road trip oh six(!)
rolling back into poway to enema of the state today brought road trip oh six to a close, an epic journey of the fellowship of the yukon to--primarily, but not entirely--berkeley for the arcade fire. along the way we stopped in santa cruz for not long enough, but just long enough for me to think about cougar attacks and, more importantly, to bake a cake and remember why i miss my sister so much. the morning after meant the final road segment to berkeley, though i actually just co-piloted the omar solo and the yukon to marin to reunite with three of the top few reedies of all time--a dude, a chick, and some gay guy. it's weird how safe they make me feel, even shit far north of san francisco.
next day ben trucked me to berkeley to use bart to pick up stephen sauvingnano, champion of the end-of-human-birth, before the mr. sids and i hoofed it to city lights so i could buy books by bukowski et al and ben could meet us back there. i had to say goodbye to our reed college annex then, and raced through bart once again back to berkeley to make the concert. omar had to drive from the greek to get me in the 'kon, and we if blake hadn't have worn his lime green talking heads shirt, we never would have found him, matt p, matt d, and erik thirty feet from the stage, but it all worked out. the ensuing two hours were without a doubt the best i have ever spent at a show, and certainly one of the top few of my life. we ALL sang at the top of our lungs (for once), and screamed and shouted and danced and clapped and jumped and applauded and threw our arms in the air as hard as we could, and after an eternity of perfect, unabashed joy, the crowd between us and the stage collapsed suddenly with the opening beats of "power out" and boom boom boom we found ourselves plunged forward onto the barrier jumping on one foot each and reaching hysterically madly passionately for ten people on a stage singing songs. we had to keep jumped and screaming and pushing forward or else we would have all been swallowed and not come out of there. i danced with my shoes half-way off, out of breath and shouting lyrics because there was no tone of pitch in the scrum, only unadulterated happiness and the beat pounding and screaming and heat and bodies all around with smiling faces. i would have cried if i had the space and the presence of mind to do so.
that night we were all as sweaty as blake, and the fellowship snuck seven people into a four-person room at the hotel durant. sunday morning we roll-bounced out of berkeley to deposit matt and matt back in santa cruz for finals, and took a long drive down the california one, pausing along the way for elephant seals and trail mix. finally we arrived in mike harris's stomping grounds, the city of fallen angels and richard simmons, to cruise up and down santa monica and sunset, hit up some fine diners, and make perhaps the freakiest short film any of us will ever think about producing. everything was definitely crisp and totally tits.
this morning we woke to make our homage to jan's before breezing down the 405 back to the diego. the yukon dropped of first erik, then blake, and then me, before omar wheeled it home to summit circle to await our next quest of shit-epic proportions.
next day ben trucked me to berkeley to use bart to pick up stephen sauvingnano, champion of the end-of-human-birth, before the mr. sids and i hoofed it to city lights so i could buy books by bukowski et al and ben could meet us back there. i had to say goodbye to our reed college annex then, and raced through bart once again back to berkeley to make the concert. omar had to drive from the greek to get me in the 'kon, and we if blake hadn't have worn his lime green talking heads shirt, we never would have found him, matt p, matt d, and erik thirty feet from the stage, but it all worked out. the ensuing two hours were without a doubt the best i have ever spent at a show, and certainly one of the top few of my life. we ALL sang at the top of our lungs (for once), and screamed and shouted and danced and clapped and jumped and applauded and threw our arms in the air as hard as we could, and after an eternity of perfect, unabashed joy, the crowd between us and the stage collapsed suddenly with the opening beats of "power out" and boom boom boom we found ourselves plunged forward onto the barrier jumping on one foot each and reaching hysterically madly passionately for ten people on a stage singing songs. we had to keep jumped and screaming and pushing forward or else we would have all been swallowed and not come out of there. i danced with my shoes half-way off, out of breath and shouting lyrics because there was no tone of pitch in the scrum, only unadulterated happiness and the beat pounding and screaming and heat and bodies all around with smiling faces. i would have cried if i had the space and the presence of mind to do so.
that night we were all as sweaty as blake, and the fellowship snuck seven people into a four-person room at the hotel durant. sunday morning we roll-bounced out of berkeley to deposit matt and matt back in santa cruz for finals, and took a long drive down the california one, pausing along the way for elephant seals and trail mix. finally we arrived in mike harris's stomping grounds, the city of fallen angels and richard simmons, to cruise up and down santa monica and sunset, hit up some fine diners, and make perhaps the freakiest short film any of us will ever think about producing. everything was definitely crisp and totally tits.
this morning we woke to make our homage to jan's before breezing down the 405 back to the diego. the yukon dropped of first erik, then blake, and then me, before omar wheeled it home to summit circle to await our next quest of shit-epic proportions.