We leave Portland late. Around 8 PM, we arrive at a cabin outside of Weed. There are three dogs and our hosts make clam chowder and salad. It‘s a dream meal with dream company. I sleep in a cozy bed for 10 hours. Then we go to lunch at a bar. We stop by our host’s office. I am drunk so I brag that I can do 20 pushups. No one believes me. I drop and give them 20. Nick announces that I’m drunk. We go to a townie bar called the Vet’s club, which is oddly Marilyn Monroe themed.
Then we drive to Chico. It’s finals week so almost no one comes except a few really lovely people who are our heroes. Still, it’s the best show so far—at least in my mind. Fishboy have kazoos. They are fucking funny. I make us get a hotel so that I can sleep in.
Photos
Saturday, December 8, 2007–Anacortes
In Seattle in the morning, we dawdle and Ethan, our host from the Math and Physics Club (a band that plays beautiful pop), reads to us from a book on film by a guy named Vern. We listen to records and then go eat a the volunteer park café. Normally, I would bitch about manicured, rich sanctimommies ad nauseum, but something weird has happened and I think I might want to have one of those little monsters one day, so my hypocrisy meter is telling me to shut the fuck up.
In Anacortes I make us go to a thrift store. It is shitty, full of half used nail polish and exhausted Christmas decorations but I find a vintage slip, one of the many things I collect. Then we go to a bar. I get an oyster shooter and chicken wings on the argument that it’s not white flour.
We are playing the Department of Safety, an all ages venue that feels like an arty compound—really cool. The show is freezing cold and fun. Nevada’s keyboard keeps cutting out because the amp is broken. I really love Fishboy. And Tullycraft are terrific—we could learn a thing or two from them about audience participation. Nick says he thinks we’re talking too much during our shows, that it’s turning into VH1 Storytellers. There is fresh baked banana bread from the DOS kitchen and I totally hog it.
Friday December 7, 2007–Seattle
I used to live in Seattle, so more than anywhere but Omaha, it evokes warm cuddly feeling. We will be playing at the Comet Tavern, a grunge era place that I was inappropriate at more than once.
I-5 opens at noon and we finally get out of town at two, because Nick and I are pokey motherfuckers and Nevada, forgets to bring his keyboard and has to go back to his apartment. We’ve built up the drive to be much scarier, traffic-wise than it is. Nevada is with us for the first time ever. He is our new keyboard player, recruited from Omaha connections. His mother is business partners with our mother. We grew up about ten blocks apart. I wonder if this will prepare him to tolerate our incessant bullshit.
Nick explains to Nevada that I will be blogging, and that everything’s fair game except for really bad stuff. Like if Nick shit his pants an hour south of Anacortes, I would never say that on the blog. But I would.
We stop at Burgerville. I require that we go to Burgerville anytime we drive to Seattle. If we don’t stop, I start moaning “Burgerville” until Nick pulls over. Centralia and Chehalis are coated in a film of mud from the floods, but everything’s open. Nick is going to draw everything he eats, so I take a photo of his black bean garden burger. I really want a mocha perk shake but am already worried about my voice. Alex Shee Bee Gee told me dairy produces too much mucus, therefore, one should not eat it before a performance. Normally, I don’t give a shit, but the last time we played in Seattle, I had no voice, so I’ve got something to prove.
We pull into Seattle early and go meet my friend Christopher and his fellow Stranger writers at a weird place called Havana. They are drunk and witty, and I am given a pair of wrist warmers—actually socks with the toes cut off and a thumb hole cut in them. They’re pretty Hot Topic, which makes me feel youthful.
We load in the Comet and I realize I’m supposed to change in a bathroom in which I trust no surface. I am the sort of person who will eat a peanut M&M off a toilet seat, so this is saying something. This place has no usable mirror, no place to set things—nothing. I guess this means I will wear no makeup. I also forgot nearly everything–socks, underwear, shirts– including the leggings that are my uniform. I have to wear my dress over jeans, which I hate.
The show is a great lineup—us, Fishboy, Awesome, and BOAT, one of our favorite bands.
We play well. Nevada pulls off his first show easily. I never quite settle in, for some reason, but it’s fine. Fishboy totally rip. The drummer is fucking insane. I am really stoked we’ll be playing with them for many shows. “Awesome” are hard to describe—there are a billion people singing and a billion instruments. They pull all of this off while wearing suits! I don’t know how they do it.
BOAT are fucking amazing, as usual. I hope we can tour with them sometime.
There is a hot dog stand, like there is outside of every rock club in Seattle. Last time I played here, I had a fit of joy over the hot dog stand all the way in Ballard—of course there’s one at the Comet/Neumo’s. Why doesn’t Portland have late night hot dog stands? I could eat a hot dog every day if it wouldn’t kill me.
Fire on the mountain
LA to San Francisco–Wednesday, September 13
We get to have breakfast with Deb, who is about to present her current artwork to a committee at her grad school. She barely touches her food due to nerves.
Forest fires are making I-5 hard to navigate, so we take 101 instead; I’ve always wanted to do this route anyway, and it turns out to be well worth it with all the scenery.
Back to San Fran, where we are comforted by Evan and Chris, our hosts, and their two dogs, Calvin and Clementine. We go to Emmy’s and get spaghetti and meatballs, the thing I hadn’t known I was craving but is absolute perfection.
Nobody puts baby in a corner
Sonora, TX to Wilcox, AZ–Monday, September 11
I finish the column early in the morning, half watching the 5th anniversary necrophilic frenzy that we call news coverage. Between the grimness, I can’t stop talking about how much I love our hotel. Nick makes fun of me, and I realize that what I’m so euphoric about is that we had another successful tour and I did a good job on the column. It’s like I won the lottery or something.
We become obsessed with souvenirs, since we’ve bought nothing on the trip so far. There are these massive souvenir stands all the way to Arizona, which have ten billboards leading up to them, like Wall Drug. We pull off at the first, sensitively called the Running Indian. Inside is an orgy of crap—fake rattlesnake eggs, maracas, piggy banks, tomahawks, copper jewelry, taffy. It’s hard to choose, but I buy some maracas for Alex Shee Bee Gee and a beaded Native American style bracelet that says Heather. Nick buys ten postcards, including some Old West ones. “Our close relatives were in the James Gang,” he says. “Really?” I say, “Why haven’t you ever told me that?!” He rolls his eyes. “Every time I tell you, you ask why I’ve never told you before.” I promise to remember this time.
In the parking lot, I notice my bracelet is made in Taiwan.
We crash in Willcox, AZ, after eating in the Hopi Lounge, where two glasses of cheap Chardonnay turn me into a babbling idiot.
Back in the room, Dirty Dancing is on the television. We sing along with the Swayze gem, “She’s Like the Wind.”
Communication Breakdown
Mesilla, NM to Austin, TX–Friday, September 8
We hit a place called the Bean on the way out of town to get coffee; it’s nice to find some good coffee that’s not Starbuck’s. After El Paso, there’s just nothing. I’ve only driven this long with no signs of life once before—through central British Columbia.
After we cross the Texas state line, Nick turns to me and says, “It’s weird, but I keep feeling the urge to ‘mess’ with this place.”
We’re getting really loopy and stupid, having had no privacy for over a week now. While I’m air drumming to The Creation, Nick starts laughing. “What?” I say. He says, “You just stopped mid drumming and started flexing your biceps.”
As I’m getting spotty phone reception I get a call from my editor at the Tribune. Through the static, I gather she wants to know where my column is. I’m baffled. “It’s due Thursday.” I say. Long Pause. “No, it was due yesterday,” she says. My heart freezes. I hang up and start hyperventilating. Nick pulls over in Ozona, so I can gather my thoughts. I put my head in my hands and try to cry—this is terrible–but I can’t.
I started rifling through the car looking for the press releases I need. Every call I make is dropped. Finally, I just stare, catatonic, like the guy in Ferris Bueller when his dads car gets trashed.
When I regain consciousness, I notice we’re in front of the town square. There’s a sign for the David Crockett memorial, and a strange couple are walking a pair of leashed cats in front of a statue of Mr. Crockett. Nick wants to go ask the Crockett Museum what the difference is between Davey Crockett and Daniel Boone, if it’s like Sasquatch versus Bigfoot, but decides to go photograph the town gunsmith instead. I stew in my misery.
We roll into Austin around 9 o’clock and are presented our digs for the next few days. The huge upper floor of a gorgeous, historic house. Score.
We get sent to barbeque joint down the road—brisket and greens. Delicious. Then we go to lodge in the trees, called the Spider House. Lots of kids are drinking mochas. I keep trying to take a photo of the sign, which looks like 60s Disneyland, but it’s all blurry.
Later we go to a bar. Everyone there—friends of friends mostly–is partying, really warm and welcoming. We sit at a giant picnic table in the open air. At three AM, we get tacos al pastor. We go to bed full and happy–I’ve managed to temporarily forget how completely screwed I am.
Sack, fifth avenue
Blythe, CA to Mesilla, NM–Thurs September 7
The car is sparkling clean and water is beaded up everywhere—on the streets, the hood. Debris covers the pavement. The storm was not exaggerated by our delirium. A black kitten slinks in front of the car as we’re packing up.
Nick has never seen the American Southwest. He keeps gasping and pointing at the purple mountains, at the cacti that he says look like cartoons.
We pause in Tucson because I know a good place to eat—Café Poca Cosa. First, we hit the tourist board for postcards and directions. I’ve never been to a tourist board before. What a concept.
Pulling into Mesilla, we spot an odd shape swinging beneath the tow hitch on the rear of a black pickup. Further examination reveals it to be a ball sack; that’s right, a scrotum, rendered in lifelike pink latex. It jiggles over potholes, sways gently at stop signs.
Our show is fun; I worry we’re too loud for the space, but oh well. Afterwards, we try hard to be party animals. (We’re missing merch man Mike badly at this point—he’d be rallying.) After one beer we notice two side-by-side drain mats—one for Crown Royal and the other for Jager. Memories come flooding back. The place has $2 calls and so everyone keeps staggering to the bar and walking away with Jager, fumes wafting past our noses. This drives us out the door in no time.
I forgot to mention that every person we met in LA was so freaking nice. Our waitress at breakfast, the other people in the gelato line, everyone. I thought LA was supposed to be Sodom and Gomorrah. After meeting even nicer people in Mesilla, I mention to Nick how if you just go about your normal life—traffic and the post office and the DMV–you can start to think people are real assholes. But in truth, the world is full of really, really nice people. It’s humbling.
And maybe this is the squarest tour blog ever written.
WE LOVE IT!!!
Los Angeles–Tuesday September 5
We decided to take advantage of our day off by partaking of cultural opportunities. First we hit the La Brea tar pits, with the primary ambition of picking up some sweet postcards. Instead, we get some funny photos of ourselves. That place is in dire need of better merch. I was dying to spend money in there and couldn’t find one thing to buy.
Next we go to LACMA. We have just missed the Hockney exhibit, but we still see some great modern art, and some beautiful older European work. My favorite is the display of 18th century glass. All the Dutch oil still lifes, replete with oysters and cherries and lobsters, are making me starving.
Next we go to the Hammer to check out some stop-motion animation (Nick’s other love.) The guard, who has a New York accent, asks, “Do you need parking validation, or has someone driven you here?” Normally, I might think we looked important or something, but I have a feeling it’s par for the course.
I swear I spot Jim Carrey next to me in traffic, but he catches me looking so I have to look away. A license plate in front of us reads YRU TENZ. The same car’s rear view mirror holds a dream catcher. Yet is a spanking new, black BMW convertible.
I guess I don’t understand LA.
Vietnamese food. Gelato. Curb Your Enthusiasm. Who needs groupies?
Day of labor
SF to LA–Monday September 4
Due to labor day traffic, we spend the entire day in the car.
We pull off at Kettleman City, the halfway point between the two cities. We’ve been waiting for In N Out burger for hours. This place has become legendary in our band lore because last summer, on an identical stop at this very In N Out Burger, Nick was unwittingly teabagged by a clogged and overflowing toilet.
We roll into our friend Deb’s place later than I would like. She has snacks galore, and lots of water, which we are sorely in need of at this point. My urine has resembled Tang for days.
Spaceland is a very nice place. The crowd is unusually good-looking. I befriend another band; they are obsessed with 90210 (evidently the entire show is coming out soon on box set!) and tip me off about LA tourist activities and the local roller derby scene.
As we are loading out, a man is selling tamales from a cooler. Score. This will be the first time I haven’t gone to bed ravenous in at least a week. (I was burning the candle at both ends long before we left Portland).
We try to watch VH1 but our eyes won’t stay open.
Still Flyin’
San Francisco–Sunday September 3
Today, Nick’s birthday, no one gets up until 5 PM. Nick informs me that we’re now officially on Motley Crue time.
I keep getting phone calls, giving me fever dreams about being a loser who stays in bed all day. Finally, feeling like a degenerate, I hit redial for the last number, which is local. The person who picks up identifies himself as Michael. We talk for fifteen minutes and then I ask if he’s bringing his wife to our show. “Who?” he says. “I don’t have a wife.” At that moment I realize I am talking to another Michael, one I haven’t spoken to in about seven years. I’m on a roll.
Our show is sloppy. Sloppy, but really fun. The audience is raucous, bordering on harassing. We love it.
Still Flyin is truly incredible. The idea—a fifteen person, indie rock reggae band–sounds intriguing, and comes off brilliantly, mostly due to the fact that they are complete party animals. On stage, some of them can barely stand up, yet the music sounds terrific. The entire audience is smiling and dancing. After the show, we see a girl from the band puking in the alley. Yoshi seems unfazed and tells me blandly that at least one person pukes at every show.
This is the most fun I’ve had in ages.