once again, I indulge you with photographs of THAT WHICH MUST NOT BE PHOTOGRAPHED… Well, until I accidentally left the flash on for one shot, and got noticed by a guard…). Feigning ignorance to their future-laws of anti-daguerrotypica, I escaped punishment and carousel. Truly, I should practice my thespian deception in professional application.

Thence I summited the mighty needle itself, where I proceeded to terrorise the city with my awesome might. Truly, it was splendid.

Dispatches… part deux

(Wherein our intrepid hero travels from the northern wastes of Canada to the rebel separatist’s stronghold, and thence the happiest place on earth)

Following my previous missive, a close associate, whose name – evocative of eastern rivers and nations – shall remain undisclosed, suggested that rather than distributing the tales of my adventures through the mail electronic, I ought, instead, to create a blog. The effrontery! The sheer obscenity of such a suggestion! To advise that I might file away my writings in some dark corner of the internet, to be easily overlooked by you all. And worse still, to convert me into a blogger. Scandal! Scandal I say! Rest assured, you’ll not rid yourselves of me so easily. The mere idea that I might hide my brilliant creations, when I stand before you at the very peak of my brilliance, at the very zenith of my exponentially growing magnificence, which each day advances to further heights, attaining greater zenithiousity as I march further north into the fields of my own spectacularity! Obscenity of the highest degree. Do not imagine that I sit here, wearing away my elegant fingers at the cruel keys of the cycloptican computer, bringing my frail self to the edge of exhaustion, the very limit that my poor mortal self can handle, merely for the satisfying clicking sound of the keyboard. Nay, and not for the edification of my most glorious ego, either. No dear friends, I do it all for you. I break myself upon the rocks of grammar and the sharp edges of plot development for your amusement. – And let us not forget the harsh mistress of character development. And do not think I do not know how few of you have viewed my images, and thus – by extension – perused (much less I dare expect, absorb) my artful prose. Truly, you would deny yourselves such grandeur, only to emerge from a bookstore some months hence with some dime-store hackery produced by some flowing-haired golden boy whose adventures in Peru you found too irresistible to avoid. Yes, I know the way of you! But fear not, dear friends, for I love you, still. Such is the weakness of my heart.

Or perhaps I’ve just been to one too many poetry readings.

Canada

“No land in the globe affords a more appropriate setting for stories of adventure and exploration, whether found in fiction or drawn from real experience, than the great Wild West of North America. Not the degenerate West of the present day, vulgarised by cattle ranches and mining camps, but the free, boundless expanse of virgin forest and prairie, the home of the whooping, scalping Red Indian, the grizzly bear, and the buffalo in its innumerable herds.”

Something which I forgot to mention in the previous eMail was an incident witnessed on the bus on the first day out and about. A real, honest-to-goodness Canadian dispute. Basically, this couple didn’t get off at their stop, because… well, I don’t know. I think they believed the bus was going to stop again where it had picked them up earlier on, about 10 metres away. Anyway, the result was the lady profusely apologising for not getting off, while the bus driver was similarly repentant for not reminding them that this was their stop (though considering that they had apparently caught the bus from there earlier in the day, it should have been pretty obvious). The dispute ended with the bus driver saying “it’s nobody’s fault, sometimes things just happen”. I’m sure I am entirely failing in my attempts to capture the bizarre over-politeness of the situation. Anyway, this is apparently the standard style of Canadian disputes, which made this sight all the more surprising. Apparently, fiduciary disputes are settled in the Canadian wilderness through the ancient art of van-painting.

Day 4
Spending the first part of the day in White Rock, dealing with the many and sundry things that needed dealing with, like washing, and my accommodation in New York, I then went to have lunch with Emily, which, naturally, also involved a spot of shoe shopping, before boarding the bus to Vancouver. My plan for the day, having decided that the whole sightseeing thing’s kinda only fun for a little while, was to spend some more time in Mcleod’s, before wandering up to the art gallery for some art. Emily was heading in after work so that we could go see The Neins Circa play at the Media Club. So, long story short, come 6 o’clock, I’m being shuffled out of Mcleod’s, having spent the whole day there. Slightly saddened by the fact that I couldn’t find a book Emily had shown me there the other day, on advice for a wife (which was, I can assure you, most entirely splendid) I did, however, manage to acquire some real gems. Including The Romance of Modern Exploration, and The Art of Kissing , from whence the following magnificent passages come: “It is, therefore, necessary that the man be taller than the woman, the psychological reason for this is that he must always give the impression of being the woman’s superior, both mentally and especially physically. …And all of these are impossible when the woman is the taller of the two. For when the situation is reversed, the kiss becomes only a ludicrous banality. The physical mastery is gone, the male prerogative is gone, everything is gone but the fact that two lips are touching two other lips. Nothing can be more disappointing.”

“…the first thing he should do is arrange it so that the girl is seated against the arm of the sofa while he is seated at her side. In this way, she cannot edge away from him when he becomes serious in his attentions. …If she flinches, don’t worry. If she flinches and makes an outcry, don’t worry. If she flinches, makes an outcry and tries to get up from the sofa, don’t worry. Hold her, gently but firmly, and allay her fears with kind, reassuring words. Remember what Shakespeare said about “a woman’s no!” However, if she flinches, makes an outcry, a loud, stentorian outcry, mind you, and starts to scratch your face, then start to worry or start to get yourself out of a bad situation. Such girls are not to be trifled with… or kissed. It is such as they, in most cases, who still believe the story of the stork who brings babies as the consequence of a kiss.”

“…your next step is to flatter her in some way. All women like to be flattered. They like to be told they are beautiful even when the mirror throws the lie back into their ugly faces.”

So, tallness, eh? Well, no problems there… eh ladies? So, from Mcleod’s I go to meet Emily, and we have some sushi for dinner, as well as picking through a vintage clothing store. (It was only with the strongest of willpower that I resisted buying a Rod Stewart belt buckle) before heading to the Media Club. (Stopping off at the Vancouver public library for some thoughtful ponderances) Three bands played, the best of which was definitely the Neins, whose lead singer came on stage carrying balloons in a green two-piece straight out of the 70’s, and a panda mask. It is a safe assumption to suggest that, whilst experiencing a wide range of emotions, and some tattooing , we had a good time. Then we wandered to Andrey’s, where we were supposed to be spending the night, only to discover that he was out gallivanting, the cad. So we caught an excessively expensive taxi back to White Rock, amusing ourselves on the journey with an improvised Disney & William Shatner karaoke session courtesy of my mp3 player. Suffice it to say, it was an epic journey.

Of the remainder of adventures in Canada, I shall do my best to compress the details, particularly as there are some 5,000 words following on my adventures in the United States. Suffice it to say I decided to buy the hat, though not before discovering an (inferior?) alternative at I Love Hats, the store where I was also taunted, as usual, by the whispered promise of a derby that almost fit. I decided to get a delightfully touristy photo of “ Authentic Vancouver” for your amusement, which was taken shortly before being approached by a fellow Australian suffering from grievous calamity at the hands of the authorities. Whilst I won’t reproduce his (somewhat incoherent) narrative, suffice it to say the best part was when he said ” you can tell I’m not on drugs“, having just told me he was from Byron Bay – hah! Right! Anyway, on with the show. I found more evidence of the government’s threats against a wasteful public, and spent some time with Andrey, who I don’t think likes me very much. In fact, I got the distinct impression he was trying to bore me to death with psychic boredom-rays. I actually felt like I was being chloroformed. We attended the midnight book launch of Harry Potter, operating on the logic that, after all, it would be probably the only chance I’d ever have to go to a midnight book launch. Emily, not at all into Potteralia, did her best to amuse herself with some of the more laughable merchandises, but suffice it to say that following my moment of triumph , and my telling the cashier “Actually, I’m just here for some Dan Brown… ” we bid a hasty retreat.

More documentation of the advertisements of Canadia, observe the TELUS monkeys; who stare at you with their beady little eyes, judging you. Strange talismans, and promises of “mountain magic ” led us to what turned out, disappointingly, to be a mountaineering store. Hardly any magic at all! We returned to the puppet store, for more puppetry, including more lurking puppets, a taste of home, and of course, the noble octopode. After encountering a terrifying frog creature, I practised my seductivity on a Canadian merwoman, but found her to be a bit, well, wooden. We went to the Vancouver art museum, where in the interest of winning a wager on outrageous behaviour, I photographed Emily in front of a Picasso in a bikini (fear not, art lovers, I triple checked that the flash was off before proceeding). Suffice it to say, the wager was won. You will not, however, see photos of this, as I’m not sure it’s entirely appropriate, and also, if I were to display these photos, I’m sure I would be obliged to display the images of my own public semi-nudity, which I can assure you, is not going to happen. It is useful to note, however, how little people react to someone stripping off into a bikini in the middle of a museum. Perhaps a useful lesson for the future? After an unsuccessful and lengthy search for Katsu Don, we ate a restaurant where I found my every move scrutineered by multiple portraits of the indomitable Frida Kahlo. Suffice it to say; it was unsettling. Nevertheless, I enjoyed my perogies with a zestful vigour.

We followed this up with some delicious plastic ice-cream, and I got some photos in my spiffing new hat by a gen-u-ine New York cab (such that I wouldn’t see in my entire time in New York). And had a conversation with a charming homeless man who extolled the virtues of my kind eyes (apparently, they’re pretty kind) and magnificent stature. We met up with Emily’s sister, (newly returned from South Korea) and her brother and Sonny, and went to Gastown, where I was promising them the mysterious delights of “Canvas“. – an art gallery I had found a few days earlier, where the friendly assistant had suggested that I return on Saturday, when they (supposedly) have bongo music, and what I was lead to believe was a generally bohemian atmosphere. I had hoped, naturally, to surprise the Canuckians with my discovery of an awesome bo-ho bar replete with bongos and berets. This of course, was entirely not the case. Instead, overpriced and unpleasant cocktails and deejaying were our fare during our brief stop. It was clearly some sort of yuppie trap, for yuppies. Of the photos taken, I can assure you, the joy displayed is entirely counterfeit.

Thus, on a high note, I shall end my account of travails in Canada, and begin with the epic that was my time in the rebel stronghold, The United States of America.