Dreams of Californication

I woke at the indecent hour of 3:30 am, to the groans of Rocky begging to go out, and the urgency of a 46 year old bladder that insists that I need a mid-sleep bathroom break every night, so as to ensure the constant denial of a full-night's sleep.

Despite arriving at Love Field early, the expert, self-appointed Guardians of American Safety (AKA The TSA) managed to fuck over everyone, allowing only three people to move through security over a span of 20 minutes.  I guess the x-ray monitors must be running a contest for Slowest Self-Important Dipshit of the Year.  Thankfully, although I was the final passenger aboard the aircraft to SFO, I still scored room for my guitar in the overhead, and an aisle seat. Woohoo!

As I was on the earliest flight of the day, and going back in time like Marty McFly, I arrived on the west coast at 7:15 am.  It was time for an adventure!

I worked my way through SFO to the International Terminal where BART is located, find a ticket kiosk, and soon I was on my way downtown with the Thursday-morning commuters.  

I arrived in the financial district with a mission to find some breakfast, spied a Peet's.  After a couple of cupcake-size quiches and some joe, I attempted to plan my next move.  It was suggested that I make my way down to the Pier to catch the ferry to Sausalito.  With a guitar on my back, and my carry-on, I made my way over to a rack of rental bicycles, selected one with a sturdy basket, and proceeded to channel my inner-PeeWee Herman.  I was zipping through the streets of San Francisco like I knew what I was doing.

I ALMOST managed to escape unscathed, however about 30 yards away from the Ferry Building, I got a little cocky, rode over the train track, and did my best Superman impression.  Supine, and about 4 feet off the ground, I executed the world's worst dismount, losing my luggage, skinning my knees and slapping the ground with a tremendous belly-flop.  That shit hurt like a mother.  
Standing up, collecting my dignity and my luggage, I righted my bicycle, swung my leg over the seat like Roy Rogers, and proceeded across the street, carefully looking around to see how many people witnessed my spill.  It would appear that I am not the first to suffer the consequences of "rubber meets train track", and I'm not sure anyone noticed.

I'd missed the first ferry across the Bay, but I managed to get on the next, had a damn drink to recover, and made it to Sausalito.  

Guy Jacquier (Birthday boy, my cowriter on This Journey Never Ends and Operation Encore board member) scooped me up on the other side, and we made our way to some lunch.  

After a tour of The Throckmorton Theater where we would be playing the following night, we made our way to the Airbnb house which would serve as our headquarters for the remainder of the weekend.  

Slowly, as my fellow Operation Encore artists arrived, it was reminiscent of a family reunion.  That's one of the best parts of playing with OE, in my opinion.  Every show is a reunion of good friends.   When we'd reached a quorum, we took to the task of outfitting the house with the important items like Beer, Captain Morgan and Bulleit Whiskey.  

That evening we made our way to AR Audio to meet Adam Rossi, and the rest of the guys that would be our band for both the Throckmorton and party shows.   I was especially excited to meet Adam in person, as he was the Producer on both This Journey Never Ends and Coming Back to Texas, and despite multiple phone calls, we had never met in person.
Meeting Adam, and my experience at AR Audio would be one of my life's most memorable moments....

(to be continued)

 

Leave a comment

    Add comment