Just as nearly every year before, my family and I made the trek to the Tri-Cities (a far more rural and conservative environment than I'm used to) to visit my mother's family. I hardly ever visit home, so my mother was in full-on recon mode, asking me questions upon questions which I answered until I couldn't stand it any longer. Long car rides with my family are never pleasurable experiences. I feel claustrophobic, suffocated, and often at the end of my fuse. Headphones make these prolonged happenings a bit more bearable, though the music I listen to in such a situation bears no resemblance to the cheerful "To Grandmother's House We Go." To put it plainly, these trips never start off well.
After our arrival Wednesday night, my aunt, uncle, and my cousin Blair took us to a humorously tacky sports bar. Blair's brother, Brett, harassed my brother and I until we agreed to come to see his band play at another bar that minors had access to. He told me a bunch of "dumb punk bands" would probably be there, so I was mildly intrigued. Upon entering the grungy bar, Marcus, Blair, and I were surrounded by punk kids. I love the punks of the Seventies and the look of punk as seen at Balmain and Balenciaga for Spring 2011, but I was less than impressed with the punk scene here. In my opinion, scrawling "FUCK YOU" in sharpie upon your strategically torn button-up and being rude because another band does not operate the way you do does not make you cool. Perhaps I have little knowledge of modern-day punk culture, but it seemed that these Richland/Kennewick kids were full of shit. Honestly I do find anarchy to be quite interesting and even relatable, but the way it was expressed seemed contrived. I may be criticizing something I don't fully understand, but for some reason I didn't believe it for a second. The music was even more disappointing. The sound of the Ramones and the Sex Pistols is something I've come to love, but these bands largely utilized the less-than-brilliant techniques of NOISE and SCREAMING. I wasn't the biggest fan. Brett's band, Bessemer, which had no punk preoccupations and another exception were refreshing. The whole situation was exhausting and I slept wonderfully that night.
The next day was Thanksgiving of course. It was full of impatient hunger, typical family bickering, and visits to Grandma at the home she was just put in. While it was far from it, the holiday seems fairly uneventful looking back at it. Grandma complained of all the orange jello she had been eating and expressed her desire for a martini, but other than that, it was another day. After dinner, someone decided we should go bowling and I reluctantly agreed. I'm a terrible bowler, but somehow managed two strikes followed by a spare and another strike. Inconsistency is a specialty of mine. Passing out was not difficult that night.
Friday we left to my happiness. Another miserable car ride later, I was back in my freezing apartment, exempt from my mother's best attempts at regaining her imposed position and free of the constant stress of family interaction. Dorothy knew what she was talking about. Whatever it means to you, "There's no place like home."
Friday we left to my happiness. Another miserable car ride later, I was back in my freezing apartment, exempt from my mother's best attempts at regaining her imposed position and free of the constant stress of family interaction. Dorothy knew what she was talking about. Whatever it means to you, "There's no place like home."
Photos via style.com, imagineannie
