Chappers and I went off-piste this week, as far as any of our plans were concerned. I last mentioned I was sat in Monterrey airport, waiting to go back to Houston, and thence I knew not where.
I think we strayed onto the black-run, and nearly went skiing off a cliff (metaphorically speaking still).
We left much of our stuff locked in the Dodge Ram in the car park, and took enough clothing for a couple of days, our toothbrushes, laptop, and essential wires for phones etc. Eventually we boarded our flight, and a while later landed in Houston. We then took another flight up to Philadelphia - the city of brotherly love.
I was strung along all day as to what was going on, and was rather bored to be honest. Chappers hired another car, and we decided we'd see what we could see around the area, but there wasn't much really outside the city so it just sat in the hotel car park. I took in the Liberty Bell and a few of the other must-see sights, then went to enjoy consuming a Philadelphia cheese-steak sandwich from the city for which it was named. In fact I consumed two, one after the other. One from "Pat's King of Steaks" and "Geno's Steaks", which are on opposite sides of the street from one another, and decades-old rivals. I was so full I felt ill, and I knew I'd be shitting breeze-blocks the next day but I didn't care. It had to be done! In the afternoon I met Chappers as we had agreed, from which point we took a taxi from our hotel up to Citizens Bank Park, for game three of the World Series! Chappers' furtive telephone activities in a Mexican gas station toilet had apparently been taking an offer on some complimentary tickets for the games in Philly. I'm a closet baseball fan, and usually look for the Atlanta Braves results when I remember (I had a t-shirt with the logo on it when I was a kid, so I became a fan), and even watch the odd game on Channel Five at home. So we waited in line through the drizzle, got to our seats, and it absolutely pissed down. The game was delayed, I was half drenched, and spent the waiting time eating more cheese-steak, drinking beer (well, that's what the stand said it was - it was more like shandy), and facebooking from my phone. When the game did eventually begin, the anthem was sung by a gorgeous looking little thing called Taylor Swift (see here on YouTube). A lovely and moving rendition. There was a HUGE flag being held out across the field by dozens of veterans, including some injured and disabled in combat. I have to admit I shed a tear with the pure emotion of the moment. The atmosphere of pride was tangible. The game itself was okay, not too exciting. It dragged on for ever, and I was bored because I was so cold and wet, I had sobered up, and it was gone 2am by the time the game was over and we could get near a taxi. Furthermore, I was relieved to finally get to the safety of my hotel room, since I had been flirted with by a woman who I can only describe as a woolly mammoth, from the top of the 4th inning until the end of the game. She was at least 6'3" tall and 8'8" around, had enough stubble to have made 1990s George Michael jealous, and you could smell the foundation and other make-up used to mask it all from ten yards away. That awful sensation of breathing in powder all night will live with me for a long time. There was a heaving noise when she breathed too which made me constantly on edge that she was about to have a massive asthma attack, or worse. Despite this ogrish lack of any attractiveness she seemed to be under the impression that she devastatingly beautiful and sexy. Several times she leaned to whisper sweet nothings in my ear - nearly breaking my shoulder each time, sharing her horrid breath that I can only describe as peanut, eucalyptus, and tobacco. Through the course of the evening she told me (amongst other things) that:
1) Momma likes yew-roe-peeeens,
2) She 'got a whole lotta back' - which I traditionally understood to mean a curvaceous backside not an arse the size of Arkansas,
3) She gives the sweetest titty-fuck in Philly,
4) No hole is off limits.
When the game was over, I made a sharpish exit, prodding Chappers to move faster, but exiting a sports stadium is never a rapid event. She shambled out of the stadium, and milled along through the crowd right behind me. The smell of her wheezing breath stabbed warmly around my neck every couple of seconds as she panted to keep up the slow pace. The few times she pressed her bosom into my back (no doubting the intent) she nearly hurled me off my feet into the people ahead of me. When eventually I managed to get a cab, to my horror she had shoved Chappers away and she fell into it instead. Adopting a sultry voice, she used every ounce of seductiveness in her sizeable body she urged me to take her back to my place and “fuck her folds”. I wish I could report some humorous and cutting response fell from my lips, but I was so shocked and horrified I simply blurted "no thanks!" before jumping out and running down the line of cabs to hide behind the first thing that looked solid enough to protect me. I like many curvy girls and even have a secret Dawn French fetish, but boning this brontosaurus would have taken things to an all new epic level of specialism.
The next day (or technically later the same day) I managed to visit Independence Hall, but walked away from the US mint tour since they don't allow phones inside and had nowhere to leave them. I did the Pat's and Geno's thing again, and once more went to the ball game. Sunday was thankfully a dry night, and so I knew it would be more enjoyable, so long as I didn't once more encounter the woman from the night before. The anthem was a completely different experience. Pattie Labelle sang, and it was painful. It was screechy and pitchy, and the speakers in the stadium just weren't designed with such punishment in mind. There were three kids with their dad in front of me, and one of them looked absolutely terrified, while another cried. There were a couple of people booing, and the guy to my left said it was as bad as Roseanne Barr who apparently sang at a game about 20 years ago. All I know is that I thought it was bloody awful and she should be embarrassed. I wanted to put a YouTube link up but it appears all evidence of it ever happening have been covered up by the Men in Black. I can only imagine the few thousand who clapped and cheered were either tone deaf, enjoy the sound of pigs squealing, or were paid in advance by Major League Baseball to pretend they enjoyed it. Other than that, it was an enjoyable night.
However enjoyable Sunday had been at Citizens Bank Park, we decided that on Monday we would forego the tickets for the final night and headed up to NYC instead. We checked out that night, and took a night drive up to the Big Apple in the hire car. Seeing that heaving mass of lights grow on the horizon is quite an experience!
Our flights back to Mexico were due to leave Philly at half past five in the evening so we needed to leave NYC no later than 1pm to have a fair chance of making it on time. We enjoyed a morning wandering around and shopping for toys and gadgets, including a new Macbook Air that set me back $2500, and filled a new suitcase with new clothes. Guessing parcel post is probably really cheap in Mexico, I had made my mind up to bundle the suitcase up in Monterrey and post it to a friend back home so I'd have a new wardrobe on my return. We had a good lunch in a sushi restaurant on 33rd street then it was back in the car for a madcap drive back to Philly. We made it with seconds to spare. The same swap at Houston going back as coming out, and we were in Monterrey before midnight local time. Everything had gone smoothly and according to plan. Result!
Except it then began to fall apart.
Our luggage didn't arrive on the carousel. Not on the first lap, second, or indeed the third. Or the one hundred and third. Four hours later, and various complaints to various night managers and still we didn't have our belongings. Nine hours passed and still nothing. Day broke, and we spent the whole of Tuesday chasing our tails at the airport, trying to find a manager who gave a damn. We took it in turns to grab a few hours sleep in the Dodge (still in the car park), and eventually at 9pm Tuesday we were told our luggage had been found. In San Diego. It was going to arrive via LAX and Houston, around midday Wednesday. It duly arrived, late, at 6pm. Frustratingly we had to be back in Houston to return the car by 5pm Friday. We couldn't extend the rental agreement as it was already scheduled for another customer who had specifically requested a large flatbed pick-up, and so we would only have chance to see the same bits of Mexico we had already seen, i.e. the roads between the airport and the border. It was too late to find a hotel in the city, so I suggested we strike out for the US, and kip in the car. The back seat is vast, and the front seats ridiculously comfortable so it would be more than adequate. Off we went, reaching Laredo at a shade before midnight. We decided the safest place to park up and sleep would be the airport, so we pulled up and slept until daybreak.
Thursday was beautiful as the sun rose over the horizon, the USA was a matter of miles away, and we were looking forward to a steady cruise over the border, to San Antonio, and then back to Houston. Nothing could be finer! Mexico had been a bit of a disaster but we were heading back to a great country with lovely people, and where we both have a feeling of somehow being ‘at home’. We crossed the city, and half way across the Rio Grande we joined the early queue to cross the border at the huge fan-shaped crossing point. Eventually it was our turn. Passports and forms out, documents at the ready, sunglasses off as a matter of politeness. We weren't waved through. The officer instead moved his radio closer to his ear to listen to the squawking being garbled to him. He looked at us, stepped back a few paces to look at our registration (or rather license) plate, and then at our passports. He squawked back into the black box on his shoulder, and moved his free hand to his holster. Chappers and I looked at him, at each other, then back to him. It was dawning on us that all may not be well. My foot twitched toward the accelerator, apparently tempted to make a surge for freedom. Fortunately my right hand is a little bit cleverer and headed off this idiocy by grabbing the keys, and turning off the ignition. A whole hour-long minute later, we were waved to pull forward and to one side. A polite invitation was extended to exit the vehicle and place our hands on the bonnet (well, the nice man with a gun said ‘hood’, but I didn't feel it would be appropriate given the balance of power that I should take the opportunity to re-educate him). We were patted down for whatever it was we might be carrying that we shouldn't be, and removed to separate interview rooms. After an hour I was 'mirandized', advised I was under arrest for grand theft auto, and offered access to a free lawyer, to which I agreed. I didn’t need to use my phone call since there was nobody to ring other than Chappers who I could only assume was in another room nearby. Whilst waiting for my lawyer to arrive I had my shoelaces and belt removed, and was subjected to a cavity search for illegal substances and weaponry by a man built like Johnny Vegas after swallowing his identical twin, and sporting the worst hair cut since Billy Ray Cyrus. I'm not sure exactly what type of weaponry I could safely conceal in my rectum, but apparently it's possible I could have been concealing something dangerous other than the previous night's gassy remains up there, with which I could try to kill either myself or an American hero in uniform. Three hours later a lawyer arrived, who told me she was not in fact provided by the government, but was provided by my 'travelling companion' - Chappers to the rescue again! It was finally explained to me what the hell was going on. When we returned the hire car in Philly, the company (the same as hired the Dodge to us) noted we had another car outstanding to us in Texas. They asked Chappers at the time if we had returned the Dodge, and he explained it was in Monterrey and we would be returning it on schedule to Houston, and we had simply taken a mid-vacation trip to Pennsylvania but everything was fine. Despite this, the Dodge was reported stolen the next morning by the office in Houston, by which time we were in Mexico. The crossing points were put on alert for our rather distinctive vehicle, and were to arrest us if and when we showed up. Apparently we weren't supposed to take the car over international borders (although we specifically stated that this was our intention when we hired it).
To cut a long and possibly tedious tale short, the lawyer spoke lots of legalese back and forth with the border people and later on a representative of the hire company who showed up and was sat in a third room. I understood little of it and to be frank my mind was elsewhere, quite perplexed at the whole affair and in indignation at the search that had taken place a few hours earlier, so I just did as I was told and stayed quiet while my lawyer did all the talking. She made a hell of a lot of phone calls, and ran in and out of the interview room to speak with a colleague who was with Chappers. Shortly before 9pm I was given back my shoelaces and belt, and told that there were no longer any charges to answer to. The border chaps led me to a room where I was reunited with Chappers, and presented with a stack of belongings belonging to the pair of us. The contents of all our bags, the new suitcase, leathers, helmets etc were spilled across the small office. Our lawyers entered soon after, at which point they ran us through exactly what had happened, why, and how they had sorted things out. My head was spinning and I still felt sick from having been anally fisted by a morbidly obese mulleted goon looking for a kalashnikov or perhaps some field artillery, and so I pretty much switched off. I did however understand we were free to go, but the Dodge was to remain in the custody of the hire firm's lawyers in Laredo, and the agreement was terminated. So we had all our stuff and no means of transporting it. Great.
The lawyer who had represented me offered us both space on the huge couch in her den for the night, seeing as it was rather late to find accommodation in a hotel.
And so I spent last night curled up on the sofa, spaced out in shock at the day's events. This morning we found a hotel and I've spent all day holed up watching TV and eating junk food. I spoke to Chappers a few hours ago to confirm I'm alive and okay, but to be honest I feel like shit and like the whole trip has been ruined. I just feel like going home now. Typing this would, I thought, be cathartic but I feel no better now than I did a couple of hours ago when I started. Two bottles of wine and another trolley of room service food currently on its way up might go some way to helping my head rearrange my thoughts, and perhaps I'll feel better - though I suspect it may be some time until that feeling of wellness extends to my arse, which still feels like there's a brick shoved up it sideways.
Let us see what Saturday brings. Good night.
Friday, 31 October 2008
Thursday, 23 October 2008
International Excursion - Interim Update
Tuesday night we had a look through a whole bag full of leaflets, and decided that Houston wasn't really a major point to hang around in. There's stuff to see and do, but nothing in particular for a pair of gentlemen approaching 30 years of age. The trip to Mexico was brought forward.
Chappers hired a new car. A lovely if somewhat comical 'truck' (as they call them out here). A Dodge Ram 3500, with a double wheel set-up on the rear axle. It has the turning circle of the QE2, and in parking garages it takes two to four spaces. Utterly pointless for our needs.
Around 11am we struck out south for Corpus Christi. We wanted to avoid the interstates and major highways, so we headed first for a town called Angleton, half way to the gulf coast from the city. We pulled into a small diner near a one-road town, something-or-other Prairie. Great coffee, lovely eggs, but the bacon was frazzled. Why can't the Americans do a simple bacon sandwich? They can put a man on the moon but a good old bacon buttie eludes them. Culinary nightmares aside, as we pulled out we saw a group of six kids hitch-hiking. No way would a group so large get a lift from a trucker, a family, or someone on their own. We took pity on them - or rather I did. I've tried to hitch-hike around Britain with varied success, so I wholly appreciated their plight. They asked us if we would take them to the main highway, or at least to Bay City. I asked if they were headed to Houston or somewhere significant and we could drop them on the right side of whichever route they wanted. When they said they were headed for Mexico to find some Latinas to party with, they were in luck! So, happy we were going so far their way, they climbed in. Three in the back seat, three in the truck-bed with all their bags. They were already quite giggly and clearly had something a little naughtier than Ribena in their bags, making us all the better for them since they could now party on down to the border and not worry about having to stand upright waiting for lifts.
We drove through various small towns, over some unimaginative bridges, and across plenty of super-engineered farm land. Around a place called Fulton the landscape was quite odd. Shrimping boats and sea to one side, small town could-be-anywhere America to the other. No sort of tangible "we're at the seaside!" atmosphere the whole way down much of that road, apart from the smell of the coast, and occasional boats.
Eventually we hit Corpus Christi, found a motel for the kids, and offered to take them the next leg. They accepted, and went to destroy their livers and brain cells on whatever they had with them. They were clearly under 21, so goodness know how they had sourced their booze. I didn't want to know either. Plausible deniability should we be stopped by the police, and get pinned with being their responsible adults.
Morning came, and we called for the kids. Six had become five overnight as one of the boys parents had driven through the night to drag them home again, leaving around half an hour before we arrived. It was early o'clock and they weren't impressed, but they could either come along or find another ride. Their call.
We reached the border in a blur of countryside. We had intended to cross over at Hidalgo, but the boys were wanting to party near the coast, so we headed to Brownsville. Border control was easy enough, despite being foreign nationals ferrying five sheepish sweaty-palmed kids cramming chewing gum and breath freshener down their throats - two of them carried unsafely and probably illegally in the truck bed. I honestly expected us to be told they would have to cross by foot, but we were given our stamps and DNI forms, and were soon waved through. We crossed the magnificent Rio Grande, and dropped the boys in down town Matamoros, and you could see the colour drain from every one of them at the same time as they realised they were in another country, probably without parental permission. Everyone looked and sounded different to small-town Texas, and they were out of their depth. I reckon at least one of them will come back missing an organ and be none the wiser, they're so clueless. I almost feel guilty, but it's their tough shit. They want to party with the big boys in an exciting country then they should either be prepared, or be fast to adapt.
Chappers and I switched seats, and he drove as far as General Bravo, where we switched back and I finished the run to Monterrey. The scenery on the approach was breathtaking. Curiously shaped mountains, and ridges to our front and left, with valleys and hills peering through the farmland to our right. The next few days were promising! We stopped to refuel at Cadareyta. Chappers disappeared to the bathroom, and came back with a big grin on his face. I'm growing wary of that look! It usually means something is about to go hideously wrong. No disasters this time though, just a total upheaval. He'd taken a phone call, and relayed to me the change of plans it represented. We were to head straight to the airport, instead of finding a hotel in the city. He refused to tell me any more from then until now, where we currently sit in the departure lounge waiting for a flight to... Houston. The city we left about 48 hours ago, and just drove two whole days south away from, into a foreign country!
I'm a bit confused as to what we're doing since we have a hire car from the USA that we're leaving in long term parking, so I can only assume we're heading back soon, but I'm rather lost for ideas what the score is. It's like when your parents used to bundle you into the car as a kid and tell you that the whole family was going somewhere exciting. Unless they told you exactly where it was you were headed, then a visit to the dentist would have been more exciting until you could work out your destination. I hate this sort of surprise!
Ciao for now.
Chappers hired a new car. A lovely if somewhat comical 'truck' (as they call them out here). A Dodge Ram 3500, with a double wheel set-up on the rear axle. It has the turning circle of the QE2, and in parking garages it takes two to four spaces. Utterly pointless for our needs.
Around 11am we struck out south for Corpus Christi. We wanted to avoid the interstates and major highways, so we headed first for a town called Angleton, half way to the gulf coast from the city. We pulled into a small diner near a one-road town, something-or-other Prairie. Great coffee, lovely eggs, but the bacon was frazzled. Why can't the Americans do a simple bacon sandwich? They can put a man on the moon but a good old bacon buttie eludes them. Culinary nightmares aside, as we pulled out we saw a group of six kids hitch-hiking. No way would a group so large get a lift from a trucker, a family, or someone on their own. We took pity on them - or rather I did. I've tried to hitch-hike around Britain with varied success, so I wholly appreciated their plight. They asked us if we would take them to the main highway, or at least to Bay City. I asked if they were headed to Houston or somewhere significant and we could drop them on the right side of whichever route they wanted. When they said they were headed for Mexico to find some Latinas to party with, they were in luck! So, happy we were going so far their way, they climbed in. Three in the back seat, three in the truck-bed with all their bags. They were already quite giggly and clearly had something a little naughtier than Ribena in their bags, making us all the better for them since they could now party on down to the border and not worry about having to stand upright waiting for lifts.
We drove through various small towns, over some unimaginative bridges, and across plenty of super-engineered farm land. Around a place called Fulton the landscape was quite odd. Shrimping boats and sea to one side, small town could-be-anywhere America to the other. No sort of tangible "we're at the seaside!" atmosphere the whole way down much of that road, apart from the smell of the coast, and occasional boats.
Eventually we hit Corpus Christi, found a motel for the kids, and offered to take them the next leg. They accepted, and went to destroy their livers and brain cells on whatever they had with them. They were clearly under 21, so goodness know how they had sourced their booze. I didn't want to know either. Plausible deniability should we be stopped by the police, and get pinned with being their responsible adults.
Morning came, and we called for the kids. Six had become five overnight as one of the boys parents had driven through the night to drag them home again, leaving around half an hour before we arrived. It was early o'clock and they weren't impressed, but they could either come along or find another ride. Their call.
We reached the border in a blur of countryside. We had intended to cross over at Hidalgo, but the boys were wanting to party near the coast, so we headed to Brownsville. Border control was easy enough, despite being foreign nationals ferrying five sheepish sweaty-palmed kids cramming chewing gum and breath freshener down their throats - two of them carried unsafely and probably illegally in the truck bed. I honestly expected us to be told they would have to cross by foot, but we were given our stamps and DNI forms, and were soon waved through. We crossed the magnificent Rio Grande, and dropped the boys in down town Matamoros, and you could see the colour drain from every one of them at the same time as they realised they were in another country, probably without parental permission. Everyone looked and sounded different to small-town Texas, and they were out of their depth. I reckon at least one of them will come back missing an organ and be none the wiser, they're so clueless. I almost feel guilty, but it's their tough shit. They want to party with the big boys in an exciting country then they should either be prepared, or be fast to adapt.
Chappers and I switched seats, and he drove as far as General Bravo, where we switched back and I finished the run to Monterrey. The scenery on the approach was breathtaking. Curiously shaped mountains, and ridges to our front and left, with valleys and hills peering through the farmland to our right. The next few days were promising! We stopped to refuel at Cadareyta. Chappers disappeared to the bathroom, and came back with a big grin on his face. I'm growing wary of that look! It usually means something is about to go hideously wrong. No disasters this time though, just a total upheaval. He'd taken a phone call, and relayed to me the change of plans it represented. We were to head straight to the airport, instead of finding a hotel in the city. He refused to tell me any more from then until now, where we currently sit in the departure lounge waiting for a flight to... Houston. The city we left about 48 hours ago, and just drove two whole days south away from, into a foreign country!
I'm a bit confused as to what we're doing since we have a hire car from the USA that we're leaving in long term parking, so I can only assume we're heading back soon, but I'm rather lost for ideas what the score is. It's like when your parents used to bundle you into the car as a kid and tell you that the whole family was going somewhere exciting. Unless they told you exactly where it was you were headed, then a visit to the dentist would have been more exciting until you could work out your destination. I hate this sort of surprise!
Ciao for now.
Tuesday, 21 October 2008
Oh my aching arse!
You know that feeling of intrigue and panic that grabs your head and your throat at the same time, when someone says to you "Guess what..."? I got a dose of that on Saturday morning.
After the disastrous night at the tables on Thursday night, Chappers spent all day Friday moving money between his accounts, and arranging to collect a fair lump of it from a Western Union in downtown Vegas. Apparently British banks aren't keen on such arrangements as the fraud possibilities are massive. Still, it all got sorted in the end.
I resurfaced from my room around 8pm, and met him in the hotel restaurant for a bite to eat. It's probably a good idea I didn't have a set of wheels with which to scoot around on. I'd have had to work extraordinarily hard to convince my brain that my cock was wrong, and Poppy shouldn't be pursued for an afternoon of carnal exploration. I don't even know what the age of consent is in Nevada. Knowing my luck anything under 21 would get me the electric chair anyway. As it was, I was stuck watching shite on TV anyway so it all worked out for the best in the end.
Some things are best left undone.
Chappers was sat looking like the cat that had stolen the keys to the milk-float, and said to me the dreaded "Guess what...", to which I naturally responded with some flippant examples of ridiculous suggestions. Eventually it was revealed he had hired us a special car from a company who only do unusual vehicles, exotica, and classics. A two-seater cabriolet would be ready first thing saturday morning, fuelled up and ready to go.
Morning came around, we breakfasted in my room, gathered our bags, and checked out. We headed out front, and waited for the car to be brought around. And what should arrive around the corner, but a Smart "ForTwo" Passion Cabriolet. A fucking roller skate! Chappers, in his eternal wisdom, thought it looked fun and cute on the poster in the rental office. So now we had our means of getting around the great and vast wilderness of America. A roller skate with about enough room for a pair of underpants in the boot! We pulled the roof back up and created a smidgin of boot-space, and managed to get one suitcase in. We crammed the leathers down the back of the driver's seat, and my suitcase and bags in the passenger foot-well. Once I got in the passenger seat with my feet on the bags, I could rest my chin on my knees. We had to get inventive with the last of our gear...
So imagine the scene if you will. Two gangling Brits, one with his legs crammed up to his chest, the other practically hugging the steering wheel, and both wearing crash helmets, driving along the Las Vegas strip, heading down to the Nevada highway, over the Hoover Dam, and out of Nevada. Fortunately for me the helmet covered my face, and so hid my shame. It didn't however do much for my paranoia every time we came within sight of a police car. I half expected a Department of Homeland Security helicopter to loom up from the horizon and hail us to a stop, before forcing us to be cavity-searched to check we weren't terrorists. Why else would two men in a road car be wearing helmets? The only blessing to be found was the fuel tank range was around 280 miles, so we were stopping to refuel every 2 and a half hours, and got to stretch our legs. I wouldn't have minded quite as much if he had insured us both to drive, but he hadn't taken my license with him when he went to book. I would have to be the passenger for the whole trip.
We may be like brothers in so many ways, and his generosity toward me knows no bounds, but fuck me, that lad can be a prize tit at times.
We had an uneventful journey, passing through Flagstaff, Arizona, and then on to Albuquerque, New Mexico. A whole day's driving, and I for one was super sore. Chappers had to pull my legs out of the car and sort of lever me up, I'd become so stiff. We found a little 'Mom & Pop" place on the outskirts of town, unloaded the car, and checked in. The guy behind the counter point blank refused us a twin room, and specified we would have two singles. I suspect he thought that two men in a camp car wearing crash helmets and speaking in odd accents were bound to be up to no good, and by God there would be no hanky-panky in his hotel while he was on guard! We had little choice but to take the minimal extra cost on the chin, and make do.
Sunday we decided to get an early start, and head for our next destination as soon as we could. We would munch the miles, and get a long relaxing night in a decent motel. And so we departed. We carried on I-40 for a short while, then struck out south for Roswell. We had a late breakfast at a McDonalds shaped like a flying saucer (similar to the one near Huntingdon, Cambridgeshire), and then parked up for the UFO museum. The first real touristy thing we'd done since the Grand Canyon. It was hilarious. How people take these nutters seriously is beyond me. I'm open to the idea of intelligence in outer space, but we're clearly lacking intelligence on Earth while ever we line the pockets of these people in order to see grainy faked home movies, and inflatable aliens.
Roswell 'done', we donned our helmets, I took some pain killers to manage the stress-position my torturer had folded me into, and so we cracked on toward the Texas border. We buzzed past the signs in no time, dog-legged after Lubbock toward Abilene. We had to stop there for an hour or two. Chappers was clearly shattered, and beginning to nod off. Fresh air, caffeine, and a couple of eggs on waffles (disgusting concept!) saw him pepped up, and off we set again - destination Dallas. Unfortunately he was soon flagging again so we kept an eye out for a hotel or motel anywhere we didn't think looked like a serial killer cliché. Only an hour from Dallas we decided we could make it, but then he properly nodded off. I noticed in time, punched his arm and he rattled back into our lane, and so we decided it was time to call it a night for safety's sake. He pulled off at the next town, Weatherford. We found no hotels with room, and no motels with vacancies either. We pulled in to the McDonalds car park for a late bite to eat, and poor old Chappers was asleep before he finished his milkshake. No option but to sleep in the car. Great. And so I covered him up in the contents of my bag, reserving my undies from the previous day to go on his head, popped the laptop on to check e-mails and to blog, but I couldn't be arsed. Too uncomfortable, so I just updated FaceBook and called it a night myself.
We were awoken at 5am by a Weatherford PD officer, who decided it wasn't appropriate to have two men sleeping in a little car at a McDonalds in his town. Fair enough, we weren't going to argue. We stuffed my things back in the bag as fast as we could, Chappers pulling the most disgusted face as I retrieved my undies from under his nose! I popped the helmets one on each knee and we were good to go. Except we weren't. Unfortunately I had flattened the battery with the radio and having left the internal light on. Oops! The officer took pity on us and gave us a push-start. Lovely chap. Off we went, through Forth Worth, and parked up in Dallas shortly after.
It was the done thing for us to hit the Kennedy assassination tourist trail. I stood in the book depository, the grassy knoll, and had a bit of a saunter round. Lots of red brick, concrete and sunshine really, not very exciting. Dallas effectively seen from a tourist point of view, we took off for our next stop on our whistle-stop tour of Texas - Houston. Cheerful-as-ever Chappers decided we had to go via Waco, and see if we could see the compound. Plonker. Given the circumstances and events there I pointed out it was unlikely to have a visitor centre, theme park, and sign-posts. Lo and behold, we never found it. Unnecessary detour completed, we split off through Bryan and College Station (got to love American place names!), and eventually got to Houston late on Monday evening.
Yesterday was a simple day of relaxing, during which I took the opportunity to spend all day on my front, in bed. My arse has been hurting so bad from being perched on the boniest bit of my bum, in the most uncomfortable car I've ever had the displeasure of being in... And for so many hours!
Chappers took it back to a branch office today, as was the plan anyway. Next up we're going to chill out in Houston, see what we can see, and then hire a (proper) car, and see about a trip to Mexico!
So, apologies for the lengthy entry, and lack of excitement. So many miles in so short a time, there's not a lot to say about scenery zipping by. Sorry!
After the disastrous night at the tables on Thursday night, Chappers spent all day Friday moving money between his accounts, and arranging to collect a fair lump of it from a Western Union in downtown Vegas. Apparently British banks aren't keen on such arrangements as the fraud possibilities are massive. Still, it all got sorted in the end.
I resurfaced from my room around 8pm, and met him in the hotel restaurant for a bite to eat. It's probably a good idea I didn't have a set of wheels with which to scoot around on. I'd have had to work extraordinarily hard to convince my brain that my cock was wrong, and Poppy shouldn't be pursued for an afternoon of carnal exploration. I don't even know what the age of consent is in Nevada. Knowing my luck anything under 21 would get me the electric chair anyway. As it was, I was stuck watching shite on TV anyway so it all worked out for the best in the end.
Some things are best left undone.
Chappers was sat looking like the cat that had stolen the keys to the milk-float, and said to me the dreaded "Guess what...", to which I naturally responded with some flippant examples of ridiculous suggestions. Eventually it was revealed he had hired us a special car from a company who only do unusual vehicles, exotica, and classics. A two-seater cabriolet would be ready first thing saturday morning, fuelled up and ready to go.
Morning came around, we breakfasted in my room, gathered our bags, and checked out. We headed out front, and waited for the car to be brought around. And what should arrive around the corner, but a Smart "ForTwo" Passion Cabriolet. A fucking roller skate! Chappers, in his eternal wisdom, thought it looked fun and cute on the poster in the rental office. So now we had our means of getting around the great and vast wilderness of America. A roller skate with about enough room for a pair of underpants in the boot! We pulled the roof back up and created a smidgin of boot-space, and managed to get one suitcase in. We crammed the leathers down the back of the driver's seat, and my suitcase and bags in the passenger foot-well. Once I got in the passenger seat with my feet on the bags, I could rest my chin on my knees. We had to get inventive with the last of our gear...
So imagine the scene if you will. Two gangling Brits, one with his legs crammed up to his chest, the other practically hugging the steering wheel, and both wearing crash helmets, driving along the Las Vegas strip, heading down to the Nevada highway, over the Hoover Dam, and out of Nevada. Fortunately for me the helmet covered my face, and so hid my shame. It didn't however do much for my paranoia every time we came within sight of a police car. I half expected a Department of Homeland Security helicopter to loom up from the horizon and hail us to a stop, before forcing us to be cavity-searched to check we weren't terrorists. Why else would two men in a road car be wearing helmets? The only blessing to be found was the fuel tank range was around 280 miles, so we were stopping to refuel every 2 and a half hours, and got to stretch our legs. I wouldn't have minded quite as much if he had insured us both to drive, but he hadn't taken my license with him when he went to book. I would have to be the passenger for the whole trip.
We may be like brothers in so many ways, and his generosity toward me knows no bounds, but fuck me, that lad can be a prize tit at times.
We had an uneventful journey, passing through Flagstaff, Arizona, and then on to Albuquerque, New Mexico. A whole day's driving, and I for one was super sore. Chappers had to pull my legs out of the car and sort of lever me up, I'd become so stiff. We found a little 'Mom & Pop" place on the outskirts of town, unloaded the car, and checked in. The guy behind the counter point blank refused us a twin room, and specified we would have two singles. I suspect he thought that two men in a camp car wearing crash helmets and speaking in odd accents were bound to be up to no good, and by God there would be no hanky-panky in his hotel while he was on guard! We had little choice but to take the minimal extra cost on the chin, and make do.
Sunday we decided to get an early start, and head for our next destination as soon as we could. We would munch the miles, and get a long relaxing night in a decent motel. And so we departed. We carried on I-40 for a short while, then struck out south for Roswell. We had a late breakfast at a McDonalds shaped like a flying saucer (similar to the one near Huntingdon, Cambridgeshire), and then parked up for the UFO museum. The first real touristy thing we'd done since the Grand Canyon. It was hilarious. How people take these nutters seriously is beyond me. I'm open to the idea of intelligence in outer space, but we're clearly lacking intelligence on Earth while ever we line the pockets of these people in order to see grainy faked home movies, and inflatable aliens.
Roswell 'done', we donned our helmets, I took some pain killers to manage the stress-position my torturer had folded me into, and so we cracked on toward the Texas border. We buzzed past the signs in no time, dog-legged after Lubbock toward Abilene. We had to stop there for an hour or two. Chappers was clearly shattered, and beginning to nod off. Fresh air, caffeine, and a couple of eggs on waffles (disgusting concept!) saw him pepped up, and off we set again - destination Dallas. Unfortunately he was soon flagging again so we kept an eye out for a hotel or motel anywhere we didn't think looked like a serial killer cliché. Only an hour from Dallas we decided we could make it, but then he properly nodded off. I noticed in time, punched his arm and he rattled back into our lane, and so we decided it was time to call it a night for safety's sake. He pulled off at the next town, Weatherford. We found no hotels with room, and no motels with vacancies either. We pulled in to the McDonalds car park for a late bite to eat, and poor old Chappers was asleep before he finished his milkshake. No option but to sleep in the car. Great. And so I covered him up in the contents of my bag, reserving my undies from the previous day to go on his head, popped the laptop on to check e-mails and to blog, but I couldn't be arsed. Too uncomfortable, so I just updated FaceBook and called it a night myself.
We were awoken at 5am by a Weatherford PD officer, who decided it wasn't appropriate to have two men sleeping in a little car at a McDonalds in his town. Fair enough, we weren't going to argue. We stuffed my things back in the bag as fast as we could, Chappers pulling the most disgusted face as I retrieved my undies from under his nose! I popped the helmets one on each knee and we were good to go. Except we weren't. Unfortunately I had flattened the battery with the radio and having left the internal light on. Oops! The officer took pity on us and gave us a push-start. Lovely chap. Off we went, through Forth Worth, and parked up in Dallas shortly after.
It was the done thing for us to hit the Kennedy assassination tourist trail. I stood in the book depository, the grassy knoll, and had a bit of a saunter round. Lots of red brick, concrete and sunshine really, not very exciting. Dallas effectively seen from a tourist point of view, we took off for our next stop on our whistle-stop tour of Texas - Houston. Cheerful-as-ever Chappers decided we had to go via Waco, and see if we could see the compound. Plonker. Given the circumstances and events there I pointed out it was unlikely to have a visitor centre, theme park, and sign-posts. Lo and behold, we never found it. Unnecessary detour completed, we split off through Bryan and College Station (got to love American place names!), and eventually got to Houston late on Monday evening.
Yesterday was a simple day of relaxing, during which I took the opportunity to spend all day on my front, in bed. My arse has been hurting so bad from being perched on the boniest bit of my bum, in the most uncomfortable car I've ever had the displeasure of being in... And for so many hours!
Chappers took it back to a branch office today, as was the plan anyway. Next up we're going to chill out in Houston, see what we can see, and then hire a (proper) car, and see about a trip to Mexico!
So, apologies for the lengthy entry, and lack of excitement. So many miles in so short a time, there's not a lot to say about scenery zipping by. Sorry!
Friday, 17 October 2008
The Ace of Spades
Thursday - We had a lovely trip on the coach to the Grand Canyon, did the glass-floored "Sky Walk". Lots of tourists alternating from fear and trepidation, to confidence and stomping around to prove their strength of belief in the engineering with steel and glass.
Then some brat aged around 10, sky high and hyper on the non-stop sugar he had been fed on the coach, not to mention the three or four ice-creams he'd been bought since arriving, decided he was a World Series pitcher and my groin was the strike zone. Never mind three strikes - just one and I was out. Not had that awful knotted twisting pain/sickness feeling since I got hit in the spuds with a conker that pinged off its string, back at school around 1994. I did the obligatory turning purple, rolling around, squeaking and gasping. My hearing faded out then started ringing, and I swear I heard someone call out that I was choking, and needed the Heimlich manoeuvre. Somehow I made it to my feet, indicated I was fine, and gradually regained a more human colour, all the while giving that little brat the evils. I swore I would get my revenge somehow, but knew I'd never get chance. Petty vengeance usually turns out to be illegal, especially if it involves cuffing a minor across the head, and I didn't fancy my chances. The planning wouldn't be quite as much fun as the execution would have been but it would have to do.
Coach ride home, Chappers and I finalised our plans for where to head next.
Then a lucky break. When we got back to The Strip, I got an early jump from my seat, and as I walked past the kid, I lined up and executed a perfect ear-flick. Nice and fast, good sound of fingernail leaving thumb-print at high speed, and a quiet but audible *crack* as it made full contact with shell-like cartilage, and all the while I was in smooth forward motion. There was a sharp intake of breath to the side of me, moving behind as I carried on forward and the rustling sound of someone's clothes as they reach up to grab and protect something that just suddenly hurt. A pre-pubescent male voice then squealed "Bitch!", and I started to turn around in fake horror at hearing such impudent language. I was just in time to see the little git launch forward feet-first from his seat in some kind of reflex banzai kamikaze revenge assault. He fell short by a satisfying foot and a half, full and flat on his arse. I had no doubt it must have hurt, and rattled his sugar-addled brain inside his head, because after a full five second delay, the bottom lip began to quiver, the waterworks turned on, and the trilogy of sweet retribution was complete with a high pitched wailing. I'm not above pettiness, and I don't care if my enemy is only about a third my age. A victory is a victory. Result!
So, now you hate me. Great. Well, karma is a fickle mistress. It appears the baseball must have been a gimme for the kid, since the cosmic response to flicking a sprog's tab appears to have been many-fold.
Chappers took us to another friend's soiree on the lower east side of town. Two friends of his parents, named John and Eve, were holding an 18th birthday party for their daughter, Poppy. Apparently there's the annual family and friends one, to which we were invited, and there's a huge bash happening in a couple of weeks that will be like something off an MTV show. Oddly enough Poppy seems quite embarrassed about the impending fuss, but John and Eve won't have it any other way for their princess. Any way up, cold drinks and smoky food is always a welcome sight for weary travellers, so birthday or no, I was jolly happy!
We decided to indulge ourselves with a cab ride back to the hotel and collect the bikes in the morning so we could enjoy the rather seductive looking mojitos Eve was serving up. They were indeed lovely, and were chased swiftly with a few cold German beers imported, apparently, at great expense to John. We played a little pool, I lost my new snake-skin cowboy boots to Poppy, who it turns out is quite the hustler and likes to play men for their shoes. No, I've no idea why either.
The party wound down, guests drifted away, and there were 7 of us left. Our family hosts, a guy whose name I never caught but I know he's an air conditioning engineer, and a window-dresser called Rene who Poppy is shadowing for some sort of vocational thing that I couldn't make head nor tail of (though Rene is actually Richard, but he hates having such a bland name). We were all invited to play some cards, eat some more, drink some more, and play for matchsticks and pretzels.
Around 1am, Chappers suggested we should make things interesting. Out came some rather fine looking painted mahogany chips. After an hour of pretty fun play, and smallish stakes, Chappers was $5000 better off, I was about $250 poorer. I was also pooped and needed to protect my spending money so I retired from the table, along with Rene who was by now flirting outrageously with me. Despite his keen attentions, I was alternating between falling asleep in my nacho cheese dip, and sipping on tumblers of Jack Daniels brought out by Poppy, trying to remain reasonably awake/coherent, but also politely disinterested in Rene's increasingly obvious advances.
Then came the big hand of the night. Rene woke me up to take notice as the stakes were creeping up and up. Chappers kept raising and raising in fair old wedges of money until his entire winnings so far were staked, and then started staking lumps into his original stash too. On and on he was raising rather than just calling. Presumably he had an awesome hand and wanted to put up a nice fat pot and call it a night once he'd cleaned everyone out. I've seen him do it before, cleaning a flat full of 14 students out of their month's pot noodle money, and he had that glint in his eye. Chappers went all-in. $12,500. The tension was unbelievable. All the chips gone, John raised another $10,000 with an IOU. Air Conditioning guy folded. Chappers put the keys to his bike on the table. Finally John checked. Chappers checked. Leaning back in his chair Chappers laid down a flush. Pleased as punch, he drew his elbows back to his side, and laid his palms on his stomach, smiling. John calmly laid down his hand, looking only at the cards. He had a royal flush, the ace of spades somehow laughing at me from the table.
"You win some, lose some, it's all the same to me."
So spaketh the great warty Lemmy, in the holy gospel of MotorHead. And so it came to pass. John had just taken the lot.
And then came the sucker punch.
John offered a final hand to win back the bike, and he'd take 'my' bike (relative term I know since it's not me who owns it) against Chappers' own now ex-bike. He took the bet. He lost. Three of a kind versus John's straight. Two unlucky hands in a row, and he had not only wiped out his entire cash reserve for the trip, but our means of transport too. I felt rather sick to say the least, having felt karma deliver a second smack in the nuts within 24 hours. Poppy softened the blow with a double measure of JD. John took pity and offered a thousand dollars back to line Andrew's wallet, but his pride refused to allow him to accept the offer.
John seemed quite unfazed by the night's events as did Chappers, but Rene and Air Conditioning Guy bade goodnight then made pretty swift exits by cab. Quite extraordinarily Chappers started playing hands for pretzels and match-sticks again, chuckling away like nothing had happened, talking about old times when the two families had taken holidays at each others homes, and around the world. I meanwhile retired to the den to get some much needed and, it has to be said, rather drunken sleep. Eve brought me a blanket and I was conked out quite quickly. The excitement was too much for me.
Around 6am I was woken, a cab was on its way. I had been fast asleep on the sofa for a good few hours while John and Chappers played through the night. John was scowling down, looking mightily pissed off. As I tried to stretch and couldn't move my arm, it dawned on me that Poppy had curled up in front of me, under the blanket, and the situation did look rather compromising. Fortunately he was pissed off with her. I must have been so out of it that he didn't even try to wind me up and make me sweat! She wasn't escaping so lightly though, and he proceeded to tear off the blanket that covered us both, and then to tear off a strip from her, pointing out that she may now be 18 but he's still his daughter, living in his house, and she can't just curl up with strange men as she pleases - Strange? Thanks very much John!
Much to my relief she sat up straight and argued with her dad on the spot rather than having a stand-up spat, since she was masking a rather embarrassing and prominent episode of morning glory that was refusing to go away. Argument over, he ordered her to apologise for having caused an embarrassing scene in front of guests. She fussed over straightening her hair, yawned a bit, did some seated stretches, shuffled around a bit (which made immediate matters somewhat worse for me!). She re-straightened her hair. She pressed back and bent double to adjust her new and far-too-large snakeskin boots, back to her hair, and so on until her dad gave up huffing and puffing and left the room. Clearly she had realised my predicament, and wanted to spare me my blushes from her father - yet couldn't resist increasing the agony of the situation at the same time with shuffles and squishes. She'll go far, that one! Cheeky madam then grabbed a handful of horn and gave it a squeeze as she stood up to leave the room. THAT wasn't going to help it go away any quicker! Perhaps karma had realised its accountancy errors and was redressing the balance? Poppy skipped away, paused at the door from the den to look over her shoulder, delivered the apology her father had demanded, winked and blew a kiss goodbye.
Twenty minutes later, I was sat shoeless in a cab with Upper Class Twit of the Year, taking a quiet ride back to The Venetian. It then dawned on me we had a problem. No money. I relayed my fears to Chappers, who simply dismissed the issue as a logistics hiccough. He would call home from the hotel, and transfer some extra cash onto his card account before settling the hotel bill, hiring a car, and we'd then carry on as planned. Great. Forgive me if I display a lack of excitement, and merely relief. He lost more cash last night in one sitting, including the value of the bikes, than I earned last year. I truly wish I could somehow just impart a tiny bit of the value and relative scarcity of money from my point of view so he could at least appreciate why I'm so exasperated and was finding it difficult to communicate at the time.
And so we're staying our final night in Vegas, and tomorrow we are heading out in the general direction of Albuquerque. Our next main destinations are Dallas, Houston, and New Orleans.
It's been an eventful 24 hours or so, and I think I've earned the right to order food in from room service tonight, enjoy a nice comfortable bed and some cable TV. At least it's safe in here!
Then some brat aged around 10, sky high and hyper on the non-stop sugar he had been fed on the coach, not to mention the three or four ice-creams he'd been bought since arriving, decided he was a World Series pitcher and my groin was the strike zone. Never mind three strikes - just one and I was out. Not had that awful knotted twisting pain/sickness feeling since I got hit in the spuds with a conker that pinged off its string, back at school around 1994. I did the obligatory turning purple, rolling around, squeaking and gasping. My hearing faded out then started ringing, and I swear I heard someone call out that I was choking, and needed the Heimlich manoeuvre. Somehow I made it to my feet, indicated I was fine, and gradually regained a more human colour, all the while giving that little brat the evils. I swore I would get my revenge somehow, but knew I'd never get chance. Petty vengeance usually turns out to be illegal, especially if it involves cuffing a minor across the head, and I didn't fancy my chances. The planning wouldn't be quite as much fun as the execution would have been but it would have to do.
Coach ride home, Chappers and I finalised our plans for where to head next.
Then a lucky break. When we got back to The Strip, I got an early jump from my seat, and as I walked past the kid, I lined up and executed a perfect ear-flick. Nice and fast, good sound of fingernail leaving thumb-print at high speed, and a quiet but audible *crack* as it made full contact with shell-like cartilage, and all the while I was in smooth forward motion. There was a sharp intake of breath to the side of me, moving behind as I carried on forward and the rustling sound of someone's clothes as they reach up to grab and protect something that just suddenly hurt. A pre-pubescent male voice then squealed "Bitch!", and I started to turn around in fake horror at hearing such impudent language. I was just in time to see the little git launch forward feet-first from his seat in some kind of reflex banzai kamikaze revenge assault. He fell short by a satisfying foot and a half, full and flat on his arse. I had no doubt it must have hurt, and rattled his sugar-addled brain inside his head, because after a full five second delay, the bottom lip began to quiver, the waterworks turned on, and the trilogy of sweet retribution was complete with a high pitched wailing. I'm not above pettiness, and I don't care if my enemy is only about a third my age. A victory is a victory. Result!
So, now you hate me. Great. Well, karma is a fickle mistress. It appears the baseball must have been a gimme for the kid, since the cosmic response to flicking a sprog's tab appears to have been many-fold.
Chappers took us to another friend's soiree on the lower east side of town. Two friends of his parents, named John and Eve, were holding an 18th birthday party for their daughter, Poppy. Apparently there's the annual family and friends one, to which we were invited, and there's a huge bash happening in a couple of weeks that will be like something off an MTV show. Oddly enough Poppy seems quite embarrassed about the impending fuss, but John and Eve won't have it any other way for their princess. Any way up, cold drinks and smoky food is always a welcome sight for weary travellers, so birthday or no, I was jolly happy!
We decided to indulge ourselves with a cab ride back to the hotel and collect the bikes in the morning so we could enjoy the rather seductive looking mojitos Eve was serving up. They were indeed lovely, and were chased swiftly with a few cold German beers imported, apparently, at great expense to John. We played a little pool, I lost my new snake-skin cowboy boots to Poppy, who it turns out is quite the hustler and likes to play men for their shoes. No, I've no idea why either.
The party wound down, guests drifted away, and there were 7 of us left. Our family hosts, a guy whose name I never caught but I know he's an air conditioning engineer, and a window-dresser called Rene who Poppy is shadowing for some sort of vocational thing that I couldn't make head nor tail of (though Rene is actually Richard, but he hates having such a bland name). We were all invited to play some cards, eat some more, drink some more, and play for matchsticks and pretzels.
Around 1am, Chappers suggested we should make things interesting. Out came some rather fine looking painted mahogany chips. After an hour of pretty fun play, and smallish stakes, Chappers was $5000 better off, I was about $250 poorer. I was also pooped and needed to protect my spending money so I retired from the table, along with Rene who was by now flirting outrageously with me. Despite his keen attentions, I was alternating between falling asleep in my nacho cheese dip, and sipping on tumblers of Jack Daniels brought out by Poppy, trying to remain reasonably awake/coherent, but also politely disinterested in Rene's increasingly obvious advances.
Then came the big hand of the night. Rene woke me up to take notice as the stakes were creeping up and up. Chappers kept raising and raising in fair old wedges of money until his entire winnings so far were staked, and then started staking lumps into his original stash too. On and on he was raising rather than just calling. Presumably he had an awesome hand and wanted to put up a nice fat pot and call it a night once he'd cleaned everyone out. I've seen him do it before, cleaning a flat full of 14 students out of their month's pot noodle money, and he had that glint in his eye. Chappers went all-in. $12,500. The tension was unbelievable. All the chips gone, John raised another $10,000 with an IOU. Air Conditioning guy folded. Chappers put the keys to his bike on the table. Finally John checked. Chappers checked. Leaning back in his chair Chappers laid down a flush. Pleased as punch, he drew his elbows back to his side, and laid his palms on his stomach, smiling. John calmly laid down his hand, looking only at the cards. He had a royal flush, the ace of spades somehow laughing at me from the table.
"You win some, lose some, it's all the same to me."
So spaketh the great warty Lemmy, in the holy gospel of MotorHead. And so it came to pass. John had just taken the lot.
And then came the sucker punch.
John offered a final hand to win back the bike, and he'd take 'my' bike (relative term I know since it's not me who owns it) against Chappers' own now ex-bike. He took the bet. He lost. Three of a kind versus John's straight. Two unlucky hands in a row, and he had not only wiped out his entire cash reserve for the trip, but our means of transport too. I felt rather sick to say the least, having felt karma deliver a second smack in the nuts within 24 hours. Poppy softened the blow with a double measure of JD. John took pity and offered a thousand dollars back to line Andrew's wallet, but his pride refused to allow him to accept the offer.
John seemed quite unfazed by the night's events as did Chappers, but Rene and Air Conditioning Guy bade goodnight then made pretty swift exits by cab. Quite extraordinarily Chappers started playing hands for pretzels and match-sticks again, chuckling away like nothing had happened, talking about old times when the two families had taken holidays at each others homes, and around the world. I meanwhile retired to the den to get some much needed and, it has to be said, rather drunken sleep. Eve brought me a blanket and I was conked out quite quickly. The excitement was too much for me.
Around 6am I was woken, a cab was on its way. I had been fast asleep on the sofa for a good few hours while John and Chappers played through the night. John was scowling down, looking mightily pissed off. As I tried to stretch and couldn't move my arm, it dawned on me that Poppy had curled up in front of me, under the blanket, and the situation did look rather compromising. Fortunately he was pissed off with her. I must have been so out of it that he didn't even try to wind me up and make me sweat! She wasn't escaping so lightly though, and he proceeded to tear off the blanket that covered us both, and then to tear off a strip from her, pointing out that she may now be 18 but he's still his daughter, living in his house, and she can't just curl up with strange men as she pleases - Strange? Thanks very much John!
Much to my relief she sat up straight and argued with her dad on the spot rather than having a stand-up spat, since she was masking a rather embarrassing and prominent episode of morning glory that was refusing to go away. Argument over, he ordered her to apologise for having caused an embarrassing scene in front of guests. She fussed over straightening her hair, yawned a bit, did some seated stretches, shuffled around a bit (which made immediate matters somewhat worse for me!). She re-straightened her hair. She pressed back and bent double to adjust her new and far-too-large snakeskin boots, back to her hair, and so on until her dad gave up huffing and puffing and left the room. Clearly she had realised my predicament, and wanted to spare me my blushes from her father - yet couldn't resist increasing the agony of the situation at the same time with shuffles and squishes. She'll go far, that one! Cheeky madam then grabbed a handful of horn and gave it a squeeze as she stood up to leave the room. THAT wasn't going to help it go away any quicker! Perhaps karma had realised its accountancy errors and was redressing the balance? Poppy skipped away, paused at the door from the den to look over her shoulder, delivered the apology her father had demanded, winked and blew a kiss goodbye.
Twenty minutes later, I was sat shoeless in a cab with Upper Class Twit of the Year, taking a quiet ride back to The Venetian. It then dawned on me we had a problem. No money. I relayed my fears to Chappers, who simply dismissed the issue as a logistics hiccough. He would call home from the hotel, and transfer some extra cash onto his card account before settling the hotel bill, hiring a car, and we'd then carry on as planned. Great. Forgive me if I display a lack of excitement, and merely relief. He lost more cash last night in one sitting, including the value of the bikes, than I earned last year. I truly wish I could somehow just impart a tiny bit of the value and relative scarcity of money from my point of view so he could at least appreciate why I'm so exasperated and was finding it difficult to communicate at the time.
And so we're staying our final night in Vegas, and tomorrow we are heading out in the general direction of Albuquerque. Our next main destinations are Dallas, Houston, and New Orleans.
It's been an eventful 24 hours or so, and I think I've earned the right to order food in from room service tonight, enjoy a nice comfortable bed and some cable TV. At least it's safe in here!
Wednesday, 15 October 2008
Interim update
Just got back from a lovely solo ride to the Hoover Dam, and took in a short stretch of Lake Mead. The ingenuity of man to create such things and from it grow flowers in the desert (metaphorically and literally) is astounding.
A touch cooler than yesterday, but I think I'll have a day out of leathers tomorrow, and enjoy the air conditioning of Vegas while they dry out.
We're off for a nice evening with some of Andrew's friends tonight, in a gated community somewhere on the west side of the city. I'm fascinated by the idea of these places, so I'm looking forward to seeing what it's like. We're due there in 90 minutes or so, and his Lordship does like to be fashionably late, so everyone sees him arrive. Not that they'll miss him on a bike that size and volume - and in that jacket.
I just hope I don't get too bored, they sound a bit up tight. It wouldn't be too bad if we could have a few glasses of something nice, but we 'must' go on the bikes apparently, so it's a no-go on the vino.
We're planning to have a coach trip to the Grand Canyon sky-walk viewing platform thingy tomorrow, and clear out of town on Friday. The coach trip should give us time to pore over some maps and work out what to do next. Chappers fancies going to Flagstaff (Arizona) and Albuquerque (New Mexico), then either across to Texas, or up toward Salt Lake City (Utah). I'm leaning toward heading back west toward San Francisco, then head up the coast roads to Seattle before the winter weather kicks in. Weather is a big consideration, and it seems it's a choice between chillier European style autumn weather, or reasonably hot desert highways. All depends on the end goal. I might be convinced if we ultimately head to New Orleans. I'd probably soil my leathers with joy to see some music live in a proper Big Easy jazz bar! If it's just going to be thousands of miles of straight lines in deserts then I'll have to sulk a bit.
We need a coherent plan. We've had time and instead fannied around in shops and tourist traps. Time to put my foot down?
A touch cooler than yesterday, but I think I'll have a day out of leathers tomorrow, and enjoy the air conditioning of Vegas while they dry out.
We're off for a nice evening with some of Andrew's friends tonight, in a gated community somewhere on the west side of the city. I'm fascinated by the idea of these places, so I'm looking forward to seeing what it's like. We're due there in 90 minutes or so, and his Lordship does like to be fashionably late, so everyone sees him arrive. Not that they'll miss him on a bike that size and volume - and in that jacket.
I just hope I don't get too bored, they sound a bit up tight. It wouldn't be too bad if we could have a few glasses of something nice, but we 'must' go on the bikes apparently, so it's a no-go on the vino.
We're planning to have a coach trip to the Grand Canyon sky-walk viewing platform thingy tomorrow, and clear out of town on Friday. The coach trip should give us time to pore over some maps and work out what to do next. Chappers fancies going to Flagstaff (Arizona) and Albuquerque (New Mexico), then either across to Texas, or up toward Salt Lake City (Utah). I'm leaning toward heading back west toward San Francisco, then head up the coast roads to Seattle before the winter weather kicks in. Weather is a big consideration, and it seems it's a choice between chillier European style autumn weather, or reasonably hot desert highways. All depends on the end goal. I might be convinced if we ultimately head to New Orleans. I'd probably soil my leathers with joy to see some music live in a proper Big Easy jazz bar! If it's just going to be thousands of miles of straight lines in deserts then I'll have to sulk a bit.
We need a coherent plan. We've had time and instead fannied around in shops and tourist traps. Time to put my foot down?
Tuesday, 14 October 2008
San Gabriel Glory and Mojave Madness
Well dear reader, after delays beyond our expectations, we finally got on the road.
We took the bikes for a top box and cigarette power point to be fitted on Chappers' ride, but things didn't go according to plan. The chap in charge of the soldering iron shouldn't be in charge of his own arse in case he confuses it with his elbow.
He managed to first set fire to Chappers clothes, by carelessly resting the soldering iron on the rear side of the left-hand hard pannier (the acrid aroma of burning plastic made it through to the waiting area so God only knows how he managed to keep it there long enough to go through to the contents and ignite them).
Then, after putting out the smouldering mess, did he inform his supervisor or indeed the customer? No. He carried on with the job in hand. This time he was painfully aware that a soldering iron should not be rested on plastic luggage mounting points. This time he rested it on the rear tyre. The sequence of events, we're led to believe, is that the workshop phone rang, he put the iron down, and took the call, taking notes, rang the finance department to pass the message on - incorrectly it turns out - and was then surprised to hear an almighty !BANG! as were we. That was the sound of a tyre going pop. Not heard it before, and don't really wish to hear it again. Of course the sound attracted just about every worker in the joint, who discovered the high-class workmanship demonstration that had been going on.
Eventually we were advised by the most frightened looking, and hottest, office girl in the showroom. If the tactic was to present us with perfect teeth and perfect boobies to calm us down, it worked. Still, the tyre needed replacing, as did the wheel (dented when it dropped a few inches onto the floor), and of course the luggage. Parts had to be ordered. Lovely girl arranged a Buell as a courtesy bike, and we headed back to Hollywood. Managed to get the same room too, which was good. Sunday was spent replacing Chappers clothes. I intended to blog about it that night, and realised the laptop was still in the undamaged pannier, at the bike shop. Oh well!
Anyway, to cut a long story down to mid-length, we finally got the bike handed back to us first thing this morning. Chappers barely complained at all, but was given the cost of replacement clothing without quibble, the wiring was re-done for free, the top box was half-price, and they covered half the hotel bill. Top quality service. One can't help but imagine had it happened in the UK they'd have covered up as much as they could, swapped tyres and left the damaged rim, and sprayed a bit air freshener to hope you didn't notice the burned plastic and clothes until you were too far away to return and hit them.
So, we took the machines, had a bit of a busy ride on the freeways toward Glendale, and then pulled off the network at the Angeles Crest Highway. Now and then on the way up we had a spot of trouble with ash from the wild fires further north and east up the valley. I kept getting it on my visor, and inhaling a bit, while Chappers really struggled with his vision and swallowed a lot more. I suggested he should buy a silk scarf before we set off to keep bugs out of his teeth but he wouldn't have it. The only thing he'd let near his mouth while riding would be a Cuban cigar, he said. Serves the daft git right.
We rode north into the San Gabriel Mountains. I'm afraid my skills with the English language fall short when confronted with the task of describing the beauteous majesty of these mountains, and their glorious sweeping roads. Your eyes and brain try to focus on where the ribbon of tarmac will next swoop, and the herd-like traffic you're jousting with, and all the while the very same senses wish to feast instead on the evergreen monsters crawling up the mountain sides, the sandy grey paths and trails, the ridges, the blue skies, occasional spikes of alien colour such as bright yellow trees, terracotta and white roofs and of course the ever twisting black velvet ribbon we were following disappearing and reappearing like a hypnotic serpent.
The ride was brisk, and at times hard work. We had a little fun and played with the cars, panel vans, wagons and RVs that we reeled in, like Pac Man and his little white dots. We caught them, we devoured them. Occasionally as the walls of the gloriously monstrous terrain loomed up to one side or the other, the sound of my engine would echo back at me from several directions. A beastly thump, thump, thump. A beat sounded out that when it returned could have been the rumbling of the San Andreas fault, toward which we were headed but wouldn't actually meet, sat as it is at the northern edge of the mountains.
After a glorious lifetime of fun that lasted just two hours (including a stop at one rest-area to take on board some fluids, letting some fluids out, and to wipe the ash from Chappers' rather grey face), we headed down and out of the mountain range, stopping in Wrightwood for gas and smokes. We then hit the highway south for a few miles to Cajun Pass. I swear I saw some train-spotters sat with their flasks and note-pads. Just like British ones but instead of parkas with fur hoods they had garish shirts and mid 90's skiing sunglasses. From Cajun Pass we picked up the road north toward Vegas. So with Chappers in his trousers, tassled jacket, piss-pot lid and aviator shades, me in my all-in-one snowy white race suit, we headed into the Mojave desert. The heat wasn't necessarily high, certainly I've ridden in hotter at home. The oppressiveness of the heat however was incredible. I know it sounds bloody obvious but the air is so dry, you just don't really grasp how much so until you're heading along a road through the middle of it, at 60mph. We tickled out near-empty fuel-tanks in to Barstow, prolonging the agony at 40mph so we wouldn't end up walking/pushing. Once refuelled in our bikes and our bellies, we headed off again. There was an "Only in America" moment as we passed a sign for "Zzyxx Road", before we pulled off a few miles later to see the world's tallest thermometer and refuel one last time. The big gauge said it was a mere 87deg-F (about 31 or 32 in European money). Easy-peasy when you're in a power-ranger outfit, and have a black fuel tank acting as a bakers stone 2 inches from your gonads. And off we went again. A nice easy run to Vegas!
Well, so we thought anyway.
As we crossed the border from California to Nevada on I-15 at a town called Primm, we hadn't spotted a state highway trooper looking to hand out some justice. Admittedly our speed had crept up a little in an effort to air-condition ourselves, but we didn't realise we were being such naughty boys. We were given the whoop-whoop and blue lights, and pulled over. A short dumpy chap with a Freddy Mercury moustache rolled out of the patrol car, and let the poor thing relax its springs for 5 minutes. His rolling gait was emphasised by the most bizarre limp I've ever seen. I couldn't even work out which leg was damaged. He also had dark patches under each arm, around his navel, and on his groin. Thank fuck I had a full face helmet on so I could cough back the laughter for a moment. I had the sweatiest nuts in Christendom in my leathers, but fortunately white leather and stretchy black kevlar weave stuff is very concealing. I regained control of myself, removed my helmet and looked sheepish. Textbook "sorry sir!" attitude. Let them be the boss, and take it like a man.
However, Officer Sweat-Patch looked pleased with himself, and clearly his day's hunting was paying rewards. He had caught two big beasts prowling across his ranch. We were advised that travelling in excess of 21mph above the speed limit of 70mph meant big trouble, points, and potentially a criminal record. Then I spoke. His jowls sank from smug chipmunk to deputy dawg in a slow two second sag. The two big nasties he had caught and bagged were turning out to be some sort of difficult-to-skin creatures. You could see his eyes ticking over, weighing up the paperwork involved, and a pair of furrnrrs would be too much it seems. That didn't stop him getting his ticket-book out though. He mightn't fancy making us appear at the courthouse, but he wasn't beyond making us tip the moths from our limey wallets, so instead we got some nice pretty tickets to pay fines. $623 each. I wouldn't mind but we didn't even crack the ton. Around £700 between us for pottering along at 99mph. Oh well, never mind.
And so, tails between our legs, we took the rest of the ride to Vegas at just below 70mph.
We checked in to The Venetian a few hours ago, took showers, and I caught an hour or two of shut-eye. Much needed. I'm not entirely sure how but I appear to have managed to sunburn the insides of my thighs. They're so tender right now. Well, I say not sure, but it's where the stretchy panels are in between the leather areas. On sports bikes and street bikes they'd be wrapped around a tank, but on the Harley they're sort of up and out. But even so, it's quite thick black material.
We're heading down to the tables in 20 minutes or so, and we'll spend a spot of pocket change and get some food. I'm reckoning on trying to keep to $250 tops. I fully expect to lose it, but no point being a fool and throwing much more away into fat cats wallets. Having said that, I'm not sure I can face losing more to Officer Sweat-Patch's fine than I do to the Vegas casinos.
Tomorrow I'm going to sleep some more, and then have a prowl along the strip to see Vegas's idea of architecture. Chappers has more friends he wishes to visit and say hello to. Might be a nice big barbecue meal for us in the evening too he thinks, so that will be nice. I would rather see the real Vegas, than the blister-packed sanitised tourist-trap.
Cheerio for now!
We took the bikes for a top box and cigarette power point to be fitted on Chappers' ride, but things didn't go according to plan. The chap in charge of the soldering iron shouldn't be in charge of his own arse in case he confuses it with his elbow.
He managed to first set fire to Chappers clothes, by carelessly resting the soldering iron on the rear side of the left-hand hard pannier (the acrid aroma of burning plastic made it through to the waiting area so God only knows how he managed to keep it there long enough to go through to the contents and ignite them).
Then, after putting out the smouldering mess, did he inform his supervisor or indeed the customer? No. He carried on with the job in hand. This time he was painfully aware that a soldering iron should not be rested on plastic luggage mounting points. This time he rested it on the rear tyre. The sequence of events, we're led to believe, is that the workshop phone rang, he put the iron down, and took the call, taking notes, rang the finance department to pass the message on - incorrectly it turns out - and was then surprised to hear an almighty !BANG! as were we. That was the sound of a tyre going pop. Not heard it before, and don't really wish to hear it again. Of course the sound attracted just about every worker in the joint, who discovered the high-class workmanship demonstration that had been going on.
Eventually we were advised by the most frightened looking, and hottest, office girl in the showroom. If the tactic was to present us with perfect teeth and perfect boobies to calm us down, it worked. Still, the tyre needed replacing, as did the wheel (dented when it dropped a few inches onto the floor), and of course the luggage. Parts had to be ordered. Lovely girl arranged a Buell as a courtesy bike, and we headed back to Hollywood. Managed to get the same room too, which was good. Sunday was spent replacing Chappers clothes. I intended to blog about it that night, and realised the laptop was still in the undamaged pannier, at the bike shop. Oh well!
Anyway, to cut a long story down to mid-length, we finally got the bike handed back to us first thing this morning. Chappers barely complained at all, but was given the cost of replacement clothing without quibble, the wiring was re-done for free, the top box was half-price, and they covered half the hotel bill. Top quality service. One can't help but imagine had it happened in the UK they'd have covered up as much as they could, swapped tyres and left the damaged rim, and sprayed a bit air freshener to hope you didn't notice the burned plastic and clothes until you were too far away to return and hit them.
So, we took the machines, had a bit of a busy ride on the freeways toward Glendale, and then pulled off the network at the Angeles Crest Highway. Now and then on the way up we had a spot of trouble with ash from the wild fires further north and east up the valley. I kept getting it on my visor, and inhaling a bit, while Chappers really struggled with his vision and swallowed a lot more. I suggested he should buy a silk scarf before we set off to keep bugs out of his teeth but he wouldn't have it. The only thing he'd let near his mouth while riding would be a Cuban cigar, he said. Serves the daft git right.
We rode north into the San Gabriel Mountains. I'm afraid my skills with the English language fall short when confronted with the task of describing the beauteous majesty of these mountains, and their glorious sweeping roads. Your eyes and brain try to focus on where the ribbon of tarmac will next swoop, and the herd-like traffic you're jousting with, and all the while the very same senses wish to feast instead on the evergreen monsters crawling up the mountain sides, the sandy grey paths and trails, the ridges, the blue skies, occasional spikes of alien colour such as bright yellow trees, terracotta and white roofs and of course the ever twisting black velvet ribbon we were following disappearing and reappearing like a hypnotic serpent.
The ride was brisk, and at times hard work. We had a little fun and played with the cars, panel vans, wagons and RVs that we reeled in, like Pac Man and his little white dots. We caught them, we devoured them. Occasionally as the walls of the gloriously monstrous terrain loomed up to one side or the other, the sound of my engine would echo back at me from several directions. A beastly thump, thump, thump. A beat sounded out that when it returned could have been the rumbling of the San Andreas fault, toward which we were headed but wouldn't actually meet, sat as it is at the northern edge of the mountains.
After a glorious lifetime of fun that lasted just two hours (including a stop at one rest-area to take on board some fluids, letting some fluids out, and to wipe the ash from Chappers' rather grey face), we headed down and out of the mountain range, stopping in Wrightwood for gas and smokes. We then hit the highway south for a few miles to Cajun Pass. I swear I saw some train-spotters sat with their flasks and note-pads. Just like British ones but instead of parkas with fur hoods they had garish shirts and mid 90's skiing sunglasses. From Cajun Pass we picked up the road north toward Vegas. So with Chappers in his trousers, tassled jacket, piss-pot lid and aviator shades, me in my all-in-one snowy white race suit, we headed into the Mojave desert. The heat wasn't necessarily high, certainly I've ridden in hotter at home. The oppressiveness of the heat however was incredible. I know it sounds bloody obvious but the air is so dry, you just don't really grasp how much so until you're heading along a road through the middle of it, at 60mph. We tickled out near-empty fuel-tanks in to Barstow, prolonging the agony at 40mph so we wouldn't end up walking/pushing. Once refuelled in our bikes and our bellies, we headed off again. There was an "Only in America" moment as we passed a sign for "Zzyxx Road", before we pulled off a few miles later to see the world's tallest thermometer and refuel one last time. The big gauge said it was a mere 87deg-F (about 31 or 32 in European money). Easy-peasy when you're in a power-ranger outfit, and have a black fuel tank acting as a bakers stone 2 inches from your gonads. And off we went again. A nice easy run to Vegas!
Well, so we thought anyway.
As we crossed the border from California to Nevada on I-15 at a town called Primm, we hadn't spotted a state highway trooper looking to hand out some justice. Admittedly our speed had crept up a little in an effort to air-condition ourselves, but we didn't realise we were being such naughty boys. We were given the whoop-whoop and blue lights, and pulled over. A short dumpy chap with a Freddy Mercury moustache rolled out of the patrol car, and let the poor thing relax its springs for 5 minutes. His rolling gait was emphasised by the most bizarre limp I've ever seen. I couldn't even work out which leg was damaged. He also had dark patches under each arm, around his navel, and on his groin. Thank fuck I had a full face helmet on so I could cough back the laughter for a moment. I had the sweatiest nuts in Christendom in my leathers, but fortunately white leather and stretchy black kevlar weave stuff is very concealing. I regained control of myself, removed my helmet and looked sheepish. Textbook "sorry sir!" attitude. Let them be the boss, and take it like a man.
However, Officer Sweat-Patch looked pleased with himself, and clearly his day's hunting was paying rewards. He had caught two big beasts prowling across his ranch. We were advised that travelling in excess of 21mph above the speed limit of 70mph meant big trouble, points, and potentially a criminal record. Then I spoke. His jowls sank from smug chipmunk to deputy dawg in a slow two second sag. The two big nasties he had caught and bagged were turning out to be some sort of difficult-to-skin creatures. You could see his eyes ticking over, weighing up the paperwork involved, and a pair of furrnrrs would be too much it seems. That didn't stop him getting his ticket-book out though. He mightn't fancy making us appear at the courthouse, but he wasn't beyond making us tip the moths from our limey wallets, so instead we got some nice pretty tickets to pay fines. $623 each. I wouldn't mind but we didn't even crack the ton. Around £700 between us for pottering along at 99mph. Oh well, never mind.
And so, tails between our legs, we took the rest of the ride to Vegas at just below 70mph.
We checked in to The Venetian a few hours ago, took showers, and I caught an hour or two of shut-eye. Much needed. I'm not entirely sure how but I appear to have managed to sunburn the insides of my thighs. They're so tender right now. Well, I say not sure, but it's where the stretchy panels are in between the leather areas. On sports bikes and street bikes they'd be wrapped around a tank, but on the Harley they're sort of up and out. But even so, it's quite thick black material.
We're heading down to the tables in 20 minutes or so, and we'll spend a spot of pocket change and get some food. I'm reckoning on trying to keep to $250 tops. I fully expect to lose it, but no point being a fool and throwing much more away into fat cats wallets. Having said that, I'm not sure I can face losing more to Officer Sweat-Patch's fine than I do to the Vegas casinos.
Tomorrow I'm going to sleep some more, and then have a prowl along the strip to see Vegas's idea of architecture. Chappers has more friends he wishes to visit and say hello to. Might be a nice big barbecue meal for us in the evening too he thinks, so that will be nice. I would rather see the real Vegas, than the blister-packed sanitised tourist-trap.
Cheerio for now!
Thursday, 9 October 2008
All the gear. No idea.
Rebels without a clue. That's me and Chappers right about now!
Sheltering from the sunshine (28 degrees in October? My translucent-skinned English torso isn't used to this!) in the air conditioned room, we're hanging up our new purchases to 'breathe', and so we don't get any silica-gel surprises when we eventually wear them in anger.
As predicted, my good friend Andrew went for a tassled brown leather jacket that had undergone an extensive ageing or 'distressing' process so it looks like it's been witness to millions of miles over a period of decades. This is partnered with a pair of jeans with leather patches stitched onto the backside and knees. It's like an early '90s English teacher's corduroy jacket converted into trousers. So VERY wrong to look at!. His helmet is a "Bell - Shorty Shadow" in tan and white. All he needs now is a sailor tattoo, and a hankie hanging out of one back pocket and the look will be complete. Believe it or not, he was considering a Harris Tweed sports jacket as an alternative to leather, because it looked distinguished. I despair sometimes! I think I've called him Chappers too much, and the upper class twit gene is rebelling in disgust. It's doing its best to break through and he's not putting up too much of a fight. He's happy enough though so I shouldn't complain too much.
I on the other hand have quite possibly made the biggest mistake of my motorcycle clothing life. The memories of the scuffed nipple were clearly more prominent than I imagined, and I couldn't bring myself to buy armoured jeans or textile stuff. I kept imagining falling off at 12mph and the seams disintegrating as I slid for half a mile in my boxer shorts. Irrational, but nonetheless, I am now the proud owner of a one-piece AlpineStars race suit. Unfortunately the only one in my size was white. Yes, you got that right. I will be riding around west coast USA on a Harley, in a set of leathers resembling a Star Wars Storm-Trooper. Of course I had to get matching white boots and gloves. My formal excuse will be that I chose white in order to reflect the sunshine, and stay cool and fresh. Somehow however I don't think anyone will believe me. I tried to pull it back from the brink with a Shoei Kagayama replica helmet, but I fear it was too little, too late. Why is it the biggest mistake of my bike clothing life? Somehow I may have managed to clothe myself in a more camp manner than Chappers. I don't think we'll be heading to Alabama!
Anyway. Style faux pas aside, it's one less thing to worry about. We've ordered a top-box from the dealer for Chappers bike, so with a backpack for me we won't need to bin a thing. They've even told us they can wire up a cigarette socket to recharge phones or the laptop from his bike while on the move, and not fry the battery - and while we wait. That's real service for you. In London you'd have to book a couple of weeks in advance and leave the bike for almost as long, come back to find the junior salesman had been using it for pizzaa delivery on the side, and pay through the nose for the privelege. I'm really beginning to see so many things that make me cringe at the thought of home. Little things like we take the piss out of saying "Have a nice day!", because it's a false sentiment foisted upon low-level workers by overbearing chain corporations who want to cream everything out of your wallet - but actually when they say it here, they mean it! The genuine warmth with which you are greeted, served, helped, directed, and experience every other form of consumer interaction is almost touching. I can feel this angry ball of British cynicism punching at my stomach, and clawing up my oesophagus to try and burst out in a rampant tirade of bile and nastiness as a response. However, instead of having to fight it, the warmth washing over me from Americans seems to be flooding through and pushing it back down. It's wonderful!
So, on that point of pure schmaltz, I'm signing off. We're going to enjoy an evening of heavy drinking to say goodbye to Hollywood, before we head toward Vegas. We're not leaving until Saturday but neither of us are overly enamoured with drinking and driving, and I reckon we could fuel the bikes from our own fumes if we drank on Friday and rode on Saturday.
Cheerio!
Sheltering from the sunshine (28 degrees in October? My translucent-skinned English torso isn't used to this!) in the air conditioned room, we're hanging up our new purchases to 'breathe', and so we don't get any silica-gel surprises when we eventually wear them in anger.
As predicted, my good friend Andrew went for a tassled brown leather jacket that had undergone an extensive ageing or 'distressing' process so it looks like it's been witness to millions of miles over a period of decades. This is partnered with a pair of jeans with leather patches stitched onto the backside and knees. It's like an early '90s English teacher's corduroy jacket converted into trousers. So VERY wrong to look at!. His helmet is a "Bell - Shorty Shadow" in tan and white. All he needs now is a sailor tattoo, and a hankie hanging out of one back pocket and the look will be complete. Believe it or not, he was considering a Harris Tweed sports jacket as an alternative to leather, because it looked distinguished. I despair sometimes! I think I've called him Chappers too much, and the upper class twit gene is rebelling in disgust. It's doing its best to break through and he's not putting up too much of a fight. He's happy enough though so I shouldn't complain too much.
I on the other hand have quite possibly made the biggest mistake of my motorcycle clothing life. The memories of the scuffed nipple were clearly more prominent than I imagined, and I couldn't bring myself to buy armoured jeans or textile stuff. I kept imagining falling off at 12mph and the seams disintegrating as I slid for half a mile in my boxer shorts. Irrational, but nonetheless, I am now the proud owner of a one-piece AlpineStars race suit. Unfortunately the only one in my size was white. Yes, you got that right. I will be riding around west coast USA on a Harley, in a set of leathers resembling a Star Wars Storm-Trooper. Of course I had to get matching white boots and gloves. My formal excuse will be that I chose white in order to reflect the sunshine, and stay cool and fresh. Somehow however I don't think anyone will believe me. I tried to pull it back from the brink with a Shoei Kagayama replica helmet, but I fear it was too little, too late. Why is it the biggest mistake of my bike clothing life? Somehow I may have managed to clothe myself in a more camp manner than Chappers. I don't think we'll be heading to Alabama!
Anyway. Style faux pas aside, it's one less thing to worry about. We've ordered a top-box from the dealer for Chappers bike, so with a backpack for me we won't need to bin a thing. They've even told us they can wire up a cigarette socket to recharge phones or the laptop from his bike while on the move, and not fry the battery - and while we wait. That's real service for you. In London you'd have to book a couple of weeks in advance and leave the bike for almost as long, come back to find the junior salesman had been using it for pizzaa delivery on the side, and pay through the nose for the privelege. I'm really beginning to see so many things that make me cringe at the thought of home. Little things like we take the piss out of saying "Have a nice day!", because it's a false sentiment foisted upon low-level workers by overbearing chain corporations who want to cream everything out of your wallet - but actually when they say it here, they mean it! The genuine warmth with which you are greeted, served, helped, directed, and experience every other form of consumer interaction is almost touching. I can feel this angry ball of British cynicism punching at my stomach, and clawing up my oesophagus to try and burst out in a rampant tirade of bile and nastiness as a response. However, instead of having to fight it, the warmth washing over me from Americans seems to be flooding through and pushing it back down. It's wonderful!
So, on that point of pure schmaltz, I'm signing off. We're going to enjoy an evening of heavy drinking to say goodbye to Hollywood, before we head toward Vegas. We're not leaving until Saturday but neither of us are overly enamoured with drinking and driving, and I reckon we could fuel the bikes from our own fumes if we drank on Friday and rode on Saturday.
Cheerio!
Tuesday, 7 October 2008
Three Words...
Three words?
Oh. My. God.
Or, more accurately...
Harley Fucking Davidson!
Or perhaps...
Mid Life Crisis?
I got back to the hotel from the Chinese theatre, decided to get some room service food and enjoy a couple of beers with the air conditioning on. After a couple of hours Chappers bounded into the room and asked that I go with him to the parking garage. There I was confronted by two men - one a big burly 'don't fuck with me' Hells Angel type chap, and the other a scrawny pastiche of PeeWee Herman. The salesman and delivery driver in fact, there to hand over two gleaming machines. Mid life crisis well and truly made reality!
The machines in question, as delivered by Drew (HA) and Walker (PeeWee - and since when was Walker a given name?) were: A beautiful black StreetGlide for Chappers, and a mad looking Nightster for little old me. I don't know what the hell I'm going to do with all the stuff I brought out with me, mind you! Some might fit into the hard luggage on the StreetGlide, but the rest will have to go in a rucksack - anything left over will have to go to a charity shop somewhere. There's nowhere to stick any throw-overs on the Nightster.
I've never been particularly keen on Harleys at all, seeing them as a machine for middle aged middle classed middle managers. That and I passed my DAS on a CB500, mainly ran around London on a series of 600cc 4-stroke street bikes, followed by a short and ill fated spell with a street-fightered Fireblade that led me onto 4 wheels for a bit. Always feet-under-bum bikes. That just feels 'right' to me. I have to admit though, I've always had a bit of a dream to go across America on a Harley, living the cliché. That's not the plan, by the way. Right vehicle for the dream, but the route is probably going to be a bit more chaotic, taking us where we fancy at the moment we set off.
So, all in all Chappers has will pretty much have convinced the maid we're gay by the time we check out. God knows what she'll do to purify and protect herself once she sees the leather garments hanging up!
Talking of leather garments, we're going shopping tomorrow - or so I'm told. We need to get some suitable attire for riding motorcycles. No way can I do the t-shirt and shorts look. I've face-planted on a sleeping policeman in Romford, followed by a 40 yard slide on my neck and back, and thanks to some decent kit I walked away with a headache and a scuffed nipple (never did work out how I scuffed it). I suspect my travel insurance probably doesn't cover road-rash skin grafts either. Hopefully we can find some armoured textile jeans and jackets like the couriers wear at home in summer. Matey-boy apparently fancies something with tassles, and a piss-pot helmet. I bet he'd get a hat with a spike on top, bottomless chaps over stone-washed denim, and a porn star moustache if he could.
Well, I'm getting rather excited after this little surprise. It's been a while since I've been on two wheels, and I've never ridden feet forward before. This is beginning to actually become a little adventure, rather than a week in a Hollywood hotel!
I'm off to the parking garage again to get all moist-eyed and excited. I'm more giddy than a kid waiting for Santa to bring half the toys section from the Argos catalogue!
Oh. My. God.
Or, more accurately...
Harley Fucking Davidson!
Or perhaps...
Mid Life Crisis?
I got back to the hotel from the Chinese theatre, decided to get some room service food and enjoy a couple of beers with the air conditioning on. After a couple of hours Chappers bounded into the room and asked that I go with him to the parking garage. There I was confronted by two men - one a big burly 'don't fuck with me' Hells Angel type chap, and the other a scrawny pastiche of PeeWee Herman. The salesman and delivery driver in fact, there to hand over two gleaming machines. Mid life crisis well and truly made reality!
The machines in question, as delivered by Drew (HA) and Walker (PeeWee - and since when was Walker a given name?) were: A beautiful black StreetGlide for Chappers, and a mad looking Nightster for little old me. I don't know what the hell I'm going to do with all the stuff I brought out with me, mind you! Some might fit into the hard luggage on the StreetGlide, but the rest will have to go in a rucksack - anything left over will have to go to a charity shop somewhere. There's nowhere to stick any throw-overs on the Nightster.
I've never been particularly keen on Harleys at all, seeing them as a machine for middle aged middle classed middle managers. That and I passed my DAS on a CB500, mainly ran around London on a series of 600cc 4-stroke street bikes, followed by a short and ill fated spell with a street-fightered Fireblade that led me onto 4 wheels for a bit. Always feet-under-bum bikes. That just feels 'right' to me. I have to admit though, I've always had a bit of a dream to go across America on a Harley, living the cliché. That's not the plan, by the way. Right vehicle for the dream, but the route is probably going to be a bit more chaotic, taking us where we fancy at the moment we set off.
So, all in all Chappers has will pretty much have convinced the maid we're gay by the time we check out. God knows what she'll do to purify and protect herself once she sees the leather garments hanging up!
Talking of leather garments, we're going shopping tomorrow - or so I'm told. We need to get some suitable attire for riding motorcycles. No way can I do the t-shirt and shorts look. I've face-planted on a sleeping policeman in Romford, followed by a 40 yard slide on my neck and back, and thanks to some decent kit I walked away with a headache and a scuffed nipple (never did work out how I scuffed it). I suspect my travel insurance probably doesn't cover road-rash skin grafts either. Hopefully we can find some armoured textile jeans and jackets like the couriers wear at home in summer. Matey-boy apparently fancies something with tassles, and a piss-pot helmet. I bet he'd get a hat with a spike on top, bottomless chaps over stone-washed denim, and a porn star moustache if he could.
Well, I'm getting rather excited after this little surprise. It's been a while since I've been on two wheels, and I've never ridden feet forward before. This is beginning to actually become a little adventure, rather than a week in a Hollywood hotel!
I'm off to the parking garage again to get all moist-eyed and excited. I'm more giddy than a kid waiting for Santa to bring half the toys section from the Argos catalogue!
Monday, 6 October 2008
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
So here I am, sat in a beautiful suite on the trillionth floor of the Renaissance Hollywood Hotel, feet on the table (sorry grandma), and laptop heating my nuts to a degree that must surely guarantee infertility for 36 months, and I am beginning to find it difficult to reconcile how fortunate I am in life right now, when compared to the life I was leading a couple of short months ago. The element of luxury I find myself surrounded by is afforded to me only by the fortune of who I befriended a decade ago, and there is a growing pit of guilt in my stomach that I'm taking advantage of the situation. I don't intend to be and really think that given how clear Chappers made it that I'm not, that it's true I'm not. Maybe it's the remains of some catholic blood in my family tree from a century ago, making itself known?
Enough of the maudlin stuff - this place is incredible!
I spent today at the Getty Museum, bathing my eyes in the glory of Titian and Gainsborough (amongst others). A pretty impressive collection especially as it's a private one. The experience does however serve to remind me how fortunate we are in Britain to have so many museums and galleries with world class art collections, opening their doors to the great unwashed free of charge. The collections available to just walk in off the streets of London are possibly the best in the world. I fully intend to remind myself of the culture on my doorstep when I eventually return.
Chappers met up with me this afternoon, after yet another furtive day of getting up to whatever it is he's been getting up to. He says I'll find out tomorrow afternoon, so I'll update this journal once I know more. I'm assuming he's been sorting out some wheels. If he turns up with a convertible Mustang then the maid here will be more convinced than ever that we're 'Friends of Dorothy'. Despite this being a twin room, she appears to be convinced we're gay lovers, and crosses herself whenever she enters and exits the room (as I found out this morning, sat wearing a towel, watching MTV while I dried the family jewels). She must think it's a den of sin and needs protection in case cleaning our shower suddenly turns her into a rampaging lesbian. I'm half tempted to leave half a dozen unwrapped condoms and a tube of lube (emptied) next to one of the beds on the day we check out. Would that be horrible of me?
Tomorrow I'm thinking of starting off the day by pissing off Elvis and Spiderman again. On Sunday I somehow ended up with a coach-load of American tourists, from somewhere unpronounceable in Idaho, having their photograph taken with me. They were convinced, thanks in no small part to my accent and designer clobber, that I was a bona fide celebrity. No amount of protestation would convince them otherwise. I wonder if the two who asked for autographs will ever wonder why Jude Law signs his name "Kris Casteel"? I don't even look like Jude Law, and why would he be out for a stroll on the Hollywood walk of fame anyway?! Anyhow, Elvis got the hump and was having a go that I was working his patch, and Spiderman joined in, asking to see my accreditation. I didn't realise just how camp Superman and Captain Jack Sparrow could be when hurling abuse either.
After that perhaps a movie in Grauman's Chinese Theatre- just to say I've done it. I'm led to believe by the internet that they're showing 'How To Lose Friends and Alienate People'. Fancy that - coming all the way out here, to watch a Simon Pegg movie!
Time to empty the mini-bar again. Night!
Enough of the maudlin stuff - this place is incredible!
I spent today at the Getty Museum, bathing my eyes in the glory of Titian and Gainsborough (amongst others). A pretty impressive collection especially as it's a private one. The experience does however serve to remind me how fortunate we are in Britain to have so many museums and galleries with world class art collections, opening their doors to the great unwashed free of charge. The collections available to just walk in off the streets of London are possibly the best in the world. I fully intend to remind myself of the culture on my doorstep when I eventually return.
Chappers met up with me this afternoon, after yet another furtive day of getting up to whatever it is he's been getting up to. He says I'll find out tomorrow afternoon, so I'll update this journal once I know more. I'm assuming he's been sorting out some wheels. If he turns up with a convertible Mustang then the maid here will be more convinced than ever that we're 'Friends of Dorothy'. Despite this being a twin room, she appears to be convinced we're gay lovers, and crosses herself whenever she enters and exits the room (as I found out this morning, sat wearing a towel, watching MTV while I dried the family jewels). She must think it's a den of sin and needs protection in case cleaning our shower suddenly turns her into a rampaging lesbian. I'm half tempted to leave half a dozen unwrapped condoms and a tube of lube (emptied) next to one of the beds on the day we check out. Would that be horrible of me?
Tomorrow I'm thinking of starting off the day by pissing off Elvis and Spiderman again. On Sunday I somehow ended up with a coach-load of American tourists, from somewhere unpronounceable in Idaho, having their photograph taken with me. They were convinced, thanks in no small part to my accent and designer clobber, that I was a bona fide celebrity. No amount of protestation would convince them otherwise. I wonder if the two who asked for autographs will ever wonder why Jude Law signs his name "Kris Casteel"? I don't even look like Jude Law, and why would he be out for a stroll on the Hollywood walk of fame anyway?! Anyhow, Elvis got the hump and was having a go that I was working his patch, and Spiderman joined in, asking to see my accreditation. I didn't realise just how camp Superman and Captain Jack Sparrow could be when hurling abuse either.
After that perhaps a movie in Grauman's Chinese Theatre- just to say I've done it. I'm led to believe by the internet that they're showing 'How To Lose Friends and Alienate People'. Fancy that - coming all the way out here, to watch a Simon Pegg movie!
Time to empty the mini-bar again. Night!
Saturday, 4 October 2008
The Eagle Has Landed
Christ on a bike, flight delays are a bitch! I spent about £30 on coffee and mars bars just to remain awake and alive.
We finally boarded nearly half a day late, and apparently the wind round Santa's gonads was interfering with the radar and as a result the wind speed over Timbuktu or somewhere equally ridiculous meant we were 15% slower than we should have been reaching the eastern sea board, then a weather system somewhere that sounded interesting meant a longer round-a-bout route to LA than we should have taken. Net result a very long and grumpy flight.
As a bonus however, my good friend Andrew Walker-Fowldes' amazing idea of wearing our best suits, rocking up to check-in and asking if we could have a free upgrade worked. He flashed his pearly white smile, and we were in. The huge reclining chairs made the flight bearable. He's a top man is Chappers. Flipping genius.
Anyhow. Immigration was a bit of an ordeal thanks to one prize gimp with a real cockerneeee wide-boy accent. He thought that despite the countless warnings over the last few years that humour + immigration makes for a shite day, he'd throw in a joke about concealed firearms. As a result the rest of us behind him (the last 20 or so people off the flight) had to endure further delays. Deep joy.
Still, the DHS guys are doing a job, keeping the people safe etc so we just had to like it or lump it. Wish they'd given the knob-head who caused it the full latex/KY treatment though.
The hotel is lovely, with good views. We're quite high up, and the room is pure luxury.
Chappers is visiting a couple of people in the morning apparently, so I'm probably going to hit the tourist trail and see the cliché stuff like the Hollywood sign, the walk of fame, etc.
Anyway - I'm knackered and about to get hit by a combination of jetlag, and cheap minibar whisky, so I'll call it a night. More in a day or two!
We finally boarded nearly half a day late, and apparently the wind round Santa's gonads was interfering with the radar and as a result the wind speed over Timbuktu or somewhere equally ridiculous meant we were 15% slower than we should have been reaching the eastern sea board, then a weather system somewhere that sounded interesting meant a longer round-a-bout route to LA than we should have taken. Net result a very long and grumpy flight.
As a bonus however, my good friend Andrew Walker-Fowldes' amazing idea of wearing our best suits, rocking up to check-in and asking if we could have a free upgrade worked. He flashed his pearly white smile, and we were in. The huge reclining chairs made the flight bearable. He's a top man is Chappers. Flipping genius.
Anyhow. Immigration was a bit of an ordeal thanks to one prize gimp with a real cockerneeee wide-boy accent. He thought that despite the countless warnings over the last few years that humour + immigration makes for a shite day, he'd throw in a joke about concealed firearms. As a result the rest of us behind him (the last 20 or so people off the flight) had to endure further delays. Deep joy.
Still, the DHS guys are doing a job, keeping the people safe etc so we just had to like it or lump it. Wish they'd given the knob-head who caused it the full latex/KY treatment though.
The hotel is lovely, with good views. We're quite high up, and the room is pure luxury.
Chappers is visiting a couple of people in the morning apparently, so I'm probably going to hit the tourist trail and see the cliché stuff like the Hollywood sign, the walk of fame, etc.
Anyway - I'm knackered and about to get hit by a combination of jetlag, and cheap minibar whisky, so I'll call it a night. More in a day or two!
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