I had a great night tonight. I played a gig with Scott Fisher and 1 a.m. Approach at the Bite of Oregon. The Bite, for those of you not in the know, is a large festival in Portland, held in Waterfront Park. The festival is for food and music. We played it last year on the larger stage, set up by the Morrison Bridge, a day before Los Lobos. That was cool. This year we were on the smaller stage, but it was still cool. It was a beautiful day. My gear was already in the van, so I got to ride my bike to a gig! That was super cool – riding across the Hawthorne Bridge, which is a beautiful bridge, over the Willamette, into Waterfront Park, with my nice clothes in my backpack, to go play some music outside (and get paid for it!). My life can be cool sometimes.
When I got there I saw an old roommate who was the first real professional musician I knew in Portland (I lived in a house with him for a few months back in the fall of 2004). Back then I was intimidated by him, and it was a good feeling to be playing the same festival as him, with a later slot.
We played our set at around 8. I was set up on stage left, facing the rest of the band, and gosh darn it if I couldn't see Mount Hood right in front of me. It was pretty cool, though a little distracting. It is a good looking mountain.
After the gig I got introduced to the new Music Director of KINK radio (a local kind-of indie station – they've played Slow Drags music on their "Local Artist Spotlight") and his wife. I kinda like schmoozing.
One thing I don't really like is the evolution, seemingly over only the last two or three decades, of the handshake. How am I supposed to know what style of shake/fist bump you're going to give me?! How do people know? Seriously, I feel like I'm way behind everyone, and I feel like a fool trying to guess whether or not you want a fist bop or a wrist grab or whatever the heck the kids are doing these days.
Also after the gig, we got a couple free drinks (as musicians are generally afforded), and I got an "Indian taco" from a stand – a local Native American tribe's food stand. A guy I know who is less tactful that I am would say "Feather, not Dot", or he would say "Casino, not Slurpee." But I wouldn't say that sort of thing. That sort of thing is offensive, right? I think it's kind of offensive. The Indian taco was taco-ish fillings on a big puffy bread-like thing, like a thick naan. It was okay.
At the end of the night, there were fireworks. Fireworks are always cool. However, I don't really like watching fireworks alone. Fireworks, as well as lunar eclipses, seem like the kind of thing a person should enjoy in immediate proximity with someone they care about. I was strolling alone (amidst thousands) in the park, and the experience was bittersweet.
The night was ending, so we loaded up our gear, and I hopped on my bike (biking home from a gig! so cool!) and headed home. At Hawthorne and MLK, what the fuck?! I accidentally rode over a large curb and broke a spoke. First broken spoke for me, ever. I bent it and snapped it off so that it wouldn't catch on the fork, and kept going. Should I have walked my bike the rest of the way? I didn't know. It was still 30 blocks, and uphill, and I decided to ride. Fifteen blocks later, a second spoke went. This time it grabbed my derailer and twisted it up. You have to see it to understand exactly how violently it did this.
This is the most mangled I've seen a bike in person. (Later, when I took it in to the shop around the corner, the repairman winced like Nicholas Cage watching the Con Air dailies.) I tugged at it the best I could to bend it back, but it would not be moved. Obviously I couldn't ride it the remaining 15 blocks home. The problem was that I couldn't wheel it either! The back wheel was completely locked up, so it would not roll. I had to carry my bike from Hawthorne and 20th, over the hill, and down to the house I live in, on 32nd Place off Hawthorne a block and change. I felt kind of like a bad ass, carrying an unwieldly object a long distance, and kind of like a jack ass, carrying a bicycle a long distance. Also, because I had taken off my jacket but was still wearing my white shirt and tie, I looked like a Mormon missionary who lost his partner and crippled his bike in some mysterious mishap. I even had a pen in my front shirt pocket. Yes, I definitely looked dorky.
I found the best placement for the bicycle against my hip and under my arm, and made it home sweaty and tired. A block from home, there was a house party; some young hipsters had spilled out onto the porch. A boy and a girl were standing in my way, making out. I walked up to them at 1 in the morning, carrying my bike and sweating like a field worker. "Excuse me," I muttered politely. They looked over, slightly startled and confused, and made room for me to pass. "Wow, there's a loser," they thought. Man, did I wish I could be doing what they were doing instead of what I was doing. To whomever's in charge: that was a completely unnecessary punch in the face. Thanks a lot.
At home, with the bike left dead in the basement, I scrubbed my hands to get the grease off before bed. I looked at them long and hard. These hands did two very different tasks tonight.
Postscript: I said at the beginning of this post that "I had a great night tonight." There was something supremely satisfying about carrying my bicycle that distance. Compared to most people, I guess that's nothing, but I don't have to overcome things every day. So when I do, it does feel good. Sorry to those of you who have real problems. Really, I am.
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