Sick and tired of all things hot dog/hamburger, my Gorge crew from this past weekend went begging me for pizza with a view. I had about 15 people at my house upon our return from yet another yearly ritual: Dave Matthews Band at the Gorge. We were tired, hungry, and no one wanted to clean or cook, so off to Katie Downs we went. The sun poked out just as we began to cruise Ruston, and the beer poured freely as we waited for half-priced appetizers to settle our bellies. Eventually a break to the bathroom was in order, and off I went to reminisce whilst visiting the porcelain throne.



Fully equipped with three RVs and a handful of tents, there was no shortage of comfort or friendly company. Bandito Betty was in tow for the whole weekend, and even Jessica Corey-Butler made a short camping appearance Saturday night. Everyone pitched in, got along, and had a blast. Life. Was. Good.



As some of you may remember, DMB lost a member a week or so ago. LeRoi Moore, Saxophonist for the band, had passed away due to health issues after an early summer ATV accident. Our community of fans was in mourning, and this was the weekend to show the band our condolences. Mid set, and in between songs, Friday night’s audience gave the band a heartfelt “LeRoi” chant and spectacular glow stick show. I know, I know — glow sticks. It sounds incredibly rave-ish and stupid, but there in the moment you were in awe. The band completely stopped and watched with tears in their eyes. For about 10 minutes it was as if the band heard us as they sat in silence and absorbed what we were telling them — that we have not forgotten, and never will. This last-minute audience tribute prompted the band to change the planned set list around and treat us to a classic tune — one that LeRoi had a crucial part in: “#41.” They were listening to us, and we were definitely listening to them. I get goose bumps again as I write this. It was absolutely surreal.



All three nights a photo tribute was played during the encore break for our dear friend LeRoi. Images were displayed on the big screen behind the stage of his life growing up. An instrumental and predominately LeRoi-induced song was piped over the speakers: “#34.” (Yes, another numbered song.) Even one-night-show-goers were balling their sad little eyes out. It was quite the scene. Usually the sight of grown men crying makes me laugh hysterically and want to kick them in the balls, but this was no laughing matter. For that single moment in time, I left behind all Steph DeRosa anger issues and let the guys be sad. But just for that moment, and never again. Pussies.



This year past keyboardist Butch Taylor took a hiatus, and the amazing guitarist Tim Reynolds stepped in. Timmy is THE MAN, and I always bring an extra pair of panties when I watch him play. Either that or I don’t wear any and just bring napkins. It’s gross, I know — but it’s true, the man is downright genius. There were many, many times during the three shows I attended last weekend where all I could do was pick my jaw up off the ground and say “Oh shiiiiiit!”



A Saturday morning 10 a.m. power hour took place, and had half the crew passed out by noon. What’s a power hour, you ask? Just in case you’re not a 19 year-old fraternity member, I’ll fill you in: A power-hour is when you take a shot of beer every 60 seconds for one hour. There is music played and the song changes on the minute in order to let players know when it’s time to drink. It’s a game of musical chairs for the weekend alcoholic in all of you. We only had one puker who is now owner of the endearing nickname “Baby Lisk.” Our hardcore crew actually played a version called “Power one-and-a-half-hour,” ’cause that’s how we roll. Plus there was nothing else to do, so why not drink?



Sometime during the weekend Bandito and crew decided it would be a good idea to jump off a 70-foot cliff into the Columbia River. For the most part, jumpers typically return unscathed — but not the three jumpers in our group — Bandito being the worst casualty. In order for you to realize the amount of bodily Bandito damage, I’d have to show you a nude photo I have of her. And that shit’s gonna cost you a lot of money that you don’t have. So instead I will show you what I can. The bruising travels from the length of her arm, across her entire back, and onto her buttocks — the buttocks being the most injured. She started the jump out fine, yet somehow managed to land on her back. Knocked the wind right out of her. Our friend Leo had to pull her in until she could breathe. Scary shit.



Pappi Swarner suggested we call her Black and Blue Betty from now on. She didn’t find that funny.



This morning I dropped off my second family at the airport, teary eyed and missing them already. I get so tired by the time the trip is over. I’m cranky, exhausted, and bitter that it’s coming to an end. With maturity nipping at my heels, I say there will be no “next year.” But who the hell am I kidding? I love these people. After all, it’s not where you are but who you’re with that really matters.

LINK: More photos in the Photo Hot Spot