Speed Freaks

We barely make it back. The last three hours we’re limping along—pounding M and M’s and Gummi Worms to stay awake.

At 2:00 AM, we are finally, finally home again.

The instant we pull in the driveway, I wish we could do it all again.

Just kidding.

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.

Wallaby Station

Wilcox, AZ to Los Angeles--Tuesday, September 12

We make it to LA and back to Deb’s house but not before hitting the Cabazon Outlets. Nick finally scores his birthday Wallabees, and I want some pink ones for myself but decide they make my feet look like hockey pucks. No fair.

I fall asleep the second we walk in the door of Deb’s apartment.

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.”

Hope springs eternal

Austin to Sonora, TX--Sunday, September 10
Despite staying up past 4, I wake early again, to work. But I’m still not done with the job, so we have decided to make an emergency schedule change—we will drive a couple of hours and check into a hotel so that I can have steady phone/cell access to finish.

But first we spend the morning with friends. Nick goes to breakfast with friends, and I get tacos with Lawrence, Audrey and Andy, my Austin Hosts. They take me swimming at a place called Barton Springs, a natural-fed pool. I haven’t been swimming at a pool in years, and even though I’m all lame in shorts and a tank top, I feel like a happy little kid.

Then we say goodbye and leave. The whole drive to Sonora, I feel warm inside. The dusk is purplish pink, dreamlike. This may be the best trip I’ve ever taken.

The whiteness of the whale

Austin, TX--Saturday, September 9

I wake up three hours before everyone else, in order to work—see previous entry for latest screwup.

My friend from college, an aspiring Texas politician, picks us up at the palatial digs and takes us out to breakfast at a place that Bill Clinton loves (he even has a dish named after him—El Presidente). After that we drive around Austin, which is beautiful. First, we tour the capital. The building is spectacular, bigger than the nation’s capital (Texas!). The exterior is pink and there are stars everywhere—the ceiling, the fence, the floor, the walls. You could eat off the marble floors. Next we go to Mount Bunnell to get a view of the city. The collection of beer bottles in the bushes implies that this is high school party central.

We go home and get ready for the show that night at Emo’s. As I’m getting dressed, I pull a quick phoner with a tshirt designer (see above).

We are scheduled on a cool radio show called Ear Candy, so before load-in, we hit the studio. Our friend Ramesh from Voxtrot shows up, which is good because he has more to say than we do. Any story I can think to share with the listeners is inappropriate for public consumption. Our brains are mush. An old friend of Nick’s calls in and announces she will be coming to the show. Last time Nick saw her, she was living in Montreal—he keeps asking if this is a joke.

There is a huge football game going on—UT vs OSU, which has turned the entire area of the club into a terrifying sea of orange-clad beer swillers. After load-in we try to find a place to get some food and a drink. But every bar is packed with football fans.

Finally, after wandering in circles for half an hour, we find a modest little tea house. It is creepily deserted, except for one other group of customers. “White Whale,” I say to Nick, referring to the band we’re opening for. I have no idea what White Whale look like, but have learned that bands often cross paths in a city because we’re all looking for the same two things—record albums and decent food.

The owners of the restaurant are so sweet and make us a special flavor of bubble tea that involves taro. We stay there forever, so happy to have peace and quiet and some healthy Korean food.

Back at the club, Emo’s, my new Austin friends have shown up—after drinking all day. They are totally fired up, and hilarious. The Longhorns’ loss has put a damper on the whole 6th Street corridor, so these folks’ wild energy is like a public service at this point.

The whole roster tonight is awesome, and White Whale in particular blow my mind. We meet some really great people afterwards, especially a woman named Mikele who has driven four hours to see us because she was convinced we’d never visit Texas. I buy a White Whale tshirt because a) the graphic looks like the creature from The Neverending Story b) I have no more clean clothes.

Intriguing bathroom graffiti: “Women who date married men should never wear mascara.”

Tonight is the single most hellish load out experience of my life. The Longhorns fans and a large rap concert have simultaneous discharged onto one street. The sidewalks are swarming like I’ve never seen before; this must be what Mardi Gras is like. As we carry load after load out the club and to the car–parked a black away–I’m getting shoved, blocked, yelled at. It takes us over an hour to travel the 3 miles home, but we’re alive.

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.

Desert Solitaire

Los Angeles to New Mexico--Wednesday September 6

We dawdle like hell getting out of town. First we look for coffee, but then we find food—real food–and decide to eat the known quantity here rather than seek it out the unknown later. Our menu orders hedge against the future, a sort of anticipatory eating. For example, I am in no mood for oatmeal, but it seems relatively healthy, so I grab it, to combat the upcoming white flour carnival. Nick gets all four food groups in the blue plate special—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, steamed carrots and broccoli. I’m pissed.

Then we shop a little. I contemplate a pair of vintage Frye boots, but the store owner makes me try them on one at a time, using a plastic bag as a foot condom. Is this standard in LA? I pass on the boots, due to insufficient data. Nick ogles a pair of Pumas—he’s cheating on the Clarks Wallaby’s due to their hard-to-get routine. LA has been relatively dead since we got here, perhaps due to a post-labor day lull. But we are served up some hard-core traffic on our way out, delaying us even further.

We give up in Blythe, California, much earlier than we hoped. Our required fight starts up, about Nick’s reluctance to keep driving and my inability to drive. We agree on 5:30 as the wake-up time. The hotel room has cable, so we alternate between the preposterous all-star movie Twister, and the newest addition to the Cartoon Network, Pee Wee’s Playhouse.

In the middle of the night a gigantic storm rips through and wakes us. The whole building is shaking—out the windows, the rain is blown horizontal by the high winds. We have a term for this sort of epic, apocalyptic environmental behavior, due to our obsession with a particular movie. “War of the Worlds,” Nick croaks, and lays back down.

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.

LOST, the series

Chico to San Francisco--Saturday Sept 2

Jason and Connie have a toy poodle named Honey. She looks like a lamb. In the morning, as usual, I am the first band person to rise. I take Honey for a walk in the woods across from the house. It is surreal: I am in my show clothes, my red lipstick still staining my lips, walking a toy poodle in the woods of Chico, California, in the early morning. Who am I?

We eat the Cap’n Crunch Connie so kindly bought. I opt out of the shower, wanting to get our from under foot ASAP. (I will clean up at a rest area two hours south.) Somehow, Steve and Pixie pull out of the driveway first, with Pixie playing the recorder in the passenger seat.

I am already starving again, so we eat a second breakfast in town. After that we go to a record store and score Nancy Sinatra, Beach Boys, Bee Gees Odessa with velvet record jacket, two Muppet Show posters, and a cassette of Replacements’ Tim, for when the ipod dies.

We get lost in San Francisco, because we always get lost in San Francisco—it’s the rule.

Finally, we arrive at Yoshi’s. Yoshi and his roommate Marjan make living here look so appealing. They have a massive apartment with those awesome curved windows, a spare room, and a healthy dose of fog curling in the air. Tomorrow night, we have a show scheduled with Yoshi’s band, Still Flyin. Since this will be Nick’s birthday, and we will have responsibilities, I declare that we must celebrate in advance. We walk around the Haight looking for Clark’s Wallabys, the shoes I want to get Nick for his birthday, to no avail. We eat burritos instead.

Later, at the bar, I keep buying Nick shots of Jagermeister, cackling as I deliver them. For some reason, Yoshi and I decide drinking Crown Royal at 4AM is a good idea. Decline of Western Civilization Part Two is on the television; it’s a documentary all about hair metal bands who are sure they’re going to make it, they just HAVE to (yet we the viewers know they never will). To stave off the potential larger implications/existential crises the show might trigger, I take another glass of whiskey as a prophylactic.

California Love

Chico--Friday September 1

We try to leave Portland as early as possible, but as usual, we take much longer than expected. Even waking up at the ghastly hour of 6:00 AM (I played a show with Shee Bee Gees the night before) we don’t hit the road until after 10:30. There’s the dog to be dropped off, food to find, the triple checking of our packing list. Last tour, I held on to the idea of eating well, long after I had crossed over into survival mode, but this time we’re honest: it’s Burgerville for breakfast. I contemplate getting an espresso milkshake—asking if they make them this early–but Nick advises against it. All day I will mourn the ghost of this lost milkshake.

We pull into Chico a bit later than we like, but the headlining band is still 2 hours behind us. As long as there’s someone worse off than us. . . I called before we arrived to apologize for our tardiness and Connie, the wife of the show organizer Jason, offered us a place to stay and went so far as to ask what I like for breakfast.

After we play, someone tells us that he’s been listening to “Le Projet Citron” for the last year, never knowing who sang it. He had assumed that we were covering the song live. He says, “You mean YOU wrote that song? No Way!!”

The last band is the single weirdest band I’ve ever seen. In a good way. A woman who goes by Pixie sings and “plays” a lamp hung with windchimes. While accompanied by guitar, she holds her ears and writhes around. It’s spooky, made even spookier by her truly incredible voice.

Outside of the venue I notice they too are in a normal car—theirs an eighties-era Chevy Nova which is smashed in the back. Steve the guitarist says they got rear-ended on the highway. A car was barreling up behind them and Steve tried to pull aside but the car smashed him anyway. Now, two months into a four month tour, they have no way to open the hatchback. They load their heavy gear into the backseat over the folded-down front seat. “Were they drunk?” I ask. “More like on acid,” Steve says. “Or both—drunk and on acid.” Pixie says, “Yeah, that’s like the military.” She pauses. “Just like a lizard.”

We all end up staying at Jason and Connie’s even though Jason and Connie are trying to get to San Francisco early the next day. I am once again reminded of the unreasonableness of this lifestyle. These are hard-working people who just want to take a quick vacation, and yet they are kept up and crowded by four freaks sprawled on their living room floor, overrunning their bathroom, raiding their food. Back at the venue, I had spoken with a woman Renee who had hosted our last show in Chico, at her record store. Recently, she finally closed the store after years of crushing bills. She was spending a couple thousand a month to keep it open. She’d work a day job and then go to the store and host shows until three in the morning, then get up and do it all again. Her subsistence was bulk bags of beans and rice. And she wasn’t complaining—in fact, she’s just resting so she can dive back in. She loves music that much.