Los Angeles and Anaheim

It was well and truly time to leave Las Vegas after five nights of gambling and drinking by pools (who would've thought I could tire of that?!), and we boarded our bus for LA quite excited about going somewhere new. We'd only spent a few hours in LA on our last trip, but had four nights there this time, followed by the obligatory night in Anaheim to visit the dreaded Disneyland. The early morning bus trip from Vegas necessitated headphones, as for some reason the driver thought it was a good idea to play childrens' movies in Spanish on the many tv screens, while simultaneously blasting Mariachi music on the radio. Too bad for anyone wanting to sleep... We arrived in downtown LA mid-afternoon, and walked to Pershing Square station to catch the train to Hollywood where we were staying. I hate walking round with our luggage in tow because it screams 'tourist' and 'target for crazy people' and sure enough, most of the journey was spent attempting to avoid crossing paths with a dude yelling that he was off his meds and wanted to kill someone. No one else seemed to be paying him much attention though, so we crossed our fingers that this was standard downtown LA behaviour and tried not to make eye contact. At one point he did tell Sam he liked his badges though. Once safely ensconced at our apartment on Whitley Ave in Hollywood (another value-for-money Airbnb find), we set out on a quest for food, and discovered that we had fortuitously managed to base ourselves about two blocks from a wonderful vegan restaurant called Vegan House, whose meatless chicken drumsticks quickly became our new favourite. I decided to have a night in and make the most of the comfy couch and huge screen TV with free Netflix and catch up on internet tasks we hadn't be able to do in Vegas, while Sam went off to see Peter Murphy from Bauhaus play again just down the road.

The view from our apartment on Whitley Ave

The swanky zebra themed bedroom in our Hollywood apartment

On Saturday it was back to Vegan House again for lunch, then a wander round some shops in the Hollywood area, including the LA branch of Amoeba Records (the first of Sam's three trips there), and a strange little vintage store with a gig and gallery space above it that happened to have an exhibition by one of the guys from the Germs on display. It consisted of lost pet posters he had collected from the Hollywood area during the years the band was active in the late 70s, and was an oddly moving yet morbid show when you started to wonder if the pets were ever eventually reunited with their owners, then concluded that even if they had been, they would be long dead by now anyway. Sad face. The guy who worked in the store was another eccentric but extra-nice American character (we seem to attract them!) who was like a Mexican hair-metal Toddy, and who gave us some sweet discounts on stuff, and seemed genuinely disappointed there would not be a gig on in the space upstairs for us to go and see while we were in LA.

Not to worry, as we already had plans for Saturday night anyway. I'm an avid reader of Juxtapoz magazine (thanks parents for the yearly Christmas present subscription!), and one of the galleries that often features in there was having an opening that night. Finally, one of the many emailed exhibition opening invitations that clog my inbox from galleries I follow in the US could actually be put to use, rather than just making me jealous when I'm in Dunedin that I can't go. The show in question was a group exhibition called 'Shades,' at Corey Helford Gallery in Culver City, about a 50 minute bus ride from Hollywood. Bus proved easy to negotiate and for a mere $1.50 each, we got an impromptu sightseeing tour of LA into the bargain (contrary to popular belief, LA is not at all difficult to navigate entirely by walking and public transport). The exhibition itself was immensely impressive, featuring 16 x 16 inch works (mainly paintings) by 16 different artists, and I would have been happy owning almost any one of them. Of course, they weren't exactly in my price range (Vegas, why did you not pull through for me?!), and it was a moot point anyway given that most of the show was sold out even before the opening, but at least we got some free fancy beers. It transpired that the area surrounding Corey Helford was a bit of a mecca for art galleries in general, and a number of others had openings on that night as well, so we gallery hopped to about five different shows within a few blocks, feeling very arty and sophisticated.

Work by Tom Bagshaw in 'Shades' show

Work by Lola at 'Shades' show

Sam and work by Shag at 'Shades' show

Too starving by that stage to face a 50 minute bus ride back to Hollywood before eating dinner, we went to a Mexican place in Culver City that wasn't overly amazing (and they didn't sell alcohol!), but were at least well-fed for our trip back. Since it was a Saturday night, and since we had already started the evening looking at lowbrow art, we continued the lowbrow approach (although as I type this, I think that's just our approach in general anyway, and I question whether we did anything distinctly 'highbrow' the whole trip, or would want to), and went and partied at some dive bars in Hollywood. The first one, Loaded, didn't really live up to the divey reviews we read on Yelp, and just seemed more like a normal nightclub but with a bit of a rocker bent, but the Burgundy Room was just what we were after (small, dark, lit with candles, cheap booze, ouija board tables, tattooed bartenders and punk on the stereo) and we settled in and drank there till closing time. On the way home we stumbled upon Frank Sinatra's star on the Walk of Fame, so I had a bit of a Grandad moment.

One for Grandad.... 

I had heard that Melrose Ave was where the more alternative-y type clothing and record stores were, so we bussed there late on Sunday afternoon for a looksie. Lo and behold, when we got off at the stop, there just happened to be the best outdoor flea market I had ever seen in front of us, which is only held on Sundays, so we had accidentally timed that well. The Melrose Trader's Market was like the biggest, most eclectic vintage clothing and general junk store ever, and even had some stallholders selling records, so Sam had something to entertain him while I faffed about with pretty dresses. Unfortunately we had just an hour till it closed, and probably only made it round about two thirds of the stalls, but it was well worth the $2 entry fee, and I snaffled up a few bargains.

We then found a beer garden on Melrose that during happy hour, would give you a huge cheese pizza for free if you each bought a drink, so that was dinner sorted. Despite our late start, most of the shops on Melrose were open until at least 8pm, and we spent a couple of hours after dinner wandering along and checking them out. If Sam is ever desperate for money (actually, this may be a good idea right now), he just needs to take his studded jacket to LA and sell it on Melrose; there was a jacket similar to his in the window of an upmarket clothing place for $3000! Unfortunately his jacket hadn't accompanied us on the trip this time, so I wasn't able to rip it off his back immediately and sell it to the nearest extreme rocker type (of which there are many in LA, so much big hair and make-up, and that's on the guys). During our trip, I'd been on the hunt for a leather vest, which had so far eluded me, and at one of the last shops we were walking past, I spied a red one in the style I wanted in the window, so went in to see if they also had it in black. Success! After I'd tried the vest on and ascertained that it wasn't $3000, the super-friendly shop girl and guy then talked both Sam and I into trying on a bunch of new jeans that had just arrived in so that they could take photos of them for the shop's Instagram page. Our first modelling job, ha! We agreed when they assured us they just wanted pictures of the clothes and would take the photos from the neck down. An odd half hour followed in which we were given free beer and piles of jeans to model. And when I bought the vest, the guy ended up chucking the pair of jeans I'd liked the most in for free as a thank you. LA is weird. Tipsy and bemused by our new status as jean models, we walked back to the apartment for some down-time, and watched 'The Dictator' on Netflix. Apparently we can only take so much down time, as after the movie was over, it was back to the Burgundy Room again for the rest of the evening.

Monday was our last day in Hollywood, and it dawned on us that we still had a rather long list of things we wanted to do. Inevitably some had to be culled (sorry Santa Monica and Venice Beach – I was keen, but then we decided we could go to the beach in Santa Barbara a couple of days later instead.... which itself didn't happen, so a beach-free trip in the end), although we managed to tick quite a lot of boxes on what I think may have been the busiest day on the whole trip. First up, we got photos of Capitol Records and the Hollywood sign, which were both in the neighbourhood and we had walked past a number of times, but we needed photographic proof, dammit! We then trekked about half an hour to the Hollywood Forever Cemetery to pay our respects at the graves of Dee Dee and Johnny Ramone: Johnny's headstone was a life-sized half-statue of him playing guitar; Dee Dee's was less ostentatious but had more fan tributes and offerings, including the always popular beercans, cigarette butts and lipstick kisses. Even for non-Ramones fans or people uninterested in checking out the other celebrity graves (we were in a hurry and the place was huge so the only other one we stumbled upon that we recognised was Mel Blanc's, whose epitaph was 'That's All, Folks!'), the cemetery grounds were beautiful and well worth a visit, from the elaborate tombs to the 15-strong gang of peacocks who roamed freely through the graves. Apparently they also screen outdoor cult movies there on Saturday nights during the summer.

Sam and the Johnny Ramone headstone

Graveyard peacocks

Squinty Sam and the Hollywood sign 

Capitol Records

Oh and this mural we came across down the road from Capitol Records...

Once I tore myself away from the graveyard peacocks, it was off to the La Brea Tar Pits for what was a supposedly educational experience, but for us just involved joyously watching the ooze and delighting in the retro animatronic exhibits of - among other things - a sabre-toothed tiger attacking a giant sloth. Rad! I guess it was mildly educational though, as I did learn that the dire wolf was not merely the sigil of House Stark, and that rather than being invented by the author of Game of Thrones, was an actual species of wolf now extinct. Another one of those moments that makes me  fairly sure I have become increasingly stupider since high school... From the tar pits, we bussed back to Hollywood Boulevard and then caught the train to Vermont and Sunset to visit the shop Wacko. Unfortunately its attached gallery, La Luz de Jesus, was closed for installation, but the shop itself had more than enough gorgeous art books, collectable toys and other ephemera for us to peruse. The squirrel lamp I wanted was too expensive though, and in hindsight, would have been a pain to lug round anyway.

Oozing tar pit... Looks more just like a generic swamp in the photo, but smelt like tar and was black and bubbly

Animatronic awesomeness at the La Brea Tar Pits

After a Mexican dinner at 3 Dog Cantina, then a final visit to Amoeba Records for Sam, we caught the bus to Sunset Strip for drinks at the infamous Rainbow Bar and Grill, favourite haunt of Lemmy from Motorhead and other illustrious musos. Consisting of a number of dark little nooks and crannies lit with colourful fairy lights and blasting mainly rock music, it was a great place to indulge in some Jack and Cokes, particularly as it wasn't all that busy on a Monday night. It was pretty cool to see Lemmy's name appearing on the high score list of the card game machine thingy in the top bar, and I encountered the nicest and most honest bar girl ever; when I was buying our drinks, a drunk guy started ranting at us and I was distracted as I was paying. Instead of tipping the customary $2, I accidentally left a $1 and a $20 note on the bar without realising, and although the girl easily could have taken it and I'd have been none the wiser, she came over to our table ten minutes later and had me swap the $20 for another $1. Lemmy, your bar is all right...

Lemmy's second home 

Posing outside the entrance to the Rainbow

Tuesday: Disneyland. Sam gives the impression that I forced him into this, but his eyes shone like a small child's at the prospect of going on all the rides, and he became most disgruntled when I made it clear I would not be accompanying him on scary rollercoasters, anything spinny or rides where we would get wet. Yes, I am the fun police. Our plan was to go as late in the day as we could in order to avoid as many kids as possible, then stay till closing time at midnight. Seasoned laundromat users by this time, after checking out of the Hollywood apartment, we did a final load of washing before catching the train to Anaheim (the biggest problem this time was repacking my suitcase at the laundromat once all the clothes were clean; stop buying band t-shirts Andy, your suitcase is going to explode).

LA River, seen from the train on the way to Anaheim... You may recognise it from Grease, Terminator 2 and a bunch of other movies, as well as a Rancid song

Our motel in Anaheim was only a few blocks from the main Disneyland entrance, and across the road from a bunch of restaurants, so we took our time with dinner before braving the hordes of screaming children I was anticipating having to wait in line with for rides. We had the best pizza meal of the trip at California Pizza Kitchen (there were actual vegetables on it, not just cheese!), and indulged in some long island ice teas, in preparation for the fact that Disneyland was alcohol-free. Turns out we didn't need to though, as there was a conveniently placed liquor store close by that sold minature bottles of every spirit imaginable, and from where it was positioned and the knowing look of the old hippy dude working there, he did a roaring trade with the 'sneaking booze into Disneyland' crowd. Sure enough, the bag checks were laughably minimal, and we made it in to Disneyland about 8pm with a number of little bottles of Fireball and Drambuie concealed on our persons that we surreptitiously consumed along the way. 

Pre-Disneyland long island ice teas

The real saviour of the night though was the Disneyland employee we encountered after we got through the main ticketing bit. He caught sight of Sam's Inepsy patch and told us that he used to be in a band on the same label as them, and had been a touring guitarist with Dr Know and the Dayglo Abortions. He then wrote us out some passes which would permit us to bypass the long lines; forget hiring disabled people to allow you line skip, just take a punk rocker with you... This proved fortunate, as the very first ride we wanted to go on, the Indiana Jones one (which turned out to be one of the rides we liked most), had a 75 minute wait, so we would have been screwed if we hadn't run into punk guy. In quick succession we then did Pirates of the Caribbean (awesome!); the Haunted Mansion (even more awesome, and I heard a little kid ask his Mum afterwards “Mommy, were the ghosts in the Haunted Mansion real?” Mom, impatiently: “No, of course not.” Kid: “Is Jesus real?” Mom, stuck for words: “Come on,” and dragged him along sharply by the arm); Matterhorn Bobsleds (a bit too fast and jerky for me, I closed my eyes for a lot of it and missed seeing the Abominable Snowman who popped out at various points); It's a Small World (painfully cheesy, but necessary, given the number of things it's referenced in); Astro Blasters (you had to shoot at space monstery targets, and it took me most of the ride to figure out how to work the spacegun so I think I got the lowest score of anyone on the ride, including the three year olds); Star Tours (just a virtual reality Star Wars one, and kind of lame, but Sam liked it); Space Mountain (this was the one ride I had been quite adamant I was not going on under any circumstances, given that it was the most intense and fastest one in the park, but after much nagging on Sam's part and too much miniature bottled booze on my part, I caved in and bravely climbed aboard, and yes, it was horrible. I had my eyes closed for all but the first few seconds, and was too traumatised to even scream but apparently emitted whimpering noises the entire time. At least it was over fairly quickly); and finally, Mr Toad's Wild Ride (a slow, tame, kiddy ride, which was all I felt like after Space Mountain). I would have liked to have done a few more such things, like the carousel, and may have even been convinced into getting soaked on Splash Mountain after all, but by then it was closing time so we had to leave. 

Sam being a pretty princess outside Cinderella's castle

In conclusion, Disneyland was more of a success than I thought it would be; Sam loved it, and I wasn't as big a wuss as I had been planning on being. Going at that time of night meant there were definitely fewer kids, although we still would have been stuck in long lines for some rides if we hadn't been able to skip them, and I would even consider visiting again if I was back in LA. Thumbs up all round LA, you were pretty awesome, and those East coasters should stop talking smack about you...

Las Vegas

Once again, Vegas proved not to be as lucky for me as the good old Dunedin casino; no jackpots were struck, and even a particularly awesome Michael Jackson themed pokie machine that I had high expectations for failed to deliver. Surely it wasn't that unreasonable for me to assume I would have been able to easily win back all the money I've spent on the trip? Accommodation this time was in the middle of the action on the Strip for the first two nights at the most excellent Flamingo Hotel (they had real live flamingos hanging round by the pool! Pesky enclosures preventing you from trying to cuddle them though, but I got a lot of photos). 

Flamingos at the Flamingo

View from our floor of the hotel down into the flamingo enclosure

By the time we got into Vegas after our kerfuffle of a flight experience from New York, I was operating on two hours sleep, and Sam on none, so we snuck in a very brief (too brief, only about an hour and a half) nap before grabbing dinner at a Mexican place in our hotel, and then heading off to the second Rancid show of the trip at about 6.30. We made it in time to see the Transplants too, and the sound was a big improvement over the three songs we had heard them play in Seattle, with a particularly good rendition of 'Diamonds and Guns' with Matt Freeman guesting on bass. 'Tall Cans in the Air' was another highlight, with the inevitable raising up of said cans by audience members (tallboy PBRs are great, even bigger and better than 440 Taz. Ridiculously priced at shows - $11.00 each - but we found a 24 hour convenience store that sold them at two for $4.00, so stocked up). Rancid played another amazing show, 'Old Friend' was a stand-out and 'Rejected,' and much fun was had. I found myself down the front dancing next to a Mexican guy, who I befriended after he made it clear to me that I was nice, but that he loved his wife – this was hilarious given that he was in his fifties and shorter than me, so probably not a prime target for my affections, but I assured him I was not going to try any funny business and we sang along to some Rancid together. 

As they were playing their last song, Sam and I decided to attempt a repeat of last trip's luck and went out back to where the tour buses were to try and meet them again. And who should we encounter but our good buddy Robert the security guard from last time, who actually remembered us! Robert is fantastic, and we hung out with him for ages and a few other die-hard fans who were waiting round. Although Tim and Lars were no-shows this time (Tim had actually passed us on the pathway going there, but I didn't click until after), we got to talk with Matt Freeman again, he signed the Rancid shirt I bought in Seattle and Sam got a photo with him. I now have Robert the security guy's contact details, and he promised that if we come back to Vegas again, he'll be able to hook us up with backstage passes. Oh, and I got a Tim Armstrong pick from him too; all in all, not quite as exciting as last time, but a pretty good stalking effort. Drinks and gamblies followed, but I think we were home by the fairly respectable hour of 2.30am.

On the way to see Rancid, in front of the New York, New York hotel

Sam and Ricky Gervais, uh I mean Matt Freeman...

On Monday I ventured out by myself to the Miracle Mile shops at the Planet Hollywood hotel while Sam attempted to get in touch with JFK airport/Delta airlines/anyone who may actually be able to help us rather than direct us to a different phone number to try and sort out the lost records. The shops were mainly uninteresting and overpriced, but I was pleased to buy my first pair of tube socks (they always mentioned tube socks in American books I read as a kid, and I probably had a more exciting vision of what they would actually entail, but oh well). After I returned to the hotel, we had our first flamingo encounter, and then hung out by the pool with a beer in hand. By the time we had drunk the beer and were ready for a swim, the pool was closing though (it's Vegas, what kind of pool party is over by 6pm!?), so we de-togged and ventured out onto the Strip again. 

I was determined that we were going to do the gondola ride at the Venetian Hotel this time, but it was actually pretty lame. $18.00 each for a ten minute boat ride during which the gondolier cracks bad jokes and then sings an Italian love song. We would have been better off putting the money we wasted into a pokie machine... After a late dinner at the Cabo Wabo Cantina (we met a guy who complimented Sam on his Motorhead back patch, and said he was the first person he has ever seen wearing one. This was hard to believe, but when he explained that he was a farmer from Nebraska it made more sense. He even called his friend over to look at us), we walked for about half an hour to the Hard Rock Hotel to check out their memorabilia and have a gamble. This was where I first encountered the Michael Jackson machine, which ate a bunch of my money but gave me some pretty cool special features involving moonwalking. We had more luck on a Ghostbusters machine and made most of our money back. As soon as we started winning, a casino guy came over and ID'd us – probably in the hopes of being able to throw us out without our money – and seemed incredulous and disappointed that I was not only of age, but actually ten years older. We finished the night at the New York, New York casino, then spent our last coins on an 8.2% tallboy to share on the way home.

The rather lacklustre gondola ride at the Venetian Hotel

I had been planning on seeing the MJ Cirque du Soleil show while in Vegas, but ticket prices were outrageous and I read a bunch of really bad online reviews of it too. Contenting myself with seeing 'the glove' for free at the Hard Rock Hotel instead. 

On Tuesday it became apparent that I had a lot less money than I thought (even when taking into account the gambling), and after further investigation, I discovered the downside of fancy hotels. I realised that the places we stayed in would take a security deposit in case of damage to the hotel room etc, but I didn't realise that this amount would be in effect frozen on my card, and would take up to ten days to be available again. At this point, the security deposit from our accommodation in Seattle had still not been returned, and we had the Flamingo one on top of that – all up, about $900 that I couldn't access on my card. Grrr. The next three nights in Vegas were to be spent downtown at the Golden Nugget Hotel, and I had to give them my NZ credit card to use rather than freeze up the rest of my money on my USD one. The Golden Nugget was even swankier (yet cheaper) than the Flamingo, and we were pleased to find that their main pool was open till 8pm and then they had an adults only one with bar open till 2am. Hooray, we would get our pool party after all... While back in Dunedin, I had decided that my 'what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas' moment would be reliving the glories of seafood after about five years of vegetarianism, so I dragged us to a restaurant in downtown Vegas renowned for their shrimp cocktails. I'm sad to report that it was actually kind of gross (Mum, the shrimp cocktails you used to make were waaaay better). We ended the night wandering around the Fremont Street area, avoiding gambling for the time being.

Wednesday began with a visit to the Emergency Arts Center and Beat Coffeehouse for lunch, a cool little place a few blocks away from all the tourist madness that sold records and had artist and design studios to browse through. My phone then tricked me again; I had been searching for thrift stores to go to for vintage clothing, and it suggested what looked to me to be a cluster of 'thrift' stores all together in the one place. We walked in the baking desert heat for about half an hour (usually a distance like this would be easily walkable, but with the insanely hot sun beating down on us it felt like it took about three hours), only to discover that our destination was not a little village of vintage and secondhand stores, but an outlet mall that sold cheap label clothing. Not exactly what I was after, but we looked round for awhile and enjoyed their outdoor water spritzers and then walked back to the hotel for a quick swim at the pool to cool off. 

Downtown Vegas, view from the Emergency Arts Center

While were at the Beat Coffeehouse earlier in the day, we'd seen a sign advertising the Peter Murphy after party for that night. Peter Murphy is the guy from the band Bauhaus that Sam had booked us tickets to see in LA, but hadn't realised he was playing in Vegas as well. The venue was only about two blocks from our hotel, so Sam decided to go. Rather than spend $35 on the ticket (I don't really know any Bauhaus anyway and was sick of going to gigs for the time being), I went out for an amazing sushi dinner by myself (not quite the same as Jizo, but just as good), then chucked $20 into a haunted house themed machine which I just kept winning on, making it up to $180. Yay! I met up with Sam after the show, and given that he had spent his money on the ticket rather than dinner, but had then made friends who just kept buying him drinks, he was already somewhat slurry at this stage. Sam, his new friend Bard and I went to the nearby Beauty Bar for PBRs. The décor was very cool, all glittery walls and retro beauty salon fittings, although I was a bit disappointed to find that Union 13 would be playing here on Friday night, when would be in LA. Next stop was the Peter Murphy after party, which mainly consisted of a bunch of gothy types dancing weirdly to industrial music; Sam was drunk enough to join them though, and this may be the first time I have ever seen him on a nightclub dance floor, flailing away without an actual band playing.

At the Beauty Bar in downtown Vegas

Sam spent much of the next day in bed, and I went on an outing to the Arts District, about a half hour walk from our hotel. A respite from the flashing lights and craziness of Vegas, the galleries were quiet, air conditioned and pleasant, with some cool work on show. I even got talking to a fellow New Zealander who worked in one of the galleries (I think I've been away too long, because I couldn't quite figure out to begin with whether her accent was Kiwi or Australian). I also finally found a cool vintage clothing store called Electric Lemonade. The rest of our last night in Vegas was spent lazing round and drinking by the pool, from about 7pm to 1.30pm. I would like it noted for the record that I got up the courage to go on the waterslide (three stories high, and through a tank with sharks in it) but Sam didn't. When I shot out the bottom and into the water, I couldn't see anything, and was trying to get my bearings when a lifeguard handed me something black; for a mortifying second I thought it was my bikini top, but thankfully it was just the bandana I'd been wearing which had slipped off my head. A few more beers and some poolside margaritas later, we were off to bed and quite thoroughly Vegas'd out. Five nights would have been fine if we had endless money, but in hindsight three probably would have made more sense. Especially since we surprised ourselves by really liking LA and wishing we had more time there; details to come in next blog...   

Pool partying with tallboy PBR. Awesomely, you were allowed to buy your own cheap booze and bring it to the pool rather than buying it at their bar.

The shark tank waterslide. 

The more relaxed adults only rooftop pool area, complete with pasty Andy legs

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...