Thursday 27 June 2007Every Wednesday a bar called Scarlet and Grey Cafe hosts a huge hippie party involving some clothes, lots of hula hoops and hugs. The soundtrack to this madness is provided by Mike Perkins and his accompanying band, which changes from week to week, but almost always includes John Zuck (a bass player with 30 fingers and 18 strings) and Randy Browne on keys. From time to time Jerry DePizzo (OAR) brings his saxophone out for a Wednesday night session along with various percussionists to keep the heads boppin' and the beats poppin'.
This summer we had become regulars at the weekly party and this Wednesday was no different. While at the bar, J-Dogg comes over to me, looks at me and says:
JD: Dude, I love her
TM:I know dude
JD: I love her and I gotta tell her
TM: Okay
JD: Tonight
TM: Let's go
Mind you its 2AM, said girl lived in Dayton (an hour away, if you drive fast) and I had a flight to Seattle for my grandparent's 50th anniversary the next day.
The Dogg, Myself and our buddy Schulz hop in Ole Reliable (Justin's blue Buick which, despite its schizophrenic radio and huge ass, gets great gas mileage and has never let us down) and race to Dayton with Peter Gabriel as the obvious soundtrack of this adventure. Arriving somewhere in the neighborhood of 330AM, Schulz and I leave the Dogg for his "Say Anything" moment of glory armed with a cell phone, a pocket full of bottle caps and his naked soul (all to throw at her window).
Back at Schulz's place, just as I close my eyes for a full night of college couching, I get the call.
"Dude, it didn't work, let's get out of here."
Back in the car and on the road by 445AM, my phone rings with the ID indicating Dad. I answer:
TM: Mornin' Pop, what's happening
Dad: Where are you?
TM: What's it matter?
Dad: Where the hell are you?
TM: Dayton, why?
Dad: What part of Dayton?
TM: What difference does it make? Dayton's Dayton
Dad: We're going to the airport at 5...
TM: Yeah, PM...
Dad: No...AM you have 45 minutes to get your ass back here and to the airport, Plane leaves at 6
(sidenote: My dad is an olive skinned, dark haired, dark eyed italian badass. He doesn't generally say a lot, and when he's pissed he says even less)
Fueled by adrenalin, fear, and the All-Powerful Catholic Guilt (Catholic guilt is intensified 100 fold when it's your grandparents that you are letting down), we make the trip in a Dayton to Columbus land speed record of 43 minutes.
Obviously I had not packed yet, so, ripping through the house like Hurricane Ike through Columbus, I managed to pack for my two week (week in Seattle, week in Calgary) trip (guitar, cowboy boots, toothbrush) in about 3 minutes.
Back in the car by 535, the heat is on to get to the airport, run through security and board that sucker.
To the airport exit off of I-670 in record time, again; high-fiving our awesomeness and with a feeling of conquering the world, I miss the exit.
We drive through the cloud of profanity fogging up the car (throwing F-bombs like Nolan Ryan throws strikes) to the next exit a mile away. Turn around and just as we are nearing the west bound exit, I get the call.
"Mike, its too late. Go home." Read more!
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