The Daily Pitcher: God of Thunder

In 2004 my dear friend the Snilch and I made a trip out to Portland, Oregon to visit our dear friend Sean. This happened in the middle of the Tour de France, and Sean, as I recall, was disappointed that Mike wouldn't be able to make it out for the big Portland Tour party. Of course, Sean didn't know at the time that Mike and I had schemed to make Mike's appearance in the Great Northwest a secret. Okay, so I'm an anal retentive travel planner, and Sean had to be wondering why in God's name I waited so long to book my flight, but I played it cool.

So imagine how satisfying it was for Mike and me to spring Mike's surprise appearance on Sean. I pretended to call my mom (a notorious worrywart) to let her know I landed safely. I bought enough time for Mike to make his way down on the sly. At just the right moment, Mike sprung up behind us, exclaiming, "Where's that Tour de France party, bitches?!?" Sean, of course, had exactly the response we've come to expect from him. He responded in wide-eyed shock with, "What the fuck are YOU doing here?!?"

Now there are many stories I could tell about this trip: Orld's Best Pretzel, which gave rise to Mike, Sean and I calling each other "Orld," "Njord" (thanks to a nearby Nordic Hall) and "Erik," or mentioning these names as if they were actual people. Crying out "Marblehead represent" at the Lucky Lab brewpub when Tyler Hamilton appeared--he rode gamely with a broke collarbone before bowing out, an event we look back on with sadness after the period of denial we experienced following Hamilton's doping ban. The Seattle excursion, which was a mini-rock opera unto itself. Two heart attack games between the Sox and Mariners at Safeco, with Keith Foulke blowing the night game and almost duplicating the result the next afternoon. Lance Armstrong saying "fuck this" when his teammate Jose Acevedo bonked in the home stretch, and stormed to take a Tour stage at the finish line. And those are just the highlights I can readily sum up in a handful of sentences. There are at least as many other highlights that would play out best at a dark pub over the course of several beers.

One fun trip involved me getting a hair cut. Okay, you don't go on vacation to get a haircut, but Sean hipped me to the fact there was a barbershop bearing my surname. Oh, and they serve you a Pabst Blue Ribbon while you get your mop chopped. And they were kind enough to also provide Mike and Sean with PBRs too. How about that? And it was a flattering cut.

I came home with a few bumper stickers--one each for my bros (The Sex Pistols one to Ed, the KISS one to Dale) and saved myself one, which I had been pondering plastering on one of my guitars. Tonight felt like the time to do that--CD release a week from tonight (don't worry, the shameless plug will follow the picture), the band is sounding good, and I'm looking forward to rocking in my forties. Time to make some devil's horns, crank the amps up, and let the good times roll.

Let me first point you in the direction of my good friends. All Sean has is a notebook, a camera, and the truth. Mike lays down sharp, perceptive rock criticism, spiked with a fantastic ratings system for both CDs and merchandise.

The lads and I will be laying down shimmering slabs of tuneful noise a week from tonight. We'll be at the Burren in Somerville, Saturday night, 4/1/9, 8PM sharp. I'm pumped. The CD is called New Lights; selected tracks are up on Myspace.

It should be noted that my wife, the Amazing Margo, was the one who suggested putting the sticker in between the bridge and the sound hole. Perrrrfect.

Cheers,

Scott