The Shaka vs. the Shocker, and the Southernmost Bar in the U.S.

We like extremes here in America. The biggest ball of twine (Cawker, KS). The most expensive hamburger (The Burger Royale at DB Bistro Moderne, NYC). The biggest asshole (goatse guy). So when we learned that the Southernest Bar in the United States was on the island of Hawai'i, we had to trek there when we visited.

The shaka sign

The bar is called Shaka's, named after the "hang loose" Hawaiian hand sign. It resides in the small town of Na'ahelu, which is between Volcanoes National Park and the southernmost tip of the island, which is occupied mostly by wind farms and a few ranches. If you take the drive down to Shaka's, there are a few things to see on the way. For one, Highway 11 passes through miles of old lava fields, so it looks like you're driving through a desolate wasteland. The a'a lava, sharp and unweathered, stretches on one side of the highway to the sea, and to the base of Mauna Loa on the other.

That's the shocker, not the shaka!

They use the terms mauka and makai to differentiate between "toward the mountains" and "toward the ocean." Especially on the big island, where there is a ring around the shore and only a few roads inland, like the infamous Saddle Road between Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea, north and south have little meaning. All the roads are toward one town or another. On the way down, we passed the Punalu'u Black Sand beach, so I swung a sharp left in the Jeep and drove on down. Past a windy golf course, and dotted with tents with local families chilling andd grilling, this is how you enjoy the beach on the windy side of the island.

Black sand beach

Another 20 minutes down the road or so and you reach Na'ahelu. Shaka's is past the gas station and the post office, with parking in front and out back. It's hard to miss the big blue building. We dropped in for some Kona brews and burgers. Firecracker had a burger smothered with mushroom gravy and sweet Maui onions, with some delicious fried potato wedges on the side. They call them hash browns, so get them instead of the fries. I had a South Seas fish sandwich with mahi and light tangy tartar sauce. It was fresh and delicious. The beer was good too- I had a few Kona Lavaman Red Ales. Service was a little slow, even for the islands- he apologized for being short on staff- but everything was tasty and we didn't wait too long.

No lighthouse, just a big reflecting sign

So they are worth a stop, even if you don't want to say that you've had a beer at the Southernmost Bar in the U.S., for their good food and selection. If you've come this far, you might as well drive another 12 miles to South Point, the wave-bashed rocky beach that is the most southerly spot on the isle. You can see the stark contrast between the calm, Kona side of the island and the windy Hilo side, as the waves crash nonstop to your left, and the seas stand still to your right.

LeftRight

The beaches were covered with locals fishing, but we didn't see anyone catch anything. A few miles down a 4x4 road, and there's a Green Sand beach, but we didn't have a lot of time or good directions to it. It gives us a reason to come back, other than the island's beauty and the friendliness of the people. Next time I want to stay in Kona, so Firecracker can go horseback riding with the paniolos, and I can drive to the top of Mauna Kea. Or sit at the Kona Brewing Company having some more of their excellent Wailua wheat and Pipeline porter.

51 years ago there was a tree here.

On the way back we stopped at the spot where Mark Twain planted a monkeypod tree in the 1860's. It stood until 1957, when a typhoon uprooted it. I'm still reading his Letters from Hawaii; it's good, but slow going. He was still young and hadn't gotten his steam yet. I imagine he'd have commented on the most Southerly Commode in the U.S., which Firecracker and I did make use of. We were most thankful that the heavy winds didn't knock it over.

Most Southerly Shitters in the States


View Larger Map
You are here.

The white dot by the black square is that reflective sign.

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Infamy at the U.S.S. Arizona Memorial

When we visited the U.S.S. Arizona Memorial, I was reminded that tourists are ugly from all over. Not long after 9/11, I noticed people coming to take photos of Ground Zero. I can understand that, I like taking photos as well. What bothered me was how they posed in front of it, smiling. It just seems disrespectful. I saw the same oblivious ugliness as tourists posed in front of the list of those who died at Pearl Harbor.

The viewing platform.

The memorial is hallowed ground; the ship is below you. The platform crosses it just behind the front turret, which remains above water. This was a clever way to mark the grave of nearly 1200 men who died during the sneak attack, an enormous cross that's not there unless you think about it. The bow and stern are marked with white buoys. Around the harbor you see cement markers memorializing the other ships sunk on that day.

The list of those who died at Pearl Harbor, without a smiling idiot.

It's eerie, looking down through the crystal blue water and seeing the rusted hulk of the ship just below, occasionally seeping oil. Small colorful fish dart around the structure. A sign asks you to not throw coins, which contribute to the decay.

The remains of the front turret, gun removed.

The immensity of the battleship is not readily apparent below the surface. Even when you see the buoys, it's hard to imagine. I've seen larger boats, like the ore boats of the Great Lakes, but not from above. The sailors who shuttle you to the platform remind you that this is a cemetery at sea, and to be respectful, but it's quickly forgotten.

The ship stretches into the distance.

The small white dot below the other ship marks the stern. That and the slightly rust-colored tinge to the water gives you an idea of the Arizona's size. A torpedo pierced the bow, but it sank with the superstructure otherwise intact. It's a solemn place, or should be. Maybe they need more soldiers there to give a presence of authority; at Arlington National Cemetery, people were well behaved, especially during the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I think people posed in front of the Eternal Flame, which is still pretty lame.

I didn't see any people doing this at Bergen-Belsen, or in front of Anne Frank's grave. Soldiers vs. civilians, I guess. Ground Zero is certainly hallowed ground to the families of the dead, yet tourists feel compelled to smile and pose in front of the empty hole. The stereotype of the Ugly tourist isn't just for Americans anymore.

The anchor of the U.S.S. Arizona

We visited the U.S.S. Bowfin while we waited 2 hours for our shuttle to the platform. It's parked right nearby and a good way to kill time while you're waiting, without sweating with the mobs in the museum and souvenir shops.

The U.S.S. Bowfin, aka "Pearl Harbor Avenger"

It's about the same as the U.S.S. Growler near the Intrepid museum in NYC. If you've never been on a sub before, it's a good look into the life of a submariner. The cramped beds, the hatchways, the claustrophobic spaces; it makes Das Boot seem roomy.

On the old subs everything is make of brass and looks like antique steampunk machinery. It seems out of place next to the large mechanical switches and analog gauges. It's sort of in-between the brass equipment of old sailing ships and the voting-booth look of switches and knobs on war machinery of the 70's and 80's.

I'm not sure if they allow you on the deck of the Growler, but we got to crawl all over the cannons and guns on this one. And take clever photos. And while I would not pose smiling before 1,177 watery graves, or a list of men who died in combat, I believe the stern of the Pearl Harbor Avenger and Old Glory are perfectly fine.

Until I can pose smiling and giving the peace sign in front of the Hiroshima memorial to avenge myself against all the Japanese tourists I've seen posing at Pearl Harbor and Ground Zero, this will have to do.

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7 Amazing Things at Hawaii Volcanoes National Park

I'm tired of the pussification of our National Parks. Nothing irks me more to go to some dangerous spot and find child-proof fences denying nature the chance to weed out the stupid kids. Thankfully, Hawaii Volcanoes National Park has no such safety nets. In fact, they have a sign gloating about the last kid who got par-boiled after walking off the path and falling in a sulfurous crevasse.

The park encompasses the lava fields and caldera of 4,500-ft Mount Kīlauea, an offshoot of the much larger Mauna Loa volcano. The entire island consists of 5 connected volcanoes, of which Kīlauea is the most active. It's one of the most active volcanoes in the world, and it's currently dumping lava into the sea near Kimau. We drove down to see it at night, and amazingly people still live on the lava field relatively close to the flow, as far as I'm concerned.

The park showcases many natural spectacles you're unlikely to see anywhere else. Here are the ones we visited:

1. Lava Tubes

Park Motto: Enter at Your Own Risk.

Lava tubes are channel-like caves where lava once flowed rapidly underneath the surface. The most accessible tube at the park is the Thurston Lava Tube, which is smooth and has track lighting for tourists. There is an extended section left undisturbed, but we forgot to take our flashlights when we hiked to it. It's still smoother than fresh ones.

Track lighting is an igneous rock.

2. Smoking Caldera

Between you & impending death- one small railing.

Smoke and steam plumes rise from the caldera, the site where a volcano erupted and collapsed. It means bowl, or cauldron, because it looks like one. We hiked past the Kīlauea caldera on the way to the lava tube, and while young plants and weeds are growing down there, the smoke and steam show that it is still quite active.

3. Steam Vents

Driving by sulfurous emissions.

In New York it's not uncommon to see steam and vapor rising from the manhole covers and subway grates, with that delicate eau du urine scent wafting up from the tunnels. Here it comes right up from the ground, with a grainy taste from the deadly chemicals you've just breathed in. They call it "vog," for volcanic fog, and signs warn you to stay in the car with the windows up when it is thick. The wind us often so fierce that you can barely see the vog, as it blows across the a'a fields.

Roll up your windows so the deadly fumes smell better.

4. Lava Fields

No parking.

What's an a'a field? There are two types of lava, a'a and pahoehoe. The first one is fresh sharp lava, and you can guess how it got its name, from the first poor bastard who walked barefoot on it. In the old days they'd punish people by having them spend the night out there where you can't sit or lie down without being lacerated. Pahoehoe is smooth older lava that looks like grey candle wax. There are huge expanses of these old hardened flows in the park, and if you drive all the way down Chain of Craters Road, you can see where the lava flows covered the road for a length of 12 miles. The steam plume beyond is the active flow pouring into the sea, slowly enlarging the island.

The buried sign says "Road Closed"

5. Petroglyphs

Walk on the sacred glyphs and your soul will be cast into the hot magma.

If you walk out on the lava fields, there are carvings in the lava. Various figures and symbols in the black crust. These here are at least 400 years old, and the tiny dots were part of a birth rite- the severed umbilical cord of a new child was put in it. What's fascinating is that the spot is seemingly in the middle of nowhere, far from the coast and the sheltering wall of the mountain. I guess one spot's as good as any, but it's a heck of a walk. The ritual linked the child's soul to the island, and there are 16,000 such holes known in the area.

Do not play Chinese Checkers on the sacred carvings.

6. Sulfur Vents

Mmm, looks like lemon sorbet!

If steam's not enough for you, there's also stinky sulfur fumes rising to the surface, giving the rocks an eerie fluorescent yellow color. This is the spot where the kid fell in. If you don't look at all the warning signs, the area is quite serene- beautiful flowers growing along secluded paths, with the occasional fissure splitting the earth open. The ground is unstable off the paths, and the kid fell in a crevice up to his shoulders, and suffered steam burns over 10% of his body. Thankfully he didn't ruin it for everybody, and you can still view the rocks coated with their crystalline layer of sulfur.

Tastes like burning!

7. Active Lava Flows

This is the money shot and is actually outside the park grounds now; the flow has been active since 1983, but has moved. It's at the other end of Chain of Craters Road, which requires you to double back on an hour detour. You just keep driving down 130, and eventually you see highway signs for "Lava Viewing Open- Last Car Admitted 8pm." The back road is pretty rutted and bumpy, but we had a Jeep Wrangler so had no problems. You also need flashlights, sturdy shoes, and water. It's a 3/4 mile walk on the lava fields in the dark, but the path is marked to the safe viewing area. On some days you just see the glow of the lava as it pours into the ocean, but we got a beautiful fireworks display of molten rock splashing around. Sometimes you can see the steam plume's shadow in front of glow, and the rock formations left around it.



The park is a World Heritage Site, and rightly so. If you visit Hawaii, you owe yourself a trip to the rustic and quiet Big Island, and a visit to the park. There's a $10 fee for a week pass per car, and you can stay in nearby Volcano village. We stayed at Aloha Junction B&B, and ate at Dan De Luz's Koa Shop Kaffee, where you can get a great hearty breakfast and some beautiful hard-carved koa as well. I wish we'd gotten there in time for dinner after the lava viewing!

Spam, Teriyaki Beef, Portuguese sausage, hash browns... I devoured the deep-fried Vienna Sausages already.

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Brooklyn Brewery Jazz Bar at Newark Airport

If you're in Newark airport and like good beer, this is the place to go. There's an Irish pub in terminal C that has Smithwick's and Guinness, but if you like microbrews only this bar will sate you.

Prepare for airport prices- $8 for an Imperial pint- but the fresh draught Brooklyn Brewery beers are well worth it. They have their lager, Brown Ale, Pennant Ale, Pale ale, and Brooklyner Weisse on tap.
We had the brown and weisse, and a chicken quesadilla that we could choke down. A burger might be a better choice.

The bar is in Terminal C at gate 124, so if you're there waiting for a plane grab a good brew so you're pleasant and giddy company on your flight.

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Memorial Day- Fleet Week and Arlington Cemetery

Firecracker, her nieces, and a few good men.

It's Memorial Day and we all know what that means besides the first peak in gas prices of the summer- Fleet Week. As you can see, all the girls were giggling their way across town, giddy at the prospect of men in uniform. We came upon these few good men in Little Italy after a touristy dinner at Puglia's, a decent enough spot with Jorge Buccio the Italian Elvis crooning out tunes like "Hey Gumbaree." They were kind enough to pose for photos with the out of towner kids.

The Mast of the U.S.S. Maine

These photos are from Arlington Cemetery. Darth Milk and I visited in 2005 during our trip to D.C. It is a serene and holy place, even for us irreligious folk. It was first used in the Civil War, and the land was Robert E. Lee's family property. When he turned traitor, the Army quartermaster dug up Mrs. Lee's rose gardens and lined tombstones to the doorstep of the family home, to mark the ignominy of the war for generations to come. Just one of many vengeful excesses that would culminate in Sherman's March to the sea.

The tomb of the unknown soldier

Memorial Day is a holiday of convenience. It was originally called Decoration Day, and arose to honor those who died preserving the Union, and was rarely celebrated in the South of course. In 1868 it was changed to the last Monday in May and given its new name, to give us all a 3 day weekend and include remembrance of all soldiers who perish in service to their country. Veteran's Day on November 11th has always been more powerful to me- it commemorates the end of the First World War, on the 11th day of the 11th month at the 11th hour. It was originally called Armistice Day, but it has the honor of at least happening on the same day each year, the anniversary of the greatest folly of war undertaken in modern memory.

Headstone after headstone in Arlington.

Kurt Vonnegut is oft quoted on the internet, and he actually said some of the things attributed to him. This one's from Breakfast of Champions, about Veteran's Day. Vonnegut himself served in WW2, and was a POW in Dresden as we bombed it. He was one of the few POWs to survive the bombing, and you can say it affected him deeply.

I will come to a time in my backwards trip when November eleventh, accidentally my birthday, was a sacred day called Armistice Day. When I was a boy, all the people of all the nations which had fought in the First World War were silent during the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of Armistice Day, which was the eleventh day of the eleventh month.

It was during that minute in nineteen hundred and eighteen, that millions upon millions of human beings stopped butchering one and another. I have talked to old men who were on battlefields during that minute. They have told me in one way or another that the sudden silence was the voice of God. So we still have among us some men who can remember when God spoke clearly to mankind.

Armistice Day has become Veterans’ Day. Armistice Day was sacred. Veterans’ day is not.

So I will throw Veterans’ Day over my shoulder. Armistice Day I will keep. I don’t want to throw away any sacred things.

In Arlington Cemetery they bury 35 people a day; World War 2 veterans are passing away at a rate of 1800 a day now that most of them are in their 80's. In Iraq, we have lost 4,082 soldiers and 33,000 wounded. Let's remember the 150,000 plus men and women we have fighting overseas right now while we guzzle our beer and gobble our hot dogs, and consider bringing them home.

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The Crane Bar in Galway

A random gathering of folks playing traditional instruments.
In honor of the St. Patrick's Day weekend I'm going to share some videos and photos of my visit to Galway last year. Despite being a tourist town it ended up being a very nice place. The area is stunningly beautiful, nestled between the wilds of Connemara and the rocky Burren area to the south. Close to Shannon airport, it makes for the perfect tourist destination and gets a lot of visitors, and it can be hard to find a seat at the pubs some nights. The Lonely Planet guide sent me out to the Salthill section for a bed & breakfast and also a pub called The Crane Bar that has traditional (aka trad) and modern bands playing nightly. What I liked best was that people would just show up with instruments and join in. Very friendly and cozy.

The beautiful coast near Galway.

Using Google Maps on my phone I walked there from the B&B one night, along the Salthill shore with its amusement park and typical seaside eateries, eerily reminiscent of the Jersey shore despite swapping chip shops for funnel cake. My friend Sonny from Denmark was arriving that night, so the Crane Bar was a landmark he could put in his GPS and drive to, and I could sit and ingest Guinness.
The locals were friendly and a fellow named Brent bought me a drink and we talked about what I planned to see and atuff. The second question out of everyone's mouth is always "why the hell did you guys elect that idiot?"

Roundstone's Bodhran maker.

When Sonny showed up the place was closing, but I managed to nab us some bacon pizza (Irish bacon is more like thinly sliced pork loin). The next night after a long day of seeing Galway's sights and driving up the coast to Roundstone to see a bodhran (drum) maker, we returned to the bar.

The hanging wall in Galway.

We sat with a group of folks from Dublin and talked about the country, why we elected Bush, and thankfully books. We had a love of detective novels in common and we talked about what authors we liked. They liked a Swedish fellow whose name I can't recall. They told us of their favorite spots to visit along the coast, which would eventually send us to some of the most beautiful spots in Ireland that I remember. The Beara peninsula, a remote finger of land south of Kerry, was their favorite. They told us of a pub called O'Neil's that they loved, and we eventually found it days later. Ireland is so small that even a remote spot like that is only a few hours away, but we made so many stops along the way- visiting the Skellig Islands where monastery villages from the 5th century remain, the Cliffs of Moher, caves, the Aran Islands, and Kilkenny, which is more modern than Galway but still has much to see.

The players.

Sonny is a much more seasoned drinker than I am. Those Danes know how to hold their ale. In fact when he lived in Cambridge, the Brits there were amazed at his capacity for ale and called him "Horny Helmet" in honor of his Viking heritage, and gave him a horned Viking helmet when he left... myself, I'm a cheap date and you'll see from the cheerful, red-faced photo at the end that I'm no match for him in a drinking contest.


A man singing a capella in honor of a patron's birthday.

And by the end of the night I looked like this!

We only managed to explore perhaps a quarter of the Irish coastline and I'm eager to go back and see more of the country, like the Giant's Causeway, and of course Dublin. We got close to Dublin when I visited the old family home in Bray, but the traffic getting into to town was so bad we just hauled back toward Shannon. I'll blog about the rest of the trip over the weekend if I have time. In the meanwhile, the photos are all at here in my Ireland album, which is rather neurotically ordered by County.

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Stranded at the Airport, Branded a Dork

What will they say, next day at work?I just saw a snow-covered 747 taxi by on a plowed runway. First time for that. First delay was just announced, from an original 8:55am to 9:33am. We'll see about that. I took a cab to the airport because the ol' Mustang and 6 inches of snow don't get along so well anymore. I never got stuck in Minnesota, but they actually plow the roads there. My cul de sac (or colder sack, if ya know what I mean! Shrinkage! It's cold out there. Like a frightened turtle) gets plowed as often as a whore with "HERPES?" tattooed across her forehead- last one to get it, and even then it's a gamble. The cabbie didn't know shit about driving in snow, and it took three tries to get up our hill, sometimes sideways. He couldn't get the concept of "slow and steady" through his skull. We made it and I gave him a $10 tip for his trouble.

I heard some boarding calls for other flights, so it looks like if you have a plane at your gate, you're on time. The runways are plowed and the de-icing is in progress. We don't have a plane, so I'm on the laptop. I'm gonna conserve batteries in case I'm stuck here a while. I have a few books, a bottle of water, and the will to survive. If we resort to cannibalism, I assure you I'll be one of the Donners who made it out.

Here's a photo of the snow out there.

Well, there's a plane at our gate now and the delay is 10:30am as of now. Radio reports are saying 5 hour delays. I hear people boarding but I don't know if anyone is taking off. It's silly to load the plane if you can't take off, but stranger things have been done by airlines.

Mein gott! Ein planeschnicken!

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Riders on the Storm

We were in the air while the tornadoes wrought their havoc on the people of Tennessee and Mississippi. Northwest Airlines hops from Baton Rouge to Memphis when they take you back to Newark, and we took off on time even though the skies were ominous. When it came time to land, the pilot warned us that the Control Tower was closed at Memphis and we'd have to land in Jackson to take on fuel. Northwest Airlines has consistently worsened in service, topping the charts in delayed flights. On our way in, we were nearly 2 hours late, and they've taken on the reproachable habit of charging you for snacks and anything besides water or juice.
Coupled with the current TSA regulation that you cannot bring outside liquids on board a plane, I'm sure it's been a nice financial windfall for the airlines and the overpriced shops in the airports. We landed late but our connection was late too, so we grabbed a BBQ sandwich (even at the airport, Barbecue is excellent in Memphis) and trotted to our gate. There was a slight delay as they cleaned the plane, but we took off without incident. Sarah noticed the light show out the left side window before the pilot mentioned it, and I took a short video of the lightning storm. I've only seen lightning from a plane once before, so it was nice to watch.



When we landed, a fellow passenger told us that she was scared because they had herded people at Memphis airport into tornado shelters before the flight. We had no idea the weather had been that bad! I'm not sure I could have flown after that. When the news of the devastation across Tennessee made the news, I was surprised and glad that our flight only had a little turbulence.

My mother blamed herself for not lighting a candle that night since she was out having dinner with "the girls." Thankfully the candle she lit for my outgoing flight must have had some magic leftover...

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You know it's the South when..

My laptop battery died, so my friend Betty told me to look for a Fry's Electronics. I googled for it and the only thing that came up around here are Fish Fry joints.

We landed at 10:30pm and Nympho's was closed, so we went to IHOP. Mr. and Mrs. Bennett are friendly folks and I was not shot on sight for being a Yankee. I slept in an RV in the driveway. Technically, a trailer. Stocked with beer, cheese, and summer sausage.

Visual proof:


Actually it was like a luxury hotel. Of course it is now 24 hours later and I am egregiously lubricated with a dozen different beers, but it is a delightful abode. Sarah came by this morning and asked why I didn't come into the house after her parents went to work. Because I'm in a comfy RV full of Abita Mardi Gras Bock and Restoration Ale beers, duh!

Today we visited the LSU campus and downtown Baton Rouge, which has a battleship beached on the muddy shore of the Mississipp, the USS Kidd. LSU has Mike the Tiger as their mascot. Here are Mike's balls:


Okay that's a statue but I swear there's a real tiger on campus. Here is proof, without benefit of bronze striped tiger testicles:


Yeah he's asleep. Like me, he had too much beer. But that happened later.
The LSU campus is sprawling and beautiful, including huge stadiums and some buildings of fine architecture. Also 2 burial mounds over 5000 years old. Actually, they don't know what they were used for, but I assume they cursed the campus for eternity by building on an Indian burial ground. That's why to win the championship they must sacrifice a virginal southern belle to the beastly tiger each year.

The mounds, also known as "the boobies"
According to the sign these mounds are over 5000 years old and it is not known what purpose they served, as no evidence of structures built on them has been found. I think it's where they bury the Yankees.

We bought some LSU merch so I can pass among the New Orlingians in disguise, lest I be sacrificed to one of their pagan elder gods in a terrible dark rite. A friendly local was nice enough to photograph us next to the Mike statue.

Mike did not take kindly to being touched by The Yankee, and tried to bite my head off:


Sarah was bitten after trying to bravely save me from his clutches:


Thankfully our injuries were largely superficial and proper application of coffee was able to speed our convalescence. We stopped at a Community Coffee shop, where the smooth tasty java was purveyed. I need to grab a few pounds to smuggle home, they kick Starbuck's ass and may even beat the Yankee juggernaut Dunkin Donuts.


After soothing our wounds with much needed caffeine, I scouted out the battleship the town is saving for when the South rises again. the U.S.S. Kidd is docked in the Mississippi by the Port Allen bridge. I will included detailed files on its guns and munitions if I make it back across the Mason-Dixon line.


We had to skedaddle to meet Sarah's family for dinner at Mike Anderson's seafood. They have a delicious selection of the fruits of the sea and we did heartily partake of them deep fried and cooked seven ways. We sneaked a few Abita Selects (a delicious alt bier) while waiting. I hope they ship some up north, it's a nice fruity refresher. Sort of like Nathan Lane in a bottle.
Sarah's sister Claire, her husband Russell, and their 3 children joined us, as well as her Memaw. She's a sweet old woman, who I must thank for saying "I do declare" and making me feel at home. We met her earlier at her home, and talked about family history and her writing, as she's written three novels.
Together we all ate a shrimp boat's worth of catch, lightly battered and seasoned as the Lord intended.


We headed home to digest, and I went out for a ride with Mr. Bennett. Auspiciously to fill the car with gas for our Mardi Gras trip, we pulled into a shopping center and drove next to a police car parked there. I thought, "This is it. I'm about to be caught and jailed as a Yankee spy."

I woke a few hours later with a bump on my head and realized the fruitlessness of my mission, I might as well join their side. Seafood properly spiced, Southern hospitality, and proper application of Abita Select will do that, and I warn any Yankee carpetbaggers headed here to point their peckers north and "git," as I am now fighting for Louisiana.

Later that night we met Sarah's childhood friend Catherine and went to The Chimes tavern for refreshment. To thank Catherine for being our Designated Driver, I took an awful photo of her and am disseminating it on the internet for eternity.

The Chimes is a fine pub, and I sampled their many, many beers on tap, including...
Abita Andygator, Abita Red Ale, Winter's Bourbon Cask Ale, which tasted delightfully of birch beer; Dixie Jazz Amber, Shiner Bock, Delirium Tremens, the strong Belgian most aptly named Ale in the world, Kelpie Scotch Seaweed Ale, which was like a smooth black lager, and Sarah had a Red Hoe.
A Red Hoe is Framboise, a Belgian raspberry lambic, mixed with Hoegaarden. I asked the barmaid for "a Red Hoe for this Ho" and she laughed with me and not at me, I am certain of that. Sarah was not amused. She was happy with the drink, though. It was quite tasty, and more lambics should be mixed that way, I think.

Their taps:

Their fridge, which I one day hope to sample all of. Over a year. Maybe.


On the way home we stopped at Raisin' Cane's, a chicken fingers restaurant. Yep, that's all they sell. Fingers, fries, and sauce. And they do them right. That was some of the best drinking food I've yet had, it rivals Rutt's Hutt back in NJ, the reigning champ.

We packed it in after a full day of enjoyment, and sadly I must resign my post as a Union scout.

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Walking in Memphis...

Well I'm on flight 1253 to Baton Rouge via Memphis now, having been dutifully cavity searched by the most thick-browed minions of the TSA, eagerly awaiting my Halal meal.
I actually used to order kosher- they are usually better than airline slop. I got a kickass cheese omelet once, but the unleavened bread was a bit much. I wonder if ordering Halal comes with a free secondary
screening at security.

I had my mandatory Smithwick's and now we're taking off- see you later!

...

Okay a few hours later and now I'm in Memphis airport. Flight's been delayed an hour. It's 8pm and they're already closing their Elvis themed restaurants. I didn't peek in to see if they had Fool's Gold Loaf or peanut butter 'nanner sammiches. Hyeah, I could use one of them bout now....
Sarah (the dame in the film noir that is my life) called her folks and we were supposed to go to a Mexican joint called Nympho's. Or Ninfa's. I'm not sure I'd want to eat a burrito from Nympho's, who knows where it's been. Well now they are probably closed so we'll have to go to Sonic's, oh the humanity. Sarah's been pining for Sonic since the day I met her, so we have to go there. They have the unmitigated temerity to advertise in the NJ area when they have no damn restaurants except for deep in the forests of Pennsylvania, from whence no civilized man has returned.

But enough of that shit, what kind of "major" airport closes its restaurants at 8pm? I am a red-blooded American and I require beer to fuel a constant rampage of mayhem. That Smithwick's wore off days ago, and I am reduced to watching basketball on a seat that is being unkind to my chiseled Greco-Roman ass.

Hopefully my next report will be from the RV to which I will be confined, as an unruly Yankee in Confederate territory, and I will report on the greycoat troop movements in code, so you can get the precious information to the brave young men fighting to preserve the Union.

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Begone, foul words of the devil! Shrink it back.

preview: Live from Mardi Gras!

Just testing the blog via email feature. This weekend I'll be at Mardi Gras in New Orleans, hopefully I'll be able to get some live blogging and photos too. We'll see!
Watch this space, and all that.

Not sure how blogspot handles photos that are emailed. I'll test that next!

I'm planning on visiting the Louisiana Music Factory to pick up some New Leviathan Oriental Foxtrot Orchestra vinyl, and trading beads with the local natives for swills of their grog, and to see their sordid rites.

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Begone, foul words of the devil! Shrink it back.