Zero hour is approaching. I am no longer a resident of San Diego. Really, now, I'm a resident of nowhere. I'm staying at my parents' place in Palm Springs and everything I own is either in my car or on the floor behind me.
"Isn't that depressing," Papa asked, "Being 28 and having only a carload to your name?"
"I think it's pretty exciting, actually," I replied.
...and it is. Exciting, I mean. Look to my previous post for my exact reasoning. He doesn't understand, I suppose, because he has worked hard many times to acquire loads of shit only to have it taken away in divorces. Three of them. So he's all about his shit. Understandably. He didn't have shit growing up, he worked hard for his shit, and has had it taken away, one-half at a time, by three fleeing women. If I were him I'd be holding onto my shit (and my current wife) as tightly as possible.
Moving on.
Last days in SD were at the same time wonderful and terrible. Let's get the shitty out of the way so I can tell you about the magic mushrooms.
It sucks to leave a place that you, a) love, b) have a lot of dear friends at, and c) don't have a super-fucking-cool reason for leaving: "Why are you leaving a paradise of sun and beach and relaxation and beautiful women who want to have sex with you? Did you get a job as a cabana boy at Hugh Hefner's Dallas Retreat?"
It sucks to have to say bye to every one of those people you love. They'll miss me. That's one person. I'm gonna miss dozens. Son of a bitch, this is gonna blow.
Finally, it sucks to move. The only real benefit is the "purge" aspect. You realize how much crap you have that you don't need. The downside is the stress, the selling of extra stuff, and the packing itself, which, if you are like me, is done at the last possible second the night before you are supposed to visit your folks in Palm Springs and which leads your father to get pissed because you didn't get there fast enough. But it's all done. The Roomies have been left with an epic mess to clean up, the mess itself about 20% moving mess and 80% going-away-party mess. More on the party later. Chronologically, there was funner stuff before the party.
On to the good times.
Sunday. Woke up really fucking early for a garage sale that was pretty much a failure. Thank goodness I was up at 7, since the best customer all day got there precisely at that time. Took a quick nap, took care of some business, ate a burger, blah, blah, and then!!! Jason got home from partying hard at Pride, and he, Nick and I set off for Windansea beach to eat some 'shrooms. We split an eighth three ways and went for a pitcher of beer at The Shack to wait it out. Then...
Holy Shit.
This was the first time for Nick and I (though I did a lot of acid in my early teens), and all I can say is that if you've not done 'shrooms before, hurry the fuck up and eat some. The setting is key, good company is crucial, and if that is settled competently, fun is most assuredly going to happen. Fascination, laughter, joy, and a little bit of confusion. We took a case of beer, a pipe, some nugs of reefer, a pack of cigarettes, and set off up the beach. It was like we were 10 years old, exploring a whole new world. We found some sort of phosphorescent glowing blue sand in these tide pools that we stuck to our faces so we were glowing blue (can anyone tell me what the fuck that shit was? I'm almost positive it was science of some kind, I'd hate to think we were all that high), we meandered, and talked and logged some serious Roomie bonding time. I will miss those guys. The few people we came across that night must have been startled to see three shirtless grown men with cuffed jeans and glowing noses wearing capes. Did I mention the capes? We had capes. All three of us. Like I said, it was a blast.
Then, the going away party. Many showed up. Many. There were some tears shed, there was laughter, there were two live music acts on the front lawn: The Wrong Trousers...
...seen here in Balboa Park, where I first fell in love with them, and Trent Hancock...
...seen here on the night of.
It was a fantastic evening, and the mood was jovial, and even the cops that moved the music indoors weren't total pricks. People brought CDs for my road trip, and I got a pop-up book of sex, and I even had a confessional booth set up with a camera so people could leave me a video bye-bye. Haven't watched those yet as they'll probably make me sad. Er. Sadder than I already am.
But it's a sadness tempered by the excitement of a new thing.
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