Dear David Lynch, I Get It Now

Back in February of this year, Jaz and I drove to Long Beach, WA for a GLITCHLETTE photo shoot. We weren’t exactly intending for it to be the album cover, but what we wound up with was so perfect that we knew it when we saw it, y’know what I mean?

The journey from Seattle is about 3.5 hours. Once you get off I-5, the landscape exhales the usual eeriness of western Washington’s rural areas. It’s easy to see why David Lynch chose the PNW for Twin Peaks. Winding roads cut through misty lowlands, old-growth forests, and drowsy logging towns that straddle the seams of here and there, where it feels like every tree portends your doom.

You are never a tourist here, not really. Only an outsider.

We stopped for gas in Montesano, pulling into an unassuming Chevron adjacent to a small motel-turned-shopping complex that housed a small consignment shop, with no branding or signage but a big “OPEN” sign. We’d been wanting to find a weapon or prop for the shoot, so we took a look before hitting the road again. I was partial to a chainsaw, but our only criteria was that the weapon looked “cursed”. Be careful what you wish for.

Shelley The Axe and The Shop With No Name

The shop was a hazardous shrine to chaos. Old dolls with barren eyes stared blankly across from gun racks. A sideways refrigerator box housed a pit of antlers and animal bones, serving as overflow for the dozens that hung from the ceiling. Tetanus was a constant threat, with rusty chainsaws and garden tools from various centuries enclosing the narrow aisles. Any remaining wall space not used for product display was filled with a mix of the rare and mundane. Vintage Elvis figurines next to singing fish, all for sale of course.

Among the weapons and tools was what I would lovingly describe as an abundant selection of axes, precariously propped against the wall, blades out, like a domino line of mini-guillotines for klutzy toes. There was one that drew my eye, with a bright red head, sturdy handle, and a suitable amount of wear and tear for authenticity. Jaz and I agreed.

“That’s the one.”

As we checked out, we made casual conversation with the elderly married couple who owned the place. They were surprisngly oridinary, eccentric only in their apparent unawareness of the gonzo shopping experience they’d curated.

And, they were oddly excited that I was buying the axe. The man beamed while he told me it was new to their inventory, and had just been brought in a few days prior by ‘some guy’. I zoned out the details as I perused the stickers at the counter, snagging one that said “BIG FOOT IS REAL AND I HELPED HIM COMMIT TAX FRAUD.” (Maybe you’ll see it on my laptop at the next show?)

We mentioned we’d be passing through town again the next day. They encouraged us to return and chimed, “we’ll be here!”

The woman laughed as she handed me the receipt. “Our business name isn’t even on here!” We gave it no thought.

As we pulled away, I opened Google Maps to mark the spot so we could find our way back the next day.

We named the axe Shelley (after Shelley Duvall, of course. RIP <3).

The Shoot at Long Beach

We arrived in Long Beach, checked into our hotel, and prepped for the shoot. We started around 10pm outside Marsh’s Free Museum, home to Jake the Alligator Man. We chose Marsh’s because the afterhours lighting used to be a mix of candy-colored LEDs and neon signs, but they must have dialed it down in recent years. It only compromised our vision a little bit, and we still got some cool shots, but the main event was next: shooting on the beach.

Long Beach is cool because in the winter, you’re allowed to drive directly onto the sand. So we did, parking about 75 feet from the shore, which we assumed was a safe distance. The tide was out, and it would stay that way, right?

We rolled onto the beach around midnight. The weather was awful. Low 40s, with brash gusts of wind and sheets of rain pouring sideways. My weather app showed a gale warning advisory, but we figured we could ignore it since we weren’t planning on getting on a boat or going swimming.

In hindsight, a bad call.

The shoot itself oscillated between fun and suffering, and most of the photos were unusable thanks to my frigid posture and shivering jaw. I mean, look at me, I was wearing pleather and a dress made of glorified tissue paper.

If I look terrified in the photo, it’s because I was. Not only was I like Velma without my glasses, but general visibility was limited, and I am a baby who’s afraid of the dark. Our only ways to break apart the stygian shroud of the storm around us were the car’s headlights and a tiny 6x3-inch lightbox. In the moment the shot was taken, I caught a glimpse of another cars headlights rapidly approaching us with purpose. They quickly turned to exit the shore, but Jaz caught the brief flash of mortal terror in my eyes.

Never Turn Your Back On The Ocean

After the shoot, we got back in the car and I tried my best to talk through labored exhales and chattering teeth. I put my glasses on, reunited at last with my prescription, and looked ahead.

“Hey, is it just me or is the water getting closer?”

It was.

Fast.

The ocean had surged its hands up the shore in a vulgar display of power. A wave was rapidly rushing towards us.

“Hey Jaz, we GOTTA GO like RIGHT NOW!” Jaz slammed the gas, and flipped a U, spiriting us away from the incoming wave just in time.

We didn’t stop to look back, heading straight for the hotel, erupting into maniacal, adrenaline-fueled laughter once we entered our room. I opened the weather app again to re-check the gale warning. I swiped right, and a second warning laughed in my face:

SLEEPER WAVE WARNING!

Whoops. My bad.

What is a Sleeper Wave?

Sleeper (or sneaker) waves are unpredictable surges that can rush up to 150 feet beyond the waterline without warning. Cold, fast, and violent, they can knock people down or drag cars into the sea. The typical safety adage is: Never turn your back on the ocean.

A quick search showed it only takes a foot of rushing water to float a sedan like Jaz’s. Even a split second longer and we would’ve been swept out to sea.

“These photos better be damn good!”

Neither of us slept that night. Since then, we’ve developed a healthy fear and reverent fascination with the ocean. She’s our God now. She let us live, and honestly I should probably dedicate the album to her.

The Uncanny Mystery of Shelley the Axe

On our way home, we followed through on our promise to the old couple and stopped at the same Chevron for gas, hoping to see what else we could find at the Shop with No Name.

The shop was closed, blinds pulled, obscuring what was (or wasn’t) inside.

“Didn’t they say they’d be open today?” Jaz asked.

I pulled up the pin I’d dropped on Google Maps to check their hours. The business wasn’t even listed as a consignment shop, but a permanently closed nail salon.

Turns out the Shop with No Name was actually the Shop That Didn’t Exist.

It was starting to feel like Shelley might be a cursed object. In the 24 hours since we’d bought it, we’d escaped a freak accident, and no longer had a way to explain where it came from. It could be a coincidence, our chances of being taken out by a sleeper wave were the same without the axe, but who’s to say its infernal aura didn’t contribute?

Whether the poltergeist plotted our demise or protected us from it is TBD. We’re terrified to get rid of the axe either way. It currently lives in the trunk of Jaz’s car, for safekeeping.

Life Imitates Art

In hindsight, we lived out the casual hubris of your typical slasher-flick protagonists: ignoring danger, dismissing local townsfolk,, and buying a clearly cursed object. (I’ve seen around 160 horror movies as of writing this post, so I really should know better).

The goal for the shoot was originally rooted in one murky vision: the final girl becomes the killer. While I think we nailed it, method acting was not our intended strategy.

ALL HAIL THE OCEAN. ALL HAIL SHELLEY THE AXE

Have you had a near-death experience?

I’d love to hear about it.Let’s commiserate!

–

Sleeper Wave info from NOAA