The gas gauge in the Blazer is busted. It stays on full and only drops to empty when it gets frighteningly close to actually being empty. Two times now I've run out of gas, and both at precarious times. Unfortunately, I'm not sure how you fix a broken gas gauge and super unfortunately, playing a guessing game with fuel levels isn't nearly as awesome or thrilling as you'd expect.
But we made it home; made it to Portland.
Dugan doesn't care for traffic and needs to learn to just freakin' deal with it. I almost forgot Erin at a rest stop on the Merritt Parkway, but moments earlier had a Denali back into me. So it could have been worse. Right?
Of course getting through NYC was the hardest part, but nothing beats the drive from Hartford to Portland- especially at night. The roads don't end and you drive on enough of them to get annoyed at each & every one. Just when you think you're close, cruising past lovely Worcester, you still need to hit 495 and then finally 95- riding that prickly bastard until exit 53. Couple of turns after that you're home. When do we eat? Is there a cold beer around?
It was nice to see that Obama's plan to create late-night traffic jams on our busiest stretches of Interstate isn't limited to the mid-Atlantic. I'm also thinking about the thousands & thousands of dollars that have been spent on traffic cones & headlamps. Not sure if this is what he had in mind when he passed the Stimulus Bill, but it's totally what's happened. I don't even think the God-fearing, America-loving Republicans have caught on yet. Thank God for that.
There are few things as frustrating as late-night traffic jams. Having a giant, barking dog in the car when in said jam is probably one of the few things on the list. Every once in a while, I'd feel Dugan's breath next to my ear and would catch his big, giant melon out of the corner of my eye. I couldn't tell if he was nosey or concerned. Still can't.
Rolled into Portland a little after one and threw down a couple Coors Lights to help me fall asleep. Spending today finishing up work and walking around Portland, still expecting to recognize people. But it's been three years, dude. So much has changed and it's easy to think that nothing has. You come home thinking everything will be exactly like it was on the day you left.
But it ain't, bubba.
Bars are closed, coffee shops take place in Paris now, and the ol' rock band is opening up for 311 at the big joint tonight. It'd be easier to be happy if it weren't so hard to swallow. Playing in that goddamn band is the one thing I consistently miss about living in Portland and I'd be lying if I wasn't routing for some form of failure after I left. You leave something, you want your absence and departure to be acknowledged. You want it to be slightly less awesome then when you were a part of it. It's selfish and a lame way of thinking- but I'm not thinking these thoughts on purpose. The thoughts I'm having on purpose are thoughts of being stoked for the dudes and happy for them. I'm sure if I could control my thoughts I'd sleep better. But that's not the case, so I'm resigned to trying to think about other things.
Like turkey, Sunday Funday with the Lady, and picking up the new Rustic disc on Friday.
I missed Turkey Day last year due to illness and I'll be goddamned if I'm going to miss it this year. There is no social drinking situation between now and 2pm tomorrow that would be so incredibly awesome that it would possibly jeopardize Turkey Day for Ryno. None.
Good thing the booze cruise is on Friday.
But good for Chayes and Solemente. I'd be hard pressed to think of two dudes I'd rather have open for 311 the night before Turkey Day at the big joint. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for working amps, a receptive crowd, and free booze in the dressing room.
Good luck tonight Christian Hayes Element and I'll see you Saturday, road.