Fuck California.
So, it's finally time to get this shit put down. MONTHS after the fact, I finally retrieved the files from my parent's computer, as I had forgotten my camera during the monolithic, epic, famous journey down to the heart of California for Mr. Jeryl's wedding. Now, it's been awhile and the details aren't as crisp as I'd like, but here's how I remember it:
You can almost smell the history of prostitution in this room.
I take Friday off. As does Eli. He arrives at my house early. We throw our shit in the car, say a few prayers to the patron saints of freeways and young men and hit the road. We drove across town, picked up Kim and her cousin. The drive down to Ashland is uneventful. I've driven Oregon's stretch of Interstate 5 so much that it's autopilot. It's also fun to drive fast as hell through some of the less-populated areas. Really. We all shared some laughs and some good music. We hit Talent and stop by the parent's house. My parents built some hamburgers for us and we chow down. We all stand on my parent's deck and watch some cows fuck in the pasture by the house. Everyone giggles. I'll never outgrow the humour of bovine sex. Then, we got back in the car and drove our asses across the border, into the dark state that is California.
We drop Kim and the cousin in Redding. It's mid afternoon at this point. Eli and continue to cut through the heart of California. We drove by Vallejo. E-40 is from Vallejo. Gangster, son, gangster. We drove by people fishing in irrigation ditches. We drove by ugly people who gave us dirty looks. Fucking California. We bob and weave, highway by highway to the coastlands.
Dork Squad.
At one point, my car starts making the sound that it makes when the blinker is on -- the relay trip sound -- it starts happening randomly. The lights don't flash, but that sound happens fast, almost like i have a burned out bulb. I wouldn't even be signaling and that sound would randomly start, go for awhile and then stop. On the annoying-as-shit scale, it was a step below the VW on Little Miss Sunshine that had the horn issue. Hours of this shit. Even with loud music, it could be heard. We continue to drive and laugh.
By this time, it's late. Unbeknownst to us, i had forgotten to write a step in the instructions (i had to write them out, as my home printer, um, doesn't exist). We hit the 'home stretch' to Rohnert park, according to the directions. In reality, we still had like 30 miles on this highway. Fuck. Eli has to pee, but we're so close to being there, he holds it. Twenty minutes later, he's almost bursting at the seams. We pull over and he pisses behind an 18 wheeler for what seemed like 11 minutes. He wanted me to turn the car around so he could see the puddle in the headlights, but I refused. I was so fucking OVER driving that I was willing to turn down an eyefull of piss stain. Like 14 hours of driving. Fuck that shit.
"Ye olde whiskey squatpound" as performed by Sledg.
We arrive at the cheapest hotel I could find. $80. We eat some shitty IHOP and buy some whiskey at a convenience store (fuck yes!). We head back to the room, drink some whiskey and iron our clothes for the next day. Eventually SLEDG shows up. He cools off and drinks some whiskey while I iron his shirt, because I'm just that kind of friend. We talk into the wee-hours of the night. Sledg slept on the floor. Eli and I shared a queen-sized bed. Hot.
Waiting for the Bride.
We wake in the morning, get cleaned up. Watch Sledg's thesis on his sweet computer. Partake in the continental breakfast -- generic cornflakes, milk and prepackaged butterhorns. Yee-haw. We grab handfuls and hit the road. The country-ish roads between Rohnert Park and the coast were nice -- a part of California that I've never seen. There were a shitton of bicyclists on the roads. I hold such a deep hostility towards bicyclists who are totally oblivious to traffic. We saw one such person sprawled out on the side of the road, other bicyclists swarming about to assist. As we drove even further away, we passed 3 cop cars and an ambulance heading in their direction. It was kind of sad. On the other hand, I've always wondered how many accidents asshole bicyclists cause every year ...
We arrive in the town of Bodega. It's perched on the side of a fucking seashore cliff. There were a few gas stations, a fucking taffy shop, some restaurants and bunch of shops that I can only assume sells that inoffensive, bulshitty tourist fodder -- clever mirrors, hi-tech birdhouses, hand-painted wood saws, etc. We make our way across the town to the gardens where the wedding is to be held, without issue ... except for the fact that we're about 2.5 hours early. What the fuck were we going to do for that long?
I'll tell you what we'll do, we'll hang out in the parking lot, drink the remainder of last night's whiskey and listen to Michael Jackson's Thriller. A few more people show up. They drink some of our whiskey too. Before we know it, the bottle is nearly done and PYT has just played for a third time. The wedding is about to start. We head in.
How fucking adorable.
The family is there, everyone looks wonderful. The gardens are beautiful -- The location is totally superb. We sit down and wait for things to start. Before long, they start making their way down the isle. Darla's older brother married them. The ceremony was wonderful, sincere and quick -- no longer than 10 minutes. Then, the festivities began -- food, drink and dance. Great music. Smiles all around. I really don't have much else to say except that it was probably the most perfect wedding that I've been to. After hours of laugher and smiles, we start to sober up and eventually, decide to hit the road. Our mini-hangovers kicking in, we decide to make our way back to Oregon, my car still making the intermittent blinker sound.
Eli and I do a marathon run back to the border, only stopping to piss and drink some fluids. As we watch the fields turn to hills, it starts raining as we cross the Oregon border. How appropriate. We pull in to Ashland just around midnight. We both catch a little sleep and some food before making the last little bit back to Portland. All in all, we spent around around 24 hours in my car in the 72 hour span. Fuck.
What a wonderful weekend. I shant be forgetting the trip, the wedding or the unmistakable bond between the Jumpfighters. I love you all.
