Hey y’all, thanks a lot for clicking - hopefully someone in Seattle can help me out on this. It’s been crazy lately: you wouldn’t believe it. My daughter’s first concert was last night — Fleetwood Mac. Had to drive her and her stepsister to Oakland and back, didn’t get to Sonoma until midnight and then had to drive straight to LA for a goddam dentist appointment I should’ve cancelled but you know, I forgot. Doesn’t matter ‘cuz it was so worth it to make sure her first concert was a good one and that everything went smoothly. And since it’s Thanksgiving Sunday we gave ourselves hours and hours to get there and the two of them - they’re 15 and 16 — they’re just thrilled, y’know? Thrilled in a way you and I probably haven’t been for a long, long time.
When I drop them off in the mad rush of a stadium event I can’t help being a little scared — all those random, disjointed images of crowds and drugs and over-friendly strangers every parent’s familiar with… Satan’s little highlight reel. But heading out all I can see are throngs of women from every generation — teenagers to grandmothers — at least half of them wearing lace shawls and I start to relax a little. It’s Fleetwood Mac for Chrissakes…
Images of some deranged fuckwit with an AR-15 didn’t pop-up for at least fifteen minutes, I’m proud to say, and I banished them pretty quickly. Fuck those people — I’m not going to let them ruin my life. Besides, there’s only so much hate you can give to some crazy SOB pulling the trigger. It’s the evil bastards making sure that crazy fucker can just keep pulling the trigger again and again and again though… they’re the ones that stuck in my head for awhile. Trust me, fatherly revenge fantasies against loonies-with-guns don’t hold a candle to the ones against NRA executives. I spent a second or two imagining shooting a bunch of old white men in suits in the groin, like any decent parent would, but then quickly dismiss it. I’m the guy who puts signs on freeways after all: If I lost my child to a stranger they helped arm, trust me, there wouldn’t even be an NRA after a month, and I wouldn’t need a stinking gun to do it.
Oh yes I could… yes I could.
When the concert’s over they come flowing out in a tide of happy beautiful lace-shawled gold dust women, ecstatic because it was all so spectacular and incredible. And seeing them so happy in a way I’ve so long forgotten makes me feel happy in a way they’ll never know until years from now when they have kids of their own.
They started out with The Chain which we all agreed was a bold move but a bit of a drag for latecomers. When I asked what was the best song they couldn’t say, but the best experience was Landslide and how everyone held up the flashlights on their phones which I couldn’t even imagine but told them about how it used to be Bic lighters. Then I said “I hate to be that guy but you know technically what she’s singing about is an avalanche...” and she groaned the way they do and said “Dad… don’t be that guy...” her voice a perfect deadpan of teenage condescension and we all laughed. While they named cuts off Rumours I played snippets in my head I’ve heard all my life but remembered then the way they sounded on vinyl when it first came out and I was… Jesus… I guess I was sixteen… and we’re flying down an empty freeway ablaze with light and to the left I can see the giant mechanical horse-like cranes in the Port of Oakland and the sound of the girls laughing, the glimpses of my youth and the way songs get passed like torches from generation to generation crystallizes into one of those perfect moments where everything in life just seems so fucking beautiful that the lights and the road begin to melt and swim as my eyes start welling up with grateful tears.
In Berkeley all the horror and bullshit return when I see Jamal’s still up but his name is crooked but still, not bad after two days. I can’t help thinking about Saudis and bonesaws and the grotesque parody of stupidity and evil we’re living under, but then I do the math and figure Jamal’s been seen at least 200,000 times now and if you add that to the one in LA that’s at least a million views so far, which ain’t bad for an hour or two of work and a nickel’s worth of paint and even if it doesn’t amount to a nickel’s worth of difference at least I can say I tried, you know? At least I can say I did something… and for awhile all the beauty and song and lace-shawled women are replaced with much darker images and aspirations that the ghost of Jamal Khashoggi haunts the evil bastards who killed him all the way to their stinking gold-plated graves.
Half an hour later going through Novato I look up and see this one’s still there on the hillside from this afternoon. It’d been left behind by whoever took it down in LA and I’d put it up there pretty much just to get rid of it and make room for the girls but then a couple of hours later the news comes that Russia’s started fucking with Ukraine again so it was unintentionally timely I suppose. I try to think of what’s next with Putin and the Ukraine but then figure fuck it: plenty of time for that on the road down to LA. Also the fog was moving in and I wanted to just concentrate on the road and listen to the girls talking and the sound of my daughter’s voice while I could.
Anyway, we didn’t get back to her mom’s house until midnight and I had to pretty much drive all night from there to LA to make this dentist’s appointment I should’ve cancelled but forgot as usual and since they charge you anyway I figured I might as well go for it and what the hell it was worth it for the concert, even though I didn’t hear a note of it. But then going over the grapevine at about five am the goddam check engine light goes on and while I’m pretty sure it’s just the catalytic converter, who knows it could be something else… Made the damn appointment though - hell yeah — and with an hour and a half to spare.
To cut a long story short I’m beat, not too sure about the van and just need someone in Seattle with a projector to shine Jamal Khashoggi’s image onto a 6’ x 6’ piece of whitewashed cardboard, trace and fill in the dark parts with a marking pen and then maybe thicken it up a bit with some paint. Then drive to Kobe Terrace Park, walk 150 feet and strap it to the fence that looks out on the 5 just before the tunnels. All I need is the guy’s face and his name really, but you can also add “Journalist” or whatever you want.
I know it sounds complicated but you don’t have to do every line - just the major ones - and you can attach it to the fence really easy just by duct-taping wire coat hangers to the edges and wrapping them in the fencing. You can strap it down with bungees if you want, but frankly it’s far enough from the roadway that you don’t really have to.
I figure between gas and motels etc. it’d cost me at least $350 to do it myself so that’s what I’m willing to pay you if you’ll do it for me. All I need for proof is a photo. (Yesler overpass is the easiest place to take it.) Kosmail me if you’re interested.
If you don’t mind I prefer that you use this sketch — it’s very easy to trace and paint and really captures the spirit of the guy. It was taken from this selfie he took when he was being shown the pressroom on his first day on the job at the Washington Post.
I’ll explain the rest of it later.
Rock on Gold Dust Women,
Freewayblogger