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Monday 4th August 2003 - San Diego to Phoenix
Davey's On The Road Again
We faced a long trip to Phoenix.
After showers and packing, we headed out to the van and the short trip to Mariah's for breakfast. I needed a cooked breakfast, real bad. I didn't feel up to spicy food - the Pocheen was still in my system - although, at any other time, the rest of the menu would have looked well tasty. If I lived around there I'd eat there all of the time. Real Mexicans making Mexican food - what more can you ask for?
What I needed was:
We faced a long trip to Phoenix.
After showers and packing, we headed out to the van and the short trip to Mariah's for breakfast. I needed a cooked breakfast, real bad. I didn't feel up to spicy food - the Pocheen was still in my system - although, at any other time, the rest of the menu would have looked well tasty. If I lived around there I'd eat there all of the time. Real Mexicans making Mexican food - what more can you ask for?
What I needed was:
- 2 Eggs
- Ham
- Hash browns
- Toast.
Palm Springs
Initially, the journey was very ordinary and unremarkable. Take the I-15 north... onto the I-215 towards San Bernadino..... then head east on the I-10 all the way to Phoenix.
We travelled through Palm Springs, playground of many Hollywood celebs and the town where the late Sonny Bono (of '& Cher' fame) was once Mayor. The scenery had changed noticeably and was similar to what we had seen around Reno; very hot and very empty, desert.
As we rumbled along the I-10, the boys raided the cooler, which we had previously filled with ice, in preparation for the long journeys we faced over the next few days. They chucked all of the bottled water out and replaced it with bottled beer. I tried to advise them that this was maybe not the wisest thing to do, water being the most precious commodity in the desert environment. I further explained how alcohol dehydrates and intelligently countered their arguments that it contained water but tasted better, but I failed to convince them of the folly of their actions.
I held onto my gallon container of nicely chilled water.
Initially, the journey was very ordinary and unremarkable. Take the I-15 north... onto the I-215 towards San Bernadino..... then head east on the I-10 all the way to Phoenix.
We travelled through Palm Springs, playground of many Hollywood celebs and the town where the late Sonny Bono (of '& Cher' fame) was once Mayor. The scenery had changed noticeably and was similar to what we had seen around Reno; very hot and very empty, desert.
As we rumbled along the I-10, the boys raided the cooler, which we had previously filled with ice, in preparation for the long journeys we faced over the next few days. They chucked all of the bottled water out and replaced it with bottled beer. I tried to advise them that this was maybe not the wisest thing to do, water being the most precious commodity in the desert environment. I further explained how alcohol dehydrates and intelligently countered their arguments that it contained water but tasted better, but I failed to convince them of the folly of their actions.
I held onto my gallon container of nicely chilled water.
A Van With No Name
Little more than a few miles further along the road, just past Quartzsite, the van began to have fuel pickup problems. It started with a spluttering, graduated to a chugging, evolved into a cutting out and eventually culminated in a rolling-to-a-halt-by-the-side-of-the-road type scenario.
I admit to a moment of blind panic when the van first broke down. I've probably watched the end of Greed one too many times. The extreme heat had been obvious, even with the aircon, but as soon as the van stopped, the temperature began to rise noticeably. I'd read, somewhere, that inside vehicles, temperatures can easily reach 160º within minutes, a fact that didn't surprise me. The Sonoran Desert: probably 110º (at least) in the shade, if you can find some.
It was not safe to stay in the van for any reason. Massive trucks thundered past, inches from the side of the van, whilst the heat was becoming unbearable. We had to get out, while Davey tried to fix it. I slapped on the Factor 15, put on my baseball cap and grabbed my gallon of water.
As the others stripped off their shirts and drank beer, Bob (Davey's housemate, who we were taking to San Antonio) and I found some shade under a bush and slowly baked, self-basting in our own sweat. For about an hour we sat in the interminable, unbelievable, blazing heat of the desert.
As hot as it was, it was actually quite bearable. Psychologically, as I knew that as long as I had water, I would be fine. The heat was awesome, but you know it is the lack of water that will kill you; that, or the cold at night. Technically speaking, it's only like going for a sauna (admittedly in your clothes) and it doesn't feel anywhere near as hot as the more humid heat of, say, San Diego.
Little more than a few miles further along the road, just past Quartzsite, the van began to have fuel pickup problems. It started with a spluttering, graduated to a chugging, evolved into a cutting out and eventually culminated in a rolling-to-a-halt-by-the-side-of-the-road type scenario.
I admit to a moment of blind panic when the van first broke down. I've probably watched the end of Greed one too many times. The extreme heat had been obvious, even with the aircon, but as soon as the van stopped, the temperature began to rise noticeably. I'd read, somewhere, that inside vehicles, temperatures can easily reach 160º within minutes, a fact that didn't surprise me. The Sonoran Desert: probably 110º (at least) in the shade, if you can find some.
It was not safe to stay in the van for any reason. Massive trucks thundered past, inches from the side of the van, whilst the heat was becoming unbearable. We had to get out, while Davey tried to fix it. I slapped on the Factor 15, put on my baseball cap and grabbed my gallon of water.
As the others stripped off their shirts and drank beer, Bob (Davey's housemate, who we were taking to San Antonio) and I found some shade under a bush and slowly baked, self-basting in our own sweat. For about an hour we sat in the interminable, unbelievable, blazing heat of the desert.
As hot as it was, it was actually quite bearable. Psychologically, as I knew that as long as I had water, I would be fine. The heat was awesome, but you know it is the lack of water that will kill you; that, or the cold at night. Technically speaking, it's only like going for a sauna (admittedly in your clothes) and it doesn't feel anywhere near as hot as the more humid heat of, say, San Diego.
I wanted to be able to remember what it was like being here, stranded in the desert. I took photos 360º from where I was. The colours are pretty accurate and are a fairly good representation of what it's like in the desert. The one thing you notice being there, is the sheer brilliance and high contrast of the light. The sky is very blue, contrasting sharply with the yellows and browns of the desert floor and the few shadows are hard-edged. The air is still, dry and hot, the only breeze is the wafting of a warm, diesel-tinged, draught from the highway.
Finally, after about an hour, the van suddenly burst into life and we all piled aboard. We got going again and made it to a truckstop where we encountered Brian, a luxury tourbus operator who was having trouble with the pump jockey fat-ass from Hell. His ride was sweet, no arguing that, but at $500 a day was a little rich for The Skeptix budget.
Believing that everything was sorted out, we started out again. Everything seemed fine until we began to climb a gradient. The same splutterings manifested themselves and the van slowed, finally giving up the ghost just across the Arizona border. This was the reason that Davey had been late picking us up in San Francisco - the same thing had happened to him in Death Valley.
Once again, we all piled out. I once more found shade and was well supplied with water. After about twenty minutes, Brian (remember him?) pulled up. Seeing our plight, he offered us a lift in his luxury tour bus to the gig which was now in Tempe AZ! It turned out he was heading to Phoenix to pick someone up at the airport there.
Finally, after about an hour, the van suddenly burst into life and we all piled aboard. We got going again and made it to a truckstop where we encountered Brian, a luxury tourbus operator who was having trouble with the pump jockey fat-ass from Hell. His ride was sweet, no arguing that, but at $500 a day was a little rich for The Skeptix budget.
Believing that everything was sorted out, we started out again. Everything seemed fine until we began to climb a gradient. The same splutterings manifested themselves and the van slowed, finally giving up the ghost just across the Arizona border. This was the reason that Davey had been late picking us up in San Francisco - the same thing had happened to him in Death Valley.
Once again, we all piled out. I once more found shade and was well supplied with water. After about twenty minutes, Brian (remember him?) pulled up. Seeing our plight, he offered us a lift in his luxury tour bus to the gig which was now in Tempe AZ! It turned out he was heading to Phoenix to pick someone up at the airport there.
Psycho Killer
Two things quickly became clear:
He spent the entire journey shouting at people on his mobile phone, ranting and raving like an angry, mad person. The guy was one crazy spaced out monkey! That being said, he did get us to the gig in style. Mind you, we did keep one eye on Brian, being convinced that was going to kill us all, being the tweaker-cracker he seemed to be. Our arrival in a luxury tour bus did create quite a lot of interest, especially from the Brats!
In retrospect, I guess you could say that we had Lady Luck on our side. Consider the alternative: We break down, in the desert, and do not get picked up by someone driving a luxury, fully loaded, air-conditioned, leather sofa-equipped bus. I, for one, could quite easily see the buzzards picking the rotting flesh off our crispy corpses, only to be discovered sometime later once our bleached bones could only be identified from medical records.
Two things quickly became clear:
- no-one had picked up the details of where the rearranged gig was being held, and
- we realised that Brian was a nutcase, hopped up on liquor and spaced out on Bolivian Marching Powder!
He spent the entire journey shouting at people on his mobile phone, ranting and raving like an angry, mad person. The guy was one crazy spaced out monkey! That being said, he did get us to the gig in style. Mind you, we did keep one eye on Brian, being convinced that was going to kill us all, being the tweaker-cracker he seemed to be. Our arrival in a luxury tour bus did create quite a lot of interest, especially from the Brats!
In retrospect, I guess you could say that we had Lady Luck on our side. Consider the alternative: We break down, in the desert, and do not get picked up by someone driving a luxury, fully loaded, air-conditioned, leather sofa-equipped bus. I, for one, could quite easily see the buzzards picking the rotting flesh off our crispy corpses, only to be discovered sometime later once our bleached bones could only be identified from medical records.
Tempe AZ
We arrived in Tempe at around 9PM, some 9 hours after we originally left San Diego. Davey made it about 90 minutes later.
The Phoenix gig was a late addition and due to the subsequent change from the Mason Jar, to the Wagon and Horses (or whatever the place was called) the turnout was smaller than expected. However, the ones who did turn up all came to see the Skeptix, so it was regarded as a success nonetheless, albeit a virtual repeat of the San Diego experience.
Being all hot and tired from the journey, I sat down in a comfy chair, with the lovely Melissa, the Brat's manager and proceeded to doze as the young Chicagoans did their thing. I wasn't even going to bother watching The Skeptix, seeing as how there was no charged battery for the video camera. It was a very dark stage/venue, which is not good for digital photography, so I was going to have a drink, chill out, cool down and relax whilst they were on. Then I noticed the general melée around the stage...
We arrived in Tempe at around 9PM, some 9 hours after we originally left San Diego. Davey made it about 90 minutes later.
The Phoenix gig was a late addition and due to the subsequent change from the Mason Jar, to the Wagon and Horses (or whatever the place was called) the turnout was smaller than expected. However, the ones who did turn up all came to see the Skeptix, so it was regarded as a success nonetheless, albeit a virtual repeat of the San Diego experience.
Being all hot and tired from the journey, I sat down in a comfy chair, with the lovely Melissa, the Brat's manager and proceeded to doze as the young Chicagoans did their thing. I wasn't even going to bother watching The Skeptix, seeing as how there was no charged battery for the video camera. It was a very dark stage/venue, which is not good for digital photography, so I was going to have a drink, chill out, cool down and relax whilst they were on. Then I noticed the general melée around the stage...
Meanwhile, back on the stage, I was concerned for Snotty's welfare. With his gimpy leg and all of the fans swarming around, all it needed was for one of them to grab him and the rest to push forward, and his leg would be history. I tried to put myself in a position between the crowd and him, whilst also trying to keep them off the drum kit at the same time. I'd never tried my hand at stagehand, but I quite enjoyed myself, actually, throwing punks off the stage. But, it was all good-natured and they were just out to have a good time and have some fun. I don't hold with kicking the shit out of young kids who are just trying to enjoy themselves.
Sporadic fighting broke out in the crowd and abruptly the gig seemed to end. Drunk and in a strop, the Skeptix guitar player stormed off stage. The rest of the band began playing the next number, not realising they were minus a guitarist. Looking round, they saw the empty space where he had once stood, wondering where he was. The crowd had, by this time, stopped fighting and were also now staring at the vacant slot on the stage. Just then, the missing member exited the toilet, to find everyone in the building staring at him. Regaining the stage, he plugged in his guitar lead and energetically began playing. Embarrassingly, he had forgot to switch the amp back on. Such was the gig.
The, by now, ritual post-gig party, was tonight hosted in a trailer park, somewhere outside Phoenix. This would be my first ever experience of a trailer park and it is just how I imagined. Weirdly, the party's host was the brother of the skinhead, who had been fighting at the gig. They had been fighting each other! I can't explain. It must be the heat of the desert.
I spent the next few hours with Max and Rick of the Brats, discussing all manner of deep and meaningful topics and generally putting the world to rights. Somewhere down the line the alcohol all disappeared and the party fizzled out around dawn.
Click here for the next bit
The, by now, ritual post-gig party, was tonight hosted in a trailer park, somewhere outside Phoenix. This would be my first ever experience of a trailer park and it is just how I imagined. Weirdly, the party's host was the brother of the skinhead, who had been fighting at the gig. They had been fighting each other! I can't explain. It must be the heat of the desert.
I spent the next few hours with Max and Rick of the Brats, discussing all manner of deep and meaningful topics and generally putting the world to rights. Somewhere down the line the alcohol all disappeared and the party fizzled out around dawn.
Click here for the next bit
