*this is a journal entry after our show in portland in 2001.
Wednesday. Portland. The gig, an old theater, is next to a park where the homeless hang. I saw this dude brush his teeth in the water fountain. I’m not sure he was homeless, just mad. He had this funny look on his face, as if he was wondering what everyone was doing in his bathroom. It was a strange vibe there. A few people were meditating, some were reading books, this one guy was strumming a beat up flaminco guitar with his shirt off.
I went inside and took in the venue, checking out the stage, the seating arraingments, the backstage facilities, the shitters, the showers, the whole burrito fandango.
Catering was downstairs, I had lunch next to Rod, Matt Shafer, Derek. Euros were the fare (however you spell them) so I had a tuna salad. I didn’t feel like lamb in Portland.
I took a walk after lunch. I was looking for a book store, but not in any particular direction. I just wanted something to do. I walked past the main downtown streets and found some out of the way shops. One was a clothing store, vintage and new stuff, I went in for a second, and feeling out of place, split quickly. Another shop was this mini book store that sold racy books and I’m-too-cool-for-you stuff. Everything was so indie in there I was tripping, laughing and thinking how much the guy could possibly hate our band. How rabbits f*$k, devil books, witch craft, pictures of dead or decomposing bodies, ya know, traffic accident victims, stuff like that. So I peer in and see this guy behind the counter who couldn’t care less if he sold a thing all day long. He’d rather finish that book on migrating fire ants. And all the books looked like crap anyway, dusty and not cared for. It’s just the fact that they’re bizarre that you’re supposed to buy them. All I wanted was Golf Digest. I tried to contain my hypothetical mind, laughing at the paradox I would be if I went inside. I don’t remember specifically what I was wearing, a surf shirt, shorts, Adidas shoes, hair slicked back, something like that- and I picture myself opening the door, bell jingling from a string. He looks up through greasy hair and thick glasses, ponders for a moment how he’s going to answer- sarcasm, hostility, pity, disgust, they all cross his entombed mind, but he just finds one, “Up the street,” he waves with his right hand, “Pike Book Store,” and our moment is over.
But alas, I never went inside. He knew all I wanted was the Tiger Woods tutorial on the full shoulder turn.
I did, however, get to Pike Book store all by my self, and found a copy of Golf Digest. (I also grabbed Golf magazine) The people there happily took my money and I was off.
When I got back I was a wee bit late for a meet and greet, which I promptly sat down for and started signing, shaking hands, smiling. It was easy for me to smile now, I had golf magazines under my butt.
Finished that and got a message that Julies cousins had a problem with the list, so I remedied that and went backstage to commence my gig preperation.
Did said gig, meet Julies family, signed some stuff, and had them meet Mark, which they were happy to do. Mark was extremely cordial, signing their stuff and giving hugs and ‘Prom’ style pictures for all.
Split for the bus. There was a small crowd on the other side of the street who called me over for autographs. I signed their stuff, and hit the bus for aftershow dinner. Chowed that down, and took a runner to the hotel with Craig. Slep and Craig were in the middle of an argument. Slep was pissed that Craig wasn’t coming out to sign autographs. Slep was contending that they’re the reason you’re here and have a house and a nice car. Slep was getting in his face and animated like he can do. It was very convincing.