Unicycle Loves You • Baby Bar/Neato Burrito, Spokane WA

I bid farewell to Tom and Michele with hugs and awkward hair kisses.  It’s what I do.  Jim took the wheel for a harrowing drive through Oregon’s cold, misty mountains.  Generally Jim prefers to drive ten miles over the speed limit and pass all enemy motorists.  That’s fine and all in the plains of the midwest, but it makes for intense times on slick mountain roads, with hydroplane-inducing puddles aimed at drops guaranteed to maim or kill.  No other Oregon plates were driving as fast as us.  It wracked my nerves to the point where I couldn’t write this Important diary, so I spoke up.  Irritated by my remarks, Jim continued driving competitively.  I punched the door out of trapped frustration.
“I KNOW THAT YOU DON’T CARE THAT THIS UPSETS ME, BUT IT DOES!”
Our windshield got slapped by a tidal wave from the oncoming lane, blinding us for a moment.  I melodramatically shut my laptop, sent a farewell text to my wife, and fell into a deep sleep, or what POW’s call temporary suicide.

When I awoke we were in the gloomy grey-green desert of eastern Washington.  The rain still poured down, but the roads had cleared up and straightened out.  Brown bison grazed under bleak antennae holding lazy endless wires.  We passed a tree farm that played like a strange flip book when you stared straight into it.  It was so weird out here.  I liked it, all the way to Spokane.

Photo by Nikki V

Years and years ago, when AOL Instant Messenger was Facebook, a little girl named Nicole befriended another little girl in Spokane, Washington named Missy.  They shared an appreciation for Kevin Smith films, and became cyber-pen pals.  About two weeks ago, Nicole contacted Missy (I think through Friendster) about the possibility of visiting Spokane on the tour.  Missy did one better and booked us a show.  Not only that, but she got us press, too!  And after thirteen years, Nicole and Missy would meet face to face for the first time.

The Baby Bar is an eensy bar down the hall from Neato Burrito.  They fed us crazy quality burritos wrapped in cilantro tortillas and bottomless glasses of local brew.  A kooky, chatty suicide fox named Katelyn said she’d interview us for her zine after our set.  She wanted us to experience the Spokane scene-AGH!! But she lost the little vial around her neck containing a loved one’s ashes.  Oh, here it is!

In the crimson nite-glo hues of Baby Bar, Nicole and Missy finally met and embraced for the first time without the assistance of American Online.  They caught up while Missy’s boyfriend Sean made tube-powered electro-analog under the moniker Saleswagon.

Photo by Jim

Spokane came out in hearty numbers and were not afraid to stand close to the action.  God how fucking refreshing that was.  We did our own sound and played a spirited set, with only one brief outburst from Jim.  During “Wow Wave” he detected a hum of mid-range feedback and halted the song.
“THIS IS WHY I’M IN A BAND!  SO I DON’T HAVE TO DO SOUND!”
I suggested that we resume the song where we left off, on the third measure of the second stanza, but this idea was met with stern rejection.  The set concluded with Jim guitarfucking Nicole’s bass, accidentally bonking her in the head with a mic, and me bronco-bucking my drums onto the floor.  Spokane approved!

True F.O. headlined with time-bending post rock, and a tight rhythm section of aluminum bass and Jesus on drums (see velvet painting).  A mustachioed Steve Buscemi weasel hovered over the band while they played, christening them with a bottle of beer.  Spokane’s white hetero male contingent continued the tradition of commenting on my tiny shinies.  “It takes a lot of balls to wear those shorts,” they said in unison.  Finally the sweet woman who constructed my burrito thanked me for wearing them.  “It’s nice to hear that from a woman!”  Speaking of women, Katelyn seemed to have disappeared in either a drunken tornado or on a quest for her missing vial of ashes.  Needless to say we won’t be appearing in any zines anytime soon.

Photo by Jim

Back at Missy and Sean’s, comedy was discussed and dissected over green puffy pillows.  Turns out Missy, aside from being the best accidental booking agent on this tour, is also quite the comedy aficionado.  Her walls are adorned with Bob Odenkirk’s John Handjob.  Wildly, she had heard of The Annoyance, my comedy home back home.  Like an unevil, trustworthy Mitzi Shore, Missy emailed me a bedtime story about Rodney Dangerfield’s salad days and I was off to dreamsville.

Unicycle Loves You • Backspace, Portland OR

Jimbo Saves.  Our Seattle Jesus took us out for breakfast once again, a Last Supper of hangover bar food.  He turned one credit card into individual skillets and messes for everyone.  I could have ordered 2 eggs with 3 sides of 2 eggs, but Doubting Nicole said it couldn’t be done.  Everyone was a snob about the hashbrowns, which were Immaculate.

Photo by Nikki V

The rain fondled our van all the way to Portland.  What can I say about Portland that Fred Armisen hasn’t already?  Bikes, haircuts, unemployment.  It’s all there, and more.  The whole city is decorated with a sense of whimsy and smirky humor.  Actual adults participate in soap box derby races, adorn crossing walk signs with hula hoops, and ride unicycles while playing flutes in full Star Wars regalia.

Our hosts were my camera shy friend-for-life Michele and her husband Tom.  Michele will go down in my history as the junior who pulled me away from my freshmen year lunch acquaintances, and made the table of upperclassmen punk rock theater misfits my new home.  Tom and I worked together at an indie label distribution warehouse in 1997, which is a whole nuther affair.  Michele and Tom were putting us up in a groovy Tibetan meditation house that their Buddhist pals are renting to them for either six months or nine years.  Tonight it would be a full house.  John Namasté-mos!

Photo by Nikki V

Backspace is a large computer cafe with a back room devoted to either gaming or cyber sex.  Hard to tell.  It’s located in Chinatown, though Portland got rid of most its Chinese character for fear of people thinking it’s racist.  I flipped through a free press rag to see if they had anything to say about the show, but the earliest listings were for tomorrow’s shows.  Today was so over.

For dinner we endured inadequate service, but relished the yummy burgers amid drag queens joined by Nicole’s columnist pal Erika.  Then Michele and Tom met me at Ground Control, a vintage barcade for $5 Free Play Night.  I got to play coin-op Paperboy and Tempest, but the guy hogging BurgerTime wouldn’t leave, and Qbert was out of order.  So the three of us combined forces to conquer Sunset Riders, shooting banditos, varmints, and whores for 16-bit rewards.  Wow, so this is Portlandia.My cousins Jaci and Ryan made the 176 mile trek to see us play.  Also in attendance were Regina and John, improv cohorts of mine from late 90′s Chicago, who I hadn’t seen since then.  As a bonus, former Unicycle Loves You accessory man Trusten also came to support his old bandmates sans tambourine.  Mingling was the order of the evening before we took the stage.

Photo by Jim

Our set is getting more and more violent, especially during “Wow Wave Cinema”.  Tonight Jim’s guitar went unexpectedly silent during the solo, so he karaoked it until the microphone fell apart in his hands.  Nicole and I kept it going, until Jim eventually figured it out (“figyer it ay-ooouuuuuuuuut!”).  Regina and John were a vocal force during the set, poking us with nutty heckles.  They cut a rug for “Sun Comes Out”, which ended with my drums tumbling over like a failed domino rally.  Tonight my tiny shinies received compliments from Portland’s white hetero males.  If they liked it then they shoulda put a bird on it.While Jim & Nicole caught up over cans of Genesee with Trustin, Michele, Tom & I hit Voodoo Doughnut.  I got an original Voodoo Doughnut, a yellow cake glove, frosted chocolate with goofy monster decoration, blood red jelly filling, and a pretzel stick cigarette.  It was tooth-rotting delicious!

Back at the house we talked about Portland, which is one of the things you do in Portland.  I learned that in Portland you spend three years trying to find a job, then take a crappy one, and do that until you invent your own job.  One of these days I’ve got to move.  Maybe it will be here.  And I can blog advice to hang-gliding sea punk Boba Fettishists.

Unicycle Loves You • Pacified

Ugh.  Putting on tour weight.  I’m eating fish and tofu, avoiding snacks, drinking wine instead of beer, but the fact remains we spend the majority of the day sitting in a van.  I wish my blossoming boobs could satiate my sex-starved groin grumblings, but it doesn’t work that way.  I hope Seattle likes fat horny drummers.

Photo by Nikki V

Grants Pass, Oregon likes fat horny cavemen.  They put a mighty one atop their visitors center that, according to its placard, likes to prank around with pretty women.  This is what I will look like by the time we hit Missouri.

Oregon’s drive was quite breathtaking, thanks to Jim’s competitive racing style of mountain driving.  We admired the cedars, redwoods, and conifers in record time.  In Salem we grabbed a Mexican lunch because why not?  Jim & I crashed hard while Nicole handled the serene trek into the Evergreen State.

Photo by Nikki V

I suggested a stop in Olympia for coffee, as I’ve always wanted to see the home of K Records, Sleater-Kinney, and legendary US soccer goalkeeper Kasey Keller.  I had heard about the city’s twee culture of cardigans, malt shops, and platonic handjobs.  To my disappointment, the coffee shop I yelped was atop a strip mall.  Nobody wore a sweater and no one played any instruments amateurishly.  But the barista guy did wear eyeliner.  So it wasn’t a total loss.

Photo by Jim

Seattle’s space age skyline greeted us like the Jetson’s maid Rosey.  If we have time we’re going to visit the 1966 World’s Fair.  In the Lower Queen Anne neighborhood our gracious host Jimbo greeted us, opening up his Murphy Bedded pad to our tired/mud-buzzed heads.  Out of nowhere, he treated us to fabulous suds and pub grub at McMenamins, then picked up an assortment of red wine from the corner store.  The evening ended as it had begun, with spirited conversation and hearty laughter with our consummate host Jimbo.  Seattle was like a Jesus to us.

Unicycle Loves You • Figuring It Out

It took a while to get our shit together this morning.  Our grimy beach motel didn’t do coffee.  We schlepped around Surf City in search of some type of breakfast, forgetting it was Sunday.  Eschewing the 40 minute wait at a locally yelped restaurant, we opted to just hit a coffee shop instead.  Lost on Santa Cruz’s dizzy version of urban planning, we got heckled by a carful of surf rats.  “Figyer it ay-ooooouuuuuuut!” they taunted in a strange nasal sneer.  Nicole returned their NorCal jab with a big Jersey fuck you finger.

In retaliation we ate at a New York bagel place.  It was a pleasant Sunday morning downtown.  Couples smiled, children ran free, flowers bloomed.  An unassuming middle-aged man took a casual stroll.  The next thing I knew he was sprawled out on the sidewalk, pushed from behind by a frothing beach thug whose mind had turned to psychotic dust.  With his face a raging red and his blue eyes ticking viciously, he was a truly frightening sight.  The assaulted man got up and tried to walk away but the beach thug advanced on him like a pit bull.  He had to jog to get away from his attacker.  Not a moment later, two small children met up and hugged at the scene of the crime.  Nobody paid it any mind.  Cowabunga, dude.

At Trader Joe’s we stocked up on pretzels and got a case of Charles Shaw.  The cashier joked.  “Looks like you’re going to have a good day.”  I almost bought a boogie board at CVS, but opted instead for Q-Tips.  A ravaged Lebowski in a stinky trenchcoat waited in line with the betties and their milfy moms, face-studded punks, surfers on a break, and impatient squares.  He made a wisecrack that broke up the CVS in universal laughter, and his wino eyes proudly grinned.

Santa Cruz, yer a weird chick with yer kooky problems and yer bitchin’ but we promised Seattle we’d buy her a beer so we’ll be back okay catch ya on the flip flop Facebook us.

We stopped in Redding for some surprisingly adventurous and delicious Thai food.  I ordered the pumpkin curry with tofu.  Jim put pineapples in his fried rice, and Nicole’s beef salad was sinus-clearing fresh.  You might say that we discovered MANGO PARADISE.

Coolio should sue

Northern California got distractingly ravishing again as we ascended her alluring curves toward Mount Shasta.  The clouds looked like Gawd’s beard trimmings, highlighted with fat rainbow streaks.  A snowy, meringue mountain jutted as high as the sky could go, resembling the world’s largest Tom Carvel ice cream cake.

Photo by Nikki V

In the town of Weed, California we stopped for gas and checked out a souvenir shop called The Weed Shack.  We picked up some pot trinkets for our pot pals.  It was cute and all but I prefer the PCP Hut in PCP, Hawaii.

Rock ‘n Roll Reality Check:  The band fund was at zero.  It seems that driving thousands of miles and staying in motels without getting paid for shows is how you go broke.  Huh.  Now we know.  Bruised but not broken, we admired California’s last hurrah of bizarre weather and breathtaking scenery before nightfall descended upon the Oregon border.

Burger King of the Mountain

In Grants Pass we holed up in our last motel for a while, cracking open the Charles Shaw for an improvised dinner.  We spread canned Aldi brand chicken on Sam’s leftover LA bagels, which still had some squeeze left in them.  After emptying the entire contents of the salt and pepper packets from the plastic silverware baggies, it still needed something.  Nicole added a handful of roasted peanuts to her combo.  Jim dipped his in applesauce.  I washed mine down with wine.  It’s hard to say what was the star of the plate.  Probably the end of it.

While Jim & Nicole restrung their guitars, I tried to read Big Hair and Plastic Grass, a chronicle of baseball’s funky side in the 70′s.  The same paragraph about ashtray stadiums and astroturf blurred over and over, until I finally succumbed to the broke, canned chicken & cheap wine coma.