The Seattle show fell on a day of doom.
A minor tragedy from the get go.
Who knows why the shoelace breaks or the heart deflates.
perhaps some wiccan somewhere with a second hand spell book has been mispronouncing words.
If it is the gods after all, then they demanded a sacrifice on Friday night.
The truth is that a bad day never hinges on a single event, instead it is the accumulation of a hundred tiny heartbreaks one after the other.
Long story short Seattle just felt wrong.
If it hadn’t been for the company of my beloved Misses (who I nabbed in Portland) all would have been lost but her good company kept the water at a medium boil.
The show was mediocre, the health of the humans was down, the sushi was chalky, I fell down some stairs, the hotel room we purchased was ripped and the sounds of a prostitute fucking her john literally boomed through the bathroom wall.
This hotel was a real hooker locker not an exaggeration, A “yellow pillow” as Lauren Brown calls them.
The night became a sort of terrifying battle of moans, my woman against the business being run next door.
Some part of me was sure that if we made too much noise or laughed too loudly that the door would be broken in and she would be stolen away into the custody of a brute.
Somehow the night passed without incident and as we pulled away the next morning I caught a glimpse of the entrepreneurs next door.
One looked like a raver/ski instructor and the other was a gaunt black man, their girl was a short Polynesian looking thing with bejeweled jeans.
Me and the misses hunted food and prepared for our journey across the border.
Footnote:
The light is so unfiltered on the northwest coast, a white blue that pierces everything and demands photography. We parked in the Pikes Place area and intended to stroll a bit into the farmers market, but that is no easy task.
The place is a dream.
A shocking array of aromas that caught both of us off guard and we ran through the fruits and vegetables like the millions of humans who had feasted before us.
The place feels like living history, and I felt like I was about to board the Titanic.
We murdered time and cussed ourselves for having foolishly eaten at a diner before heading to the food haven that is the Seattle Farmers Market.
No film in my camera no space in my belly!
Cripes!! We decided to smoke a cigarette and yell at the ocean while we still could and before we knew it we were on the 5 zooming towards the north.
I could tell we got a late start and started to become increasingly fretful, yet somewhere deep within the company of the Misses and the background of the wilderness I knew things were going right as rain.
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