The Road To Carnegie Hall

Trust Your Mechanic

"Trust your mechanic to plug your hole.

Trust your mechanic to make more somewhere else...

...He tightens and loosens a few spare parts,

One things fixed another falls apart.

And the rich eat you!"

-Jello Biafra

Four years ago as we swaggered out of a mini-mart in Newberg on our precarious journey through the two-lanes known as Dundee on our way to McMinnville our "van" did nothing but make a light clicking noise when the ignition was turned. I had only gotten a drivers license in December of 2001. Up until that time I had always used mass transit, or a bicycle and always worked at jobs that allowed commuting either way. Near the end of my tenure at Hopewell House, a hospice where i was one of three dietary coordinators, it was made mandatory that we all have valid licenses. I knew the end was near. At any rate, my knowledge of cars is zilch but thankfully we had a secret weapon. His name is Jeff Payne. We called our friend Myron LeRoy, who came and fetched us and our gear so we could get to McMinnville on time for our gig at GVB. Once we arrived we loaded in and saw our friend Jeff setting with his wife Debbie, one of my oldest friends, and their daughter Megan. I told Jeff the situation and his response was, "Sounds like the starter to me." So he got in his car, drove to Newberg, found a part installed it, and had the van to us before our show ended. Here was a man with a passion for what he does that I could totally relate to even though I had no concept of the mechanics it entailed. (Pun intended) That "van" ran for six more months until another "van" replaced it.

Two vans later, three years on, and Jeff is no longer living in Oregon. We had once entrusted our old roadie Timmel's truck to Jay at Jay's Garage and figured we'd give him a go. Three dates into our east coast tour with Pink Martini our transmission started hemorrhaging, forcing us to lose a day off and crucial travel time to the next gig after Knoxville, Tenn.

Once we returned from the tour we took the "van" to Jay's to ask him to check it out and consider splitting the cost with us of the repair in Knoxville since it seemed a bit fishy that we had a leak at all. He did this without too much bellyache. But four months later it's clear the transmission needs replacing again after just barely six months.

First he said it couldn't be done. Then he said that he could fix it and it would be cheaper then getting a new "van". We had left our PA speakers in the "van" being assured by Jay everything would be safe on his lot. Weeks passed. Suddenly the van couldn't be fixed and was being parked behind his garage on the street and we needed to come get it. When we arrived t0 do so nothing of our gear was still inside of it. He had removed the transmission completely and not replaced it as well as the front axle. The vehicle was now rendered useless and had to be towed to my driveway.

The police were sympathetic to our dilemma, but sadly/stupidly there was nothing they could do without a contract between us and Jay's Garage. Jay certainly didn't go out of his way to help rectify anything in the situation. When we mentioned the speakers he had the arrogance to ask if we had left it unlocked. He had the only key, so you tell me if we did Jay. I realize we should never have left our gear in the vehicle now, but we were used to trusting our mechanic.

I wish there was some kind of conclusion, but there really isn't. We had to buy another "van" after all was said and not done. Alas, another cliche comes to life.

Life In A Fabergé Egg (In Tennessee)

The Historic Tennessee Theatre is a grand space in Knoxville. During Pink Martini’s set China Forbes commented, “It’s like we’re inside a Fabergé egg!” PM had never played there before and were required to sell so many tickets to insure the space, which they were capable of doing. Knoxville seemed quiet and a little rough on the edges.

The crowd was enthusiastic about Sneakin’ Out and gave us a rousing standing ovation at the end of our set. Three hours later we were checking into a dank fleabag known perversley as The Executive. The transmission we had replaced two weeks ago was leaking and had to be re-repaied before we could leave town for the next gig. So much for our day-off. At this point my sleep apnea was so bad that short rides were cause for napping, such was my deprivation. This hovel was so unsavory that Cheddar actually slept on the couch rather than risk sheets from another dimension. The rooms all had patio-type sliding glass doors that went out onto useless tiny concrete patios that looked unto the main highway. The sliding doors themselves had plastic white gobular appliques on them resembling something very similar to ejaculate. Charmed, I’m sure!

It took a better part of a day to get the tranny re-repaired. We had taken it to Jay’s Garage, a reputable repair station in Portland, (reputation isn’t everything, see the “Trust Your Mechanic” entry for details), but it was leaking like a sieve and required another $300.00 dollars of repair.

Cheddar and I decided to explore downtown Knoxville. An open section in the middle of town reminded us of the park blocks without any park. As we were approaching a street corner a woman in a four-door sedan rolled down her window and shouted to us,

“Hey!! Can you hear that?” She turned up the music on her car stereo. It was then I made out the strains of Sneakin’ Out playing “Paint It, Black”. She was listening to us! “I just called my niece in Portland! She had never heard of you! But she has now!” “You were awesome last night!” Her light changed and she sped through it. Mike and I just looked at each other dumbfounded.