Consider this: you've just ordered your 6" veggie patty sub on honey oat bread at Subway (yes, I realize I shouldn't be eating at Subway in the first place) and the friendly guy behind the counter asks you if you want him to switch to a new, clean pair of plastic gloves. Veggie gloves, as he calls them. Now, if you've eaten at Subway a few times over the course of your modern, Western life you've probably noticed that the people working there go through plastic gloves like they're going out of style. I understand a certain level of cleanliness in an eating establishment, but is the trade-off really worth it? Until today I was more or less under the impression that they used a new pair of gloves for every sandwich. So, lets create mounds of plastic waste in exchange for a slightly reduced chance of catching a cold from the teenager behind the counter? Maybe the guy behind the counter could just refrain from picking his nose or scratching at his butt crack while he makes me a sandwich. So, after a momentary pause I decided to let him keep his meaty gloves on to make my sandwich. Perhaps if I was a lifelong vegetarian I would've chose differently, but after eight months I'm still not too worried about getting sick off of a few chance specs of meat. Plus, to me the waste far outweighs the taking a chance on an upset stomach.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
If you find yourself in Manchester hit up the Mod Pop Cafe--awesome vegetarian and vegan food, including traditional English breakfast and vegan cupcakes. The menu made me wish I was still hungry, and the cafe is nuzzled in the basement of a 60s and 70s vintage clothing and memorabilia shop which is also pretty cool. It's amazing how good real coffee tastes when you've been drinking nothing but instant Nescafe for two weeks.
Tonight I get to see some old friends in Manchester and go to a giant DJ/bands/crazy dance party. Our driver for both UK Giving Chase tours, the illustrious Martin Ciderspiller, is part of a collective that puts on mostly free parties in the Manchester area. Free usually implies squatted apartment house or old mansion in some shady part of town filled with loud music, crazy people, and lots of drugs. I'll never forget showing up for our first tour here and crashing for several days in squatted apartments in Bolton, just outside Manchester. The laws concerning squatting are very different here, and if a property has been vacant for a certain period of time it's completely possible to occupy it and then even get the utilities turned on, etc. The kids we stayed with then had electricity, heat, even internet! Basically, squatting is legal and it's illegal for the police to force entry to a property that is occupied. So once the owner figures out you're there and the authorities get involved there's a whole civil legal process they have to go through to remove you from the property. As long as you follow The Squatters Handbook (http://www.squatter.org.uk/) you can make it work. I've stayed in similar places in Holland and it's really kind of amazing how it all works.
Anyway, tonight looks looks like a pay at the door, semi-legit version of the warehouse parties Manchester is famous for: four different collectives with DJ's, burlesque performers, bands, and all sorts of other ridiculousness. And luckily, it's only a five minute walk from our hotel.
Tonight I get to see some old friends in Manchester and go to a giant DJ/bands/crazy dance party. Our driver for both UK Giving Chase tours, the illustrious Martin Ciderspiller, is part of a collective that puts on mostly free parties in the Manchester area. Free usually implies squatted apartment house or old mansion in some shady part of town filled with loud music, crazy people, and lots of drugs. I'll never forget showing up for our first tour here and crashing for several days in squatted apartments in Bolton, just outside Manchester. The laws concerning squatting are very different here, and if a property has been vacant for a certain period of time it's completely possible to occupy it and then even get the utilities turned on, etc. The kids we stayed with then had electricity, heat, even internet! Basically, squatting is legal and it's illegal for the police to force entry to a property that is occupied. So once the owner figures out you're there and the authorities get involved there's a whole civil legal process they have to go through to remove you from the property. As long as you follow The Squatters Handbook (http://www.squatter.org.uk/) you can make it work. I've stayed in similar places in Holland and it's really kind of amazing how it all works.
Anyway, tonight looks looks like a pay at the door, semi-legit version of the warehouse parties Manchester is famous for: four different collectives with DJ's, burlesque performers, bands, and all sorts of other ridiculousness. And luckily, it's only a five minute walk from our hotel.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
If it's not Scottish, it's crap!
Does anyone else find the use of mannequins in museums and other historic locales to be a bit unnerving? We took a stroll through the grounds of Edinburgh Castle today, and although these were not particularly creepy mannequins (see the ones in the Inquisition Court in Lima, Peru for a better example of yikes) I'm still slightly unsettled by the blank stares of life-size paper mache people. Do we really need to recreate the scene of Robert the Bruce's coronation as King of Scotland with these things?
I'm starting to think that British eating habits are even worse than Americans. So much of their food is smothered in some kind of thick sauce or cheese, everything comes with fries or chips...Styrofoam take away containers brimming with a greasy pile of something. And to top it off, most of it tastes like crap and no one understand the meaning of spicy. Well, except the Indian places--those are alright. Oh well, maybe it's no worse than the states, but it certainly doesn't seem any better.
Big-time arena tour rolls on, with not much of note to mention. The big machine cranks its gears smoothly and the train motors down the track and all other appropriate imagery and metaphoric hyperbole. I am learning new things every day though, which is cool. Tuning drums, taking apart amps, rewiring guitars...and just generally learning how things work at this level and doing my job better because of it. Oh, and a drill was probably the wisest tour investment I've made so far. A little manual turning won't kill anybody, but in a time-sensitive environment a little power drill action is essential.
I'm starting to think that British eating habits are even worse than Americans. So much of their food is smothered in some kind of thick sauce or cheese, everything comes with fries or chips...Styrofoam take away containers brimming with a greasy pile of something. And to top it off, most of it tastes like crap and no one understand the meaning of spicy. Well, except the Indian places--those are alright. Oh well, maybe it's no worse than the states, but it certainly doesn't seem any better.
Big-time arena tour rolls on, with not much of note to mention. The big machine cranks its gears smoothly and the train motors down the track and all other appropriate imagery and metaphoric hyperbole. I am learning new things every day though, which is cool. Tuning drums, taking apart amps, rewiring guitars...and just generally learning how things work at this level and doing my job better because of it. Oh, and a drill was probably the wisest tour investment I've made so far. A little manual turning won't kill anybody, but in a time-sensitive environment a little power drill action is essential.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
"The hospitality in this country is as warm as the weather. "
Back on the road, back in the game, back to the grind. We're a few days into a full UK tour supporting the Kaiser Chiefs. They're probably one of the biggest bands in the UK right now and it's a full production tour which means they travel with their own lights, sound equipment, stage and catering. Not counting our bus they have one band bus, three crew buses, and six trucks transporting everything and everybody. The load-in and start building the stage at 6am most days and usually don't finish breaking everything down until 2-3AM. I can't even imagine how many hours some of the production guys are working. The arenas we're playing are anywhere from 5-12,000 people which makes it the biggest shows I've ever done, aside from some of the festivals we've played. We're a bit like 2nd class citizens here, which is understandable but takes some getting used to--it's their show and we're just here to play and stay out of the way. It's super professional though and everybody has been really cool and helpful. In a way it's kind of boring though, but not in a bad way, per se. It's just not the same unpredictable excitement and craziness you'll have on your average US club tour, which is great purely from a work perspective. Everything flows and the show goes well and you're in and you're out and you're done. It becomes more like work: you go into a building for eight hours, you do your job well, you kill some time bullshitting with your co-workers, you eat lunch (or dinner, as the case may be) and you go the fuck home...to your bus. It's not a shit job, but it's still a job.
In the UK a bachelor party is called a Stag Party. It's basically the same thing we do in the states--sometimes it's just one night, sometimes a full weekend of drunken, rowdy events etc. But over here there just seem to be so many of them going on every weekend. Hordes of ladies trudging luggage into our hotel this afternoon; gangs of drunken, horny dudes chugging beers in matching t-shirts egging each other on. We had a couple beers at Hooters earlier and they were everywhere. There was even one table of ten or so dudes in matching bathrobes. It's quite the ritual.
Which way do you look when you cross the street? It's just something you never even think about until you end up in a country where people drive on the left (UK, Japan, Australia, etc.) Thankfully they write it on the street at the edge of the crosswalk sometimes ("LOOK RIGHT"), but I'm still surprised I haven't been nailed yet. I've also noticed that in these countries people are more likely to walk to the left when they're coming toward you on the street, on the stairs--pretty much any time. Once I get home, I have to remind myself to stay to the right in similar situations.
Oh, did I ever mention how the El Camino is still big in Australia? It's not called an El Camino...but it's a god-damned El Camino, and people pimp them out n' shit. It's ridiculous. Also, thank god we left before all those crazy forest fires.
British girls wear too much make-up.
We're in Nottingham today with a day off. Show tomorrow at the arena down the street, then onto somewhere else equally gray and Britishy.
In the UK a bachelor party is called a Stag Party. It's basically the same thing we do in the states--sometimes it's just one night, sometimes a full weekend of drunken, rowdy events etc. But over here there just seem to be so many of them going on every weekend. Hordes of ladies trudging luggage into our hotel this afternoon; gangs of drunken, horny dudes chugging beers in matching t-shirts egging each other on. We had a couple beers at Hooters earlier and they were everywhere. There was even one table of ten or so dudes in matching bathrobes. It's quite the ritual.
Which way do you look when you cross the street? It's just something you never even think about until you end up in a country where people drive on the left (UK, Japan, Australia, etc.) Thankfully they write it on the street at the edge of the crosswalk sometimes ("LOOK RIGHT"), but I'm still surprised I haven't been nailed yet. I've also noticed that in these countries people are more likely to walk to the left when they're coming toward you on the street, on the stairs--pretty much any time. Once I get home, I have to remind myself to stay to the right in similar situations.
Oh, did I ever mention how the El Camino is still big in Australia? It's not called an El Camino...but it's a god-damned El Camino, and people pimp them out n' shit. It's ridiculous. Also, thank god we left before all those crazy forest fires.
British girls wear too much make-up.
We're in Nottingham today with a day off. Show tomorrow at the arena down the street, then onto somewhere else equally gray and Britishy.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Last Dance Down Under
Our set gets bumped back an hour and a half in the schedule to 4:30PM, so we don’t actually head out to the festival site until about 12:30PM. Fine with me—a little more like an actual tour schedule. I had completely intended to get up early and work out, but it didn’t happen. We get to the site and it’s another horse track, or something like that. It’s the smallest site they squeeze the festival into on the tour, which makes things look a little crowded—but at least it’s easy enough to make the short walk from the stage to the backstage area, even if it’s still a blazing 100+ degrees out. Like the Adelaide show we’re sort of inside and enclosure of sorts, only it’s not really any cooler this time. Ryan, Jon and I get everything set up on the floor behind the stage, but we still have an hour before we can get to one of the drum risers and get things prepped in the ‘on-deck circle’ back stage, so we head back to the air conditioned, portable dressing room. It’s just like the airport—you need to get there early enough in case anything goes wrong, but usually you just end up sitting around waiting. And even then, something will go wrong in the last second that you couldn’t possibly have planned for…which you’ll hear about in just a second.
For big festivals like this there’s usually a little village of mobile dressing room boxes. They kind of resemble the little foreman offices you’ll see on construction sites. Thankfully today the air conditioning is kicking nicely. Ryan and I use some leftover lunch tickets from a previous day to grab some food. Might as well take advantage of the free meals while we have them, right? Catering kind of sucks, but we eat. It was particularly fun trying to explain to the server why I didn’t want her to pick up my bread roll with the same tongs that were just sitting in the gravy-covered beef slices.
Everything goes smoothly until changeover, and then quickly things take a turn for the ridiculous. Reggie’s amp won’t make a sound, but it turns out to be something loose in the amp’s input jack, and thankfully this amp has parallel inputs so I can just jump the cable to the other side. Easy. Now Jon has problems getting signal from one of the keyboards, so that eats up some time. Finally we get everything more or less set with monitor levels and we’re ready to go just in time. Once on stage everything seems to be going alright. I didn’t get my guitar world wheeled right into place where I wanted it, so that’s a bit of a hassle but dealable. All sounds good, only a few monitor adjustments. During the 4th or 5th song we here Owen’s bass cut out for second, but it comes right back so we let it go. Then, near the end of ‘Hurricane Jane’ it just drops out completely. And I’m in action, scrambling to figure it out—unplug his pedals, check for loose input jacks by shaking connections, try plugging directly into the amp, try a new instrument cable—but nothing seems to work. I’m thinking maybe it’s the head so we quickly borrow a bass head from the next band but that still doesn’t work. All of a sudden we hear sound coming from somewhere…it’s the DI signal coming through the monitors! Then we take the DI out of the loop and we can get signal from the bass cab, but not both at the same time. So, it’s either the link cable of the jack on the DI box. We settle for all DI signal and crank the volume up in the monitors for Owen and get back to the show.
All in all the band only had to cut one song from the set, but it still felt like forever. Situations like this make me feel like an idiot—even if the problem is unforeseeable and totally not my fault, I feel responsible somehow. It’s like any small lack of skills or knowledge I might have is quickly and obviously revealed for all to see, and when 30 seconds feels like 10 minutes you can sense everyone’s eyes trained on you, watching and waiting as you totally screw everything up.
I thought about sticking around to catch a few more bands that night, but inspiration was waning. There really weren’t that many bands on this tour that I actually wanted to see. I caught Neil Young once, which was great, a few songs from Fantomas, and a set from Cut Copy. Aside from that I wasn’t really hurtin’ to see Dropkick (although I heard they are a really good live band) or really anyone else. Unfortunate or sad or jaded as it might seem, I just don’t get that psyched up to watch bands anymore—especially when it’s really hot and I’ve already worked a show that day. Maybe if it was someone I really wanted to see.... In the end Ryan and I had a few drinks, caught dinner and caught a shuttle back to the hotel which was actually fine with me because I got to watch most of the Australian Open men’s final on TV. The Open is held in Melbourne, so it’s been big news all week. Plus the semi’s the other night had been particularly good—it reminded me how much I used to enjoy watching tennis. Nadal and Federer duked it out and then we headed downstairs to the after party.
We were staring down a 4AM lobby call for the airport and 30+ hrs. of travel home, so there was nothing left to do but stay at the after party until 3:30, run upstairs for drunk shower time and pack and get the hell out of there. This is what you do when given a situation like this, and this is exactly what we did. Had our free drinks, caused our ruckus, said our goodbye’s to friends and laughed and grumbled our way to the airport.
All tours should be like this—sadly they are not. G’day mate, I’m off!
For big festivals like this there’s usually a little village of mobile dressing room boxes. They kind of resemble the little foreman offices you’ll see on construction sites. Thankfully today the air conditioning is kicking nicely. Ryan and I use some leftover lunch tickets from a previous day to grab some food. Might as well take advantage of the free meals while we have them, right? Catering kind of sucks, but we eat. It was particularly fun trying to explain to the server why I didn’t want her to pick up my bread roll with the same tongs that were just sitting in the gravy-covered beef slices.
Everything goes smoothly until changeover, and then quickly things take a turn for the ridiculous. Reggie’s amp won’t make a sound, but it turns out to be something loose in the amp’s input jack, and thankfully this amp has parallel inputs so I can just jump the cable to the other side. Easy. Now Jon has problems getting signal from one of the keyboards, so that eats up some time. Finally we get everything more or less set with monitor levels and we’re ready to go just in time. Once on stage everything seems to be going alright. I didn’t get my guitar world wheeled right into place where I wanted it, so that’s a bit of a hassle but dealable. All sounds good, only a few monitor adjustments. During the 4th or 5th song we here Owen’s bass cut out for second, but it comes right back so we let it go. Then, near the end of ‘Hurricane Jane’ it just drops out completely. And I’m in action, scrambling to figure it out—unplug his pedals, check for loose input jacks by shaking connections, try plugging directly into the amp, try a new instrument cable—but nothing seems to work. I’m thinking maybe it’s the head so we quickly borrow a bass head from the next band but that still doesn’t work. All of a sudden we hear sound coming from somewhere…it’s the DI signal coming through the monitors! Then we take the DI out of the loop and we can get signal from the bass cab, but not both at the same time. So, it’s either the link cable of the jack on the DI box. We settle for all DI signal and crank the volume up in the monitors for Owen and get back to the show.
All in all the band only had to cut one song from the set, but it still felt like forever. Situations like this make me feel like an idiot—even if the problem is unforeseeable and totally not my fault, I feel responsible somehow. It’s like any small lack of skills or knowledge I might have is quickly and obviously revealed for all to see, and when 30 seconds feels like 10 minutes you can sense everyone’s eyes trained on you, watching and waiting as you totally screw everything up.
I thought about sticking around to catch a few more bands that night, but inspiration was waning. There really weren’t that many bands on this tour that I actually wanted to see. I caught Neil Young once, which was great, a few songs from Fantomas, and a set from Cut Copy. Aside from that I wasn’t really hurtin’ to see Dropkick (although I heard they are a really good live band) or really anyone else. Unfortunate or sad or jaded as it might seem, I just don’t get that psyched up to watch bands anymore—especially when it’s really hot and I’ve already worked a show that day. Maybe if it was someone I really wanted to see.... In the end Ryan and I had a few drinks, caught dinner and caught a shuttle back to the hotel which was actually fine with me because I got to watch most of the Australian Open men’s final on TV. The Open is held in Melbourne, so it’s been big news all week. Plus the semi’s the other night had been particularly good—it reminded me how much I used to enjoy watching tennis. Nadal and Federer duked it out and then we headed downstairs to the after party.
We were staring down a 4AM lobby call for the airport and 30+ hrs. of travel home, so there was nothing left to do but stay at the after party until 3:30, run upstairs for drunk shower time and pack and get the hell out of there. This is what you do when given a situation like this, and this is exactly what we did. Had our free drinks, caused our ruckus, said our goodbye’s to friends and laughed and grumbled our way to the airport.
All tours should be like this—sadly they are not. G’day mate, I’m off!
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Ferris wheels and falafel.
We get into Perth in the late afternoon. Southwestern coast of Australia—I am now probably as far from home as I’ve ever been. Get the rental van, drive to the hotel, check in. If there’s one basic part of touring that never gets any more tolerable, it’s airports. Expensive pseudo-gourmet food, poor design, long lines, trite formalities. It’s the epitome of the ‘hurry up and wait’ condition. You always have to get there early because a million things could go wrong, but more often than not your left sitting around for an hour with nothing to do but spend your money, and now they’ve trapped you! You begin to wonder if increased airport security measures were actually just a scam cooked up by businesses to get people in the airport for longer so they would spend more money. I think it was our UK drum tech Simon who said, on one particular morning last November when we found ourselves in a German airport at 4am with hours to spare: “I’m pretty sure hell is like being stuck forever in an airport.”
I get into my hotel room and feel like napping but I know I should exercise. I check out the fitness center which is decent, but I can’t quite motivate myself today. This is the whole problem with being hung-over. We haven’t really done anything today, but I try to excuse myself mentally with some kind of travel fatigue. Maybe that’s fair, maybe it’s total bullshit. I take the middle ground and head out on an exploring walk. Down to the bay, walking along the deep blue water as the slowly setting sun nearly flattens me. The sun here feels much stronger than it does at home. The whole scene is very romantic, which is actually kind of awful when you have no one to share it with. But I try to appreciate it in nonetheless and let myself just slow down and take it in.
I walk past a series of piers that seem to be the hot spot when it comes to Saturday night dining in downtown Perth. The sun has been setting pretty late down here, like 9-10PM, so even though it’s still very bright out it’s already around 7PM and tons of people are gathering for drinks and dinner. Couples streaming in across a park, casually but nicely dressed in that steamy summer evening sort of way—a few more buttons unbuttoned, a little more tanned skin showing, flip flops, boat shoes, no socks. Some hold hands and stroll, some walk briskly, late for a rendezvous with friends. There is one of those oddly placed downtown ferris wheels that no one ever rides towering over the scene.
I stumble upon this awesome looking Indian buffet place that seems to be run on a ‘pay what your heart desires’ concept. I read over the sign out front quickly, and it seems to have something to do with charity and religious volunteers. I don’t follow the concept completely, but it seems like the place has been around for a while, so it must work on some level. Now I love me some buffets, and this places was even 100% vegetarian! But I’m not that hungry, and there’s a wicked long line, so I don’t eat. On some level I’m actually kind of proud of myself. I tend to have a problem thinking about food without actually stuffing my face, so I’m trying to work on it. Walking through a grocery store and not buying anything or checking out a menu and moving on is tough sometimes, but I really, really want to be better at it. My brain is all fucked when it comes to food and it sucks sometimes.
Back to hotel, a couple beers in the hotel bar w/ The Ting Tings crew and an extended search with Ryan for something reasonably priced but decent for dinner. The best we can do at 10PM on a Saturday night is a Kebab place. For a major city this place really shuts down early! I eat my falafel and we head back. Fuck it, I’m done with today. Back to my room to read or write or watch TV or just sleep.
I get into my hotel room and feel like napping but I know I should exercise. I check out the fitness center which is decent, but I can’t quite motivate myself today. This is the whole problem with being hung-over. We haven’t really done anything today, but I try to excuse myself mentally with some kind of travel fatigue. Maybe that’s fair, maybe it’s total bullshit. I take the middle ground and head out on an exploring walk. Down to the bay, walking along the deep blue water as the slowly setting sun nearly flattens me. The sun here feels much stronger than it does at home. The whole scene is very romantic, which is actually kind of awful when you have no one to share it with. But I try to appreciate it in nonetheless and let myself just slow down and take it in.
I walk past a series of piers that seem to be the hot spot when it comes to Saturday night dining in downtown Perth. The sun has been setting pretty late down here, like 9-10PM, so even though it’s still very bright out it’s already around 7PM and tons of people are gathering for drinks and dinner. Couples streaming in across a park, casually but nicely dressed in that steamy summer evening sort of way—a few more buttons unbuttoned, a little more tanned skin showing, flip flops, boat shoes, no socks. Some hold hands and stroll, some walk briskly, late for a rendezvous with friends. There is one of those oddly placed downtown ferris wheels that no one ever rides towering over the scene.
I stumble upon this awesome looking Indian buffet place that seems to be run on a ‘pay what your heart desires’ concept. I read over the sign out front quickly, and it seems to have something to do with charity and religious volunteers. I don’t follow the concept completely, but it seems like the place has been around for a while, so it must work on some level. Now I love me some buffets, and this places was even 100% vegetarian! But I’m not that hungry, and there’s a wicked long line, so I don’t eat. On some level I’m actually kind of proud of myself. I tend to have a problem thinking about food without actually stuffing my face, so I’m trying to work on it. Walking through a grocery store and not buying anything or checking out a menu and moving on is tough sometimes, but I really, really want to be better at it. My brain is all fucked when it comes to food and it sucks sometimes.
Back to hotel, a couple beers in the hotel bar w/ The Ting Tings crew and an extended search with Ryan for something reasonably priced but decent for dinner. The best we can do at 10PM on a Saturday night is a Kebab place. For a major city this place really shuts down early! I eat my falafel and we head back. Fuck it, I’m done with today. Back to my room to read or write or watch TV or just sleep.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
DIY hotel room kitchenette
If you open your eyes wide enough, you can almost see the whole oppressive circle. So, we get to stay in these fancy hotels on tour. Fancy hotels are nice, and comfortable, but mostly unnecessary. When it comes down to it, all your really need is a comfortable temperature, and a soft place to lay down. Internet access is nice. These expensive hotels get you by the balls and don’t let go, charging you extra for almost everything. They certainly don’t supply you with kitchen facilities—it’s much more awesome to eat crazily overpriced room-service, right? So, you are seemingly forced to go out and spend your money in restaurants or at cheap, disgusting fast-food joints. There’s always Subway, which is fucking everywhere, but that’s really not much better. Who knows where those vegetables came from and what kind of chemicals were used to grow them…
But where there is no kitchen a little ingenuity and effort does a kitchen make. First, a short trip down the street to the “Central Market.” For a second I thought I was back in south America, except it was not nearly as cheap. My trip yielded a large pie-shaped slice of brie, 4 tomatoes, 3 avocadoes and a couple small baguettes. Nectarines for dessert. I think I spent about $12 on enough food to make at least 3-4 solid sandwiches. Room service was kind enough to deliver some butter, salt and pepper without charging me anything. Those supplies came on a plate and a fabric napkin, both of which were useful. Then I made use of the complimentary coffee & tea supply tray as a cutting board, and used my Leatherman like the all-purpose tool that it is. Bam! It’s sandwich time.
So, moral of the story—the minute you start thinking that your circumstances force you to live within a certain framework, or do certain things or make certain choices—that is the very minute that you let yourself die a little inside. Every one of those moments is like a little gasping breath of death—and I’m trying to gasp just a few times less every day. Whether you just want to save money, or you don’t want to keep throwing your hard earned cash at places like Subway out of laziness or convenience, or both, you can do it. I’ll admit, I don’t know exactly where all my food came from, but most of the places in the market were organic, and at least I feel better about supporting local vendors.
I don’t think Quantas pilots are particularly smooth when it comes to landing. But we’ve made it this far, right? And no one can complain too much about an airline that still feeds you a sandwich and a drink for lunch on an hour long flight.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Australian Heat Wave
So, I’m gonna try this. We’ll see what happens. And rather than give some sort of preface or back-story synopsis, I’m just going to start here, in the middle, and see where it takes me.
Heat like this reminds me of Giving Chase tours rolling through the South in the summer. Brutal, all encompassing. Like sitting in a fireplace, only in the South it’s the most humid fire you’ve ever endured. Standing on a no name street corner in a no name town with nothing to do but wait, staring into an empty hall. Maybe a few microphones and two speakers on flimsy stands, maybe a stage but probably not. No air conditioning to speak of—probably few people in the audience to speak of later that night. We used to do so much standing around, in the boiling heat and in the freezing cold. Standing, bullshitting, kicking stones, knocking back beers, walking to the corner, wandering back. Tour skill number one: patience. Hurry up and wait. Hurry up and wait.
I just checked the Celsius conversion on my phone and it was actually 113 degrees Fahrenheit today. That’s actually way worse than I thought, and probably one of the hottest days I’ve ever experienced—save for a few choice days visiting family in Tucson I’m sure. It should be that hot for the next couple days. The Big Day Out show in Adelaide should be a hot & steamy pleasure.
Eating in Melbourne, Australia: check out Trippy Taco on Smith St. in Collingwood. Pretty tasty all vegetarian Mexican food. I had a Tofu Asada burrito while reading Bukowski and then sauntered along down Smith St. in the heat. A junk shop, a bakery, a guy drinking from a brown-papered bottle. Finally, a little bit of artsy ghetto! Back downtown, Lord of the Fries for dinner—corner of Elizabeth and Flinder Sts. Owen and Reggie raved on this place. I finally got there. All vegetarian fast food. Just imagine if In-and-Out Burger didn’t serve any meat. Awesome fries, solid, protein-packed burger. I’m sure it’s not the healthiest thing, but sometimes comfort food is good for the soul.
Also, all hotels should pair up with local gyms instead of stocking some half-ass exercise room that usually consists of a treadmill, and stationary bike and (if you’re lucky) so sort of poorly maintained multi-purpose weight lifting machine. High-fives on the Melbourne City Baths, which I made good use of…and also rooftop pools rule.
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