New York

(Written while we were in Vegas, but we refused to pay $24.99 a day in our hotel for internet, so uploaded now that we're in LA)

After our last visit to New York City, I'm fairly sure I told anyone who would listen that I want to live there. Let me now change that to 'could not live there more than nine months of the year': I hate you New York summer. We arrived bang smack in the middle of a heatwave, and it was between 36 and 38 degrees every day, and not much better at night. Even the New Yorkers were complaining about it, and it made our whole experience sweaty, stifling and exhausting (not to mention unpleasantly odoured, with wafting smells of trash piled on the streets). You know it's ridiculously hot when you arrive in Vegas a week later and find the desert heat a relief from the sticky humidity of the city. My hair somehow managed to be constantly lank and frizzy at the same time, and my makeup kept melting off my face. Yuck. At least the place we were staying in had air conditioning, and we often wouldn't end up leaving the house until late afternoon just so we could avoid the worst of the heat. Oh well, at least that gave us an excuse to stay up late and then sleep in I guess. Also, while we triumphed over the NYC subway system on our last visit, we failed dismally this time round. I blame a combination of heatwave brain and my new so-called 'smart' phone; although helpful some of the time, I've now learnt that it shouldn't be relied on too much. On one memorable occasion, it directed us into an AA meeting instead of the subway station we were trying to find. Maybe it has a built-in app which senses you've been drinking too much? Despite such tribulations, NYC was still amazing, and our six nights there flew by.

We arrived at JFK airport about 9pm on Monday 15^th July, and successfully caught the air train to the Jamaica Center, transferred to the J train and made it to where we were staying in Williamsburg, Brooklyn (we would not be so successful on our way back to the airport, but that's another story). I had booked us a colorful little apartment through Airbnb, and as I mentioned earlier, it belonged to a burlesque performer, the lovely Amber Ray. I think Amber rivalled me in terms of clothing/accessory accumulation, and all her glittery outfits, shoes, jewellery and burlesque bits and pieces were on display for us to nosy at, along with tons of interesting books and DVDs. For what we paid, the big bonuses of Amber's place were the air conditioning, free wifi and location right next to a subway station. There was also a sad and somewhat bedraggled looking cat that hung out on the stairs, so I got my kitty fix after much missing of the Lulu. The slight downsides were that the building didn't have an elevator and we were on the fifth floor (yes, I could do with the exercise, but it was a pain in the ass carrying a suitcase up and down the stairs), and because it was in Brooklyn, the subway journey into Manhattan was a bit longer than last time and often there weren't many trains going back late at night. We arrived pretty hungry on our first night, and Amber recommended a restaurant and bar across the road called Moto, which was just what we were after. There was a folksy kind of female singer/guitarist performing in the tiny space, which was lit by candles and decorated with various science-y looking artefacts in bell jars. I had my first healthy and reasonably portioned meal of the trip (an asparagus concoction that I've been craving ever since, while punishing my body with pizza, veggie dogs and nachos instead), and our lovely server gave us their signature toffee date dessert on the house. Mmm, free stuff...

The apartment building we stayed in in Brooklyn

The burlesque bedroom

The view from our apartment fire escape

Stairway cat! Poor lil buddy...

On Tuesday we embarked on a much-needed outing to the laundromat for the first time, which was an adventure in itself. I guess they're pretty self-explanatory for the New Yorkers who use them every day, but the ways of the laundromat were a bit mystifying for us (do we bring our own detergent or do they supply it there? Where does the detergent go in the machine? Are we meant to wait in the laundromat the whole time our clothes are being washed or do we go away and come back? Do we tip the person who works there?) We bumbled our way through it (and yes, I did tip the lady to be on the safe side), and finally had clean clothes again. 

Waiting outside the laundromat, attempting to look like we know what we're doing...

Running well ahead of schedule for once, we stopped by the Bowery Ballroom where we were seeing the band Wire play that night, only to find that the gig was going to start about two hours later than we had thought. We wandered round the East Village for a while, and had dinner at a Louisiana-themed restaurant on St Mark's Place called the Saint. Their music playlist was firmly 90s (the bad along with the good: hooray, Nirvana, followed by ugh, Aqua) and Sam and I drank beers, played 'guess the 90s tune' and attempted to get my just-purchased American SIM card up and running on my phone. It was decreed that we should make it to the Bowery Ballroom in time to catch the opening band, which unfortunately neither of us ended up liking (Bear in Heaven, I believe they were called, and yes, there were hipster moustaches and the inevitable terrible sounds to accompany them). Sam wanted to be on the ground floor to watch Wire, but I couldn't see anything, so found a spot by myself up top on the mezzanine where I had a decent view. Despite not knowing any Wire beforehand (this gig was all Sam's doing, the one that we detoured to NYC for), I had a really good time, particularly when they started playing their more raucous material a few songs into the set. After the show, we hung round with the intention of having a few more beers, and Sam ranted and raved about how awesome the show had been. It was then agreed that we had nothing to lose by sneaking out back and trying to meet the band (you can already see a theme emerging on our trip...). Sam talked nicely to one of the roadies, who told us to hang round but stay out of the way while they were loading up the gear, and then he'd see what he could do. As it turns out, we got to meet Graham Lewis the bass player, who was a very personable old British dude, and we stood outside chatting with him while he had a smoke. Because I didn't know Wire, I wasn't in the least bit starstruck, and was quite able to formulate sentences and make witty conversation (I'm fairly sure Tim Armstrong and Mark Arm must have thought I was a mute; an idiotically smiling mute). 

Meeting Graham Lewis, the bass player from Wire

As we were leaving, Graham then called us back to introduce us to his New York friend Larry, who would supposedly give us some tips on cool places to go. Larry looked like a straight-haired version of Sideshow Bob, and was a real character who had been living in the Lower East side since the 80s. Most of Larry's recommendations were more lamentations on how good things used to be, and involved helpful hints like 'you wanna check out such and such a place; it was great, but it closed down a few years back.' We ended up going to Max Fish (according to Larry, the last good bar left standing in the neighbourhood; but yes, it's due to close down soon) for a drink, and it was pretty cool. Given that we were seeing the Specials the next day and I didn't want to ruin it by partying all night beforehand, we limited ourselves to the one drink, and then got the train home by about 2am.

On Wednesday we went for a walk in search of Cotton Candy Machine - a little art gallery about ten blocks from where we were staying - along the way encountering people coping with the heatwave by turning on fire hydrants and basking in the spray (so it wasn't just something that used to happen on Sesame Street). I fell in love with a couple of prints at Cotton Candy Machine (a Tara McPherson and a Glenn Barr), but since we were going straight to the Specials gig from the gallery, it wasn't practical to buy them and lug them around, so we got some stickers instead and promised to come back. Unfortunately we didn't get around to this, although now I'm woefully down on my money anyway, so perhaps it's a good thing... A quick dinner was had at AOA, a generic pizza place and bar on Avenue of the Americas, and I was randomly befriended by two middle-aged and possibly quite drunk French women in the bathrooms, who informed me in heavily accented English that I was a 'nice-looking, all-American girl,' at which I laughed out loud. In hindsight, maybe they had been wanting to try cocaine and misguidedly thought I was their best bet? We do seem to get approached by people wanting to sell us drugs all the time... From there, it was a short stroll to Pier 86 where the Specials were playing an outdoor show, and it was an impressive setting, with the stage right at the end of the pier and the Hudson River beyond, and downtown New York skyscrapers rising up all around.

Very excited, pre-Specials show on the pier. Apparently this is the look of of a 'nice, All-American girl' according to my new French buddies. Maybe Tom Petty will write a song about me...

The stage at the Specials gig, with New Jersey skyline in background

I've seen the Specials twice before, but this was by far the coolest venue, and it wasn't horribly oversold so there was plenty of room to dance. Excellent for people-watching too; we were there about an hour before they started and it was still light out, so we passed the time by checking out the vast array of tattoos on show (I'd say 8/10 people there had at least one visible tattoo). Actually, a side note: tattoos here are far more prevalent than in New Zealand, and it's not uncommon to see people with full sleeves, neck tattoos, etc working in jobs where that totally wouldn't be allowed back home (waitresses in restaurants, post office workers, staff in hotels). Awesome. In saying that though, because there are more tattoos in general, that also means there are a greater number of rubbish tattoos; I've probably liked less than a third of those I've seen. Right, back to the Specials... They opened with 'Do the Dog,' followed by 'Dawning of a New Era,' and played every song I wanted to hear apart from 'Too Hot.' Not necessarily one of my favourites, but come on, the most appropriate song to play during a New York heatwave. The George Zimmerman verdict came out while we were in Seattle, and discussion about it has dominated what little of the news we've seen here (George Zimmerman is the cop who was acquitted of shooting black teenager Trayvon Martin; just in case this hasn't managed to penetrate the rugby-laden New Zealand news), and it was most appreciated by the crowd that the Specials dedicated 'A Message to You Rudy' to George Zimmerman, and 'It Doesn't Make It Alright' to Trayvon. Always a band who both exemplified and were vocal in advocating racial harmony, it was great to dance along to Specials songs with such a diverse crowd; in terms of age too, as there were little mohawked kids there along with their wrinkly punker parents. After a thoroughly enjoyable show ('Enjoy Yourself,' why yes I did thank you Specials), I got talking to a girl while we were both waiting outside the portaloos for our boys. I was most surprised to happen upon an American who had not only heard of New Zealand (Her: “Are you from the North or South Island?”), but who had actually been there and knew more about it than I do (Me: “Oh you went to the Waitomo Caves, yeah I've never been there, I hear they're nice; wait, remind me which island they're on again?”). For shame, Andy. My next holiday will be spent investigating more of my own country. It will also have the added bonus of being less expensive than this one is proving to be. American girl Gen and her Aussie boy Chris and Sam and I all ended up going out to a bar together (can't remember the name, but it was in Tribeca somewhere), and it had a sweet photo booth where we got some boozy pics. There were jalapeno poppers at another bar at some point, and another arduous journey home which involved too much waiting in subway stations and transfers between trains.

Thursday was dedicated to shopping in the East Village, but I discovered quickly that I have no patience or enthusiasm for shopping in such heat, and managed to buy one record all day (Descendents' 'Milo Goes to College.' Although following a later mishap, it is yet to transpire whether the record will end up accompanying me back to NZ or not). I feel bad for the Bettie Page store, the only clothing shop I tried anything on at, proceeding to transfer all my sweat to a very pretty blouse, which I then realised didn't actually fit, and had to put back. Apologies also to the people of New York, who were subjected to my pasty legs in all their mini-skirted glory, as I no longer gave a damn and just wanted rid of my signature black tights in order to experience some breeze. I think this particular day was probably the hottest of the lot, and even the squirrels in Tompkins Square park - a highlight of the last trip - failed to do much for me. Happily, we actually had a friend to meet up with later that night though, former Dunedin gal Koren who has been living in NYC for about the last six months. We joined Koren and her very welcoming friends Kurt and Francisco on the rooftop patio of a bar in Williamsburg called Night of Joy, replete with lanterns and fancy designer cocktails (after trying one to say we had, Sam and I quickly returned to beer,). We learnt from Koren and co that NYC is almost unlivably expensive; the public transport can suck (there was a particularly impassioned rant about the incompetence of the G train); that it's incredibly hard to find work here; and if you think the heatwave is bad, wait till you experience the cold in winter; despite all this, everyone agreed that it was entirely worth it, and that NYC is the place to be. I liked that as the conversation progressed further, it became apparent that everything Koren and I both knew about NYC while growing up had been gleaned from Babysitters' Club books. Francisco left at some point, and the remaining four of us ended the night at the amazing Kellogg's diner (well, probably just a standard American diner, but in my book, if it's open 24 hours a day for sit-down meals of jalapeno poppers, dirty nachos and beer, it's amazing), and then went our separate ways on various trains.

The mighty diner

On Friday we wanted to make up for our previous Empire State building visit (conducted at 11.30 at night in thick fog) and actually get some kind of daytime bird's eye view of the city, so we did the Top of the Rock visit. I think I'd recommend this one more anyway; it's better to be on another building (the Rockefeller Center) so you can look at the Empire State Building, and because this one wasn't quite as tall, you're on a similar level with some of the other skyscrapers rather than peering down at them all, so it's more immersive. I knew the city was huge, but it was quite staggering seeing it in its entirety; regrettably, the heat was no less intense 70 stories above ground.

Sam and the view from the Top of the Rock. Bet he can make this into some kind of awesome phallic artwork...

Following on from our 'correcting wrongs made on the last trip' theme, we then visted the Met and were able to spend more than an hour there. I had been looking forward to the 'Punk: From Chaos to Couture' exhibition that was on, but to be honest it was a bit of a fizzer; really just an excuse to show some outfits by big name designers that didn't seem to me to be particularly relevant to the punk movement at all; a few Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren pieces, but mostly just wearble art type outfits created in more recent years that used punk as inspiration. And why on earth would you bother creating a life-sized replica of the men's bathrooms at CBGBs to display in a New York museum when no-one thought it was worth saving the actual bar from closing down a few years ago? Granted, some of the Alexander McQueen outfits were cool (Mel, I wanted to take some photos of them for you, but the exhibition was strictly no photography, and then they didn't even have postcards of them available to buy in the gift shop, where I was quite ready to squander some dollars. I did get some sweet duct tape printed with safety pins though), and certain parts of the exhibition design were quite inspired (the walls in one section were modelled on classical architecture, with columns and recesses housing mannequins that appeared from far away as if carved from marble, but on closer inspection, were actually made from polystyrene, and you could inscribe your own graffiti into them). On the whole though, more couture than chaos, and we only spent about twenty minutes there, dedicating the rest of our time to the sections of the museum we had missed last time. Predictably, I enjoyed the 20^th century art rooms most, and we looked around as much as we could right up until closing time, but even given a week I don't think you could cover everything there with the attention it deserves. Finally, it was time for one of those few and far between early nights, and we went back to the apartment where I was most pleased to be able to catch up on new season Dexter (I'm three episodes in, and it's soooo good!)

Jasper Johns removed the red and blue from the American flag, and I inadvertently add it back in with my outfit

Our last day in NYC started earlier than most, with a visit to the shops in Williamsburg, about one train stop away from our apartment. The vintage stores I'd read up on were a bit disappointing (way overpriced and too hipster-curated), but the vibe of the area was good and thankfully the weather had calmed down a little bit and was starting to border on almost pleasant. We wandered by McCarran Park, and went back to the excellent Kellogg's Diner for a late lunch, then once again it was back to the East Village to revisit Generation Records, which we'd nearly forgotten from our last trip. As we were walking there, from out of nowhere - and about two seconds after I'd mentioned that I was starting to enjoy the weather way more - it began to rain. Heavy, pelting, bucketing-down rain of the variety that made everyone on the street stop what they were doing and go and take shelter under something. After about ten minutes of this, we had no choice but to go back out into the street and keep walking, as we were due to see the Slackers play soon, and the party boat would wait for no man, departing from the pier at 8pm sharp. Thus, we were entirely drenched by the time we arrived, but at least we made it with about five minutes to spare. And here I will copy and paste my post-gig Facebook status update as a too-lazy-to-write-a-proper-review review:

“Awesome things about seeing the Slackers on a party boat in NYC:

1. Seeing the Slackers on a party boat in NYC. Duh.
2. Marshalling a large bunch of the crowd around me into requesting 'Old Dog' - “So you like the song 'Old Dog' right, it's pretty good eh? I came all the way from Nooo Zeeeland and I really wanna hear that one, so how bout when they take requests at the end, you yell for 'Old Dog' with me?”
3. The Slackers being forced to play 'Old Dog' through extreme crowd support.
4. Vic Ruggiero from the Slackers being a complete babe.
5. Meeting Vic Ruggiero.
6. Vic Ruggiero acknowledging upon meeting me that never before had a crowd demanded Old Dog' with such enthusiasm.
7. A random dude coming up to me on the way home from the show and recognising me as the 'Old Dog' instigator and showing me a photo of his recently passed away dog and being stoked on the song being played.
8. Generally being more of a cat person anyway.”

To take it up another few notches:

9. The rain I mentioned before later evolved into a thunderstorm, and it was pretty epic sailing past the Statue of Liberty with the Slackers playing and lightning flashes cutting across the sky.
10. Vic Ruggiero was wearing a sailor's oufit.
11. I'm now the proud owner of Slackers undies.

I need to take lessons from Vic in how to pose for photos on a party boat; he achieves 'boozy captain,' while I do 'stunned mullet'

After the party boat docked at the all too early hour of 11pm, we went to a bar in Midtown Manhattan so I could use the bathroom and inevitably ended up staying for some more drinks. To get to the airport the next day for our flight at 8.15am, we would have to be up at the ungodly hour of 5am; I went to bed at 3, and Sam gave up on bed in favour of staying up drinking and sleeping on the plane. It's therefore a surprise that the rather unfortunate missing of the flight was not actually our fault, as we did indeed make it to the subway at the designated hour, bags packed and feeling chuffed with ourselves, if somewhat sleep-deprived. What we didn't realise was that a lot of maintenance/building work was being conducted on certain subway routes, and the scheduled time for this (that would supposedly cause the least disruption to public transport – ha!) was Sunday mornings. The J train that was meant to take an hour to JFK stopped at a random station about halfway along the route and remained stopped. We waited... and waited... and waited... We were the only ones in our carriage apart from a passed out drunk guy, so weren't quite sure what was happening. Sam tried to get off the train, only to be told to get back on, so we figured it was going to start moving soon. It did, after about 25 minutes, but in the wrong direction! We attempted to get off at the next station, but the train driver explained it was being rerouted and would go back about 5 stops, then we could get off, get on a different train to connect to another train, which would then take us to the airport. This may have worked out okay, if there weren't additional 15 minute waits in between each train, which then went at about half the speed they usually did. Our hour long train trip took two and a half hours, and we got to the airport at exactly 8.15am as our flight departed. Guh. I was envisioning what the cost would be of getting us on the next flight, and was close to tears, as it either seemed like I would have to forgo the rest of my spending money in order to achieve this, or miss seeing Rancid in Las Vegas. Thankfully, whether it was due to our charming NZ demeanour, my obvious close-to-tears-ness, or the fact that the lovely lady at the Delta desk was well aware of the havoc the subway work was causing for unsuspecting tourists, we were able to get put on the next flight, and she waived the additional charges, “since you're obviously having a bad day.” At this point I felt like we were on the Amazing Race. Once we got on the plane, we even found we had been upgraded to premium economy, so had comfier seats with more legroom. I had used up so much stress by this point that I didn't have any left to worry about flying, so it was actually a relaxing five hour flight for once. Until we got to Vegas, where Sam realised that he had left the bag he was carrying (which contained all the records we'd bought) back at JFK airport... Sigh... We're still trying to get them back now, but after much time spent on hold, being directed to other phone numbers and filling out online claim forms, it seems that they may end up being a casualty of our bad day. And Sam is usually so protective of records too...

Vegas up next for the blog treatment, no big wins yet (a minor small one though – I put in $20, won $180), but still two nights left, so fingers crossed....

Vancouver and Seattle

Yes it's blog time again, I'm back in the States and ready to unleash my wordy rants about drinking, seeing bands, travelling, drinking, buying cool stuff and probably some more drinking on you all for the second time. I can't change the name of the blog now, but think of it as 'Four weeks without Taz' this time...

Thankfully the flights were uneventful (and on our Dunedin to Auckland leg I was most proud to see Girl Sam making a roller derby appearance in the inflight magazine, and of course my old friend Bear Grylls on the safety video), although I had a bit of a kerfuffle in LAX with my bag. The Air New Zealand guy at Dunedin airport said that my bag was checked all the way through to Vancouver, so I wouldn't need to collect it till then. Sweet. This was news to the surly and very adamant guy at LAX who wouldn't let me through customs without my bag (“I don't care what they told you in Noo Zeeeland, THEY LIED! You must collect your bag before we can let you in. Go back and get it!” So Sam got through since he had no checked luggage and I had to go back and wait at the carousel for a bag that I was fairly sure wasn't going to be there. About 40 minutes later, and once all the bags were off (minus mine), I was at a loss for what to do, so I tried going through again and was lucky to get a different (and more indifferent) guy, who was all “Well that sounds odd, you have to collect your bag, but really it's not my problem so I'll just let you through anyway, but if your bag is lost you won't be able to come back to look for it.” At this point I put my faith in what I'd been told in Dunedin and entered the States without my stuff, slightly freaking out. It was quickly cleared up by a kind Canadian woman at the ticketing counter who was all “Yeah your bag's checked through to Vancouver, those guys in customs don't know what they're talking about, welcome to America!” Ah, just the additional kind of stress I need at airports... My bag and I were happily reunited in Vancouver, and we made it on to the train to the Cambie Hostel in Gastown about 11pm. Along the way we got talking to a fellow Kiwi from Raglan called Matt, who had been on the last two flights with us and now it turned out was also booked into the same backpackers. Merriment ensued and we had some beers at the awesome bar downstairs at the Cambie, then moved on after they closed to a $2 beer night at a nearby (quite terrible) bar, whose one redeeming feature (apart from those $2 beers) was that they were playing Michael Jackson.

We awoke surprisingly non jet-lagged the next day and wandered around downtown Vancouver and Gastown checking out the sights (mainly record stores, some decent rockabilly-type clothing places, the impressive library building and a park with a fountain). We didn't have any gigs or anything locked in, and were just in Vancouver for the two nights, so had no schedule to stick to really. I was determined that we'd have something of a quiet night since we were getting the bus to Seattle the next day to see Rancid, but after meeting Matt for dinner (one plate of 'small' nachos that fed three of us), it quickly morphed into drinks, including the excellent Fireball, a hot whiskey that Matt introduced us to that must start being imported into New Zealand immediately. I sensibly turned down the next free shots the bartender offered us, for the greater good of Rancid.

Sam in front of the Vancouver Public Library

Andy in front of fountain in park in Vancouver. Was tempted to climb in fountain along with the dogs and kids that were doing so...

The bus trip from Vancouver to Seattle was less exciting than I'd anticipated, with most of the scenery being pretty reminiscent of rural New Zealand, broken up by some depressing looking small agricultural towns that had McDonalds' and not a lot more. It was a welcome sight to roll in to Seattle and see the Space Needle in all its retro design-y goodness... Due to traffic delays on the bus trip and then an entirely self-inflicted delay where we coudn't figure out which direction the public transport we were meant to get was heading in, we were about an hour and a half later getting to our hostel than planned, so had minimal time before the Rancid show. A much needed pre-show nap was prescribed. The place we stayed in was deceptively awesome; although it was called the AAE Hostel and was really cheap, check-in was at a Best Western motel which we had thought was next door, but actually included the hostel, so we had a fancy room with two beds, a private bathroom, free breakfast and a hot tub. We were running late for the show (remember my gripe last time with US shows starting way too early?), and weren't overly certain which stop we needed to get off at, and made the mistake of going with a loud blue-haired girl who announced on the bus that she was heading to the same show. As soon as she got off the bus she revealed herself to be a complete flake who had not only got us off at the wrong stop and didn't know where we were, but who then proceeded to ask people on the street whether it was 8.30am or pm and what day it was... We left her to her own devices and ran (well to be honest, more 'briskly walked') for a number of blocks in the general direction of the show, and made it in time to hear three Transplants songs. Oh well, two more opportunities to see em I guess. At least there was plenty of time to have a few beers and buy a bunch of merch (inlcuding an ill-fated Rancid lighter which I had to leave behind in Seattle today since it couldn't come on the plane with me) before the main act. The venue was quite weird in that the floor was all one level with no raised bits for shorties like me to stand on and actually see, so rather than go up the front and get squished, I had the best view at the very back, and space to dance as well. Which I did, enthusiastically. They played an excellent set (although I'd struggle to come up with a bad set for Rancid since I like 99% of their songs, so I'm easily pleased), and sounded amazing. I was restrained and didn't even attempt to get my Tim stalking on after the show (perhaps when we see them again in Vegas, since I know where to go after last time). Instead, the night was topped off by a veggie dog with a million jalapenos and then a soak in the hot tub. Yup, you're all right, Seattle.

Space Needle!

Day two started out in Belltown, the neighbourhood we were staying in, which happened to have a nice little one block section of Sam and Andy Heaven: we had a beer at Shorty's, a pinball themed dive bar with creepy clowns; tacos at Mama's Mexican Kitchen; then a lingering look at punk record store Singles Going Steady. Hilariously, on our way to the Pike Place Market, we were stopped by a girl from Joe TV (a local Seattle station), who wanted to film us for a documentary on Seattle fashion. She wasn't deterred by the fact we were actually from New Zealand, and we agreed to it when she said she just wanted to film our bags and jackets while we were walking along, not our faces. So yeah, we'll probably be the background image to a voiceover on washed-up punk style or something... Repping a Conniption patch on my bag though... Pike Place Market itself was rad, so many little quirky stores, artist studios, etc. Sadly, it was just not feasible for me to purchase the life-sized cut-out of Bad era Michael Jackson I encountered.

Curtained private booth for two at Mama's Mexican Kitchen, with accompanying Elvis cut-out.

Andy at Shorty's, the bar where the tables were old pinball machines.

After dinner at a pizza and microbrew beer place called Zeek's, we decided to do the Space Needle. If only we had decided this a number of hours prior; we found out the next day that Mudhoney had been there earlier doing a promotional gig at the top of the tower. Can't win em all eh... Still, some very cool views from the top at night, but as usual, I got absolutely rubbish photos that don't do it justice. Maybe one day I'll learn to work the settings on my camera properly... Pleased with our Space Needle visit, we returned to the hotel at the rather respectable hour of about midnight and finally had that quiet and not-so-boozy night we were in need of.

The 13^th was the much anticipated day of the Sub Pop 25^th Jubilee gig in Georgetown; basically, a bunch of old and new bands who were or still are on the Sub Pop label took over the industrial-but-getting-hip suburb of Georgetown for a day long festival with three stages. On our way, we stopped at Roq La Rue Gallery, a pop surrealist gallery that was high on my list of things to do in Seattle, but which I had just discovered wouldn't be open the next two days, so it had to be squeezed in immediately. The group show that was on ('Other Worlds') was amazing, some really fantastic oil on panel paintings by some artists I already liked, and some new ones to investigate further. We both loved the show, but unfortunately didn't anticipate the insanity of the public transport system trying to accommodate all the Sub Pop festival goers, and things probably could have worked out a bit better if we hadn't had to add the gallery visit in. As it turns out, we were incredibly fortunate to even get on the bus to the festival; it was 45 minutes late and absolutely packed, and they only let 4 of the maybe 20 people waiting at the stop on (yay, us!) We got to Georgetown right as the band Sam wanted to see (Pissed Jeans) would have been starting, but Google maps led us up the garden path and down the wrong end of the street they were playing on. We ended up finding a different stage and I enjoyed seeing Tad Doyle's new band, but by the time we finally got our hands on the official gig map and realised the Google one was wrong, Pissed Jeans had already played. Sorry Sam. We partook of the specialty beers (a commemorative Nevermind beer was the favourite of the day), got photos in the blown up face-hole cut-out thingies of album covers (I had no mates for the L7 one and was rather boozy by this stage and managed to get my head and three limbs through the 4 face-holes) then saw the Metz and J Mascis, raided the Sub Pop Mega Mart (it suddenly became clear how putting on a free gig could still be profitable when you saw the massive amounts of swag people were buying), and then made sure we were in the right place for Mudhoney. They were awesome, and it was much better seeing them at this than it was at the stadium arena when we were last here. I would have liked them to play for longer, but they did heaps of the songs I wanted to hear, and I bounced around like an idiot. Once they finished, we kind of wandered back around behind the stage, and there was a gap in the chainlink fence, and Mark Arm the singer was standing behind it unawares, with no security to be seen. I was initially hesitant, as climbing through a fence to get to one of your idols seemed to be taking it to a new level, but with Sam's urging (read: pushing), I was through the fence and apologetically met Mark Arm. He didn't seem to mind (guess I'm lucky I'm the unthreatening type), and Sam got a photo of us. Woop woop!

Sub Pop festival; just one of three stages throughout the Georgetown neighbourhood.

Stalking pays off: meeting Mark Arm from Mudhoney.

What happens when you really want a photo in the L7 album cover but have no mates to accompany you and are somewhat drunk...

There had been rumours all day that Soundgarden were going to play (and to be fair, Sub Pop themselves were largely responsible for this, having pretty much announced it in in coded form on their website weeks ago), but it was not to happen; we hung round hopefully for a bit, then conceded defeat. The local brewery Elysian who were sponsoring the event were having an outdoor movie screening in their lot though, and it just so happened to be 'Dazed and Confused,' one of my faves, so we decided to stick around for that. You had to buy drink tickets at the festival, and by that time of night, a lot of the beer had run out, so the only thing we could exchange our drink tickets for was 7.5% beer. Oh dear.. I happily watched the movie on the big screen, and then Sam was in charge of getting us home. Damn you 7.5% beer...

The first real hangover of the trip, and our last day in Seattle. I had read in a guidebook back in Dunedin that the EMP (Experience Music Project) Museum was maybe not worth going to, but since they had a Nirvana exhibition on, thought we'd do it anyway. Um, last time I listen to a guidebook – hands down the best museum I've ever been to, fullstop. In addition to 'Nirvana: Taking Punk to the Masses,' they had a horror film exhibition, a fantasy movie one, a Jimi Hendrix one, a guitar gallery, a sound lab where you could play instruments and record yourself, and glorious amonts of amazing pop culture goodness. We sat on the Iron Throne from Game of Thrones, I got a photo next to both a zombie costume from the Thriller video and The Goblin King outfit from Labyrinth (complete with inappropriate bulge), saw the axe from the Shining, and generally revelled in watching music videos play on a screen that was practically IMAX size. The Nirvana exhibition was the definite highlight though, and I appreciated that it incorporated a lot of other smaller bands from the same era as well. Plenty to watch and listen to, along with rare photos, merch, letters, clothes, instruments, etc. Very cool to see Kurt's iconic 'Vandalism: Beautiful as a rock in a cop's face' sticker guitar, and the anatomical angels from the In Utero tour. There was a nicely done book to accompany the exhibition, but I'm attempting to be sensible with the amount of heavy stuff I buy and have to lug around, so I'll save some of my trip money to buy it on Amazon when I get back.

No flash photography allowed, hence terrible picture, but yay for that guitar...

Jealous much Dad? A 2-3 story sculpture of guitars.

The anatomical angel from In Utero. Wish they sold these in the gift shop...

After hours spent in the EMP on a gorgeous summer's day, we dragged our hangovers out into the sun, and visited the nearby Olympic Sculpture park on the waterfront. To be honest, it was somewhat average after seeing all the cool stuff in the EMP, but the views were pretty cool and it was good to get some fresh air. We then hopped on the monorail for a quick trip, grabbed some tacos and went back to the hotel to casjh out. It's testament to how tired we were by that stage that we couldn't even muster the energy for a final dip in the hot tub, but instead lay in bed watching cartoons on cable for most of the night. For some reason I then couldn't get to sleep, and last looked at the clock at about 5.45am, knowing we had to get up for our flight at 8.30 the next morning. I made myself feel better about this by thinking that at least I was 'Sleepless in Seattle,' how very fitting...

View of Puget Sound from the Olympic Sculpture Park. Not so disease-covered after all...

Sam at the Olympic Sculpture Park.

Next up, New York: we're staying in the apartment of a burlesque dancer, and there are showgirl outfits, boas, glittery things and jewellery everywhere. It's like Las Vegas happened a week early...