"As luck would have it..."
As it turns out, there are true friends you can count on in a pinch, no matter what, and there are the others. Sometimes extenuating circumstances can make the former appear to be the latter, but eventually you can tell who’s full of shit and who isn’t. The only reason I mention this here is because the thought of embarking on the writing of this particular travelogue is so daunting that I don’t know how to properly begin. Suffice it to say that my first option for a ride to the airport fell through, but my lovely roommate Jen picked up both me and the slack and delivered me to the airport on time, Friday, the morning of Oct. 29, 1999. Only the uniquely American phenomena, the four-day workweek, made Jen available to be chauffeur, so here’s to that!
Getting There
After what appeared to be the entire Junior Soccer League of Mexico had checked in before me, I found myself on my way to the absolute farthest reach of the Atlanta Airport’s domestic terminal: Gate D1. (I’m guessing that somebody here in town is something less than thrilled to see America West in the market.) Anyway, I was lucky enough to get a seat in an exit row, albeit sandwiched by a nearly retired Marine and a pleasant woman apparently headed for training in a new occupation. During one of several stories, the Marine took pains to point out that it was a “Navy Guy” that was killed by a car while changing a tire at night with no lights on around or in his vehicle. He also said he liked living in Yuma, which supports the theory that it indeed does take all kinds. The flight to Phoenix was uneventful, other than being seemingly endless, and it was with something other than rabid curiosity that I took in the sights of the local airport as I made my connecting flight. Much as I expected, the crowd appeared to be Atlanta West, but with Hispanics substituted for the African-Americans. God knows that the layout of the city was all but identical to Atlanta: urban sprawl of nearly indescribable extent. The only apparent difference is Phoenix is surrounded by rocks and scrub trees instead of a forest. In any event, after a brief layover I boarded another bare-bones AW bird for the final leg to the Bay Area. This ride was spent on the aisle next to a middle-aged couple with precious little to say. I could only deduce that the man, who was sitting in the window seat, had traveled this route many times before because he read the newspaper, thus blocking out a splendid window view for the bulk of the trip. As luck would have it, this would be the last bad break I’d get for several days in a row.
I emerged from the fuselage Richard Nixon-style onto a stair-ramp that I thought had gone the way of televisions with a dial on them. In fact, San Jose in general appeared to be stuck in the 70’s, but it did have a courtesy phone with which to call for a rental car, and that’s all that really mattered at this point. Soon after the jovial shuttle bus driver pointed out that I had come at the best time of the year weather-wise he was holding a couple of my tip dollars and I was bickering with the car-rental clerk. “Well, the guy that works for Enterprise in Atlanta said I would be charged for the week, and then $40 for each day thereafter.” I submitted. “Kiss my ass!”, he explained. No, seriously, he seemed truly apologetic and professional, despite the hideous Hawaiian attire he was sporting in a corporate effort to be “Halloweenish” two days early. He was so sorry, in fact, that he decided to knock off 15% from the entire bill, which didn’t suck. Also in the not-sucking category would be my wheels for the next nine days, a dark green 1999 Chrysler Sebring Etc., Etc. convertible with tan leather seats, all the bells and whistles, a phat V6 and wide, low-profile tires. I don’t remember much, but I did remember hearing that if you plan to take in Northern California, go ahead and get a convertible. (I can attest that this is sound advice.) Off I drove with a smile on my face, even though the prospect of a Friday rush-hour on unfamiliar roads was looming, at least I had an automatic transmission.
In an effort to avoid any major traffic tie-ups, I stuck with the old state route 101 into S.F., which is apparently the least scenic of the freeways into town. I made the choice worthwhile soon enough, however, as I passed a large hill with a gigantic sign: “Welcome to South San Francisco: The Industrial City”. Had I gone another route, I would’ve been a lesser comic later in the week for not having the punch line: I guess I missed the sign that said: “Welcome to Springfield: Home of Waste Treatment Scents.” Besides providing the joke, Route 101 also allowed me to make a sight-seeing stop at one of the sports world’s legendary stadiums, Candlestick Park. I gawked at the site of, among other things, the Catch, and wandered about the very picturesque park that occupies the pinninsula across the parking lot. It was a glorious late afternoon weather-wise for gazing at distant mountains and watching wind-surfers whip up to the shore after making their rounds. I also made a rare sound consumer decision at the adjacent convenience store, eschewing the $1.25 16 oz bottle of water in favor of a .75 can of Diet Coke. Twenty years ago I’m sure somebody floated the idea of marketing bottled water and then thought: “how could there be anyone stupid enough to pay more for water than a soft drink?” Anyway, I digress.
City by the Bay: First Glimpse
After taking in the scenery to my heart’s content I called Aunt Pat, who was kind enough to offer some space in her SF condo that would serve as the “home base” for the travels I would make over the next eight days. “Aunt Pat” is a longtime friend of the family of one of my best friends Toby, and I had met her while enjoying an adult beverage or two at a wedding two or three years earlier. I recall her being a lot of fun at the time, but I must say I was apprehensive at this point in the trip about rolling in and shacking at the pad of such a vague acquaintance.
As I was saying, I called Aunt Pat for new directions to her place, seeing that I’d been seemingly involuntarily pulled off course by the pull of a Sports Holy Ground. I was soon winding my way up hills and around corners until I finally took a corner to reveal a sweeping, panoramic view of the City by the Bay. It made me pause, even though I was in full courier-style, intense address-finding mode. What a truly amazing sight! As luck would have it, I was very close to my destination at this point, and I would enjoy a similar, but definitely even better, view from there for the remainder of my trip. I was greeted warmly with a scotch and water and two funny, intelligent women, Pat and her daughter Laura, who seems to be having an extended adolescence. I was very relieved to feel at ease right away.
I should point out that my arrival at this extraordinary residence marks the beginning of a “roll” of remarkable proportions. Whenever you hear a story in which seemingly everything goes someone’s way, I imagine this one will serve as a good measuring stick. About the only thing this thing lacks is wild, animal-sex with a pair of lipstick lesbian models.
So Start Sight-Seeing Already!
So I’m not exactly a ball full of energy after the cocktails, a wonderful home-grilled steak dinner, and a lengthy Q&A session with my long-time San Franciscan hosts. I was able to rally, however, seeing that I was in a city I’d always wanted to visit. Laura, rotund tour guide extraordinaire, and I soon embarked on an evening neighborhood tour in the convertible. She was nice enough to bring along music by Garth Brook’s alter ego Chris Gaines on the CD player, and it sounded a lot like a country guy trying to “come provocative” as an alterna-rocker. Stop number one came less than a mile from the house after we ascended a very twisty road at the top of which was a popular observation area known as Twin Peaks. I’m told that late October is one of the best times to visit the Bay Area, because the famous fog is far less prevalent, thus affording views like the one I was now enjoying: a truly remarkable sight that made even the view from Aunt Pat’s living room look pedestrian.
The Golden Gate Bridge, hills in Marin County, Oakland, and everything else glistening in the clear distance---a truly awesome sight. We took a spin from there down the other side of the hill past some amazing homes and ended up at Ocean Beach, which was playing host to perhaps dozens of bonfires circled by people lucky enough to be living in this, The Coolest City on Earth. Swung by Kezar Stadium, site of the famous Harry Callahan foot-stomp-on-the-psycho’s-leg in the movie Dirty Harry on our way into the legendary Haight-Ashbury district. I was enthralled with the architecture of the residences because they are quite unlike anything I’ve seen in the Southeast or Midwest. I was also once again thanking whoever it was that suggested renting a convertible so I could be afforded a better view of it all. (It was also nice having Laura there to warn me as to when I was about to run a stop sign, too, I might add.) I was also happy to note that the house was roughly five minutes from the Haight, and that didn’t suck, either. Finally ran out of energy and went back to set up the futon in the spacious living room with a view for a good night’s sleep.
I happened to make a run to make my bladder gladder just before a sunrise that happened to be underway many miles in the distance over the mountain range that includes Mt. Diablo. Needless to say, not a view I catch every day, and I promised myself I’d make sure to get a photo of it before I left. (ed note: slack-ass never made the photo.) Tackled my first day in the city by the bay taking care of business, i.e. heading to the Haight to score an important item at one of the many head shops and also get keys made to my home away from home. I’m told it was notable how fast we found a parking place on a sunny Saturday afternoon, but I think it was a higher power seeing to it that I didn’t collide with something in traffic for lack of concentration. To wit: I saw more women that were my type in ten minutes than I have in seemingly a year anywhere else, and driving was the last thing I needed to be doing. I also saw something that I, a reasonably well-traveled guy, would never have anticipated: a gay, bum, hippie couple. Yes, as I was waiting for Laura to get the keys made, here came these two down-and-out hippies, literally in tears, pushing a “bag-lady”-equipped shopping cart, wrapped in each other’s arms kissing. In lieu of a punchline, all I can say is: I think I’ve now seen it all!
After returning home to prepare for my buddy Beau’s late afternoon wedding, I was flipping through the paper in search of concerts and such. Lo and Behold, I happened to be in town just in time for Neil Young’s Bridge School Benefit. After I’d shaken my head and adjusted my eyes to be sure, I re-read the line-up: Tom Waits, Emmylou Harris, The Who, Smashing Pumpkins, Lucinda Williams, Brian Wilson, Green Day, Pearl Jam, Sheryl Crow, and Neil Young, tomorrow afternoon starting at two. I think I can squeeze that into the schedule!
Alternate Wedding Bells Chime
I Headed to the wedding clean-shaven and nattily-attired in a navy Brooks Brothers suit, which made me somewhat noticable at my first few stops on Haight St.. The first thing I stumbled into was a basement record store full of mostly Asians that were nearly in a trance watching video footage of a DJ contest in which several in the audience had competed. I’m somewhat fascinated by this “art form” of melding sounds together, but I think the locals were probably even more amazed to see a white boy dressed as I was in that place. Anyway, I then hit the head shop next door, doing my best impression of a yuppie at the beginning of his tumultuous careening to skid row. Luckily this store stocked the item I was seeking, and I was glad to be done with the errand and across the street in time to catch the second half of the high-priority Georgia-Florida football game. It seems that I was lucky to find this bar, Mad Dog in the Fog, because apparently establishments with clientele that care about college football here are few and far between. This was primarily a soccer crowd, though, and they were settling for American football only in lieu of “the beautiful game”. I readily struck up conversations at the bar even though I was dressed like a dork, which I’d imagine wouldn’t happen just anywhere, but SF is cool that way---live and let live.
I made a couple of guys laugh with some comedy bits and then ended up shooting the shit with a CA native that was happy to sample the yayo I had just transferred into my newly-purchased “bullet”. (ed note: if some of this terminology seems foreign to you, you’d probably be better off not asking.) I very much enjoyed discussing the finer points of California life and attitudes, not to mention blue-eyed brunettes, (like the one in my midst), with a fellow named Brian, and I vowed to get back in touch with him later in my trip to “chase skirts”. Georgia left themselves no opportunity to win the game with seven minutes left which, oddly enough, made me happy because the wedding’s starting time was quickly approaching, and I had to leave the Mad Dog to be visited another day.
Drove a convenient five minutes and easily found a parking place a block from the Queen Anne Hotel, the day’s host to Beau and Heather’s wedding. The surroundings were of a tony nature, about ten blocks west of Union Square and the hotel itself used to house an all-girls school many years ago. The confines had been restored in fine fashion, with countless antiques throughout and the place emitted a very warm, classical feel. The actual wedding took place in the inner lobby next to a grand, sweeping staircase that the wedding party descended when the ceremony finally began. The Matrons of the old girl’s school surely would’ve found good use for the “fainting chair” back by the restrooms had they been around the witness the attire of the groom and groomsmen. Hardly the more traditional attire of the fairer sex in the proceedings, the men wore semi-casual long-sleeved black cotton shirts with, gasp!, black jeans! Some also unintentionally sported colored t-shirts underneath and I believe a couple of them even missed an opportunity to at least wear hip shoes, opting for sneakers. The attire of the men in the ceremony made more sense when one regarded my great friend Beau, the groom, as he had what could be described as a formal, somehow fashionable black leisure suit with a Saturday Night Feverish white collar. (ed note: this Mr. Blackwellian assessment may convey that the author was appalled this attire but, au contraire, this was perfectly appropriate for this offbeat, very artsy assemblage.) To sum it up, this was just what I’dve chosen for a California wedding: things completely out of the ordinary.
The wedding proceeded beautifully with Beau’s father serving as the very proud master of ceremonies and did a job worthy of an old pro. The Bride and Groom appear to be a perfect match, and they were both absolutely beaming throughout the ceremony. It’s a wonder, however, that I noticed anything at all after the first bridesmaid, a dead ringer for Posh Spice, emerged. Let’s just say I wish they all could be California girls! Anyway, the parched party moved to the other side of the hotel’s lower level for a truly splendid reception; probably the best one I’ve ever attended based on the sheer number of beautiful women in attendance alone. I enjoyed my status as the single, (unlike almost all of the women), social butterfly, frequently amusing Beau’s friends and relatives with the anecdote of how we met indirectly through the band Phish. And speaking of bands, the band that played this party, Zmrzlina, was by far the best I’ve ever seen at such an occasion. No half-assed renditions of Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration” here, this band is best described as a rockabilly Velvet Underground and man were they great! Who cares if the groom looked a little like “Huggy Bear” from Starsky and Hutch, he sure has great taste in music! Not only that, but the bass/slide guitar was a beautiful six-foot blonde to boot, just one of the many reasons I left my heart in San Francisco. When you see a wedding band with a hottie in it, you know you’re on a roll! And speaking of the roll I was on…
W
hen I was back in Atlanta planning my trip, I tried to book a hotel room on priceline.com for Lake Tahoe a few days after the wedding. For some reason, my order never got filled, so I was reduced to “winging it” after I made my way out West. As luck would have it, at this reception I met Beau’s very attractive half-sister Jenny who just so happened to live in Lake Tahoe. Not only that, but her roommate in a six-bedroom lodge, for godssake, is a semi-retired guy who sometimes rents a room out for $25 a night. Jenny explained that she was in the process of moving, but she’d almost surely be able to broker a deal for the room rental, and I was pretty much in there. Not a bad bounce there! (ed note: although I sensed early sparks with Jenny, that part of this fairy tale never played out, as we settled on more of a brother/sister vibe, for whatever reason). With me utilizing my newly purchased Bolivian marching powder dispenser, this party stayed in high gear as I gabbed with everybody imaginable while sucking down cigarettes like they cost five cents a pack instead of five bucks. With me in my element, I wasn’t paying attention to subtleties and, in the meantime, was zeroed-in on by a recently separated, well-fed girl in her late twenties named June. She was nice enough, bright, and somewhat attractive, but I really wasn’t looking for another Layne in my life, if you know what I mean. I might also point out that, although this story may portray me as something of a slut, I must not be that bad or I’d have gotten with this one. Anyway, as bad luck would have it, (ed note: I guess this trip wasn’t a “roll” the entire time after all), June would cling to me the remainder of the evening.
After the party finally wound down and I had quizzed the band members as to the whereabouts of a fellow SF musician friend of mine that I can’t seem to locate, we moved the party. To The Mission, an oh-so-trendy district undergoing gentrification and also home to an offbeat restaurant/lounge concept called Foreign Cinema. We arrived too late with too large a party for a midnight, (now Halloween), showing of the original Dracula movie in all it’s subtitled splendor, twenty feet high on the building neighboring the large terrace. This wasn’t exactly what the doctor ordered for this partying fool, but I’ll take a crick in the neck from sitting too close to the screen for this team any time. Got back to the hotel in a limo creatively commandeered by one of our party with June in my lap, both literally and figuratively. I ended up trying to act as if this party wasn’t ending for about half an hour, trying to time travel away from June at the same time. Finally bid farewell to the last of the partyers and made my way back to my splendid perch on Upper Market, entering like a thief in the middle of the night so as to not wake my hosts. In retrospect, a trip to Castro, the SF district that hosts one of the world’s largest Halloween celebrations, might’ve been a better call, but I guess I can make that call at my wedding! All in all, the night was a blast and the wedding was very sweet and certainly memorable.
The Best Concert Ever
After a good night’s sleep and some fine morning company courtesy of the hostess with the mostess, Aunt Pat, I was on my way south of the peninsula to the Shoreline Amphitheater to see if I could score a ticket to that little benefit concert. The show was very sold out, but I must say that I never really harbored a doubt as to whether I’d score a ducat; I guess it was just one of those things. Sure enough, I spotted a guy selling tickets right as I was pulling up to park. Not just any guy, but Neil Young’s Harley mechanic! The kind of guy that would tend to be given billets on the fifth row. As luck would have it, this kind soul was happy to take face value, ($45), for the precious piece of cardboard and a gigantic smile crossed my face as I gladly parted with the cash. Soon enough I found myself inside the venue, which was a green-light to go ahead and ingest a piece of bread crust that had absorbed a couple of drops of a psycho-active chemical that shall remain nameless back in Atlanta. (Ed note: sad indeed is the poor sap who starts tripping before he scores a ticket, comes up empty, and spends the evening on the outside looking in!) I gleefully made the triumphant walk to my seat, which was eye-level with the show-opening country singing legend Emmylou Harris. This meant that I indeed made it in plenty of time for The Who, who I heard on the car radio were scheduled to go on at three.
The Shoreline Amplitheatre is an improbably cozy, earthquake-proof structure set in relatively barren hills and surrounded by modern office park developments. I’m guessing the intimate feel comes from the slope of the seating that renders more of a communal feel than the outdoor concert venues to which I’m accustomed. In any event, this was also a different experience due to the set-up on the stage; primarily because there were five rows of bleachers in the back, facing the crowd. Sitting on the risers were the beneficiaries of this event, the students of The Bridge School, (which caters to autistic and severely handicapped children), and some of their friends and families. The effect of this arrangement was two-fold. First, the reason for the occasion was always at the forefront of the minds of those watching the show. Also, the performers could turn to the kids in the back and more or less duplicate the intimacy of a church youth group gathering. A very cool set-up, and, as many of the performers and the audience would attest, it was at times just plain heart-wrenching as well. The bands played primarily in an “unplugged” capacity, which added to the intimacy, and this format is really the best way to see performers because if they’re not really good, there’s no place to hide, if you will. Speaking of good, there’s a short list of all-time legendary bands, and this show really started when this one took the stage…
So you know you’re on a roll when The Who comes out and the guy next to me produces an elaborate glass pipe with some of the kindest nuggets I’ve seen in quite some time. It was also nice to note that I had stuck my disposable camera in my pocket when I left the house and still had it on me completely by accident. So, soon enough there I was, stoned to the bejesus watching Pete and the boys tear, and I mean tear, through a set of greatest hits including a very appropriate “Behind Blue Eyes”. The only unexpected number was “Boris the Spider”, featuring bassist extraordinaire John Entwistle growling the vocals. The highlight of this set was a searing acoustic solo during “Who Are You”, but it’s kind of silly to even mention this because the whole thing was amazing. One thing that stuck out to me was how these guys didn’t really appear to be thrilled to see each other, i.e. they were essentially Pete and the Hired Help.
Next up was Smashing Pumpkins, with Billy and James seated on stools breaking off covers of Tom Wait’s “Old 55” and U2’s “Stay”, as well as their own, a very impressive “Disarm” and a new one called Ghost and the Glass Children”. Billy was in fine voice and also had the line of the day: after the crowd’s tepid response to the new song, he quipped: “How do you follow The Who on a Sunday afternoon?” Point well taken!
The act that followed was one of my favorite “unsung” artists, the country/folkish wonderful songwriter Lucinda Williams. She was hand-picked by Neil Young for a reason, but I have a feeling that she didn’t fully trust his judgment to place her in such esteemed company, because she turned in a pretty stiff set. Not only that, but she left “Car Wheels…”, her biggest hit, in the bag. Anyway, the fact that most people may have never heard of her may have been part of the problem, but I must mention that even though she was a relative unknown, the crowd paid rapt attention anyway. I don’t know if that’s par for the course out here in NoCal or not, but refraining from chatter at a concert is not exactly common where I come from. In any event, I found comic relief from watching the guys one row in front of me light up a huge, Marley-doobie, right next to two teenage girls who’s squirming father was next to them.
Now enter one of the true geniuses in the history of rock and roll, Brian Wilson. I tore myself away from talking to two unpretentious, (quite common around here), pretty girls just in time to catch a rousing, star-studded rendition of “Surfin’ USA”. Once again I was literally laughing out loud at the absurdity of my good fortune as I was eye-level facing the backup singers lining the back of a piano: Neil Young, Roger Daltrey, Eddie Vedder, and Sheryl Crow, (who was with singing with Wilson’s (wife?) female harmonizer.) Brian Wilson’s ensemble was seated, bloated brother Dennis at his left, followed by Mike Love, both of whom were strumming acoustic guitars while harmonizing. To his right, and closest to me, I might add, was a stunningly gorgeous blonde in tight tiger-skin pants and a black shirt with a voice like an angel. It was about this time that I started thanking God that the guy next to me, (who was cool, of course), had a sweet pair of binoculars. Anyway, behind these folks was the backing band, consisting of a bass player, drummer, and keyboardist , that closely mimicked the legendary album tracks that were in the set list. “Surfin’” was followed by the very appropriate party number, “California Girls”, and the crowd was totally into it. The very happy Brian, having battled bi-polar disorder for all these years, seemed to be having the time of his life, and was quite funny as he sarcastically quipped how they were “rockin’ now!”, and mimicked an overzealous rock star. Either that, or he was nervous as hell and/or wacked out of his mind---who knows? Anyway, this most remarkable of music sets was then mellowed out to the tune of “In My Room”, the impossibly beautiful “God Only Knows”, and the happier “Little Surfer Girl”. All three of these numbers were played with amazingly done four, or even five-part harmonies for the completely quiet, mesmerized crowd. Indeed greatness was in our midst. (ed note: even though he’s trying, it’s impossible for the author to overstate how great this set was.) Wrap up the set with a splendid, and oh-so-appropriate for me, “Good Vibrations”, which pretty much summed up this whole trip out to CA. I must say I wanted to move here to begin with, but now I have to, just to say I live in the same state as the blonde back-up singer! In any event, one could say that this performance was just a hair better than the skeleton crew that pass themselves off as the Beach Boys at state fairs!
After being too moved to move, if you will, I was soon enjoying East Bay’s own Green Day. I’ve always been a fan of these three guys that take the basic punk chords for a new, more accessible interpretation, but I was hardly prepared to be blown away like I was! Billie Joe Armstrong, the frontman/guitarist/songwriter comes out in full rock star persona, clearly un-intimidated to be in the middle of a legendary line-up. He went into an Elvis-like rock star parody worthy of the finest actor Hollywood could offer, asking to “hear” from the North Bay people, East Bay, etc. and continues this in hilarious fashion before ripping into “Geek Stink Breath”. How these guys got this kind of power out of an acoustic set-up, I’ll never know. Racing around, sneering, breaking off alterna-hits and often trying to suppress laughter was this star that isn’t going to go away, Billie Joe. I especially liked the fact that he would look right at me every once in a while because I’m sure I made for an interesting face in the crowd. I say this ‘cuz I think I was having more fun than he was, and that’s saying something! Suffice it to say that this was the highlight of the day as far as energizing the crowd goes, as the place was rocking top to bottom. If it weren’t for what I saw prior to this, not to mention following, I’d say this was the greatest set I’ve ever seen. Anyway, trust me on this, Green Day are no flame-out; they’ll be around for years to come. (ed note: time has shown you to be correct on this one, WitStream)
OK, now I try to catch my breath for a few minutes and gab with the cute couple next to me, wishing to hell that the girl who appeared to be Gina Davis’ 20 yr old daughter below us would join in the conversation. I was trying to explain to my new friends how much cooler NoCal is than, say, the entire eastern United States, but I still think they take their part of the country for granted. I also pointed out how, by utter definition, people in NoCal are more attractive if only because there’s little humidity and, as a result, they have better hair. But I digress, back to the show. Not long after I remarked in disbelieving bliss to someone: “oh, by the way, Pearl Jam is coming on next!” there they were. One of the seminal bands of the nineties, if not the complete history of Rock and Roll, these guys were on the spot, given what they were following. It’s now fully dark, and the stage is, quite literally, set. Out they came, dressed unassumingly as always, guitarist Mike McCready wearing a simple mask for Halloween, strapping on acoustic guitars with the drummer behind them. Not to boast again, but my angle had my looking directly up the fretboards of both McCready and bassist Jeff Ament, who was directly above/behind the former. Thank God, once again, for those binoculars!
This set was definitely the most emotional, indeed heart-wrenching, of the day as these living legends ran through several of their more laid-back songs, including “Daughter”, “Betterman”, and “Black”. Eddie Vedder, the singer, spoke to the crowd frequently about the occasion and how much he loved the kids behind him, pausing to compose himself several times, although he also laughed and clearly enjoyed himself a lot, too. They dedicated one song to the late Who drummer Keith Moon, (“Off He Goes”), and then closed with their current surprise hit, the cover of “Last Kiss”. This number was requested by one of the kids, and Eddie sang it straight to him, through unabashed tears, as if the crowd of 18,000 didn’t exist and he was playing to the five-row riser of kids at the back of the stage like a church youth group gathering. There weren’t many dry eyes around, I can tell you that.
After this latest turn of “can you top this?” it was time for the annual Halloween parade for the Bridge School students, which was probably the most bittersweet thing I’ve ever seen. One by one, the kids were given their moment in the sun as they were wheeled to the front of the stage, in their costumes and decorated chairs, for a rousing round of applause. Like those of us out of kleenex needed this! It would be really hard to explain how cool that was for everybody, words don’t really work.
Next up to prove her mettle was Sheryl Crow and her band. Some would say, (me included) that Ms. Crow is a bit overrated, as there are numerous females in music at least as deserving of the attention she garners, (Lucinda Williams, for instance). Anyway, suffice it to say that I had apparently forgotten how good she was when I saw her at Woodstock ’94. She came out looking resplendent in an angel costume, complete with a glittering halo and a fluffy, roaring twenties-style boa. Playing the perfect diva-with-substance, she confidently went through a nice mix of acoustic hits. Most memorable of these was a version of her biggest, (and most loathed by her), hit “All I Wanna Do”, that had her singing straight to the kids ala Pearl Jam. Also notable was a duet on “Strong Enough” with one of her idols, Emmylou Harris, (who rather clumsily read her lines off a piece of paper, I might add). She then closed her versatile set with a turn on the ivories for “Home”, a very slow, emotional song that she struggled to sing through tears. Again, just amazing stuff that can’t be found at just any concert.
People were now starting to leave, seeing that we were now roughly eight hours into the show and it was getting a bit nippy out. This provided me a wonderful opportunity to move up still closer, towards the middle and into the second row prior to the appearance of one of my true favorites, Neil Young. In the time spent for the set change, I struck up a conversation with a couple of guys in the front row, initially commenting on how much one of the photographers looked like the musician Beck. It was funny, because given the living legends that actually were in attendance, it was actually possible. Anyway, I ended up telling these guys in front of me the story of the kind of roll I was one, and they were highly amused. Before I knew it, right in front of me was the man who made this whole concert happen, the songwriter’s songwriter, Neil Young, roughly fifteen feet in front of me! Hello!!
The set opened with The Man in his familiar acoustic setting with a semi-circle of guitars behind where he is seated, with his harmonica-holding apparatus around his neck. He opens with “Old King” an ode to a dog of his from the album “Harvest Moon”. Far from a typical version, we are treated to a rambling, nearly twenty minute epic that was essentially Neil Young as sit-down comic, if you will. He made something less-than-kind references to those that had left the show early and shared an interplay with the enthralled crowd that I’d never seen with him, or any other artist, for that matter. Yes, he was truly in his element here, hilarious and on a roll. A stirring, you-could-hear-a-pin-drop version of “Cortez the Killer” was next, followed by an audience-requested “Home Grown”. He mentioned that, although it used to be a pot-smoking song, it is now officially a song about family farmers, his other pet cause. “Sugar Mountain” was then played specifically for me, seeing that he picked up my request telepathically, and just blew my tripping mind. Funny how a different mindset can make a familiar song adopt different meanings to me sometimes! Next was “Harvest Moon”, which seemed to make Joni Mitchell, who was in the front row to my right, quite pleased. “Old Man” was the welcome classic that followed in this dream come true, and I probably once again noted how utterly attentive and absolutely quiet the crowd was as this God-like presence played. Anyway, over to the ancient-looking organ, (facing the kids), for the next two numbers: “Long May You Run”, and “Oh Mother Earth”. The whole thing was wrapped-up with a star-studded sing- along to “I Shall Be Released”, featuring the few artists that remained at what was now nearly midnight.
Suffice it to say that this clearly the best concert I’ve ever seen out of many hundreds in my past.
Where’s the Make-Out Room?
While filing out of the place on what was now a chilly evening, I couldn’t help but notice what a chill mood everyone was in. Nobody was all fucked-up and raising hell, just people going about their business with smiles on their faces, unlike places I’m used to. In any event, my goal at the moment was to find a bar called “The Make-out Room”, which was unlisted, but was hosting a Halloween party in which the blonde bass player from last night’s wedding band would be in attendance. It was fun to go up to women and inquire as to whether they knew where the make-out room was, and I might note that none of them became snobby immediately, as they might in other locales. Finding the car soon overtook finding the bar as a priority, however, because all of the scenery took on a different look in the night, (ed note: maybe it was something the author ate!), and I had no real idea where the car was. In all fairness to me, though, the walk from the venue was as if the parking lots were located in Alaska or something. After finally correcting my course, I noticed two young chums hitchhiking, and, as luck would have it…they needed a ride to SF and they also knew where the Makeout Room was located: two blocks from their destination! Not only that, but one of them was completely sober and was immediately appointed driver for a very entertaining ride back to the city for yours truly, as I enjoyed a trail-filled journey riding shotgun.
The three of us chatted extensively on the ride back, although the two of them might describe it more like “that dude would not shut up.” I was filling them in on the quite entertaining story of the kind of roll I was on, along with pointing out that I planned on moving to SF. Perhaps the funniest part of the whole ride had to do with one of my new pal’s pathetic grasp of geography. Or perhaps it was simply an indication of Atlanta, Georgia’s importance in the world. Anyway, this clearly otherwise intelligent hitcher had no idea where Georgia was. It seemed to help only slightly when I told him that the state was located right above Florida. Indeed, several times when I asked locals what they thought of Atlanta, they essentially said: “we don’t”.
Soon enough, these two chill dudes had my rental parked a block from my destination, the aforementioned Makeout Room. I soon found myself in the midst of a wacky, festive Halloween party with a very bizarre, but talented band on stage. If I hadn’t been tripping, I might’ve felt out of place in what amounted to my best “Yuppie Mountain Hiker from Atlanta”. I managed to run into several of the wedding band members, but not the most important one, the bass player. The drummer chick was really cool, but the other fellas in the band that I never really spoke to looked at me sort of like a judge looks at a contestant in a dog show. Oh well…
Out to the sidewalk to hang with the smokers and bum one from a guy from Germany that I swear was fucking with me and was actually American, but such is the joy of Halloween! I found that these little packs of smokers were a great way to meet people, as they everyone was pretty much forced to mingle this way. Not only that, but it was actually nice to be at a bar that wasn’t filled with smoke. I thoroughly enjoyed hanging chatting with my future neighbors until the bar closed. I was kind of tired at this point, so I decided to close out the evening by taking in Halloween in Castro, (among the biggest parties in the world), from Twin Peaks, the remarkable park with the full overview of the city. I can’t wait to go there next year in full barrel apparel!
Yo, Tahoe!
After spending a lazy day lying around the house trying to decide whether to bolt for Lake Tahoe today or not. I finally got the motivation and phoned Jenny, Beau’s sister for directions and fought my way through early rush hour traffic to make it clear of the city before sunset. Made an uneventful three-plus hour drive to the famous vacation destination, passing Squaw Valley, site of the 1960 Winter Olympic Games in process. After a bit of trouble, I came upon the now permanent residence of Jim Stratton, 73 yr old retired military pilot, businessman, and golf lover. Both he and the boarder Jenny were not home, but I was guided to my room by notes, kicking the cat out of the way as I went. The place was gigantic and I’m sure an architectural triumph in its day, with lots of angles and numerous oddly shaped windows. A billiard table was situated not far from the enormous, maybe twelve foot long solid oak, distressed, (in a good way) table in the dining room with the lake view. It was a mini-ski lodge like you might picture, lots of wood, with seven bedrooms and ample hooks on the walls for the many layers of winter clothing. I settled in only barely before heading off to Jenny’s place of waitress employment, The Black Bear Restaurant, or something equally novel. It was a fine looking log-cabinish joint having a very slow night, except for a boisterous birthday party that thankfully broke up soon enough. I found myself unknowingly chatting with the town drunk/derelict/oddball, who I sensed was full of shit in about a minute, who had actually been banned from the place for unseemly urination, or some like offense that now escapes me.
It was apparent that he was quite interested in Jenny, who was very attractive by anyone’s standards, and I could certainly second that emotion. I tried to gauge what her interest in me was, but it was very tough to read through conflicting signals. I figured it would be best to just relax and see how things panned out. (ed note: the Jenny thing never worked out). She was extremely nice and cool, but also a Virgo and I must say, she could’ve used a drink! We soon were back at the lodge, chatting with our somehow firmly laid-back host, Jim. He was a very cool guy who seemed to get my jokes, although, as a crowd goes, he was certainly no push-over. We spoke of this, that, and the other thing, but, much to my delight, mostly about golf. Indeed he had a spare set of clubs and was all about teeing it up the next day. This was obviously the next step in this story because let’s face it, what kind of “roll” could I be on if golf wasn’t included?
The next day I arose to find a perfect day in store for me at the highest elevation that I’ve ever drawn breath. It was a crisp, sunny morning perfect for putting the top back and taking in some of the most extraordinarily beautiful scenery anywhere. Seeing that it was prior to the ski season, traffic was light and crowds non-existent. I dropped off the photos from Sunday’s concert to be developed and then bopped here and there, becoming a Safeway member in the process of buying some groceries. Headed down to the Old Brockway golf course, which has the distinction of being host to the very first Bing Crosby Pro-Am, back in 1934. It was also the track of choice for the Rat Pack back when they were headlining up the road in CalNeva, the borderline casino/showroom. It was a beautiful course, but only nine holes and not exactly cream of the crop as today’s courses go if only because the greens aren’t exactly pro speed. It did offer breathtaking scenery, though, and it was quite reasonably-priced, as well. I was putting like a demon with a borrowed blade, but couldn’t get off the tee or hit irons with any consistency because the sticks weren’t fit for a 6’6” frame. It was a blast, however, and I did shave several strokes off the second trip through. Got baked with one of the fellas I hooked up with, and he mentioned that Jazz Is Dead, an assemblage of crack musicians prone to put a unique twist on Grateful Dead songs, were playing at CalNeva that very night. As luck would have it, (there’s that phrase again), I had always wanted to check this band out, and I wanted to go to CalNeva to gamble that night anyway. Not a bad break!
Went back to the Lodge with a nice post-golf buzz on and enjoyed the company of my two hosts over a man sized home-grilled steak meal and a nice bottle of grape. I really enjoyed the company of Jim and Jenny, even if she still wouldn’t drink. Spent a while watching TV before going off solo to CalNeva for a fun evening out, pretty much assuming that I would come back with a profit from the casino. Was a bit tired from the eventful day and, seeing that I didn’t plan on any additional psychedelic activity this particular vacation, the Bolivian Marching Powder came up huge once again.
Sailed into the Sinatra room just after the band took the stage and heard what would eventually seem to be an endless song after a while, but it was a damned good song, and I was partying, so who cares? I wasn’t exactly discounting the idea of hooking up with some mountain hippie chick at this point, although the pickings were slim. Struck up a polite, humorous conversation with a nearly six foot vision of absolute beauty at one point, but I soon discovered that her fiancée was back in the seating area. (ed note: solid proof that even a roll like this isn’t perfect!) Given my current luck, I was actually kind of surprised I didn’t hook up with her, but she was too perfect and that would’ve been ri-godamn-diculous. The intermission finally rolled around and I find myself nervously getting into the swing of gambling at the video poker machines at one of the many bars in the casino. I like to ease my way into the wagering in this fashion because you don’t run out of money before the first free drink arrives. After running through a roll of quarters, (somehow, Vegas’ video poker paid more), I wandered over to the blackjack table.
Now, every good story could use a little twist, and this one is a doozy: I sit down at the end of a table and the same guys I was talking to at the Bridge School Benefit concert two days earlier are next to me! What are the fucking odds of that? In addition, I was only half paying attention and hit 15 and 16’s into 21’s, probably much to the chagrin of my table-mates. Yes, needless to say, lady luck was smiling on me as I turned $20 into $215. It was quite amusing to watch the guys from the concert who I had told about the luck I’d been having watch me clean up right in front of their eyes, I’ll tell ya! I then gave some kid a ride back into Tahoe City and discovered that his is the lament of many out here: the service employees are priced completely out of affordable housing near their jobs. Anyway, enough with the sociology, another doozy of a day was in the books, and I actually made money. Good times!
Back to the Bay
The next morning, (noon?) found me in the house by myself wondering what my next move would be on this vacation. After only brief thought, I decided to blaze trails back to the Bay because there was simply too much to see over there and, let’s face it, once you’ve seen a bunch of towering pine trees next to a crystal-clear lake, you’ve pretty much seen them all! I left a note of thanks and cash for my stay and then embarked for Emerald Bay, a must-see portion of the Tahoe area that was indeed quite impressive. Took a different road back through the pancake-flat Sacramento and caught a wonderful sunset along the way. I guess this would be as good time to give props to the California highway system, which thoroughly impressed me. Perfectly smooth roads, many miles of which were lined with rock walls featuring some fine masonry work. I guess this is why gasoline costs seventy-nine dollars per gallon out here!
Made it into the charming city of Berkeley on the way back to SF, and took a spin down University Avenue, which, as far as I could tell had absolutely nothing to do with the University besides dead-end into the campus. I was looking for a good old-fashioned dose of liberalism, preferably from a six-foot blonde, but I found neither. I ended up eating at a place called Jupiter, which featured standard American fare and a smoke-free patio, a regulation that a couple of lads I met and I dutifully ignored. This stop on my journey was under-whelming, I must say, because it was dark by the time I got there and I couldn’t find a used record store in which to buy a CD anywhere. I headed into SF soon enough, making a bee-line for the Warfield, which was playing host to The Pet Shop Boys, a sold out show. There was no question in my mind that I would score a ticket, but I was thwarted by the fact that the show actually started on time, and I had arrived just before the intermission. Hey, what the hell happened to the “roll” I was on, anyway?
I searched in vain for a way in, looking for side doors, greasing the help, etc., to no avail. I stopped in the Mission to see what was shaking at the Makeout Room, but it was closed. Ducked into another bar that was hosting a South Park viewing party, which I found a little odd, but certainly enjoyable. Odder still was the fact that there were no women in the packed bar. The funniest part was that these guys, for the most part, didn’t look or act gay at all. Be that as it may, I still have no desire to be a pillow-biter, thank you very much! Decided to give up and go drown my sorrows at my new pub of choice in the Lower Haight, Mad Dog in the Fog. I threw some darts by myself forever, searching for a game and finally gave up and saddled up to the bar where I met Phillipe, an England ex-pat who was now a New York resident visiting SF. He was a subdued, intelligent chap with thinning hair and a bent for Asian women. After weighing the pros and cons of SF and NYC, we found ourselves shoving off for the Mission, an oh-so trendy neighborhood currently undergoing widespread gentrification, looking for the action.
We ended up in a cool-feeling, (redundant in this town), restaurant-lounge place and soon struck up a conversation with a couple of local fellows, whereupon we discussed the general attitude of the city-by-the-bay, and women, of course. In particular, the banter soon centered on three young lasses at the end of the bar. After getting what I was convinced was a green light from one of them, a sauntered over with instructions to the others to follow me in if I was lucky enough to stick. Sure enough, it was soon a party of six, (one of the dudes we met went home), and I was chatting up a beautiful 5’11” blonde transplant from San Diego. She did mention that the attitudes from these two California cities differ considerably. She didn’t mention that she was a lesbian, as would later become clear from the local’s assessment and further review. I imagine this would explain why the other two girls were less than excited to have us in their group. As this encounter came to an end, I made a comical, way too needy attempt to keep alive what was already dead by suggesting that my lipstick lez make it out for my stand-up act Friday night. She was nice enough to give me the “I’ll try” (read: no chance in hell!) At this point it was clear that Phil and I had found the end of the evening, as the local establishments were thinning out. I decided to take my new chum up to see the view from Twin Peaks before dropping him at his hotel, since he didn’t have a car. There was a bit of cloud-cover, so he was a bit disappointed, bored, or in fear that I was some kind of turd burglar, I’m not sure which. One thing’s for sure though, he was a devoted fan of Echo and the Bunnymen, of all bands. I got his numbers pretty much knowing that I wasn’t going to call him because he was way too low-energy for this particular trip. In retrospect, I wish I’d hung with him Friday because he had an invite to local party, which might’ve been way cool. That, and chicks dig Europeans. Such are my just rewards for being a snob, I suppose.
Sight-Seeing like a Local
OK, now it’s Thursday, and time to hang with the recent groom and main impetus for the trip, one Beau Scott. Somehow shaking off the cobwebs of partying hard for four of the last five nights, I took a winding, convoluted trip to the hills outside of San Rafael, where Beau rents an interesting house with his new bride. (Look for it at the bottom of the hill the next time they have mudslides out there.) Just kiddin’, buddy! It was a nice little neighborhood and an absolutely perfect day for a convertible. We hit a Mexican eatery in his charming home village of Fairfax, and he was kind enough to pick up the tab. The food was good, albeit a little hot for my tender palate, and I was sweating off the top of my head to prove it. After procuring a lighter at a local grocery store, we were off for a giddy spin through rural Marin County, a drive which I’d always heard was simply amazing.
Well, those that raved about this scenery were certainly correct, and puffing some kind bud certainly enhanced my appreciation of it. We took the scenic route here and there snapping photos on the disposable camera, (which yielded pretty lame prints, I might add.) Our destination, if you can say we really had one, was the small coastal town of Bolinas, which was a very scenic place, if not completely charming. They say that the place is notable for having ignored those pesky prohibition laws back in the 30’s, and it retains a rough and tumble kind of feel to this day, which is refreshing,. No yuppie-fied “town squares” here, thank you very much. The highlight of this trip for me, however, was the drive back to Fairfax via the Pacific Coast Highway, the venerable Hwy 1. The ride up the hill as the sun set was remarkable, as each view seemed to be topped by the next one from a slightly higher plateau. Especially striking was the way the fog was hovering over the water, and the view from above this cloud layer was much like looking out of a plane at 30,000 feet. As dusk settled in, we soon found ourselves on the downhill portion of this stretch of the PCH, or to be more precise, a real-life thrill ride. As luck would have it, a BMW M3, the little roadster, was about a turn in front of me the whole way down and thus served as a “tracer bullet”, if you will. His headlights showed me the way to go in the diminishing light, and he also proved to be a worthy opponent as we tore down the perfectly-smooth pavement, in and out of the banked turns. I was taking the fact that I couldn’t ever catch up to the guy personally, (I am a courier, after all), but I was rolling in an automatic, while he was clearly in a stick shift, so it was OK I lost.. Those Chrysler Sebring convertibles do corner pretty well, though.
After bidding farewell to Beau, I motored into SF a comedy outing at a coffee house. I was too late arriving to get on the bill, but it was fun just the same hanging out getting a feel for the local talent. There were mostly good ones and some bad ones, which isn’t a bad ratio if you’re talking about amateur stand-ups. Wanted to go out to some more bars, but my 34 yr old body had other ideas, so I decided to cash in, heading back to Upper Market and the comfort of Aunt Pat’s spacious dining room with the futon on the floor. It soon became obvious that I might’ve done well to wait maybe another hour before turning in because I got back before Laura, Aunt Pat’s daughter was still up. Not just awake, though, but good and liquored-up to boot! In case you forgot my earlier description of this woman, let’s just say that her stirring wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped for.
I was minding my own business, surfing the web when in Laura reeled. Several scotches into the evening, she carried on clumsy conversation between puffs off of her B&H menthols as I tried to concentrate and pretend this wasn’t happening. She’s a nice enough girl, but she’s pretty much a social misfit that looks a lot like you might imagine a 43 yr old that still lives at home would look. I had to retire to my dining room futon when she inquired as to where I would be sleeping for the night, as this was clearly the only graceful way out of this quagmire of awkwardness. Little did I know, it would get worse the next day…
Friday, November 5th arrived, and I was somewhat surprised to see something other than the perfectly clear skies to which I’d become accustomed. This was, coincidentally, my big day out with Laura, and I guess the grayness outside was appropriate enough. We took off in the convertible for the piers, where we discovered that the Alcatraz tour for the day was sold-out, only slightly to my chagrin. We hung out by the Fisherman’s Wharf only briefly because I found it utterly unappealing, as did my tour guide. We took a tour of homes in fluent areas like Sea Cliff, home of Robin Williams and remarkable Golden Gate views. Soon enough we were in Haight-Ashbury, at the Magnolia Pub and Brewery for a late lunch and cold pop. I was absolutely thrilled to have scored a table at the window with the parade of humanity passing by, partly because it meant that I would be relieved of having to spend much time looking at Laura. I hate to keep harping on her appearance, but, somehow a woman who has “let herself go” looks still more hideous after applying too much makeup. I felt like I was looking over at John Wayne Gacy back in the clown days or something! This, coupled with the fact that the concept of a “conversational voice” was somehow lost on my lunch companion. She always spoke way too LOUD, which triggered an interesting phenomenon: I would, in turn talk very softly, as if maybe she would follow my example or something.
Perhaps the reason I am so scathing in my description of her in these pages is due to some pent-up frustration, because I couldn’t exactly chastise her about it at the time. “Hey, Laura, when you look like you do, you should try to avoid attracting attention in public!” “Even though you’re nine years older than me, I could still learn you a thing or two about etiquette!” I mean, Jesus! At least she didn’t make another clumsy pass at me! (ed note: is there a more entertaining phrase than “clumsy pass”? I think not!) Scored a beautiful wall tapestry at a store called “Positively Haight” and fell in love with the sales girl, which made the 438th time I fell in lust on this trip. In any event, we then did a bit more of the home tour thing and then went back to Aunt Pat’s for the rest of the afternoon.
Make us laugh, Funny Man!
Friday evening was eventful, as I made my debut doing comedy west of the Mississippi. The venue was a small coffee house in an area that was apparently under a “no parking space” ordinance. The audience consisted not of Beau and Heather, who no-showed, but mostly of other comics, so I felt right at home. I enjoyed busting the locals’ balls over their new license plates, which commemorate the state’s sesquicentennial. I pointed out that, contrary to California’s lofty opinion of it’s intellectual capacity, they must not be that bright because even Tennessee didn’t have to define sesquicentennial on the license plate! “It ain’t 100 years, and you haven’t been here for 200, so put two and two together, you frickin’ quiche-eatin’ fruitcakes!” All of this was done in a heavy southern drawl after I was introduced as being from Atlanta, and it was fun as hell! The good comics laughed a lot and the bad ones didn’t, which is always a good sign. After the show, the city was at my feet and thus I predictably landed at…
Mad Dog in the Fog, my home tavern away from home. Armed with darts and what remained of a stimulant that shall remain nameless, I took to the Friday night party atmosphere like a local. I met quite a few people, including a six-foot blonde USF student that was just too cool for words and hot as all get-out at the same time. To quote Homer Simpson: “God, why do you mock me?!?” After more than a few cold ones, my new party had moved on. I followed suit, but decided to blaze my own trail, heading back down to the Mission district, in search of the establishment recommended by the local from the lipstick lesbian episode a couple of nights ago. I can’t remember the name of the establishment, but it was way cool. A live DJ spinning fresh dance music certainly of an ilk one doesn’t exactly see on MTV, if you follow me, and an eclectic crowd having a good time. Struck up a conversation with a gruff guy that was all about how great New York was and how society was full of capitalist pigs. I pointed out that if it wasn’t for capitalism, he’d be hard-pressed to find employment as a DJ, much less love New York, but I don’t think he picked up what I was laying down. Eschewing the negative energy, I soon found myself shakin’ it like I had no backbone with a couple of lovely young ladies with smiling faces.
There were numerous model-looking types about, and I was struck by how unpretentious and just-having-fun they all seemed. I guess the most remarkable thing was that they weren’t being hassled by a bunch of drunk frat-boy types or “Guidos”, so they had no reason to throw out attitude anyway. Was put to shame by a couple of seemingly elastic young lads when it came to shuffling out into the impromptu dance circle, but it sure was a blast competing---I hadn’t done that since Barcelona! Ended up closing the place and calling it a night having once again failed to “get lucky”, but I didn’t actually even try because I was just having so much fun anyway. Slid into Aunt Pat’s around three for the umpteenth time after a splendid evening on the town---thank God her lap dogs don’t bark!
Alas, All Good Things Come To An End
Well, normally departure day comes too fast, but at the pace I was going on this trip at my age, my own bed was sounding like a good idea. I went and bought a bottle of Cutty as the least I could do for my generous hostesses before making an early-afternoon getaway, leaving my suit in process. My plan was to meander down the coast to Carmel and get back up to San Jose for my Sunday morning flight, possibly by staying for the night in Santa Cruz. Well, at least I got the meandering down the coast part covered.
Another perfect day was over my head for the extraordinary, for this child of the Midwest/Southeast’s ride down the PCH. This scenery was like nothing I’d seen before, and the most remarkable thing was how often it changed. There would be flat farmland all the way to the shore for a while, and the next thing you knew there would be soaring cliffs, followed by a forest, all in the span of thirty minutes or so. East coast-style dune beaches were there as well, full of surfers and a new twist, for me anyway, “kite surfers”, I’ll call them, for lack of the actual term. These guys were essentially water skiing on a surf board, being pulled by the gigantic kites that they had at the end of perhaps eighty-foot ropes. They would surf/ski way out of the shore, and then haul ass back is, catching waves while they were at it. It looked like incredible fun, but I imagine it would be hell on one’s hands. Sure was fun to watch, too!
Got into Santa Cruz with plenty of light left and wandered about the boardwalk, which runs past countless beach volleyball courts down to a Coney Island-style amusement park. I ducked into a bowling alley, of all places, to watch some college football and munch on a hot dog to make sure I was still close to my roots. After dark, I headed downtown and wandered about the main drag, which consisted of your typical pedestrian walkway sights: shops, restaurants, etc. Although I’d heard that Santa Cruz was a really cool place, perhaps I just didn’t know where to go, because I was unimpressed. Indeed, although I was thirsty for a cold one, I really didn’t feel drawn into any of the establishments. Given the vibe and the look of the people, I really could’ve been back in the Southeast. Seeing that this wasn’t exactly the idea, I decided to take it North, because Monterey and all that jazz clearly wasn’t going to fit into this particular trip.
I really couldn’t decide whether to drive back up to SF for the evening, (about 90 minutes extra driving, up at 6:00 am), or get a hotel not far from the San Jose airport. Since I’d pretty much decided at this point that I was moving out here anyway, I figured I’d save the time and just check out San Jose on a Saturday night. Got a hotel just up the street from a little cluster of nightlife and headed to a large club that promised a funky jazz band later in the evening. Started shooting pool with a patent attorney from Australia named Chris. Chris looked a lot like the tennis player Patrick Rafter, complete with the hair pulled back into a ponytail. He was quite a nice lad, and seemed to get my jokes as well, so we were soon a “crew”, if you will, Pilot and Wing-man, (ed note: who is which is irrelevant for our purposes here.) We sipped some suds and I finished the last of my, (perfectly-rationed, I might point out), Bolivian Marching Powder to get one last push into the final mission of my vacation.
It turns out that Chris is an over-worked part-time resident of the area, and he can’t always muster the energy to head all the way up to the peninsula, so he was settling for a night out amidst the cheese tonight. This crowd would’ve been Anytown, USA except a little heavier on the Hispanic, gold-chain thing. Lots of bleach-blondes and geeks that clearly had no idea how to party, but were probably billionaires. We were able to find a crowd a bit more hip in a downstairs club that was having “disco night”. Gee, what a novel concept! We would later figure out that we’d arrived well before the regular crowd, because there were actually white people in the poorly ventilated basement when we were. I ended up dancing with a circle of girls that included, believe it or not, a 5’11” blonde. She was actually a resident of San Jose and very friendly, as were her friends. Unfortunately, my Wing Man wasn’t exactly interested in any of her single friends, so we spent a lot of time out in front of the place smoking cigarettes and enjoying conversation. Our next sortie was the return to the original upstairs bar with the jazz band, but that scene was still beat, so we decided to abort the mission altogether. I hit some late night sub joint and got some much-needed chow hoping that I wouldn’t get shot just for being white. Got back to the hotel and slept hard after a quite anti-climactic finishing evening to this most eventful of journeys.
Barely made my flight after returning the rental car, which had a fine powder ground into the floor of the trunk, of all things. It seems that a canister of oatmeal I’d bought in Tahoe came open during the rollercoaster ride that was the trip down that hill on the PCH and that was that. I imagine that might’ve been a first for things that have happened to a rental. The flight back was predictably endless, and you know I had “left it all out there”, if you will, because I didn’t even bother joining in a football conversation these guys were having for most of the trip. The best part of my return was seeing Julianna, the girl I’d been dating for a couple of weeks prior to my trip, waiting for me at the gate. One journey finished, and another one started---time will tell from which I’ll learn more.
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