I’m posted up on my bleached white driveway. I try to
dribble past my Dad to the hoop that is secured to our roof. His hands are up, his
sneakers scuffle for position. I’m red faced, sweating and panting. My mom
brings out orange segments and iced tea. We talk a minute about the prowess of
our favorite athletes, Pele’, Kenny Stabler, Reggie Jackson, Martina Navratilova. My interest
in musical heroes is taking off as well, and I tell my folks I want to be like
Kiss, mainly Ace Frehley, or Black
Sabbath, mainly Ozzy or either of Heart’s sultry front ladies, Ann or Nancy Wilson.
My loving parents blend into one mouth that lip syncs the
mantra: That’s nice dear, but you will
eventually need something to fall back on.
I ignore their blather. I know my youthful good looks will forever
help me through times of trouble.
I reflect on my parent’s thoughtful, yet annoying advice as my
band’s van backs out of the same driveway.
My musical mates and I climb the frigid, tree-lined Interstate
Five to Seattle on a tour to promote our new record. Our recordings, as well as
our live shows are intended to spread our desperate message of laziness, self-imposed
confusion, innocence never found, and general malaise caused by the man.
The path to Seattle isn’t safe in the summer, in the winter
it can be suicide. Timber trucks breath
down our tailpipe as the snow covered roads mock the ravines. There is a good foot
of play between the van’s thirty year old suspension and the steering wheel. The
musical equipment, the three dudes and their added stink weigh down the back of
the van.
On top of all this, our drummer is driving.
We stop for gas just south of Ashland, WA. Our drummer buys popcorn, a giant barrel-sized
soda, and a book on tape, a self-help cassette he says will be funny. Just looking at the 84 oz Mountain Dew makes
me have to go to the bathroom. I find the truck stop’s restroom, and as I stand
lonely hearted, I read the logger-penned graffiti. Apparently San Francisco
Faggots should wipe their asses with Spotted Owl dicks. Although I live in
Oakland, I know this is aimed at me.
Back on the road, the drummer is more fixated on his recent purchases
than the danger at hand. He unwisely decides to pass the highway snow plow
brigade. They represent the man. Their flagrant abuse of authority and slow, snow plowing ways are not
respected by our drummer. Unlucky trucks
lay on their sides along the highway, and the shredded treads of giant tires
lie like fake mustaches in the snow. We change into the unplowed passing lane,
and I can’t help but think drummers are dumb.
It isn’t long before we slowly careen into the mountainside
and scrape downhill. As bodies and gear topple,
I wonder why I gave up sports as a youngster. I was a triple threat,
good at Basketball, Baseball and Soccer.
Our van’s headlights chase their tail, and I realize every
derogatory drummer joke I have ever heard is factual. If the drummer drools out
both sides of his mouth, the stage is level. What time is it when a drummer sits on your
fence? Time to get a new drummer. What is the difference between a large pizza
and a drummer? A large pizza can feed a family of four.
We lay in the van, that now lies in a ditch, 30 feet beneath
the roadway. I start to stir and wonder if this will get to Donnor Party desperation.
I already know that anyone in arm’s length hasn’t washed in a while, they may
or may not have gonorrhea, and their diets have consisted of Cheetos, Gatorade,
and Beef Jerky. I’ve already eaten myself to get here, I may have to eat myself
to get out. I’m thinking spleen.
I’m sure my spleen tastes better than the drummer’s, but it
is his spleen I decide that I would eat
if need be.
My cannibal dreams are interrupted by the cassette spinning
in the tape deck. The self help tape now warbles as if Barry White is
making out with Alvin and the Chipmunks. They both take turns reciting
lines from Johnathan Livingston Seagull.
I finally agree on something with our drummer, the self-help
tape is funny.
