A quick and wonderful visit...

Suggested soundtrack: "Award Tour" by A Tribe Called Quest

San Diego!!
I'm picked up at the airport by Nick and RC, and we drive downtown to start drinking (I would technically be continuing to drink, but I'm not going to go into flight details here). Basic bar is the destination, a place that serves alcohol and oversized (and overpriced) pizza. We eat a pizza, we drink some beer, we set off for the Padres game. Remembering back to the time when we got so housed at a game that we missed Peavy striking out 17 people to set some kind of record, Nick and I vow to "not get that drunk." Granted, this was a promise made while half-drunk, so it could only be expected to be half-enforced.

Despite the fact that a plastic bottle of Budweiser costs $7.50, Nick and I were able to advance our intoxication pretty handily. We had parked ourselves above the Western Metal Building, next to an avid Padres fan (avid!) with a broken collarbone whose love for the Padres was only equaled by his hatred of the Giants in general, and Barry Bonds in particular. His Barry hatin' bellowing was as scary as it was amusing ("BAAAAA-REEEEEE!!!!!!! YOU SUCK!!!!!!!!! NOBODY LIKES YOUUUUUUU!!!!!! and so on), and the little woman in the red ELITE security windbreaker did stop by from time to time for little warnings. It was far more fun for a person with a marginal interest in baseball (namely, me) and a good buzz going (me again) to simply turn and watch this screaming maniac do his thing. So I did. Since his exit coincided with the seventh inning stretch which also coincided with last call for alcohol in the stadium, we let it coincide with OUR exit as well.

After a quick stop at jBar to drink more and relieve our bladders, we headed to The Field to meet up with Jason and the rest of the crew. The only thing notable about our time at The Field was that Nick got kicked out for getting choked. Details are still sketchy, but after some post-choke interviews with some of the drunks at the scene, what we know is this: some Big Dude bumped into Nick while trying to make way through the crowded bar, and Nick didn't budge, so the Dude just totally started yelling in Nick's face, and Nick just like, laughed at the guy, so the Dude snapped and grabbed Nick's neck with one hand and his face with the other and tried to like, pull his head off. I was in the bathroom so I missed the incident, but came out in time to see Nick getting ejected. "Why are you kicking my friend out?" I ask. "He just got choked by another guy," says the bouncer. "Okaaaay. Why are you kicking my friend out?" was my next question, which almost got ME kicked out. I went upstairs to tell everyone else, and when I left with Trent, Nick was gone. He had said he was going to Henry's, but I was, at this point, trashed, and the night pretty much fades out at this point.
I wake up, confused and alone, in someone's apartment. They were nice enough to leave a key, some green, and a cup of water by the bed (and an "Alice in Wonderland"-esque note pointing out the items) and a clean towel in the bathroom. I knew where I was at this point. I tidied up, washed my face and brushed my teeth, and set out into the day with no idea where it would take me.

Hat shopping while figuring out what to do next, I hear from a friend who wants to meet for breakfast at a little cafe a couple of miles away. Great! So I head out, enjoying the beautiful San Diego weather and the music being pumped loudly into my head by my iPod. It's not long into the walk that I notice strange things happening all around me. I'm hung over, so it took a bit for this to dawn on me: people walking towards me all seem to have the most horrified expressions on their faces. Others just look down, or shake their heads in disbelief. Some actually step to one side, or duck into shops as I approach. What, I thought, the hell is going on? I had looked in the mirror before I left the apartment so I knew I didn't have anything written on my face (this stems from an incident a few months ago. I got home after passing out drunk and spending the night at a friend's house to discover a sharpie mustache and goatee on my face, which immediately answered the question of why the Starbucks guy was looking at me so funny). Hmm. A quick swipe of the forearm across my forehead allows me to stealthily sniff my armpits: nope, powder fresh. I use the side of my index finger to wipe below my nose: no snot, no blood. It was still happening, and peripherally, I could see people sitting in front of restaurants turning to look in my direction. Aha! Looking down to see if my pants were stained, I see that they are not. Meantime, a car has slowed down in the street next to me, and seems to be pacing me.
Then it hits me: there's a crazy person behind me, isn't there?
Sure enough, the song I'm listening to ends and I hear an unbroken string of profanities that would make a sailor blush being shouted out from right behind me. Presently, I turn around while quickening my pace and see that the source is a short blond guy in clean clothes wearing a backpack who is just angrily cussing up a blue streak. I'm wearing a backpack too. He's so close to me we could be traveling companions. I've got to get away. Though my music has started back up, I can see his lips and jaw working, and his chest heaving from the effort of saying "fuck" so loud that it can be heard in space (for the record, noise cancelling headphones WORK). I step into a used bookstore to get behind the loon. I notice that as an added crazy touch, he's holding a jamba juice cup that for some reason has a hole in the bottom and is dripping little orange blops every few feet or so. Though it zig-zags back and forth, his Hansel-and-Gretel-style smoothie trail shows that he's been following me for a very long time. Close call, I say to myself, and follow him at a safe distance until I get to breakfast.
After consuming a pancake 14 inches in diameter, I get a call from Jason, who got just as drunk as I did the night before and left his SUV with the valet downtown, and asked would I please go pick it up and drive it to him. Sure. Now I'll have some wheels.
Things did not go according to plan, and to make a long story short, I was not able to get into the SUV so Jason grabbed his spare keys and hopped in a cab. I could've waited for him, but I was getting impatient. So I rented a bike.

I rode off, happy because I was on a bike just like the old times and it was now only a 25 minute ride to the beach: where my buddy Todd was waiting for me on his boat; where beautiful women were walking around in swimsuits; where wave after salty wave of polluted blue ocean water was slamming onto the sandy shore; where I wanted to be more than anywhere else at that moment.
Unfortunately, fate hit me with the shit-hammer. For a guy who rode a bike everywhere in San Diego for more than two years, I had been remarkably lucky in that I have only had two flat tires. That's less than one flat a year. This day, though, I managed to have a violent hissing blowout before I had gone two miles. It was at this moment, walking the rented bike back to the shop, that I realized how stupid I was for not renting a car and for listening to the people who said they'd be driving me around. I try not to depend on others for much of anything, and consider myself an able traveler, but Saturday was not shaping up to be my day. I considered changing my flight and leaving early. I was down in the dumps, dear readers. Then, a thought: I'm not that guy, that miserable "why, me" guy. I'm not the guy that has a sharp downturn of luck and gives up!! As far as I knew, a hard-to-get SUV and a flat tire were all that life had to throw at me. There was nowhere to go but up. Plus, breakfast was great. Just as I got to the bike shop to have the tire replaced, Jason got his SUV, and I got a ride to the bay to meet Todd.
Parked the bike, waded out to the boat, kicked back a few beers and the day was 100% better.

That was easy.
Soundtrack Change: "Don't worry be Happy" by Bobby McFerrin

After a while, rode off to meet Adam out for drinks in PB. Watched the sun set over the ocean, shed a bitter tear, continued to drink.

Then Adam, Kristin and I went to In-n-out for a Double double, which was so wonderful I still can't properly explain it.

While there, I realized my phone was running out of charge. I had the charger, but no plug! This could be a problem. Not wanting to stop back at Kristin's place and wait for my phone, I had to find another way. Across the parking lot was a car wash. There was a covered outlet on the wall of the car wash!! So I knocked the cover off:

...and while we waited a few minutes for that to get going:

...and then we went back to PB, where Chelsea and Amorica and Tim and Tommy joined the crew, and the wonderful and lovely Eve provided shots of, shots of...hell, I don't remember. It was a good time. On a bathroom break I'm walking, head down, texting God-knows-who. I round the corner and go through the door, and realize that a girl just followed me in. I look up, smiling, ready to made a funny comment, but then I shut up and wonder why there's so many chicks in the men's room. That's when I knew I'd had enough to drink. So of course we went to another bar. How we got there I have no idea. I simply remember being somewhere else. Memories get sharper, though, when we got to the Ramen place.

It was a restaurant, open until 3am, that served ramen. Gourmet ramen. It was great, and it sat better in my guts than a California burrito would have.

Woke up a couch.
Off to breakfast. Good times. I'm surprised at how much I enjoyed Prado shop talk. I really miss the place. Scratch that. I really miss the people. Hearing all the same stories, all the same gripes, brought me right back to three months ago when I was spouting the same stuff. I was able to forget, for just a little while, that as soon as breakfast was over I had to go back to Dallas.

Soundtrack change: "Life is a Highway" by Tom Cochrane

The flight back was odd. The first leg of the journey was to Atlanta. This was because I had purchased my ticket relatively last-minute and definitely as cheap as possible. I actually flew past Dallas on the way to Atlanta, and could almost see the skyline from the window. What a stupid way to go. It's like flying to London, via Tokyo. The drudge was made bearable by the little video screen that each passenger got that provided a GPS ("ooh, we're over Alabama now"), some movies available for purchase (each screen had a credit card swiper thing), 50 or so decent recent albums and the ability to create a little playlist for yourself (cool!), and my personal favorite, the trivia. It was like the bar trivia, but with all the passengers able to play. During the part where it shows everyone's score and their answer to the last question, it would also list the seat numbers. So when a hard question would come up, everyone who was playing would sit up in their seats and look around at the other players to try and see if they got it or not. It was cool. Since I was flying away from the sun, I also had the distinct pleasure of watching America turn her streetlights on. That was an awesome sight. Flying at night takes the sometimes ugly scenery of the flyover states away and just leaves the shiny pretty stuff. The Atlanta to Dallas portion only had one thing worth mentioning: the guy sitting next to me was an absolute mystery. While the flight was boarding, and as it taxied and took off and flew along, the guy was writing tiny notes in a full size notebook. Not the page-filling, serial-killer-from-that-movie-Seven kind of tiny notes, but more like islands of itty-bitty writing on a sea of paper. He'd put one near the top, another to one side, and then flip the page and start on the next one. I tried to peek while pretending to read, but I couldn't make a bit of sense out of it. No rhyme or reason whatsoever. I don't think he was scary-crazy like the screaming guy in SD, but more of a kooky-crazy, like he had a pointy tinfoil hat at his apartment and owned a ferret. I can't say what i wanted more: to read his notebook or to magically make him not smell as bad as he did.
At any rate, I'm "home" now, missing home already. I had a mini-epiphany the other day, and it will be the backbone of my next entry, so check back in soon.
Until next time...

Goin' back to Cali...

Suggested Soundtrack: "Falling Slowly" by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova (from the "Once" soundtrack)


It's been a while, so this might run a bit long. Probably shouldn't tell you that. Don't tune out!! First of all, notice the quiet and heatfelt song I suggested. It doesn't fit the mood perfectly of this post (like other suggested songs attempt to do), but it does come from the best movie I've seen in a long time, "Once." Go see it. I cannot stress this enough. It is different from anything I've ever seen, plus it is good. Go! If you like it, I'll send you the soundtrack! For real! And the movie IS the soundtrack. You'll get it when you've seen it.

Now. Let's settle something that has been bugging me for the last six weeks. My dear friend Kendra, who recently moved to Vegas and is far closer than any of you to knowing how distanced I feel, recently sent me a letter. It does two things. First you read it, then I tell you the things it does. Kendra says, "Driving in Vegas is similar to driving in Mexico, only the drivers are less courteous and observant of traffic laws. There is no sense of order. You're lucky if there is a yellow line running down the street to keep people from running into each other head-on, even more lucky to find those white lines indicating lanes of traffic. Rather than create some semblance of order, people just drive wherever there is room to squeeze in. On freeways during high traffic hours, there are no lights to gate people onto the freeway. A pack of 15 cars will all merge at once, causing everyone else to come to a screeching halt. People also don't stop at red lights. Perhaps they are so used to seeing flashing lights everywhere, they no longer acknowledge lights in general. When coming to my house from the freeway, you have to cross into oncoming traffic to make the turn onto my street. There is no light, no stop sign, nothing except the knowledge that these people hate to apply their brakes. I can't take it!!" First of all, this letter proves that outside of California people do really drive like brain-dead crack addicts with cataracts, or like the Italians. Second, it tells me that I will no longer complain about drivers in Texas, and drivers in general. What more is there for me to bitch about that I havent bitched about already? The fact of the matter is that I avoided driving for two years, and I hate doing it, and most importantly, I may very well be a shitty driver myself. So until someone who has followed me in traffic chimes in, I'll just assume that I suck just as bad, and just as hard, as the Texas drivers.
End of story.

Since the music is kinda sad and all, or at least melancholy, let's talk briefly about work, before we move onto...The Fun Stuff!!! Every once and a while, as I sit at my desk, I'll get this wierd kinda flash, like out of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," and I want to say, "What the...what the FUCK am I doing out here in the middle of Texas? Help!! Somebody help!!!" I'll panic for a second, break into a sweat, flail wildly for a second or two, and then it passes. Just like that. I look around to see if any of my fellow cubicle-monkeys saw my insane twitchfest, then get back to work. That's my biggest question: What AM I doing here? Not enjoying myself very much, not making much money yet, and not getting over San Diego. I am writing more. Reading more. I've got a new friend named Amy who has similar tastes in music and film and booze, so the weekends aren't terrible anymore. I feel like I suck at my job. While trying to avoid excuses, this is somewhat understandable, since a) it's a tough market right now, and even some veterans are doing worse than me, b) I am doing a whole new job coming off of 10 years waiting tables, and I haven't sucked at waiting tables since 1997, so being terrible when starting a new job isn't something I'm used to, c) the nature of waiting tables requires, at most, two hours of follow-through and requires very little paperwork while mortgages require months of follow-through and mounds of paperwork, and d) waiting tables has no real gravity, and by "gravity" I mean that no matter how much restaurant management wants the waitstaff to take shit seriously, we're really, seriously, just bringing some fucking food to some fucking hungry person. That is it. Simplest thing in the world, made way more complicated than it should ever be by manaagement trying real hard to suppress the joy of their unruly alcoholic servers and at the same time justify their status. When I messed up a salad order, no one lost their home. This seriousness is something I've never had to deal with before. I hate it. The Peter Pan syndrome that was the backbone of my entire San Diego exsistence has been torn away in the most speedy and terrible way. I didn't even get to hold on to one little bit of it. It's no wonder that Mike, my buddy who moved out here three years ago, is now married. Holy Fucking Matrimony!!!. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

And now... (music change, no caption needed)


Yes sir!! (or ma'am)
In less than a week I'll be in Sandy Friggin' Eggo!!!! Whoo!!

My return from Texas also coincides with Nick coming back from his Mom's house in Minnesota (Ya know?), and since Jason never left SD, this makes a Trifecta of Roomies!! Join us for our rollicing reunion party time!!
Friday night: Padres game!!! Get a five dollar ticket, and steel yourself for some fucking drinking!!! Downtown rampage follows the game, with maybe a trip up to the Lamplighter if we're feeling froggy!! (I might need somewhere to crash.)
Saturday day: Bay party on Mission Bay! Bring beer, we provide watercraft and entertainment.
Saturday night: Drinking and so on, in PB! (I might need somewhere to crash.)
Sunday: Breakfast, then I'm off to the airport.
If you want to meet up, simply call me, and come out. I hope to spend time with everyone I can during this short (but really neccesary) visit. Help me get drunk enough to forget Texas for the weekend.
The next time you are privy to my thoughts, you might be standing right next to me, instead of sitting in front of a computer!
Until next time...