Band Van

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.