PNW

Again?

Sheesh. I think by now you good people could write yer own goddamn CH3 weekend roundups, couldn’t ya??

Oh, go on…… It’s easy!
All ya gotta do is throw up a few photos— (mostly baskets of greasy food and Alf flippin off my camera)– jot down some wiseass cracks about growing old and drinking in airport bars.
Throw in a few Gaaaaas! and yer all done!

Hell, when ya think about it, we don’t even have to take these trips anymore, really.

Send out the cardboard cutouts like Flat Stanley, have the locals take a few snaps of us in the local dives, and presto: instant road trip!
Genius!

Oh, alright then. One more time.
But you kids are on your own after this one!

We push off from the new Terminal 4 lounge at Long Beach Airport and take to the cloudy skies again!

Easy hop to Seattle, rent a pimped out Dodge Caravan and it’s 5 South toward Portland for us.

Oh. Excuse me, Your Majesty!
Has it really been 3 paragraphs without a picture of goddamn food????

Quick stop at the 4th Avenue Tavern in Olympia, they of the three dollar Stellas and kitchen sink cheeseburgers.
They have to drag us out clutching to barstools and throw us back on the road again.

Pull into PDX on the way into town to pick up Mr. Robinson.
It’s been far too long, a fact we are reminded of by Chris’ shockingly gray beard.

But a few pints down in The Annex’s cozy cellar, and it’s apparent that none of us has matured beyond the state of 14 year old hillbillies.
The fart jokes are appreciatively more vivid, however.

Into Plan B on a Friday night, in time to see Rum Rebellion workin the crowd into a frenzy!

We love this place!
Next up is Clackamass baby Killers, and then it’s that time.
We get up there and do our schtick.

Onto the glorious Slow Bar for after gig wind down, late night snacks of the pig variety and call it a night.

Saturday morning comes all too fast.
Amidst the usual a.m. sounds, coughing and farting, cell phones chirping and maids knocking far too loudly, we stir.

We make plans to meet locals Jeff and Wendy at a fine dining establishment on the outskirts of town before heading once again North.

The drive is easy, but the clouds hang low.
Chris is not feeling quite his usual sunny self, and only precious hours will reveal his funk to be either a friendly hangover or a contagious virus.

Ah well. Breathe deep!

We hit Seattle early, only to discover our beloved Dome Tavern has been shuttered!

Heartbroken, we drive onto the Ferry pier and load onto the 4:35 for Bremerton.

The hour long float across Puget Sound is invigorating!
It’s our same dear Pacific, yes.
But the verdant land masses, the cathedrals of pine around us—-all foreign and beautiful.

We stare out at cozy cottages on the loamy banks.
Stone chimneys send lazy wisps of woodsmoke into the sky: carelessly serpentine as the signature on a drunken businessman’s tab after a long afternoon in a strip club.

Alright then, it’s back on terra firma and over to the very cool Charleston to check things out.

Our gracious host Andy welcomes us into the converted movie theatre, which hosts all ages shows as well as a well-stocked bar.
Are we in heaven??

It’s a loose Saturday night crowd.
And though I know we are actually on a connected land mass just miles across from Seattle, it feels as though we are trapped with these jolly souls on our own island!

After The Assasinators destroy the joint, it’s yer old pals that climb the stage stairs.

Ah geeez. It’s all going by too quick now.
We get off stage and chat away what’s left of the night with a great crew.

We’re sent back into the night once again, grinning like idiots.

As we pull into the Super 8, we see a Denny’s sign across the parking lot.
No.
God no.

Yes?

We justify a light late night snack in a half dozen ways:
Helps absorb the alcohol!
We’ll eat tonight and then nothing tomorrow!
I already barfed once tonight, I’m primed!

We head in and tuck napkin to chin.

Sunday it is.

Chris feels no better.
He’s actually sick, it seems, and though we all now feel bad for calling him a pussy and cry baby, we don’t apologize.
C’mon—we’re guys!

He feels like hell, but selfishly, it was grand having him along. Just like old times.

Back to the boat toward Seattle fellas!

We put Chris on his plane and make our way onto ours.
We take to the stratosphere again, and we each pull on headphones as soon as Sportscenter flickers on the screen in front of our knees.

It’s a gradual decompression, this auditory separation from the dear knuckleheads sitting within elbow distance.
We’re getting ready for re-entry into reality.

We’re on the ground in Long Beach with plenty of daylight left.
And though Kimm protests, I persuade him into a quick stop at Alex’s, where they’re hosting an all day Benefit Show For Japan.
Hell, we got the guitars, maybe we can even do a few songs, hmmmm?

But we get there and it’s a different crowd, after all.
Younger, hipper.
Cleaner.

But it was worth a shot, if only to make another grand weekend last that much longer.