beautiful, funny, sad & true

And now, finally, here’s the entry describing IrishBand’s trip to Port Townsend earlier this month.  As you may or may not know, the other two guys in the band are PT natives, so each trip back is loaded with memories and emotions for them, and new memories and good times for me.

We drove up there early on Saturday morning, the plan being to arrive early enough that we could meet up with friends, eat pizza, and wander around town to look in the shops and see the sights.  The Plan quickly seemed to evaporate, however, as phone calls went unanswered and shops weren’t open.  We did manage to connect with Dan and Julie, who grew up in PT but lived in Portland until recently.  We visited them at the extremely unusual house they’re renting, which is also a place that Singer lived a few years back.  I wanted to take pictures of everything, but I thought better of it because it was our friends’ place.  Maybe next time I will.  We’re planning to go up to PT more regularly.

So after that, we were a bit at a loss as to what to do next.  We’d already explored the town, and most of the shops were closed, so when in Rome, you do as the Romans do on a slow Saturday afternoon. . .which in Rome means that you see the sculptures and ruins and art, but in Port Townsend it means that you’re probably going to end up at a bar, which is what we did.  Singer, Singer’sGirlfriend and I killed a bit of time in there until Violinist arrived in town.  We also spent a good bit of time in a bookstore after that.  Incidentally, that’s where I picked up a copy of Invisible Man, which I wrote about in this entry.  We ate at the amazing Waterfront Pizza, and that’s about when Violinist arrived.  He suggested that we drive out to the lighthouse and watch the sunset, which was beginning to look like it could be a very memorable one.  We locked our instruments in a closet at the venue, and then loaded ourselves into the car and headed up the hill along the winding streets of the town.

Here are some pictures of our evening at the beach.  You can click on them to make them larger.

The tide happened to be high while we were there, and the waves were crashing against the rocks, sometimes splashing clear up next to the lighthouse.  I wasn’t able to capture any of the huge ones on video, unfortunately, but this will give you at least a sense of what it was like.

Ahhhhh. . .so nice.  I could watch that all day.

From there, we went back to the venue to set up and eat dinner.  They provided us with pizza, salad and as many drinks as we wanted, within reason.  Nice place, that Sirens, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.  Their sound system, however, leaves a bit to be desired.  We started to set up, and were told that they don’t have any microphones anymore.  Luckily I had brought one, and we managed to scrounge up a toy one from the back room, so all was not lost, but it certainly sounded much worse than usual.  In fact, about two-thirds of the way through the show, after struggling with the PA the entire time, we said a collective ‘screw it’, and decided to pretend that it was 1885 or something, and just play acoustically and have fun.  We walked with our instruments and played in various parts of the bar, including the hallway, and then went back to the stage for the rest of the set.  There was some floor space near the front, so two people took the opportunity to do some wild Irish dancing around the room, which made for a fun ending to an otherwise problematic show.  We left around one a.m. and stayed out at Violinist’s parents’ house, like we did last time.  They were excellent hosts, as usual, and they made an amazing breakfast for all of us. . .hearty pancakes with raspberry sauce, applesauce on the side, veggie sausage, and all the coffee and tea we could handle.

Incidentally, I learned that not only was the movie Snow Falling on Cedars filmed in Port Townsend (among other places), but also that a couple friends of the group were extras in the film.  They played Japanese-American kids (because that’s what they were at the time; they’re all growed up now, and are Japanese-American adults) who were walking onto the boat as it was leaving to take the families to the internment camps during World War II.  I loved the book, and thought the movie was just okay, but I put it on my InternetFlicks queue to see what there is to see of PT and our friends.

The next morning was a special annual event in Port Townsend called the Kinetic Race.  It’s not really a race as much as a chance for people to show off their ingenuity.  The ‘kinetics’ are these odd contraptions that are somewhere between bicycles, kayaks, boats, and cars.  They have to be built along a set of guidelines.  They must be human-powered (no motors of any kind), and they have to be able to travel on the street, in the water, on sand, and through mud.  Our little group congregated right along the waterfront, sitting or standing on the rocks, to watch the street-to-water portion of the event.

The vehicles were absolutely ingenious.  Here are pictures of most of them.  Like before, you can click on the pictures to enlarge them.

The Art-Not-Fear trio (Fear-Not-Art?  Not-Fear-Art?  Fear-Art-Not?) was struck by tragedy when Not capsized on the other size of the pier, and the driver/captain had to be rescued by the sheriff.  The guy wasn’t hurt, luckily, but the kinetic looked a bit worse for wear when we saw it on the shore later.  Incidentally, the picture of the Cadillac sticking out of the water, with “Fear Art” being the obvious caption, was just too priceless not to capture.

The plastic replica of a 1963 Cadillac started out as a crowd favorite, but I’m not sure how many friends they made that day, because they rolled down the ramp so fast that they slammed into the guy in the water in front of them, and he had to use his arms to push himself away from the car.  Which is okay, accidents do happen sometimes, but later on, it seemed to have a bit of difficulty in the water, and it even needed to be towed about halfway through the course.

The one below was my personal favorite of the kinetics, because of its simple, clean, economical design.  It’s also the one that ended up towing the Cadillac.  Just another example of the fact that simplicity is always best.  It went into and out of the water effortlessly. . .

. . .unlike the one below, which seemed overbuilt and awkward.  It took a great deal of shifting things around, both going out and coming in.  It did really well in the water, I have to say, but it sure looked like a lot of wasted energy.

The Magic Bus was far and away the crowd’s favorite, and huge cheers erupted as it rolled down into the water:

I took a video of each kinetic coming back from the water and up the ramp, but that would be ridiculous overkill, so I narrowed it down to two.  The first video shows two of the fastest transitions from water to road (again, due to their excellent design), and the second video shows three or four different people coming in around the same time (including the guy who got hit by the Cadillac), so you can really see what the various kinetics are like in motion.  The second video is a bit long, but it’s definitely worth watching the whole thing.

After about two hours of hanging around and watching the kinetics, we started to get hungry, so we walked back up to Waterfront and had a slice of pizza (third time having pizza in two days!).  By that time, we were all starting to fade out, and we decided to drive back home to Portland.

The trip was a total blast, as usual.  I love PT, and I’m really glad to have the opportunity to spend time there regularly, and to meet so many of the cool people who live there.  I feel like I’m starting to get to know the place by now.

The only bummer about the trip was that the Tyler Street Coffee House is no longer open on Sundays.  I have to go on record and say that this makes no sense to me at all.  It’s the best coffee and pastry shop in town (nay, the WORLD. . .there, I said it) and it’s been a highlight of past visits.  We didn’t make it there last time, so we were very much looking forward to renewing our love for the TSCH.  Alas, it was not to be.  Next time, however, we’re planning to come up on a Friday so that we can partake of the wonderfulness that’s created there.

Just thinking about it already makes me happy.

I’m in a fairly nice restaurant with two friends, both of whom are musicians.  One is from my very first band, so he will be called IronHorse.  The second is the violinist in IrishBand, so he will be called Violinist.

The carpet in the restaurant is hunter green, and the tables, chairs and curtains are white.  We are sitting at a table talking, and then I stand up and walk to the bar to place an order for us.  When I’m finished, I start to put my stack of credit cards back into the clip in the back of my cell phone case.  A guy standing next to me in line reaches over quickly and grabs onto the cards, but I stare him down and keep a tighter grip on them until he finally gives up.  He walks to the ashtray-slash-garbage can, lifts the ashtray lid part, and reaches inside to rummage through the receipts that are on top of the garbage, to find out who I am.  Even though my receipt isn’t in there yet, I realize what he’s up to.  I walk over, grab all of the receipts and take them to the bartender, telling her, “This guy over here is stealing peoples’ identities.”  She gives me a strange look, but she takes the pile of receipts, and I turn and walk back over to my two friends.

I start to collect my wallet, phone, et cetera, and put it all into the pockets of my suit jacket for safekeeping, then I walk back to the bar and pick up what I ordered, which was a large plate of French fries and a bottle of blue wine for the three of us to share.  I set it down and notice something on the ground, so I get down on my hands and knees to investigate it.  Just then, a woman comes over and lies down on my back, with her arm around me.  She rubs my chest and speaks softly into my ear.  She is a prostitute (she is naked, after all; I forgot to mention that) so I decline her advances.  She slowly moves her hand down my chest and stomach to my hipbone, which she begins to rub rhythmically.  I maneuver myself out from underneath her, and go back over to IronHorse and Violinist.  Not used to being rebuffed, the prostitute says, “I promise it’ll be nice,” to which Violinist, staring at her naked body, responds, “It already is!”  She realizes she’s getting nowhere with us, so she walks to a different part of the room.

At this point a guy motions to me to come talk to him.  I grab the half-full (or half-empty, depending on your outlook) bottle of blue wine and go over to where he is sitting against the wall.  He is a short, stocky white guy, with close-cut brown hair.  He is wearing a white sleeveless T-shirt [lots of people nonchalantly call them ‘wife beaters’, but I hate that expression] and a single silver chain around his neck.  On his right hand is a large silver ring in the shape of a dollar sign, which fits over two of his fingers, a bit like brass knuckles. [Minus the clothes and jewelry, he looks like the real-life former manager of AcousticTavern where IrishBand regularly plays.]  He is surrounded by approximately twenty guys, two-thirds of whom are black.  Each member of the group is wearing a bright blue hooded sweatshirt with a white zipper.  They silently watch me as the group’s leader stands up and walks over to me.  He tells me, in a jovial but not exactly friendly voice, “I saw what happened with that guy a minute ago.  I want to help you out.”

“Oh really?” I asked.  “In what way?”

“Well, you could be a part of our little group here, and you wouldn’t have to worry about things like that happening.”  He places a huge wad of folded bills into my hand.

“I appreciate you doing that, but you really don’t have to,” I say.  “I’m sure that was a one-time thing. . .uhhh, occurrence.”

He smiles.  “Maybe so, but it can’t hurt to have more friends, right?”

“It sure can’t,” I say, and put the money in the inside pocket of my suit jacket, next to my phone.  My pockets are bulging.  I turn toward the group.  “You guys want some wine?”  I pull the cork out of the half-full bottle, and hold it out in front of me.  Everyone stares at it blankly, in silence, not sure what to make of its blue color.  I chuckle and say sarcastically, “Well, don’t everybody accept at once.”  I put the cork back into the bottle, tell them that it it’s nice to have met them, nod my head slightly to the gang leader, who has moved back to his original place against the wall, and turn and walk back to the table to rejoin IronHorse and Violinist.

I look over to see that the guy who tried to steal my cards is sitting by himself in the opposite corner of the restaurant.  He is pretending to read a newspaper, but I catch him glancing over at us.  I tell my friends that we should hang out until that guy leaves, but I’m secretly worried that he will try to attack me once we get out of the restaurant.  IronHorse turns to look out the back window of the restaurant, which faces into a large parking garage, dimly lit by orange neon lights.  He suddently becomes agitated, and Violinist and I look in the same direction.  There is a gun fight of sorts happening out there, among five or six different people standing about eight feet apart.  The guns are tiny, and they don’t seem to be doing any damage, but it’s hard to tell for sure.  The three of us walk to the window and peer through it.  The participants in the gun fight are teenagers, and since it’s one-thirty in the morning, they are taking advantage of the open space, running through the empty levels of the parking garage, playing a dangerous game.

The kids run out of view, but we can still hear the sound of the guns, and of the kids’ voices as they laugh and yell taunting threats to each other.  We run out of the restaurant and down the stairs to the lower level of the garage.  We see no one, but we slowly realize that there are many more kids playing this game than we thought, and that we are completely surrounded, albeit at a distance.  We have unwittingly stepped into the center of a circle of kids, and some of the guns are obviously real.  We walk over to stand behind a large, round cement pillar, to figure out how to get back to somewhere safe.  There is a group of guys sitting in the shadows, and a nearby neon light which had been off now begins to flicker on slightly, illuminating the guys.  I recognize the blue sweatshirts of my new-found cohorts.  The leader guy is sitting cross-legged on the ground, and his black bodyguard is sitting next to him on top of a large red rubber ball.  One of the guys in the group says to no one in particular, “He spotted us.”  I smile and gesture widely with my left arm.  “Of course I did.”  The leader walks over to me, and his bodyguard somehow manages to roll the ball while still remaining seated on it.  The leader smiles in that jovial-not-friendly way, and we do that cool knuckle-punch thing that macho buddies do.

I am thinking to myself that before long, I’m going to have to tell the leader that I have no place in a gang, and I can’t imagine how I’d be a beneficial member to the group.  I’m much older than the rest of them, for one thing, and more importantly, I know absolutely zero about the code of the street.  Perhaps that’s exactly why they want me in the group, though.  I could get into places that would very likely be inaccessible to them otherwise.  I’m hestitant to bring it up with him at this point, though, because I have absolutely no knowledge of the protocol for a discussion like that.  Do I pull him aside and talk to him on his own, or do I have the discussion there in front of everyone?  Do I hand him back the wad of bills he gave me?  Do I owe the gang a favor in return?  Will I suffer some sort of retaliation if I attempt to leave the gang?  These are the types of things I’m thinking about.  I’m not worried, I’m just trying to think of all the different options, and directions in which the conversation might go.

That’s when I woke up.

There was one other scene, I think it was in the parking garage, that I wasn’t quite able to recall.  Some sort of interaction between us and the kids.  Or maybe it was between us and the credit-card-stealing guy. . .? Anyway.  Pretty interesting dream.

Today is my birthday.

I’ve been so busy these last two weeks that I’m very far behind on blogging.  You’ll be glad to know that I have a ton to write about, but you may have to make do with a quick little entry like this, or a YouTube video, or something like that before I can start to deal with the backlog.  Tonight is the final play-reading group, tomorrow is a small (but fun) gig with IrishBand, and Friday night is a huge talent show/contest involving IrishBand and a bunch of the funniest and coolest acts in town.  We like our chances for winning, but the competition is so funny and unusual and entertaining that it doesn’t even matter, really.

And I still haven’t even written about the trip to Port Townsend yet.   There are lots of pictures and videos to come in that story.

And there was the contest that IrishBand was in LAST weekend, which we shouldn’t have even entered to begin with, but that’s another story; hopefully a funny one at that.

I’ll be back soon. . .

This is going to be one of those dreams that makes less and less sense as it goes along.  You’ve been warned.

* * * * *

I’m in Portland, and I’m hanging out with Justin and Lara, two musician friends who are also from Portland.  I’m driving the three of us to see the Dandy Warhols in a little tiny club that is in the upstairs of a weathered three-story house, above a tax place and a living space.  I have my huge cello case in the front seat, and Justin and Lara are sitting in the back seat.  I park the car outside a nearby house, and we run into a drummer friend (not anyone I know in real life) who lives in the building.  We talk for a while, and I ask him, “Is it okay if I bring my cello inside?”  He agrees, and I take the cello out of the front seat, put the seat back into its normal position, and shut the car door.  DrummerGuy unlocks the front door of the building and leads us upstairs into his apartment.

The apartment is a very clean old three-bedroom place with hardwood floors, a sofa and chair that are olive green and look extremely comfortable, and a large bookshelf filled with books and CD’s and various other things.  He shares the apartment with four other people, one of whom is a drummer too, because when we walk in, the door to the bedroom on the right is open, and the light is on, despite the fact that no one is home.  A set of drums is clearly visible in the middle of the room.  The guy leads us to the left, into his enormous room.  His drums are in the middle of the room, and he has about ten little tiny splash cymbals of different sizes.  I’ve never seen someone use so many (one or maybe two is what most people use) so I set my cello case down, grab a drum stick and start playing them all to find out what they sound like.  He says he’s thinking about selling some of them, and asks if I’m interested in buying one.  I say I might be.  Lara says she wants to get going, so she and Justin and I say our goodbyes to the drummer and go for a walk through the neighborhood.

The so-called neighborhood is really an insular collection of houses and tiny businesses.  [It’s similar to the real-life clump of houses and apartments in southwest Portland that is on the hillside across Interstate 405 from the university, and is only accessible from one street.]  We are a bit early for the show, so we step into a record store and look around for a while.  I walk to one of the corners of the room, to find that the room actually connects to a larger department store, so I walk through the small door and step into the store.

This appears to be an employees’ entrance or a fire escape route or something, since it puts me into the very back corner of the department store.  There are rugs and bath towels, and various home decorations on the shelves.  I’m taking a look around at the layout of the store, when someone calls me by my middle name.  I turn and see a man in his fifties pushing a sort of homemade wheelchair, which is a large, gray plastic milk crate on wheels.  It is stuffed with pillows and blankets, and there is a small, slightly deformed black and white cat who is propped up vertically, reclining on a pillow against the side of the crate.  The man gestures toward the cat, to let me know that the cat is the one who had spoken to me.  I walk over to where they are.

The cat repeats my middle name and says, “Do you remember me?  Andrew Fischer.  We were in middle school together.  I have Down’s Syndrome.”  [For the record, I did know someone by that name when I was in school, but he didn’t have Down’s Syndrome, and he most assuredly was not a talking cat.]  I tell him it’s good to meet him, but that I don’t remember him from school, and that to my knowledge, no one in my school had Down’s Syndrome.  He seems quite certain that he knows me, though, so I decide to stay.  He has a sweetness about him that is apparent from the first moment I meet him.  His wheeled crate is large enough for me to sit in, so I climb into it, facing him.  His blue cat eyes are extremely large, and one of them is quite misshapen, and looks very different than the other eye.  He has mucus dripping from a place on his forehead, and looks a bit grotesque.  It seems that movement is quite difficult for him.

He has a very clear speaking voice, and he asks how I’ve been, and what I’ve been up to “since middle school.”  He is particularly interested in hearing about my musical endeavors, and when I tell him that I’m with a couple of my musician friends to see the Dandy Warhols, he mistakenly assumes that I am a member of the band, and he gets very excited.  I ask how he’s been.  I forget his name and call him Ross by accident.  He gives me a strange look and says, “It’s Andrew.”  “Sorry,” I say uncomfortably, “I know someone named Ross, and it just slipped out.”  He smiles and says, “That’s okay.”  He starts to become tired, and I look at his caretaker and ask if I should leave.  The man doesn’t answer, but I can see that Andrew the cat is becoming very weary from the effort and excitement of a conversation.  His eyes are almost closed; poor little guy.  I tell him I’d love to have his address, and I reach into my shoulder bag for a pen and notepad.  I can’t find them, so I stand up and climb out of the crate.  His caretaker asks me something, and I find the notepad.  I turn back toward Andrew and say, uncharacteristically loudly, “Okay, buddy, lemme have your address.”  He had fallen asleep, and when I spoke so loudly, I startled him awake.  I lean in closer and say quietly, “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry to scare you.  But I want your address so that we can write to each other.”  He smiles slightly, and says, “That’d be really nice,”  and then falls back asleep.  I turn to his caretaker, with the notebook open and the pen ready.

Lara and Justin return at that moment, and I introduce them to my new friends.  We all stand and look at the sleeping cat, and that’s when I wake up.