Road Trip, Dude!

The three amigos have taken enough road trips together to know that whatever happens before the car even leaves the driveway sets the tone for the rest of the adventure. Like last summer's canoe trip to Lake Olalla. Second Edition smacked her head on the canoe while it was still strapped to the roof...only to suffer bee stings and a near drowning later that day.

This time we're headed to P-town for fun, frolic and Xavier Rudd. But while backing out of the driveway, we heard a ruckus coming from the backseat. Apparently, The Neighbor was happily chowing down on what he thought was venison jerky, but turned out to be Mia's dog treats. We assumed after that The Neighbor would be kind enough to fetch for us, but instead of running for the ball, he gave us the finger and insisted on a palate cleanser, so we stopped at a gas station for lunch: chili dogs and um...refreshments.




Once on I-5, we entertained each other with a road game...hooking the word "anal" onto the makes of cars and trucks then laughing hysterically, clutching our Clamatos. Anal Trailblazer. Anal Trooper. Anal Avenger. Anal Legacy. My favorite, however, is Anal Kompressor. This and a farting contest and I don't think anybody would have been able to tell the difference between our Honda and a busload of junior high students headed to the State Fair.

Being Country Bumpkins and all, navigation was a bit tricky once we hit the city, but fortunately I understand The Neighbor's unique language: Follow that cloud (go straight), Left at the scallop (turn left at the Shell station), Right at the Big One (right at the traffic light).

Exhausted and thirsty after so much frivolity, we made a bee line to our favorite outdoor venue in P-town, The Kennedy School, to wait for our fourth, The Lovely. That's right, people, she's back from Alaska and kind enough to round out the team.

IPAs at The Kennedy School where everyone knows our name. Cheers!

Of course, one thing led to another, and despite my best efforts, I lost at pool. With this crowd, NEVER LOSE AT POOL. You're liable to end up nipple-pinched, a Northwest tradition, like harvesting mushrooms but with more twist in the wrist.



Xavier Rudd was fun to dance to (aka: flail) especially at the Crystal Ballroom where there's more bounce to the ounce, but that relentless didjeridu of his...Jesus Lord, man...give it a rest. His whole Australian Outback vibe gave me flashbacks of Banana Republic before the corporate redo (remember safari pants) and Meryl Streep sobbing, "the dingo did it! the dingo did it!"

A cab or two later, the night ended with breakfast at the Mock Crest Tavern, where the waitress took one look at our ragged group, muttered something about "hair of the dog" and without waiting for our order, brought a round of Bloody Marys with PBRs back. I'd love to write more, but I'm scheduled for a liver transplant later this afternoon.

Good night.