So, I haven't updated since Colorado. Trains are long, visits are busy (especially when you only have a couple days in a given place) and wi-fi is not as plentiful for a footloose wanderer as I had hoped. I was considering typing up a post on the train, but I seem to have worked myself into a space where I can't think of anything to say unless I am actually on my bloggy-page. Best theory is that, subconsciously, Microsoft Word is associated with dry, frustrating school papers (all I've ever really used it for) while my blogspot window is associated with free flowing conversation. Weird, huh?
Since my last post, I have traveled another 1800 miles (give or take), from Denver to San Francisco, then up the coast to Portland. Consequent to that, this post may be rather epic.
Denver
So I never went on that brewery tour. Nor did I get to check out the Mercury Café, an establishment recommended by my cousin. I was especially interested in the latter, since by all accounts it operates on an eclectic model I had sort of thought of as an idea of my own... you know... if I ever did the entrepreneurial thing.
However, I did get to play again. I went to the D Note, a pizzeria about a half hour away from my cousin's. There I ate delicious pizza (who'd have thought hummus would be a good pizza topping?) and, after a bunch of food and two delicious pints of Porter, got up and played. This time, the event was captured on film (thank you, uncle Paul). thus, I present to you the christening video of my Youtube channel. Overall, I like the way that turned out... I can see what people are on about with the eternal "you should articulate more" bullshit. As I suspected, it's not articulation, it's projection. But how would you express that if you were a musically clueless person who gives random advice to strange musicians? I'm working on that. I think I've just been jamming in people's living rooms so long I instinctively reign in my shit, even when I'm supposed to be performing. Oh, well, as a friend of mine is wont to say... "AFGO... Another Fucking Growth Opportunity...".
Anyway, I had fun. The DJ was awesome, as you can see. He made up a story to introduce every performer. Turns out he's a really good guesser.
The following day, I rolled out to the train station in the wee hours of the morning, loaded up with portable foodstuffs for my (as it turned out) 35-hour ride to Frisco (I forgot to ask if they really get pissed when you call it that).
Amtrak is ALWAYS late.
I rolled into Emeryville, CA about 2.5 hours after I was slated to (again). It's a really good thing I'm not in a hurry to get anywhere, 'cause apparently rail travel in the U.S. operates on a level of temporal incompetency that makes life in the Land of Mañana look positively punctual. I took a bus across the bay bridge to the Ferry Building
(not my picture)
I immediately experienced another transportational SNAFU, as I presumed my great aunt would be picking me up at the Amtrak building (brick building on the right) where I was dropped by the bus, as opposed to the actual ferry building... the giant thing next to it. My piece of shit Cricket phone chose this moment to stop accepting calls, only ringing after she had already left a message. The cell number she gave me turned out to be wrong. Through a series of frustrated voice messages, I was eventually clued in to her location, and managed to flag her down. Thus ended my epic journey West.
San Francisco.
...is pretty cool. Everything is either huge or tiny, with little space in between. It is also buttfuck expensive (pardon the san-fran related pun). My aunt lives in a second floor apartment (with the most ridiculously tiny garage I have ever witnessed... she has to back her tiny economy car in with about 1/2 inch clearance on the mirrors- no small feat), which she has lived in for over 20 years. This ensures that her rent is ONLY about a grand a month, despite having a couple roomies. When we rolled in, I was treated to a delicious meal at a local Thai restaurant. Then I crashed out til the morning.
I only really had one full day to stay there, so it was a fairly whirlwind visit. When I got up, we went to a European style bakery around the corner, much loved by my mom when she lived near there. I had an almond croissant and an Americano in her honor. I must say, I can see what the attraction was. That is without a doubt some of the finest pastry and coffee I have experienced in my life. I'm not really even a baked goods kind of guy, but I think I would go broke if i lived near a place like that.
After the bakery experience, I visited Haight St.- the sometime nexus of San Francisco hippyism. Indeed, I stood at the infamous Haight and Ashbury.
...where I was introduced to a new kind of panhandler, one with which San Fran is apparently replete... the Humorous Panhandler!
I think I like them. We crossed paths with a slightly less tactful one, whose sign read "I need money for a coffin, because I am dead sexy!". This inspired my aunt to peer skeptically at his face for a long time. I assumed she was either honestly trying to evaluate the validity of the statement, or just fucking with him. It became clear that she didn't get the joke... "I don't think being dead is very sexy, unless you're into necrophilia or something (insert mistrustful look)". This confused the mohawk sporting hobo, and he tried at some length to explain. Eventually she gave him a dollar for his troubles, I think mostly because she liked the Siamese cat his girlfriend was toting. I'm actually still not sure if she was fucking with him. Here are some pretty houses:
...and the mandatory touristey Golden Gate picture of me and my aunt...
After the Haight journey, we went to Muir woods... a redwood forest outside of town. Miles were walked, and pictures were taken. Here's a couple...
Following that, we returned, ate a homecooked dinner of chicken and veggies from my Aunt's organic garden plot (for which there is an 85-year waiting list). The next day was spent re-re-repacking my backpack (I jettisoned some raggedy clothes to cut back on bulk... it's getting better...) and helping my aunt get to her plane to Utah on time. This turned out to be an epic adventure. Having waited til the last minute to pack (possibly my fault) and due to unforeseen complications, my aunt was running late. With a bad back and ankle, she is not the most physically capable of individuals, so it was my duty to play porter. We journeyed across town... walking, riding BART (the bay area public train), and taking a shuttle to get her to the airport in the nick of time. The journey back was my first real navigating-a-strange-city-without-support experience of the journey, and came off without a hitch. Good job, me. The rest of my day was uneventful. I navigated back to Emeryville flawlessly, and my 10:07 train out was only a half hour late.
Fuck you, Amtrak. Fuck you.
So, the premise of my 750 dollar pass was that I can now go wherever I want, whenever I want, and my ticket's already paid for, right? Wrong. Apparently Amtrak only reserves a (undisclosed) number of seats on each train for rail pass holders. I'm guessing this number is something like two. So far, even though I've been reserving things ASAP whenever I get an extra minute at a station, they have so far eked an extra 120 dollars out of me (30 for Portland, a whopping 80 to get to Michigan in time for my brother's birthday). Between the hideously long transit time, the idiotic level of lateness, and the hidden monetary buttfucks, I'm thinking this is not such a great deal anymore. I don't think I'll be participating with Amtrak after this if I can help it.
The Portland situation.
So, here I am in Portland. I am currently sitting in a little coffee shop on a drizzling corner downtown, eating a sandwich and pouring my little heart out, all for you. The heart-pouring, not the sandwich... you can't have my sandwich- I'm hungry. I got in at about 6 yesterday, (predictably) 2 hours late.
So, the reason I came to Portland is complicated. Through several absent recommendations, and one emphatic one in particular, I have been led to believe that Portland is an awesome place. Since I will almost undoubtedly be moving before too long, I have received several of what I would take to be karmic signs pointing to the possibility of my moving here. Still hesitant over my inability to find a place to stay here, I was encouraged by my friend's (Sweete's) emphatic assurance that she could find me a place no problem... that she had tons of friends and connections here, and they would be more than happy to put me up. This was followed by another in a series of gushy monologues on how wonderful and friendly Portland is. Of course, that didn't happen. Turns out the "lots of connections" is two friends, one of whom is sick. The other has guests already.
I'm still convinced there's something I'm supposed to see here. Those who know the story of me and Sweete probably already know that our interactions are more often than not like Charlie Brown and the fucking football. It seems to be my karma to keep trusting her against all rationality, and it seems to be her karma to frequently and lovingly take me places I wouldn't otherwise go, then leave me high and dry midway in. I bet it looks pretty retarded from an outside perspective... lord knows it does to me from time to time. It's beyond my capacity to explain exactly why I keep doing it, but somehow keeping the faith still seems like the thing to do. Maybe I'm just naive.
Luckily (or karmically, depending on your point of view) I ran into a girl from Portland on the bus to San Francisco. She had been riding the train all the way from Chicago, where she had gone to visit her folks in Wisconsin. Since I secured an empty adjoining seat from Denver (the better to sleep on), she was the only person I really communicated with on the California leg. Anyway, she volunteered the name of a hostel here in Portland. Upon ascertaining that the Sweete connection was again falling through (her final advice: "ask around for cool musicians and they will put you up"), I contacted the recommended hostel. They were full, but they directed me to another hostel that turned out to be just a couple short blocks from where I had wandered to. I shelled out another 30.00 (Portland has me hemorrhaging money at an alarming rate) for a bed, and went out looking for "cool musicians" per Sweete's recommendation. For all the playing up of Portland's music scene (haha pun), the result has been abjectly disappointing thus far. Nobody I asked knew where there was any live music, and the only place I found not only had a 10 dollar cover, but featured some frankly lameass music. Blah.
Whitney (the bus girl) told me that West Portland was the more moneyed side, and that East Portland was less so. I'm trying my best to be stoic and taking that (and the fact that the originally recommended hostel and music joints are in Hawthorne, the SE area) to mean that the soulful part lies East of the river. Upon leaving here, I shall proceed to the nearest post office (I'm finally fed up and mailing off my fucking books... more money) and work my way over my new hostel on the East side (I reserved a room there this morning). Keep your fingers crossed that Portland finds the heart to extend a loving hand and prove itself worthy of its initial recommendation. I'm encouraged by the mellowly beautiful music of one of my favorite indie bands, Portland-based Blind pilot, sampled here:
The soccer game that's been on the TV since I got here is long over, the rain has ended, and the afternoon wears on, so I think it's getting to be about that time. Until the next post, wish me luck keeping the faith on this trying stretch of my Taoist voyage. I'll let you know how it turns out.
Ta-ta
-Mojoe
P.S. It's occurred to me that some of my editorials regarding Sweete might sound a little mean. I don't mean them that way... after all, if I didn't still love her and think the world of her, I probably wouldn't still put up with all this silly shit that comes out of our interactions. Nawmean?
