Olympia, WA. My show w/ Quintron and Miss Pussycat on the 11th was not all it cracked up to be. I woke up the morning of the 11th in a rest stop in Weed, California (man, that town must make a killing in the novelty mug and T-shirt department) and drove all day totally bugging out about the show. Quintron + Olympia X Friday night = tons of hipsters… or so I thought, so I spent all day wondering which songs to play and which songs to leave out as they’d get me lynched by the riot grrrls (they’re grrrreat!). Turns out it was graduation night and tons of folks were at parties so I ended up just playing to the other bands and my old friend Talcott and Calvin Johnson, who set up the show. All in all, though, it wasn’t bad, Calvin gave me $25 (all in singles, man, I’m going straight to the titty bar!) out of pity and said that he liked the songs, which I don’t think was out of pity, as I don’t think Calvin has much of a tolerance for bullshit compliments. Quintron said he watched most of the show (though he didn’t say he liked it, hmmm…) and gave me a shot off his bottle of Crown Royal, which is always appreciated. I even ran into an old pal, Palu, from Simon’s Rock who I hadn’t seen in, oh, ten years.
But the real kicker for the day was seeing Talcott again. Talcott was one of my closest friends when I was seventeen, and a lot of times it felt like she was my only friend. She was pretty awesome, too, she had big fucked-up multi-colored dreads (until she shaved her head), was skinny as a weasel and perpetually whiskey drunk and waving a cigarette at me, cursing and yelling. She was the biggest tomboy in the world, and we hung out like a couple of dudes, just getting drunk and… well, we must have done something other than getting drunk, but I can’t remember it right now. It’s hard to describe how close we were, I guess we were both in pain and lonely and didn’t have the barriers to intimacy that there usually are in male/male or male/female relationships (god, listen to me, “barriers to intimacy,” I sound like Doctor Phil). We had a falling out in Massachusetts just before I left (she tried to beat me up over something—see, I told you she was awesome!) and somehow managed to not talk again until she e-mailed me earlier this year. Nearly ten years later, she looked exactly the same, still thin as a coyote, smoking a cigarette and grinning. But here’s the best thing: Talcott is pregnant. Yup, and unlike just about everyone else I’ve ever known who’s been involved in a pregnancy, Talcott and her boyfriend did it on purpose.
I’ve got to admit that I’m really conflicted about Talcott having a baby. Obviously, it’s awesome, Talcott’s been taking care of folks as long as I’ve known her and I know she’s going to be a hell of a mom and her kid is just going to have the coolest life. And I really can’t wait to make fun of Talcott when she’s really pregnant, she’ll look like a python that’s swallowed a basketball. But, woe is me, it means that I’m really not seventeen anymore. I know, I know, I have such a sad life.
My gig on the 12th was fucking excellent, though. It was kind of a bleak drive up to Stanwood, I was hungover and sleepy and depressed both from the crappy rainy/cloudy Washington weather, but also because seeing Talcott and being in Washington again totally threw me into a deep memory trip. The only two times I’ve been in Washington was when I was seventeen and had hitchhiked out here to see a girl, and then when I was twenty to see the same girl who had by then broken my heart several times. I think it’s safe to say that it didn’t end well.
My plan was to check in at the club (the Stanwood Hotel, highly fucking recommended) drink the bottle of wine (Christ, it wasn’t even wine, it was “strawberry wine product”—these are tough fucking times, folks) and then take a nap. But as soon as I walked in, a retired painting contractor/classical pianist (I wonder how many slashes I’d have to put in my occupational description) bought me a couple of beers. Then the soundguy showed up and told me I could drink bottom shelf cans for free. PBR of course, and Rainier, one of my favorite cheap beers of all time! Of course, the bar owner and his wife (Bobby Trash and Tammi, both excellent folks) mocked me for drinking the inferior Rainier but man, I’ve had enough PBR to last me a lifetime and the Rainier was ice cold and delicious. Bobby bought me a burger, and the bartender threw in the hard time for free. They let me play loud and even though there wasn’t a capacity crowd there, man, they fucking ate it up! And unbelievably, the other two bands were kind of cowboy punk, probably one of the first times I’ve ever played w/ bands that were even remotely similar to what I’m doing. The last band even dedicated one of my favorite Steve Earle songs (NYC) to me off of El Corazon, which me and my roomies used to listen to on Sundays over a bottle of Carlo Rossi. I would inevitably say “you know, someday I’m going to go to New York City.” To which they inevitably responded “yeah, have another drink, Shubaly.”
The last band let me crash on their couch and Mike, the singer, made us just about the best breakfast I’ve ever had in my life. Biscuits and gravy, sausage, thick cut bacon, eggs cuidado and homemade hashbrowns. When I complimented him on his gravy, he said “oh yeah, what you do is just mix in the bacon grease.” My kinda guy. By now incredibly sleepy, I drove back to Talcott’s, climbed into my bed (I have an air mattress on the back porch with my own exit. Unfuckingbelievable. And she’s cooked every meal I’ve eaten since I’ve been here) drank my strawberry wine and read some Stephen King (The Bachman Books, they’re excellent, of course) and just drifted off to sleep. Fat and sassy.
Posted by Mishka at June 14, 2004 11:02 PM