On Sharkitecture

I thought it might be a good idea at this point in our story to provide at least a cursory explanation of the term "Sharkitecture," which has become something of a rubric for most of my public activities. The real credit for the term goes to Greg Gaul (aka Business Fucking Casual), formerly of Sugarquief. From there, it took on a life of its own. There was first the observation by Jacob Shapiro that one of the few redeeming features of Robert Venturi's Frist Campus Center at Princeton University is the large shark that hangs from the ceiling and is visible through the glass south facade. Such a non sequitur is, as far as we are concerned, a validation of postmodern architecture seldom realized in built form.

But more than this, the shark is a fitting mascot for architecture in general. For one, it is a creature that has existed happily for millions of years, with no natural predators to challenge it. I have also heard that no shark has ever died of natural causes -- hence its potential in cancer and Alzheimer’s research. If we are to accept some kind of "intelligent design" principle as a convenient alternative to evolution, the shark again must stand out as proof of this mysterious theory. One might find here, also, a certain parallel to the world of architecture. After all, for all of our nitpicking and proselytizing, the essential composition of building technology has changed hardly at all since the dawn of time: prop up a few logs and cover them with rough-hewn beams, and by any other name you have made yourself some architecture.

And so it is that sharkitecture has become more than merely a lament. It is now an acknowledgement of the organic -- not merely the curvy, but also the intrinsically alive -- in architecture. This is to say that a building, left to its own devices, might choose to eat you. Moreover, no building has ever succumbed to a purely natural death. (This is a debatable point, but surely one worth debating.)

As of this writing, the only official use of "Sharkitecture" in the business world can be found here, as part of the marketing hoopla associated with a particular line of computer racks. I challenge the manufacturer of this product to do justice to the word they are currently using without comprehending its real meaning.

So, the next time you find yourself gazing in awe at a particularly fierce piece of metal, or staring into the jaws of a ravenous pile of bricks, I suggest you count your blessings. The sharkitecture will not attack unless provoked, or led to believe it sees a surfer. Keep the waters free of chum, and you will escape with all your limbs intact.

Allez, Cuisine

The basic premise of "Iron Chef" is simple enough: each week a challenger from a top restaurant in Japan is brought into Kitchen Stadium and given his choice of the three iron chefs. These are Iron Chef French Hiroyuki Sakai, I.C. Japanese Masaharu Morimoto, and I.C. Chinese Chen Kenichi (for a while there was an I.C. Italian, but no one ever seemed to pick him).

The ringleader of this affair -- and the only person on the show whose dialogue is subtitled and not dubbed -- is Chairman Kaga, a sort of baroque industrialist vampire who appears in the opening montage biting into a raw bell pepper and grinning mischievously. According to the show's premise, Kaga came up with the idea for the show himself, and immediately set about building his Kitchen Stadium. But now that there is an inferior American version of the show hosted by a man who claims to be Kaga's nephew, it seems increasingly likely that both of them are merely actors.

Now, once the challenger has chosen his adversary, Kaga unveils the theme ingredient for the battle. Both competitors then have one hour to prepare several dishes that "articulate" the theme ingredient. Most of the time each chef prepares between four and six dishes. At the conclusion of the hour, a panel of four "expert" judges taste each dish and offer comments. They then fill out a scorecard, and whoever comes out on top is the winner. Nine times out of ten, the Iron Chef is victorious.

The most entertaining part of the show, however, is the running commentary, dubbed into English for American audiences. When it is unclear what ingredients a chef is using or where he is headed with a particular dish, a correspondent on the kitchen floor finds out what he can and reports back to the booth, yelling the name of the play-by-play announcer each time by way of introducing his comments. Clearly, the American actors who sit down each week to recite their dubbed lines are masters of nuance. Every laugh, intonation and pun is rendered perfectly in goofy English, making the experience all the more enjoyable.

A typical exchange between the commentators might go something like this:

"Look at Iron Chef Sakai peeling that apple! I've never seen someone do it that fast."

"Well, you know if I tried that there would be blood all over the place."

"Heh, heh, heh -- No blood in my dessert, please, thank you very much. Okay, now let's check in on the challenger's side..."

(etc.)

As I mentioned last week, it is nearly impossible to learn anything about cooking from the Iron Chefs, given that the theme ingredient is as likely to be squid or truffles as it is to be pears or eggs. But it is worth paying special attention to the way the chefs present their dishes. Regardless of the regional "style" of the chef, the dishes are served in a variety of inventive and aesthetically pleasing ways -- in bowls made on the spot from horizontal bamboo stalks, tied to cedar planks, or wrapped in leaves and buried in hot gravel.

On this matter -- presentation -- it is worth mentioning also that the current "Iron Chef America" is by no means the first time the Food Network has attempted such a show. I recall several years ago a pilot episode for a show of the same name in which Todd English was among the Iron Chefs. The food he cooked didn't look especially elegant or unusual -- I seem to recall cornbread or something along those lines -- but when it came time to plate his dishes, he stuck sparklers in each one and lit them just as the clock expired. The crowd went absolutely wild, but the show didn't return until this year, and Todd English was gone.

Finally, the music for "Iron Chef," as I recently learned when scrutinizing the credits more carefully, is from the movie "Backdraft," starring Kurt Russell and William Baldwin. It provides just the extra dash of pomp and circumstance that the show requires. And while Chairman Kaga might not really be the visionary he plays on TV, he is welcome in my kitchen any day of the week. I am only disappointed that he seems not to be much of a baseball fan; on a recent episode, in which the manager of the Seibu Lions was among the celebrity judges, Kaga actually became visibly irritated when the judges were talking more baseball than food at the table.

BAM!

These days, I find myself groping for ways to keep myself occupied. Indeed, it was this very impulse that led to the creation of this blog in the first place. For wont of a job, I have found a suitable diversion in learning how to cook.

There are two television shows that have been especially helpful in this endeavor. The first is "Iron Chef," which is probably the best show on TV. I refer not to the hackneyed and trumped up "Iron Chef America," but the original and far more serious Japanese version. But it is rare that I find myself with 300 lbs. of lobster or caviar, so it really isn't terribly practical as a learning tool. From time to time I might learn something about an unusual kitchen gadget or obscure appliance, but mostly I just enjoy the (dubbed) running commentary and inventive dishes served up by the Iron Chefs and their seldom-victorious challengers.

The other show, of course, is "Emeril Live." Serious chefs will no doubt scoff at the notion that one could learn anything truly useful from Emeril, but for simplicity, economy of ingredients, and the laissez-faire attitude toward measurements, his style is perfect for a burgeoning bachelor chef.

Emeril's most endearing quality is his dogmatic use of key catchphrases, which I will now list here:

1. BAM!
2. Kick it up a notch!
3. Then add, like, 30 cloves of garlic
4. I don't know where you get your [foodstuffs], but where I get mine they don't come seasoned
5. When we come back, another notch!
6. It's too bad you people at home can't smell this. You should call your cable company and ask for smell-o-vision
7. Oh yeah, babe
8. Happy, happy

There are certainly others, but these eight are used without fail, and usually several times each, in every episode. There is also, of course, the playful banter between Emeril and Doc Gibbs, whose band is always at the ready to provide brief musical riffs before and after commercial breaks and even the occasional sound effect.

I have been convinced for some time that Emeril himself is several sheets to the wind during the taping of each show, and this fact was all but confirmed during a recent episode when he allowed the cameras to see the interior of the large refrigerator on the set. It was filled with about a dozen bottles of cheap white wine, several dozen cans of Coca-cola, and a case of what appeared to be Newcastle beer. Such an arsenal hardly seems necessary for Emeril's cooking; when he does use alcohol, he tends to prefer whiskey, rum, or sherry. I wouldn't be surprised if he took the occasional open swig of these spirits during Doc Gibbs' commercial-break jam sessions, to the whoops and hollers of his always approving studio audience.

As far as the cooking goes, I have reservations about Emeril's excessive use of his "essence" (a blend of Cajun spices sold in supermarkets under his name) and his self-consciously nonchalant presentation flare. He also seldom strays very far from the so-called trinity of Northern Italian cooking (celery, onion and bell pepper), which is odd considering that his specialty is nouveau Cajun cuisine. But for the casual cook, simplicity and economy are desirable. At the very least, Emeril provides a solid foundation from which more artful elaboration is welcome.

In conclusion, Emeril might not hold a candle to the proven masters of "Iron Chef," like Masaharu Morimoto, but he certainly has achieved a loyal fan base (the studio audience obediently cheers at every mention of garlic, hot spices, or liquor) and a far-reaching and unquestionable influence on our culture. Back in November, the following exchange appeared on Overheard in New York:

Kid #1: Paper beats rock. BAM! Your rock is blowed up!
Kid #2: "Bam" doesn't blow up, "bam" makes it spicy. Now I got a SPICY ROCK! You can't defeat that!

--6 Train

Earlier generations had luminaries like Martin Yan, Jacques Pepin, and the late Julia Child. Emeril Lagasse might not quite fit into this pantheon, but he is a welcome alternative to other current media darlings like Ashlee Simpson, Brigitte Nielsen, and Fitness Celebrity John Basedow.

Stay tuned for my appraisal of “Iron Chef.”

One Tough Murthafurcker

Halfz has been talking about T-Model Ford and his Fat Possum associates ever since he met the man at a show in Cambridge, Mass. Today, I finally caught my first glimpse of T-Model in Mandy Stein's film "You See Me Laughin'" (2002). And while all of the artists profiled therein are both talented musicians and interesting characters, it was immediately apparent why John has always emphasized ol' T-Model above the others.

In by far the most troubling sequence of the film, T-Model relates the story of catching a beating from his father so severe that it left him with one of his testicles hanging loose outside of its rightful place. Upsetting as his description is, he ends the tale by explaining, "That's about the only thing wrong with me."

Throughout the 75-minute documentary, the music of the bluesmen speaks for itself. Especially thrilling was the black and white footage of R.L. Burnside playing a juke joint in 1971, when he had a full head of teeth and had just begun playing. But I will leave the music criticism to Halfz; for me, the Delta blues really came alive through the stories -- and life philosophy -- of the artists.

T-Model, for instance, when asked by his producers when he had last visited a doctor, pointed out, "Sometimes you go in the hospital and come out, sometimes you don't. I'll take my chances." In a similar sequence, Burnside threatened to miss a scheduled appearance in Denver so he could sort out his disability payments with local authorities. When asked how much he was owed, he explained that he was being shortchanged on his monthly payment of $111 by $40. Faced with the fact that this amount paled in comparison to his earnings from tour appearances, he was unmoved. It was the principle of the thing that mattered to him.

There was plenty of compelling material along these lines, as well as hints of both T-Model and R.L.'s shadowy pasts (both were jailed for killing men, but neither served out his full sentence). But perhaps the most interesting issue of all has to do with the unpleasant subject of money, and specifically the general assumption among black musicians that a white-owned record label created to distribute their music was necessarily going to exploit them.

In this dimension, I was reminded of the story of the late Samuel Mockbee's early efforts with his Rural Studio Program (at Auburn U.), in Newbern, Alabama. When he approached the first of many dilapidated homes he found there and asked its elderly occupant if he would like the architect to build him a new one, the man replied, "No, I'm not taking one of those today," as though he were dismissing a door-to-door salesman. It took some convincing before Mockbee succeeded in getting the ball rolling. Even once the house had been rebuilt (free of charge), its owner told Mike Wallace that he was dismayed that his new digs were not wolf-proof (as Wallace looked on with great confusion, the man demonstrated how a wolf that had gained entry to the house could quickly corner him with no escape route).

In any case, there is a very fine line between charity and profit -- even Mockbee was, in a sense, exploiting the need for decent housing for the benefit of his students, much as Fat Possum "exploits" its artists for the benefit of the music-buying public. But either way, real lives are affected for the better. While it might not be the style of black men in the deep south to become overly grateful for their good fortune, when it comes, nor should it be expected of them by those who take an interest in somehow improving their lot.

And this is, in a peculiar way, the essence of the blues, at least as I see it. Without going overboard, I think it is fair to say that what links the efforts of the Rural Studio in architecture and Fat Possum Records in music is the seeming indifference -- but underlying joy -- of the people they touch. In either case, there is the threat that racial misconceptions will darken that joy, and that a genuine interest and desire to help will be seen as thinly veiled greed. But as dark as the blues can be, it is the undercurrent of joy that makes the music so compelling.

After all, when things have always been bad, but never apocalyptic, there is little sense in reacting too viscerally when things start to improve.

What Else Can I Say?

Even the East Tennessee Bucs were involved in tonight’s story.

This evening's post requires layer upon layer of explanation. It would do well to explain outright that I returned, perhaps against my better judgment, to Brooklyn Social, if only to receive Mr. and Ms. Halfz.

The night went more or less as expected, until the Halfzes retired. Thereupon I found myself offering my own room for rent to the girls basketball coach from my high school, and was accosted by a girl who insisted she was merely allowing her "friend" to cavort freely with a female. This would have been but a minor development, until it emerged that she, in turn, was the roommate of the boyfriend of... my very best friend from my college days (and also the author of You're Okay.)

All of these matters are, as my readers must surely agree, extremely delicate. The timing was key; Halfzie and his missus witnessed naught. But it should at least be pointed out that the chances of finding one's best friend's boyfriend's roommate at a Brooklyn bar approach 1 in 4,000,000.

The same chances now confront me, at least when it comes to finding a job. So, in conclusion, I offer only this: if you or yours happens to be aware of a job opportunity in the D.C. area for a bright-eyed and optimistic Ivy leaguer, do not hesitate to keep me well advised. We can't all man the bar with the heft of Maine's substantial real estate juggernot to back us up.

Ya heard?

One Wall Standing

Last night I found myself at a Ludlow St. bar to listen to The Pearl, the fledgling band of a high school friend. While the music was quite good, the same cannot be said for the bar itself, if only because of the conversation I witnessed, around 1 AM, between the bartender and a drunken but earnest barfly.

It quickly emerged that the bartender was a native of Maine, and his patron was exploring the possibility of buying a piece of property there.

"I talked to an architect friend of mine, and she said the way to go is to buy just an absolute shit house on a big property."

The bartender, who had just paid the band a whopping $35 for their set, was remarkably interested in the course the conversation seemed to be taking.

"A fixer-upper?" he asked, with the approximate demeanor (and appearance) of a third grade teacher at a particularly progressive elementary school.

"No. No. Worse. I'm talking about a total piece of shit. Because that way, you just tear it down, and you have all of the utilities and shit in place."

I was somewhat startled to realize that he was absolutely right. The bartender, however, was quick to add his own insight.

"Well, in Maine we have the 'one wall standing' law. Basically, it means you have to leave at least one wall standing, and build a whole new house around it. Then when you're finished you just tear it down at the end."

This seemed a bit perplexing, but my knowledge of Maine's legal system is admittedly limited. The barfly, however, was enthralled.

"Really? That's very interesting. I didn't even know that shit. New York doesn't have anything like that."

For a while, my interest in the exchange waned, as a third party joined in and I was distracted by other goings on. But my attention was caught anew as the real estate speculator roused himself to leave.

"Well, ask your dad what 50 grand would buy me," he advised the bartender. "Because I fucking hate New York. Hate everything about it."

With these last words, as he stood up, he leered menacingly in my direction, as if to indicate an example of the things he hated so much about the city.

Now, I'm a fairly good sport in most situations, but I couldn't help seeing a certain irony here. If New York is awful, it is very likely because of all of the hipster nerds from Maine who tend bar on the Lower East Side and offer advice to people who want absolutely nothing to do with the city in which they ostensibly live.

If I ran a bar, I could see little profit in commiserating with sociopaths bent on moving to the woods -- even if I came from such a place myself. The real kicker was the way the bartender went about his business with such a cool, self-assured attitude, only to turn around and offer provincial advice to a drunken lunatic. In my experience, it is desirable to treat such people with a certain detached bemusedness -- one needn't be rude or dismissive, but only a real charlatan would react as though speaking to a potential employer or family friend.

One must pick one's battles, I suppose, even within spitting distance of the Five Points.

Dirty Burt!

Today's post will (hopefully) shed further light on the mysteries of the Chinatown bus. Once again, Vamoose left me hanging. This time, however, I was able to make it to 7th & Eye in plenty of time to catch the 9:30 Today's Bus. On the way, I passed another bus -- ostensibly owned by Paragon Tours -- parked beside the old D.C. Convention Center, which is currently being demolished by an impressive array of equipment. The driver was busying himself by cleaning off a message that had been written in the grime on the back of the bus, and which read "Dirty Burt!"

His haste indicated that he could not read the phrase; his use of a pink index card as a cleaning tool seemed to confirm that he thought it to be some kind of obscenity. I considered asking him when he would next be departing for New York, but realized I still had eight minutes to make it to Today's. It wouldn't have mattered anyway -- despite the "Paragon" livery, I soon learned that he was employed by Today's and was likely scheduled to drive the 11:45 bus.

Despite the abundance of buses (well, two, counting the one I passed and the one parked on Eye Street), the 9:30 bus and its driver were, for once, delayed. I felt at least partly vindicated for the two previous occasions when I found myself chasing the bus down 6th Street at 9:27. When the bus did arrive, it also bore the name Paragon Tours on its side. So much for logic and brand consistency in the dog-eat-dog world of gray market transportation.

Surprisingly, the driver spoke excellent English and saw fit to make two brief announcements before departure: first, the ride would take between four and four-and-a-half hours, traffic permitting, and, second, the lavatory lid must be closed to prevent offensive odors, seeing as it is merely a container and not really a working plumbing assembly. Seemed simple enough.

At any rate, I have little to report other than my newfound confidence in Today's Bus. While no films are shown, the buses are run with dizzying efficiency. When we arrived in New York, the driver was kind enough to point out that traffic might prevent a timely arrival on East Broadway, and recommended that customers pressed for time disembark near City Hall instead. I had grown not to expect such helpful hints in the past, but I was encouraged by what I experienced today.

Sadly, there is no such encouragement when it comes to employment prospects down in the District. It seems that most firms where I might be likely to seek a job offer little or no pay. There is, of course, no sin worse than self-pity, but it is difficult to keep one's spirits high when a small weekly stipend begins to look like a king's ransom.

And while D.C. has plenty to recommend it, I share in Halfzie's astonishment at its citizens' apparent inability -- or unwillingness -- to shovel their sidewalks in a timely fashion. Last month's snowstorm left about three inches in Washington, and only about one in ten residents took it upon themselves to clear a path. Meanwhile, New York got about 18 inches, most of which had been cleared away within 24 hours.

By now, of course, the snow has melted and is no longer a concern. But I suppose there is little to be gained by lamenting such inattention in a city where the water service was interrupted twice in the past two weeks, for several hours and without any notice, so that DCWASA could perform routine maintenance. So much for fair warning.

Goldie Lookin' Chain

It is indeed rare that a suitably obscure or noteworthy musical act catches my attention, but GLC has done just that. Lest you worry that I am some kind of music snob, I should mention that I make it a point never to actively seek out such material -- I prefer to let it find me. My mother has just returned from a trip to Wales, and given her uncanny understanding of my cultural tastes she brought with her GLC's self-produced compilation "You Knows It Vol. 3." (She explained that should would have bought me their newer studio album, but was unable to find it.)

The CD cover alone looked promising enough, but a quick google search confirmed my first suspicions about the authenticity of the group. Their website is, remarkably enough, one of the best flash sites I have ever seen, with plenty of diversions to entertain any visitor.

I have heard other Welsh hip-hop, but only in Welsh -- a language I cannot understand, nor imagine understanding, due to the high occurence of "l"s and "y"s. GLC, thankfully, performs in English, making an honest appraisal of their lyrics a great deal easier.

Properly speaking, I'm not sure I would call their music hip-hop, but I am hard pressed to identify a more suitable genre. Certainly some tracks would qualify, like the aptly named "Sexy Ladies," which involves lyrics like "I wanna touch your tits, I wanna touch your bum, I wanna touch your sister, I'm gonna touch your mum." Now, if that's not the essence of rap music, I don't know what is.

As I write this, I am only half way through the album, and enjoying each track more than the last. Good ol' W. is about to tell us what country we will be invading next, and common sense dictates that I pay attention. However, expect more information on Goldie Lookin' Chain to follow soon.

UPDATE, 10:15 PM -- So no countries were named, but apparently Laura will be taking on gangs. I don't know how good her chances are.

Running "The Gauntlet"

A week has passed without an article to satisfy those of you who eagerly await the arrival of the Mister Sketchee truck every day. I have been hurriedly trying to find employment in D.C., and sadly without internet access for much of the week. To atone for my lethargy, I offer an expanded, action-packed evening to begin what promises to be a full week.

First off, my meanderings in the District left ample time for consultation with Mr. Halfz. Fans of his will no doubt have seen my explanation (circuitous as it was) of the Mr. S. moniker. I was promptly chastised by the Editor in Chief for linking to this communist rag, but the transgression was necessary for readers to comprehend the reference to "NOISE," though I suppose in the context of the story a lowercase rendition of that word would have sufficed.

At any rate, John and I were able to put such matters behind us quickly, as I tucked in to my Jerk Chicken and he his Goat meat; I'm not sure of the name of the Columbia Heights restaurant where we found these items, but I'm certain he would be able to furnish it readily. Soon after our meal, we set about recreating our entire high school basketball team in ESPN NBA 2005. This will seem to the uninitiated perhaps a somewhat ludicrous and self-indulgent task, but the thrill of assigning each player's attributes (hairstyle, body type, sock length, accoutrements, etc.) was nearly too hilarious for either of us to bear.

To explain: some of our former teammates were rendered with near-perfect accuracy, the only remarkable difference between their digital and 17-year-old selves being about three or four inches of height each. Others, however, were made into unlikely caricatures of what we imagined they might look like now, half a decade later. Many sported gaudy tattoos and comically improbable sneakers or protective goggles. While a full rundown of all the players would be tedious indeed, I recommend that you imagine performing a similar exercise with a sports team of your youth, or even a particularly memorable math or tap-dance class.

Unfortunately, many of the more elaborate hairdos could not be correctly rendered onscreen during regular gameplay, appearing as they should only in close-up views and replays. The digital version of me, for example, was designed to wear a Steve Nash-style, sweaty vampire 'do, but appeared instead to have a large afro from most angles. One of our power forwards was styled after a 10-year old version of himself, with an enormous flattop; unfortunately, it appeared short-cropped most of the time, as it had when he played for our team.

I will spare you the details of how the ensuing 29-game season has been playing out. Suffice it to say that the Steamer Fever is back, and everyone is catching it. And the day's activity was recounted merrily of the evening, at Mr. H's favorite haunt, Ghana Cafe. I can now join him in extolling the virtues of the place, and especially its delightful owner, Tony. More visits can surely be expected in the near future.

And here comes the first of what are sure to be several awkward transitions in this story (and those that will follow)... Those of you who are learning of fashionable D.C. nightlife and cuisine through either this site or our friendly neighbor but live in the NYC area need not curse the unreasonably high train fare. An array of independent bus companies offer daily service in both directions (there are also regular departures for Boston, Philadelphia, and various Indian territories).

Now, since many of my friends know of my frequent travel on the eastern seaboard I am often asked about the merits of these bus lines, which are generally referred to generically as "The Chinatown Bus." Seasoned travelers will recognize this as an inadequately precise and rather whimsical name for the various firms involved. There are, after all, at least four major D.C. routes alone: Dragon Coach, Today's Bus, Vamoose, and Eastern. (All ticket, route, and schedule information is available at ivymedia.com.)

All of these, save Vamoose, travel from Chinatown N.Y. (arriving and departing along East Broadway under the Manhattan Bridge) to Chinatown D.C. (7th & H, 6th & Eye). The Vamoose buses leave N.Y. from the 32nd Street side of Penn Station/Madison Square Garden (at 8th Avenue) and return to 42nd Street (at 7th); the same buses use 14th between H & Eye as their D.C. hub. As of this writing, all of the companies charge $20 one-way, $35 roundtrip.

As for the quality of each of these services, Vamoose wins on both comfort and reliability (although today I found that the morning D.C. departure had been cancelled, much to my dismay). During one week, I was able to see the film "13 Going on 30" three times. At other times, the driver who identifies himself over the loudspeaker only as "Jones" introduces more adventurous titles, which have included "Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse" and "A Few Good Men" (on Jones' bus, a military tone pervades, but this extends also to the punctuality of his runs). All in all, the experience is pleasant regardless of the card of movies, and is crowded generally only on Friday and Sunday evenings.

The rest of the services -- those more aptly called "Chinatown" buses per se -- range from marginally acceptable to utterly terrible. It is not uncommon on any of these lines to witness the driver making random roadside stops to discharge or pick up passengers. Today's Bus (which I rode today, making this tale particularly intricate) made an unscheduled call at its stop in Philadelphia, only to drive along local streets nearly 20 miles into New Jersey, at one point stopping on an exit ramp so the driver could answer a passing man's question. If he was asking about the price -- I don't speak Cantonese, so I couldn't tell -- he was unsatisfied with the answer and he continued on his way, in an area with no sidewalk whatsoever.

Similar experiences are sure to be found on any of the other Chinatown buses: The late 1970s vintage of the coaches, the rare and seldom convenient rest stops, and the fantastically bad smells are traits common to all of them. (Vamoose always stops, and always at the same rest area, giving a hint of sanity to the trip.)

Before I drone on for too long, I should take just a moment to tie all of this information in to the above image, which is the poster art from Clint Eastwood's "The Gauntlet" (1977), one of the strangest films I have ever seen. Without giving a full synopsis, all I can say is that if I drove one of the D.C. buses, this is the movie I would show my passengers.