Fifteen minutes ago, I hit a wall. The last 48 hours have been harsh.
A blizzard halted our trip from Boise to Portland. Two overturned tractor-trailers acerbated the scenario, and we had to take an alternate route. An 8-hour trip became a 15-hour ride trapped in a tin can. Our driver, Harry, is a real pro. He didn’t bitch about the situation, at least to any of us. On this leg of the tour, he’s been the real VIP!
While I enjoy traveling, I’m thrilled I wasn’t an early American pioneer braving the Oregon Trail on my quest for manifest destiny. I’ve made the trek twice now, both during late winter. The phrase “the experience was intense” is an understatement. While no one died of dysentery, the tired oxen, snow-covered trail, and lack of cell phone service made the journey harrowing. Huge chunks of ice fell from the bus from time to time. The sound of frozen water sliding and bouncing between the cab and the bus’s body was frightening. At one point, a sizeable mass created such a clatter that the entire bus sprung from its slumber, convinced an inner tire had shredded into bits.
Despite the slow-paced and treacherous voyage, the Cascade Mountains appeared stunning and serene from the bus window. The picturesque view looked reminiscent of the backdrop of a Christmas card. The tranquility of the countryside did not negate the stress of the passage.
Yak Attack joined us in Montana as the tour opener for the remaining dates. Portland is their hometown. Thanks in large part to that, last night’s show was sold-out. Even with the hour time change, we were epically late to load in by three and a half hours. The entire crew crammed five hours of set-up and soundcheck into two. We brainstormed how to accomplish that task while watching Bad Santa and ogling the gorgeous mix of Douglas Fir and Lodgepole Pines, so we were prepared. Despite the setbacks, we only pushed back doors by fifteen minutes, set times weren’t cut, and the show was a wicked rager, including a cover of the Beastie Boys’ “Sabotage.”
Welcome to the second half of Dopapod.
We arrived in Seattle with two and a half hours to spare before loading in, so I walked to Pike Place Market. On the way there, I passed a Hard Rock Cafe and bought a t-shirt. There’s some comedy or irony there, but I can’t explain listening to Nirvana and Mudhoney. As I walked to the Great Ferris Wheel, a man kindly whipped out his dick and pissed along the fence where tourists crossed the street. As a few visitors passed, a gust of wind sprayed urine into the air, dusting a young woman in the face. She shrieked in disgust and the strung-out culprit grinned and yelled, “Welcome to Seattle.” From what I’ve seen thus far, that element added an authentic Pacific Northwest experience to any passerby’s vacation.
There’s a vibe about Seattle that hits me in the feels. Maybe my grunge obsession innately connects me to the city. Years of flannel, production blacks, and DocMartens instill a sense of being fashionably in my element. But despite the excitement of finally exploring the mecca of my teenage existence, I was overwhelmed by the knowledge that something (or someone rather) was missing. That loneliness made the cold Seattle sky seem chillier and darker.
I miss him.