The Butterfly In The Hailstorm

After a pause in the playback sequence, I'm back into the fray of telling whoever strays onto this site about my dealings with myself in my own world. Am I living life in my world or am I just doing time in yours? Are you all bit players in my award-winning adaption of existence or am I a character actor in your made-for-television melodrama? I guess we'll all figure it out when God's Neilson ratings come out in the end.

The camping trip was great, but not all that I imagined. I planned on getting some quality writing done on the laptop from time to time, but it just didn't happen.

I left Fresno at a good time on that Wednesday morning, loaded down with all the gear and provisions needed for a family getaway, even though I'd be staying by myself for the first few nights. Mary and I decided that it would be easier for me to just haul all of the stuff needed for the whole weekend than her trying to fill in the gaps. Hitting the road alongside the workaday drones that resembled myself on any other day made me feel triumphant, if only for a moment. I smiled as I listened to some sports talk radio, thinking that I'd only hear snippets of the show if I were working. I enjoyed the AM stuff knowing that I'd loaded the 10-disc changer with enough of a eclectic mix to suit whatever mood I might be in for the drive between the areas where I can get valley AM stations and finally pull in KPIG. After a while, when the local ESPN affiliate would fade, I decided that I'd pass on yet another spin of the new TOOL album and click over to the Jim White disc, No Such Place. Ironically, I'd picked up this CD used over in San Luis Obispo after hearing a track on the old K-Otter. At that time, I found the song 10 Miles To Go On A 9 Mile Road a bit funky but somehow sliding right into their wide-open and virtually non existent playlist. Seeing Jim White's name in Boo-Boo Records' used rack made me exclaim out loud, "Whoa shit, three ninety-nine!". Suddenly aware of the volume of my voice, I remember looking around with an expression as if I'd stepped on a kitten. But no one reacts to that kind of enthusiasm in a wax geek's haven like Boo Boo Records.

I can attest to this; on one our many excursions over to Morro Bay, Mary and I found ourselves (of course) at Boo Boo to graze over the used CD selection. I found a copy of a somewhat obscure CD that I already had at home and wanted to pick up for a friend. Nervada, by Lars Vegas, is a funky swing-style album with bizarre lyrics and great horns. In fact, one of the horn players featured on a few tracks is Dana Colley of Morphine fame and that's what I mentioned to the clerk at the register when he remarked that Lars Vegas was a pretty cool name for a band. A big Morphine fan, he was surprised that he hadn't heard of the album and asked if he could pop it in the store's CD player while he calculated our tally (we had a pretty big stack--hunting was good that day I recall). The first notes of the bleating horns came out strong over the store's speakers. Five seconds into the first song, a guy seated at the listening station ripped off his headphones and screamed, "Oh I fucking love this album!". He gazed up at the speakers with a wistful smile and nodded to the beat for a second, then calmly put his headphones back on, spun in his chair, and returned to whatever he was listening to before his aural orgasm. Do that in a restaurant and people will stare at you until they finish their meal, but in Boo Boo, hardly anyone shrugged.

The drive was pretty good with little traffic. Out in the farmlands of the Central Valley, I had to pass a few tractors and hay trucks and that's no easy feat with ten year old Ford Ranger loaded with camping gear. Passing through Kettleman City, I tired of the growing static on ESPN Radio and hit play to check out the Jim White disc after not listening to it in some time. It was enjoyable and got me in the mood for the type of stuff I'd be listening to on the Pig. As varied as my musical tastes can be, going from TOOL to Country Joe McDonald could be a little jarring to the gears in my head, so opted for the Jim White to ease the transition.

The truck was doing great and I headed into Paso Robles, reminding myself that I look at that town as the point in which I leave the dry, dusty, and smoggy valley and enter the winding passageway to the coast. A quick jaunt on Interstate 101 through Paso Robles always seems disjointed from the rest of the drive because you're thrown into a caustic mix of traffic made up of locals, truckers, and state travellers who've been speeding along that route the whole time. After not seeing much traffic and never being passed all day so far, the cars screaming by in the fast lane as I pressed the gas to keep it to at least 70mph in the slow lane made me feel like a butterfly in a hailstorm. Quickly enough, though, I exited onto State Route 46 west towards Highway 1. This route is prettier than taking SR41, winding it's way through rolling hills textured with vineyards, wineries, and farmhouses. I smiled as I saw the sign for Jack Creek Road. I have no idea where Jack Creek Road leads, but I do know that it's the spot in which I can first pull in KPIG's signal. One time heading over, I tested the signal, listening to abhorrent static and jolting snippets of hip hop from what I assume is a Paso Robles station. I laughed at the hip hop as it gave way to the sounds of glorious Americana, real music, written and played by real musicians. Alas, it is bittersweet to hear KPIG's signal fade and become conquered by the staccato beats of rap on the way home. Cherishing those last notes on the Pig is like getting every drop left from your Slurpee on a hot summer's day.

Route 46 plunked me down onto Highway 1 and I took the left turn to head south towards Morro Bay. I reached back and slid open the window behind my seat and then rolled down my windows a bit to breathe in the sea breeze. Soon I passed through Harmony, a town that Mary and I joke about retiring to one day. If that were the case, the state of California would have to replace the highway sign signifying the population (18). I was alone on the two-lane strip that splits grassy hills and from time to time is covered by a beautiful canopy of trees over the roadway before you hit Cayucos and 1 becomes a four-lane. This is also when you can first get a clear look at the ocean on this route. There is a high spot on 46 before you get to 1 where on a clear day you can see a wide view of the bay, Morro Rock, and way over to Los Osos, but it's usually too foggy/cloudy even in the summertime to see that far. Besides, only the passenger has the luxury to gaze around at that high point, because the road curves lazily enough to lull the driver into a straight line and over the edge and down the hillside. Suffice it to say, I only glanced in that direction when I was there just to affirm that it was indeed too foggy to see the ocean.

So as I approached Cayucos (there's a great Dread Zeppelin story that takes place there that I will have to write about sometime over on Tony's Hazy Concert Memories), I would look over to the water from time to time, watching waves crash against the rocky shore. I'm not a sun worshiper or a beach person, so to speak, but I love the ocean. Many of us are drawn to the coastlines of this country without really knowing why. If I believed in reincarnation, I'd say I was a fisherman on a cutter or perhaps a sailor of some sort. I'm attracted to boats and harbors, but really know nothing about boating or sailing. I can't say why I have this affinity, but I can lean on the rail of a dock for hours just watching boats of all sizes rise and fall with the gentle tide.

Highway 1 ducks between hills and away from the water a bit as you enter Morro Bay. My favorite little town in California, Morro Bay is a quiet place situated between the college town atmosphere of San Luis Obispo and the smaller coastal villages up north. For me, it represents the best of the Central Coast; close enough to San Luis Obispo for my city needs (CD and book shops, nightlife, maybe a sportsbar or two) and quaint enough in and of itself to suit my desire to truly get away to a quiet little place where I can feel distant enough from the tug of life's responsibilities. As I approached the exit towards the Morro Bay State Park Campground, I smiled and turned up the Widespread Panic tune that KPIG was playing. I thanked God out loud for the opportunity to take this trip, for I know that not everyone has the chance to get away by themselves for awhile.

More to come...................