Let It Ride

Las Vegas! Spanish for The Fertile Valleys. Whoever named the place obviously never went there. It's in the middle of the desert. No valleys, no fertility. There are lots of hookers though. So maybe "fertile valleys" refers to them.

So we left on Friday and drove across the border into Nevada. It took about 5 hours but we got to see some of the strangest parts of America. I mean, real white trash sort of stuff. Where people have more guns than teeth. We stopped at a gas station and someone had put up a sign saying:

Stolen - Dark blue Ford Taurus
No Engine, no transmission, no hood, and part of the roof is missing.
Reward: $2000

I wasn't quite sure which part of that to be confused by first. The fact that some guy was willing to pay $2000 for the return of a car worth about 75 cents, or that someone had stolen it in the first place. And how they took it when it didn't have a freaking engine! Here's my advice to the poor guy - take that reward money, buy a new car so that you and your wife/cousin will have a place to keep your baby until he's old enough to become a serial killer. Too harsh?

Anyway, as we approach vegas, i see this billboard reading:- "What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas!" More of a threat than an advertisement, really. So I start getting excited, because you can feel the possibility in the air. There are pictures of old women fanning themselves with wads of cash next to signs saying, "Doris won $1,000,000 in Vegas - so can you!"

We were staying at the Hilton, which is off the strip, but it was cheap and nothing is ever too far away in Vegas. I discovered soon after our arrival that the Hilton's big drawcard is their Star Trek Dining Experience, where you go and drink Klingon juice and get served by Borgs and crap like that. But every nerd in America goes there and puts more work into their costumes than the wait staff, and they talk for eons about who was a better Captain - Picard or Kirk? Which is sad, really, because everyone knows it's Picard. Duh.

So we hit the gambling floor and it's game on! I have a budget if $100 that I tell myself I don't mind losing. But here's the thing. In Vegas, as long as you're gambling the drinks are free. You heard correctly, free! Which means that if a cocktail waitress is passing you, all you have to do is face the nearest slot machine, put in a couple of cents, and order away! The catch is, of course, the drunker you get the more you think that lady luck has her hand down your pants, and the more recklessly you gamble. You win again, Vegas!

So I hit a game called Let it Ride. A poker based game, which is heaps of fun. I light up a cigar and suck on my vodka tonic and bet safe but regularly, and I become one of them. And every time I get a good hand, the guy next to me would turn and say, "Hey, nice work, kid." And the attractive woman hanging from the arm of the Asian businessman at the other end of the table would wink at me and say, "Oooh, look at you!" Yes, look at me. I am invincible. I am Frank Sinatra. I am Cool Hand Luke. I am...flat broke. Waitress!...

So after a bit of gambling we went to the clubs. I was still feeling unstoppable after my impressive loss at the Let it Ride table, so I walked right past the hundred or so people waiting in line at this club straight up to the bouncer and say, "20 bucks to skip this line?" And he nods and unclips the velvet rope and I pull that move. You know the move you see in movies where you put the money in your hand and then you shake the other guy's hand and pass the money to him through the handshake. That's what I did. I was so money, baby.

And the rest is what you expect. We drank, we gambled, we went to Studio 54 and picked up a bunch of dancers from the Las Vegas Ballet Company (who were currently perfoming in "Dracula - The Arena Spectacular). The days were filled with buffets and sipping Margaritas by the pool, and the nights...what can I say? People go to Vegas to party. They forget all the bullshit they left back home, and go to drink free booze, and meet cheap women and try to win enough money to start all over again. I can see why so many movies and songs are written about the place.

I'd tell you more, but what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

A Streetcar Named Debauchery

OK, this one is a difficult one to write. I have had one of the best
weeks of my life and I'm struggling to put it into prose. Nevertheless, I
will do my utmost to describe to you the fun, the fever, the frippery that
is New Orleans.

As soon as I stepped off the plane I was met by elaborately undersdressed
burlesque dancers in baggame claim while a dixie blues band provided a
snappy underscore to my arrival. Already this place just didn't seem
real. I felt like I'd turned up to a party no one invited me to. But that
happens to me all the time, so I knew exactly how to handle myself.

Within minutes after arriving at the hostel I'd made a bunch of friends
and we hopped in a cab and made our way to Bourbon Street, the main drag in
New Orleans.

What happened in the cab was the first domino to fall in what was to be
the craziest week of my life. But because my parents might be reading this blog,
I'll write two different versions of this story - the truth and the PG
version.

Version 1:

So the cab was filled with the unmistakable smell of marijuana. The
following dialogue ensued:

Me: "Driver? Why does it smell like weed in here?"

Driver: "I don't know what you're talking about, mon" (He was a big
black rastafarian, so "man" sounded like "mon")

Me: "I'm talking about the cab stinking of pot."

Driver: (And I quote) "It's the CD player, mon."

Me: "You've been smoking the CD player?"

Driver: "Give me a break, mon."

Me: "Dude, I don't care, just if you got some...you with me?"

Then without speaking he took out a Bob Marley CD and put it in the CD
player. And with that he faced me with a huge grin and produced the
largest joint you've ever seen, lit that bad boy up and shared the wealth, so to
speak. And as I sucked back on that enormous scoob it became blindingly
clear that New Orleans was my kind of town.

Now here's the version I want my parents to read:

So the cab was filled with a smell I didn't recognise. The following
dialogue ensued:

Me: "Driver? What's that offensive odour?"

Driver: "That's marijauna." (He was middle eastern - possibly a
terrorist. Not sure)

Me: "Pull over at once, and let me out of this car! How dare you."

Driver: "You're right to scold me, sir. Smoking marijuana is wrong."

Me: "It sure is. Goodnight."

And with that I returned to the hostel, said my prayers, and started
reading the new testament, as I am wont to do on occasion, and it became
blindingly clear that New Orleans was NOT my kind of town.

There. That should get me out of any trouble with the folks. But I
digress. Where was I? Oh right, Bourbon Street. Now, first things
first,Bourbon Street smells really, really bad. But then so would you if every
night hundreds of sweaty, drunk people vomited all over you. Why does
everyone vomit on Bourbon Street, you may ask? Because New Orleans
practically insists that you get totally hammered every single night.
Where else do bars offer 3 for 1 drinks? 3 for 1 fucking drinks?! I don't have that many hands! Or can you walk into a bar and order
beer "to go"? In New Orleans the law is more of a recommendation than an
enforcement.

But the truly brilliant thing about New Orleans is the beads. Now for
those who don't know, beads equals boobs. I'll explain. If you stand on the
balcony of any of the bars in the French Quarter and tell any of the
passers by that you'll give them a string of beads if they show you their breasts,
more often than not they'll oblige. I couldn't believe it. To think of
all the money I've wasted on fine dining and expensive wine just to see a
breast or two, when all I needed was some worthless plastic beads. But that's
the beauty of New Orleans. You don't have to be witty or charming. You don't
even have to be sober. You just have to have beads, and enough cognitive
activity left to be able to yell, "YOU! TITS!"

But that wasn't what made New Orleans amazing. It was the people I met at
the hostel. We really became great friends. The best night we spent was
the night we didn't even leave the hostel. About 15 of us bought 100
pounds of oysters and 20 pounds of shrimp and stayed up all night telling dirty
jokes. It felt like we'd been friends for years. Hard to explain. Or
forget.

Then there was Halloween. You could barely move in the streets. Everyone
looked incredible. I eventually found myself at a blackjack table at
5:00am, and won back all the cash I lost in Vegas. I was on cloud 9.
Then I blew that money on booze. The next morningI was on cloud 2 or 3.

What more can I say. It was truly amazing. Great food, great music. One
guitarist, who was playing on the street, promised that I'd have an
"ear-gasm" if I bought his CD. I was too disturbed to try.

You got to see it to believe it. But see it quickly, because it's
literally disappearing. The water level is rising fast on New Orleans, and they
predict that in 20 years or so, most of it won't be there anymore. We'll
be telling our grandkids about the Lost City of Debauchery, where the streets
were paved with vomit, and breasts were as easy to get your hands on as a
cocktail.
"Tell us again about the stoned cab driver, Grandpa Josh."
"Not tonight", I'll say. "It's passed your bedtime, and I'm far too
drunk."
And as I tuck them in my eyes will become watery as I remember the week I
spent in New Orleans, and how I wished you were all there with me.

Stab with your Mouth Closed

(exctract from my travel diary)

I'm in Poland right now, Krakow to be more specific, and it's cold. Not
"Excuse me waiter this soup is cold" cold. More "Dear God, please kill me
now so I don't have to endure any more of this icy hell" cold. I can't
see the footpath beneath the snow and so often I'll find myelf knee deep in
some invisible crevace. My glasses fog up everytime I walk indoors, so i look
like Mr Magoo for half an hour before I adjust to the warmth. I'm a
walking funniest home video.

I just wanted to set the scene for you before I tell the story.

A group of us from the Hostel went out the other night for a drink. It
was a Tuesday night so things were pretty quiet. While we were waiting
outside a bar to decide what our next move would be, a rather large Polish guy
deliberately swings his shoulder into one of my friends as he passes.

Everything that happened next happened very quickly.

This Poilish guy starts screaming at my friend. In Polish of course, so
we have no idea what he's so upset about. He's got a mouthful of food so
during the unintelligable tirade there's cabbage and pork and beans
literally flying out of his mouth all over his hapless target. The rest
of us kinda snap to and try to placate this lunatic, saying things like,
"He's really sorry, man" and "No harm done" and "Let us buy you a drink", that
sort of thing.

Next thing we know this guy has produced an enormous steak knife from his
jacket and is threatening us with it. One by one holding it to our
chests, yelling, spitting traditional poilish cuisine in our faces. Naturally, I
was really, really scared. Sure, we outnumbered this maniac six to one
but there's something about being in a foreign city - a city that doesn't
understand a word you say - that makes you a little more anxious than
usual.

All sorts of things are running through my head. Maybe if I faked an
epileptic fit, a seizure of some kind, he'd freak out and leave us alone.
Or maybe I could take this guy. I mean, why not? He's clearly an armed
psychopath with a thirst for blood, while I, on the other hand, have no
fighting experience whatsoever and am afraid of magpies - it's a fair
fight.

And then I thought maybe I'm jumping to conclusions. Perhaps he's not
threatening us at all. If I spoke Polish I'd discover that he was in fact
trying to be friendly. He could be saying:

"Excuse me, gentlemen. I bought my wife this steak knife for our
anniversary but when I tried to give it to her she said she was scared for
her life. Would one of you guys like it? There's nothing wrong with it.
See how sharp it feels against your chest? Only been used once - to kill
a human being. Any takers? Anyone?"

or

"Hey guys! How much would you expect to pay for a steak knife like this?
50 euro? 40 Euro? Wrong! It's only 24.95 and it can cut through human
flesh like butter. Plus, order now and I'll throw in this pre-chewed
cabbage ABSOLUTELY FREE."

So when he ran out of energy and food in his mouth - he left. That's it.
End of stroy. No one got hurt. Everthing's fine now.

But that's just the true version. Here's the version I'll tell to my
kids:

...So he took out a knife and held it to my chest. In two swift moves I'd
disarmed him and secured him in a hold I call "The Pacifier".

"Please, Josh. Please, no more!" he begged.

"How did you know my name?" I asked.

He remained silent.

"Who sent you?" I tightened my grip.

"Never!"

"WHO SENT YOU?"

"Rot in hell, pig."

He spat the remains of a Polish dumpling in my face.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you to talk with you mouth full?" I said,
really, really coolly, and possibly in an American accent.

Then I finished him quickly and threw his body into the river. Then a
Polish girl band approached me and asked me if I could help them find
their clothes. to be continued...

What? It's my story and I can do what I want.

Conversations with myself

Inspired by the recent interview Cotton conducted with himself, I decided to go back in time and have a little chat with me eight years ago. I just wanted to give him/me a little heads-up about a few things. Here's what happened...

I stepped out of the worm-hole and into my old bedroom. I hadn't arrived home from school yet so I just relaxed on the old bed for a little while. Before long 16 year old me comes home.

16 me: Who are you?

24 me: I'm you eight years from now.

16 me: Wow. You're me at 26?

24 me: Are you serious? Do your fucking homework? I'm 24.

16 me: Got it. What are you doing here?

24 me: Thought you should know a few things about the man you're going to become.

16 me: Really? Do I lose my virginity soon?

24 me: Pretty soon.

16 me: What's it like?

24 me: It's nice.

16 me: I knew it would be. Who with?

24 me: Come on, you don't want to open all your presents at once, do you?

16 me: I guess not. Hey, do I ever get to sleep with Lana Woods, the girl next door?

24 me: Yeah, and you also become a tennis pro and live in a great big castle made of candy. Get serious. Listen up, kid, you have a lot to look forward to.

16 me: Like what?

24 me: Like sideburns.

16 me: Awesome.

24 me: I know. And pregnancy scares.

16 me: Sweet. Anything else?

24 me: No, that's about it.

16 me: Do I stop masturbating so much?

24 me: Um, that gets worse, actually.

16 me: Do I become a famous actor?

24 me: Yep, you become rich and famous and beautiful women want to sleep with you every day.

16 me: Wow. I knew it!

24 me: No, kid, I'm just fucking with you. You steal from your flatmate's change jar and you dabble in snuff porn for a little while.

16 me: That makes more sense, I guess.

24 me: But listen, I don't have much time. There's something I need to tell you. One day you'll travel to Thailand, and when you're there you'll meet a very beautiful woman. You're going to want to have sex with her. Fight that urge.

16 me: Why?

24 me: Because it turns out that some Thai men can look a lot like Thai women, ok? Do you want to write that down or something?

16 me: I don't have a pen on me. I'm sure I'll remember.

Suddenly a new worm-hole opens up and me at 40 enters the room.

40 me: Hey guys.

24 me: Let me guess - you're me at 50.

40 me: Fuck you. I'm 40.

24 me: You're kidding. What happened to your hair?

40 me: I don't want to talk about it.

16 me: So how are things at 40?

40 me: Um, fine. They're fine. Don't worry about it.

24 me: Hey, do we ever get to fuck Lana Woods?

40 me: Yeah, and you also become a tennis pro and live in a great big castle made of candy. Get serious.

24 me: Still using that one, huh? So what brings you here?

Awkward pause

40 me: Do you guys have any cash I can borrow.