Posts Tagged ‘California’

Wizard Rifle, part 20: FINAL

July 6, 2012

The tour was over.  Arcata was the last show.

We had a really early breakfast with Sam’s uncle and cousins.  His uncle told us how pissed off Grandma Ford was at the Arcata Hotel for screwing us over the night before.  Sam’s cousin told us he’d tried to do some modeling.  Sarah and I both thought he should get his ass to a big city.  He was clearly bored where he was.  Sarah and I split a big pancakes plate; Sam and Max split an omelette.  We lulled around afterwards, then took off north.

We got into Oregon, went through Grant’s Pass to get from 101 to I-5,then went straight up.

Except for one detour… which took two hours.  Sam the Idiot wanted to get his antique bobble, but our way was blocked by big fucking river with not-working ferry.  So we had to find the nearest bridge, which was way back down in Salem, a good while backtracking.  We got it.  He was pleased… but he never said sorry.  The detour was an epic culmination of a sort.  We were so close, and yet we were held up.  And I would blame fate – surely it’s just fate that is keeping my desire from being realized.  But no, it’s always other people.  No grand finale, no grand return.  Just a wet impasse.

I loved my time on the tour, but this isn’t the time to express my gratitude and ruminate on my luck.  We unloaded in Portland, Oregon at the practice space, then got a ride to the Pearl where we checked into our swanky Condo we were housesitting with Ian for the next several days.  It was heaven.  For a day or two.

And then it was time to call a spade a spade, see big things to their logical conclusion, and then grow up with a humor that’s sharpened by suffering, all while realizing that the meaning of life is other people and everything else, all of whom and all of which I will love first, and best.  Ah-men.

-for Tuesday May 15th, 2012

Wizard Rifle, part 17: Oakland

July 6, 2012

Where was I…

I didn’t spend as much time in Los Angeles as I would have liked, but I wasn’t particularly impressed, and my spirit was twisted and beaten to such a measure where I wasn’t sure if I had any heart left to enjoy it.

We awoke at Max’s sister’s and had juice and some stuff.  It was decided that Sam, Sarah and I would go to Venice Beach while Max and sissy-poo and other friends would go off and do what they had to.  Slowly the plan was brought into fruition.  I don’t know if I had an inkling of how long it’d take to get to West LA but, surprise, it was a long drive. Sam seemed agitated; he was worried about getting to Oakland late.

On the beach, Sam and I had a nice heart to heart about sorrow, anxiety, and the future.  It was one of several we’d had before.  Sarah disappeared for a little bit, but we found her later.  The day was gray but warm.  Our time was sadly short, but I actually felt okay.  There was a deep pain inside of me that I couldn’t shake.  We made our way to the car, linking up with some disgusting body builders and some ex-NBA tryouts.

We drove slowly across town, under the finally-emerging sun to where Max’s was, at a restaurant called Philip’s (I think).  We picked him up, said goodbye to Sister Dameron, and drove off talking about five cent cups of coffee.  We stopped at a In-N-Out Burger, where we did not break down.

Then it was goodbye LA–

–hello to the San Fernando valley, hello to endless fields, hello to playing CONTACT and hello to another In-N-Out Burger, which we also did not break down at.  Probably because they thought we were of their kind.

We pulled into Oakland somewhat late.  The show was already underway, but Wizard Rifle was last.  We loaded in and Sarah took off with her friend Nicki.  I hung around at the show and we crashed at Noah’s.  I have no strong memories or opinions or feelings of that night, except for this vague and secretly totally identifiable rage in my breast, which I’m declining to divulge so as to protect myself from ridicule from myself for making myself known to strangers who might rubberneck here at any point.

-for Saturday May 12th, 2012

San Diego

January 2, 2012

 

I had hiccups in my plans going both to and from the west coast for Christmas.  The hiccup leaving (returning east) is not worth going into; I feel a great deal of shame over it.  The hiccup going to the west coast is more explainable, but really only because of sunny pictures.

My 8am flight out of New York was delayed by an hour and a half due to an fuel door that wouldn’t shut automatically.  Some people were pissed, but I’d pulled an all-nighter.  I slept through the problem, but had a half-asleep fear that I’d die one of the worst deaths: bursting into flames and then falling to my death.  I assume the vacuum in the cabin or velocity of me falling would put the flames out after it’d burned all my skin off.

 

 

I made it alive.  To San Diego.  Five minutes before my connection to Portland departed.  Mofo at the kiosk put me on the next flight at 6pm or something, and said, “Enjoy the sunshine.”  It was 65 degrees, clear sky.  Of course, there was nothing terribly interesting around the San Diego airport.  I could see downtown, but I was lugging my bag, walking like I had a tub of peanut butter up my ass.

Eventually, I’d gathered photographic evidence that I’d been to San Diego, so I returned to the airport.  I lounged around in the terminal until flying to Portland.  I figured if I missed that flight, I’d just call my Uncle John and have a very L.A. holiday.  It was about 10pm when I finally got into Portland.  I lost a whole day to travel.  Thankfully, it was technically the shortest day of the year.  Sure didn’t feel like it.

 

–for Wednesday December 21st, 2011