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.