Closing Thoughts

Excuse me a little, while I sit here and reflect at the end of a long and in it’s own way eventful journey into the great hive-mind of the American psyche.

It’ll probably get a little tedious – if you prefer, there’s plenty on here recounting tales of drink and clowns that’s more of an immediate satisfaction.

This isn’t a work of journalism. It finds it’s roots in real life and real experiences of real people, but that isn’t enough to make it something structured. I’m sure one day I’ll learn to ride a motorcycle, come back, but a fifth-hand Ducati from someone in New York, and go west, recording everything. But not this time. Too much on my mind, you see.

I’ve talked to bar tenders and waitresses; immigrants and fully-fledged, born-n-bred nationalists; the homeless and the housed – pretty much everyone who stopped for the time of day, and asked me where my accent was from. And I’ve asked all of them, as many of them as possible – “Where is the American dream?”

It’s almost a loaded joke of a question. It’s a line from Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas, and part of the asking was just to see if anyone would recognise it. I don’t know where they find it (I’m pretty sure they don’t).

Some people think it’s here and now. Im pretty sure the guy standing outside of star bucks with a not-loaded antique rifle mentioned it in his defence. A homeless prostitute I bought a coffee for once agreed with him. I met her in star bucks too. That’s probably relevant too, in its own way.

A Bulgarian man who bought me a drink and gave me a cigarette in San Francisco said it didn’t exist. He said that it was an old idea, and that it was gone now, that it didn’t mean anything. Two Indian graduate students in the same bar didn’t know what I was talking about.

Alex With The Drum had the closest answer, talking about the sense of entitlement people have here. Let me explain where I think I saw some of that.

People here send things back when they don’t like them. Food, drinks, etc. And yet everything here seems to be done with so much more effort, food prep included, than it is back home. I remember working in a coffee shop and feeling I guess what you’d call baffled rage when American tourists would insist, again and again, that I remake a cappuccino with more foam, less foam, or once, the same again, but not so much chocolate dust on top. And, more interestingly, how much more rude they’d be about asking when the rest of their party was upstairs trying to find a table.

That line between the people you know and the people you don’t, I’ve felt more pronounced here. Like how the blond UCSB undergraduate didn’t acknowledge me when I asked if she could watch my bag while I was in the bathroom. Or how the homeless guy tried to buy my cigarettes off of me. Even alex was surprised when I struck up conversation about his drum wrapped in swaddling clothes.

Maybe this is just a people thing. We’re not meant to talk to strangers, and I guess I’ve never tried it that much in Oxford.

Except… Well, except I have. Working in Greens, I talked to customers. When I was a customer, the staff talked to me. Banter has become a thing – it’s in the vernacular, and people like it. They banter. And sometimes they even shout it – BANTER! – the same way you say Rummy or Checkmate, as a vocal celebration of the sheer ecstasy of cracking a dirty joke to someone you’ve never met.

There isn’t banter here. This is sort of a good thing, really. When you do talk to someone, you’re not just a stranger or a barista to them, but you’ve engaged them, and they treat you like a friend. You’re either an alien, or you might as well have known them all their lives. And if you can get to the good side of that line, then you’re in. I’m rambling. What do I mean? To put it one way – almost everyone I’ve spoken to has given me, freely, a phone number, or an email address, or something, and offered to show me the town. I might have told more people in oxford that I don’t follow ‘english’ football because I’m half Scottish, but I’ve never gotten more out of them than a laugh while they’re waiting for their change. I think that’s what I mean.

I was talking about the American dream. Let me get back on track mentally.

The dream is not, Im pretty sure, one nation holding hands and singing hymns together, in perfect wealth and loving happiness. If it involves other people, it’s a beer with your nearest and dearest, even if there’s no easy way to say who that’s going to be. It’s walking into a restaurant and getting exactly what you want, exactly how you wanted it. It’s happy hour at the local dive-bar. This I think is it, if you go by a majority vote. I think this is what immigrants expect coming to this country – Mexicans being the most obvious example. Judging at least by the way that everyone, even reasonable, even-minded people, talk about the insular communities – as large as East Santa Barbara, and as small as the people riding a late night greyhound to LA. It’s something partially territorial, in a way that I haven’t personally encountered elsewhere. But again, maybe I’m just not going to the right parts of London.

The dissenters against this, that I’ve met, have been, maybe not by coincidence, the two youngest people I spoke to. Alex, you know, and also a girl, Katarina, who kept me company on that long night-bus. For them, the big dream was something fulfilled in a wider, larger world. Alex wanted to go back to Asia. Katarina wanted to teach in Costa Rica. They didn’t have any issue with the states – they said themselves it was a great country. But, importantly, not the best. And they qualified their belief as such. They know how different demographics would disagree with them.

Maybe the shift in thinking involved thoughts about resources. Maybe it’s that Alex and Katarina had all the belief in widespread opportunity being available to them that everyone else I asked had. The only difference is that for them, opportunity wasn’t so equal to entitlement. They seemed to be more open to the things that happen with random encounters in bars and coffee shops, and these are things that could happen anywhere in the world. And it might go someway towards explaining why they didn’t care for Starbucks, where the staff are flawless in their happy customer face, and the pursuit of copious wealth, where you can take care of all the problems that money can take care of.

This isn’t journalism. Just closing thoughts as I get ready to go for a night at The Canary bar, and my suitcases have come down from the top of the wardrobe while I try and figure out how to stack my books to protect my laptop from airport baggage handlers. I’ll be back to investigate it further. And I’ll keep asking people what they think about the American dream when I meet them, to try and build it up. But yeah. Thoughts. Thoughts.

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang

A small discovery. Manuscript museum just up the road with a exhibit on the detective story, featuring manuscripts from several writers including Conan Doyle, of Sherlock Holmes fame, and Ian Fleming, Mr. Bond. I went to the effort of transcribing an essay of his on display, on the writing of Casino Royale. It’s below, and missing some words, that I’ll add on another visit when I get a full copy from the curator. Enjoy. The essay is called Kiss Kiss Bang Bang.

–

I really can’t remember why I started to write …. I was on my holiday in Jamaica in January 1957 – I bought a house here after the war and I go there every year – and I think my mental hands are empty. I had finished organising a …. for …. newspapers and that side of my life was freewheeling [I assume this must be some reference to ceasing as a European correspondent for The Times - he mentions later writing other novels while he was out there, some of which were definitely sourced from trips to Europe on their payroll].

My daily occupations in Jamaica are spearfishing and underwater exploring, but after five years of it I don’t want to kill any fish except barracudas and the rare monster fish, and I know my own underwater terrain like the back of my hand. Above all, after being a bachelor for 44 years I was on the edge of marrying, and the prospect was so horrifying that I was in urgent need of some activity to take my mind off it.

So as I say, my mental hands were empty, and although I am as lazy as most englishmen are, I have a puritanical dislike of idleness, and a stalwart love of action. So I decided to write a book.

And so it went on. I took Michael ……’s advice, “write your second book before you see the review of the first. Casino Royale is good but the reviewer may damn it and take the heart out of you”. I wrote in 1953 ‘live and let die’. In 1954, ‘Moonraker’, and in 1955 ‘Diamonds are Forever’.
……

When I sent the … of this to William …., I said “I’ve put everything into this except the kitchen sink. Can you think of a plot about a kitchen sink for the next one? Otherwise I am lost.” but on this occasion William couldn’t help me.

And now I am off to jamaica again with a spare typewriter ribbon and a load of absolutely blank …. through which James Bond must shoot his way over the next eight weeks.”

FIESTA ONE

Picking this up again post transcription of the Ian Fleming essay. Which has been contained in another post for ease of reading.

So, the situation then.

Outside. European style cafe table seating in the bustling main stretch of State St. It is Fiesta. A celebration of the Spanish culture in Santa Barbara. This explains why there are Mariachi singers walking around the place and setting up. They’re all transient in their goings about the place – a song, a bow, some applause from sun kissed teenagers enjoying the weather, and then off they go. The streets are strewn with confetti. I shall explain why. These kids walk the streets with brightly coloured eggs, sold for five for a dollar, filled with confetti. They throw them at each other. It’s cute. Sort of like pain free paint-balling.

There are street markets and stalls, with things like rugs and rings and jewellery and foot massages all being sold. All the colours are bright, and I suspect that the description would be complete if accompanied by photos. Maybe tomorrow. The festival, you see, will go on all weekend.

Amazing side note. I think a homeless man just walked down the street carrying a boom box playing the SHAFT theme tune. No one takes notice of him. I find this to be a crime.

While sitting here enjoying an iced tea and some copious cigarette smoking, this guy sits next to me. Skinny, vest wearing, Californian to the platonic T. He asks me to watch this strange, two foot tall bundle of rags while he goes inside to get his coffee. On his return, I ask what the purpose of it is. It might be a security blanket, but then again it might be some kind of explosive device, and that would concern me. He gives me the name of it (djamli), I think ‘it’ being an African / Indian drum. He said it was from Bali, but I have no idea where that is. I mean, I’ve heard of it, but geographically, not so much. African or Indian.

So anyway, Alex (his name is Alex) starts beating out a cultural rhythm on this thing, moving his hands towards and away from the centre of the drum to produce a different intonation, skilfully too. And I’m impressed. We get to talking, and swap the stories. East coast origins, a colour he wears with the 405 of his area code (different areas, different area codes – a village down the road is 818, I am an 805. It’s practically a caste system). He’s here at UCSB majoring in Environmental Studies.

We chat a bit and I ask him what he thinks about the American dream. We talk a little about Hunter S Thompson, and Ulysses, and the history of youth culture, and the plague of comfort and apathy that’s plaguing us as a generation. And I’m inclined to agree with the guy.

Being an environmental studies major, the man had much to say on how Americans treat their consumption. His views, and I do my best to surmise them here, is that there is a large degree of bounty here in the American west coast. That is, what people want, it’s all accessible and readily so. Bikes, outfits, all these are things that it’s no effort for us to track down out here.

(Just saw a Mexican family waking down the street. The beautiful Latino daughter crushes an egg of confetti into her mums hair, and her father mock-chastises her, saying that she should be careful – “Don’t forget she likes to complain”. But the mum is laughing and sort of faux-grouchily says “Oh I do not, you liar”, smiling. It’s adorable.)

Alex. Alex leans, as I think we all do when we’re young, towards sustainability in life. He talks about admiring the Middle-Eastern and African culture for the recycling of materials and products in a way that’s almost transparent, compared to recycling in the west, which is practically overblown in its supposed moral and practical impact. Old coins sewn into decorative items, that sort of thing. Which oddly mirrors the jingle-jangle of silver on the trousers (pants?) of the mariachi singers.

I try pitching my point, the idealogical monkey on my back of the last few months, that we don’t have much in the way of a unifying force. He points out how the Vietnam war galvanised the student population of the seventies in a way that the current conflict didn’t. I agree. He talks about looking for a credo for our generation, and again, I agree. A credo. That would do for a unifying force. I pitch Kierkegaard to him, and the ethical maxim of a combination of following true passion, faith, and fighting the attempts to quantify and dehumanise good living. Living with the belief that pursuit of a goal is always justified, when you believe it, because you never know when circumstances will make the most absurd aim possible. I get his number, and have every intention of hammering out something for him to read through. He talks about the use of resources, and the need to push towards sustainability, and compares it to the need to remove the obsession with efficiency and accuracy from ethics, in place of something less quantifiable, but far more human. More later. When he leaves, I give him the handwritten copies of the Fleming essay. I think he’ll like them.

Some of his fellow students stop by and talk as we’re sitting out here. One is a waitress at the shop we’re patronising, ‘Jitters’. She just moved house, nearer downtown, putting her at odds with I think the majority of the student population, who live in Isla Vista (IV) down the coast, next to UCSB. He jokes about stopping by if he’s in the area, and she seems to have seen this coming. She’s going to make a sign along the lines of ‘fuck off we don’t want to talk to you’ when the drop-ins get too much. Thats not something aimed at Alex, I should point out. More like the no doubt enormous influx of people traffic that might happen. Hooray for living out of college next year, on a personal level.

The second visitor is another girl, also beautiful (they all are out here – I ask Alex if this is typical of America and apparently it’s more a Santa Barbara thing – lucky me) and walking a bicycle. She just picked up some scraps of fabric to decorate it from the festival market. She’s heading to Burning Man, a festival elsewhere in the USA, in a few weeks, and is making some arts and crafts items to sell there. “Little coloured tins for people to drop their cigarette butts in while they’re walking around”. Capitalism!

Part of what makes this cafe awesome is the sense of humour. Out here at the tables is a little water bowl for dogs to drink out of. It just got filled up. And the cup sizes are described in accordance to the amount of caffeine they contain. My favourite is the name for the largest size of the non-coffee drinks – “I am thirsty enough to drink sand”. I desperately want to work here.

A singer just stopped by the table, one of the many musicians and artists promoting themselves here. I promised that I would promote her in this post. Here you go. Her name is Tracee Reynaud. Google her and there’s a music video. Once I get home and get some Internet, ill try to embed the video if thats possible. Live strong Tracee.

The combination of all of this presents an afternoon scene that you just don’t get in Oxford, or anywhere else that I’ve been before. This is where Santa Barbara comes together – not in some silly way involving triumphs of the human condition or something, but comes together as an entity, with multiple distinct cultural mixes within it. The streets are still clean, except for brightly coloured confetti, and the sun is shining, and all the buildings are white and fresh, and families, teenagers, old people, tourists, immigrants, even the homeless, are all here and marvelling at the celebrations. It’s actually kind of touching, and very beautiful.

There is an Englishman sitting behind me. I am not alone.

Dreaded homeless man – that’s dreaded as in the hair, not dreaded as in the Daily Mail fear of those who don’t own a particular piece of property – asks for a cigarette. He puts a quarter on the table in thanks, which I force back on him. Fuck paying for cigarettes. What kind of bastard fucking smokers does this country breed, where people expect to pay for pinching a fag? Ridiculous. I shall continue smoking, if only to help rebuild the image of the casual addict in the western world. We are a generous sort. Really.

A German man stops to ask me the time. It is ten past five. It’s possible I’m getting a little too wrapped up in cataloguing the most mundane detail of this amazing afternoon. I think that’s a cue for me to sign off and get on with some actual work. Thanks for reading.

PS. Just one more actually. Girl with eyes painted on her eye lids. And all the extra make up you’d expect from someone with that audacity. Lovely.

PPS.  I think this is how embedding works.  Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Tracee Reynaud.  Video, meh.  But give it a go.

In A Bar. Once Again.

This morning I had a hangover from drinking at the rooftop bar on the canary. So I walked four miles in the dawn aurora, along the beach and the cliff tops, past Michael jordan’s house, to the four seasons. Breakfast! The water was the first to come – it was superb. Like, good in a way that water shouldn’t be. Then there was orange juice, which was smooth, but pulpy, and ohmygod how do they do this? Coffee just arrived and – I thought so – it’s good. It’s so.. What’s the opposite of bitter? I don’t know. But it’s that. And good. And delicious. There’s a fruit plate arriving soon. I can’t fucking wait.

It’s so all American. The staff smile because they expect hundred dollar tips. Men wear polo shirts with piping on the collar, sitting down to a fried breakfast with their blond children and their surgically altered, younger wife. Looking around it feels a little like this should be a parody of something, like I’m on the set of a little britain sketch attacking American WASPS.

Oh god, I want to swim in wherever this water came from.

–

And then the fruit platter arrived, and I got so caught up in the overflowing joygasm from that first bite of watermelon that I sat aside the blog post. And here I am.

Motherfuckers charge five dollars for a coffee, and seven (SEVEN) for an orange juice. It might have tasted like it was squeezed from the tender fruity nipples of Bacchus, but I won’t be able to do that nearly as much as I’d like.

A little bit of work in the lounge, finished reading imperial bedrooms – morning sun makes for gentle reading weather. Sockless, shoeless walk for a couple of miles along the beach as the sun steadily got hotter. Went as far as possible before being blocked by a large body of water – the ocean or something. Marked my territory by pissing a line in the sand. “From here onwards is unclaimed territory. The rest is mine!”

Heat put my feet in so much pain that brogues feel comfortable by virtue of not being million degree sand. Now sitting in the lounge, two thirty, thereabouts, waiting for the bar to open in ninety minutes (count ‘em). Flitting between working and trying to work properly, and reading. Autobiography of Casanova. Lovely stuff.

I can see them lining up glasses as they get the bar ready. I’m like some sort of alcohol-vampire. Or a vulture. Yeah.

Story of a wedding ( not mine )

So this is how the story started, and its a pretty good example of how, when theres nothing there to keep me in check, my simple attempts at rational reasoning can quickly spiral to place me in complicated situations.

So first, I think to myself that I could do with a can of coke. I walk to the store.

Then, I think that I might get some cigarettes too, nicotine gum being prohibitively expensive out here. I walk to the gas station.

The gas station is across the street from a very nice hotel with a mediocre bar, but a bar that knows how to make my favourite drink after I patiently explained it to them. I decide ill test them again. I walk to the bar.

While in the bar, I decide to go check out the Four Seasons they have in Santa Barbara, which is supposedly also a nice bar. I figure ill check it out too. This Involves a six mile taxi ride.

So, on my way to get a can of coke, I have found myself in an admittedly beautiful bar, reading hunter s Thompson, and drinking ludicrously complicated drinks. Activities like this are all that fill my days. Life could be worse.

Ok. So this is what I have been reduced to. The Americans do not do smoking areas in their bars or hotels apparently. So, I have been sent, with my cocktail in a martini glass, to the front area, where the taxis are dropping and picking up passengers. There is a bench, and a trash can. My glass sits on the pavement. My cigarette feels limp and flaccid with humidity. And I am treated like I am preaching the Necronomicon in the Vatican. But there is a part of me, that, despite all this, thinks fuck it. For I have WON.

Smoking looks to be a real curiosity in southern California. I have given up on the staring and the commenting, and the tutting of mothers walking their children across to the main of the hotel. Instead, I sit in a nice little cloistered balcony, listening to the sea roaring next to me, with my drink that, due to the excess of this ridiculous trip I’m now knee deep in, I am sipping slowly. Very, very slowly. Second Manhattan of the evening. Even though this is technically a Brooklyn. Made sweeter, with drops of Cointreau and Rum and Bitters for a hint of flavour. The weather is ideal. It’s crazy ideal. Its beautiful here. Absolutely beautiful. And the woman whose glass of red wine I just spilt was beautiful. All the women here are beautiful. The four seasons should advertise on the strength of this.

My table is the only one without nuts and lights. Little candle lanterns. The bastards. This is some sort of twisted revenge against the British. Rest assured I’ll be getting them back somehow.

I feel so sorry for Lindsay Lohan. To inject something topical in here. Yeah, the girl has troubles, but the jail sentence? It’s excessive and above the norm for someone breaking probation here. One month? Sure. Three? Excessive. Poor thing. She’s too pretty for jail. She’ll come out butch. Like her ex.

Yes. Drinking cocktails under the palms. Even if I am surrounded by rich Americans. There are worse ways to spend an evening.

I always kind of dismissed the chain hotels, the Four Seasons and the Hiltons you see in the UK. I guess it comes from a middle class background where you get used to them. They seem to be a bigger deal out here. Maybe it’s just because it’s a big state for tourism. But the Beverly Hilton was a big deal – the sort of place where cocktails are coined. And the Four Seasons I visited for dinner at Christmas, home of none ofhter than one of the major sushi restaurants here. Onyx, for what its worth. Out of my price bracket this time around. Still haven’t had any sushi. Man I’d kill for some sushi right now. Maybe next week won’t involve a long trip out this far in taxis.

Ah! Fuck! wasabi nuts! Waitress gave me snacks, but no light, and the fucking nuts were spiced! Burning fuck!

There are different groups of people here. I’m doing that thing where you paint a kind of back story to everyone, based of the little that you can see.

Looking around, it’s clear that everyone here is wealthy. That colours things already.

There is a couple across from me. The woman is nuzzling. She’s young than her companion, and she gives the impression that I’m looking at infidelity. She laughs, and catches herself. When she goes in close, she doesn’t kiss, and she hasn’t kissed, like she hates public displays of affection. She’s drunk. He’s sober. That in itself is sinister, a little. The man seems cold. Challenging. Obviously wealthy. Drinking scotch. Staring at me, staring me down, daring me to do something, although god knows what. Maybe this is just how they are, but the tension…it fuels the mind more than a little. I look him in the eyes, and menacingly, with great intent, chew a wasabi nut. I can only presume it rattles him.

There’s a group of five young women – about 26, if I was forced to guess. They’re drinking at an expensive hotel (fifteen dollars a drink, according to my tab – what have I let myself in for?), and talking about their husbands. So they’re young, and beautiful, and well dressed, and married. Trophy wives? Maybe. They’re grilling the waiter on whether or not he’s married. And flirting with him. He’s playing along and they like it. They keep it going. They’ve already established that they’re mostly married. That probably doesn’t say much, but it might do. It leads the mind places. It makes me think of the Deb ball back in Christmas, the future wives of Orange County convention. That is, for the girl who were going to grow up to marry into money and tie themselves to older men while they were still fresh, and take their pre-nup settlements when the time came. Someone else’s words, not mine. It’s all a little sex and the city. They’ve won a life that consist of drinking and the weekly service of an older businessman. Why not, right?

The waitress just brought a refill of my drink. I wish I had the mental arithmetic to work out how much was left in my account. Probably not enough for another drink. It’s eleven anyway. No doubt the taxi back will be too expensively. I’m going to end up staying up all night next to the beach.

So eventually it blossomed into conversation with those strange, strange women. I let them have a look at the blog post I am in fact writing now, something I immediately regretted when I was asking a strange woman to read basically flat out abuse about her. I quickly covered it by telling them I was writing a novel. And then encouraged them into thinking that it was the next Sex and the City. observation to come out of this – women are idiots. Furthermore, I am clearly an intriguing looking figure, here in a jacket, here with an iPad. What’s the female equivalent of a sugar daddy? I could get one of them.

They’re talking literature right now. Clearly I’ve got to them. A part of me wants to ask them to buy me a drink. Desperate financial straits and all. I’m a coward. Let’s put it this way. One more approach, and I’ll lure them into a conversation and I will let them buy enough drinks to get me under the table. Otherwise, I shall remain a gentleman. I am a gentleman, really.

(time passes)

She was on her way out. But I managed to get a lighter and another drink out of her. Does that make me a terrible person? Probably. At least this way I have a drink and a souvenir. Nothing beats the dirty looks you get for being a 21 year old who looks like he’s trying to take a late twenties wife of orange county home with Him. It was fun. Time to read, and then go sit and smoke until traffic dies down enough that I can afford the ride home.

This could so have gone worse. Now, let’s work this out. Started off with 100, British. Drink in town. Eighty from an ATM. Drink here. That’s 106. So i might be able to get another shot of whiskey here on the card. That leaves me with my thirty five in cash for the drive home. That works, right? I’ll give it a go. Maybe there’s more life in this night left. Man I feel like such a peasant. But, you know, fuck it. If you’re going to do a night do it properly, right?

–

So that spun out of control rather quickly. So i met this x guy, Fraser. He was down here for a couple of days, here for a wedding party. He starts by buying me a drink, which is, frankly, the best way to get to know me. I’m British, he’s Canadian, with some British heritage. We get to talking, and he’s actually an artist. An iron smelter in fact, statues and the like. We get to talking, and the guy, he likes Hunter S Thompson, he likes England, he likes video games, all kinds of crazy shit. The long story short? I think I’m going to meet him tomorrow for a drink before the wedding itself. Just an awesome guy. The sort of fantastic encounter that can just come out of nowhere, out of sitting in a bar, drinking, smoking. Come to think of it, we start talking to each other when he asks the bar tender for cigarettes, and I offer him some as a freebie. So never let it be said that smoking doesn’t lead to so ethnic wonderful.

If I can, in the midst of a little drunk, talk about tonight. There is really, very little wrong with going to a bar somewhere, and sitting, drinking, with a book. It’s amazing, and actually inspiring, to see how people approach you,work you into their lives, give you drinks, buy you cigarettes, keep you company, and otherwise are nice to you, through no effort of your own. I had written here a conversation about Americans, and the usual stereotypes that are applied to them from the view of a British abroad. But, from the way that tonight I was treated by total strangers, I take it back. There is no predicting this. People can be lovely, if you let them. There is merit in blowing all your money on a one off trip to a strange bar, late in the evening, just because you feel like it. There is too much i could say about Fraser, which would talk about his generosity, and his kindness, and his intelligence, than I can really include here. He was a wonderful companion for an evening, especially given that I was a total stranger. Safe to say that he is the ideal of the kind of person that you could meet, in a strange bar, in a strange hotel, in a strange country, tonight was fantastic. I have Fraser to thank. Good for him. Much good for him, I hope.

–

I am quite drunk. Blame Fraser, and his drinks, I say. The lady at reception at the four seasons, she is kind, and she gives me a bottle of water, and an Apple, and promises to call me when my taxi comes. Bless her. There is a cocktail party tomorrow. More alcohol that I do not have to pay for. Fantastic. I enjoy the free apple as I write this. I’m sitting in the four seasons, on the edge of Santa Barbara, enjoying the free apple that complements the fortune I have spent on drink tonight. My last dollars go on taxi fare. I think this is justified. If only i had more battery to stay up all night at the four seasons. I will take my charger next time, and make this dream come true. I’ll come here again. Maybe there’ll be another wedding party. And with that, more conversation. It’s a nice bar. For sure. And I’ll track down Fraser. Lovely chap.

But that’s the story of this Thursday night. For now, Bon soir,

GAINFUL EMPLOYMENT – a little snapshot

Sitting in Starbucks. Just sat down and read Confessions of an English Opium Eater. Turns out lot a of old classics are free online. Including pretty much all the Fitzgerald which isn’t Gatsby, Mill’s autobiography, and all kinds of Russian stuff. So that’s my future reading list for the moment. It’s good stuff. Viva la iPad etc etc.

So this is the moment that I think is a fairly average Tuesday afternooin downtown Santa Barbara.

There’s a farmers market outside, stocked with crazy cheap crazy quality fruit and vegetables. It’s all locally grown, so green in a way you wouldn’t think possible, and totally fresh. Oxnard strawberries are some of the best in the world. Oxnard happens to be about twenty minutes down the 101 freeway. I’ll head there in a minute to grab some strawberries, tangerines, and an avocado, which is basically all I have to live on these days. John Fante, the guy who made starving in California trying to write fiction fashionable, did the same thing. I am a tool.

There’s a family here who are either incredibly wealthy, or white trash. It’s difficult to tell. But their son looks like Justin Bieber. It’s the little douche’s own fault, but I don’t think he wants to hear that. Whispy hair and everything. I feel undeserved aggression towards him.

John Mayer’s ‘daughters’ is on the stereo.

There is one very pretty waitress. I am so exhausted and wired simultaneously from my morning diet of straight black coffee that I am unable to form what could be called coherent sentences around her, or anyone else. This is probably hilarious to watch from the outside.

There’s a little Mexican family in the corner.

Lots of women about my age who dress like professionals. Possible escorts. Made a mental note.

I got a job today designing and writing an e newsletter for a local Aikido dojo. I think this means free lessons. Visa restrictions limit me to volunteer work on behalf on non profits, so this is pro bono, but something to do. Possible fringe benefits. Also found a fencing club across town that I might try and join. MEET NEW PEOPLE etc. But anyway, so this post is me taking a break from reading the diary of the original dope fiend, and sketching out designs and article ideas for that. Articles updates when something comes together. Starting pro work tomorrow at one. This means I get up early.

Zooming out from the here and the now,to the Immediate future of today, and tomorrow… Yoga is like,totally awesome. Videos at yogayak.com of little training sessions that I’m doing. It’s good shit man. Videos not starring me obviously. There are probably laws against putting that sort of thing on the Internet.

Tonight is researching the history of aikido and this woman who runs the dojo,to find something that could turn into an article. Also, interview subjects who might be useful.

Also possibly going to a local hotel to drink. Brooklyn martini. Got three variations on the go at this local place, all of which deserve much perusal. Like a super sweet manhattan, which is turn like a complex glass of whiskey. All thanks to the chap from milk and honey London.

Continue to be treated like a wizard. Finding work out here with an English accent and a faculty of bullshit would possibly be very easy from the way some of the baristas are to talk to. This gives me great hope for my still unstable future.

Speaking of bullshit, enough of this. To work!

Vinyl & Vino & Free Cocktails

Last night boredom struck, and I decided to finally see what the American drinking scene was like, for the first time ever. Apart from that one time the other day.

Google gives me Blue Agarve, a Mexican upper end restaurant and bar, judging from the reviews and website. Wow! I love upper end restaurants and bars! Shirt, jeans, and down I go.

Early evening; the air was salty, the women were beautiful, and the streets were full of overweight white men playing hip hop through the speakers of their sports cars. And Blue Agarve was empty, it being a Monday and all. Which raises the question of what I was doing drinking at 6 on a Monday. Well, there didn’t seem to be a compelling reason not to, primarily.

The bartender working there I later found out was called Alex. Take a seat at a bar, nervously ordering a Manhattan. Grabbed a book, let two crowds clear out, groups of friends to my left and right. Alex gets credit and points because of his wit. Someone commented that they were impressed that his receipts didn’t get stuck together across the bar. “Only when I get excited”. Good show that man. I would have clapped if it wouldn’t have been really fucking odd, the British guy in the corner, drinking straight whsikey at six in the evening, laughing and clapping at what would probably looked like nothing. But yeah, nice guy.

I’ve met a few bartenders at some of the more serious bars around the UK, and they have a pretty clear conception of what they’re there for. Literally, to tend the bar. That is, to keep peoples glasses of water topped up, to make sure no ones waiting for anything, to keep privacy for those who want it, and to introduce the people like me, who keep looking around slightly nervously wondering what the hell they’re doing there.

Looking back I don’t even see how he did it, but he got me talking to the guy next to me, the three of us. I think I’ve seen enough reactions to “I’m a studying Philosophy at Oxford, in England, but im out here for a couple of months to see the town and try to write a novel and some short stories, as well as mat be a bit of freelance journalism”, to think that this might just be a really good way to introduce yourself to people. It’s like a convoluted password to nice treatment. Five minutes later another drink materializes on the bar in front of me. “oh that’s on the house”. Awesome.

The nice thing about American bartenders is that they seem to like just replacing your drinks. Now this isn’t always going to be a good thing. For example, this could end with my being suddenly seriously in debt, possibly pushing male servers into accepting illicit sexual favours in back offices in lieu of an ability to pay my debt. Or, alternatively, to my being drunk considerably more than the acceptable fifty per cent of my waking hours. But sometimes, so long as they make clear that they’re taking care of the whole fiscal aspect of the arrangement, it makes for an enjoyable drunken evening.

I got invited to some event, vinyl and vino, which is basically wine tasting with old records, but in my drunken idiocy, I forgot to take down details of where this might be. Actually,looking back at my notes from last night, I did. OK. So I’m wine tasting this evening apparently. No idea when. But yes. Hurrah! More drinking! I am such a savvy drunk. Hah!

Anyway, yes, also my companion on my side of the bar was cool too. An illustrator for adult cartoons, no less, was one of his many sidelines. And a former sniper. Which hopefully is no longer one of his many sidelines. Injured in combat, etc etc, now retired, doing very well for himself. Nice guy, another regular who might be seeing tomorrow. Or tonight. I forget which.

Apparently the local teens are organised here. Inevitably, I’m arriving as gang warfare is starting to spiral a little. Well, it is the summer. Kids off school looking for something to do. So there are broad daylight ‘rumbles’ happening in the st. And they’re organised to the point where they’ve started targeting bartenders on their way home from work. Which is such a sociopathic way of going about knife crime. It’s like something out of a bad movie. I wonder who the kid behind that is? Presumably he’s going to go far if this is the sort of idea he’s coming up with. Little southern Californian Machiavelli. Good for him?

Think this might be everything of note. Good day, and good night to the english, and rock on.

Drinking Whiskey with Hells Angels

Ok, so I didn’t EXACTLY drink whiskey with Hells Angels.  I drank around Hells Angels.  But still, crossing that off my list of things to do before I die.

–

So its around sevenish I think. Been outside in the motherfuckin’ HEAT today!

Actually, no. I was going to go all meta or whatever and write this post in the style of the bro-Texan I met today, but forget that. Too much effort.

Segue…..I met a Texan today. Country singer. No cowboy hat, but there was a panama hat, which is maybe what they turn into when exposed to California heat. Nice guy. Moving out here too soon. Interestin’ fella.

Morning was a Sex In The City marathon – well, 2 episodes, but it felt like forever. And I’d rather run 26 miles that do it again. It’s a quaint idea, but man! The women! Man! Yes, you like sex, yes, Carrie or Samantha or whatever, you’re all whores who like your designer shoes. And they stretched that for how many seasons? Man!

Wrote more, thought more, breathed more. Was lovely.

Went to a biker bar a half hours drive outside of town with the texan, his girlfriend, and my housemates. Drank Jameson whiskey from a plastic cup sitting on a log in the heat. There was a guy and a girl covering country music and KT Tungstell, or however you spell it. There were Hells Angels. Yes, really. I on the other hand was there in a herringbone jacket, white shirt, belt, black jeans….basically doing a sort of Russell Brand dandy thing. No wonder they looked so smug driving me up there. Still, no violence ensued, which is only a good thing.

OK, so I joke about their being any tension, even though that’s what you’d probably expect what with it being a biker bar and all. It was crazy chilled. The grandmother in front of me was probably scraping the seventies, but she was giggling and jumping around and taking sly photos of her family like she was a student. Which is actually, you know, pretty inspiring. So good for her. They were welcoming, they were friendly, there were kids and old men, one in a wheel chair clapping along. And yes , they sang Sweet Home Alabama. And Mrs Robinson. And everyone sang along. And all was wonderful.

Drove back. Driver was drunk. Yeaaaaaahhh. I guess it’s not the sort of thing you say anything about. She’s a lovely girl though, even if she was drunk driving 5 people in a mini through s-bends without insurance or a license. Lovely girl. Lovely girl.

Possibly going out again later. Crave sushi. And crave cocktails. Need to find somewhere that looks like a half-decent hotel to try and get an authentic southern Californian drink. There must be some sort of local favorite tipple, and I’ll damn well discover it.

Incidentally, despite all you hear about how strict they are here, no ID. I am a timeless figure apparently.

It’s still hot. It hasn’t rained once. I don’t think it’s going to. That’s kind of awesome.

Still no photos. I know I know. Soon people.

Sleeping Beauty Makes Coffee

If you want to blend in as a native in Santa Barbara, go for your morning run through the suburbs at around half seven.

Everybody runs here. Early at least. Maybe it’s a beach thing. If you’re going to go shirtless everyday, then keeping yourself looking good is something you’re going to have to start taking seriously.

The running, it becomes an image thing. They co-ordinate their gear and everything. Black with white piping. Yellow with black piping. Red with blue. Green with red. Tracksuits, shorts, breathable materials, Asics, Nikes, sometimes people match the brands and dress the label completely. It actually doesn’t look too bad. If you want to look like you take a sport seriously, and they all want to look serious, wear a uniform.

It’s a good thing I hit the beach around Five this morning. It would have been pretty and sun kissed if it wasn’t cloudy. I didn’t think they got clouds in California. I feel responsible somehow.

Beach was empty. Just some buoys floating way out to see, and some oil rigs beyond that. Traffic already, but it probably never stops. No one walks in LA, they just run for a more functional bit of fresh air.

–

I like to think of myself as someone fairly normal. Then a morning like this happens where I’ve slept for 24 hours (literally) as a fuck-you-jet-lag gesture, and now I’m up at eight cleaning and servicing the old coffee machine that previous tenants left in the apartment because I’m THAT DESPERATE for a cup of coffee. So maybe normal isn’t the right word.

On the other hand, successfully took the thing apart, made a coffee filter out of paper towels, and the brewing is nearly done. No major problems so far. Hell yeah.

Housemate is just on her way out the door to work. She’s a radio host, which is actually kind of awesome. Had I not been sleeping, I could have scored some tickets to the Imogen Heap gig here last night. Time to investigate whether I can fill my nights with live music for the following months. I’ll check in with her about what her deals might be with tickets, and get a rough schedule together for the next update.

Since I’m up and on the time zone, time to finish unpacking, set up my desk, start doing some writing today. People have asked about pictures – I have a out $6 to my name right now, but I’ll look into how much disposables are out here. Maybe come Friday when a small bit of cash flows in. Then photos of Americana.

Until then…

Arrival and Bearings

This post is starting as I sit on the coach from Los Angeles Union Station to Santa Barbara, my final destination. It has been a long twenty hours. And there’s still a couple more to go. But I’m sitting down, and this is wonderful.

First thing anyone said to me here was that I look like a movie star. Well, apart from the woman at customs who told me to take her more seriously. This either means that people in LA have amazing abilities of perception, or are all liars and looking to prey on any slight sense of ego I might have. Question intentionally left unanswered.

I had a great plan to take a shuttle from the airport down to SB. There wasn’t really any problem with that. but a stranger on the plane suggested I take the Amtrak instead. At the time it seemed like good advice because he was a local. On reflection he was still, importantly, a stranger on a plane. Things could have ended worse, but still, sitting in the heart of downtown LA, at a deserted coach station, with all my worldly possessions in two suitcases, gripped by ‘The Fear’ from the sleep deprivation… Not so good man.

But anyway, off the plane, and I whistled for a cab and when it came near the license plate said ‘FRESH’ and there were dice in the mirror. I didn’t pass comment, and he took me to the station without complaint.

Through no fault of my own, I wear jackets and speak with a Richard Curtis-esque British accent. This earns me no end of scorn from the proto-humans that staff coach stations and newsagents in the UK. Here on the other hand, they love it. I’ve managed to knock twenty dollars off a taxi fair through being British already. And I’ve been in this city for two hours. There’s nothing wrong with a colonial attitude when dealing with North Americans.

Side note – they do not get the sarcasm. I joked while buying the coach ticket that I walked five miles every day in the snow to get to lectures in England. The woman told me about a Segway equipped for extreme cold I should consider. I promised her I’d look into it. Bless.

If Oxford is eccentric then LA is crazed. There was a Clown walking next to me through the bus station. A Clown. Carrying a menagerie of balloon animals, sticking out of his bags and from under his arms. He’s not in my coach now. I’m sort of disappointed. Although, now that I think about it, maybe spending four hours driving down highways with Pennywise the Clown riding shotgun wouldn’t be all that… Still, his commitment was amazing. Polka dotted suitcases and everything. He waved and squeaked and shook balloon creatures at people when they waved to him. Only in LA.

I’m still at that stage when I’m amused and fascinated by everything in equal measure. For example, I just saw a seven eleven driving through Venice. I find that to be awesome. Streets are wide, the buildings are low rise, and all the windows are tinted, strengthening my belief that downtown LA is a little like a sunny version of ‘The Wire’.

I’m going to people watch for the next two hours. And listen to the first editors album because it does the whole moody city thing well. More when I finally get inside my house. Or when I find that my keys are for some reason inaccessible. Which I half expect. This has been too easy so far.

–

No Internet in the house. This post continues from a Starbucks someway up State St. State St is the hub of Santa Barbara, where the shops are. This feels like a city where the most important thing is where one goes to buy things. Not much in the way of bars from what I can see. But, so far I’ve counted Scientology, Catholic and Christian Science buildings. A good spread. I’m up early, unavoidable, with just five hours of sleep since… Well, a long time ago. None of this makes much sense yet to my sleep deprived brain. I’ll get used to it.

The city is crazy sunny. And crazy clean. Streets are full of men with machines scrubbing it all down.

Nothing is open this early. They will be soon. Need to get to an Apple store to get a charger. And an AT&T for a phone. English phone isn’t even trying to make a connection to an American network. Which is just laziness.

So many coffee shops. Caffeine addiction can be fed easily enough while I’m here.

Apartment is beautiful. Empty, but beautiful. My room is huge, compared to the Oxford life, which is nice. Mattress on the floor, a couple of huge wooden chairs which make for shelves at the moment, a big desk, all east facing for the sunrise. One of the girl-housemates arrives later today. They keep a good house. Very lucky.

Reading Aldous Huxley with a cup of (too hot) Earl Grey. It’s the life, right? Going to try and find a way to post this from the Apple store or failing that a cafe with some wifi. Starbucks gets it in two weeks. And there’s one of the corner of my block, so that’ll be easy.

Also poetry classes are on at the public library. I’m totally getting in on that. Six week course in poetic composition – couldn’t hurt to learn some basics, amirite?

–

Still haven’t found Internet. Or a charger. This is getting tenuous. About three miles and counting on a walk away from town. Blistering heat. I am an idiot sometimes. Still,, walking through sunshine in beautiful foothills of Southern California; there are worse mistakes I could have made.

Sitting in the shade next to the Old Mission Catholic Church. It’s big. Museum and everything. Service starts I think in about an hour or something. Figure I may as well rest here and catch up on reading. Tourist families are around, so it must be of some renown? It’s not the Oratory, but it’s ok. I guess. No Latin Mass. Disapprove.

It’s eleven. Find this fucking AT&T shop, get a phone, and then walk another four miles back into town. And, as a tentative plan after that, enjoy a couple of hours of heat stroke delirium and wonder why I spent thirty dollars on a french press and some coffee rather than buy food or something of use.

Yes.

At least the sun is shining?

–

So think i have this figured out. No one walks in Santa Barbara. And so, when someone tells you the AT&T shop is a couple of miles away, he dans an amount that would be trivial for someone driving. Walking on the other hand, totally different matter.

–

So I made it there and back. Seven miles of sunshine… Met a beautiful girl working in a Smoke Shop. These things are way more common here. Plazas of drug paraphernalia. It’s a bad time to have given up smoking apparently. Beautiful Drug Girl looked up this place for me and wrote out directions. She even gave me a peace sign on my way out – this state is amazing.

Survived, bought a phone, got an adaptor for the iPad, toiletries. An hour there and an hour back. All this place needs is a kettle and then it’s home away from home. I feel like there should be an American alternative word for kettle. It feels too British. I don’t know how to broach that question.

Anything else happen that needs pointing out…?

Got contact details for some youth group tied into the church. So that could work. Some twenty something girl working there suggested that as a starting point. Also maybe doing a course in memoir writing, as a non-fiction exercise. Two courses like that already and I haven’t even looked into it properly yet. Promising.

Possible sunburn. Maybe.

So after a day, immediate thoughts?

Travel is easier and more rewarding when you’re British.

Americans are always up for conversation, are good at it, and smarter than usually given credit for. Until they have kids, when they immediately become identical overweight middle-aged hard-of-thinking mouth-breathers.

This is a nation of beautiful people. We make too big a deal about their actions in global conflict. We should be far more concerned about what would happen if they stopped letting their pretty folk abroad.

For now, to drink, and then to sleep, and then to wake up restless and see what this place looks like at rush hour. Away!