Seattle

The morning of the Seattle screening started much like the Portland screening, with Charlie’s alarm going off. Within 20 minutes, we were both loading equipment into the van. In the lobby, Tucker, Nils, Jeff and Corman were up and working on various projects. I wondered if I was the only one who had to practically punch himself in the balls to make it out of bed in the morning.

I gassed up the two vans, downed an energy drink, and typed the Seattle hotel into the GPS. The drive up the I-5 was exactly what I expected. It poured rain the entire way. Nils called me around half way through the three hour drive to ask what mile marker I was at. I swore those bastards were taking bets on how slow I was driving.

During the drive, Corman made a mention of blood-sugar. It reminded me of the best call-in-sick message I have ever received. Back when I worked night shift at a shitty newspaper job, call ins were a nightly occurrence. It ranged from “I’m sick” to “I’m in jail” to “I’ve got my period.” One night, I checked and there was a message from one of our few normal workers, John. He was a super nice 30-something guy who lived alone in an apartment. I had never known him to miss a shift. The message went:

Hi, this is John. I’m not feeling well. My blood-sugar level is really low. I’m going to stay home and eat some sandwiches. I’ll call you tomorrow before work and let you know how I feel.

I laughed for 20 minutes straight at the message, and played it for everyone at work. I mean, a) he wasn’t diabetic. b) why would he eat sandwiches for low blood sugar? C) Why sandwiches?And not just one sandwich? And how many sandwiches are we talking? d) Was he really going to stay in all night and eat sandwiches? e) Why would it take him 24 hours to figure out if he’ll be okay? f) What happens if his blood sugar still felt low? Would he double his sandwich intake the next night?

The sky stopped pissing sometime before we hit the hotel in Seattle. Everyone from Jeff’s van was relaxing in the lobby while Dave checked us in. No way I was more than 15 minutes behind.

The Seattle show posed a new set of challenges.  We had the experience from Portland under our belts, but we didn’t have time on our side. We headed straight for the theater. The plan was to get there, drop off all the equipment, and then I would hit the UPS store for the swag shipment by myself. The Seattle screening was double the size of Portland, which meant double the amount of boxes to pick up.

We arrived at the theater around 4:30 pm. The movie was to start rolling at 7 pm on the dot. That didn’t leave us much time. I was extra nervous because the UPS phone number had been busy since we arrived in Seattle around 2 pm. If they were closed, we were fucked. Ben jumped out of the car when we pulled up to the theater. Charlie and I took the van into the back alley to find a parking spot. I decided that I would grab one of the heaviest bags to get it out of the way. We walked all the way down the alley, and back around the block to the theater’s front door. Ben was standing there. “Front door is locked,” he said.

“Fuck,” I said, dropping the duffel bag. We waited outside, knocking on the door and calling the contact number for ten minutes. Some fans were already talking to Corman about the screening. They said they’d be at the bar next door. It was getting close to 5 pm, and now I was really sweating about the UPS shipment.  The place was twenty minutes away, and that’s not with Seattle’s rush hour traffic. Charlie and Corman said that they’d wait with the boxes at the back door while I headed across town. I carried the heavy-ass bag around back. We unloaded everything in the alley. They helped me fold the remaining seats down, and I sped off.

The first ten minutes of the drive weren’t that bad, but then I hit gridlock. I was moving three feet per minute, and panicking like crazy. The UPS number was still busy. Worse yet, there was no where else to go. These roads were crammed shoulder to shoulder with commuters, and I was stuck right in the middle of it. I tried my best to calm my nerves. I turned on the radio as a distraction, but quickly shut it off because it only pissed me off more. The only mild relief was to swear at everyone and everything from inside the van — that, and punching the dashboard.

I finally pulled up to the UPS store at 5:50pm. The show was an hour away. Luckily we had some swag bag overs from the Portland showing back at the theater. Corman was busy laying those out on the seats. I waited five minutes at the UPS front desk, and gave them my order. The guy came out with a giant cart full of boxes, and brought another cart full a minute later. The shipment was still under Jeff’s name, and the guy was hesitant about me signing off on them. “Look man,” I said. “I’ve got to be somewhere 5 minutes ago, and since I don’t have a time machine, it would be a huge help if you could just let me sign off on these. If you want to call my boss go ahead, but one way or another I’m loading the boxes up.” He handed over the signing pad with a frown,. I wheeled the boxes to my van parked in the handicap space out front. As I was tossing the boxes in, Jeff called my cell phone. It was just past 6 pm.

“Where are you?”

“I’m just loading the boxes now.”

“Loading them up? We need you here now. Get moving.”

Once everything was inside, I reset the GPS, and shifted into gear. I peeled out, heading back toward the theater. Much like the drive out, the drive back into downtown Seattle was smooth sailing for the first ten minutes. I was cruising at 10-20 over the speed limit, and actually gained some time according to the GPS’s 25 minute estimate. Then, just like on the way out, the drive slowed down to crawl when I was halfway. Fucking bumper-to-bumper traffic. Corman called to get my eta, and I told him about fifteen more minutes. He was out of breath, so I knew they were going full tilt on their end.

The good news was that to my right there was an empty 3+ person HOV lane. I was alone in the van, and I have no idea how HOV lanes were policed. They don’t have these where I’m from. I figured most likely a cop would stake out a position and bust vehicles with one or two people in them. At worst, they might have some fancy cameras to catch violators. But fuck it, I was running late, and it was worth the risk. I gunned the gas, and switched into the HOV lane. I sped past hundreds upon hundreds of cars going well over the speed limit. The boxes bounced around in the back, and my hands were white-knuckled on the wheel. When I reached the Evergreen Point Bridge which spans over Lake Washington, the HOV lane ended, and it was back to two lane gridlock. At least it was moving a little quicker this time. Despite all the stress, it was a cool moment as I drove across the bridge. The sun lit up the jagged skyscrapers in the distance and sparkled off the soothing waters of Lake Washington. The juxtaposition between my current state and the state around me allowed me to get outside my head. I had no template for this scenario. Everything around me, the environment, my purpose, my disposition were all foreign. I was entirely out of my comfort zone. I used the time to calm my nerves by gaining perspective and get in the most functional mindset possible. I called Corman and told him I’d be at the back door in seven minutes.

I pulled up, and pounded on the door. Corman kicked it open. We hauled the boxes to the front of the large theater. Even Dave, our tour manager, was carting around boxes.  Nils wandered into the theater a moment later and he was right in there with us stashing swag bags on each seat. Corman was running last minute audio adjustments. I set up promo t-shirts for after the movie on a table. Somehow, someway, we managed to get everything prepped with about 3 minutes to spare.  Jeff walked in and seemed surprised it was ready to go. “Good job, Canada” he said, as he walked passed me.

Bill Dawes and Charlie came into the theater after a successful first attempt of filming outside. Dawes was running some improvised material, and Charlie was very excited about what he caught. Jeff announced he was letting the audience in. We tied up all the loose ends, and the crowd started pouring through the door.  Before long everybody had a seat and a swag bag.

Jeff stationed me in the theater to start the show. Tucker popped his head in at the back of the theater. Bill announced his entering and the place erupted. It was like Hulk Hogan walking to the ring in the late 80′s.

When Tucker was done saying his bit, the lights dimmed, and the opening scene boomed through the theater’s speakers. The crowd ate up the first gag, and when the title screen flashed across the screen, everyone cheered. I sat down on my chair and soaked in the moment. Goosebumps ran up my arm. For the first time, I had real evidence that what we were doing was actually making a difference in people’s lives. There is a weird component to the human psyche I haven’t quite figured out: the hater mentality.  I get that Tucker is a polarizing figure and his brand of humor is designed to piss people off. But the amount of energy people invest into despising somebody else’s effort is really disturbing. The worst thing anyone can do to art or expression is ignore it. Yet, these people take substantial time out of their lives to spit vile hatred to people they don’t even know. I can only imagine what kind of turmoil stirs inside them. But as the audience’s shouts died down, I had nothing but positive energy pumping through my veins. Hundreds of people were laughing and we hadn’t even done an ounce of press yet. This was grass roots. This was the something special before it was recognized as something special.

While the movie played, I spent my time running four blocks back and forth to get dinner menus, put everyone’s orders in, and then bring the food back.  When I brought it into the bar, the staff said we couldn’t eat it in there. Nobody listened and we ate anyway. Tucker and Nils played beer pong and trash talked each other. Tucker told me to go sing O’Canada at the top of my lungs in front of the bar. I bought and chugged a couple of beers instead before heading back into the theater.

When the movie ended, the theater gave it an impromptu standing ovation. Tucker, Nils and Dawes came in for the Q&A, which was hilarious for off-the-cuff material — a testament to the natural wit among these guys. When they finished, I handed out t-shirts. Everybody seemed to be having a good time despite having to stand in a very long line. Once the theater was empty, Corman, Charlie, Jeff and I packed up the equipment and brought it to the van. Tucker, Nils and Bill headed next door to the bar. Dozens of fans had also spilled into the bar ready to get their drink on.

After I locked up the van with everything put away, I walked back around to the bar. A guy in his early twenties was talking to a buddy on his cell phone, “dude, I just met Tucker Max. Like, shook his hand, and took a picture, and got him to sign my book. He’s hanging out in the bar… Yes THE Tucker Max.”

I took a deep breath and stepped into the mayhem. Swarms of people filled the bar, but it wasn’t hard to find the epicenter that was our table. Nils had filled the surface with pitchers of beer, and Tucker stood nearby talking, joking and taking pictures with the endless flow of fans. Most of the guys were especially weird. Some would stand back in groups watching from a few feet away. They were speculating on how to approach Tucker and what to say. Others were right up in his face saying “dude, you’re the man.” The weird girls came in two flavors too. Some just wanted to flirt and get a picture. The other kind were desperately vying for attention. Their body language toward Tucker was “please fuck me,” and toward one other it was “fuck off you stupid bitch.”

As the night progressed and people got drunk, the dynamic intensified. There were four or five girls left in the running for Tucker. The rest had turned their attention elsewhere. Some were talking to Nils and getting verbally torn apart. A few even trickled down to the rest of the crew. If I go to a bar back home, a girl or two might approach me. But I can assure you, under no circumstances, do I have multiple females hanging off every word I say. I could hardly turn around without someone talking to me. I couldn’t wait to get back home and tell everyone how cool I was.

Charlie Hoehn came up to me at some point with a look of deep concern on his face. “If a dude buys you a shot is that gay?”

“That’s pretty gay. Is that what happened to you?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“Kinda dirty.”

“So what did you say to him after doing the shot?”

“Oh no. I didn’t do the shot. I turned it down.”

“Oh then you’re good dude. That’s not gay at all. A cock in the face is only gay if you put it in your mouth.”

Charlie went back to flirting with his group of twelve girls. Tucker was talking to a girl and motioned me over.  He told me that she had taken a bus all the way from Calgary to see the movie. Pretty impressive. That’s a helluva drive.  I tried to commend her on her journey but it was tough to talk over Tucker making fun of my shorts.

There was one girl, appropriately dubbed Elvira, who was especially intent on getting Tucker’s attention. Her face was caked with white make-up that made her look like a gothic china doll. She was hammered and not making much sense.

I sat down at the table with Nils and Jeff. There were a couple of girls that were seemingly normal sitting at the table. Of course, there was also an awkward, sweaty dude who according to Nils was the “After” picture of meth addiction. Staring at this guy’s wolf howling at the moon t-shirt — worn unironically — I had to agree. The guy made the mistake of topping his beer off from one of Nils’ jug, and before he could so much as take a sip Nils pounded his gigantic fists onto the table. “TAKE OFF THAT WOLF SHIRT!” He bellowed loud enough to be heard over the music and background chatter. “TAKE OFF THAT WOLF SHIRT!” I joined in and by the fourth utterance everyone in a ten foot radius was in on the chant. The guy tried to laugh it off, but ancient democratic principles dictate that one cannot argue in the face of a screaming majority. He flashed his rotten tooth grin and pulled his shirt off. The bartender, having heard the commotion, came over and told him to put the shirt back on. Nils aided the process with a fresh “PUT ON THAT WOLF SHIRT” chant.

Another girl at the table was ripping on the meth kid. I made small talk with her until Jeff came up and fired me. “She’s too hot for you to talk to. I may re-hire you in the morning but for now you’re fired.” I said I understood and gave up my seat to go talk to our tour manager Dave who had found himself a quiet corner. Having been in the business for over two decades, he’d seen his fair share of partying. Always calm, prepared and professional it was apparent why he was hired for the job. As we talked, I noticed Corman standing at the bar with  a shot of whiskey in hand and two girls making out in front of him. Charlie was on the dance floor ripping it up with his harem of women. I got up to dish out some trademark groin thrusts on the dance floor but had to stop before the females rioted from an over abundance of awesomeness.

Many drinks later, I saw Tucker, Nils, Jeff and Dave head out the front door. I rounded up Corman and told him it was time to head back. I couldn’t find Charlie. I figured maybe he had gone outside with the first group. As I stepped into the warm Seattle night air, I was not prepared for the insanity waiting for me outside. In fact, had I possessed a PhD in dealing with insanity, I would have been vastly under prepared.

The first sight my eyes were drawn to was Elvira in a crumpled heap beside the van Jeff was driving. I learned later she’d tried to take a swing at Tucker — the first of many swings at people that night. She was squirming on the ground and wailing incomprehensibly. I walked over and tried to help her up but she was beyond help. The guys in the van were laughing at me like this was Tuesday for them. Meanwhile my facial expression was struggling to find the proper tone of disbelief. They told me to leave her be and to stop being so nice. My brain was having trouble processing what was going on. Another girl was tugging on my arm asking me to drive her back to the hotel. Jeff and Tucker told me which girls to bring back, and which girls to leave behind before they drove off.

Corman yelled at the girl tugging on my arm to fuck off. I deduced he’d had a fair amount of whiskey. Another car pulled up with the two nice girls from earlier who I had to give directions to the hotel. I went up to their passenger window to say hello. Before I could speak two sentences the other girl was back tugging on my arm asking why Corman was so mean to her. I turned around to talk to her, and when I turned back Corman was pissing on the passenger door of the girls’ car, in front of a crowded bar, in the middle of a street filled with people. My brain was short circuiting with laughter. I waited for Corman to finish his business, kindly requested the girls drive up a few feet away from the puddle, and gave them the directions. When I turned back, Corman had a sharpie out and was drawing a dashed line across another girl’s neck. As he finished he reached into his pocket. “Ben,” I yelled, “keep that knife in your pocket. Now is not the time for murder. Too many witnesses.”

Elvira, now on her feet, stumbled back into the picture. Her face was melting off from her acid tears and she was a complete wreck. She had a high heel shoe in each hand and, bare-footed, proceeded to beat Corman with her heels for being “an asshole like Tucker Max.” Then she fell over again, and we all got a classy butt-shot of her thong when her dress rode up above her waist. I tried once again to restore some dignity to this woman, but she was hating everyone and everything via her unfortunate upbringing manifested through violent swings from her high heels.

As I stood there with a girl yelling at me to take her in the van, with Corman contemplating murder, with Elvira crawling on her hands and knees swearing at her friends who were swearing back at her, I looked up passed the street lights’ glare at the blackened sky. I thought that at that moment, among the almost seven billion people on the planet, there was not a place on earth more chaotic than this very street. War torn countries didn’t have shit on Seattle. I couldn’t even begin to understand what was happening around me, but as I tuned out insanity’s soundtrack I realized I wouldn’t trade positions with anyone else. It was the perfectly potent glimpse at base humanity, the effects of alcohol, and the accelerated revelations that come with mixing the two.

I’m a huge proponent of honest human relations. I think societal constructs control so much of how we act and what we say that it’s refreshing to see what we all boil down to when inhibitions are removed. As self important and individualistic as we want to believe we are, deep down we’re all comprised of the same fundamental building blocks. Our lives and destinies are the products of how we manage these drives. We can’t escape the common language we all know rests within. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in individualism and revile communal hippie mentality. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be busting my ass on the Beer in Hell tour of all things. But that’s what makes success and human achievement so special, we’re all capable of getting where we want to be. It’s mainly a matter of how hard you want to work for it.

“Griffin, let’s go.” Corman shouted.

“Where the shit is Charlie? We can’t leave without him.”

“He’s fine, man. He’s in good hands. Let’s get out of here.” We walked to to the van, and the arm-tugging girl followed along with us. She ditched her friends to come, a move I explained to both her and her friends that she would regret. Maybe she would regret it when she flashed Corman her boobs for a free book, maybe she would regret it when she was randomly pounding on hotel room doors, or maybe she would regret it later on when she pissed in a hotel stairwell, but one way or another, and trust me on this one without getting into the actual details, she did not leave the hotel a happy woman.

Corman is a huge reason for my presence on this tour. Way back when he was one of the first people to give my early writing some attention. As I navigated the Seattle roads I reminded him of when he said my writing might have some potential. “I didn’t say it was good,” he said. “I was just happy that somebody finally listened to my goddamn advice.”

“One and the same,” I replied. I can always tell a good writer by his whiskey consumption. It makes me worry about my own abilities since I’m more of a clear liquor type guy. Corman is a born writer, and we’ve spent many hours discussing the subject. Through the course of this tour we’re bound to spend many more.

I hardly slept that night. In the morning I drove a group to the airport before heading back home for four days rest prior to beginning the tour’s main leg. On one hand I was exhausted and terrified for what the next 5 weeks held. On the other hand, I was absolutely exhilarated for the opportunity to do something completely off the charts. We didn’t even have the full crew or the tour bus yet, but already the last two shows were beyond comprehension. I knew the coming weeks wouldn’t be pretty. At least they wouldn’t be mundane. In the Griffin Bible complacency towards life would be the greatest sin. Sobriety the second — though that’s a bit redundant.