Chapter 7: Exodus(Part 2)
Welcome to The Jungle. Tonight the band is off, and Jayson is treating everyone to dinner at the legendary(so he claims) Tonga Room, a tiki restaurant in the bottom of the San Francisco Fairmont Hotel. He began singing the praises of this place weeks before we left on the tour and insisted on making it a stop on the itinerary. As it is somewhat of a classy joint, we all don our individual versions of appropriate attire(i.e. expensive jeans and collared shirts, maybe a jacket); I tastefully lighten up on the bling. Mindful of the sneaky effects of rum-laden, fruity cocktails which will undoubtedly be overindulged, we wisely elect to take a cab instead of setting sail in the USS Rental Van, now shamefully bearing the battle scar of a little altercation with an Escalade in the hotel parking garage(courtesy of yours truly). We can walk back to our hotel afterwards... or fly back, if three-sheets-to-the-wind can generate sufficient lift. And let me tell you, when we roll out of that cab at the huge-ass front steps of the Fairmont, there should be James Bond music playing, because you have never seen four more suave, sophisticated, rockin' on the lowdown dudes, ready to turn it out upscale style(at least in our minds)... and no paparazzi to be found. What a tragedy - heads will roll in our P.R. Department.
This Fairmont is massive, sitting at the top of a big hill and looking more like a state capitol than a hotel. It's deathly quiet inside(9:00 on a Sunday) except for the irreverent clomping of our shoes, and I keep a watchful eye out to make sure Travis doesn't knock over some priceless vase. But as soon as we reach the downstairs entrance to the Tonga Room, it's like we just landed on Skull Island and I inconspicuously fall to the back of the group, sure that the first one in will be grabbed by overzealous, superstitious natives and handed off to a big gorilla. But to my relief, we're greeted cordially by a very hot native girl... well, more like a hostess, who shows us to our table - I am digging Skull Island! Jayson wasn't exaggerating when he described it and it's definitely a place you have to experience to believe. As we are simultaneously seated and ambushed by a waiter armed with drink menus, one has the distinct feeling of dining on a tranquil wooden pier, surrounding a tropical lagoon(swimming with Plesiosaurs, if we're sticking with the Skull Island theme), complete with a moored ship, colorfully strung tiki lamps and reoccurring rain storm(with thunder and lightning). Moments after our first round arrives, a boat/stage containing the evening's musical entertainment floats quietly into the lagoon and cranks out what I can only describe as sequenced disco lounge - where the hell are the Plesiosaurs when you need them?!
The food surpasses even Jayson's oversell and as predicted, we are on the fast track to Intoxication Station; if not by rum then by the cornucopia of fruit juices. Jayson pays the tab and we all adjourn to the bar where we can do some serious drinking and annoy respectable customers. Admittedly, the pickin's are a little slim, it being Sunday night and all, when in walk two gorgeous women who are conveniently seated across the dance floor from us. I can tell you right now, despite all our familial convictions, high morals, respect for the fairer sex, etc., etc., the one thought that is roaring through each brain is, "what happens in Frisco, stays in Frisco". These girls are at the Playboy level(extraordinary looks and class) and believe me, they are well aware of the slaying effect they are generating, which immediately intimidates me to the point that I intentionally forfeit and remove myself from the playing field(mentally, of course). I'm pretty sure everyone else does the same... all except one... Mr. Jayson Bales. Well sir, apparently aloofness breeds confidence... or a total disregard of humiliation as he self-assuredly leans back in his chair, casually jiggles the ice in his glass and announces that he will ask one of these sirens to dance.
"Are you crazy - they are totally out of your league! Girls like that eat guys for hors d'oeuvres with their cosmopolitans, you'll be chewed up and spit on the beach... or dock, as it were."
But as I explained previously, that type of response only fuels the fire(see Part 1: Yosemite 500) and before we can grab and slap some sense into him, he's already launched a full scale assault across the lounge to his doom. Greg, Travis and I hold our breath... secretly wishing for failure, because we don't have the cajones... and nearly fall out of our seats as Jayson gingerly escorts the hottest of the two out for a few graceful twirls around the lagoon. Bravo... her elbows are in the unlocked position and I don't see any white knuckles! And oh my God, you have never seen one self-satisfied person more dripping with smugness as he struts back to our table. I must admit that my overall rating of Mr. Aloof reluctantly climbs up a few notches; of course, in a matter of minutes, he drops it back through the floor with his conversely juvenile, after-dinner performance.
Skillfully choosing our exit on a high note, we all head back to the hotel... on foot. Once out of the jungle, it becomes annoyingly clear that Jayson is quite inebriated - big shock. To be honest, I tried to get there myself, but with all the heavy food I've consumed, I'm disappointingly marooned in Sober City. We've got a good 20 minute trek ahead of us and whether energised from his previous coup over Ms. Skull Island or his body is too stupid to realize its brimming with a chemical depressant, Jayson decides he will entertain us all with feats of athleticism. From my position at point, I see the handwriting on the wall and I set my pace at "full ahead" in an attempt to distance from the Revival Flying Circus, returning the confused looks of hapless bystanders and late night travelers with a reciprocal rolling of the eyes. I can't tell you the details of this one man competition, other than it involves Jayson running/stumbling up and down flights of parking garage stairs at full speed while screaming "time me!" I refuse to look back and chance any association with this clown, not to mention possibly witnessing a drunk singer/songwriter splattered all over the streets of San Francisco. Nevertheless, I'm haunted by the ridiculous clip-clap of dress shoes slapping the concrete and echoing through narrow streets all the way back to our hotel. Through a clear case of divine intervention, we all make it home unscathed, ironically flying in the face of the Proverbial warning, "Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall." I whisper an apology to the Guardian Angel that drew this overtime destined shift.
Sign of the Gypsy Queen. We stayed in El Paso last night, and we're dragging into a Starbucks this morning, trying to revive ourselves sufficiently for the last piece of the trip - the dash for Dallas. No one in this band is much of a morning person on a good day, and the looming prospect of driving across West Texas after being on the road for two weeks does not a good day make. We dropped off Travis in Phoenix yesterday, into the custody of his soon to be in-laws - unbeknownst to his girlfriend(of about 10 years), T-Rav is planning to pop the question... despite the rest of the band recounting numerous(and likely exaggerated) "glory of single life" anecdotes throughout the trip. In fact, today is the actual day and I say a silent prayer for him... and giggle inwardly at the horror of wedding planning that awaits him. Outside of that dark thinking, I'm just looking forward to a decent cup of coffee, a muffin and some quiet time to enjoy the pleasant morning before being beaten within an inch of my life in a cramped rental van. As I peruse the always tempting pastry selection, I catch her out of the corner of my eye, seated on a sofa talking to what I assume is a friend. Immediately, there's something slightly askew - possibly her not-quite-vintage-Goodwill look or the oversized, costume-prop flower she's holding... or maybe it's the faux-friendly, Moonie vibe she's sending out. Whatever it is, I choose to ignore, cradle my tasty loot and head out to the patio area. I'm no more than halfway through my first cup, when beyond the protective wall of Jayson's newspaper, I see her again and... oh dear, she's headed for our table. Now, I must tell you, I have a "zero tolerance" policy towards uninvited solicitation; even the detached Mr. Bales regards my tactics as brutal and unwarranted when it comes to shutting down interlopers, especially sales people. I am fully prepared to unload my furious disinterest on this victim, amidst her flurry of "blessings" and "sharing her happiness", but before I can give her both barrels... Mr. Aloof breaks ranks and engages her in conversation. Damn it! She smiles victoriously, and unleashes the most insane babble you've ever heard... top ten, for sure.
I don't remember her name, except that it means "Black Panther, White Dragon"(how P.C.) - we'll just call her Delusional for short. Apparently, she is a reincarnated Egyptian Queen(of course) and has mystical clairvoyant powers. Now, if you'll permit me an aside here, I really must say something about reincarnation. I'm not one to criticize other religions and related beliefs; I mean, in my opinion, all denominations have some metaphysical qualities that can be interpreted as far-fetched by the outsider. But whatever faith, philosophy or whathaveyou that claims reincarnation needs to get on the stick! Every person that I've heard or read about, claiming to be reincarnated, was once a king, queen, duke, duchess, etc.... or at least in the upper crust of said society. Nobody ever claims to be spiritually descended from a trash collector, delivery guy, maid... you get the picture. Everyone cannot be an ancient ruler; there should be way more "indians than chiefs" - do the math. With all due respect, management really needs to take a look into this glaring oversight, if they want to be taken serious... and maybe rethink having Shirley MacLaine as their spokesperson.
Now that we're on friendly terms with an insane Egyptian Queen, she insists on reading my palm, and sensing a Kodak moment, Jayson grabs the video camera. I'm sure it will come as no surprise that I put absolutely no credence in fortune telling, palm reading or any other related shenanigans, and I don't even find it mildly amusing. But here I sit in an El Paso Starbucks, an escaped mental patient poking at my hand with grubby little fingers that have been God knows where, while my friend videos and encourages her... and I haven't even finished my coffee! She rattles on about the hidden meaning behind the lines in my skin(most of her analysis is way off), as if the universe is intimately involved in how I open and close my fingers, ending with the big revelation that I'm about to meet my soulmate and my search for true love will be over. Hmmm... pretty startling information considering I've been married more than a year and I'm wearing a wedding band - I guess I need to have a little talk with my wife. I'm beyond tired of this ridiculous game and her gypsy eau de toilette - her sleeveless blouse is revealing way more than I want to know concerning her grooming habits... or lack thereof; I thank her and move to the far(upwind) corner of the patio. The other guys continue to take turns having their futures revealed and videoing for a little while longer before it's finally time to saddle up, and then the real truth is unveiled - Queenie needs a ride! I smell this coming a mile away and before Jayson can roll over and expose his soft, democratic underbelly, I swiftly unsheathe my stalwart sensibility and smite the cursed White Dragon, banishing her to the next naive Starbuck's customer. Of course, I get the "how can you be so heartless" glare from the band and I simply defer to the "B.O. from Hell" episode of Seinfeld, confident that my quick reaction has once again, kept this doomed expedition out of the ditch.
Later that evening, we make a pit stop at some nameless convenience store. I'm returning to the van, the cool bite of Red Bull bringing me back to life, when I see Greg standing by the front wheel, staring motionless at the ground. As I get closer, what I assume is a novelty, coiled, rubber snake someone is by now laughing uncontrollably over, rears up and rattles! This is the first time in my life I've ever seen a rattlesnake up close and personal and I gotta tell you, it's a little intimidating; but like a bad car accident, I can't look away. After the initial shock subsides, I'm filled with a mixture of fascination and concern... for the snake. I realize that between sitting in a busy parking lot and most people's irrational fear of all things crawly, this reptile is dangerously close to extinction. Jayson and Travis join us, along with the store cashier, who announces no need to worry, she's just called her boyfriend who's on his way over... with a gun. Now you can call me crazy, but this innocent snake has done nothing to deserve the firing squad, not to mention the potential mayhem that could ensue from a trigger-happy boyfriend in this neck of the woods, so we have to move now... actually, the snake does. So, armed with a trusty mic stand, we very carefully encourage our now quite irritable friend grudgingly back into the desert - no harm, no foul. Again, I am awed by the speed and dexterity of this animal, and make a mental note to be more careful where I step in the future. As we hit the road running, once again, I can't help but think back to the Gypsy Queen in El Paso, and how my negative reaction to her request for a ride must have elicited at least some off-the-cuff curse mumbled out of earshot... and a snake is loosely in the dragon family.... right? There's probably a rogue mountain lion waiting at the next stop... at least a very aggressive stray cat... I wish I'd payed more attention during "Serpent and the Rainbow".
Epilogue. In the end, our westward pilgrimage does little for our overall standing in the music world... or music state, city and neighborhood, for that matter. We're still hustling for gigs, fans and cash(cause hustlin' ain't free, yo). California is an experience and ultimately will be measured by the timeless bond we've melded through shared victory and defeat in a strange land. Honestly, it has been one of the most emotional experiences of my life, ranging from genuine love to clandestine murder plots... and everything in between - shaky ground in the world of men, my friends. But we are now a band in the true sense of the word, an impenetrable ring, and make no mistake, we are contenders. In my opinion, that's all you can really ask for. History alone, decides the winners.
Welcome to The Jungle. Tonight the band is off, and Jayson is treating everyone to dinner at the legendary(so he claims) Tonga Room, a tiki restaurant in the bottom of the San Francisco Fairmont Hotel. He began singing the praises of this place weeks before we left on the tour and insisted on making it a stop on the itinerary. As it is somewhat of a classy joint, we all don our individual versions of appropriate attire(i.e. expensive jeans and collared shirts, maybe a jacket); I tastefully lighten up on the bling. Mindful of the sneaky effects of rum-laden, fruity cocktails which will undoubtedly be overindulged, we wisely elect to take a cab instead of setting sail in the USS Rental Van, now shamefully bearing the battle scar of a little altercation with an Escalade in the hotel parking garage(courtesy of yours truly). We can walk back to our hotel afterwards... or fly back, if three-sheets-to-the-wind can generate sufficient lift. And let me tell you, when we roll out of that cab at the huge-ass front steps of the Fairmont, there should be James Bond music playing, because you have never seen four more suave, sophisticated, rockin' on the lowdown dudes, ready to turn it out upscale style(at least in our minds)... and no paparazzi to be found. What a tragedy - heads will roll in our P.R. Department.
This Fairmont is massive, sitting at the top of a big hill and looking more like a state capitol than a hotel. It's deathly quiet inside(9:00 on a Sunday) except for the irreverent clomping of our shoes, and I keep a watchful eye out to make sure Travis doesn't knock over some priceless vase. But as soon as we reach the downstairs entrance to the Tonga Room, it's like we just landed on Skull Island and I inconspicuously fall to the back of the group, sure that the first one in will be grabbed by overzealous, superstitious natives and handed off to a big gorilla. But to my relief, we're greeted cordially by a very hot native girl... well, more like a hostess, who shows us to our table - I am digging Skull Island! Jayson wasn't exaggerating when he described it and it's definitely a place you have to experience to believe. As we are simultaneously seated and ambushed by a waiter armed with drink menus, one has the distinct feeling of dining on a tranquil wooden pier, surrounding a tropical lagoon(swimming with Plesiosaurs, if we're sticking with the Skull Island theme), complete with a moored ship, colorfully strung tiki lamps and reoccurring rain storm(with thunder and lightning). Moments after our first round arrives, a boat/stage containing the evening's musical entertainment floats quietly into the lagoon and cranks out what I can only describe as sequenced disco lounge - where the hell are the Plesiosaurs when you need them?!
The food surpasses even Jayson's oversell and as predicted, we are on the fast track to Intoxication Station; if not by rum then by the cornucopia of fruit juices. Jayson pays the tab and we all adjourn to the bar where we can do some serious drinking and annoy respectable customers. Admittedly, the pickin's are a little slim, it being Sunday night and all, when in walk two gorgeous women who are conveniently seated across the dance floor from us. I can tell you right now, despite all our familial convictions, high morals, respect for the fairer sex, etc., etc., the one thought that is roaring through each brain is, "what happens in Frisco, stays in Frisco". These girls are at the Playboy level(extraordinary looks and class) and believe me, they are well aware of the slaying effect they are generating, which immediately intimidates me to the point that I intentionally forfeit and remove myself from the playing field(mentally, of course). I'm pretty sure everyone else does the same... all except one... Mr. Jayson Bales. Well sir, apparently aloofness breeds confidence... or a total disregard of humiliation as he self-assuredly leans back in his chair, casually jiggles the ice in his glass and announces that he will ask one of these sirens to dance.
"Are you crazy - they are totally out of your league! Girls like that eat guys for hors d'oeuvres with their cosmopolitans, you'll be chewed up and spit on the beach... or dock, as it were."
But as I explained previously, that type of response only fuels the fire(see Part 1: Yosemite 500) and before we can grab and slap some sense into him, he's already launched a full scale assault across the lounge to his doom. Greg, Travis and I hold our breath... secretly wishing for failure, because we don't have the cajones... and nearly fall out of our seats as Jayson gingerly escorts the hottest of the two out for a few graceful twirls around the lagoon. Bravo... her elbows are in the unlocked position and I don't see any white knuckles! And oh my God, you have never seen one self-satisfied person more dripping with smugness as he struts back to our table. I must admit that my overall rating of Mr. Aloof reluctantly climbs up a few notches; of course, in a matter of minutes, he drops it back through the floor with his conversely juvenile, after-dinner performance.
Skillfully choosing our exit on a high note, we all head back to the hotel... on foot. Once out of the jungle, it becomes annoyingly clear that Jayson is quite inebriated - big shock. To be honest, I tried to get there myself, but with all the heavy food I've consumed, I'm disappointingly marooned in Sober City. We've got a good 20 minute trek ahead of us and whether energised from his previous coup over Ms. Skull Island or his body is too stupid to realize its brimming with a chemical depressant, Jayson decides he will entertain us all with feats of athleticism. From my position at point, I see the handwriting on the wall and I set my pace at "full ahead" in an attempt to distance from the Revival Flying Circus, returning the confused looks of hapless bystanders and late night travelers with a reciprocal rolling of the eyes. I can't tell you the details of this one man competition, other than it involves Jayson running/stumbling up and down flights of parking garage stairs at full speed while screaming "time me!" I refuse to look back and chance any association with this clown, not to mention possibly witnessing a drunk singer/songwriter splattered all over the streets of San Francisco. Nevertheless, I'm haunted by the ridiculous clip-clap of dress shoes slapping the concrete and echoing through narrow streets all the way back to our hotel. Through a clear case of divine intervention, we all make it home unscathed, ironically flying in the face of the Proverbial warning, "Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall." I whisper an apology to the Guardian Angel that drew this overtime destined shift.
Sign of the Gypsy Queen. We stayed in El Paso last night, and we're dragging into a Starbucks this morning, trying to revive ourselves sufficiently for the last piece of the trip - the dash for Dallas. No one in this band is much of a morning person on a good day, and the looming prospect of driving across West Texas after being on the road for two weeks does not a good day make. We dropped off Travis in Phoenix yesterday, into the custody of his soon to be in-laws - unbeknownst to his girlfriend(of about 10 years), T-Rav is planning to pop the question... despite the rest of the band recounting numerous(and likely exaggerated) "glory of single life" anecdotes throughout the trip. In fact, today is the actual day and I say a silent prayer for him... and giggle inwardly at the horror of wedding planning that awaits him. Outside of that dark thinking, I'm just looking forward to a decent cup of coffee, a muffin and some quiet time to enjoy the pleasant morning before being beaten within an inch of my life in a cramped rental van. As I peruse the always tempting pastry selection, I catch her out of the corner of my eye, seated on a sofa talking to what I assume is a friend. Immediately, there's something slightly askew - possibly her not-quite-vintage-Goodwill look or the oversized, costume-prop flower she's holding... or maybe it's the faux-friendly, Moonie vibe she's sending out. Whatever it is, I choose to ignore, cradle my tasty loot and head out to the patio area. I'm no more than halfway through my first cup, when beyond the protective wall of Jayson's newspaper, I see her again and... oh dear, she's headed for our table. Now, I must tell you, I have a "zero tolerance" policy towards uninvited solicitation; even the detached Mr. Bales regards my tactics as brutal and unwarranted when it comes to shutting down interlopers, especially sales people. I am fully prepared to unload my furious disinterest on this victim, amidst her flurry of "blessings" and "sharing her happiness", but before I can give her both barrels... Mr. Aloof breaks ranks and engages her in conversation. Damn it! She smiles victoriously, and unleashes the most insane babble you've ever heard... top ten, for sure.
I don't remember her name, except that it means "Black Panther, White Dragon"(how P.C.) - we'll just call her Delusional for short. Apparently, she is a reincarnated Egyptian Queen(of course) and has mystical clairvoyant powers. Now, if you'll permit me an aside here, I really must say something about reincarnation. I'm not one to criticize other religions and related beliefs; I mean, in my opinion, all denominations have some metaphysical qualities that can be interpreted as far-fetched by the outsider. But whatever faith, philosophy or whathaveyou that claims reincarnation needs to get on the stick! Every person that I've heard or read about, claiming to be reincarnated, was once a king, queen, duke, duchess, etc.... or at least in the upper crust of said society. Nobody ever claims to be spiritually descended from a trash collector, delivery guy, maid... you get the picture. Everyone cannot be an ancient ruler; there should be way more "indians than chiefs" - do the math. With all due respect, management really needs to take a look into this glaring oversight, if they want to be taken serious... and maybe rethink having Shirley MacLaine as their spokesperson.
Now that we're on friendly terms with an insane Egyptian Queen, she insists on reading my palm, and sensing a Kodak moment, Jayson grabs the video camera. I'm sure it will come as no surprise that I put absolutely no credence in fortune telling, palm reading or any other related shenanigans, and I don't even find it mildly amusing. But here I sit in an El Paso Starbucks, an escaped mental patient poking at my hand with grubby little fingers that have been God knows where, while my friend videos and encourages her... and I haven't even finished my coffee! She rattles on about the hidden meaning behind the lines in my skin(most of her analysis is way off), as if the universe is intimately involved in how I open and close my fingers, ending with the big revelation that I'm about to meet my soulmate and my search for true love will be over. Hmmm... pretty startling information considering I've been married more than a year and I'm wearing a wedding band - I guess I need to have a little talk with my wife. I'm beyond tired of this ridiculous game and her gypsy eau de toilette - her sleeveless blouse is revealing way more than I want to know concerning her grooming habits... or lack thereof; I thank her and move to the far(upwind) corner of the patio. The other guys continue to take turns having their futures revealed and videoing for a little while longer before it's finally time to saddle up, and then the real truth is unveiled - Queenie needs a ride! I smell this coming a mile away and before Jayson can roll over and expose his soft, democratic underbelly, I swiftly unsheathe my stalwart sensibility and smite the cursed White Dragon, banishing her to the next naive Starbuck's customer. Of course, I get the "how can you be so heartless" glare from the band and I simply defer to the "B.O. from Hell" episode of Seinfeld, confident that my quick reaction has once again, kept this doomed expedition out of the ditch.
Later that evening, we make a pit stop at some nameless convenience store. I'm returning to the van, the cool bite of Red Bull bringing me back to life, when I see Greg standing by the front wheel, staring motionless at the ground. As I get closer, what I assume is a novelty, coiled, rubber snake someone is by now laughing uncontrollably over, rears up and rattles! This is the first time in my life I've ever seen a rattlesnake up close and personal and I gotta tell you, it's a little intimidating; but like a bad car accident, I can't look away. After the initial shock subsides, I'm filled with a mixture of fascination and concern... for the snake. I realize that between sitting in a busy parking lot and most people's irrational fear of all things crawly, this reptile is dangerously close to extinction. Jayson and Travis join us, along with the store cashier, who announces no need to worry, she's just called her boyfriend who's on his way over... with a gun. Now you can call me crazy, but this innocent snake has done nothing to deserve the firing squad, not to mention the potential mayhem that could ensue from a trigger-happy boyfriend in this neck of the woods, so we have to move now... actually, the snake does. So, armed with a trusty mic stand, we very carefully encourage our now quite irritable friend grudgingly back into the desert - no harm, no foul. Again, I am awed by the speed and dexterity of this animal, and make a mental note to be more careful where I step in the future. As we hit the road running, once again, I can't help but think back to the Gypsy Queen in El Paso, and how my negative reaction to her request for a ride must have elicited at least some off-the-cuff curse mumbled out of earshot... and a snake is loosely in the dragon family.... right? There's probably a rogue mountain lion waiting at the next stop... at least a very aggressive stray cat... I wish I'd payed more attention during "Serpent and the Rainbow".
Epilogue. In the end, our westward pilgrimage does little for our overall standing in the music world... or music state, city and neighborhood, for that matter. We're still hustling for gigs, fans and cash(cause hustlin' ain't free, yo). California is an experience and ultimately will be measured by the timeless bond we've melded through shared victory and defeat in a strange land. Honestly, it has been one of the most emotional experiences of my life, ranging from genuine love to clandestine murder plots... and everything in between - shaky ground in the world of men, my friends. But we are now a band in the true sense of the word, an impenetrable ring, and make no mistake, we are contenders. In my opinion, that's all you can really ask for. History alone, decides the winners.
posted by Johnny Ferrell at 1:32 PM
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