Can you go home again? Part II- Baltimore

If there's a problem in fin de siecle America, it's the difficulty of having an adventure. In general, this is a good thing. By definition, an adventure has to be something that was out of the ordinary. In order to make a lasting impression, an event has to shock at the time. While this can be done intentionally - the Freemason's rituals taught lessons through a shock - it can be a very hard thing to do. The best stories tend to start with a disaster. When all of our usual methods of dealing with life are temporarily invalid, the resulting improvisation can be amazing.

Adventures take place outside the realm of what is normally allowable in a society. As a society becomes more tolerant, adventure becomes harder to come by. In 1973, Charlie Daniels managed to get a song ("Uneasy Rider") out of the story of a hippie being trapped in a Mississippi bar. In 1993 on my way home from Phish tour, I stopped at a Waffle House in Vicksburg. Despite being pretty grungy from the road, no one even gave me a second look. While I was happy that I was able to get my waffles and leave with my head still attached to my shoulders, I was disappointed. I figured I had a shot for a story, and all I got was a denouement.

Few places still have their own local identities and the ones that do are rapidly losing them. Las Cruces, when I lived there, was a small border desert town and it showed it. All of the restaurants there were Mexican; I never once saw the restaurant reviewer from the Las Cruces Sun News use the word "flavor." It was always about how hot the chiles there were. I cut through a vacant lot on my walks to school that frequently experienced sandstorms. Upon my return, I was stunned to find that that lot is now an apartment complex. Walking through NMSU's campus, I discovered that there were vegetarian options and expensive pseudo-coffee stands and shiny new buildings. As much as I hated Las Cruces's soul when I was living there, at least it had one. The town had a certain power, albeit an evil one. Now it's becoming a lot like everywhere else.

Rural O'ahu, central Montana, the Nevada desert, all are becoming more populated, more homogeneous, and less interesting. The aspects that once drew people there are now simulated - like Indians putting on shows that demonstrated their old rituals - but the power is gone. Belief in one's world view is weakened upon exposure to others. The flip side of increasing tolerance and letting people lead their own lives however they chose is the loss of identity and security people had.

While The Interstate Highway System is a major reason for the homogenizing of the United States, it also is a potential source of adventure itself. When I returned from the trip to Las Cruces, I was presented with the news that, for the second time this year, I was to be laid off. My initial reaction to this news was not fear or shock. It was, "Road Trip!" After the drive to Phoenix, I was jonesing for more. My goal was to get a job that started 3 days after the DC String Cheese Incident show. I would leave Seattle the day after the October Jam Bands issue went live, drive to North Carolina, see 4 SCI shows, and then drive back to Seattle in 3 days. I figured that driving 2800 miles in 3 days should satisfy my need for adventure. This seemed like a great plan until it was pointed out to me that Montana has large bumps in the ground that tend to get snow covered by November. Sure I was looking for adventure, but I wanted to have one without bringing up memories of the Donner Party.

Plan A destroyed, I tried to come up with a Plan B. A check of flights showed many under $300 out to the east coast. Ok modified plan. Maybe I can't drive cross country, but hopefully I can drive a bit. I arranged to land in Raleigh, go to the NC shows, drive to Baltimore, visit my parents, and then drive back down to Raleigh to fly out. It wouldn't be the all out plan I was hoping for but it would be something.

As my flight landed in Raleigh, I looked out the window. It was pouring. I thought I came to the southeast to get out of the rain. Discovering that it was sunny and in the 70's back home did not make me happy. Neither did the fact that in the wake of

Hurricane Floyd, there was still flooding in Rocky Mount. This rain was not needed. By the time we got to Wilkesboro, the rain combined with being up all night had sapped my energy. SCI were running incredibly late and I was actually hoping that they'd cancel the show and I could get some sleep. Then they came on stage. For 3 hours there was me and there was the music and that was about it. I was able to come back to reality long enough to

take some pictures, but for the most part, "WHEEEEEEEE" was the sum total of my thoughts.

The secret to having adventures on the road is a simple one, but it's one that I have trouble with. Talk to anyone; who knows what stories they might have. Sitting outside of the Ritz, I met the world's friendliest scalper.

He quickly gave up on selling tickets to the far from sold out show, and instead told stories about his scalping glory days. Bowl games apparently netted him 2 or 3 thousand dollars a piece. I might just be in the wrong business.

While the Walker Center was an alcohol free environment, the Ritz is a bar. Regional differences may be fading, but they're not gone completely. Even at a hippie show, North Carolina plus alcohol can equal rednecks. Specifically, there was this drunken pair that was having a LOUD conversation during the show. By the time the encore came around (an amazing "Best Feeling"), I had more than reached my limit. I turned to them and asked them if they could keep it down. That apparently was the wrong question to ask. They spent the next 10 minutes following me around, screaming in my ears, "What's wrong?!?! We just want to appreciate the music." After my third attempt to relocate failed, I gave one of them a little push to get him away from me. He gave me a much bigger push. I did a soccer move and took a dive. Security came and gave them a red card - they were removed from my presence. I was questing for adventure and I got in a fight with some rednecks in a North Carolina bar. Things are going quite well.

While Raleigh was not as interesting as Wilkesboro, it was high energy. As a result, I figured I could drive straight to Baltimore off of the energy I had. Maybe I'm just insane, but I love the late night drives. No traffic on the roads, just you and the truckers. Providing you don't get tired - and Cokes and Krispy Kreme donuts fueled me just fine - it is a very zen activity. Just keep between the white lines, crank up the tunes, and you'll be there.

I hit DC around sunrise. As I was about to get on the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge, a car approached to my right. I know how we handle this in Seattle on WA 520. Sure I have the right of way, but slowing down and letting him in makes life smoother for everyone. Apparently that's insane behavior on the east coast. Rather than just moving into the slot I was giving, he got more confused than anything. Politeness doesn't work east of the Mississippi.

By the time I arrive at my parent's house, I was pretty exhausted. There was a note on the door from my stepfather. Due to my mom losing her key, they had changed the locks on their door. Geoff said he would leave the door open for me; he left a note on the door telling me to make myself at home. I turned the knob... and it didn't budge. OK, calm here. I tried it again. Nope, locked. I tried the downstairs door. Locked. I started on the windows. Locked. Eventually I found myself halfway in the house through the doggy door, trying to turn the lock on the back door with a crowbar. It was at this point where a car pulled up. No it wasn't the cops trying to figure out what I was doing. It was my apologetic stepfather. After letting me in, he showed me where the emergency key was. I had touched it 30 or 40 times in my attempts to break in.

One of the reasons I was coming out to these shows was because Amanda and Ellen were starting to annoy me a bit. Every time SCI came to their town, they blew them off. Being really sick or having a hurricane roll into town are clearly not reasons to blow off concerts, right? Unfortunately, their first show was at the incredibly oversold Recher Theatre. There was no room to move anywhere in the venue, even out in the hallway. This was the most uncomfortable I had been inside a venue since the first set at the Eagle Ballroom (Phish's "OJ show" in the second story of a brick building with no windows on a 100+ degree day - I spent the entire set in the bathroom, soaking my head in the sink) in 94.

Surprisingly enough, Amanda was willing to go to the show at the 9:30 Club the next night. When the first set closed with a "Round the Wheel -> Jungle Boogie -> Round the Wheel" sandwich, I knew this would be the night. The show came to a peak with the best Texas I have ever heard. Driving Amanda home in a post-show bliss, I saw the most incredible site.

Reminding me that I actually had traveled, and wasn't in generic Tour Land, the Capitol Building stood out in the DC night.

Sunday was a travel day. Drive down to North Carolina, and fly out west. While crossing the North Carolina state line, I realized that I would be within a few miles of Greg. A visit was called for.

Greg Giaccio was a friend of mine at Bard. While I spent my time there going on tour and being silly, he was the token Bard conservative. Editor in Chief of the school newspaper, he was nothing if not practical. Frequently he would comment about philosophy majors, "What are they going to do? Open a philosophy store?" Somehow though, it is I who work for the Evil Empire of Redmond and has the corporate job. He works with troubled kids in a program he has nicknamed "Hoods in the Woods." While I talk of adventures and try to find ways to bring that into my life, he manages to live one. Goes to show, you don't ever know.

Vacation over, I landed in Seattle. Jim picked me up at the airport and drove me to my car. I left his house, drove up I-5 towards home. Hmmmmm, this road seems more bumpy than it was going down. Bump! Bump! Bump! Oh damn; I have a flat. As the nice

cop helped me change my tir.... well changed my tire for me, I thought back upon my original plan. Where would that flat have happened? Montana? Wyoming? A bad part of DC? I searched out adventure and I very nearly found it.

String Cheese Incident were kind enough to give me permission to put up an mp3 of the 9:30 Club "Texas." In a column about roadtrips, and adventures, it seemed like the obvious choice.

Download mp3 (15 megs)