On de Road, Part One: the Beginning.
Here comes a rocketeer's version of my trip from Cascadia to SoCal:
It started in mid-July. Kim, bless her heart, was at my place until two in the morning helping me pack. What have I done to deserve such people?? I finished up putting the computers away while the movers began carting my crap into a massive 70' trailer. I'll spare you the craziness that almost kept me from leaving that Monday. Suffice to say that someone at a certain moving company got in serious hot water for underestimating the scale of my junk pile.
The movers arrived at 8:15 in the morning. They left at 5:30 that evening. Even with me helping, it took that long. I took mum to dinner, intending it to be my goodbye gift, then she paid for it before I could beat her to the punch. Damn parental unit. We returned, I dropped her off, said goodbye to my landladyfriend, my roommate, the pup I'd lived with for the past four years, my little cave in Bellevue; I packed us all into my green zippymobile and hit the road an hour past sundown.
I got to my friend Darrell's at about nine. Lucky bastard, his new home's what I dream of having one of these days. Five acres of land, a barn he's converting into a studio, a small lake out back, woods to screen him from the nearest neighbors...the whole bit. I hadn't seen him in nearly a year and how long did I get to hang with him and Brandy? An hour. An hour for a year. Shite.
I soaked it up anyway, gave him some art, and continued down towards Portland. Brandy took a look at my Google directions and agreed they were probably better than cutting back to the highway, but to watch out: I'd be on back roads for all of it. Back roads, hu ha. I drove through a half-dozen communities I'd never even heard of in twenty-plus years of living in Washington. Most of the drive was like speeding through an ocean of India ink with pickups and 18-wheelers for company. I missed seeing my brudda Matt in Olytown. I blazed straight on 'til Troutdale, checked into our hotel and fell into the bed. From the moment I awoke 'til then, it'd been twenty-four hours without sleep.
The next morning was cold and wet, the Northwest saying goodbye to me. I dropped off a pile of goodies at House Parergon, which freed up Barnum's favorite perch, the co-pilot's seat. He had himself quite a good nest with the sleeping bag stuffed into the foot well and a pillow atop that. We took on the highway and went flying through central Oregon. I gave the puppies a good stomp near Grant's Pass. Caught some dinner and refueled just inside the border of Oregon and California as the sun was falling. I stopped to feed the pups a touch past Eureka and wondered why the air seemed so thick. Smoky, too. Was someone having a Bar-B-Q?
Answer: Yes! The whole northern face of Mt. Shasta was on fire! The smoke became so thick I had to slow down and hit my fog lights. It was incredible. I've never experienced smoke so thick. Then, abruptly, we cut through into clean fresh air. Mt. Shasta loomed off to my left, her northern flank completely obscured by a shroud from a burning forest.
Some hours later we landed at the Golden Bear Inn, a mighty hotel in the Berkeley area I recommend if you're traveling with any animal larger than two pounds. You'll be hard-pressed to find a more acommodating hotel in the Bay area. That afternoon I transferred to my cousin's road palace, parked outside their new home in the Valley. Well, new to me. They've been there for a decade already. I love my cousin and his partner, and my God have they thrived in the intervening years since last I saw 'em. Makes my heart glad, and I wasn't the least bit upset to crash in such posh circumstances either. As an added bonus, I got to see my aunt Carolyn. Screw that it was family drama that made it possible. I love these people. It was a precious thing to stay there for three days and catch up.
Add one more cherry to that sundae: Hanging out with Miz Kaput and meeting her partner Jag. We spent a whole day dawdling about north of the Golden Gate, getting the Pacific into our shoes and sand on our pants. We talked and talked, about almost everything that'd gone on in our lives since the last time we'd been able to hang out. Sometimes a year can drag on. Sometimes it feels like ten years' experience gets packed into five. Which is more of a trial? Which teaches you more? We've both grown. Grown up, grown out and watched ourselves change. It was a brief afternoon that was as rich as chocolate ganache.
I miss you, Miz Ottrbean. Bless your ever-loving head. Anytime you want to come down and hang out, you've got a landing pad right here.
We hit the road again that Saturday, six days into our journey, angling for Los Angeles. My trusty iPod made the stretch from Bakersfield to LA a little less tedious. My God. Not since Texas have I seen such a stretch of absolutely desolate eyestraining territory. The mountains outside LA were on fire. Smoke bracketed our experience of California, now that I think about it. We pulled into the OC that evening. I fetched the key to my new home, plunked us down in a hotel and lay there in bed, my mind whirling too fast to stop. We were all exhausted. I couldn't keep from thinking about all that had gone before this trip. Breaking my life down into boxes took a lot longer than I had planned. One gig had exploded on me in the middle of my packing, and another had turned out to be impossible to do at the same time. Me and my goddamn big mouth, but there's a lesson in that, a good one. Don't give up all of yourself. Keep some of yourself for you, even if it's just a small bit. It'll do. You can't make everyone happy. Don't try. I get better at that one as the years go by, but I still stumble around that soft spot, too.
We had to jet back north to Santa Monica and spend the night with my friends there, since the movers weren't ready to shift my goods on Sunday. Ha! Like I'd regret staying in Santa Monica, or spending time with Doug and Allie. Monday was another whole-day affair, but when it was over my pups and I had something I've possessed only once before in my entire adult life, and that's a home of my very own. It's tiny. I've pitched a lot of stuff to make it in here and I'll be pitching more over the coming months, but it's *mine*, all mine. Every time I come through that gate in the evening, or go out to feed the turtle and koi in my pond (did I mention I've got a small pond in my little yard?), even after being here more than a month, I still find myself looking around with a smile on my face.
Thinking "I'm home."
It took fifteen years of freelancing, two months of preparation, and seven days of driving.
Here I am at last.
It started in mid-July. Kim, bless her heart, was at my place until two in the morning helping me pack. What have I done to deserve such people?? I finished up putting the computers away while the movers began carting my crap into a massive 70' trailer. I'll spare you the craziness that almost kept me from leaving that Monday. Suffice to say that someone at a certain moving company got in serious hot water for underestimating the scale of my junk pile.
The movers arrived at 8:15 in the morning. They left at 5:30 that evening. Even with me helping, it took that long. I took mum to dinner, intending it to be my goodbye gift, then she paid for it before I could beat her to the punch. Damn parental unit. We returned, I dropped her off, said goodbye to my landladyfriend, my roommate, the pup I'd lived with for the past four years, my little cave in Bellevue; I packed us all into my green zippymobile and hit the road an hour past sundown.
I got to my friend Darrell's at about nine. Lucky bastard, his new home's what I dream of having one of these days. Five acres of land, a barn he's converting into a studio, a small lake out back, woods to screen him from the nearest neighbors...the whole bit. I hadn't seen him in nearly a year and how long did I get to hang with him and Brandy? An hour. An hour for a year. Shite.
I soaked it up anyway, gave him some art, and continued down towards Portland. Brandy took a look at my Google directions and agreed they were probably better than cutting back to the highway, but to watch out: I'd be on back roads for all of it. Back roads, hu ha. I drove through a half-dozen communities I'd never even heard of in twenty-plus years of living in Washington. Most of the drive was like speeding through an ocean of India ink with pickups and 18-wheelers for company. I missed seeing my brudda Matt in Olytown. I blazed straight on 'til Troutdale, checked into our hotel and fell into the bed. From the moment I awoke 'til then, it'd been twenty-four hours without sleep.
The next morning was cold and wet, the Northwest saying goodbye to me. I dropped off a pile of goodies at House Parergon, which freed up Barnum's favorite perch, the co-pilot's seat. He had himself quite a good nest with the sleeping bag stuffed into the foot well and a pillow atop that. We took on the highway and went flying through central Oregon. I gave the puppies a good stomp near Grant's Pass. Caught some dinner and refueled just inside the border of Oregon and California as the sun was falling. I stopped to feed the pups a touch past Eureka and wondered why the air seemed so thick. Smoky, too. Was someone having a Bar-B-Q?
Answer: Yes! The whole northern face of Mt. Shasta was on fire! The smoke became so thick I had to slow down and hit my fog lights. It was incredible. I've never experienced smoke so thick. Then, abruptly, we cut through into clean fresh air. Mt. Shasta loomed off to my left, her northern flank completely obscured by a shroud from a burning forest.
Some hours later we landed at the Golden Bear Inn, a mighty hotel in the Berkeley area I recommend if you're traveling with any animal larger than two pounds. You'll be hard-pressed to find a more acommodating hotel in the Bay area. That afternoon I transferred to my cousin's road palace, parked outside their new home in the Valley. Well, new to me. They've been there for a decade already. I love my cousin and his partner, and my God have they thrived in the intervening years since last I saw 'em. Makes my heart glad, and I wasn't the least bit upset to crash in such posh circumstances either. As an added bonus, I got to see my aunt Carolyn. Screw that it was family drama that made it possible. I love these people. It was a precious thing to stay there for three days and catch up.
Add one more cherry to that sundae: Hanging out with Miz Kaput and meeting her partner Jag. We spent a whole day dawdling about north of the Golden Gate, getting the Pacific into our shoes and sand on our pants. We talked and talked, about almost everything that'd gone on in our lives since the last time we'd been able to hang out. Sometimes a year can drag on. Sometimes it feels like ten years' experience gets packed into five. Which is more of a trial? Which teaches you more? We've both grown. Grown up, grown out and watched ourselves change. It was a brief afternoon that was as rich as chocolate ganache.
I miss you, Miz Ottrbean. Bless your ever-loving head. Anytime you want to come down and hang out, you've got a landing pad right here.
We hit the road again that Saturday, six days into our journey, angling for Los Angeles. My trusty iPod made the stretch from Bakersfield to LA a little less tedious. My God. Not since Texas have I seen such a stretch of absolutely desolate eyestraining territory. The mountains outside LA were on fire. Smoke bracketed our experience of California, now that I think about it. We pulled into the OC that evening. I fetched the key to my new home, plunked us down in a hotel and lay there in bed, my mind whirling too fast to stop. We were all exhausted. I couldn't keep from thinking about all that had gone before this trip. Breaking my life down into boxes took a lot longer than I had planned. One gig had exploded on me in the middle of my packing, and another had turned out to be impossible to do at the same time. Me and my goddamn big mouth, but there's a lesson in that, a good one. Don't give up all of yourself. Keep some of yourself for you, even if it's just a small bit. It'll do. You can't make everyone happy. Don't try. I get better at that one as the years go by, but I still stumble around that soft spot, too.
We had to jet back north to Santa Monica and spend the night with my friends there, since the movers weren't ready to shift my goods on Sunday. Ha! Like I'd regret staying in Santa Monica, or spending time with Doug and Allie. Monday was another whole-day affair, but when it was over my pups and I had something I've possessed only once before in my entire adult life, and that's a home of my very own. It's tiny. I've pitched a lot of stuff to make it in here and I'll be pitching more over the coming months, but it's *mine*, all mine. Every time I come through that gate in the evening, or go out to feed the turtle and koi in my pond (did I mention I've got a small pond in my little yard?), even after being here more than a month, I still find myself looking around with a smile on my face.
Thinking "I'm home."
It took fifteen years of freelancing, two months of preparation, and seven days of driving.
Here I am at last.