I’ve watched maybe a bit too much television in my lifetime. Ok. Truth time: I’ve watched enough television for all of our lifetimes. I’ve seen The Wire four times through; from Snot Boogie, to “How my hair look, Mike?”* Conversely, my perennial tour partner has never turned on a TV in all of her days. She must awake at 5am and listen to classical music while she perfects her Katas or something. So when we were cruising like Hot American Lead back across the border from the snow-swept Communist Haven just to the north of Washington state (I won’t mention any names, but it rhymes with “Canada”**), and I GENTLY insisted that we stop at one of the major shooting locations of the seminal 1990 David Lynch masterpiece, Twin Peaks, I can only describe the look on her face as “nonplussed.” To be fair, I had been referring to her as “Diane” for two and a half weeks at this point, back and forth across international borders, and part of what I’m assuming was one of the oceans (for those unfamiliar with Twin Peaks, A: what’s the matter with you, and B: “Diane” is Dale Cooper’s secretary, whom he speaks to throughout the show via his microcassette recorder). Anyway, we were in my car, and that fucker was going to Snoqualmie Falls to see the Great Northern, no two ways aboot*** it.
I raced the engine of my Subaru Forester like a madman, heading south from the border, just east of Seattle, winding through I-90 and the looming foothills of the Cascades, as the sun began to set behind us. I may, or may not, have screamed a few fuckwords into the windscreen, in my anguished rush to see the hallowed spot where Pete Martell discovered the body of Laura Palmer. “DUDE, calm DOWN,” my tour partner chided me. “We’ll get to see your TV show place. Jesus.” I would not be assuaged. If the sun went down before I got to Snoqualmie, I planned to wreck the car into the falls, just to teach her a lesson on the importance of television, and the role that she was unaware it was about to play in her art-laden, jazz-appreciating young life. “We may need to abandon the gear, so the car can go faster.”
We pulled into the parking lot of the Salish Lodge & Spa (or as I charmingly referred to it at that moment, “The Fucking Great Northern Oh My God We Made It Get Out of the Car What’s the Matter with You LET’S GO! MOVE!”) at the Magic Hour. I casually made my way down the concrete walkway that overlooks the falls, not, as some may contend, “running like a little boy who waited too long to pee,” and looked out over the sublime scene. The sun cascaded over the lodge and fell like summer gold on Valhalla. My tour partner wandered over to some dumb signs. “This was the first underground power plant in the U.S.,” she informed me. “And one of the oldest hydroelectric plants in the country.” Ugh. Diane, come ON. She couldn’t distract me with these quotidian matters. “They should take the signs down,” I mused, “and put up Laura’s prom photo, in memoriam.”
“Oh my god.”
“I know, right? It’s perfect.”
“You are insane.”
Maybe she had a smallish point. But it didn’t matter to me. I went to Twin Peaks. And it was perfect.****
* Spoiler alert: Mike shoots Snoop. Fuck you. You should’ve watched The Wire already.
** It was Canada.
*** Help. The Canadians have infected me with their communist rhetoric, and the weird way that they say words with “ou” in them.
**** There’s no real moral here. This is just a story about how I did something super badass. Actually, I guess “watch Twin Peaks” is the moral.