happy trails

In a thickly accented voice the deeply tanned man, except for his grey hair invisible in the dark recesses of Red’s Levee Bar in Catahoula, asked us if we had ever seen an asshole wrapped in plastic. Already giggling from the whole situation we obviously answered no and then he immediately turned to the old fellow next to him and asked for his driver’s license. We laughed aloud and then, in keeping with the way people talk around here, he repeated the joke and then explained it. He bought us beers. I fetched cigars from the car and gave one out to our friend who lapsed between French and English like it was all one big language and another younger fellow nearer to us who spoke so slowly that we were thankful that the bartender was able to translate for us. Her deeply lined face with its kind eyes would remark caustically to something the man would say, repeat his utterance, though not really for our benefit, and we’d finally understand. The younger man was aglow over the cigar and looked at the label and thanked me more than twice.

The bartender wore a sleeveless house dress that boasted a bold red flower motif and after we ordered our first beer she looked at us and said to us, “I don’t know you. I haven’t met you,” in a voice that sounded slightly disappointed. It felt as if she were able to remember every single person that would grace her teetering bar that was set on a corner of a country road, the levee on one side and a field of sugarcane on the other. We told her our names and explained where we were from and were then forever committed to her internal guest register and that was it! Suddenly we were the highlight of the day for the five people in Red’s, although throughout the fun Janet and I were poking each other in the ribs and giggling because this was the highlight of our day as well. We were having so much fun on this trip. This is what we wanted, this is why we came to Louisiana after all; to immerse ourselves in the culture and food and music, to hear the voices and smell the food and tap our feet in time to the “French Music” and Zydeco. But, I knew this soiree would quickly evolve into more carousing than we were prepared for, especially when a younger woman, wearing hospital scrubs entered Red’s and immediately wanted to buy us beers. She playfully cussed up a storm at the old guys at the bar and called them pedophiles as they pawed at her when she came and then pointed her finger at us and asked what we wanted. The old man who was the butt of the other man’s jokes also tried to buy us beers. But, I begged off them all, apologized profusely, produced a twenty and whispered to the bartender that she was to buy everyone who wanted one a beer and then keep the rest for herself, before bidding all an adieu.
Outside we laughed at Janet’s joyful find. It was after all her choice to stop at Red’s Levee Bar. We turned off the road that skirted the levee and saw Red's with it's door wide open and Janet said that we HAVE to go in for one beer. We could have stayed a lot longer.

We were in the middle of an unplanned day today that was the most delightful of our days so far in Louisiana. We ate at Prejean’s for breakfast, got on that day’s evening local newscast when a cameraman shot some B-roll inside the Lafayette visitor center while we were there (luckily we ducked out of Red’s Levee Bar before that story came on the television or else they would have drugged out the moonshine in our honor…). We went to the Jean Lafitte National Historical Park and saw a couple of films; one was about the history of the Cajun people. We drove to Breaux Bridge to walk around, take some pictures and a cup of coffee and to pick up an “I Love Jake Delhomme” sign at the Breaux Bridge visitor’s center. Delhomme, quarterback of the Carolina Panthers, lives down on LA94, a mile past Mulate’s. Janet posed for a picture with our wonderful poster outside of Red’s. We had a quick lunch at Pat’s Fisherman’s wharf Restaurant along a bayou in Henderson and ended our drive by tooling through St. Martinsville, the place where Longfellow set his epic poem Evangeline. As we stopped at the famed Evangeline Oak, Janet insisted on reciting the prelude of the poem and wished Mr. O’Connor, her 7th Grade English teacher, was on hand to witness this recitation.

We did not eat an official dinner that night. Instead we went to hear some Janet music. I say “Janet Music,” but I’m quickly adopting it as well. The Thrift Store Cowboys, a group out of Lubbock, Texas, were playing at the Blue Moon Guest House on Convent Street in Lafayette. The stage was set on the back porch of this house and the group, now down to just two members for this particular trip because one had a conflict with work and the other had a cyst on their leg that needed attention, played their country music with guitars and accordions. We got “dinner” by fetching some red beans and rice from a crock pot on the side of the stage and swilled Abita beers beneath walls decorated with road signs and graffiti. We marveled at our luck yet again at this find and Janet murmured that she wished her daughter, Charlotte, and Casey, her friend, were here to soak this all up.

After the Thrift Store Cowboys were done they mingled in the very small crowd at the Blue Moon and we clapped them on the back and bought their CD. We did not want this day to end so we drove around the streets of Lafayette smoking and listening to the Thrift Store Cowboys. Several times we drove down the “new Bourbon Street” as the lady at the visitor center called Rue Jefferson, to pass the many vibrant bars that are set side by side here before steering the car to our home for the night….

Hey.. if you like (or hate) what you’re reading, leave a comment. We’d love to hear about it.
You can always drop us an email too….
Greg’s email is: greg.dunaj@yahoo.com

Janet’s email is: jalemarsh@gmail.com


Happy trails
-greg

smoked tasso and sweet potato pies

The culinary highlight of the trip so far has been Prejean’s Restaurant in Lafayette. It was after all the main reason why we have gone on this trip. We have been going to the Crawfish Festival for years and we met Terryl Jackson this year as he ladled out Pheasant, Duck and Andouille Sausage gumbo. He is the executive chef at Prejean’s and this affable man had his picture and his awards all on display at the entrance to this expansive restaurant. Every taste of every dish we had last night was better than the last. Janet started out with an appetizer that was called Sassafras Shrimp. Grilled, stuffed with Jack Cheese covered by apple smoked bacon, fried and then smothered in a crawfish creole sauce, this was a meal by itself. My lightly fried alligator bits, though tasty were absolutely pedestrian in comparison.

We asked our waiter if Mr. Jackson was in and eventually the man himself came to our table. Though he did not recognize us at first we showed him the business card he had given us at the Crawfish Festival and we talked for a long time about how he was so very impressed with so many people eating Crawfish Boil. He was delighted that we had traveled so far to eat in his restaurant and then he proceeded to tell us where else to eat, although his first bit of advice was to have us return to Prejean’s for breakfast.

So, we did.

Janet and I got up relatively early for ourselves and made Prejean’s for breakfast this morning. The vast hall of the restaurant was empty save for a small number of tables near the stuffed alligator on display near the front door. The idea was to split one dish, the Napoleon. It is a sweet potato cake and lump crab cake topped by a poached egg, shrimp, Hollandaise Sauce, smoked Tasso and dusted with cayenne pepper. I got some oat meal too, but we giggled as we ate this gourmet breakfast that Janet labeled as the best she had ever eaten and we waved at the web cam at all you poor folks at home who are unable to enjoy meals like these.

tee wally on the menu

Like slowing down on the highway to watch with morbid fascination a car accident, we stood as silent as the grave on the platform at bird city to witness a deadly confrontation. While snowy egrets, once endangered, squawked through a showy mating spectacle on the platforms far behind us, we watched as Tee Wally was being sized up for his own personal extinction by a huge biggun' gator. Perhaps the big fellow was just protecting his morsels of bread still waiting for his frightening array of teeth, or perhaps Tee Wally (Tee is the French/Cajun word for petit or junior) was a welcome addition of protein, but whatever the reason, Tee Wally was in danger.

It was very obvious. The big fellow, estimated to be around 7 feet long, had stopped being interested in floating near the platform set up by the McIlhenny Family of Tabasco hot sauce fame at Avery Island’s Bird City and took notice of the nearly imperceptible movements of an algae covered piece of wood that crept nearer to us. Janet and I after all, while safely ensconced behind the railings of the platform, were foolishly tossing bread into the water and felt our hair bristle with fear each time the big guy moved to snap up our offerings. Near the edge of the water was one crumb and he fully displayed his unnerving length in retrieving it before slipping back into the water to become another innocuous bump on a log bedecked with algae, albeit one who’s nostrils flared and who’s sinister looking eyes seemed unaware of anything.

But then Tee Wally invaded the big fellow’s realm and slowly, slowly, slowly the monstrous alligator moved. First he rinsed off the algae covering him by dipping into the water and then nosed his way toward Tee Wally (our pet name for the critter). The little guy had now completely stopped, his entire puny length outlined by the green growth of the lagoon. Tee Wally seemed to know the gig was up and he began to move one of his hind legs in the opposite direction of the behemoth just before all hell broke loose. In a flash and a cascade of water the huge alligator moved twice its length in a frightening display of speed and malevolence, but Tee thankfully was gone. With his little corner of the lagoon now freed of any distractions the beast settled once again beneath our little perch on the platform, perhaps praying that we’d be adventurous enough to want to get a bit closer.

Lured by the scents of Tabasco sauce wafting through the air we fearfully ventured down route 90 to Avery Island for a great excursion. It was our second day in the Lafayette area and we witnessed no less than 2 car accidents on the overburdened main route on the way down and resolved to avoid it on our return. After the Tabasco tour where we watched them bottle Tabasco for the Japanese market we settled in at the tasting bar in the country store. It wasn’t until security was called in and removed me and the straw that I employed to taste EVERYTHING that we ventured into the Jungle Island and Bird City part of The McIlhenny homestead. While others raced through the 200+ acreage of the cultivated property, home to several types of bamboo, an 800 year old Buddha, azaleas that sadly had turned green months ago, obviously frisky snowy egrets and, of course, gators. It was our first up close exposure to these critters and we soon discovered they liked day old LeJeune Bakery French bread.

More later...thanks for reading!
-greg

the rule of red and green gold

Every plant pointed out by Captain Tony had either a medicinal purpose, was edible or could be used in the capture of something edible, or was poisonous. One item was a knob on the side of some tree used by the Indians for alleviating toothaches. Another was a leaf, when crushed and rubbed against the skin, repelled mosquitoes. He pointed out a tiny vine that was used as a string and when fastened with some sort of leaf and some thorns it would be used to lure shrimp and fish for a meal, “if ya’ll stuck out here.” He pointed out bay leaves and the “knees” of bald cypress. He told the history of the logging industry in the swamps and how it took men earning 6 cents an hour over an hour to cut down the monstrous giants that he called “green gold.”

Captain Tony pointed out places on natural levees that he had camped over the years and proudly said he had every one of his children camping at this one idyllic spot beneath a “grow-back” cypress festooned with flowing Spanish Moss. Grow-back’s are bald cypress that the logging industry in the area either left behind because they were too small at the time or have begun to grow in the 80 years since the logging company took their massive profits and moved away.

Captain Tony is a “100% coon ass” or Cajun who has lived along the Bayou Black all his years and his Atchafalaya Basin Backwater Adventure Tour in Gibson, Louisiana was speckled with antidotes of his life on these waters. He warned us against bumping our heads on a wasp’s nest that hung from a tree just over the water and told us how one night while gigging frogs with a buddy he did whack one and they came after him. He said he was just wearing coveralls and no shirt, “on accounta the heat,” and the wasps got in under the bib of his coverall and in his panic slapped at them with a frog he had caught. He spoke about his son who had gone out one night to catch frogs himself and came home with a 3 foot alligator in a sack. He pointed out the Rule of Red for plants and said anything with this color was poisonous … with exceptions. He warned us not to touch bulrushes with their razor sharp leaves he offered us a taste of edible hyacinths, their delicate lemony taste and soft purple and yellow hues belying their ability to choke off the waterways if left unchecked. He pointed out the alligator off in the distance that was as afraid of us as we were of them, but he did not offer to feed them…as other tours do. Nor did he try to sing! Thankfully. No, Captain Tony was real and knowledgeable. This was not a “show” but a learning experience. Part of his excursion was through the Tiger Bayou which was pristine and primordial and labeled the most beautiful in Louisiana by the National Geographic. As we slipped through the water on our 3 hour tour… we were very much alone and we were in very good hands if the tiny ship was lost. Captain Tony had everything covered.

You can reach him at 985-575-2371.

Smelling of laurel and hyacinths Janet and I said good-bye to the Captain and then meandered our way along the coast. After a wonderful diversion down LA317 that ended at a windswept camping area right on the edge of the Gulf, and stopping at a riverboat casino to lose big; $3.00 in penny slots; we took the scenic byway LA182 that meandered through towns like Morgan City and Franklin (where the first Tarzan film was shot) and Jeanerette before ending our day’s journey in Lafayette. We did not eat that evening; instead we had filled up on a loaf of doughy and sweet bread at LeJeune’s Bakery in Jeanerette (www.lejeunesbakery.com). After we unpacked we drove a short distance to Breaux Bridge to listen to “French Music” at Mulate’s. The Cajun restaurant was decorated floor to ceiling with business cards and had winded old men draped over banisters because their wives wouldn’t stop dancing!

Thanks for reading…
-greg

a little slice of heaven

When I first started uttering that line, “A little slice of heaven,” to describe our new digs in Grand Isle, Louisiana, it was a sarcastic quip. Janet would laugh sharply and we’d giggle at the spartan accommodations at Ricky’s Motel and RV camp at 1899 Route 1 on Grand Isle, Louisiana. The entire place is set up on stilts and cars are parked beneath the rooms. There is a large open area set just off the highway and the rooms are arranged in a horseshoe shape. The Gulf of Mexico lies out of sight, across the highway and beyond sand dunes.

The main “sit-down” area is the RV camp and fishing pier that pushes out into Caminada Bay behind Ricky's establishment. Here, people gather in a communal boiling hut to make expansive meals of fish and shrimp and crawfish and chicken wings and trade stories about the fishing they’d done that day as little kids toss nets off the pier and repeatedly spit in the water, perhaps mimicking their dad’s (or mom’s) ploy for bringing good luck to the cast.

Further on down the pier is a cutting hut where people gather as fisherman fillet their fish and boast of the weight of their catch. Yesterday a man presided over a King Mackerel that he had caught earlier that day. It evidently was the largest landed that season in two states! And, he would happily repeat to anyone who asked the weight of his monstrous fish that now sagged over the sides of his wheelbarrel. (39.93 lbs...)

At the end of this hotbed of activity one can sit in halved blue barrels where even more fishermen idly cast into the water even as an incredible sunset bathes the sky. Last night as Janet and I settled in on these chairs to watch heat lightning from a thunderstorm far away north in the direction of the town of Golden Meadow, I felt like we did not belong here. We were after all occupying chairs meant for a fisherperson or crabber. We don’t fish. We don’t “birdwatch.” So why were we coming down here to Grand Isle, if not for either of these activities? We were asked that very question by the weathered men wearing baseball caps in Ricky’s main office. They eyed us suspiciously as we got our room key, their faces as lined as the aerial photograph of Grand Isle and the surrounding bayou country they had taped to the top of the office’s front desk. Crisscrossed by canals cut by the oil companies for their pipelines, the waterways looked like roads and the men looked as if they’d seen it all, but they had yet to see the likes of Janet and me. We’d come a long, long way to get to Grand Isle and we didn’t much do what the rest of the people do here. We were definitely not locals, our accents gave us away and given our lack of interest in things-that-are-important-in-Grand-Isle we just didn’t feel like we belonged here.

Perhaps this trip to Grand Isle, this little slice of heaven, was a big mistake.

But, after a day of quiet exploration we have a love of this beautiful island. If not for the fishing we would not have had conversations with some of the people here who were as curious of us as we were of how to gingerly handle Hardhead Catfish. New Jersey is a quite a very long way from here and every time I said that I’ve traveled here from my home it is met with astonishment… and awe.

If not for the fishing Janet and I would not been so lucky to see the fishing rodeo that was being held at a nearby pier (and scored some great Jambalaya and free beer) as the men in their team shirts stood around and listened with great pride over the prizes awarded for entry’s like Bull Redfish and Speckled Trout.

If not for the plentiful food the area readily gives up, Janet and I would not have had a meal of boiled crabs featuring the meatiest Blue Claws I have ever struggled with. At one point, as we got elbows deep in our meal of crabs and gumbo the man himself, Ricky, ambled over and remarked favorably on our meal. He asked if we had caught them ourselves and then named the place when we shyly said we didn’t have the tools to pluck these critters from the water. As we sat there in the boiling hut at one of the picnic tables, other families came in with their own pots and started boiling or frying their own meals. Soon every table was filled and we finally felt like we belonged at Ricky’s Motel and RV camp.

After a stroll on the beach we headed back to the pier once again and sat amongst the fishermen and their reels, though we were only armed with cigars and cigs. Soon we were enchanted by the tale of one fellow who worked on an offshore oil rig. We listened to the rigors of his job of working "on top of a bomb" and the loss of his French culture. He only spoke a word or two, his father, a police officer on the waterways a bit more, and his grandfather just a few words of English. We watched as he caught Hardhead Catfish and gingerly unhooked them so he wouldn’t get “stuck.” At one point a stranger walking by asked him what he was catching. “Hardhead," he drawled. “They’ll stick ya,” said the stranger.

Today we made for the beach at Oak Lane. There are public access points all along Route 1, but the woman at the welcome center said she liked this one the best because of the “nice walkway” over the dunes. So we went and plopped ourselves down in the fine brown sand and watched as a man walked in the water waist deep, his hand trailing along a string set up between two sticks in the water a dozen feet off shore. As he came to a knot in the string he slowly lifted it, placed a net beneath what was bait and caught a crab. He did this a number of times along the length of string before he reached the other stick, snaring half dozen crabs in the process. Janet and I applauded him when he turned for shore. He smiled at us.

Yeah, Grand Isle was a great place to visit.

This is my first post in a few days. Turns out Ricky's Motel and RV Camp had a wireless connection, but our computer is too old for their system and despite the repeated attempts by the man who set up the wireless we were unable to get on the internet. We are now in Houma, Louisiana after driving around quite a bit. We left Grand Isle this morning and drove north through what is left of Leeville, then Gold Meadow, Galliano, Cut Off and Larose before heading west and then south again to have a drink at the Co Co Marina in Cocodrie. We turned north again... for there was no more land south of Cocodrie.... and skirted Bayou Grand Calliou and passed through some remarklable salt marshes. The land is literally sinking into the ocean here. It's a combination of levees on the Mississippi preventing it's flooding and thereby supplying the area with new sendiment, and erosion caused by oil companies cutting canals for the pipelines through the grasses and allowing salt water into this delicate ecosystem. As we drove north along LA57 the skeletal remains of oak trees reached up out of the water, killed by the salt water. Even one of the fellows at Ricky's remarked that the land had changed drastically in just the fifteen years he had been coming to Grand Isle. There is a large bridge being built in Leeville. I guess they are preparing for when the land there, barely just two lanes of blacktop now, will finally disappear into the water.

thanks for reading...

-greg

bubbles

Between songs the cacophony of Bourbon Street invaded the serenity of dixieland jazz at the little club on the corner of Toulouse Street. The clean notes would fade, a smattering of clapping would announce the small crowd's pleasure at hearing these incredibly accomplished musicians fill the air with understated frivolity and playful notes, the faces of the artists impossibly stoic compared with the complexity of their craft, and then the muddied, overmodulated noise of the rest of Bourbon Street would press in like an unwanted neighbor coming to look in your refrigerator for a cold one.

As we sat in the Maison Bourbon Jazz Club we were made painfully aware of the difference between the raging torrent outside on the street and the serene eddy that slowly swirled here each time the band paused or ended a set. Across the street we could see people contorting in a Hip Hop Bar, behind us across Bourbon a steady raucous off beat noise from a karaoke bar threatened to melt the brass instruments in our club and force the drummer to open his eyes as he sat at his small drum kit. Unflinching in their craft though, the band murmured through their announcements of songs and played on in their quiet, smooth way.

On Bourbon there are many such bubbles or eddies to hide from the noise and enjoy a respite that soothes the senses rather than assault them. Step into the Inn on Bourbon, our hotel, and suddenly the prattle of Bourbon disappears. Our room overlooks the serene pool area, thankfully, though people pay twice the amount for a room on the street.

It is better to throw beads into the crowd that way...

Galatoire's is the same. It is next to a stripper's outfitters where a girl can get that much needed outfit after the last one was stolen by that creepy guy in the corner. But, step into the stately environs of this older restaurant on Bourbon is like entering an antebellum plantation. It is quiet and inviting and charming. Upon entering one is asked who their favorite waiter is, provided a suit jacket if one was not packed (ahem...) and caressed and eased through a wonderful experience that is much more than a meal, but an event. It is hard to believe Janet could easily purchase a foot long set of stilletto heels just next door. No, Galatoire's, with it's extensive menu and wine list and impeccable service.... ask for Rushell to be your waitress ... is perhaps the finest dining experience on Bourbon.

Try the Lamb Chops with Bernaise sauce....
Be kind to your waiters....
Drive safely... we're off to Grand Isle today....

love,
-greg

serendipity and chance

I love to write, for all the obvious reasons. With writing I can be very creative and the process of writing leaves with a sense of accomplishment. But, here in the Big Easy my writing is a helpful way of keeping me sober! I'm here in my room on Bourbon Street writing this blog and that means I am not out there imbibing and carousing. It means I'm not eating something. It means I'm not dodging the hawkers of bars, or girls on Bourbon flashing their wares from such fine establishments as Little Darlings (of which I have three free passes) or Hustlers Barely Legal. It means I am in my quiet room taking a deep breath and relaxing before heading out again into that vibrating, throbbing, electric city.
Thankfully during the day Boubon Street is fairly calm. Sure the strip joints are all open, but the bars have yet to spring to full frenetic pace. The street won't be blocked off and there won't be two or three policemen at every intersection or pairs of Public Safety Officers in their white shirt uniforms plying the streets. After I write today's entry I'll be able to walk out there and marvel at the beauty of the French Quarter without having to weave my way around a drunkard, or a pack of drunkards, who are all wonderfully inebriated, but smiling and in great happiness. In fact the entire day from the beginning to the end I had experienced nothing but happy, smiling people. Even the woman/girl who handed Janet the free passes to Little Darlings late last night was aglow with thanks and brimming with smiles! Perhaps serendipity and chance, which should be the modus operandi for any travel excursion, will lead us through another day of charming discovery.
It always does.

It took us a long time to get our rental car. We arrived at the airport around 10 a.m. and questions about New Jersey weather led to a lengthy, joke-filled conversation between Janet and the women behind the counter about traveling to Spain and France. But that is what serendipity and chance are all about; allowing the day to unfold and not commandeer it in any direction. Despite the early hour of departure we were happy as oysters.
Speaking of oysters, that was our first "taste" of New Orleans. After we drove along St. Charles and through Uptown and the Garden District to marvel at the homes and their expansive and well maintained gardens, we dropped off our bags and headed to the Acme Oyster Bar. We waved at the Oyster cam (which is a web cam for the joint) and informed the shuckers that they will go straight to heaven no matter what else they do in this life and then sat down at the bar with a half dozen of raw and a half dozen of chargrilled oysters! Janet took pictures of our meal. We giggled through our fortunate lunch and then headed out into the French Quarter.
We stopped in several boutique hotels to gape at their opulance and to take advantage of their air conditioning. We walked along the Mississippi and ogled the paddleboat waiting for passengers. We stepped into a free concert at the New Orleans Jazz National Historical Park (www.nps.gov/jazz). We didn't know about it until a chance turn led us to a quartet of four young people (they are all young when compared to me) playing great music. I kept sneaking looks at Janet throughout the hour long show and she looked so happy.
The music didn't end there though. People were playing music on the streets, two or three member ensembles curbside, or bands in restaurants along Decater Street.
We had coffee and beignets at Cafe Du Monde, gleefully wiping powdered sugar off our faces for hours, a telltale sign of one's temptation.
Later that evening we took the rattling, open-air St. Charles trolley to Oak Street to eat at Jacques-Imo's. I told Jack that because he closed his place down in New York I had to take Janet here to eat. After posing for pictures with us and our meals (Janet had blackened redfish and I had sesame-crusted tuna), Jack thanked us for support of New Orleans. He said that he'd rather be here in New Orleans than New York and we could not argue with him. We had drinks afterwards at the wonderful dive, the Maple Leaf Tavern, two doors from Jacques-Imo's and watched as Jack came in to have a drink and share some laughs with familiar faces at the bar. Next time I go to his place I will seriously consider taking my meal in the back of the truck that's parked out front.

Now, I am not a big drinker. I am a "cheap date". We took the trolley back to Canal and entered a Bourbon Street that seemed to breathe and tremble and vibrate. Music blasted from every bar and people danced in the streets, not a frown in sight. This mind you was a Tuesday night. Perhaps everyone we saw on Bourbon were tourists, but even the people working the bars were smiles and pleasant and happy. The woman who poured us expansive (and expensive) beers talked to us at length about our pending trip after New Orleans offered us advice about destinations.
We weaved down Bourbon, my cigar trailing smoke and our hearts swelling with happiness at our day. But, by the time I helped a girl tie a necktie around her neck, and we admonished playfully the male of a couple that did not notice his girlfriend had powdered sugar on the nose and cheek, I was rightfully drunk... I eyed curiously the Old Absinthe House, but quickly figured out that I would not survive that recently legalized liquor and allowed Janet to deposit me into bed as dreams of where to eat today swirled in my dreams.

okay... perhaps the day can now begin.

cheers (literally)
-greg