Fuck fuck fuck. Just brought the old Previa into the Japanese Auto Clinic this morning (insert joke here about it having a case of the Hong Kong flu) and then got a call from them a minute ago that it's going to cost $300 to fix the oil leak that almost made the whole thing burst into flames. Shit.. fuck... well, I guess I got to take my breaks where I get 'em. Like it didn't burn to the ground, and it's only $300 and I've got a place to hang out while they work on it, but still...
The good news is that I got an excellent write-up in the portland mercury, go and check it out here.
It inspired a dream that I got an awesome write-up in NME, which I found out about because Nitebob handed it to me with a package of ramen. When I read the review, I realized that they had mistakenly written The Break-Up up as if it were me. Then I brought it to a wedding that was held at my old high school between the biggest jock and the President of Student Council. I was rollerskating around, waving my bogus NME write-up and no one cared. Ah, dreams.
Time drags on. Got wasted last night w/ Palu and his roommate, we killed a bottle of tequila and half a bottle of vodka between the three of us. I passed out on the couch and when I barfed this morning (very quietly—I’m getting good at puking quietly at my friend’s houses so’s not to disturb anyone) there was blood in it. Cripes. Palu and I killed some of the day watching a KISS movie, pretty much the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and also the largest TV event in history when it came out in 1978. Go figure. I’m running myself down now, and I’m getting to the point where I can’t even get my pecker up enough to make those damn phone calls, send those damn e-mails, do all that I need to do to keep stuff going. Though I should be out and enjoying the place—Olympia is a pretty neat town-- I’m counting the days when I get back to LA and see Allie again. After that, I suspect I’ll be counting the days when I get back to NY and this whole sorry folly is over. Cripes, it’s really not that bad, I just got to get my drinking under control.
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.
Typing at my old man's computer in Pleasanton, CA. Man, I always do great in towns with "pleasant" in the title. Behind schedule as usual, got a flat that I need to get fixed before I drive up to Portland today. This whole venture appears to be running out of steam... and just when I got the website up and kicking ass. I've got a good show on Friday in Olympia w/ Quintron and Miss Pussycat, then a couple more gigs in Olympia and Portland, then down to LA to try to finish the record and mostly just get drunk, learn to surf (not couch surfing or surfing for boobies, both of which I've got down cold) and grope my girlfriend. Cripes, got to go.