Oops, I have a blog!
I've been in Los Angeles now for about a week and a half, and my life is plugging along quiet according to plan - and for those who've followed my blog, you know there was no plan, so that's exactly what i'm dealing with: arriving in a place and having no specific plan.
So i'm homeless, jobless, hungry, tired, eyes constantly scanning for pennies on the sidewalk, avoiding the wealthy movie making elite's disapproving glances, and the like.
but in reality, LA is a blast, and i've been busy just trying to figure out what my new life is gonna be like. Like a caterpillar moving to a big brand new traffic-filled chrysalis, i know in a month i will metamorphosize into a big deal, hot shot celebrity of sorts, living in the hollywood hills, stepping on peons who scan the sidewalk for pennies. so it's just a matter of biding my time until good fortune seeks me out.
actually, i'm trying to seek it out myself. i've responded to more craigslist ads in the last week than i had in the previous 5 years combined. i auditioned for a band that is totally gonna make it, since their five songs are so awesome, they just need that missing lead guitarist piece. everyone here wants to 'make it.' no one wants to just have fun and do it for themselves, it's this quest of the highest and most famous. but it's rather exciting, because though many of them will not achieve the high level they want, they at least want it, and are willing to work for it.
i also have a photoshoot scheduled now for Friday so i can become a famous background actor aka extra. that's a sure path toward fame.
i also need a place to live, so i'm replying to ads on CL about that, too, and will see a place on Friday. so it's a matter of setting the little goals and picking up the phone (or clicking "compose mail") and setting the wheels spinning.
a fun though sorta anxious time to say the least.
and if it all crumbles down, i'll just check into a seedy motel and sell off my possessions to get some cheap whiskey.
Ain't nobody say dey gonna beat dem Saints!
Interception holy shit no way for colts to come back saints are gonna win they’re gonna actually win and a volcano eruption at the packed house in Kingpin where we’re gathering not-uncomfortably to watch the Super Bowl. Beads and drinks flying everywhere, strangers hugging strangers slapping hands with friends and strangers and other friends and new friends and soon to be strangers and dancing, dancing on the tables, pictures flashing, yelling, so much yelling and jubilant screaming and even some jumping up and down and then to the street, everyone to the street, we have to get downtown, how do we get there hey you, you’re driving? You got room in the back seats, great, windows down, high fiving strangers and WHO DAT, yelling out the windows saints-geared denizens shouting back, hording the street car tracks, mid-repair sidewalks, all streaming in to the French quarter. Stop in front of circle bar, driver lets us out and 12 piece brass band trumpeting, oh when the saints, go marching in, give me a whiskey to go, back toward downtown, skipping, half running, full on high fiving, who dat yelling, beads bouncing, car horns honking. Frenchman street, can’t move through the masses cars stalled in a sea of celebration; most windows down with a hand out for the slappin, we’re running in the brisk but pleasant “winter” air, wondering who the grinches are with their windows up and why on earth they chose to drive through the quarter, but tis no matter and we’re in D.B.A. with a rockin’ slide guitar band and they’re who datting, and we’re who datting, and another drink comes and we’re back on the street and heading toward Bourbon which is probably a bad idea but at this point our legs do not respond to free will; instead we are carried on the ocean of black and gold and we’re on Bourbon and there’s no room to move and the entire population of New Orleans is going this way and the entire population of New Orleans is going the other way and the entire population of Baton Rouge has just arrived and they’re just trying to cross the street but there’s no room and we’re mashed into a batter and we just don’t want to get hit in the face and fail at that and get hamburgers and beers from a guy who says he bought too many and now we’re in a pick up truck who datting and the pick up truck driver’s all yelling why are you in my pick up truck and then we’re with more friends and then we’re in a cab and then we’re home.
Taking a day off in NOLA
Yesterday started like any other day, with the thought: we should take it easy tonight. Save up money and energy for super bowl. Take it easy. Eat healthy. Relax. Don’t do anything crazy. We ate oatmeal for breakfast. Did laundry. I played guitar for a good hour. It was raining; these were the perfect rainy day activities.
Well all that went to shit at 5 when we rendezvoused with Hache and headed to the Boot for Happy Hour. This was the first of some questionable – no, bad – decisions. First of all, the Boot, a Tulane-infested sausage fest, has no Happy Hour. In fact, the menu board says “Pitchers $6.50” so I asks the young lady, how about one of them $6.50 pitchers? She responds, pitchers are $10. I look at her, then up at the board again, then back at her, then back up at the board, then back at her, then dejectedly down at the bar, and say, fine, gimme one of those.
We drank that and scooted over to New York Pizza (our original plan was for pizza at the Boot but we could not hang there much longer). New York Pizza on Magazine was delicious, and we got a 1/2 Bronx and 1/2 Queens pizza. The highlight was explaining to the wait staff that their menu and restaurant had a New York theme to it; they seemed not to make the connection.
Then to the Buddah Belly, across the street, for another bad idea: oh, shots of well tequila are only $2 and corona’s are $1.50? Give us a round of all of the above! We referenced Hache’s famous line from last week: “Hey, guys, I got us shots of tequila! But not just ANY tequila…… well tequila!” Well tequila is, well, not well for you. But it did the trick, and it encouraged us to join our drunk friend in a full-bar rendition of Bicycle by Queen. After the stirring version, the guy knocks over his drink with a flailing arm and, in an attempt to cover up, seemingly continues a conversation with the bar keep about the movie Avatar, where he says: “Avatar is the movie of this generation, it’s like… like…. Forrest… Bueller…… Goes to Camp.” We all agreed that this was the most insightful and hilarious thing this man ever said. But we left, and headed to Brothers III Lounge.
For you Portlanders, Brothers III is NOLA’s Awful Annies. We ordered up our Abita Ambers and lamented the lack of Happy Hour and good thing, because a bearded stranger took pity and bought us a round, thus making it a Happy Hour for us. Thanks, bearded man! Some amount of time passed watching Polar Bears eat fish from shallow pools and listening to the juke box, then we scooted off to some other bar which was notable because there was ice in the urinal, what fun! Not only do you get urinary relief, but you can play with melting ice and making tunnels and caves. I loved that bar! But we stayed only for a round, and then trundled off to Dos Jefes Cigar Bar for Courvoisier and cigars and gypsy jazz. Some of us flirted with the Dutch bass player (who enjoyed ice cold coca cola since he was not ‘of age’ – and yes, there actually is a drinking age in New Orleans), some of us with the table of three men and a woman next to us (offering to buy them a round but realizing he didn’t have any money); then we headed to the only place one should head at that hour. Fuddruckers!
To the Fudd, where we wait in line right before its 1 o’clock closing hour. Unfortunately, the clock struck one when we were first in line, and bam, closed, no, we will not serve you delectable burgers. We stood there, in total disbelief, in denial, Marie muttering “don’t worry, we’ll get burgers” but the staff ignoring us, cleaning up. Why? But then our knight in greasy armor came forward, leaned in, sayin’ y’all want some burgers? Yes please, three. He says, a’ight. And he comes out from behind the counter, and over to the side; we follow. He says, no no, just one of you, there’s cameras! Um, ok… I follow, he whispers, so you want three burgers? Yes, please. Ok, gimme twenty bucks. Um, if you say so. I hand him a twenty, he goes back behind the Fudd counter, and gives us a Styrofoam container with three plain burgers: burger + bun. We load ‘em up, and enjoy; I still don’t know why I put two giant scoops of jalapenos on, but it seemed like a good idea at the time, much like most of the evening.
Then what do you know, Fuddruckers is actually in the Harrah’s casino! I can’t resist helping to pay the bar tab with winnings, so I head to the $15 blackjack table and donate to the Harrah’s chain some of my hard earned money. With the final losing bet, Hache declares: how does it feel, loser? It felt ok.
Dejected, we head home, but not before stopping at Half Moon bar where we try to play air hockey but none of us can seem to figure out how to get quarters. Instead we just sit (some of us lie) on the table, and wonder what happened. Then Marie and I sort of well, discuss, events at the casino, while Hache advises “stop fighting, you guys are best friends, I hate to see you like this” again and again, on repeat. It’s sort of his mantra when Marie and I talk about blackjack.
Oh New Orleans, city of celebration and bad decisions. What do you have in store for us tonight?
Well all that went to shit at 5 when we rendezvoused with Hache and headed to the Boot for Happy Hour. This was the first of some questionable – no, bad – decisions. First of all, the Boot, a Tulane-infested sausage fest, has no Happy Hour. In fact, the menu board says “Pitchers $6.50” so I asks the young lady, how about one of them $6.50 pitchers? She responds, pitchers are $10. I look at her, then up at the board again, then back at her, then back up at the board, then back at her, then dejectedly down at the bar, and say, fine, gimme one of those.
We drank that and scooted over to New York Pizza (our original plan was for pizza at the Boot but we could not hang there much longer). New York Pizza on Magazine was delicious, and we got a 1/2 Bronx and 1/2 Queens pizza. The highlight was explaining to the wait staff that their menu and restaurant had a New York theme to it; they seemed not to make the connection.
Then to the Buddah Belly, across the street, for another bad idea: oh, shots of well tequila are only $2 and corona’s are $1.50? Give us a round of all of the above! We referenced Hache’s famous line from last week: “Hey, guys, I got us shots of tequila! But not just ANY tequila…… well tequila!” Well tequila is, well, not well for you. But it did the trick, and it encouraged us to join our drunk friend in a full-bar rendition of Bicycle by Queen. After the stirring version, the guy knocks over his drink with a flailing arm and, in an attempt to cover up, seemingly continues a conversation with the bar keep about the movie Avatar, where he says: “Avatar is the movie of this generation, it’s like… like…. Forrest… Bueller…… Goes to Camp.” We all agreed that this was the most insightful and hilarious thing this man ever said. But we left, and headed to Brothers III Lounge.
For you Portlanders, Brothers III is NOLA’s Awful Annies. We ordered up our Abita Ambers and lamented the lack of Happy Hour and good thing, because a bearded stranger took pity and bought us a round, thus making it a Happy Hour for us. Thanks, bearded man! Some amount of time passed watching Polar Bears eat fish from shallow pools and listening to the juke box, then we scooted off to some other bar which was notable because there was ice in the urinal, what fun! Not only do you get urinary relief, but you can play with melting ice and making tunnels and caves. I loved that bar! But we stayed only for a round, and then trundled off to Dos Jefes Cigar Bar for Courvoisier and cigars and gypsy jazz. Some of us flirted with the Dutch bass player (who enjoyed ice cold coca cola since he was not ‘of age’ – and yes, there actually is a drinking age in New Orleans), some of us with the table of three men and a woman next to us (offering to buy them a round but realizing he didn’t have any money); then we headed to the only place one should head at that hour. Fuddruckers!
To the Fudd, where we wait in line right before its 1 o’clock closing hour. Unfortunately, the clock struck one when we were first in line, and bam, closed, no, we will not serve you delectable burgers. We stood there, in total disbelief, in denial, Marie muttering “don’t worry, we’ll get burgers” but the staff ignoring us, cleaning up. Why? But then our knight in greasy armor came forward, leaned in, sayin’ y’all want some burgers? Yes please, three. He says, a’ight. And he comes out from behind the counter, and over to the side; we follow. He says, no no, just one of you, there’s cameras! Um, ok… I follow, he whispers, so you want three burgers? Yes, please. Ok, gimme twenty bucks. Um, if you say so. I hand him a twenty, he goes back behind the Fudd counter, and gives us a Styrofoam container with three plain burgers: burger + bun. We load ‘em up, and enjoy; I still don’t know why I put two giant scoops of jalapenos on, but it seemed like a good idea at the time, much like most of the evening.
Then what do you know, Fuddruckers is actually in the Harrah’s casino! I can’t resist helping to pay the bar tab with winnings, so I head to the $15 blackjack table and donate to the Harrah’s chain some of my hard earned money. With the final losing bet, Hache declares: how does it feel, loser? It felt ok.
Dejected, we head home, but not before stopping at Half Moon bar where we try to play air hockey but none of us can seem to figure out how to get quarters. Instead we just sit (some of us lie) on the table, and wonder what happened. Then Marie and I sort of well, discuss, events at the casino, while Hache advises “stop fighting, you guys are best friends, I hate to see you like this” again and again, on repeat. It’s sort of his mantra when Marie and I talk about blackjack.
Oh New Orleans, city of celebration and bad decisions. What do you have in store for us tonight?
The Other Portland to Portland, OR's Other Portland
When is a road trip not a road trip? This question has stumped great minds for generations, even before the Romans invented roads. However, it has a simple answer: when you take a flight to Portland, OR to attend a good friend’s wedding, that’s when. So the Road Trip took a break this weekend, before now taking another break as I stall out in NOLA.
So even though I did not motor myself to the Pacific Northwest, I will give my thoughts and impressions of the Other Portland, or as they call it in Portland: Portland. First impression: wow, it’s an actual/real city. A Grid city, which most of them are outside of New England. It’s like an exaggerated version of the Maine-located Portland. By that I mean they have homeless people too, but lots and lots and lots more of them. They have clubs and a seemingly vibrant music scene, but way way more of them (pages of listings in the Mercury). They have multiple open mic nights every night of the week (mon-thurs), which is not a metric of cool, but is indicative of musicians. They have art, and a waterfront (though it’s a river not an ocean).
Ok, but stepping away from the constant comparisoning, it’s a city that gives off a healthy and intriguing vibe. There seems to be a well-run Metro system, the Max (the ‘x’ stands for eXpress), which I imagine would make getting around a breeze, albeit a cloudy sometimes drizzly breeze. I was in the old china town district Saturday night, where the wedding reception was, and leaving the area around midnight I was struck by the number of venues with long long lines outside of them. I was told there are underage bars, I assume 18+, so the kids come out on the town dressed to impress in their best indie rock outfits and drink milk and virgin vodka sodas, presumably.
Chalk up the Other Portland to just another town I got a very surface level impression of, but a first impression can be a powerful one nonetheless, and the Mercury I think can give a good feel for the entertainment / nightlife of the place. I mean, I even read a negative review of a Zombie Stripper movie shot in Portland. An actual negative review, just like in a big city!
Soon I’ll be on the West coast for real, and I foresee a trip up north again for more O-Portland and Seattle time. Plus I never did find Stumptown or Extracto espresso beans so
I gotsta return.
So even though I did not motor myself to the Pacific Northwest, I will give my thoughts and impressions of the Other Portland, or as they call it in Portland: Portland. First impression: wow, it’s an actual/real city. A Grid city, which most of them are outside of New England. It’s like an exaggerated version of the Maine-located Portland. By that I mean they have homeless people too, but lots and lots and lots more of them. They have clubs and a seemingly vibrant music scene, but way way more of them (pages of listings in the Mercury). They have multiple open mic nights every night of the week (mon-thurs), which is not a metric of cool, but is indicative of musicians. They have art, and a waterfront (though it’s a river not an ocean).
Ok, but stepping away from the constant comparisoning, it’s a city that gives off a healthy and intriguing vibe. There seems to be a well-run Metro system, the Max (the ‘x’ stands for eXpress), which I imagine would make getting around a breeze, albeit a cloudy sometimes drizzly breeze. I was in the old china town district Saturday night, where the wedding reception was, and leaving the area around midnight I was struck by the number of venues with long long lines outside of them. I was told there are underage bars, I assume 18+, so the kids come out on the town dressed to impress in their best indie rock outfits and drink milk and virgin vodka sodas, presumably.
Chalk up the Other Portland to just another town I got a very surface level impression of, but a first impression can be a powerful one nonetheless, and the Mercury I think can give a good feel for the entertainment / nightlife of the place. I mean, I even read a negative review of a Zombie Stripper movie shot in Portland. An actual negative review, just like in a big city!
Soon I’ll be on the West coast for real, and I foresee a trip up north again for more O-Portland and Seattle time. Plus I never did find Stumptown or Extracto espresso beans so
I gotsta return.
Places I Slept - Week 2
Day 8 – Jan 24 – Bob and Rick’s guest room, Athens, GA
Day 9 – Jan 25 – RelaxInn Room 24 – Savannah, GA
Day 10 – Jan 26 – RelaxInn Room 24 – Savannah, GA
Day 11 – Jan 27 – Marie’s place, NOLA
Day 12 – Jan 28 – Hache’s place, NOLA
Day 13 – Jan 29 – Marie’s place, NOLA
Day 14 – Jan 30 – Kit and Bill’s, Portland, OR
Day 9 – Jan 25 – RelaxInn Room 24 – Savannah, GA
Day 10 – Jan 26 – RelaxInn Room 24 – Savannah, GA
Day 11 – Jan 27 – Marie’s place, NOLA
Day 12 – Jan 28 – Hache’s place, NOLA
Day 13 – Jan 29 – Marie’s place, NOLA
Day 14 – Jan 30 – Kit and Bill’s, Portland, OR
Home at last! Well not really home, but back in NOLA!
Oh the Abita flows forth, and Magazine Street is all a bustle with hooligans young and old traipsing this way and that, united in an unspoken relaxation, and of course with an infections chant of Who Dat, which even made repeated appearances at the Buddah Belly open mic last night, at which Hache and I broke down musical barriers and delighted the crowd of 7 with a down tempo shred-hunting version of Foxy Lady, among other classic rock hits and non hits.
Delivering Marie to her home made me realize that I could see this place as home. I’m not going to right now, but I am going to spend a few days and nights in this village by the bayou. Certainly through the Super Bowl. Then Mardi Gras is the next week; it’d be foolish to leave prior to that, no? Then Jazz fest. Then St Patrick’s day. Then Memorial Day. Then Christmas. Then Obama’s reelection. Then my 60th wedding anniversary. Don’t want to leave before these critical events!
So why do I feel a home-like love for a place I spent a mere (yet magical) week a few months past? This is what I’ve been pondering these last hours since I arrived. I think I’m drawn to places that seem like paradise and that seem unique to themselves, where it’s hard to imagine replicating my normal way of life. This would be a good thing. I can’t imagine redoing my day to day operations that I had in Portland in a place like New Orleans or Los Angeles. Maybe that’s foolish and naïve, basing it on my vacations in these places. But I’m okay with being foolish and naïve in a place where it’s 60 degrees in January!
In both NOLA and LA I get the sense from passersby, shop keeps, bar tenders, even street-side ragamuffins of relaxation, easy going and friendliness, and I attribute it mostly to the weather. LA has more of a pulse of “I am here to do something with my life,” so probably will run into more exceptions there, though these are not mutually exclusive (motivation for life achievement and relaxed attitude). And maybe in LA it’s all in my head because I’ve always been there on vacation, and my friends are laid back dudes. Time will tell that.
As for NOLA, she exudes enjoyment of life. Not just drinking and throwing beads (though nearly every tree throughout the city has at least a few mardi gras beads draped in its branches from some long or not long ago parade), but also each other, sports, music, celebration, love for fellow man. It’s pretty cool, and damn alluring. And if it’s all in my head, so what?
Delivering Marie to her home made me realize that I could see this place as home. I’m not going to right now, but I am going to spend a few days and nights in this village by the bayou. Certainly through the Super Bowl. Then Mardi Gras is the next week; it’d be foolish to leave prior to that, no? Then Jazz fest. Then St Patrick’s day. Then Memorial Day. Then Christmas. Then Obama’s reelection. Then my 60th wedding anniversary. Don’t want to leave before these critical events!
So why do I feel a home-like love for a place I spent a mere (yet magical) week a few months past? This is what I’ve been pondering these last hours since I arrived. I think I’m drawn to places that seem like paradise and that seem unique to themselves, where it’s hard to imagine replicating my normal way of life. This would be a good thing. I can’t imagine redoing my day to day operations that I had in Portland in a place like New Orleans or Los Angeles. Maybe that’s foolish and naïve, basing it on my vacations in these places. But I’m okay with being foolish and naïve in a place where it’s 60 degrees in January!
In both NOLA and LA I get the sense from passersby, shop keeps, bar tenders, even street-side ragamuffins of relaxation, easy going and friendliness, and I attribute it mostly to the weather. LA has more of a pulse of “I am here to do something with my life,” so probably will run into more exceptions there, though these are not mutually exclusive (motivation for life achievement and relaxed attitude). And maybe in LA it’s all in my head because I’ve always been there on vacation, and my friends are laid back dudes. Time will tell that.
As for NOLA, she exudes enjoyment of life. Not just drinking and throwing beads (though nearly every tree throughout the city has at least a few mardi gras beads draped in its branches from some long or not long ago parade), but also each other, sports, music, celebration, love for fellow man. It’s pretty cool, and damn alluring. And if it’s all in my head, so what?
You will love Savannah Georgia, I ain't lyin
Oh man, you will love Savannah. I know you will, cause I know you. I know what you like, and matching things you like is Savannah. You drive in and all of a sudden, bam, oak trees draped with Spanish Moss, like you ain’t seen since last you were in New Orleans. Okay, so you’re driving along, and you know how you love rotaries? Or round’a’bouts as they call them where you’re from? Holy shit, lemme tell you, in Savannah they don’t just have rotaries, they have green, green squares, a monument, a fountain, placards and benches and landscapings, instead of rotaries. So you drive around them to get from one street to the next, in a kind of one way, yield to those along the square fashion, but each square is marvelously decorated and attended to. Apparently almost all the original squares are still there, 28 of 30 or something. Today we drove in a zig zag manner to traverse all the squares
Savannah.
It’s truly its own beast. Now, the obvious connection is to NOLA, because of the Spanish moss, because of the palm trees next to oak trees, and the beautiful city center matched with strip mall outer sections, and long bridges to coastal regions. NOLA still takes the cake, and by a wide wide margin, but Savannah has its own allure. One thing against it is a definite feeling of black and white, yes and no, this and that, haves and have nots. Not as mixed and together as NOLA; also, the Helium Karaoke that drew us to The Rail Pub was indeed no Helium Karaoke, but just Karaoke, normal I’m’n’a sing this shit ass song for you, drunkenly, in my normal tenor. Why is it thus named, then, one might ask, as I did ask? Oh, because the host dude one time sang with helium and it was hilarious. I bet it was. One time? Why not again? And if it was hilarious, and you bill the evening as helium karaoke, pray tell, why do you not repeat the laugh inducing shenanigans. No matter, Savannah is not a party town.
It really isn’t. Look at the listings. Hard to glean even a single club with legitimate local music. The Jinx was a hard rock, punk, metal club to reckon with; stickers and rock decorations abound, and a stage that hosts the occasional rock show. A kick ass venue, where Kino Proby will play on the US tour to be certain, but in no way the lead flag carrier for a music scene. But you know what, this is not what Savannah is about. You don’t come here for the rock and roll. You come here for the lazy, relaxed, Southern way of life. In a good way. People are kind and laid back. Sure, the locals go to IHOP or Denny’s for brunch, according to our waitress at the Cobblestone Café down by the Savannah River, but this doesn’t make them a bad people.
It’s certainly not a place I see myself living in. I might not even feel drawn to come back, but it is no doubt worth a visit. There are ghosts, too, apparently, though we did not get drawn into a much-hyped ghost tour. Forgive us this.
Tybee Island is quaint to the extreme; everyone seems to actually know each other, according to photo montages in the local rag, and it’s a beach town; desolate in the winter (hard to remember it’s winter when it’s pushing 60 in January) but mobbed during spring, summer and fall. Also a lovely drive, just don’t be fooled by the abhorrently adjusted scale employed on the Free Tybee Island Map. Tybee Island is not 20 miles long, it’s maybe 1 mile long.
I digress. Savannah, Georgia: visit her, love her, photo her. Then go to New Orleans. But take photos and remember the delightful squares, the deceivingly titled Karaoke nights, and the crab cakes. And stay at the RelaxInn. Dude at the front desk is wicked nice.
Savannah.
It’s truly its own beast. Now, the obvious connection is to NOLA, because of the Spanish moss, because of the palm trees next to oak trees, and the beautiful city center matched with strip mall outer sections, and long bridges to coastal regions. NOLA still takes the cake, and by a wide wide margin, but Savannah has its own allure. One thing against it is a definite feeling of black and white, yes and no, this and that, haves and have nots. Not as mixed and together as NOLA; also, the Helium Karaoke that drew us to The Rail Pub was indeed no Helium Karaoke, but just Karaoke, normal I’m’n’a sing this shit ass song for you, drunkenly, in my normal tenor. Why is it thus named, then, one might ask, as I did ask? Oh, because the host dude one time sang with helium and it was hilarious. I bet it was. One time? Why not again? And if it was hilarious, and you bill the evening as helium karaoke, pray tell, why do you not repeat the laugh inducing shenanigans. No matter, Savannah is not a party town.
It really isn’t. Look at the listings. Hard to glean even a single club with legitimate local music. The Jinx was a hard rock, punk, metal club to reckon with; stickers and rock decorations abound, and a stage that hosts the occasional rock show. A kick ass venue, where Kino Proby will play on the US tour to be certain, but in no way the lead flag carrier for a music scene. But you know what, this is not what Savannah is about. You don’t come here for the rock and roll. You come here for the lazy, relaxed, Southern way of life. In a good way. People are kind and laid back. Sure, the locals go to IHOP or Denny’s for brunch, according to our waitress at the Cobblestone Café down by the Savannah River, but this doesn’t make them a bad people.
It’s certainly not a place I see myself living in. I might not even feel drawn to come back, but it is no doubt worth a visit. There are ghosts, too, apparently, though we did not get drawn into a much-hyped ghost tour. Forgive us this.
Tybee Island is quaint to the extreme; everyone seems to actually know each other, according to photo montages in the local rag, and it’s a beach town; desolate in the winter (hard to remember it’s winter when it’s pushing 60 in January) but mobbed during spring, summer and fall. Also a lovely drive, just don’t be fooled by the abhorrently adjusted scale employed on the Free Tybee Island Map. Tybee Island is not 20 miles long, it’s maybe 1 mile long.
I digress. Savannah, Georgia: visit her, love her, photo her. Then go to New Orleans. But take photos and remember the delightful squares, the deceivingly titled Karaoke nights, and the crab cakes. And stay at the RelaxInn. Dude at the front desk is wicked nice.
Saints! Saints! Who Dat!
As followers of my blog may remember, when I was in New Orleans I developed quite the affinity, or allegiance, to the New Orleans Saints, who were undefeated at the time. Who Dat!
So when the Saints were matched against the Minnesota Vikings for the NFC championship, we of course were compelled to witness; after all, Marie is now a New Orleanian. Me, I’m just a poseur, but we got my story down in case anyone asked about my allegiance – ok, marie, if anyone asks, I live in New Orleans, too, okay? No need to reveal the truth. Fine, where do you live? she asks. Um. What was that street that ran along the river? Tchoupitoulas. Ok, good, I live on the corner of Tchoupitoulas and the street Hache lives on. Upperline? Yeah, that one. Good, story set.
We roll into Mellow Mushroom, surprisingly a sports bar pizzeria and not a head shop or hookah bar, though the bathrooms were called Mellow Flushrooms. We secured our primo real estate at the bar in front of one of the many hi def tvs, ordered up a $5 pitcher of local beer (local to Wisconsin, and an award winner in 1893), and started chanting who dat, who dat, who dat say they gonna beat dem saints. Half expecting the clientele to be on our side – southern pride after all – we were momentarily shocked at the whoops and hollers erupting forth after the Vikings scored the game’s first TD. Marie wisely recalled the venomous rivalry between the Atlanta Falcons and our own Saints. This is akin to my rooting for the Phillies in this year’s World Series.
In the meantime, the TV obscured stats and situations with its constant flood, tornado, flash flood, and imminent world destruction alerts thanks to local Fox affiliate Channel 5. And it was madness outside, rivers running through the gutters like the Colorado, eroding new ravines and washing away all recollection of humanity. Right before half time, this is when shit went down. The TV froze and the message “attempting to retrieve satellite signal” burned on the screens throughout the bar. No matter, we thought. But as seconds drifted into minutes, we were left to wonder whether or not we were entering the end of days. There was lightning, flashing like water in hot oil, children crying, people bleeding. Actually ok ok, just lightning, but it was ferocious. Then the waitress came over and, real serious like, said, “the manager asked me to come tell you that there was a tornado sighted in the area, and that y’all might want to move away from the windows.” We looked at each other. Shrugged.
Then off in the distance, some soon-to-be-let-go no doubt pimply high school employee dropped 57, perhaps 5700 aluminum pizza trays, resulting in a sound no less horrifying than the apocalypse itself echoing eternally in the collective conscience of our species. For the first second, we thought, oh man, someone made quite the noise. Seconds 2-5 were like, ok, this is a big fucking bang, I hope no lifes or limbs were lost. Round about second number 6 of this cacophonous eruption we wondered if there weren’t some giant ark built in southern Asia housing the world’s elite, preserving mankind. Seconds 7-10 consisted of our holding hands, crying, consoling the women and children, rationing fleeting provisions and wondering whether God himself would forgive us for our lifetime’s sins and evil doings. But about halfway through second number 11, the crashing subsided, and we sorta leaned back in our chairs, looked around, and wondered if our pizza would soon arrive, for we were peckish.
The satellite signal returned after most of the halftime break, only leaving us one other time for about a minute or two. Then the mystery shots began arriving. At one point I looked down and there, next to our pizza (a delicious buffalo chicken pizza with soft yet crispy crust) were two plastic cups containing what looked like balsamic vinaigrette. What the hell is that, I said, balsamic vinaigrette? The guy next to us says no, thems shots, like a vodka with blackberry soda and [something else]. Where the hell’d they come from, I says. That guy down at the end of the bar bought ‘em. Then I noticed everyone at the bar had their own personal salad dressing. No fanfare, we all were just left to consume on our own. And consume we did. That one, and the next one that arrived a quarter later. The guy next to us bought the original buyer some shots, and then we got to witness their exchange of seeing who could appreciate the other’s shot-buying more.
Meanwhile, there was an instant-classic of a game going on, with TD’s one after the other being answered, and the time a ticking. I’ll leave y’all to find out the play by play (try nfl.com or espn.com), but when we got our OT field goal, we whooped, we hollered, most folks instantly cleared out, and we texted who dat to all of our friends, many of whom didn’t give a crap about the NO Saints. Hache reported from the scene that instantly hollering, car horn honking, dogs barking, and marching bands broke out, and that was just on his block.
Now I’m wondering if I wouldn’t be insane to leave New Orleans before the super bowl which is in just 2 short weeks?
So when the Saints were matched against the Minnesota Vikings for the NFC championship, we of course were compelled to witness; after all, Marie is now a New Orleanian. Me, I’m just a poseur, but we got my story down in case anyone asked about my allegiance – ok, marie, if anyone asks, I live in New Orleans, too, okay? No need to reveal the truth. Fine, where do you live? she asks. Um. What was that street that ran along the river? Tchoupitoulas. Ok, good, I live on the corner of Tchoupitoulas and the street Hache lives on. Upperline? Yeah, that one. Good, story set.
We roll into Mellow Mushroom, surprisingly a sports bar pizzeria and not a head shop or hookah bar, though the bathrooms were called Mellow Flushrooms. We secured our primo real estate at the bar in front of one of the many hi def tvs, ordered up a $5 pitcher of local beer (local to Wisconsin, and an award winner in 1893), and started chanting who dat, who dat, who dat say they gonna beat dem saints. Half expecting the clientele to be on our side – southern pride after all – we were momentarily shocked at the whoops and hollers erupting forth after the Vikings scored the game’s first TD. Marie wisely recalled the venomous rivalry between the Atlanta Falcons and our own Saints. This is akin to my rooting for the Phillies in this year’s World Series.
In the meantime, the TV obscured stats and situations with its constant flood, tornado, flash flood, and imminent world destruction alerts thanks to local Fox affiliate Channel 5. And it was madness outside, rivers running through the gutters like the Colorado, eroding new ravines and washing away all recollection of humanity. Right before half time, this is when shit went down. The TV froze and the message “attempting to retrieve satellite signal” burned on the screens throughout the bar. No matter, we thought. But as seconds drifted into minutes, we were left to wonder whether or not we were entering the end of days. There was lightning, flashing like water in hot oil, children crying, people bleeding. Actually ok ok, just lightning, but it was ferocious. Then the waitress came over and, real serious like, said, “the manager asked me to come tell you that there was a tornado sighted in the area, and that y’all might want to move away from the windows.” We looked at each other. Shrugged.
Then off in the distance, some soon-to-be-let-go no doubt pimply high school employee dropped 57, perhaps 5700 aluminum pizza trays, resulting in a sound no less horrifying than the apocalypse itself echoing eternally in the collective conscience of our species. For the first second, we thought, oh man, someone made quite the noise. Seconds 2-5 were like, ok, this is a big fucking bang, I hope no lifes or limbs were lost. Round about second number 6 of this cacophonous eruption we wondered if there weren’t some giant ark built in southern Asia housing the world’s elite, preserving mankind. Seconds 7-10 consisted of our holding hands, crying, consoling the women and children, rationing fleeting provisions and wondering whether God himself would forgive us for our lifetime’s sins and evil doings. But about halfway through second number 11, the crashing subsided, and we sorta leaned back in our chairs, looked around, and wondered if our pizza would soon arrive, for we were peckish.
The satellite signal returned after most of the halftime break, only leaving us one other time for about a minute or two. Then the mystery shots began arriving. At one point I looked down and there, next to our pizza (a delicious buffalo chicken pizza with soft yet crispy crust) were two plastic cups containing what looked like balsamic vinaigrette. What the hell is that, I said, balsamic vinaigrette? The guy next to us says no, thems shots, like a vodka with blackberry soda and [something else]. Where the hell’d they come from, I says. That guy down at the end of the bar bought ‘em. Then I noticed everyone at the bar had their own personal salad dressing. No fanfare, we all were just left to consume on our own. And consume we did. That one, and the next one that arrived a quarter later. The guy next to us bought the original buyer some shots, and then we got to witness their exchange of seeing who could appreciate the other’s shot-buying more.
Meanwhile, there was an instant-classic of a game going on, with TD’s one after the other being answered, and the time a ticking. I’ll leave y’all to find out the play by play (try nfl.com or espn.com), but when we got our OT field goal, we whooped, we hollered, most folks instantly cleared out, and we texted who dat to all of our friends, many of whom didn’t give a crap about the NO Saints. Hache reported from the scene that instantly hollering, car horn honking, dogs barking, and marching bands broke out, and that was just on his block.
Now I’m wondering if I wouldn’t be insane to leave New Orleans before the super bowl which is in just 2 short weeks?
