cooked an amazing breakfast of soft boiled eggs, chicken apple sausage, and toast with boysenberry jam.

tentatively scheduled a job interview for Monday, but it’s too soon to say any more about it.

washed the dishes.

talked to my dad on the phone, and inherited a bookcase that he and my grandpa made before I was even born.

chatted with Thuy.

heard about a great idea that CellistSkip has for tracking instruments.  (Don’t want to say any more. . .it’s a good idea!)

spent two hours working on my car.  I got the defective part out, and need to find its replacement.

went to SafeGrocery and bought food and a bottle of wine.

made an awesome dinner of pasta, cheese, green onions, and chicken apple sausage.  (Gotta use up that sausage!)

watched a TV show about the beginning of hip-hop.

It’s only 6:30 in the evening.  There’s plenty of time to make this day even more productive.

I was listening to a CD and heard a weird squealing sound.  I’d never heard that particular sound effect on that particular song before, so I hit the pause button and revved up the engine a little bit.  It squealed in response, and I shifted to fifth gear to ease the load on the engine.  A minute later, I heard a THUMP from underneath the hood, and knew that couldn’t possibly be good.  The car still ran fine, so it wasn’t life-threatening.  My battery light came on, which I’ve been very familiar with recently, so I knew exactly what had happened.  I decided to go to breakfast with SeattleFriend and sort it all out later.

We ate at the Maltby Cafe in the tiny town of Maltby, Washington, which is a suburb of a suburb of Seattle.  Best breakfast I’ve had in quite some time, by the way.  Farm-fresh organic vegetables, homemade breads and biscuits, and homemade sausages and everything too, if you eat that sort of thing. Unbelievably good food, not to mention the unbelievably good time I spent with SeattleFriend.  Really nice.

So then we got down to the business of getting my car from Maltby down to the suburb of Bothell, where the KingWithGoldenTouch car repair place was.  I’d called the Portland location of KingGoldenTouch to ask what they recommended, and to see if that particular part would be covered under warranty from the repairs I’d just had the previous week.  They said to take it in, and to call them if I had any problems.  We asked a girl at one of the little shops for directions, and she completely nailed the directions.  She even had details like ‘past the construction’ and ‘through the funky intersection’ and ‘past the car dealership’.  It was amazing.  THANK YOU, BETH.  In fact, y’know what?  She was so awesome that I’m gonna give their shop a little plug.  Check out Running Wild Spirit the next time you’re in Maltby, Washington.

Turns out I needn’t have worried about the car.  Those guys at first seemed curt and grumpy, but turned out to be very accommodating and helpful.  They charged me for the part, but not for the labor, and after I spent a couple hours hanging out at SeattleFriend’s apartment watching a Boondocks DVD, they called back and told me it was ready to go.

We drove back to Bothell to get the car, and then went and got coffee at HotWire, which was also really excellent.  I decided to have some caffeine for once, since I had the long drive back to Portland ahead of me.  The coffee was excellent, and so was the company of SeattleFriend, naturally.

Okay, okay.  I can feel you wondering, ‘This is all well and good, but what does it have to do with synchronicity?’

Well, if SeattleFriend hadn’t invited me to breakfast, my car would have had this little mishap in the middle of the night on Friday, somewhere along Interstate 5, in the cold and the rain, and it would have been much worse.  GoldenTouchKing would’ve been closed, and I wouldn’t have gotten to see SeattleFriend at all, let alone spend an entire day with her.

I’d say it all worked out for the best.

OneYearAgo

Yesterday was payday, and I had finally caught up on my bills enough to be able to take the car in.  J picked me up at work and drove me home to pick it up, but when we arrived and I tried to start it, it was too far gone.  The engine light came on, but the battery was too discharged to start the car.  Curses.  So I called a tow truck, got a jump-start (guess what’s on my Christmas list this year!), and drove to the repair shop named after MythicalKingWithGoldenTouch.  I explained the situation and the symptoms, and they said they’d call once they had the diagnosis.

About an hour later, one of the guys called to tell me that he was unable to start the car, and he asked me how I’d gotten it there.  I told him about the jump-start, but that I’d driven it over normally, and that it started like it always does.  He said he’d keep trying.

Another hour passed, and I got a second phone call to tell me that he was still unable to start the car, and that now he’d have to start checking things out, which would cost an hour of labor of shop time.  “Sure,” I said, “do what you need to do.”

By this time I’m on pins and needles, wondering about my poor little car.  The third phone call came about two hours later.  “I need to show you what’s going on, and I should show you in person.  Can you come down and take a look?”  That sounded ominous, but I couldn’t make it until after work, so I told him to give me the abridged version.  “Your distributor looks like it’s falling apart, and you seem to have an oil leak inside, where the spark plugs are.  Also, I’m worried about your timing belt, which might have slipped.”  Crrrrrrrap.  “So now we’re in a situation called ‘open ticket’, where we have to replace things as we go.  I wanted to show you what’s happening before I started all that.”

Ouch.

These things are all completely unrelated to the problem that I brought the car in for, by the way.  It’s as if it somehow knew where it was, and threw itself on the mercy of the mechanic, saying, “Pleeeeease fix me.  I need you so very badly.”

So I went over after work, and talked to the mechanic, who showed me what was happening, and we worked out a two-part plan.  Part One involves replacing the distributor, alternator, valve cover gasket and spark plugs, and changing the oil.  This comes to over nine hundred dollars.  Part Two involves replacing the timing belt and water pump, and checking out that area of the engine to make sure everything’s the way it should be.  That will be next month, and will cost another five hundred dollars.

Ouch.

The good news is that by Christmas, I’ll have a car that runs like a champ for a long time to come, despite my having survived an almost total cashectomy in the process.

Ouch. This month is gonna hurt.

For tonight’s gig, I rode the bus because my Honda’s alternator is on its last legs, and I’ll be left stranded if I drive it too much.  So I got on the bus and the conversation instantly went like this:

Driver:  “I’m pretty sure that’s not a body in there.”

Me:  “Heh.  Yeah, it’d be a pretty small body.”

Driver:  “Well, you could’ve chopped it up into a bunch of little pieces.”

Me:  (awkwardly)   “Ha ha. . .okay, I’m just gonna go. . .uhh. . .sit over here.”

Luckily, one of the passengers struck up a conversation, asking if I’ve ever seen the movie August Rush, which apparently includes a cellist as part of the story.  I haven’t seen it, but I told him that it sounds really great, and that I’ll check it out.

My all-time favorite odd cello-related conversation took place a couple of months ago, when I had the cello in the back of the car, on my way to a gig down in Salem, and I stopped at CarapaceGasStation to fill up the tank.  The back seats were folded down, and the cello case was clearly visible through the window.  This being Oregon, where it’s illegal for us to pump our own gas, I opened the sunroof to tell the attendant to ‘fill it up with Plus, please.’  While he was doing that, he looked in the back window and noticed the cello case.  “Hey,” he said, “you got a body in there?  Looks like a pregnant woman.”

Me:  (nonchalantly; heard it a hundred times before)  “Nope, it’s a cello.”

Attendant:  “Oh. . .heh heh. . .cause it looks like you killed my wife and crammed her in there.”

Me:  “. . .”  (silent. . .don’t know what to say.)

The attendant flitted between the various cars that were having their gas tanks filled, and when mine was done, he handed me my debit card and receipt through the open sunroof and called out, uncomfortably loudly, “Thanks a lot, sir.  GOOD LUCK DRIVING AROUND WITH MY DEAD, PREGNANT WIFE.” I laughed and gave him a half-hearted salute as I closed the sunroof and drove off into the twilight.

Luckily I got a ride home from the gig tonight, so I didn’t have to suffer the slings and the arrows of lame cello case humor.  And since we’re on the subject, here are some lame cello jokes that I just scrounged up from the Interweb:

Q: What’s the difference between a cello and a coffin?
A: The coffin has the dead person on the inside.

Q: Why did the cellist marry the accordion player?
A: Upward mobility.  [Note:  I'm both a cellist AND an accordion player!]

Q: Did you hear about the cellist who played in tune?
A: Neither did I.

Q: How can you tell when a cellist is playing out of tune?
A: The bow is moving.

Ah, praise the Lord for the gift of laughter.

We arrived in PT at around two-thirty in the afternoon, just in time to set up and play an acoustic gig at the Boiler Room, which was really more of a promotion stunt to get people to come see us at Sirens later that night. I took the opportunity to walk down the street and take a few pics. Here’s one that’s okay:

While we were setting up, there was an attempted robbery at the store across the street, and when the police car pulled up and parked, I thought (before we knew what was happening) that perhaps a parking ticket or something was in my immediate future, because that’s my red Honda, snookered in by the police car.

Turns out that my fears were unfounded.

We tried to take pictures, but we couldn’t see any of the action, and before too long, the street was pretty well filled with rubberneckers anyway. After our gig was over, we packed up and headed to Violinist’s parents’ house for dinner, by way of Fort Worden and all of the abandoned military bunkers that line the hillsides along the coast. We hiked through a few of them, and even walked through some of the pitch-black tunnels that connect them. I took a few pictures, because the light and the angles were so interesting from room to room.

The homemade dinner we were served was amazing, and the show was amazing. I didn’t realize there was such a sizable Brazilian contingent in PT, but there were quite a few in attendance that night. They were right up front, dancing up a storm, which always makes for a more enjoyable show.

Afterwards, BassPlayer and BanjoPlayer went off with a couple of rockabilly girls (for the record, only BassPlayer was interested in the girls; BanjoPlayer has a great girlfriend, and he knows it) most of us went to a ‘condo’ party. I don’t know whose condo it was, but it seems to be quite the party place. The party wasn’t too much fun, actually. Violinist and Singer used to live in Port Townsend, and they knew lots of the people there, but the other three of us were a bit out of the loop. There’s a notoriously obnoxious guy who actually called Singer’s girlfriend a bitch (Twice!), so she and Singer left really early. Drummer, Violinist, Violinist’s girlfriend and I tried gamely to stick around for a while, but after we overheard a few more weird comments, we decided it was time to leave. One guy, when his Asian female friend respectfully declined to join him on an outing he invited her to, actually asked her, “Why do you have to be such a Jew?” Violinist’s girlfriend and I looked at each other in a what-planet-are-we-on-again way. Then, as we were making our way to the door to leave, overheard a conversation between Obnoxious Guy and some random guy he didn’t know. Obnoxious Guy told Random Guy, “You’re acting just like a French Canadian. I HATE French Canadians.” (Drummer said the next morning that the ultimate revenge for a guy like that would be if he met and fell in love with a nice French-Canadian girl. I thought that was hilarious.)

It was about one in the morning when we all met back up again, and caravaned back to our home base. BassPlayer left the girls at the bar, and we asked him, “Why didn’t you go home with them? It seemed like one of them was kinda into you.” He replied, in a really low drunken slur, while putting two oranges into the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt, “I woulda had a much better time. . .lying on my stomach. . .pooping.” We all cracked up laughing with surprise, and Violinist said, “What’s that from? That’s really funny.” BassPlayer replied, in the same low slur, “My diary,” which made us laugh even harder.

I slept on the sofa in the living room, in my sleeping bag, and Drummer slept on the other side of the room divider, on an air mattress on the floor. Drummer snores. A lot. He started in almost immediately, and he didn’t respond to my shaking, so I put in my ear buds and turned on my iPod just loud enough to drown him out. I can’t usually sleep to music, but I really can’t sleep to loud snoring, and the iPod did the trick.

I was the first one awake, around eight-thirty the next morning, since I hadn’t had very much to drink the night before, so I got up, took a shower, and went for a hike through the wooded five-acre property.

While I was hiking, there were homemade SausageVeggieEgg frittatas, homemade bread, homemade applesauce with mixed berries, and homemade apple juice all being born at the same time. Once they were ready, we all ate and talked and laughed outside in the morning sunshine, and then gradually packed up and made our separate ways back to Portland. Drummer and I drove along the eastern edge of the Washington peninsula, down Highway 101 until it turned inland at Olympia. We stopped along the way to take some pictures, but none of them really came out the way we had hoped. This one was probably the best, but I still don’t find it particularly compelling.

After a while, we just wanted to get home. We listened to a whole bunch of CD’s, but my favorite by far was a new band called Low Vs. Diamond. They’re really great, and we listened to their album three or four times. Listening to the songs now at that link, I was transported back to the trip, talking and laughing and eating ice cream with Drummer.

At one point, we pulled into a rest stop to get some coffee and cookies, and when we went to leave, my car refused to start. It does that occasionally, so we let it cool off for a while, but it still balked when we tried it a second time. Drummer taught me the push-start technique, and there were two guys watching and laughing at us while we pushed the car down the hill toward the on-ramp. When Drummer told me to pop the clutch, and the car started right up, he yelled triumphantly to the two guys, “That’s how you do it, boys!” and we were back on the road.

We got to Portland around six-thirty, and after dropping off Drummer, I came home to find that there was a house party in my building, planned for eight o’clock, which gave me just enough time to shower and change my sweaty clothes. The party was fun, and the festivities lasted until one a.m., when it seemed to be over, but I found out tonight that there were still people who straggled in as late as two-thirty. The party spilled over into today, in a way, because when I came walking home from work, two of my neighbor friends were sitting outside eating some of the leftover homemade salsa from last night. “Help,” they said, “we need to get rid of this.” I laughed and replied, “You don’t have to tell me twice; I’ll be right back!”

So yeah. Good times all around. It was quite the weekend. Tonight my plan is to watch a DVD (“Heathers”, a brilliant and very dark comedy starring Winona Ryder) and go to bed relatively early, to try and catch up on some well-deserved sleep.

There were a handful of people in the break room at the same time this morning, getting their donut fix. One was our head manager–who isn’t the most popular person in the place–and another was a really attractive woman in her mid-twenties. The manager saw the woman grabbing a donut and commented, “Hey [woman's last name], I didn’t think you ate stuff like that,” because she’s really thin.

She replied curtly, “Yeah, well, they don’t do anything to me, so–” shrugged her shoulders, smiled a little, turned and walked out of the break room, ending the conversation. The manager stood and stared out the window with a funny, faraway look in his eyes, and I could see that he was daydreaming of the two of them sitting on a sofa somewhere, sharing a plate of donuts in front of the TV, then rolling over, putting the plate on the floor and settling in for another hand job.

Last night I went to another of Tossed In’s play readings. I have to be a little more secretive about this one, because it was comprised of plays that either haven’t been performed publicly before, or were works in progress that are still being written. But I think last night was my favorite night so far.

On my way over, I stopped at InexpensiveOrganicGroceryWhereHippiesShop. Just before I got out of the car, my friend Blaine called. He asked if I had time to talk. I said, ‘of course’, and we proceeded to talk for a few minutes until I went into the store. I bought what I needed and came back out, only to find that I’d left my keys in the locked car. Thpffft. So I called FamousInsuranceCompany and got their after-hours answering service. I told the girl I’d locked my keys in my car, so she started calling locksmiths in the greater Portland area. “Locksmiths?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “They can help get you a new key.”

“Did you already check for towing companies?”

“Oh. . .no, I didn’t. FamousInsuranceCompany doesn’t have any business partnerships with any towing companies, so you can use whichever one you want. You may have to pay a fee, though.” Grrrrr. So I gave her the name of one I had used before, and she found the number, saying, “Okay, they should be there in about thirty to sixty minutes.”

Ten minutes later, the guy showed up. He had my car open in about twenty seconds, took a look at my insurance card and found that I do indeed have roadside assistance, so this visit was free. “Oh yeah, FamousInsuranceCompany has a special deal with us; we do everything for them.”

“Really?” I asked. “That’s great! I was told that they don’t have any partnerships or anything, and that I’d have to pay you, and maybe I’d get reimbursed.”

He laughed. “Who the heck did you talk to?”

Long story short, it turned out to be really super easy, took a fraction of the time I was estimated, and didn’t even cost me anything. I was expecting to have to give the play reading a miss, but ended up going, just a half-hour late. And boy, was I glad I did. Besides the plays being great, Tossed In surprised me by bringing me a DVD full of Jon Brion music he’s been stockpiling. Some of it I already owned, but the majority of it was live recordings and home demos and all kinds of other cool stuff; a treasure trove, really.

Tonight may very well be Laundry Night. It was a little tricky finding clean things to wear this morning. I got up ridiculously late, but I still might have made it to work on time, except that I made the mistake of reading my e-mail first, and my friend had sent me a link to a hilarious video. Curses, FamousVideoSite! Why must you have everything imaginable?

I finally joined the frickin’ twenty-first century and signed up with OnlineDVDRentalCompany the other day, so I should be getting my first one today; “Who Killed The Electric Car?” The documentary section on there is gigantic. I’m very excited about that.

That’s a ten-four, good buddy. Put the hammer down.

Over and out.