Velvet

080813 It turns out the first plane leaves the nearby San Diego airport at 6:30, flying past Jess' bedroom window punctually at 6:31 every morning. It's deafeningly loud and absolutely unavoidable. And busy. Another came by at 6:34, another at 6:37 and then a nice lull before the next departure which pierced the morning overhead at 6:51. It's like Ocean Beach has it's own community-wide snooze alarm. I knew there had to be a catch. I managed to stay down a bit longer before getting up for a walkabout. San Diego (or the OB area at least) looks and acts like a huge seaside cottage town. Every street is lined with small curious houses leading to the beach. The main street is utterly devoid of any recognisable chain save the one Starbucks, which brought out picketers upon opening. People laze on their hoods in shorts and sunglasses, probably sleepy for their own 6:31am wakeup. Dudes and dudettes stroll by with surfboards under their arms and half the cars on the road are Jeeps. In the small, hip coffeeshop the servers are bouncy and friendly. When I ask where I can buy a newspaper one of them tells me to take the one off the table, “But you'll have to ask Wendy if you want to know your horoscope, she clipped it out already,†she says with a smile. “That's okay,†I assure her. “I like surprises.†Back at Jess' place we while away a bit of morning until we're finally hungry enough for lunch. Jess led us to South Beach Cafe where I watched him and m'lady munch on fish tacos while I tore through another in a seemingly endless series of juicy cheeseburgers. Outside we can see the beach revelers slowly stroll around like they're auditioning to star in a Jimmy Buffett song. After visiting San Francisco, Los Angeles, and now San Diego for the first time I am shocked at how different each city is. In my mind they were all fairly interchangeable. No longer. Glitzy, hippy, and beachy, that's my take on the tri-Cali metropoli. Back at Jess' we packed up and hugged. Backing out of the shared driveway to the alley I heard some crunching. There was glass under the tire and I wedged a small chunk out of the rubber. I didn't think it was in enough to do any damage so I was surprised when the car's computer told me a tire was low. We found a tire spot right in the heart of OB and soon discovered the tire was fine. The other front tire, however, had a nail in it. Seems like someone had sabotaged our wheels. No biggie, we needed an oil change anyway, and the tire plug cost $25. We spent 45 minutes wandering the cool streets and having a coffee at another coffeeshop. It did back us up time-wise though, so we didn't actually get on the road until about 5pm. We drove north cruising past Hollywood at sunset. With a dearth of campgounds and no moon to speak of to light the night we shunned tenting for a cheap (and I mean cheap) motel near Bakersfield. The place had formerly been a Rodeway Inn but had lost their status, if that's any indication. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, the internet and the cable, she is not working too good today sir.†They had an ice machine in good working order, so I made out okay.

080713 We got up and requested a late checkout again, though we somehow managed to resist booking in for a third night even after relaxing around the pool for another luxurious hour this morning. Packed up, we snaked our car down the hill to the office, grabbed some free snacks for the road and took a drive up to Sunset Boulevard. We made a quick stop along the way so I could marvel at the Kermit statue atop Charlie Chaplin Studios (now owned by Jim Henson Co.) and headed up the Strip. The traffic moves slow on the Sunset Strip, affording long glances at such iconic venues as the Roxy and the Whiskey A Go-Go. We almost pulled around back to the parking lot so we could see where The Doors got signed. We found ourselves in Beverly Hills and pulled up a side street. The decadence that can be gleaned beyond the ten-foot high walls and shrubbery is really, really off the hook. These places look like hotels but they are single-dwelling homes. This is what a money pit looks like when it's full. We veered up through Beverly Glen to Mulholland Drive and were surprised to pass some deer casually munching on the side of the road. Up here in the hills the palatial residences are open for the viewing; nobody wants to spoil these towering views with protective walls and landscaping. We wind through the hills with jaws agape at the astounding bouts of architecture that must cost millions upon millions. I hope these people are as happy living in these places as I am looking at them! Back through Hollywood we get on the highway south, passing through the rest of LA and it's notorious traffic. It was abut three hours and one double Junkie Burger later (like larger, sloppier homemade In & Out burger) that we pulled into San Diego, down to Ocean Beach (OB to the locals) to stay with a local. Jess bent over backwards to be a great host. We relaxed with a few drinks at his place, walked a block down to the beach and stopped at Shades to watch the sunset over dinner and drinks. Our friend Mike met us there; he's lives in San Diego and we stayed together in Chicago a few weeks back, so we had a nice little crew. San Diego had just that day been named “Best City For Pizza In America†by tripadvisor so that helped me shun the burger and I gotta tell ya, I enjoyed one fine, fine pizza. Served on an elongated flatbread, doused with blue cheese sauce in place of regular pizza sauce and topped with tender steak strips, it was a treat. We walked up the main drag to Harps, a drinking hole with live music every night. We had a few more beers staring down a young bluegrass band before moving on. We lost Mike at the next bar (it was a Wednesday night after all), hit a late nite beer store that looking like an ale museum with all it's choices and headed back to Jess' place with a bag 'o beers and a box of more yummy San Diego pizza. Things got late pretty fast. In characteristic fashion Jess gave us his room and opted to sleep on the couch. We protested only mildly and headed off to bed. I remember closing the door and hearing Jess say something about 6-31, but he says a lot strange things, like “shamwow†and “woopwoopâ€, so I just closed the door and slept soundly.

080613 We got a pretty good night's sleep last night in our big, comfy room. We woke up and called for a late checkout and hit the pool. Just above our room is the beautiful pool area alongside a 600 year-old pagoda. The pool offers great views of Hollywood and is nestled just below the famous Yamashiro Japanese restaurant. We had the pool to ourselves and it was a great way to spent the morning. So great in fact that we didn't want to leave. The hotel location was great, the rooms were huge with enormous balconies, the staff was really, really top-notch and as mentioned, the pool area was a big plus. I called down to extend the stay but found they were booked up. We extended our checkout a bit longer, I found a senior staff member to compliment and by 1pm we were booked in and had made dinner reservations at Yamashiro. That called for a frosty beer so we had one before trekking down the hill to our hotel office. Armed with free soft drinks and snacks (the hotel offers guests unlimited access to an extensive list of non-alcoholic drinks and snacks) we strolled around the corner and found ourselves on Hollywood Boulevard, stomping the stars beneath our shoes. Our snacks were proving too lite so we carried on up to Sunset for our first In & Out burger experience. One of the oldest if not the oldest burger chains in the world, it's odd that I've never eaten at one, but they are primarily in the western US. That said they are everywhere out here. The menu only has four items on it aside from drinks. The double double, the hamburger, cheeseburger and fries. What isn't on the menu is “Animal-styleâ€, a common In & out variation that marinates the patties in sauce and includes fried onions. M'lady and I each ordered a double double, hers was Animal Style while mine was straight-up. We each got fries and a shake. The place was busy, as they all seem to be, and there was a fairly long wait for our food. When it came it was big, hot, delicious, and well-presented. Tasting somewhat like a home-made Big Mac, the burger looked like it was prepared by someone who remembers they are dealing with food that someone will actually be eating, a level of care I find sadly lacking at most fast food joints. I tried a bite of the Animal Style and loved it, though it's a bit messier than the regular burger. I will definitely order my burgers that way in the future unless it's at the drive-thru. I found the fries were exceptionally tasty and the shake was good too. Definitely a better feeling after eating than at most chains, and the whole order was less than $15 for both of us. Two thumbs up for In & Out. Back on Hollywood Boulevard we joined the throngs of tourists wandering the strip staring down at the thousands of stars embedded in the sidewalk. Famous names from a myriad of categories, one can walk both sides of the street for blocks on end passing by names like Gene Autrey, Tom Cruise, Larry King, Bud Abbott, Jim Henson, Hugh Hefner, Big Bird, etc. Just when you thought being famous was a rarity. While I gasped again and again at the sight of almost every name I recognised I only stopped and got my picture taken with the star dedicated to the Muppets and another honoring Rush. Faced with such a wealth of celebrity lesser names must fall by the wayside. The real stuff is found directly in front of the Chinese Theatre, where Hollywood icons have left their handprints in cement, a tradition going back for almost a century. Contrary to the endless conformity of the Hollywood stars that quickly gets passe, the blocks of cement at the Chinese Theatre are misshapen and unique. Marilyn Monroe signed her name with a large flourish and added her high heels beside her handprints while Michael Jackson added several handprints including an imprint of his single glove. . . As a geeky Star Wars fan I remember watching a clip on the news back in 1977 wherein C3PO, R2D2, and Darth Vader each added their prints to the sidewalk, and there they were. Only C3PO added his real name (Anthony Daniels) to the stone that is bordered by prints from George Lucas and Harrison Ford. We did some more wandering, stopped into a shop for a coffee and saw them setting up for a location shoot with Jimmy Kimmel, strolled a bit along Sunset and finally went back to our hotel for some more pool side lounging in sight of the famous HOLLYWOOD sign. Later we climbed a single stairway from our hotel and found ourselves at the entrance to Yamashiro's. It's swank and we got a good table. The valet parked one shiny expensive car after another while we enjoyed the hazy sunset over a great meal. M'lady had the sushi while I opted for the chicken. I was hoping to save room for dessert to see what the $12 donuts were all about, but that will have to wait for next time. The views of the city from the terrace surrounding the restaurant are just spectacular. This building has sat here atop the Hollywood Hills for nearly 100 years, the centrepiece of a nine-acre Japanese estate. It's been here since before the iconic Hollywood sign visible off to the left, and was the very inspiration for the famous Chinese Theatre which lies below. And just thirty feet or so beneath the restaurant our hotel pool sat calm, empty, and glowing blue. The sight of the pool was too inviting. We lazed with comforted tummies around the pool for about an hour, m'lady lounging on a deck chair whilst I paced the view with a whiskey in hand. Drawn by the sound and lights coming from below we went down for a night-time walkabout on the strip, which proved to be exactly the same at night as it is during the day, only with half as many people. On the way back I noticed MI, formerly known as GIT, a famous-amongst-young-guitarists thrasher guitar university that charges outrageous amounts for kids to take classes like Advanced Sweep Picking and Stage Presence 101. They have a cool looking compound right there beside the star for Bryan Adams. Certainly Hollywood Boulevard is strictly a tourist spot regardless of the time of day, so we decided to call it a night. Back at the room with endured a questionable Bruce Willis movie or two until sleep became unavoidable. In short: Hooray for Hollywood. Hooray! .

080513 Getting up early in hotels ain't our thing, but with a substantial drive ahead we were up and enjoying made-to-order omelets in the hotel restaurant by 9am. Unheard of. Our car is packed to the gills and sorely in need of a carwash, so when the valet delivered our ride it stood out in stark contrast to the shiny cars that also awaited their drivers on the cobbled hotel driveway. We piled our luggage, cooler, guitar, mandolin, beach bag, etc. in with everything else in a vaguely organised manner and set off towards the freeway. We had one more Phish show on this run so we had to get to Los Angeles and through it's notorious traffic in time to get to the Hollywood Bowl. The drive was fast and pleasant. Long, wide roads arced through endless tracts of semi-desert that is constantly reminiscent of the opening segment of M*A*S*H. We had the advantage of using the carpool lane and scooted through traffic pretty quickly because of it. We found our exit and ended up right in front of Hollywood Bowl. M'lady had made two different reservations and a few nights ago on a whim we opted for the Magic Castle Hotel over the slightly closer Best Western. Time was getting on as we pulled up to the hotel; we weren't going to be late for the show but we didn't have a whole lot of time to lollygag either. The hotel entrance was confusing, m'lady checked in and instructed me to drive up the hill behind the Magic Castle. Up up up we went along a constantly curving narrow road, finally depositing us in front of what looked like a small apartment building. As I lugged our suitcase up an old staircase and down a dark, dingy hall I was thinking we booked the wrong place. Inside I was please to see our room was huge with a full kitchen, and our balcony was about twenty feet long. Not bad. I read the brochure in the room and found out that the Magic castle down at the base of the hill isn't some tourist restaurant. Rather, it's the meeting place of the international card-carrying magicians, a castle in the middle of Hollywood that has hosted the world's greatest illusionists for decades and continues o do so. Okay, pretty cool. I pounded a quick beer or two and called down to the desk. Upon check in we were told there was a free shuttle bus to get us up and down the hill. In no time the guy was there, opening doors for us limo-style and welcoming us into his beautiful SUV. As we wound down the hill I asked how long it would take to walk to Hollywood Bowl. “I'd be happy to drive you there sir!†Turns out the hotel offers a free shuttle to and from anywhere, and the driver was a-okay with me enjoying a cold beer on the drive. He zipped up and over the hill alongside our hotel and dropped us next to the venue. “Just call this number whenever you're ready and we'll drive you home,†he smiled, handing us his card. I had purchased our tickets through Phish tickets and was happy to have pulled fifth row for the tour closer. Unfortunately, as I only scored tickets for the final show the tickets were sent out very late. The fact that I went to the last three weeks of tour meant it was impossible for me to get my tickets in time. It's a stupid quirk in an otherwise good system, but I just called and got the tickets changed to Will Call. Of course things got wonky and Will Call only had one ticket for us. Getting things worked out happened, but it wasn't as easy as it could have been, nor was anybody at all apologetic for the mini heart attack I almost had due to their error. In the end our ticket was merely a piece of paper that looked like an old-school diner receipt, though I was happy to find it was honoured by every employee we encountered throughout the evening. I had never been to the Hollywood Bowl and I have wanted to see a show here since I first saw that famous Bugs Bunny cartoon that has the wascally wabbit conducting an opera singer in the iconic venue. The concession stands are top-rate and there's even a wine shop. We bought some drinks and semi-upscale grub and sat along the perimeter of the walkway to eat. In the venue itself much of the seating is in boxes, each with four moveable director's chair-style seats and two fold up tables, and there is wait service. Lots of people were enjoying dinner before the show comfortable in their seats. How civilised. The cheap seats to the side and behind the boxes are hard wooden pews. How quaint Down in the very front there are no boxes, just regular folding chairs but there is still wait service. The gentleman in front of me ordered a bottle of wine to his seat while the guy beside me ordered one of the largest hamburgers I've ever seen. White-cloth-on-arm, yes sir no sir service, and all the while in front of you is that shell, that bandstand to define bandstands, the world famous Hollywood Bowl. Of course seating doesn't always matter that much, when the show started the 20,000+ in attendance were on their feet and stayed there throughout. The first set was rolling along well when I noticed roadies setting up two extra amps beside Trey – there was going to be a sit-in! Here in LA in could be anybody! I was pretty excited at the possibilities. In the end there was no guest-star. Rather, Trey's amp was on the fritz and these two amps were set up on the fly to get him through the night. While the roadies were busy plugging things in and setting dials the band had gathered together on Fishman's drum riser and holding down an impromptu and very rare drum jam that included the drummer using mallets on Mike Gordon's bass while Gordon continued outlining chord changes on his fretboard. Aficionados might notice that for the rest of the show Trey's tone suffered slightly and his sustain was nonexistent. That's okay because the real star of the second set was Chris Kuroda, Phish's master light man. He lit up that bowl with a constant morph of unreal. The eye candy was just over-the-top, there's no question that the lights were going to steal the show no matter what the band did. Rainbows, pulsating tunnels, Olympic rings, at times I felt like I was standing on the lip of a cosmic psychedelic wormhole to the future. The guy's work is absolutely unparalleled in the lighting business and the stuff he does when faced with a unique space to work with is always incredible. (For further examples see the the suspended balloons at the comeback shows in Hampton and what he did with the treeline at Festival 8 in Palm Springs.) We walked about halfway back for the encore so we could get more of an overview of the scene, and I'm convinced the visuals would've looked amazing from anywhere in the venue. After the show we weaved through a forest of Mexican women selling mouth-watering hot dogs wrapped in bacon and topped with fried onions and peppers. M'lady was anxious to find something to eat, and as she pulled my hand past the crowd of ladies chanting “hotdogotdogotdog...†I had to stop. “I'll eat wherever you want, but only if you'll wait while I have one of these hot dogs!†It was the second greatest hot dog I ever ate, so I ordered another which turned out being number one. My joyous moaning and groaning convinced m'lady to have a dog which took care of the food issue quite easily, and soon we were at our friends hotel room just steps away from the venue. The hotel was Phishhead ground zero, snake charmers in every second room and no one daring to be quiet. We visited for a while but soon found it difficult to follow the conversation. As we left our friend's room a lady across the hall appeared. She was clearly an accidental booking; one of those unfortunate souls who innocently books into a hotel that is playing host to something she doesn't understand. For just the briefest moment she looked at me with eyes searching for a kindred spirit, like “Dear lord, can you believe what's going on here? Let's put up a united front with the hotel manager!†But in an instant she realised that I too, even with white beard of long and graying hair of short, yes I too was one of them. Aside from the subtly different styles of raging that could be heard as we passed the different floors on the way down to the lobby, it was a very quiet elevator ride. We called our hotel and in no time our personal shuttle arrived. This is turning out to be one of the best hotel stays ever, certainly the best staff I've encountered. Back at the hotel I found myself in the next room at a wookstack dog party. An hour of that was all I needed before I went back to our spacious abode for the night and shared a last drink with m'lady on our balcony overlooking the diamonds of Hollywood glinting below.

080413 When last night bleeds into tomorrow it tends to eat into your morning pretty good. I somehow managed to get down to the restaurant for our free breakfast and brought back a box for m'lady. Besides that the day was a write-off. This log now continues starting at approximately 6pm: Though neither of us had an appetite we knew there was a need to feed to get us through tonight's show. This marks day six in a seven-day run of shows and we require energy. My hair is grayer than it's ever been; we have to at least present a semblance of pacing. When we saw the bus sail by it went without saying that there was no chasing it today. We slumbered into a pizza joint and somehow put back a couple of slices before catching the next ride. At the show we ran into some friends. I watched as the one guy (who is from out-of-state and thus doesn't have his medical marijuana exemption) purchased a quantity of pot off a guy in the park, perhaps seven grams or so. It was presented in an officially stamped pill bottle, stuffed full of sticky buds. The guy bought some pre-rolled hash joints as well, just like the ones that are sold in the coffeeshops in Amsterdam. Together we got in the long line into the venue, and once again m'lady and I were entering much later than we expected – that makes $150 I grudgingly didn't spend on posters over the weekend. At the door was an extensive frisk – there was no getting anything past this crew. In front of me the lady frisked my friend and pulled out his pill bottle full of weed. She looked to her supervisor, a very officer-looking frowning gentleman. “It's too much,†he said, finally. “You can't bring this much inside.†I see my friend is stuck somewhere between a panic and a brainstorm. He doesn't have his 2-1-5 card but he does have even more pot and joints in his pockets; this could technically come out very badly for him. “Can I just split it up between me and my girlfriend?†he asked. The guard just sort of shrugged, making it very unclear if he thought this was an acceptable option or not, and in doing so he summed up how California seems to be approaching the issue; lots of vague shrugs all around. Though the show had already started I waited to see how the issue was going to unfold. The guy went about eight people back in line and split up his stash into two bundles. Again the same girl frisked the bottle free, again she showed it to her boss and he, seeing it now half empty, waved the couple through. The guy finally showed his nerves when he almost bolted past the scanner-girl without showing his ticket. This was the third in a trio of late entries but the first time we were actually late for the music. M'lady and I were still not quite right from last night so we hung to the outer fringe of the floor for the first set and even spent some time sitting on couches in the red-carpeted ballroom that served as a bar. Because of our hangovers we saved mounds of money by not drinking in the venue but we were having a hard time enjoying the show. For the second set we found space with a friend in the bleachers Page-side. Our life caught up with us and we sat placidly watching the rest of the show. It turned out being a great set and we were very happy for the seats we had found. Needless to say there was no raging it after this Sunday night show. We opted to enjoy the last dozen hours we were booked into the comfort of the Hyatt so we hopped the bus back to Fisherman's Wharf, arranged for a wake up call and flopped down on our king-size marshmallow.

080313 I don't know how or why it started, but when I was a kid I read every book about Alcatraz that I could get my hands on. There was a time, somewhere between my obsessions with Happy Days and UFO's that I was absolutely fascinated by San Francisco's island prison. We had the foresight to book our tickets for Alcatraz months before, and with our hotel smack-dab in the middle of Touristland it proved to be only a short walk to the pier. Alcatraz isn't as far away from land as I had pictured. It sure looks swimmable; indeed there is an annual swimming competition through these very waters, though I believe a shark net is involved. The boat ride over was busy, I bought a coffee and made note that beer would be for sale on the way back only. While Alcatraz is an entirely self-guided affair that is narrated by a controllable headset, there was an employee waiting to herd us together as we disembarked. She yelled some obvious rules and unremarkable comments, cracked a few jokes and asked if there were any foreigners in the crowd, the usual tour guide banter. A family stepped forward and said they were from Denmark, and we all stood and listened as the guide made asinine small talk with them. Okay, let's get self-guided. M'lady and I booked it up the hill to the looming prison. Inside we donned our headphones and were led around the dungeon-like jail with commentary from former guards and prisoners alike. We could pause, fast-forward or rewind our headsets which freed us up to stop and linger wherever we liked. At one point I turned a corner and there was the Danish family decked out head-to-toe in striped prison uniforms. Had they bought these outfits at the gift shop or brought them for the occasion? The mom and daughter in striped skirts and blouses, son and dad in matching shorts and tees, and all with striped caps on. It was just so...absurd. People were surreptitiously taking pictures and the family was oblivious, and clearly very happy. We saw the cells where the famous prison break occurred, complete with papier-mache heads. We stepped into the tortuous “hole†where prisoners were held in unimaginably tiny squares for weeks on end, and around every corner we would run into that Danish family again and they would trump everything I was seeing. Alone in the yard I ran the bases of the old baseball diamond and imagined what would happen to the poor soul who hit one out of the park. We visited areas that the prisoners never saw, the guard's headquarters and the areas where the guards lived with their families. It's odd to think that children lived here but they did, lots of them. One panel mentioned how the kids would sing carols outside of the prison walls on Christmas Eve, a joyous occasion for the children and a time of unthinkable sadness for those listening in their cells. Having visited Robben Island in South Africa last year it was inevitable that I would compare the two. Mandela's former prison is presented with reverence, humility, even regret, while Alcatraz has a touch of Hollywood to it (dare I say Disneyland? Maybe that was just the Danes). There were no jokes on the Robben Island tour, and nobody needed a tissue to wipe away tears at Alcatraz. Back on land we hit the hotel for a quick drink and m'lady scoured the tourist strip for some seafood while I opted to eat something later at the venue. This was the thirtieth anniversary of my first show, The Headpins opening for Loverboy at the Moncton Coliseum. I spent that night pressed into the rail at the front of the stage and had my life changed. I walked out of that show drenched in sweat, clutching a drumstick and a setlist peeled from Paul Dean's monitor and I swore I was going to attend every concert I possibly could for the rest of my life. And here we were chasing down the bus headed to Bill Graham Center for my sixtieth Phish show. Thank-you very much Mike Reno. We arrived too late to find any bleacher seats – they go fast and we realised just how lucky we had been to find friends with extras last night. We found another friend on the floor not too far back from the stage, a guy named Todd who I had first met at a Phish show in Massachusetts. He had brought a friend with him who was wholly unfamiliar with Phish beyond their reputation as a Dead-like hippie band, so it was fun to get his impressions throughout the evening. The show got drunker and drunker as me and m'lady threw caution entirely to the wind when it came to overspending on pricey in-show drinks, a skill we are getting more and more adept at. At one point we ended up pretty close to the stage on Page side (after I got lost in the crowd for a while), drinks were unusually easy to keep attaining even at that proximity and we whooped it up good. After the show we ran into our new friend from the Gorge and his date and the four of us went to a party that raged hard and late. The party was so good that m'lady wanted to stay even when I pointed out that she was dancing alone in the livingroom facing the wall with her eyes closed. Around 4:30am someone changed the music in the middle of a Neil Young song to horrible dance music and that was it for me. I flagged a cab and got us out of there. I think someone roofied one of my drinks. They certainly would have had a lot of opportunities because I certainly had a lot of drinks.

080213 When we woke up this morning m'lady and I managed to convince ourselves that last night did indeed happen, though just to be sure we drove back to Terrapin Crossroads after we checked out of the motel. Yep, there it was, just like we had dreamt it. Unfortunately it only opens for lunch on weekends, so we got in the car and left San Rafeal. It was a very short driving day to get to San Francisco though we took longer than most would have. This was my first time in San Francisco so we drove up the impossibly steep roads and waited our turn to wind the car down the world famous windy boulevard, Lombard Street. The roads are crazy in this town; I was genuinely nervous driving sometimes. M'lady asked me more than once, “What is wrong with you? I've never seen you drive so slow.†We had somehow arranged an unbelievable deal at the Fisherman's Wharf Hyatt that included full breakfast and very valuable valet parking. We checked in and had a drink or two to celebrate the luxury and set out to find food. The Fisherman's Wharf area is uber-touristy, with souvenir t-shirt shops and restaurants, sightseeing booths, buskers, and bike rentals. We stopped into a penny arcade museum that boasted an astonishing array of coin-operated delights, all in working order. There were fortune telling machines and juke boxes, pinball machines and video games, horse racing machines and strongman challenges, but most fascinating were the coin-op marionette scenarios. We dropped a coin into one and the curtains opened to reveal a mob cheering on a hangman. The trapdoor drops, a little puppet dangles from it's little puppet neck, and the curtains close. Amazing what people did with their spare time before the iphone. I had a burger at a Vietnamese restaurant (those paying attention may notice I've had little else to eat on this trip) and soon we hopped the bus to Bill Graham Civic Center for the first of a three-night stand. Phish, Phish, Phish. We had to meet someone for a ticket trade so we drifted around the park outside until all parties arrived. There was a very small amateur Shakedown that kept people distracted while they busied themselves self-administering medical marijuana. A bystander would certainly think that pot was legal in San Francisco but aside from card-carrying medical patients the stuff is still not allowed, unlike Colorado and Washington. We made our connection and headed in to the venue a bit later than we meant to, but we found some friends we had made in Tahoe that had some extra seats saved so we joined them just as the lights were set to dim. Bill Graham Civic Center is a heck of a venue. Smallish, it holds about 8,000 fans, about half on the expansive square floor while the rest sit in bleachers that ring three sides of the box-like room. We were lucky to get seats arriving as late as we did and happily we were treated to a great view of a great show for the whole night. Drink trips were frequent and simple, as were the corresponding bathroom jaunts. The show was awesome, the band and the crowd got their “woo's†on in either a continuation of or a tribute to the last show in Lake Tahoe. I have a feeling that the “woo†is going to get real old real fast. Outside we missed the bus by mere seconds and waited twenty-eight minutes for the next one. I love how the bus stops give you a real-time rundown on what's coming and what's going. The Twenty-First Century gets closer to reality all the time. Back at the hotel we nightcapped and slept in king-size luxury. I remember when I used to do this sort of thing and sleep in the car. Crazy.

080113 I managed to get up (and find the room key) in time to take advantage of the free breakfast. It was pretty good but paled in comparison to the daily unlimited free-drinks Happy Hour here at the hotel, though at least I checked out poised to actually remember the day ahead. Before we left on this trip m'lady and I sunk money into new tires and brakes for the car. As we spiraled down the highway from an ear-popping peak elevation of 7,000 feet just outside of Lake Tahoe all the way down to sea level as we neared San Francisco we were happy for our investment. The dashboard has a feature that keeps track of our fuel consumption and when we bottomed out after basically coasting downward all afternoon the car was reading it's best mileage ever, 6.5 litres per 100kms. In San Rafael we checked in to a Travelodge less than a mile from Terrapin Crossroads around 4pm. We had the cooler full of beer on ice and dug in. Phone calls were made and some friends came by to join us. We had been partying together in Lake Tahoe and here it was Jerry Day and we were all looking forward to the evening ahead. A few years ago the Grateful Dead's Phil Lesh started looking around for a place he could call his own. Loosely based on Levon Helm's Rambles, Phil sought a permanent venue where he could play music and it would be the fans that did the touring. You can't blame a septuagenarian transplant recipient for wanting to stick a little closer to home. Terrapin Crossroads is basically a yacht club that has been converted to a restaurant with a separate performance area, with a capacity of perhaps 350 or so. The restaurant is wooden and open, and out back is a large, groomed patio on the water. The restaurant is open daily and there is live music regularly, often hosted by Phil Lesh and his family band. August 1st is the anniversary of the birth of Jerry Garcia; many of us that miss him and the wonderful world that was the Grateful Dead respectfully refer to August 1st as Jerry Day. We had tickets to share this special day with Phil Lesh and we couldn't be happier. We were going to walk to the venue but we all somehow squeezed into Sean's car for the quick jaunt. We got popped pounding drinks in the parking lot so we just hopped in line. This was a ticketless event; all attendees had their names on a list and everyone seemed to get in just fine. As soon as you enter you walk by the merch table where the usual items like t-shirts and posters are augmented by signed and numbered Jerry Garcia prints and more upper class fare. The bar/restaurant area is large and inviting, I grabbed a beer and walked through the open back doors. The patio is beautiful. A blend of stone and greenery outline a dining area seating perhaps 150 guests, with sails from the adjoining marina bobbing in the water behind a tiny arch that marks the stage. I take all this in peripherally because sitting about twelve feet in front of me are Phil Lesh and Mike Gordon having dinner together. Two of the greatest things that have ever happened to electric bass guitar are sitting right in front of me, chatting and munching on tater tots. Too much. I join a large table of friends and get in line for dinner. The food was included in the price of tonight's ticket ($100) but rather than utilise their own restaurant Phil has hired catering. The options were impressive. There were grilled lobster tails and prime rib, crazy potato and vegetable ensembles, things were wrapped in bacon; the sort of fare you'd find at an upper class wedding. It was all-you-can-eat and everything was delicious, and the fact that Phil was getting seconds just a few people ahead of me only added to the experience. There were a couple of opening bands, both of which were slightly understated and great music to socialise to. Around the side of the patio was a patch of gravel that served as the smoking section, and the smoking was in no way restricted to tobacco. Security didn't care what you smoked, so long as you were standing on the gravel (“You gotta be off the grass to get on the grass!â€) Inside the busy bar area was a table set up with completely different food, and dessert was later offered here as well, cookies with a little Jerry hand symbol. After giving Mike Gordon a wide berth many times I finally approached him in the bar as he was breaking away from a couple of fans. I shook his hand and thanked him for all the good times. He seemed a bit confused and was about to ask me something when a couple of guys came up and hijacked the conversation with raves of Tahoe. I couldn't resist asking if the band preplanned playing an extra-long Tweezer and Mike instantly and genuinely assured me that it was not planned. “But I wasn't going to be the one that stopped it,†he quipped. After dinner the crowd moved toward the stage, a wooden flowered arch that carried on the wedding analogy by looking conspicuously like where a couple might get married. My crew found a spot about eight feet from stage right. Phil came out with a four-piece band that included a couple of his children and casually started to play. They opened with Shakedown Street and the dream began. . I say that because the rest of the night was nothing short of dream-like. You know, you're in someone's backyard only it's not a backyard and your favourite bass player is in the wedding band, only there was no wedding, and he starts playing all of your favourite songs just eight feet away. And then your other favourite bass player gets up and joins him, only instead of playing his normal bass he's playing a four-string Fender Precision, and then you meet a guy who went to your high school about 10,000 kilometres away and someone else says something like, “I rolled 71 joints for Jerry's birthday and you should have one!†Oh, and in this dream there is always, always a beer in your hand. And they end they set with Help>Slip>Franklin's. The part that unquestionably launched the evening into one of my all-time most amazing live music experiences was the encore. Phil announced that the encore would be all-acoustic and would take place at the campfire on the venue's side lawn. I suspect the lack of amplification was due to this being the first outdoor show here, and what a blessing it was. I parked by the glowing fire and overheard someone tell another that stones from Red Rocks were brought here tonight and added to the firepit. Soon Phil Lesh came out and stood by the campfire, flanked by three musicians. They led us all into a four-song singalong starting with Friend Of The devil. Deep Elem Blues really got the crowd involved trading off verses. This was a bona-fide campfire jam with Phil smiling and pushing us all to join in. By the time they got to Brokedown Palace people around me were literally weeping. It was so wonderfully surreal. When's the last time you went to a show where joy and sorrow mixed so beautifully that people were openly crying their eyes out? And We Bid You Goodnight was the last straw, and couldn't be followed. I don't remember how the crowd dissipated, but like most dreams they seemed to just fade away into the night. There was a crowded ride back to the hotel after many assurances of sobriety were made, and a short party later me and m'lady were alone, staring at one another. Nothing more could be said. I slept but I did not dream. I didn't need to.

Here's my letter to the promoter (cc'd the hamilton Spec): To the promoter of Harvest Picnic, I would normally start a letter of this nature with a series of niceties, but the absolutely insulting way you have dealt with the Neil Young cancellation issue makes it virtually impossible for me to do so. Instead, allow me to start with a section of Canada's Consumer Protection Act I assume you are familiar with. “It is an unfair practice for a person to use his, her or its custody or control of a consumer’s goods to pressure the consumer into renegotiating the terms of a consumer transaction.†Section 16, http://www.justicematters.ca/consumer-protection-act It is absurd to think you would sell tickets to an event that clearly advertises a particular headlining act (Neil Young & Crazy Horse) and not offer a full refund when that headlining act cancels their appearance. It must be obvious to you that many people purchased tickets based solely on the advertised headlining act. By not offering a full refund you are forcing many people to either a) attend a performance they are not interested in attending, or write off their ticket purchase. If you, as the promoter, honestly feel that your current lineup is an attractive deal for consumers then the only sensible action is to offer a full refund to those that desire it, and sell tickets for the new lineup on it's own merit. To do anything else is to admit that the concert is no longer worth the purchase price. In plain language, this is a no-brainer: If I order a hamburger in a restaurant they can't just serve me a bowl of soup and walk away shrugging, “Hey, we're out of hamburger todayâ€. C'mon now. Finally, to speak to my particular circumstances, I am currently in Vancouver nearing the end of a six-week tour of North America specifically to see concerts (seventeen concerts in nine cities so far). The vacation was to end at Harvest Picnic before returning to my home in Ottawa. Now that I'm not interested in the lineup for Harvest Picnic I would like to a) stay a few extra days in British Columbia, or get back home to Ottawa a few days early. As I purchased pre-sale tickets from the Neil Young website* there was no option of having tickets delivered; I can only pick them up in person, thus reselling the tickets is not an option. Please, please give me my money back so I can choose one of these options. Otherwise your concert will be nothing but a money-grabbing scam to me, and I'm sure to many, many others. *I wrote to the Neil Young website and was told the promoter had not authorised them to offer complete refunds.

073113 It was everything I could do to crawl out of bed in time for the full breakfast that comes included with the room. With ten minutes to get downstairs I started clamouring for the room key. Through blurry eyes I searched and only my inabilty to feel anything kept me from weeping with frustration. I finally found the stupid key and booted it downstairs just in time to see them wheel away the final food tray. Of course now that I was up there was no going back down for the sleep I probably desperately needed so I made a peanut butter sandwich, puttered around, grabbed a newspaper, tried to type things on the computer and just generally did what I could to not feel like I should be dead, somewhat unsuccessfully. M'lady woke up before noon and decided she was as hungry as I was. It was her birthday so we called down for room service, a first for me. After waiting for an hour I called back and was told that not only had no order been placed, because we called before noon there was no way someone would have answered the phone and taken our order. I weakly asked how long it would be if we re-ordered. “We could have your soup and sandwich up there in about an hour, or you could just visit our restaurant.†Little did I know he was setting a trap. As we approached the hostess we ran into some friends, so the five of us waited for a table together. When we were finally seated we waited even longer to be served. I noticed the next table over speaking to the manager. Something about waiting forever for the food. Strange, the place wasn't that busy. Then our waiter came out. I can't help thinking now that perhaps he had never been in a restaurant before, maybe he was raised by wolves? “I'll bring water,†he says. No, he didn't. “Oh, let me grab ketchup for you,†and he's gone forever. “Friends, our waiter is a pathological liar.†When the food finally came the guy says, “Who ordered the Mexican club sandwich?†“That's close enough,†I say, ecstatic that there is now a plate of food in front of me. “Oh, did you order the regular club?†he asks, reaching to take the plate away. “I can change that for you.†Wild-eyed with hunger I literally threw my body over the plate like a hero jumping on a hand grenade. “No! No! Go away. You are not taking away this food!†I wail. We still tipped. I so, so don't understand tipping. After lunch m'lady and I strolled down to the beach area for a bit of a sit-around. We ran ino friends that we had meant to find anyway to engage in a prearranged ticket trade. At the same time a couple offered us a place to stay for an upcoming top in San Francisco. We stayed as long as I could stand the sun and went up the road to our hotel for some pre-show chillin'. I hit the free-drinks happy hour but I didn't hit it very hard. Dramatically more sober than the previous night we crossed the street for another night of Phish. The venue was a temporary stage thrown up in the back parking lot of Harvey's Casino. The asphalt square measured about 120 feet wide and maybe 75 feet deep and was surrounded on three sides with seven rows of bleachers. Basically it felt like we were seeing the band at the mall with a few thousand people. It's no iconic venue but I thought it was a great place to see the band. The first set was great but it's the second set that will likely stand out in Phish lore. They opened set two with the riff-fiesta Tweezer and just kept at it. The song turned into the standard jam and the standard jam turned into an exploration and the exploration turned into a really-listening-to-each-other game of follow the leader. Back in '95 I saw them do an extended Tweezer jam but haven't seen much like it since; they were gleefully going out on a limb and it was great. Locked into a groove and all eyes on each other, at one point the band hit a shot and dropped out for a bar. Somewhere, someone yelled “wooâ€. Eight bars later another break came up and a few dozen people added their own “wooâ€. That's all it took, we were all on board and everyone knew it. The jam now featured four musicians and several thousand vocalists, and it felt good. I suppose there will be at least four hundred people that will claim to be the person that started it, but that doesn't matter, we were all in this jam together and we all had a part to play. It was invigorating, it was exciting, it felt special, and clearly the band was loving it. So we all woo'd through what turned into the seventh longest Phish song ever and with one big final night-ending “woo†we were all back on the street. M'lady and I went to the party house again where all the talk was on that Tweezer. It was a standout moment in the scene and we were all happy to have played our part. We left the party around 4am just as a pickup Frisbee tourney was taking shape on the street outside, in much better shape than the night before. The lack of staggering got us back to the hotel in no time, where crisp sheets and soft beds would be the focus of the next handful of hours. Woo.

The Fred penner thing is clearly a joke. Right?!?!

I bought tix from the Neil Young presale. Wrote to them and they too deferred to the promoter.

I was trying to see Phish, but my eyes wouldn't really focus.

I suspect it was 4am. Yeah, it was still dark.

073013 We awoke to a big blue sky, showered and packed 'er all up. We weaved along the cow-lined side roads out to the secondary highway. Hungry for breakfast we were happy to find a small funky-looking diner among the handful of buildings that constitute the town of Likely, California. We were the only customers so we sidled up to the counter and perched on stools. The waitress brought coffee and a little container of cream. I mixed the two and the cream curdled almost solid. “Miss, this cream is bad.†“Oh gee, sorry about that,†she says. She takes away the coffee and resumes her stance leaning against the counter. “Um, could I get another coffee?†I was suspicious that this was her first day on the job, but when she called in to the cook and asked how to make coffee it occurred to me that not only was it her first day, we were her first ever customers. It's sometimes easy to forget that waiters and waitresses are generally really good at a specialised job. I let m'lady take care of the tip. We had a good chunk of day to get through without a whole lot of driving so we took it slow and went the longest way we could find. We were already at a fair elevation but the roads kept going up. When we got to the northern end of the lake we opted to continue down the slow touristy west side, which made for a nice drive averaging about 25mph. In Lake Tahoe proper we cruised the main drag until the stateline at Stateline and pulled into our hotel, the Lake Tahoe Resort Hotel, formerly the Embassy. The hotel was literally kitty-corner across the street from the venue, it was a really nice looking spot with a friendly staff and in no time we were in our suite. We had several friends staying on the same floor so we grabbed a few beers and did some visiting. The drinks went down pretty smooth, and then it was Happy Hour. Happy Hour at Embassy hotels means free drinks and snacks from 4:30-6:30. We're talking unlimited drinks of any stripe served up by happy professional bartenders. You can get beers, wine, liquor, hell, you can have Mai Tai's. I grabbed a handful of whiskey and cokes mixed thick, drank 'em down and went for more. I believe it was my third trip back when I slurred to the bartender, “if other hotelsh gave free drings I juss might not be here.†He smiled, added an extra splash of liquor to the drinks and pushed them my way with a smile. “We want you here, sir.†I had been told many times that you were allowed to bring drinks into the venue so I ordered my last drink to go in a plastic cup, stuffed a can of beer into each of my back pockets and staggered across the street to Nevada. We immediately ran into a couple of our neighbours from The Gorge. They were by the gate and informed us that booze was not allowed in the venue this year. Show time was early and we wanted to get in there so I pounded my drink and my beers and we went in. Okay, let's take stock here (something I might have should have done at the time): two hours of beers with friends + two hours of free whiskey + elevation approaching 7,000 feet + no substantial meal since breakfast + pounding three drinks in about ninety seconds before entering the venue. Uh-huh. I'm no spring chicken but then again I'm a man, not a machine. Suffice to say I don't recall too much about the show, but I remember looking like I was having a pretty good time. At one point I went to the concession area and ordered a burger or a hot dog or something. As an afterthought I added fries to my order. They handed me my meat sandwich and a mound of fries the size of my head. Like, I had about two pounds of fries in one hand, and it seemed like it was one hugely long french fry. I was horrified, and utterly unable to balance the two things and eat them as well. I found our crew who were each on their own individual journeys, and when I tried to share the fries everyone looked at me with the same look of horror. My hands were full – I could either eat the food or hold it. I walked back to the bathroom area, staggered around for a while wondering what to do (remember that scene at the beginning of Saving Private Ryan when the guy missing his arm is staggering around wondering what to do?), dropped the fry-head into a garbage bin, freeing myself up to eat whatever was in my other hand, probably bought more beers (oh yeah, they had a shooter bar in there too), and probably enjoyed the rest of the show. Afterwards there was a lot of staggering to a rental house where friends were hosting a party. I sobered up enough to be a walking hangover virtually unable to interact with others or to drink again, we stayed until about 4pm and defying every inch of gravity, physics and reason somehow made it back to our suite under our own power. Thankfully it's a two-day run.

Am I sounding bitter? Is it because I am in Seattle and have made plans for a six-week vacation to end at the Harvest Picnic? Can I stay out west a few extra days? Can I get back to Ottawa a few days early? I suppose I can if I want to eat over $200 in tickets.

"Partial Refund Provided to Picnic fans!" Great, let all the Picnic fans get their refund. I am not a Picnic fan, I've never been to their Picnic. The Neil Young fans, however, should get a full refund.

I can't even try and sell my tickets. When I bought the tix the only shipping option was will-call.

I don't want a $40 discount, I want my money back. I might just eat the tickets. Maybe a lawyer's letter with the words "class action" would be effective? "But if I do the right thing I'll be screwed." -Mr. Promoter

By the way, back Talk Organ Trio is freakin' awesome.

It was also Elvis day.

072913 We woke up and got out of there as soon as we could. I certainly understand the need and desire for family-oriented camping but don't they know some people hate it? But then I suppose if a campground advertises a disdain for children and people that like them it would be a death knoll. Showered and on the road we had only to drive again today, with the goal to get as close to Tahoe as we could get without rushing. We stopped for coffees at a cute little booth and cruised along the densely-treed secondary highway. M'lady had it in mind to visit Crater Lake. With no alternate plans in mind I agreed, but to be honest I had no idea why she wanted to go out of the way and pay a park fee just to sit beside a seemingly random pile of water. What m'lady didn't tell me is that Crater Lake is a much ballyhooed and celebrated geological wonder that attracts zillions of visitors annually and rightfully so. Created from a collapsed volcano and reaching a maximum depth of almost 2,000 feet, Crater Lake is the deepest lake in the US, second in North America (next to Great Slave Lake), and the eighth deepest lake in the world. And with no rivers in or out it's also the cleanest lake in the US. We pulled up to the gate and paid our fee. We crept along the road and drank in the scenery. The asphalt began to rise in earnest and we crested to find a pulloff. We got out and saw the lake for the first time, and...wow. The lake is pretty round, measuring in at 8 x 10 kilometres, and it is blue blue blue blue blue. To see it nestled into the massive funnel that was the ancient volcano is quite inspiring. There are two islands within the lake, Wizard Island and Phantom Ship, which only add to the splendor. When we could finally pull our eyes away we got back in the car and continued slowly around the 35-mile track that precariously hugs the side of the crater. There are lookouts everywhere and it's difficult to pass one by. The lake sits at an elevation well over 6,000 feet and I was shocked to find that due to weather the roads don't even open until July. Sure enough I started to notice snow here and there. At one of the stops I scrambled down a hill to a three-foot drift and made snowballs. We drove a few miles out of the way to the Pinnacles, an endless string of fossilised fumaroles that were created when gases struggled to escape the lava so long ago. With the ensuing erosion of the dirt around them what is left is towering columns of rock, many of them hollow, that stand like dead trees along the edge of the valley. We walked to the ultimate pinnacle; it was a sight well worth the sidetrip. Back on the crater rim road we stopped at the giftshop for a rest. The tourist area marks about the halfway point of the road circling the lake, and this is where most vehicles call it a day and return to the highway. We decided to press on and proceeded to completely circumnavigate the park. It was nearly four hours before we were back on the road pointed south. It was a really great way to spend the afternoon. We pressed on and eventually crossed the state line into California. This is my third time in the state, and it turned out to be the most likely of my visits. I once drove from Nevada to Death Valley and back, I flew into Palm Springs for a weekend concert at Indio, and now, driving down barren roads south of Alturas in the fading light we pulled off the highway chasing a sign that promised camping. Down back roads we go past cows and a thousand airborne critters, now completely under the cloak of darkness until we find it. A very unlikely-looking campground and golf course (or so they say – I couldn't see any fairways) in a tiny community called Likely, California. Without a soul in sight we fill out the registry paper, toss $18 into an envelope and slide it through a mail slot before pitching our tent in the dark. I poured myself a drink and sat on the car's tailgate looking for rattlesnakes until sleep became the only option. In the end we weren't that close to Tahoe but then we didn't rush either, so I call that a victory. No rattlesnakes either. Another victory.

That's a shame. I'll be seeing Willy today - I assume he'll do some sort of tribute.

072813 Easily enduring another festival tent experience I got baked awake and crawled out of the tent. In one direction was a big blue sky, in the other: smoke. It looked like a glorious day in one direction and a miserable day in the other due to the ongoing forest fire across the river. Fortunately we were headed in the sunny direction! We were lackadaisical about our packup, enjoying more coffees and quesadillas while chatting with the neighbors. We eventually got everything into the car and moseyed through the now-nearly-empty campground, carefully avoiding glass and other obstacles. We snaked past a garbage pile that included a discarded wheelchair. Miraculous. We drove along the farm fields and found our way back to the highway, happy and smelly and with an indeterminate daily distance to travel. We had the day off but hoped to get a fair distance towards Lake Tahoe. With little else to do but drive, we drove. With the luxury of time we were happy to avoid the interstate as much as possible, and as the afternoon waned we pulled into Bend, Oregon. A quaint tourist town chock full of microbreweries (and for the moment, Phishheads), Bend made for a great dinner stop. We parked and marched across the street to Deschutes Brewery, home of one of m'lady's favourite brews. We got a great sampler tray while we waited for our table, though as I was driving (and have a palette geared towards more proletariat beer flavours) I let her do most of the sampling. It must have been pretty good beer; as soon as we got our table m'lady ordered another sampler. The food certainly was good. Back on the road we didn't have many more minutes of daylight, so we couldn't afford to be picky when it came to finding a campground. Even when the campground was ten miles off the highway. Even when it went from being a “campground†to a “family RV resortâ€. Ugh. I hate “familyâ€. As expected, the place was pricey, unfun, and packed with kids. We set up in the dusky light and pretty much stayed in the tent. We have a week of hotels coming though, so hunkering down for the night was bearable. And the families did squawk around us.

072713 Whether or not one enjoys festival camping boils down to expectations. If you expect that you might enjoy sleeping comfortably through the night perhaps festival camping is not for you. If you expect to lounge in bed comfortably anytime past 8:30am, or if you expect little to no fireworks set off in the general direction of your sleeping area, or even if you expect something as simple as a quick little hot shower, well, maybe you'll want to book a room. Festival camping is generally for me. I just set my gearshift to the 'Hi' gear of my tolerance and keep my hat on. And as mentioned earlier, earplugs are a hugely great supplement. New to me this year was an eye-mask. I turned myself into Tommy for the night and it helped me get up on the right side of the air mattress. M'lady busied herself making coffee after coffee and quesadillas for brunch while I sat around and did nothing but enjoy same. Eventually I grabbed a guitar and found a nearby tarp commune with jammers and beers. We rounded out midday with some really excellent music and cold beers in the hot shade. We spent the rest of the afternoon hanging with our neighbor friends in their shade and mulling the forest fire that had clearly been taking shape a few hills away and the thickening smoke it was sending our way. Before we got too drunk the two of us headed in to the venue. I wanted to get a poster and a closer spot for the show. We got in early enough to get the merch but the terraces had all been cherry-picked already, so we found a nice spot on the grass just above the floor area. We had a few hours to kill in the hot sun but we had the remains of a bunky umbrella with us, picked up for free at a booth at the Ottawa Jazz Fest, and margaritas and chicken strips with curly fries to keep us contented. I left m'lady for a stroll and sauntered up the hill to the very centre. As I was walking up to the spot someone else was walking down to it. We both got there about the same time and sat down a few feet away from each other, the only two people sitting on the vast lawn. We got to talking about the Dead and the Allmans and general tour. Ten minutes later we stood and hugged, I went back down and he went back up. Tour is fun. Back at our spot we got surrounded by a group that included two kids at their first show with dad. I asked them what they were hoping to hear; the ten year old says Prince Caspian and his little brother wants Moma Dance. Noobs. As the show starts the smoke coming in from the distant forest fire is palpable, and while there's no benefit to having smoke in your eyes at a show, the haze gave substance to CK5's light show. Even when the sun was still up the beams of light shooting into the audience become thick shafts of colour. The first set was a bit of a sleeper, I blame the kids who got both their calls, but the show overall was pretty great. At one point the top of the mountain behind the stage (and across the river) was glowing red with fire. I've never seen anything like it. They should have changed Maze to Haze but I'll forgive them, especially after the monstrous funk that was Sneakin' Sally Though The Alley. After the show I meandered up and down Shakedown looking to trade my extra poster for a night one poster but found no takers. I considered looking for a jam but realised that people are generally way too messed up after the show to be able to make and/or appreciate acoustic music. Amplification rules post-show. So I sat for an hour with a drink or two and marveled at the fireworks. Every highway sign for a hundred miles in any direction has the fire risk arrow set at “Extreme†and here we sit in a massive field covered with dry, mowed hay with smoke pouring over our heads from the encroaching forest fire watching everyone and their brah lighting off amateur explosions that cascade down onto an unspeakable amount of combustables. It's truly a wonder that there has never been a lot fire at the Gorge, squawks old gray-beard.