My long weekend started with a drive up the 101 north with my best friend Zach Johnson. Now while he may be my best friend, I have never met someone with whom I disagree with more on EVERYTHING under the sun. From what kind of suntan lotion doesn't sting your balls (I'm partial to Splash, he prefers the Johnson & Johnson Fiji Blend), to what SNL star is the best of all time (I say Carvey, he says Farley).
First up on the argument agenda as we pass out of LA County is who affected music with more relevance - The Beach Boys or The Talking Heads. Now, which one do you think I am leaning on? I will give you a clue, I had an erection the whole time that David Byrne performed at the Hollywood Bowl two years back and I would rather watch Stop Making Sense on Criterion DVD than go hang-gliding with my grandpa (and that is something I have always wanted to do). Ole Zachy thinks Brian Wilson is the greatest thing since a Slip 'n' Slide and knows all the lyrics to Pet Sounds without hesitation or equivocation.
We are on this subject for what seems like an eternity (wait, he is in the room as I type this and says we are not finished). I point out that the mere use of French in the lyrics of "Psycho Killer" alone trumps any words Mr. Wilson ever wrote about cars by Chevrolet or women from the Golden State. He laughs and pours another Jack 'n' Coke (two things he does a lot).
We get an odd call from my mechanic who tells me that he thinks I am crazy to drive my car all the way to San Francisco. Getting this call while driving said car, is like getting a note passed to you from someone at a party while you are talking to an incredibly hot girl that reads, "The girl you are talking to has three kids and daddy issues". Cause let's face it - you are already down the road, ya know?
We pass a sign that read "Salinas - 12 miles" and Zach remembers that this is the approximate location that his fellow Hoosier James Dean had died while speeding. We look at the speedometer and realize we are doing the same and slowed the fuck down. I liken that experience to someone cutting a line of Colombian powder in bungalow 203 at the Chateau Marmont and then someone yells out, "Hey did you know this is the room John died in?"
We had no iPod connection we realized, so were forced to listen to oldies radio most of the way. This only strengthened Zach's stance, as they love to feed you Beach Boys like its milk for a growing kid's bones. Let's face it, most stations aren't hip enough for the Heads. Luckily Zach is Jack Black and Sarah Silverman's illegitimate child, and he turns down the 4th broadcast of "Little Deuce Coupe" and entertains me with his manic and sardonic antics. Kid is hilarious.
Seven arguments, 15 Parliaments and two speed traps later - we arrive in what is quickly becoming my favorite city on the planet...
...San-Motherfuckin-Fran-Check-The-Mic-Frisco.
The "(415)" was looking great in the twilight and we were stoked. Zach needed to get dropped off on the side of the highway. Not because we were still stuck on our "who was more influential to modern rock" debate, but because he was meeting an old buddy who was to grab him to go north to Sonoma while I visit my family. I drop Zach off at a Starbuck's. As I leave, I notice he already has the place in stitches and he's been there 36 seconds. Nice move Johnson. Well played.
I have family in Alameda, so I brush up my Bay area highway skills with a quickness and arrive on time (the punctuality is pointed out only because it is rare as fuck). Speaking of that word, I forgot that I was wearing a vintage T-shirt from my favorite LA clothing store Pop Killer that read, "Just Say Fuck Yeah...". Not really appropriate on T-day.
Now this branch of the family tree is a tad more conservative than my immediate family (hell, every branch is more right-winged than mine). So when I walk in I am met with more than one, but less than thirty, odd glances. I catch myself in the mirror Patrick Bateman-style and button up the suit coat right away. Nice move Stone. Well played.
Even by my own family, I am introduced as the "guy from CON" to every person there. Can't escape it I guess. At least my show wasn't called Slut Farm or AIDSville. That could've been weird.
