Sermon on the Little Rock

The Empress Hotel.

There ain't a great deal to Little Rock if you want to know the truth. It's a real Deep South kind of town - kind of quiet, kind of old-fashioned and hotter than hell in the dead of Summer. At this stage of my trip, I was begging for an opportunity to do absolutely nothing and I really found that opportunity in Little Rock. I only bothered to travel here for two reasons: one was for the Bed and Breakfast in the photo above and the other was to find the answer to a burning question I'd been asking since the primary planning stage of this whole trip:

Why the hell are Arkansas and Kansas spelt the same way but pronounced differently? Stop being so ridiculous America, you can't have it both ways all the time. After asking a few Northerners why Arkansas is pronounced Ar-kan-saw instead of Ar-kan-sas and not receiving any decent answers, I thought I'd go direct to the source.

The first thing I noticed about the city of Little Rock is that it's obsessed with lauding its one and only person of note: one former Arkansas governor-turned-president William Jefferson Clinton. The main street is named after him, as are many of the buildings and you can even visit the Clinton Presidential Center (I've heard good things about the library but do we really need to see an exact replica of Slick Willy's oval office? I really hope it has a pair of heels sticking out from underneath the desk). I didn't go because after several showerless hours on the bus I wasn't up for any more self-torture, just sleep. I was not disappointed on that front. If you ever find yourself stranded in Arkansas for whatever reason, I highly recommend crashing at The Empress.

The place is amazing. A fully renovated 1880's mansion turned into a sexy bed and breakfast, where every room is an exercise in antique overkill. I mean this in the best possible way. I was caught between feeling utterly charmed and flabbergasted by the place, it was far and away my favourite North American hotel. The rooms are reasonably priced, there's free liqueur in every room (always a drawcard) and the bed in the Eliza Cunningham room was so comfortable that I felt myself falling asleep whilst connecting the wi-fi. The housekeeper Mitzi was this wonderful Southern belle who turned out to be a total kitchen whiz as well. This was my breakfast on my first morning in Little Rock and oh my god, I'm amazed that I didn't hear a chorus of angels after the first bite.

Mind you, that would've been difficult as the chorus would've had to compete with my pontificating breakfast companions, who were some of the most insufferable people I've ever encounted. I realise that I was well and truly in the Bible belt at this point in my travels but I still didn't expect to hear a sermon over breakfast. I didn't even mean to bring Jesus into our conversation (hasn't he suffered enough already?) but the holidaying couple asked me about my university degree and well, what was I supposed to say? I can't help being a Religion major. As soon as the 'r' word tumbled from my mouth, they pounced with the obligatory "Religion major? So what faith are you a part of?."

Here's a tip, people. Never, ever say the words "Well actually you know what, after studying religion objectively I can't say I'm all that religious" to an American, unless you're talking to Steven Hawking, Richard Dawkins or someone you know full well is guaranteed to say "Oh yes, me too." and be done with it. Lie. Say you're a Pentecostal. Or a Catholic. Or a Puritanical Calvinist. If you're not an adherent to one of these and yet you still opt to tell the truth, look out.

I'm not going to elaborate too much on what happened next, but let's just say that by the end of my breakfast I was so enraged that my skin felt fit to burst, Incredible Hulk style. My eyes were flashing red and I probably could've melted the silverware with one direct glare. My breakfast preachers launched into an evangelical tirade in the vain hope that I would see the light and when, after arguing at length they realised I wasn't budging, they chalked their failure down to my mind being 'clouded by the lies of Satan, oooh look see how angry she is'. It was at this point that the tunnel vision began, so I rose from the table literally shaking with rage and politely excused myself.

The thing that annoyed me the most about that whole exchange was that they didn't even have the common decency to be from the South. They were from Los Angeles. What the hell. If you're from L.A, you're not supposed to be a friggin' Pentecostal! Be a Scientologist, follow the Kabbalah, go out and paint yourself blue and worship the Sky Father or better yet, go pay homage to the Almighty Dollar like everyone else in town. Don't give me this born again bullshit.

I took a long walk around Little Rock that morning and came to a conclusion about people in the American South. There are two very good reasons why Southerners have earnt their stereotype as fat bastards. First of all, have you ever actually gone outside in the dead of summer in a place like Little Rock? The temperature outside is warmer than the blood of a newly sacrificed virgin and on top of that, there's a thick curtain of moisture in the air. Unless there's a tornado in town, that humid air doesn't move. They get the shit end of the weather stick down in the bayou and I don't blame 'em for wanting to travel around in the air conditioned comfort of an SUV. Second, there's the matter of food. Good Southern food is enough reason to warrant being a fat bastard. Spicy fried chicken, cajun catfish, red velvet cake? That's the ultimate comfort meal right there as far as I'm concerned, oh yeah.

And what about them grits? Yes, my dear non-American readers, grits are a food now. That word used to make me think of those three last grains stuck to the bottom of a kitty litter tray. With this image in mind, I decided to take a punt and ordered a meal with grits for dinner, sitting rigid with anxiety for most of the preparation time. Believe me when I tell you my children, there's no need for this fear. They're just ground corn, fried with butter and cream and placed in a great goopy mess next to your BBQ shrimp. Grits are living proof that sometimes the greatest pleasures in life are also the simplest (and fattiest).

There's not much pleasure to be found in Little Rock unless you fancy watching a group of ducks waddle their way out of a hotel elevator (I'm not joking, that's a tourist attraction), although the Farmer's market on the waterfront was a mild diversion and there's some great architecture in the old part of town. I spent most of my time in my hotel room reading Palahniuk's Diary (boring, plodding and probably still sitting in the basket next to the bath in the Eliza room) and to be honest, I'd recommend that you do the same.

I'm going to close this entry with the tale of my last night in Little Rock. Freshly bathed, dressed and powdered from a long day of bugger all, I decided to walk the fifteen or so blocks from the Empress to the main part of town. It was about six p.m and still humid as all buggery but I thought nothing of it, even as the beads of sweat began to form at the top of my forehead. About five blocks into the trek those beads had turned into waterfalls cascading down my face, back and everywhere else. I was beginning to feel concern for my increasingly matted knot of hair at this point, but still...them's the breaks in the Deep South. I reached my reasonably swank (for Arkansas) restaurant only to have the maitre'd look at me in horror. Upon excusing myself to go to the ladies I discovered why - there was a GIGANTIC patch of black all over my cheek and nought but water where my eyeliner used to be. I looked like the lead singer of an all-panda emo band. Of course, a proper lady carries eyeliner with her at all times so within five minutes the crisis was over and I had nought but grits and dignity to fret over. I could swear the waitstaff were still snorting to themselves as I exited the restaurant that night.

P.S. I never received a satisfactory answer to The Burning Question. Whenever I stopped people to ask them, most of the time told me they'd never even thought about it before and the others appeared to be quite genuinely confused by the question. Goddamn idiotic, gun totin', tank drivin', fat bastard Southerners!

New Mexico Part 3: There's Something A Bit Weird About Roswell

Roswell in a nutshell.

I was on the bus from Albuquerque after narrowly avoiding an abduction by my cabbie, heading to the place where the Dusty Southwest meets the Dirty South. I believe that the true South begins on Interstate 380 in New Mexico. Any place south of Soccorro in New Mexico or Arizona is cause for concern, although once you've travelled as far east as the Texas/Oklahoma border, it doesn't matter how far north you are, you're still in the South, a territory ruled by a fearsome entity known only as the Lord-ah Jeezurhs. I knew we were in trouble when I looked at the New Mexico map and saw towns with names such as 'Truth or Consequences', 'Carlsbad' and 'Loving'.

There's not much to say about the actual bus ride, seeing as I was unconscious for the vast majority of it. A nearly-empty bus of mostly Hispanic guys with a few white boys scattered in the seats meant that I didn't have to share, and the view outside the window was dusty, flat and dull - much like the foreheadless parts of Arizona. So I resumed my epic quest to find the most comfortable sleeping position on two Greyhound seats and I think I've got it. Armrest up, window seat slightly back, as many jackets/scarves/soft bags as you can squish against the window to use as a pillow, legs diagonal across the two seats so you can stretch out as close to the aisle as you can get, arms curled up to your neck, head facing the window. It's not the Ritz, but with this method you don't wake up with your extremities flopping retardedly about, deprived of proper circulation. Of course, the best spot is right up the back near the W.C. - gross if you've got an upchucker riding with you, but most Greyhounds have *three* seats in the back, so you can lie straight across them.

We hit Roswell in the late afternoon and as we were pulling into town, I thanked my lucky stars that I was only here overnight. All I saw out the window were streets with no footpaths, a military academy and fast food chains everywhere. On the main road near my hotel there was quite literally a KFC next to an Arby's next to a Wendy's next to a Sonic, next to a Dairy Queen near the McDonald's. I may have buggered up the exact order but I can guarantee that they are all in walking distance of one another. There was also a small strip mall nearby with a drive thru Starbucks across the parking lot from a drive thru pharmacy, with a drive thru ATM around the corner. I am not joking when I say that I saw a guy in a pickup drive across a fricking parking lot to get from the drive thru (I am getting so sick of writing the not-word 'thru' all the time) 'bucks to the pharmacy. Sigh.

It didn't take long before I proved my intelligence was at the same level as your average alien encountering Joe. I got off the bus, called a cab from the public phone, told them the address of the hotel and waited. Now, the Greyhound station in Roswell is even smaller than the one in Santa Fe, it is quite literally a tiny tin shed in the middle of nowhere with three people (myself, a Hispanic guy and one of the white guys from my bus) sitting around waiting for transport and two others behind the counter. It was in this tiny tin shed in the middle of nowhere that I experienced one of those strange, serendipitous occurrences (that only ever seem to happen in the most innocuous of places). Three women and two men enter and take a seat in the station. One of the women opens her mouth and this brazen, rough yet oh so familiar accent comes tumbling out. She's an Australian. All four of her companions are Aussies as well, from Queensland. They're going in the opposite direction to myself with their final destination being Las Vegas. We share travel experiences and remark how odd it is to find Australians in Roswell of all places. Their bus arrives after about fifteen minutes, we all wish each other luck on our travels and they depart.

I'm still waiting on my cab to arrive, getting agitated when I notice that the public phone is ringing. Being the last one to use it, I pick it up and it's the cab company. They'd been calling for fifteen minutes because they couldn't find the hotel I had named in town. After some confusion, they decide to send someone around in five minutes. My cabbie arrives and she has no idea where the Springhill Suites are. I go digging about in my luggage trying to find my hotel confirmation and upon locating it, discover that I'd given them the name of my Memphis hotel instead of my Roswell hotel. What's even better is that from outside the bus station, I can see my hotel. It's 200 metres away. My wonderful cab driver realises that I've had a bitch of a day and sympathetically offers me a ride to the hotel, free of charge ("So you won't have to drag your heavy bags over"). I arrive at my hotel less than a minute later wearing my very best Dunce cap and dragging my tail between my legs. Sighh.

After the cab debacle I walked everywhere in Roswell. I was the only one who did so, even though the centre of town was only a mile away from everywhere else. The very centre of town is where all the alien-related garbage lies (all three blocks of it in the main st). You'll find the Cover-Up Cafe, the Crash Down cafe (yes shitty television fans, it really exists), the UFO Museum and Research Centre, a McDonald's that looks like a flying saucer and tackiest of all, alien shaped street lamps that glow green at night. Sighhh.

Unfortunately everything was shut as it was past 5 p.m, and the combination of not eating much on the bus and walking around Roswell in the heat made me realise I was starving. Roswell has no restaurants in the downtown that are open for dinner and if they do, then I clearly missed them. So I walked back towards my hotel with people harrassing me from inside the cars, curious as to why I was using my legs for walking (such a novel concept in this part of the world). One of the few restaurants in town was a bar and grill a few blocks in the opposite direction, devoid of gourmet delights but at least it was better than a Sonic cheeseburger deal. At about 10pm I was nowhere near sleep, so I decided to do as the Roswellians did and tried the Seppo version of Wendy's for the first time. As repulsed as I am by American fast food chains I have to say, Wendy's Chocolate Frosties are amazing.

The next morning I went back to the tin shed in order to board my bus for Texas. As I'm waiting, I hear another eerily familiar accent addressing me "Hey, excuse me...you're Australian right?" Wouldn't you know it, it's one of the white boys from my Albuquerque bus the day before. He was also the same white boy (his name sadly escapes me) who was inside the bus terminal when the other five Australians appeared, had overheard our conversation and was about to get on the same bus, as we were both heading towards Amarillo.

So there were no real aliens in Roswell, but on one bizarre afternoon in a tiny tin shed in the Middle of Nowhere there were seven (little) Australians. Yeah. There's something a bit weird about Roswell.

Las Vegas - July 30th - August 4th: The Inferno

Isn't Vegas photogenic!?! Mm. Good. Now that I've said something kind and loving and Christian, let's get down to the nasty stuff.

Attention: Potential Terrorists (if you're reading this) - stop attacking London, Glasgow & Tanzania and go for Las Vegas instead. You'll be doing myself, God and Darwin a favour by wiping out a huge chunk of stupid from the gene pool.

Attention: CIA/ASIO/etc agents (if you're reading this) - I don't condone terrorism nor am I plotting anything, I'm simply a humble would-be despot, waiting for her little revolution to begin. There will be no need for any water boarding here, thanks.

Looking back over a year on from my time in Vegas and having read the entire Divine Comedy since then, I can't help but compare myself to Dante. The both of us have been to Hell and back. This is the story of how I suffered through the circles of Hell in The City of Sin (irrelevant circles have been omitted for the sake of my fingers and your sanity).

THE FIRST CIRCLE: LIMBO

From the outset I have to say that Vegas, despite it being a godforsaken dust bowl that only a bunch of morons and Mormons would call home (that was something of a tautology wasn't it...) , has a few not-horrible elements to it. Take that photo up there for example. That's a shot of the water show outside the Bellagio hotel where they've a rigged series of fountains to go off in time with music (the word music is here used in its loosest possible definition, seeing as one of the 'tunes' used in the fountain show was 'God Bless The U.S.A). The Bellagio Cafe is also the only place in Vegas where you can get a decent meal without needing to tart yourself up in your best D&G or suffer the horrors of the fried chicken buffets. It's also home to this stunning ceiling artwork in the lobby. The other not-horrible casino is The Mirage/Treasure Island, purely because they've managed to cover the stench of cigarette smoke by filling the entire place with the scent of coconut oil and frangipani. That being said, I still wouldn't want to be shipwrecked there, especially seeing as this is supposed to be paradise, but there are worse places you could be stuck in, such as...


THE SECOND CIRCLE: LUST

On my first day in town, bewildered by the scorching 40+ heat in the desert outside and the masses of people inside my hotel the Sahara, I somehow stumbled into a near-empty (for no place in Vegas is completely devoid of people) alley way. A couple pulled over in a convertible next to me and the 'gentleman' driver called out "Do you swing? She wants to know!" I'd been in Vegas for two hours at this point and the fun did not stop there.

Of course I was expecting Vegas to be rife with opportunities to indulge in the sins of the flesh and I am by no means a prude, but come on Vegas. Try and have some class. Is it really necessary to replace ALL of your legit newspaper boxes with row upon row of call girl catalogues? Must there be filthy looking proles giving out burlesque show leaflets to every single guy that walks past every single casino? In regards to the porn proles, I couldn't help but admire their tact - I must have passed over 150 of them (no, that's not an exaggerated figure...if anything it's a conservative estimate) in my three evenings out on the town and I was not given a single leaflet. The married couples were similarly spared. They also advertise burlesque production on huge billboards outside each casino and around town. All this, and the jury's still out on whether you're legally allowed to see completely unclothed tits.

That's right. Prostitution is illegal in Vegas (although I get the feeling it's illegal in the same sense that pot is technically illegal in Vancouver) and if I recall my U.S law correctly, you're only allowed to see nipple tasseled bosom in strip joints (please feel free to correct me if I'm wrong). The state of Nevada may be exempt from this, but knowing Vegas and its 'tease and please without actually delivering' culture, I would not be surprised. For the record, you're allowed to see tits in Portland (heaven knows I saw a lot more than that) and they've got a more subtle way of going about it.

The Third Circle containing the Gluttons has been omitted because you already know about the buffets. Yes, there are some fat people in Vegas. No one should be surprised there.


THE FOURTH CIRCLE: AVARICE

This one should be obvious. The goal of most visitors to Hell is to amass as much cash as possible by feeding great wads of the stuff into a blinking machine's mouth. I'm not going to discuss gambling here, mostly because I'm not stupid enough to partake in the activity. Unfortunately I was stupid enough to fall for some of the other tricks and pitfalls that Vegas employs in order to rob you blind.

For starters, good luck getting cheap internet access, much less FREE internet access on the Strip. You can't even hack into someone else's Wi-Fi network. Unlike most hotels/cities the nearest cheap internet in Vegas is a good five miles out of town, in the arse end of nowhere. Secondly, don't take a cab if you're heading off the Strip. In my quest for teh internets I handed over a decent portion of my cherished green trying to get to the internet cafe out in the Styx, thus eradicating any savings I thought I'd make by not using the Sahara's internet. I walked the five miles back that night and got hopelessly lost after realising that the main road into town doesn't have a footpath for a large chunk of the drag. This is southern America, people. Nobody walks here. I almost missed my scheduled Cirque Du Soleil performance but thankfully a wandering hobo helped me find my way back into town.

Now just what in the hell is the deal with Cirque Du Soleil? I saw the Love show because I felt like I should experience at least one major Vegas event and when it comes to these kinds of shows I'll take the Beatles over a stock standard wank circus, a vaguely gothic take on life in an Ewok village, and tits, tits and more tits. It's a decent enough diversion for one evening - there were a couple of cute little effects and tricks. That being said, the ticket price is ridiculous, the soundtrack doesn't include Across The Universe (my mind boggles at the exclusion of the most lyrically stunning track the Fab Four ever produced) and GOOD LORD ABSOLUTELY NOTHING MAKES A LICK OF SENSE. Why is there a drag queen tottering around the stage dressed as the bastard child of Elizabeth I and the talking wardrobe from Beauty and the Beast?!
I cannae understand it.

In conclusion: next time I think I'll opt for the titties titties titties.

THE FIFTH CIRCLE: WRATH/SLOTH

By the third morning of Vegas, I was ready to make a break for Purgatory. Unfortunately, I'd prepaid my room at the Sahara in advance so I decided to say fuck it all and barricaded myself in my room, with my pay-per-view movies and my room service and my steadily growing collection of novels as my means of survival. The night after Cirque Du Soleil, I watched Knocked Up for the first time and dear lord, I very nearly killed myself laughing when I realised what I was missing from my Vegas experience (scroll to the bottom of the interview).

I'm omitting the Sixth Circle of Heretics because I've already mentioned the huge Mormon population there and if you want some Latter Day Vitrol, go see my Utah entry.


THE SEVENTH CIRCLE: THE VIOLENT

It's hard not to be a lazy bitch in Vegas, seeing as your alternative is to walk around in the hot, sandy desert all the live long day/night. It's even harder to be a woman out on your own in a place like Vegas because this place really does take all kinds. If you are dumb enough to go off the Strip, ladies, I implore you to never go alone. On the Strip you're relatively ok simply because there are millions of people outside at all hours and most are too dumb/drunk/busy trying to pick up the dumb drunkards to bother hassling you. The second you go off the strip, however, is when the crazies begin to swoop and Las Vegas becomes frightening.

For the record, I am dumb enough.

I spotted a gigantic Vintage store out the window of my cab on my first day in Vegas, so I made a mental note to go and check it out before I left town. The Attic Vintage Store is one and a half miles away from the Sahara, so not that far to walk and it's not even that far off the Strip. I walked down Main St and was about three quarters of the way to my destination when I crossed in front of a white van at one of the blocks. It takes me three more blocks before I realise that I'm walking in front of the same white van every single time I hit a street corner and that's when the hair on the back of my neck starts to rise. That's also when the driver picks up on the fact that I've picked up on the fact that he wants to pick me up and begins motioning for me to get in the van. I'm not that dumb, so I keep walking. After another block, he starts driving down Main St at my walking speed, repeatedly motioning for me to get in the car before he starts to hit the brakes harder. That's the moment when I discover that I'm right near the Attic, so I bolt inside and spend the next half hour examining tatty old showgirl costumes and contracting rabies from the resident cat. The creepy driver is not stupid enough to follow me inside.

THE EIGHTH CIRCLE: THE FRAUDULENT

Let us go straight to Bolgia #10 which in the Inferno contains The Falsifiers. I'd like to throw a whole heap of the people who recommended Vegas to me straight into that pit. Before I left, a bunch of people inquired as to whether I was going to Vegas and when I stated that I wasn't quite sure, people were aghast. "WHAT? YOU DON'T WANT TO GO TO VEGAS? YOU HAVE TO DUDE, IT'S LIKE ONE OF THE MAIN PLACES TO SEE IN AMERICA, EVERYONE GOES THERE".

The next time I hear that come out of someone's mouth, I'll have two words for them. Fuck. Off. The most popular parts of America (I'm thinking LA, Vegas, NYC, D.C. here) are also the worst. Don't let anyone try and tell you different. The best thing to do in Vegas is leave - stay longer than a day and the city, like the ring of the Falsifiers, will make you sick. If you're really that desperate to see the place, search for the Strip on Google Maps and try and look at it during their daytime. You're in for a shock.

Contrary to what's in the rest of this blog, the worst element of Vegas isn't the gambling or the titties. It's the environment. Outside it's hot enough to boil the buttocks of a thousand ice monkeys and if the heat doesn't get you, the dust blown around from the construction sites will. Inside the casinos it is freezing. The constant blinking, buzzing and glowing from the slot machines envelopes your senses. The confusing aromas of perfume, food, boozehounds and cigarettes permeate the air. Everything is made to distract your mind from reality and a result, you end up in a state of stimuli overkill. I developed my pulsing headache on my second night, which all the Nurofen in the world could not kill off. As a novelty, I even tried one of the oxygen bars that are all over the Strip and while it dulled the ache enough for me to last another hour of wandering, my head was still bitching when I went to bed and it only got worse from there.

Despite all the false information relayed to me about Vegas, no outright acts of betrayal occured, so the Ninth Circle is not included.

As the sun was setting on my last day in Hell I boarded my Greyhound bus to the heart of New Mexico . We may have been travelling through the darkness, but I felt that I was finally making my way back to the Light.

Discography:

Surprisingly, not that many songs remind me of Vegas but special mention goes to Luscious Jackson's Sexy Hypnotist (yes, I did hum it constantly as I wandered around) and Tom Jones' It's Not Unusual because it always reminds me of that scene in Fear and Loathing.